to pick up all her casework.”
Kera waited, hoping that he would elaborate, but he did n’t . “Can you give me an idea of what that casework involved?”
“I really ca n’t get into any details that involve our clients.”
“I understand. But, generally, what was her role?”
“Like any associate, Caroline drafted and filed documents with the courts and the state. But she picked things up faster than most. It was n’t long before she was handling all the due diligence for new clients. She was extremely good at it.”
Kera nodded. “She was good at her work. Do you think she enjoyed it?”
“Well, I was n’t close to her. I was just her boss—” he said, launching into the safe, automatic answer. But then he stopped himself on second thought. “Actually, yes, I’m confident she did like it. She had a passion for the law that ca n’t be faked. It certainly ca n’t be taught.”
“A passion?” Kera said. “What do you mean by that?”
Boot h’s eyes narrowed as he searched for the words. “Caroline wa s . . . idealistic.” Kera wrote that word down. “She was young, of course. And most young people are idealistic. But this was more than that. Fresh lawyers with her intelligence and Ivy League pedigree head straight to the big firms. Corporate finance, M-and-A, big-time employment law. But not Caroline. Her curiosity about the law was more grounded than that. She was interested in people and what they wanted to get out of life. I’v e seen a lot of associates come through here. Very few make an impact like she did. Especially in the short time before her passing.”
“Before she went missing, you mean.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I t’s been long enough that, well, I guess I’d forgotten that they had n’t recovered her body.”
“But you believe sh e’s dead?”
Kera could see the answer within the internal struggle that was all over his face. “I see,” he said softly. “Tha t’s why yo u’r e here.”
“Do you have doubts about what happened to her?”
Booth shrugged. “The cops say they found her bike on the George Washington Bridge.”
“Yes,” Kera said. “And do you think she jumped?”
Booth hesitated. “I do n’t . No. Not Caroline. But what does it matter what I think? Sh e’s certainly gone. If all the evidence points to her jumping, well, at some point that reality must be faced.”
Kera nodded. “Mr. Booth, can I ask you a professional question? For your legal opinion, that is.”
“ I’l l give you one freebie. After that I’l l have to bill you. Talking to reporters is not what keeps the lights on around here.”
“I understand. What I’m wondering is whether someone like Caroline, being an expert in estate law, would know the sorts of things one would want to get in order if they planned to fake their own death.”
The Control Room was never empty, but after business hours it settled into a productive peace. Rarely anymore were there overnight teams tracking real-time surveillance targets on the other side of the world. J. D. Jones looked around the room and pondered this, not for the first time. It was half past nine, and he was sitting at the center of his semicircle workstation, surrounded 180 degrees by eleven large LED screens. The monitors ran off a computer linked to Haw k’s network, which had access to hundreds of public and private surveillance networks around the globe. During the first year that Hawk had been up and running, it was common to have one of the Mideast task forces working into the small hours. Two, sometimes three times a week, a group of men and women spent a night in the pit monitoring some action in Syria or Iran where it was daylight, local time. But not lately. Lately h e’d seen less and less surveillance from overseas. It made him uncomfortable.
Jones loved the ambiance of a room lit by LED screens. H e’d never watched much television growing up and watched almost none now, but he would have bet there were
Kera waited, hoping that he would elaborate, but he did n’t . “Can you give me an idea of what that casework involved?”
“I really ca n’t get into any details that involve our clients.”
“I understand. But, generally, what was her role?”
“Like any associate, Caroline drafted and filed documents with the courts and the state. But she picked things up faster than most. It was n’t long before she was handling all the due diligence for new clients. She was extremely good at it.”
Kera nodded. “She was good at her work. Do you think she enjoyed it?”
“Well, I was n’t close to her. I was just her boss—” he said, launching into the safe, automatic answer. But then he stopped himself on second thought. “Actually, yes, I’m confident she did like it. She had a passion for the law that ca n’t be faked. It certainly ca n’t be taught.”
“A passion?” Kera said. “What do you mean by that?”
Boot h’s eyes narrowed as he searched for the words. “Caroline wa s . . . idealistic.” Kera wrote that word down. “She was young, of course. And most young people are idealistic. But this was more than that. Fresh lawyers with her intelligence and Ivy League pedigree head straight to the big firms. Corporate finance, M-and-A, big-time employment law. But not Caroline. Her curiosity about the law was more grounded than that. She was interested in people and what they wanted to get out of life. I’v e seen a lot of associates come through here. Very few make an impact like she did. Especially in the short time before her passing.”
“Before she went missing, you mean.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I t’s been long enough that, well, I guess I’d forgotten that they had n’t recovered her body.”
“But you believe sh e’s dead?”
Kera could see the answer within the internal struggle that was all over his face. “I see,” he said softly. “Tha t’s why yo u’r e here.”
“Do you have doubts about what happened to her?”
Booth shrugged. “The cops say they found her bike on the George Washington Bridge.”
“Yes,” Kera said. “And do you think she jumped?”
Booth hesitated. “I do n’t . No. Not Caroline. But what does it matter what I think? Sh e’s certainly gone. If all the evidence points to her jumping, well, at some point that reality must be faced.”
Kera nodded. “Mr. Booth, can I ask you a professional question? For your legal opinion, that is.”
“ I’l l give you one freebie. After that I’l l have to bill you. Talking to reporters is not what keeps the lights on around here.”
“I understand. What I’m wondering is whether someone like Caroline, being an expert in estate law, would know the sorts of things one would want to get in order if they planned to fake their own death.”
The Control Room was never empty, but after business hours it settled into a productive peace. Rarely anymore were there overnight teams tracking real-time surveillance targets on the other side of the world. J. D. Jones looked around the room and pondered this, not for the first time. It was half past nine, and he was sitting at the center of his semicircle workstation, surrounded 180 degrees by eleven large LED screens. The monitors ran off a computer linked to Haw k’s network, which had access to hundreds of public and private surveillance networks around the globe. During the first year that Hawk had been up and running, it was common to have one of the Mideast task forces working into the small hours. Two, sometimes three times a week, a group of men and women spent a night in the pit monitoring some action in Syria or Iran where it was daylight, local time. But not lately. Lately h e’d seen less and less surveillance from overseas. It made him uncomfortable.
Jones loved the ambiance of a room lit by LED screens. H e’d never watched much television growing up and watched almost none now, but he would have bet there were
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