thousand." He whistled. "For a British car."
We sat in silence for a bit. I left my drink where it was and eventually said, "So, no permanent job offer, I take it."
"No." He shook his head slowly. "You're not comprehending the culture here yet, Patrick. You're a great investigator. But this chip you've got on your shoulder-"
"What chip?"
"What...?" He chuckled and gave that a small toast of his glass. "You think you're wearing that nice suit, but all I see you wearing is class rage. It's draped over you. And our clients see it, too. Why do you think you've never met Big D?"
Big D was the companywide nickname for Morgan Duhamel, the seventy-year-old CEO. He was the last of the Duhamels-he had four daughters, all married to men whose names they'd taken-but he'd outlasted the Standifords. The last one of them hadn't been seen since the mid-fifties. Morgan Duhamel's office remained, along with those of several of the older partners, in the original headquarters of Duhamel-Standiford, a discreet chocolate bowfront tucked away on Acorn Street at the foot of Beacon Hill. The old-money clients were directed there to discuss cases; their offspring and the nouveaux riches came to International Place.
"I always assumed Big D didn't take much interest in the subcontractors."
Dent shook his head. "He's got encyclopedic knowledge of this place. All its employees, all their spouses and relatives. And all the subcontractors. It was Duhamel who told me about your association with a weapons dealer." He raised his eyebrows at me. "The old man doesn't miss shit."
"So he knows about me."
"Mmm-hmm. And he likes what he sees. He'd love to hire you full-time. So would I. Put you on a partner track. But if, and only if, you lose the attitude. You think clients like sitting in a room with a guy they feel is judging them?"
"I don't-"
"Remember last year? The CEO of Branch Federated came up here from headquarters in Houston, specifically to thank you. He's never flown in to thank a partner and he flew in to thank a sub . You remember that?"
Not an easy one to forget. The bonus on that case paid for my family's health insurance last year. Branch Federated owned a few hundred companies, and one of the most profitable was Downeast Lumber Incorporated. DLI operated out of Bangor and Sebago Lake, Maine, and was the country's largest producer of TSCs, or temporary support columns, which construction crews used to stand in for support beams that were being restructured or built off-site. I'd been inserted into the Sebago Lake offices of Downeast Lumber. My job had been to get close to a woman with the wonderfully alliterative name of Peri Pyper. Branch Federated suspected her of selling trade secrets to competitors. Or so we'd been told. After I had worked with Peri Pyper for a month, it became apparent to me that she was gathering evidence to prove that Branch Federated was tampering with its mills' pollution-monitoring equipment. By the time I got close to her, Peri Pyper had gathered clear evidence that Downeast Lumber and Branch Federated had knowingly violated both the Clean Air Act and the False Statement Act. She could prove Branch Federated had ordered its managers to miscalibrate pollution monitors in eight states, had lied to the department of health in four states, and had fabricated the results of its own quality-assurance testing in every single plant, bar none.
Peri Pyper knew she was being watched, so she couldn't remove anything from the building or transfer it to her home computer. But Patrick Kendall, her drinking buddy and a lowly marketing accounts manager-he could. After two months, she finally asked for my help at a Chili's in South Portland. I agreed. We toasted our pact with margaritas and ordered another Triple Dipper platter. The next night, I helped her right into the waiting arms of Branch Federated security.
She was sued for breach of contract, breach of fiduciary responsibility, and breach of her confidentiality agreement. She was prosecuted for grand theft and convicted. She lost her house. She also lost her husband, who bailed while she was under house arrest. Her daughter was bounced from private school. Her son was forced to drop out of college. Last I heard, Peri Pyper worked days answering phones at a used-car dealership in Lewiston, worked nights cleaning floors at a BJ's Wholesale in nearby Auburn.
She'd thought I was her drinking buddy, her harmless flirtation, her political soul mate. As they'd placed the cuffs