day Payton & Payton would be known not for the cases it won but for the crooks it hauled into court for judgment.
She was forty-one years old, and she was tired. But the fatigue would pass. The old dreams of full-time motherhood and a cushy retirement were forever forgotten. Krane Chemical had converted her into a radical and a crusader. After the last four months, she would never be the same.
Enough. Her eyes were wide open.
Every thought took her back to the case, to Jeannette Baker, the trial, Krane Chemical. She would not spend this quiet and lovely weekend dwelling on such matters. She opened her book and started to read.
__________
F or dinner, they roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over a stone pit near the water, then sat on the pier in the darkness and watched the stars. The air was clear and cool, and they huddled together under a quilt. A distant light flickered on the horizon, and after some discussion it was agreed upon that it was just a boat.
“Dad, tell us a story,” Mack said. He was squeezed between his sister and his mother.
“What kind of story?”
“A ghost story. A scary one.”
His first thought was about the dogs of Bowmore. For years a pack of stray dogs had roamed the outskirts of the town. Often, in the dead of night, they shrieked and yelped and made more noise than a pack of coyotes. Legend held that the dogs were rabid and had been driven crazy because they drank the water.
But he’d had enough of Bowmore. He remembered one about a ghost who walked on water in the night, looking for his beloved wife, who’d drowned. He began to tell it, and the children squeezed closer to their parents.
C H A P T E R 8
A uniformed guard opened the gates to the mansion, then nodded smartly to the driver as the long black Mercedes rushed by, in a hurry as always. Mr. Carl Trudeau had the rear seat, alone, already lost in the morning’s papers. It was 7:30 a.m., too early for golf or tennis and too early for Saturday morning traffic in Palm Beach. Within minutes, the car was on Interstate 95, racing south.
Carl ignored the market reports. Thank God the week was finally over. Krane closed at $19.50 the day before and showed no signs of finding a permanent floor. Though he would be forever known as one of the very few men who’d lost a billion dollars in a day, he was already plotting his next legend. Give him a year and he’d have his billion back. In two years, he’d double all of it.
Forty minutes later he was in Boca Raton, crossingthe waterway, headed for the clusters of high-rise condos and hotels packed along the beach. The office building was a shiny glass cylinder ten floors tall with a gate and a guard and not one word posted on a sign of any type. The Mercedes was waved through and stopped under a portico. A stern-faced young man in a black suit opened the rear door and said, “Good morning, Mr. Trudeau.”
“Good morning,” Carl said, climbing out.
“This way, sir.”
__________
A ccording to Carl’s hasty research, the firm of Troy-Hogan worked very hard at not being seen. It had no Web site, brochure, advertisements, listed phone number, or anything else that might attract clients. It was not a law firm, because it was not registered with the State of Florida, or any other state for that matter. It had no registered lobbyists. It was a corporation, not a limited partnership or some other variety of association. It was unclear where the name originated because there was no record of anyone named Troy or Hogan. The firm was known to provide marketing and consulting services, but there was no clue as to the nature of this business. It was domiciled in Bermuda and had been registered in Florida for eight years. Its domestic agent was a law firm in Miami. It was privately owned, and no one knew who owned it.
The less Carl learned about the firm, the more he admired it.
The principal was one Barry Rinehart, and here the trail grew somewhat warmer. According to friends and
She was forty-one years old, and she was tired. But the fatigue would pass. The old dreams of full-time motherhood and a cushy retirement were forever forgotten. Krane Chemical had converted her into a radical and a crusader. After the last four months, she would never be the same.
Enough. Her eyes were wide open.
Every thought took her back to the case, to Jeannette Baker, the trial, Krane Chemical. She would not spend this quiet and lovely weekend dwelling on such matters. She opened her book and started to read.
__________
F or dinner, they roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over a stone pit near the water, then sat on the pier in the darkness and watched the stars. The air was clear and cool, and they huddled together under a quilt. A distant light flickered on the horizon, and after some discussion it was agreed upon that it was just a boat.
“Dad, tell us a story,” Mack said. He was squeezed between his sister and his mother.
“What kind of story?”
“A ghost story. A scary one.”
His first thought was about the dogs of Bowmore. For years a pack of stray dogs had roamed the outskirts of the town. Often, in the dead of night, they shrieked and yelped and made more noise than a pack of coyotes. Legend held that the dogs were rabid and had been driven crazy because they drank the water.
But he’d had enough of Bowmore. He remembered one about a ghost who walked on water in the night, looking for his beloved wife, who’d drowned. He began to tell it, and the children squeezed closer to their parents.
C H A P T E R 8
A uniformed guard opened the gates to the mansion, then nodded smartly to the driver as the long black Mercedes rushed by, in a hurry as always. Mr. Carl Trudeau had the rear seat, alone, already lost in the morning’s papers. It was 7:30 a.m., too early for golf or tennis and too early for Saturday morning traffic in Palm Beach. Within minutes, the car was on Interstate 95, racing south.
Carl ignored the market reports. Thank God the week was finally over. Krane closed at $19.50 the day before and showed no signs of finding a permanent floor. Though he would be forever known as one of the very few men who’d lost a billion dollars in a day, he was already plotting his next legend. Give him a year and he’d have his billion back. In two years, he’d double all of it.
Forty minutes later he was in Boca Raton, crossingthe waterway, headed for the clusters of high-rise condos and hotels packed along the beach. The office building was a shiny glass cylinder ten floors tall with a gate and a guard and not one word posted on a sign of any type. The Mercedes was waved through and stopped under a portico. A stern-faced young man in a black suit opened the rear door and said, “Good morning, Mr. Trudeau.”
“Good morning,” Carl said, climbing out.
“This way, sir.”
__________
A ccording to Carl’s hasty research, the firm of Troy-Hogan worked very hard at not being seen. It had no Web site, brochure, advertisements, listed phone number, or anything else that might attract clients. It was not a law firm, because it was not registered with the State of Florida, or any other state for that matter. It had no registered lobbyists. It was a corporation, not a limited partnership or some other variety of association. It was unclear where the name originated because there was no record of anyone named Troy or Hogan. The firm was known to provide marketing and consulting services, but there was no clue as to the nature of this business. It was domiciled in Bermuda and had been registered in Florida for eight years. Its domestic agent was a law firm in Miami. It was privately owned, and no one knew who owned it.
The less Carl learned about the firm, the more he admired it.
The principal was one Barry Rinehart, and here the trail grew somewhat warmer. According to friends and
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