KATRINA

Katrina

ONE DAY BEFORE

A search of the Blair, Stevenson database revealed that Tim Lyall wasn't just any corporate partner at the firm. It appeared he handled special projects, too. It's not the kind of thing that would have been obvious to anybody but me—I knew the telltale signs, the cryptic matter names, the expense billing to "general office." But it seemed that, unlike me, Tim Lyall was a true corporate fixer—acting on behalf of the companies themselves, not their rogue employees. Mark had never mentioned there being more than one of us, but I'm not sure I would have wanted to know. My Uber was pulling off the FDR at Sixty-first Street, only a few blocks from Tim Lyall's apartment, when I got a text from Mark.

A heads-up that the Journal went live with a story for tomorrow's paper about Sinclair and Darden.

He followed it with a link.

It was bound to come out. Anonymous sources are definitely other employees doing a CYA. Doesn't change the work that remains to be done.

Bound to come out? Darden had clearly gone to the Journal themselves. Mark could try to act blind, but he wasn't an idiot. I began to type something to that effect, then deleted it. I wanted to see these documents Tim Lyall had before I did anything else. And maybe I was a little afraid of how Mark was going to respond. I had a bad feeling about all of it.

Okay, I wrote back instead. Thanks for letting me know.

"I work for Tim Lyall," I said to the doorman crouched behind the small reception desk in the clearly pricey but also very generic Upper East Side apartment building. I flashed my work ID.

"He's not—"

"Here. I know. He's on his way to Zurich. He left some client documents in his apartment. He needs me to take them to him at the airport."

"Residents have to leave permission in writing and their keys if they want to let somebody in," he said, taking a step back. "Those are the rules."

"Well, my boss needs the documents. We can call him if you want. But he was yelling at everybody before he left the office." I dug out my phone and extended it to him. "Maybe if you want to be the one to tell him …"

Tim Lyall's apartment was a postmodern box with parquet floors and neutral mid-century furniture, utterly devoid of not only personality but any trace of a person. Like a corporate Airbnb. There was not a single photograph or birthday card or piece of evidence that a Tim Lyall existed.

It took me only a couple minutes to find the file cabinet tucked away in a mostly empty closet. It turned out what Tim Lyall lacked in knickknacks, he made up for in client files kept at home—way more than even the most conscientious partner should ever have. His own little insurance policy, perhaps. The documents touched on a whole range of matters, but all of them had to do with some kind of corporate hiccup: an agency violation, expedited approval needed, an accounting error excused. Tim had retained only a few documents in each case, probably enough to use as leverage in a cover-your-ass fashion. But at the back of the cabinet there was a thicker hanging folder labeled Darden.

Inside were dozens of folders containing a range of documents—studies, data, FDA correspondence, and internal documents related to the FDA approval process for Xytek years ago. There were research results and test studies, internal memos and emails.

At the back I spotted a sealed envelope, unmarked.

Inside the envelope were printouts of more recent emails, sent from Doug to Phil Beaumont, Darden in-house counsel, six months ago. And they made Doug's position crystal clear in very formal, on-the-record fashion:

Phil,

To reiterate what I stated in our discussion earlier today: We need to discuss this phone call. Dr. D'Angelo is the head of obstetrics and gynecology at Vanderbilt University Hospital. He's highly respected. He claims he spoke with people at Darden YEARS ago. An adverse event report was never made, Phil. I'm sure that whatever happened was an oversight. But we need to at least look into it.

Sincerely,

Doug Sinclair

Phil,

I understand the company's position that D'Angelo was being sued for malpractice and maybe he was indeed trying to put the blame on Xytek. Regardless, these claims need to be reported now. An adverse event report needs to be made to the FDA that reflects when Dr. D'Angelo made his first call to Darden, which was long before the lawsuit. There was an oversight. It happens. The only path forward is transparency.

Sincerely,

Doug Sinclair

And then one from only a month or so ago. After the filing of the multidistrict litigation complaint.

Phil,

I'm not going to stay quiet about this. I'll come forward myself if need be. I'll go to the press and I'm going to tell the truth.

Sincerely,

Doug Sinclair

There was one last page. A draft email addressed to me only a week ago: Dear Kat, Where to start …

That was all. But there was my email address, clear as day in the "To" line. An email I never received. I stared at it for a long time, the page trembling in my hand. Darden had known about Doug and me and, evidently, so had Tim Lyall. Was this why they'd wanted me on the case? It wasn't insignificant that the email had been saved, and sent on to Tim Lyall, though presumably not to Mark. If Tim operated anything like I did, Mark wouldn't know any of these details, which was starting to feel a little convenient. Had Darden counted on me to do what they wanted, and quickly, in order to make sure that my relationship with Doug didn't come out? Had they been signaling to Tim Lyall that Blair, Stevenson was mixed up in this already in more ways than one?

I was still staring at the message when my phone pinged in my pocket. Shit—Janine. How long had I been in Tim Lyall's apartment?

But the text wasn't from Janine. It was from the same unknown number as the other anonymous threats. Except this message didn't have any words at all.

It consisted of a single photo. Of Cleo.

It had been taken across the street from her dorm, only her profile as she went inside. At twilight. And then a second message:

Three million. That's what it will cost for me to keep your secrets. You have 24 hours, or she's the one who'll pay.

Yes. Tell me where. Please leave her alone. Just like that, all the advice I'd given to clients over the years—taking their time, not responding, patience, reserve—went right out the window.

I gripped the phone, praying for an answer that never came. It was possible they would send detailed instructions later. Unless whoever was messaging me didn't actually care that much about the money. That the messages blackmailing me were some kind of ruse, like the ones that had been sent to Doug. These were different from the ones sent to him. But it was possible that, too, was a ploy.

I texted Sergeant McKinney. Can you call me? ASAP.

My phone rang almost instantly. "What is it?"

"I need you to watch Cleo. Can you go to her dorm, follow her if she leaves? Make sure she's okay?"

"This because of that kid again?"

"I'm not sure," I said. Because I couldn't risk mentioning Darden, not yet. "But I'm worried. Very worried."