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Chapter One

The couple walked toward their table, following the circuitous path taken by the maître d’. The dinner crowd at Le Bernardin was its typical group of affluent regulars, yet their cumulative attention was drawn magnetically to the newcomers. Beth looked straight ahead, enjoying the attention. She couldn’t tell if C.K. noticed the stares, but if he did, he ignored them.

Beth accentuated her height with a strong athletic stride equally comfortable in a courtroom or on the playing fields of Central Park. On a shelf back in her office, she prominently displayed a coveted Golden Glove Award won in the Metropolitan Lawyers Softball League.

She had inherited blond hair and pale blue eyes from her northern Italian father, intellect and persistence from her Hungarian mother. Her taupe woolen suit was a conservative statement she reserved for clients.

Chun Keun Leung was Taiwan Chinese and wealthy. He was only slightly taller than Beth and had straight black hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He wore a navy chalk-stripe suit and walked with the confidence of one in authority. He was accustomed to being the center of attention.

Some of the diners glanced skeptically at their own dinner dates and knew with prurient certainty what the attractive woman was doing to satisfy the Asian gentleman. It was all malicious conjecture, of course. The truth was less satisfying than their imagination. The couple was there on business. An attorney out with her client. In fact, they had just met.

The maître d’ presented them with the evening’s elaborate menu before leaving their table. Their first real conversation of the evening was a discussion of what to order. Beth smiled and nodded to mask her difficulty in understanding her client’s accented English.

Minutes later, the waiter approached the table, took their orders, and left. He was followed shortly by the wine steward, who listened to Leung’s order and then complimented him on his expert selection. Leung ignored the compliment.

To Beth, everything about the meal was the embodiment of the image she had of life as a lawyer: Supreme Court victories and dinners in four-star restaurants to celebrate them. The perks of winning a $105 million judgment were infinitely better than the exhaustion of losing one. Losers invent excuses. Winners get bonuses. Her initial reluctance to meet Leung for the first time at a dinner instead of in her office disappeared with the weight of his praise and a glass of Taittinger Comtes.

After the flurry of waiters descended and left, C.K. raised his glass for a toast. “A fine champagne is the only drink appropriate for the acknowledgment of a fine achievement.” Beth smiled as he continued. “And so, to the distinguished attorney who obtained that remarkable eight-figure judgment against Jasco for us. Here’s to a job well done.” He drank and put down his glass.

“That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.” Beth smiled broadly and took a sip from her bugle-stemmed glass. She had listened to the toast with only half an ear, yet something in it struck a discordant note. She replayed the toast in her mind, then attributed it to her difficulty with his accent. She took another sip of the champagne and the concern disappeared.

“Oh, before I forget,” C.K. said, “could you arrange to have the Jasco files shipped to us in Taiwan?”

“Of course. They take up most of two file cabinets.”

“I can imagine.”

“Are you sure you want it all? We can scan it for you instead.”

“No, send the actual files. We make a habit of retaining closed files in our home office.”

“Not a problem. We can always use the storage space. I’ll have my assistant take care of it.”

“I’d appreciate that. Do you have any other Paramount files in your office?”

“Not as far as I know,” she responded. “Jasco was the only one we were handling.”

“Would you check just to be certain?” The absence of any inflection in his voice made it more of an order than a question.

“Of course. I’ll circulate a memo to all the other attorneys.” It was easier for her to do it than explain to him why it wasn’t necessary.

“I would appreciate that. If anything else should turn up, have your assistant call my office.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Her receptors had been dulled by the adulation and blurred by his accented English.

“No, not at all, but my conservative father is fanatical about the preservation of paper records. He feels that no matter how old it is, you’ll need it desperately the day after you discard it.” He dismissed her question with the knowing shrug of children sharing the foibles of their parents.

“I understand,” she acknowledged. “I’ll have my assistant call one way or the other.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, it was quite a surprise when you called from Taiwan last week to set up this date. We all thought Leonard Sloane owned Paramount Equities.”

“We create that impression on purpose. My brothers and I let our local people run their operations with as little interference as possible from Taiwan.”

“What’s the advantage of that?”

“It’s cheaper. More efficient. But I suppose we really do it to avoid paying too high a price for regional prejudice. There’s always one price for foreigners and one for the locals.”

“How do you maintain control, then?”

“We control the checkbook. Every business of ours employs a family member who signs every check, and we always use a branch of Fidelity Bank.”

“How come?”

“Because they’re headquartered in Taiwan and I sit on their board of directors.” He smiled and lifted his wineglass as he spoke in an effortless gesture that exposed a magnificent sapphire-and-diamond cuff link and a solid gold Rolex watch encrusted with diamonds.

“Where else do you have operations?” she asked, thinking how nice it would be to get a big chunk of that business into the law firm. She made no effort to break off the eye contact he had encouraged.

“We’re pretty much worldwide now, mostly real estate. We own and operate properties in Asia and Europe, of course, the United States, the Middle East, not so much in Africa.”

“It must keep you running around.”

“It does. Are you the name partner in Wilcox, Swahn and Giles?”

“No, that’s my stepfather, Max Swahn. He retired as senior partner a few years ago. Clifford Giles runs the firm now.”

“Does your stepfather practice law anymore?”

“He and my mother live on a sailboat down in the Caribbean, but he can’t resist getting involved. He’s working with me now on an article I’m writing about the Jasco case. The NYU Law Review wants to publish it.”

“I’d like to read it when you’re done.”

“I’ll be happy to send you a copy.” Leung didn’t know about her intensely competitive nature, and she wasn’t going to give him any of that insight. He didn’t know that winning was expected of her and that acknowledgment was her Achilles’ heel.

“I’ll also forward it on to our international trade association in Taipei. I’m sure they’ll want to circulate it among the members.”

“Terrific. The case had merit. I was just the catalyst,” she continued modestly.

“Don’t diminish your role. We dislike paying legal fees as much as anyone, but your firm’s fifteen percent was well earned.” He leaned to one side as the waiter placed their desserts on the table.

“Thank you,” Beth said automatically for what seemed the hundredth time during the meal. She didn’t correct Leung about their contingency fee—5 percent, not 15 percent—but her antennae were up. This was one mistake too many. “Did Leonard ever send you a copy of the court’s decision?” she asked, concern displacing complacency.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll make sure a copy is emailed to you tomorrow.”

“It’s too bad that Leonard isn’t around to invest the Jasco money in more real estate for us. He was excellent at locating distressed properties.”

“Hearing about his death last month was a shock,” Beth replied. “Drowning at sea is a terrifying way to die.”

“When I get finished interviewing the candidates for his job, I’ll send my choice over to meet you. I also want you to know that your firm will continue to receive our legal work.”

“I appreciate that,” she said.

“There is one thing you can do for us now.”

“What’s that?” she asked. (Anything, C.K., she thought, just make it billable.)

“My brother Martin and I both graduated from Wesleyan University up in Connecticut. We want to set up a scholarship fund there in honor of Leonard Sloane.”

“What a generous idea! That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“We would like your firm to handle the details.”

“We’d be glad to.”

“That’s the main reason I wanted to meet you at dinner, so we could discuss the endowment without being interrupted.”

“We can do it for you. How much of an endowment are you considering?”

“Well, the Jasco verdict was so unexpected, we thought we would take five percent of it.”

“I’m sure Wesleyan will be thrilled.” And, she thought, so will Clifford when he hears about the flow of new business we’ll be getting from the Leungs.

“They already are. I called them this morning, gave them your name, and told them they’d have the 1.75 million in their hands by November first. Can you handle it by then?”

“That gives us two full weeks. Sure, no problem.” Again, she took no issue with his error. Obviously, the endowment should have matched their fee, but nothing would be gained by calling his attention to it here in the restaurant. She needed to get more information first. “If you’ll give me the name of your accountant,” she suggested, “I’ll contact him for the financial details.”

“I’ll leave his name and phone number with your assistant first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Beth responded, feeling increasingly uneasy. “We’ll get started on it right away,” she continued, now wishing the evening would come to an end.

“Excellent,” he said. “Even after deducting your fees and the endowment, we still end up with twenty-eight million.”

Beth’s stomach contracted again involuntarily in reaction to his comment, and she felt the mother of all headaches begin to pound in her head. This man was her client. She had a legal obligation to say something to him, and she had to say it now to avoid misleading him by her silence.

Her face must have betrayed some distress, because C.K. suddenly looked at her quizzically. “Were you going to say something?”

“It was nothing. Would you excuse me for a second while I go to the ladies’ room?” She pushed the chair back from the table, knocking her napkin off her lap onto the floor. She didn’t bother to pick it up as she got up and made what she hoped was a graceful retreat. As she passed a mirror, she noticed that C.K. had gone back to his dessert.

Beth went into the ladies’ room, wet a cotton towel that the matron handed her, and put it on the back of her neck. The matron, a kind, grandmotherly type, solicitously handed her tissues, mouthwash, and advice about overindulgence.

“Jesus, I look awful,” she said out loud to the mirror. How could C.K. not know the size of the judgment? she asked herself as she stared at the miserable reflection. If he thinks it was only for $35 million, then what about the $70 million in punitive damages? He must know about them too, right? “Right!” she assured her unconvinced mirror image.

Beth left the ladies’ room and pulled out her cellphone. First she tried Clifford’s home phone and then his cell but was intercepted on both by his voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message.

She reassembled her shattered composure, took a deep breath, and went back out to finish what remained of the dinner. “You know, C.K., your math is off a bit,” she announced without any preamble as she sat back down at the table, wondering if that wasn’t the understatement of the year.

“What do you mean?”

“We collected a hundred and five million from Jasco.” She looked closely at his face for a reaction. “Our contingency fee was five percent, not fifteen percent, so even after we deducted it, you still netted close to a hundred million.”

“I beg your pardon.” C.K. looked straight at her, his face impassive, his eyes fixed. He didn’t blink. In a movement of exquisite deliberation, he slowly took another bite of his cake, chewed, swallowed, and put the fork down.

“I said you netted nearly a hundred million.” The pounding in her head got louder.

“That’s a little confusing. Leonard reported we collected thirty-five million and that your fee was fifteen percent. He wired us a little less than thirty million.”

“Well, I don’t know what Leonard said to you, or what he wired you, but our fee was five percent, and the gross collection was one hundred and five million. It was all wired into Paramount’s account here, but it was your Chase Bank account, not Fidelity.”

“Well, I’m certain it’s just a bookkeeping error in our New York office. I told you things were a little bit disorganized because of Leonard’s death. The money must still be in the bank here. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“Good. Let me know what you find out.” Beth was impressed. Seventy million dollars unaccounted for and Leung treats it like a three-dollar bank charge. That’s one cool dude, she thought, and no doubt a bad guy to mess with.

When they left the restaurant, Leung’s stretch limousine was outside waiting for him. Beth declined without hesitation when C.K. took her arm and asked her if she would like to go over to the Plaza Hotel for a nightcap. He neglected to mention he was staying there, but she already knew that. There was no mistaking the look that accompanied his invitation. Beth parried with a big blond smile and let C.K. handle the pregnant pause.

Safely ensconced back in her apartment, she immediately dialed Clifford again, but with the same result. She tried the marine radio operator down in Tortola on the chance that Max might still be awake and have the radio on, but that was also a dead end. Ditto for his cellphone.

She was too keyed up to sleep, so she turned on her laptop to review the electronic Jasco file. She read it and then reread it, desperately searching for warning signs she might have missed. She only knew that if there was a lapse, it must have happened during that hectic week last August when she was preparing the Jasco settlement documents.