THE SKELETON KEY

The file Ross had left on my desk was damning. It held enough ammunition to prove Trust Mutual’s claim of fraud against the policyholder. I shook my head in disbelief at what I was reading: an e-mail from John Morales’s private home computer, written to his wife, Anna. In it, he laid out a plan to cause their deaths and leave the insurance proceeds to their children. The letter was in Spanish, but it had been translated into English for the benefit of the firm and the court. It read:

Dear Anna,

My love, for years we have struggled to keep the family afloat, but this life of barely surviving is not the life we were meant to live. We once knew luxury, with servants and delights, and now we are little more than slaves in this country. There is nothing left for us here, and nothing left for us in Uruguay either, for to go back would mean a life of shame among our wealthy friends. We cannot allow our children to suffer our fate. They were not born for poverty any more than we were.

So I believe the best thing is what we have discussed for several months: to give our children what they deserve. Please don’t worry about when or how it will happen. I will take care of that. Just rest in the knowledge that our twins will have nothing to worry about for the rest of their lives. A beneficiary trust has been set up, and it will take effect upon our deaths. It will give our children far more than basic necessities. They will have the education and the future they deserve.

Forgive me, my love, but my decision is final. I know you understand, and may God have mercy on our souls. John Morales.

“What the hell? This setup stinks from a mile away!” I was practically screaming. “Who writes an e-mail to his wife, from his own home, about a fraud they’re about to commit, and signs it with his first and last name?”

Roxana took the file from me and kept reading. “If you didn’t like the e-mail, take a look at this,” she said, indignant. “Remember the initial autopsy report? Well, it seems there’s a new one.”

She watched me closely as she handed me a page from the file. It stated that John Morales had been intoxicated with large amounts of sedatives while driving on the day of the accident.

“Wait a second. Two autopsy reports? Who are the doctors who did them?”

“The same doctor,” she said, incredulous.

“And who requested the subpoena to search John’s computer at his house?”

“One of Trust Mutual’s in-house counsel. A man named Greg Epstein.”

“I thought we were the only ones representing Trust Mutual on the Morales case.”

“Apparently not,” Roxy said, clearly annoyed.

I closed the file. “Listen. I’m not going to bring this to Lancy or to the client. I’m not even going to interview Greg Epstein or the doctor who did the autopsy, because this is all bullshit and I’d be running in circles. But I need a favor, Roxy. After you tell me what I need to know, I promise I won’t ask anything else of you on this case.”

“What is it?” she asked, already certain that whatever I was about to ask would be dangerous, if not illegal.

She was right.

“Roxy, do you have a key to Mr. Ross’s office?”

“No, of course not,” she answered, worried. “The only key is on his keychain, in his pocket, with the master skeleton key and his personal keys.”

I nodded and pressed my hands over my face, elbows on the desk. Then I looked up. “Does the skeleton key open every office in the firm?”

“Yes. But…” She paused and lowered her voice, as though she were about to reveal a perilous secret. “There’s another skeleton key.”

“Does it open Ross’s office?” I asked.

“Yes,” Roxy said softly, looking down. She had already guessed my intentions.

“Where is it?”

“Lancy’s desk. The right-hand drawer, under the box of Cuban cigars.”

Lancy never left his office unlocked, except when he was walking the halls, in a short meeting elsewhere in the firm, or at a deposition on the premises. The moment he closed his door and set off toward deposition room five, I stepped out from behind the large plant at the entrance. I glanced around. Everyone was buried in the daily bustle of office work. I turned my back to his door and groped behind me for the knob.

It turned.

I eased the door open just wide enough for my body to slip through. My adrenaline surged at the thought of Lancy coming back for some forgotten file. For a moment I took in his large, opulent, neoclassical office, which desperately tried to resemble ancient Rome: Corinthian marble columns, bone-white walls. The whole place seemed to scream, The Emperor lives here.

I ran to the desk, opened the right-hand drawer as Roxana had directed, and lifted the box of Cuban cigars. Underneath lay the second skeleton key, the only one other than the key Ross carried in his pocket like a good-luck amulet.

Nothing in a law firm is as holy as an attorney’s office. It is where the private case files live. To be found there alone, behind closed doors, without the attorney’s permission was an unforgivable act of treason, not unlike being found in bed with someone else’s wife.

I closed the drawer and moved quickly toward the door. I pressed my ear against it, but the place was as soundproof as a sarcophagus. I was turning the knob when I heard voices approaching.

I panicked. I looked around for somewhere to hide. A door in the office led to Lancy’s private bathroom. I slipped inside, closed it behind me, climbed into the shower, and slid the frosted glass door shut.

Almost at once I felt claustrophobic, warm, and sweaty, though Lancy kept his office at no more than sixty-three degrees. He boasted that cold temperatures kept the brain sharp and fast, and liked to compare it to a computer running cool.

I heard him laughing on the other side of the bathroom door. I waited, afraid that he would walk in at any second for a pee, or worse, a shower. Instead, I heard only the occasional squeak of his overpriced leather chair, imported from Italy a few years earlier. Then a couple of friend-clients came in. I couldn’t make out much beyond sporadic, boisterous laughter and loud, punctuated remarks.

Hours passed. I sat on the shower floor with the key in my right pocket and my jacket in my lap, and I was about to doze off when the bathroom door opened slowly.

It was Lancy himself.

I practically lay flat. Lifting my head slightly, I could barely see his enormous silhouette through the frosted glass. He began to wash his hands, smoking one of his imported cigars. I clamped both hands over my mouth and nose in a desperate effort not to cough.

Finally, a door closed. The laughter stopped. The voices faded. I climbed out of the shower and pressed my ear to the bathroom door. Silence. I opened it carefully and found the office empty. I crept to the main entrance and opened it slowly, using one eye as a periscope. I saw no one.

I slipped out. Most of the lights were off, except for small pointed nightlights set into the molding along the floor, designed to keep late-working lawyers from tripping over the furniture. Walking among them was like walking down the aisle of a movie theater or an airplane.

I checked my watch. Eight in the evening. I had been trapped in that bathroom for nearly four hours.

As I turned a corner on my way to my office, I heard someone approaching. It was Roxana.

“Where the hell have you been? Your phone has been ringing off the hook, and Lancy was looking for you!”

“Long story,” I said. “Do you know who’s still on this floor?”

“Just Matthew and his secretary. They may be pulling an all-nighter on one of those boring tax cases.”

“How about Ross? Is he here?”

“He left right after Lancy walked out of the firm.”

“Good,” I said, and started toward Ross’s office. Roxana followed.

“Please, Xavier, think about what you’re about to do. It could spell the end of your career.”

I looked into her wide black eyes. “Roxy, if I don’t do this, it could spell the end of my sanity.”

She stayed quiet. Then she began to back away, still facing me.

“I’m sorry, Xavier. I can’t afford to get involved. I don’t know if you’ve lost your mind or found it, but I have a mother to take care of. I can’t help you anymore.”

“It’s all right, Roxy. You’ve already done enough for me. Thank you.”

She turned to leave. “Roxy,” I called. “Remember the limited-edition Ferrari you’ve been drooling over for the last year?”

“Xavier, please. Who could forget your pride and joy?” she said, tongue in cheek.

“It’s yours. Permanently. It’s paid in full. I’ll leave the signed title in your name on my desk, and it will be there tomorrow morning.” I was dead serious.

She stopped.

“Here are the keys.” I tossed them to her, on their silver prancing-horse keychain. “The registration and all the papers are in the glove compartment, along with an insurance card that covers drivers other than me.”

“Now I know you’ve lost your mind,” said Roxana.

“Maybe. But I need to borrow your car, just for tonight. And I need the contraption you took from your boyfriend last month. Where is it?”

She hesitated, then tossed me the keys to her dilapidated 1974 Cadillac. “In the trunk,” she said nervously. “Wrapped in a towel. I’d better not see my car on the morning news.”

“I promise to have it back intact in your parking space before you get to work. I just need something less notorious than a Ferrari tonight. And after tonight, I have a feeling I won’t need a car anymore.” I managed a small smile. “Consider the Ferrari a thank-you, for everything we’ve been through in ten years, and for your faithful friendship.”

Then I walked away quickly, in search of Ross’s office and the secret cell number.