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 onflict
of Interest is a masterpiece of suspense - a complex and
profound novel featuring a veteran female district attorney
attempting to reconstruct her shattered personal life when she
is suddenly plunged into a moral, legal, and emotional
nightmare.
While trying three defendants for robbery, Joanne Kuhlman
discovers a far more serious crime may be unfolding. One of the
defendants is developmentally disabled. His attorney and mother
insist he was cruelly exploited by his crime partners. When the
young man disappears, Joanne fears he may have been murdered in
a ruthless act to silence him.
Her sympathies for this defendant lead her to entangle herself
with his attractive attorney and compromise her career so the
truth may be revealed.
Filled with extensively researched detail, breathtaking plot
twists, and front page legal dilemma, Conflict of Interest
provides irrefutable evidence that Nancy Taylor Rosenberg, one
of the pioneers of the legal thriller genre, is still writing at
the top of her game.
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 Thursday,
February 8, 2001, 7:45a.m:
Eli Connors gazed up at the morning
sky, watching as a flock of seagulls soared over his head. At
forty-three, he was a quiet, introspective man. With the
exception of those who paid for his services, he didn't have
much use for people.
The Nightwatch was anchored a short
distance offshore, midway between the California cities of
Ventura and Santa Barbara. Clasping a steaming mug of hot coffee
in one hand, Eli took a sip, then lowered his head to the
telescope mounted on the bow of the seventy-two-foot fishing
vessel. The ship thrashed about in the choppy water, the waves
pounding against the hull. A strong easterly wind had developed
during the night, the primary reason the fog had lifted. The
telescope was bobbing up and down, yet Eli had no trouble
maintaining his balance. He stood six-foot-six and weighed three
hundred pounds. Dressed in a white cotton T-shirt and drawstring
flannel shorts, his feet encased in size seventeen deck shoes,
his ebony skin glistened in the morning sunlight.
The cold air didn't bother him. Eli had
always been oblivious to temperature. Weather, however, was
something he couldn't afford to ignore. For the past three
years, the sea had been his home.
Seacliff Point, the enclave where his subject resided, presented
extensive surveillance problems as the houses were nestled among
mature trees. With the Celestron Nexstar 8, an automated
positioning telescope with pinpoint computer control and
high-speed photo capability, he could track and record the
movements of just about anything. He could not, however, track
something he couldn't see.
Most beach communities removed the
trees so the residents could have an unobstructed view of the
ocean. Eli assumed that the original owner of the land where
Seacliff Point was located must have been an environmentalist,
and had drafted a legal document which restricted any present or
future home owners from tampering with the natural beauty of the
landscape. A man after his own heart, he thought, having
identified several colonies of rare birds perched among the
branches of the trees.
Eli's adrenaline suddenly surged as he
caught a glimpse of the woman. She was frantically darting from
one house to the other. A young girl he recognized as her
daughter was standing next to a white Lexus, shouting and
flailing her arms around. Attempting to zoom in on the woman's
face, she disappeared behind a large tree. "Damn," he
said, knocking over his coffee mug as he spun the telescope
around and started snapping pictures of the girl.
Had it not been for a corrupt
politician, Eli Connors would still be a high-ranking official
with the CIA. But that was the past, and the past couldn't be
changed. To some degree, he relished the fact that he was no
longer with the agency. Before he'd joined the CIA, he'd been a
captain in the navy. He'd grown tired of taking orders, having
people look over his shoulder, dealing with the inherent
problems of government bureaucracies. His only regret was not
bailing out sooner. In the private sector, Eli's skills were
highly marketable.
With one hand resting on the telescope, he used his free hand to
depress a button on what had once housed a refrigerated storage
container, the type commercial fishermen used to store their
bait and catch. Just as the storage container was not what it
appeared to be, the Nightwatch was not a fishing vessel. On the
main deck, the boat was outfitted as a commercial ship, allowing
movement from port to port without drawing unwanted attention.
Underneath was enough sophisticated equipment to run a small
country.
Even though he wasn't certain what was
unfolding, Eli prepared to take action. In his line of work,
there was no margin for error.
The electronic mechanism moved the fake cover on the storage
container to one side. A metallic cranking sound was emitted as
the Mk 45, a lightweight 54-caliber automatic weapon, rose and
locked into place.
©
1996 Penguin USA
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