THE SECRET CELL NUMBER

Ross’s office stood at the east end of the firm, at the end of a long corridor. His door sat alone in a kind of cul-de-sac, facing an empty hallway that seemed to stretch longer with every step I took.

At the door, I felt a creeping paranoia. What if there was a hidden camera? Or worse, a silent alarm that would trigger the moment I opened this sacrosanct office? I put my fears aside, thought about what was at stake, and slowly inserted the stolen skeleton key.

The lock turned.

I closed and locked the door behind me. Without turning on the lights, I felt my way to his chair and sat down in front of his dark computer. I had been careful to wear my tight leather winter gloves before going in, to leave no fingerprints, and I kept them on as I switched the machine on.

The firm’s network prompt demanded Ross’s password. I pressed the escape key, and it dropped me out of the network and into the microcomputer’s operating system. Somehow I doubted that Ross would keep Mickey’s number on the network, where anyone with a little hacking skill could break in from another office and read his files. No. The number had to live on Ross’s own machine, so I began to look for a private database.

After a few minutes, I found it: Ross’s private D-Base, filled with names I didn’t recognize. One name leaped out at me.

Mickey.

I clicked on it. The computer demanded a password, and my heart sank. I had no idea what it could be.

I leaned back in the chair. My options were few, but I had come too far to stop. I typed the obvious first: “hit-man.” The screen returned to its bland ENTER PASSWORD. I typed “Eli.” Nothing. “Elizabeth.” Nothing. “Grant.” Nothing. “Elizabeth H. Grant.” Nada.

I was running out of options. I stopped, and in my mind I repeated her full name, over and over. Elizabeth H. Grant.

Wait. What’s her middle name?

I opened my wallet and found the business card she had given me at our O’Brian meeting. There it was: Elizabeth Hamint Grant, J.D.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Hamint.”

It was an anagram of the dreaded word.

Hit-man.

I typed Hamint.

The database opened, and it gave me far more than I had come for: phone numbers. Names of cases Eli had resolved. Names implicating officers and directors of insurance companies. The secret cell number. And, to top it all, cash amounts adding up to millions of dollars, all paid by the firm to Ms. Grant over the years.

I printed the entire file at once: fifteen pages of case names and cash payments. Enough to destroy Eli, the firm, several prominent men, powerful corporations, and, if I wasn’t careful, myself.

It was nearly nine-forty at night. I wasn’t worried about the time. I needed to meet with the Good Samaritan hit man as soon as possible. I lifted Ross’s private phone, dialed the number, and practiced his uninterested monotone. It rang once. A machine answered and asked me to leave a message after the tone.

“We need to meet,” I said, imitating Ross’s voice as well as I could. Then I hung up and waited.

Ten minutes later, Ross’s line rang. A digitized voice gave its order.

“One hour. Hamilton Building. Front entrance.”

The line clicked off.

She had taken the bait.

I printed two more copies of the long roster of case names, payments, and assigned crimes, all linking Elizabeth H. Grant, J.D., to her part-time illicit hobby.

One copy went into a manila envelope to take with me to the meeting. A second went into a FedEx envelope addressed to my reporter girlfriend, Rachel, with a signed, handwritten letter explaining that if she didn’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, or if anything strange happened to me, anything involving my death or serious impairment, she was to broadcast and publish the information through NBC. The third went into an envelope for my friend and broker of many years, Brandon Pierce. I enclosed copies of the Morales letter and both reports. I marked it Confidential and typed, Do Not Open Unless Requested by Sender.

Seconds before I turned off the computer, the door opened.

Ross stood in the doorway. His coffee cup slipped from his hand and burst on the floor. He demanded, furiously, to know what I was doing in his office.

I was speechless. He crossed the room in long, rapid strides, heading straight for the glowing screen.

I panicked. In a flash, I weighed my options. If I ran, it was all over. I would lose my job. I would never talk to Eli, because he would call her and cancel the meeting. I would be disbarred for life.

On the other hand…

Instinct took over. I picked up the heavy brass balance-of-justice ornament that sat on the credenza behind me and, with brutal force, raised my arm. As Ross looked at the computer, I brought it down on his right temple.

“Justice comes to all of us sooner or later,” I said, in a voice I did not recognize.

Ross fell to the floor like a lump.

For a moment, I stared at his motionless body. Then I came to my senses, and a current of inevitable doom engulfed me.