The Woman in the Mirror
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Lynn Turner
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18,1K
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17
Prologue
Barnes was taken to the ten-by-ten-foot conference room early and left to cool his heels for fifteen minutes before his attorney arrived. He stoically endured the wait on a hard wooden chair, his strong, blunt hands folded on the scarred tabletop. He was seldom called upon to exercise patience. Even in this federal prison, others waited for Dennis Barnes, and they did so without complaint.
The blue chambray shirt and navy cotton trousers he wore were custom-made, tailored to fit his compact six-foot frame as perfectly as the Cerruti and Armani clothing that crowded his cavernous closets in Maryland and California and Saint-Tropez. At least he wouldn’t have to shop for clothes when he left this place. He was confident that nothing would require alteration. His body had retained its trim dimensions, thanks to regular workouts and an occasional five rounds with a former middleweight contender sharing his cell block.
His hair was shorter than he liked, and inexpertly cut, but that was a minor aggravation which would soon cease to be of concern. He spread his hands on the table and frowned. The Rolex watch and heavy gold signet ring he’d been wearing when he arrived five years ago were locked away in a safe somewhere in the gray stone bowels of the prison complex, presumably in proximity to the warden’s office. It wasn’t the absence of these items that prompted Barnes’s frown, though, but the state of his hands.
The calluses and stained, jagged nails were unwelcome reminders of a past he’d fought like a demon to put behind him, to expunge as if it had never happened. It had taken years, not to mention large sums of untraceable cash and the discreet use of blackmail and extortion, but eventually he had erased all record of his personal history.
And then he’d created a new one to replace it—a fictitious biography which had allowed him to build an empire rivaling the world’s largest corporations in scope and power. In time, the tentacles of his influence had penetrated the most exalted sanctums of business, finance and government. He had few enemies, because it was universally known that a word from Dennis Barnes could guarantee not only spectacular success but also utter, humiliating defeat.
He had made himself a king. A twentieth-century demigod.
And then she had betrayed him, and all his wealth and power hadn’t been able to save him.
He unconsciously balled his hands into fists. An artery throbbed at his temple as the familiar impotent rage rose inside him. He still burned at the ignominy of having been brought down by a woman—and not a woman who wielded any power of her own, but an employee, a glorified errand girl! A cunning, deceitful little cipher, whose only value to anyone had been her association with him. And—this had been the final, intolerable insult—his own wife’s sister.
Kendra Jenner. The name was a raw brand on his soul, both an epithet and an objective, the incentive that had made the past five years bearable. He had spent months planning his retribution. And now, finally, the waiting was almost at an end.
The heavy steel door on the far side of the room opened and Everett Whitledge entered. A uniformed guard followed the tall attorney inside and stationed himself against the wall as the door was closed and locked by a turnkey in the corridor beyond. The guard stared straight ahead, pretending disinterest, but Barnes knew that every syllable that was uttered during this meeting would be reported to the warden, who would in turn synopsize the conference for the U.S. attorney.
“Have you been waiting long?” Everett asked as he took a seat across the table.
Barnes moved one hand in a brusque, dismissive gesture. “It’s a petty game they play, trying to provoke me into losing my temper.”
Everett placed his attaché case on the table, opened it and removed a manila folder. “You’d think they’d have realized by now it can’t be done,” he murmured as he took a two-page computer printout from the folder. He slid the pages across the table. Barnes quickly scanned both, then returned them without comment.
“We’re right on schedule,” Everett said. “Your hearing is set for next Wednesday, 10:00 a.m. Everyone on the list will be there, plus a couple of people who’ve come forward on their own in the past several days.”
Barnes nodded. He’d expected a few last-minute volunteers—people who might want favors once he was out. “And the matter I asked you to follow up on?” he asked quietly.
“No change,” Everett replied. “As a matter of fact, I heard from your agent this afternoon, as I was about to leave the office. She assures me you shouldn’t have any trouble dispensing with that old business.”
Barnes propped his elbows on the table and rested his mouth against his linked hands. “Good,” he said in the same subdued tone.
The pose was calculated to conceal his expression from the guard, but he knew Everett’s shrewd courtroom gaze detected the hatred that blazed for a moment in his eyes.
“Good,” he repeated even more softly as he lowered his hands. His intelligent hazel eyes were once more mirrors, reflecting rather than revealing. “Call her back right away, as soon as you leave here. Tell her the old business will be my first priority.”
For a moment Everett Whitledge looked as if he might say something—perhaps offer an opinion or a bit of unsolicited advice. But then he lowered his gaze, replaced the folder in his attaché case and murmured a deferential “As you wish.”
