Waking Hours (30 page)

She sent a text to her sister.

U
TALK
?

She waited for Beth’s response.

N
OT NOW
. A
T SCHOOL
. G
IRLS
’
VIOLIN CONCERT
.

H
OW IS IT
?

L
OVELY
. A
T TIMES
. U?

H
AVE YOU IDENTIFIED SPECIES OF BOTFLY INFESTATION
?

T
HIS HAS BEEN BOTHERING YOU
? N
O
. W
HY
?

L
OOK FOR
D
ERMATOBIA HOMINIS
. J
UST A HUNCH
.

D
ON
’
T YOU HAVE BETTER THINGS TO HUNCH ABOUT
?

I
WISH
. D
ERMATOBIA HOMINIS INFECTS HUMANS AS WELL AS HORSES
,
CATTLE
,
GOATS
,
ETC
. S
AW MULTIPLE INSTANCES IN
A
FRICA
. L
AYS EGGS UNDER SKIN
. L
ARVAE GROW
,
BUMP IS RED
,
LOOKS LIKE BOIL
. I
INTERVIEWED TWO GIRLS WHO BOARD THEIR HORSES AT
R
ED
G
ATE
F
ARM
. B
OTH HAD LARGE RED WENS ON LEGS
,
SCRATCHING
.

I
HATE TO ASK
. W
HAT HAPPENS WHEN LARVAE HATCH
?

D
ON
’
T ASK
. E
MERGE FROM SKIN
. I
F
I’
M RIGHT
,
YOU
’
LL WANT TO CONTACT EVERYBODY WHO RIDES
/
WORKS AT FARM
. L
ET ME KNOW RE
. R
AYNE
K
EPPLINGER AND
K
HETZEL
R
OSS
.

W
ILL DO
. B
ELIEVE IT OR NOT
,
THIS SOUNDS PREFERABLE TO LISTENING TO
20 4
TH GRADERS PLAY THE VIOLIN
. O
NE QUESTION
—
VECTOR
? H
OW DO
A
FRICAN BOTFLIES END UP IN
W
ESTCHESTER
?

B
EATS ME
. G
OTTA GO
.

L8
R

Her appointment was for five o’clock. She pressed the button to lock her car, walked to the front entrance, and stood by the portico. She waited a minute, and then a black Mercedes pulled up. The driver was a nice-looking young man in a white shirt and black tie, not the lawyerly type Dani was expecting. Then the lawyerly type Dani was expecting got out of the backseat.

“Miss Harris,” the man said, extending his hand. “Davis Fish. Nice to meet you. I’m glad you could make it.”

He was about forty, lean, clean-shaven, and wore stylish horn-rimmed eyeglasses that stopped just short of too much. He took off his black cashmere coat to reveal a black Armani suit, blue shirt, and red power tie. He was not a handsome man, had a nose that bent slightly to the left, thin lips, and a weak chin. His hairline had begun to recede, but to compensate he wore his hair long and swept back over his ears. Dani followed him to the dining room, where the maître d’ seated them. A waiter brought menus.

“Please order dinner if you’d like,” Fish said. “I tend to eat early. The chef here used to work at the Four Seasons. Do you like food, Dr. Harris?”

“Do I like food?” Dani said.

The fact was, she was quite hungry, but her better judgment told her not to order. She saw the meeting as adversarial, if not confrontational. One party provisioning food for the other gave the provisioner an advantage, a social custom that went back thousands of years. It could be meant as a legitimate peace offering, the breaking of bread together, or it could be a tool for negotiation.

“I like food just fine,” she said, “but only when I’m hungry.”

“Good for you,” Fish said. “I applaud your discipline. Do you golf?”

“No,” Dani said. “Never did.”

“Neither do I,” Davis Fish said. “I think when I was born, the Sports Fairy skipped me and gave all the athletic talent in the family to my brother. What was it Mark Twain said? ‘Golf is a good walk spoiled’?”

“That’s what he said,” Dani told him.

The lawyer smiled and ordered a glass of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1982, asking Dani if she’d join him. She again declined.

“Are you sure?” he said. “It’s $700 a bottle but worth twice that, in my opinion.”

“That’s the thing about oenophiles,” Dani said. “To you, it’s worth that. To someone who prefers the taste of chocolate milk, it isn’t worth a nickel. But don’t let me stop you.” She ordered iced tea.

So much for small talk.

“I have to ask you why you wanted to meet with me,” Dani said. “I presume if you have business with the DA’s office, you’d speak to Irene Scotto or to one of her assistants.”

Fish set his briefcase on the table, reached into it, and pulled out a folder, which he handed to Dani. When she opened the folder, she saw her résumé.

“My business is with you,” he said.

He smiled, insincerely, Dani thought, like a used-car salesman trying to sell a lemon.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“It is your résumé, is it not?” Fish asked. “I was hoping you’d look it over to make sure there aren’t any mistakes or corrections you think we need.”

“Who’s
we
?” she said. “And why do you need it? Who gave it to you?”

“A headhunter I know had it on file.” Fish smiled. “It’s their job to be aware of people like you. I’d like to talk to you about a possible position.”

“I thought we were here to talk about Logan Gansevoort,” Dani said.

“But we are,” Fish said, sipping his wine. “That’s the position I’m talking about. Mr. Gansevoort—Andrew Gansevoort—has made himself thoroughly acquainted with your talents and your résumé, and we’ve called a few references—”

“What references?” Dani asked.

Andrew Gansevoort was beyond wealthy. He’d made headlines the previous year when, during the worst economic downturn the country had seen since the Great Depression, he’d given himself a $65 million year-end bonus at the hedge fund he managed.

“I believe the references asked for anonymity,” the attorney said, “but they all spoke quite favorably of you, which is why Mr. Gansevoort wants to hire you.”

“To do what?”

“To work with his son,” Fish said.

“I can’t work with his son,” Dani said. “I work for the district attorney.”

“Yes, of course,” Fish said. “You would have to leave your current position, but Mr. Gansevoort intends to make it worth your while. What do you bill now? $150 an hour? $200?”

Dani didn’t answer. It wouldn’t be hard for anyone to guess.

“Mr. Gansevoort is willing to pay you $750 an hour as a retainer.”

She understood what they were asking for, but not why.

“All right,” Fish said. “I’m authorized to go to $1,000 an hour. Equal to my own rate. I think your quality of life would improve immensely, whatever level you may think it’s at now. Did I say we were thinking of a full-time retainer?”

“Full-time?” Dani said. “Forty hours a week at $1,000 an hour?”

“It could be more than full-time,” Fish said. “If, for example, the family travels and takes you with them. Mr. Gansevoort thinks there may be occasions when Logan might need help around the clock.”

“And what is it you want me to do, exactly?” Dani said.

“Serve as his counselor,” Fish said. “His life coach. Guardian angel. What I’m telling you now is protected information—”

“Nothing we say is protected or privileged, Mr. Fish,” Dani reminded him. “I work for the DA.”

“I understand,” Fish said.

Dani wondered if he was wearing a recording device. He’d just tried to trap her by giving her information that, if she used it against them later, could be thrown out because she hadn’t clarified her authority.

“Then let’s just say Logan is a troubled soul. With a troubled past. A history of getting kicked out of schools, and a failure to govern his impulses. Mr. Gansevoort thinks Logan needs someone to stand at his side, for a therapeutic length of time, and guide him. Someone with your history of working with adolescents with personality disorders.”

“You want a babysitter,” Dani said.

Fish smiled. “At $160,000 a month, you can call it what you will, but that’s a lot to pay a babysitter.”

“He’d have to rent me a DVD of my choice too,” she said. “Plus snacks.”

Davis Fish was not amused. “Mr. Gansevoort is also, obviously, concerned with possible future legal problems. He’d like you to evaluate the sanity and competence of certain potential witnesses. And it goes without saying that he wants you to evaluate Logan to determine whether he has mental problems severe enough to render him not responsible for his actions.”

“So you want to buy me off and then hire me to turn the tables on the prosecution,” Dani said. “I’ll give your boss credit. He has a strong sense of . . . entitlement. Like the child who kills his parents and then throws himself on the mercy of the court because he’s an orphan.”

“That’s an inappropriate analogy,” Fish said.

“That’s an inappropriate offer,” Dani said. “And unethical, if not actionable.”

She was about to go when she saw an elegant man approaching, mid-forties, fit, tanned, and familiar—she knew Andrew Gansevoort from the pictures she’d seen of him in the paper, though she’d never seen him around town. He rarely left his property, and sent other people to do things for him like buy groceries or shuttle children. His hair was light brown and full and swept back. He wore a pink shirt, with a silver cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders. He smiled at Dani, showing her his whitened and veneered teeth, and offered her his hand.

“Miss Harris,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping I could catch you and meet you in person. Please tell me you and Mr. Fish have come to an understanding.”

“Oh, I think we have,” Dani said, rising without shaking the man’s hand and pushing her chair in. “Haven’t we, Mr. Fish?”

25
.

“Am I catching you at a bad time?” Dani said.

“One word,” Tommy told her.
“Borassus aethiopium.”

“I think that was two words . . . but excuse me?”

“African fan palms. A woman out in Willow Pond Estates imported African fan palms for her solarium,” Tommy said. “They’re very decorative, but I think she got them on the black market because the root balls were infested and now her house is full of grasshoppers. Technically, desert locusts. She wants us to come in and spray. You’re on your cell—where are you?”

“Why doesn’t she call an exterminator?”

“She’s done business with my dad for years,” Tommy said. “I think she feels bad because she didn’t order the palms from us. I got a call in to a guy we use.”

“Tell your guy to spray for botflies too,” Dani said. “There’s a bug going around. Literally.”

“What’s up?”

“I need help,” she said. “I’m at the country club. In the parking lot. I locked my keys in the car.”