Sparring Partners(16)

“What a surprise, Dumas,” Jake said.

“I hear Mack is back,” Dumas sang, as if on to something big. “What can you tell me?”

“Mack who?”

“Right. Look, a source tells me you’ve met with Mack, seen him live and in person.”

Dumas always claimed to have a source, whether one existed or not. “No comment.”

“Come on, Jake, you can do better than that.”

“No comment.”

“Okay, I’m going to ask you a simple question, one that requires a yes or no answer, and if you say ‘no comment,’ then it will be obvious that the answer is yes. Have you seen Mack Stafford in person in the past month?”

“No comment.”

“In other words, you have.”

“Whatever, Dumas. I’m not playing your game. What’s the big deal anyway? Mack is free to come and go. He’s not a wanted man.”

“Not a wanted man. I like that. Can I use it?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“Anytime.”





(16)


Mack’s fateful decision to take the money and run, to file for divorce, then for bankruptcy, to close his office, sign everything over to Lisa, say goodbye to her and the girls, and disappear, had been precipitated by a single phone call. A New York lawyer named Marty Rosenberg called during lunch one day and was willing to offer quick cash to settle some dusty old cases Mack had almost forgotten about. Mack answered the phone because Freda, his secretary, was not in. Had she been there, and had she known of the settlement talk, Mack’s life would not have taken such a dramatic twist. For five years Freda had handled the phones, typing, clients, books, everything that a secretary does in a small-town office.

Mack fired her that day and she left in a huff. He’d had a few beers and returned to the office nicely buzzed. She snapped at him because he had missed two appointments that afternoon. He didn’t care. They argued, said too much, and he fired her on the spot, gave her thirty minutes to clean out her desk and disappear. After dark, he left the office and went to a bar. When he finally went home, Lisa was waiting on the front porch in full combat mode. He slipped on some ice in the driveway, busted his head, and spent two days in the hospital. While he was laid up, Freda returned to the office and went through the books and files. She expected to find little and she was not disappointed. She knew his business better than he did. Mack, like most lawyers in town, often hustled clients in city and county courts for cash, fees that were conveniently kept off the books. One reason for going through his files was to make sure there were no unofficial records of fees paid in cash. That, plus she wanted to know if he had a bank account or two that perhaps Lisa knew nothing about, but there were no records of hidden money. Freda had always kept a ledger of his current files and she made a copy for herself. It was not an impressive lineup of pending cases. When Mack fled, she heard rumors that he had bilked some clients and embezzled funds. At the time, he was representing three guardianships, with a grand total of $22,000 in his trust account. His real estate escrow account had a balance of $350. These monies were untouched when Mack disappeared.

The only possible sources of any substantial fees were four old product liability cases Mack had signed up and then neglected for years. The chain saw cases, once a potential bonanza, at least in his opinion. She had almost forgotten about them, though she did remember typing his blustery letters to the manufacturer a long time ago. When he lost his enthusiasm, the cases got shoved to the bottom of the pile.

While he was in the hospital, Freda obtained his phone records and saw the mysterious calls to and from a law firm in New York City. She made notes and filed them away. About a month after Mack left, two FBI agents paid her a visit and asked some random questions, but it was obvious they were going through the motions. Though she was still angry over the firing, she had no loyalty at all to the FBI and gave them nothing.

She left Clanton and eventually settled in Tupelo where she worked as a real estate paralegal in a prosperous law firm. She was at her desk Tuesday afternoon when a private investigator appeared. Tight sports coat, thickly knotted tie, pointed-toe boots, gun on hip. His line of work was obvious. She had seen a hundred of them in her career as a legal secretary and could spot one on the other side of the street.

He introduced himself as Buddy Hockner and handed her a business card. He said he was doing some investigative work for a lawyer over in Clanton.

“Which one?” she asked. In the recent past she had known all of them.

“Walter Sullivan.”

So this was not a messy divorce or a garden-variety car wreck. If the Sullivan firm was involved, the stakes were probably higher. She could not think of any reason Walter Sullivan needed something from her.

“I remember him,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Without asking, Buddy plopped down in the only chair on the other side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she said.

“Have you had any contact with your old boss, Mack Stafford, recently?”

“Why would I tell you if I did?”

“I come in peace.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Mack is back. Any word from him?”

This amused her and she offered a smile, the first. “No, I’ve heard nothing from Mack since the day he fired me. Almost three years ago. Look, I’m pretty busy and I’d rather not discuss this on the job.”