Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,4

a dry palm, and when the overeager partner gestured for everyone to sit down, she folded her dove gray suit back into her executive chair, ready for whatever came next. Even if what came next was me.

I’m not what people expect when they hear Strike.

Strike, for most of the country, means Logan Russo. They see her signature swirl braid, the bald determination glazing the eye that stares them down over the top of a boxing glove. They see her when they’re browsing a gas station aisle for protein bars and they see her while they’re watching commercials during Sunday’s NFL game, but most of all they see her every time they throw a secret late-night punch at the bathroom mirror, when they think no one’s up besides them and their demons. They see Logan, only Logan, because that’s what we told them to see.

Gregg Abbott—cofounder of Strike, husband of Logan Russo—is just a guy who sits in meetings. I sat down now, and took stock of my surroundings.

Parrish Forensics wasn’t what I expected, either. Elegance exuded from the sleek fortieth-floor conference room and the paint-splashed canvasses along the wall: indigo on butter, orange against navy. There was no mistaking the crimson on chalk white. It was blood splatter, a crime scene exploded and examined at microscopic range, and I couldn’t tell if it was meant to assure or discomfort the viewer. The same could be said about Nora Trier and the rest of her partners around the table. Most accountants gave you that long-suffering, “no one understands the importance of my tedium” sort of vibe, but this group had a different energy completely.

Jim Parrish was the same hale, jovial boomer who smiled from the white screen of his bio photo on their website, emanating all the energy of his résumé. I could picture him downing wheatgrass shots as he exposed the World Com scandal and running marathons while he linked a five-billion-dollar money laundering ring to several South American governments. He probably had enough enemies to fill a stadium, the type of hatred that keeps you young.

I’d taken the chair on Jim’s left and Rajesh, the partner who’d met me out front, sat facing me.

“We are gratified you reached out to us, Mr. Abbott.”

Rajesh Joshi was no challenge to read. He’d referenced his past professional life within the first minute of greeting me in the lobby (establishing credentials) and drew his shoulders up to hold himself a half inch taller than his spine wanted to stretch (seeking dominance). He wasn’t a short man, average in most dimensions, although his head was disproportionally big, exacerbated by a hairstyle that reminded me of a rippling motorcycle helmet. I wondered if it intentionally emphasized his skull, whether head size to accountants was the equivalent of comparing dicks.

“Parrish Forensics provides expertise in a number of areas.” Rajesh nodded to the assistant who controlled a PowerPoint from one corner of the room and took me through the standard company presentation, their mission statement, which read like a code of conduct for the United Nations, and the various services they offered. Forensic investigation, including asset misappropriation, money laundering, and financial statement fraud. Litigation support. Expert witness testimony. Divorce and estate property valuation. International expertise and resources, on-the-ground investigations around the globe.

While he talked, I took stock of the other two partners. Corbett MacDermott, a ruddy guy with a strong chin, was the only one in the room who wasn’t trying to look pleasant. Unlike Jim and Rajesh, he was tie-free and jacketless, wearing an off-the-rack button-down rolled up to his elbows. Not a brawler, not a wimp. A man who could give or take a punch, but wouldn’t be sorry to hear the bell at the end of the round. He looked, in fact, like he’d love to hear a bell right now. And finally, there was Nora Trier, watching the presentation as though she hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. Occasionally she and the ruddy guy exchanged glances and there was something more there—a partnership beyond the business.

“The only continent we haven’t found money in—yet—is Antarctica,” Rajesh laughed at his own joke as he wrapped up the pitch. The last slide included the Strike logo and a shot from our website, which he left on-screen as they all turned subtly toward me, my cue.

I looked at each of them in turn.

“Strike is the fastest growing premium athletic brand in the country. We formed in 1999. Logan had already done some endorsement work, but together