Stanton Wilder opened his copy of the succession plan. To Jordan, he said, “As a lawyer yourself, I’m sure you understand that when a businessman who is as successful and high-profile as your father dies suddenly there could be immediate and disastrous consequences to the company unless a seamless transition takes place immediately at the C-level of the business. With that in mind, I’m pleased to inform you that your father has stipulated that you are to be his successor. The Executive Committee reviewed the request. It met without objection. As of this moment, you are now Chairperson of Farrow Industries Worldwide. We simply need you to confirm that you accept the position.”
Jordan nodded. “I do.”
“Very good,” Wilder said. “Having you at the helm will maintain investor confidence and stock value. This document further demands that I immediately transition from my current role as Executive Vice President, Worldwide Commercial Business, to that of Chief Executive Officer. Our governance committee has inspected our internal talent pool and selected the executives who will succeed up the ranks. The names of those individuals will be announced tomorrow. We feel comfortable that the future of Farrow Industries is in good hands, just as your father would have wanted it. Your duties and responsibilities as Chairperson will be light. You’ll act primarily as a figurehead for the company and liaise with Brian and I from time to time as well as other members of the Board. You’ll also be required to attend all mandatory board and shareholder meetings. You’ll have a voice on all matters related to the future of Farrow Industries, including our plans for worldwide expansion.”
Wilder sat back in his chair. “I know this is a lot to take in right now, Jordan. I hope we haven’t thrown too much at you. If we have, I apologize.”
“Not at all,” Jordan replied. “It’s comforting to know that my father has left his company in such capable hands.”
“Thank you,” Wilder replied. “Please know that we’re here for you, day or night.”
Brian Hartley spoke. “Now that we’ve concluded the business of the Board, I’d like to present these documents to Ms. DeSola and Agent Carnevale.”
Hartley slid the envelopes across the table to Marissa and Grant. They had been respectively addressed to them by Michael Farrow. “Please open them,” the attorney said.
Marissa and Grant read their letters.
Marissa covered her mouth, let out a small cry. “Oh my,” she said. “Oh my!”
Grant Carnevale laughed, then turned to Jordan. “Your old man just had to get in the last word, didn’t he?”
Jordan smiled. “What are you talking about?” Jordan asked. “What do your letters say?”
Marissa was speechless. Grant just smiled, continued to laugh, and shook his head.
“Mr. Hartley?” Jordan asked.
Hartley handed her copies of the letters her father had prepared for Marissa and Grant. “For your records, Jordan,” he said. “Clearly, your father held Ms. DeSola and Agent Carnevale in the highest regard.”
Jordan read her father’s letter to Marissa:
Dearest Marissa. You have been a trusted friend all my life. To thank you for your loyalty, I have established a trust in your name in the amount of twenty million dollars as my final gift to you. Payments will be disbursed monthly. Please enjoy the rest of your days knowing how much you were appreciated and loved. Always, Michael Farrow.
As it had for Grant, her father’s letter to her godfather made her laugh. It read:
Grant, you old dog! For years I’ve been trying to lure you away from that damn government job of yours with the FBI and join me at Farrow Industries. Despite my best efforts, you refused. It seems you were more interested in saving the world than you were in working with your old pal. If you’re reading this letter now, it’s because the Man upstairs has finally called my number. But we can’t live forever, can we pal? I can’t complain. My life’s been one hell of a ride. But I can tell you from my heart it would have been much more fun if you had been at my side to share the journey. With that in mind, I thought I’d leave you with a little parting gift; one you would have earned anyway if you’d had the damn good sense to take me up on my offer back when we graduated from MIT. I’ve established a trust in your name in the amount of fifty million dollars. Payments will be disbursed monthly. Go buy yourself an island, retire early, or do whatever you want. You deserve it. I love you, my friend. If you would, please do me one last favor. Look in on my family from time to time. With deepest respect and admiration, Mike.
After Marissa had re-read her letter for the fifth time, she asked, “Is this real?”
Hartley smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Your trust is part of Mr. Farrow’s last will and testament. It is one-hundred percent legitimate.”
Carnevale looked up. “Thanks, Mikey,” he said. “I love you too, buddy.”
Jordan turned to Stanton Wilder. “I have an urgent request, Mr. Wilder. I need to visit the families of the crash victims as soon as possible before the funeral for my family takes place. Can you arrange transportation for me?”
“Absolutely,” Wilder answered. “When do you wish to leave?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Consider it done.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to tag along,” Hanover said. “Officially, you’re still under FBI protection.”
“Thanks, Chris,” Jordan said. “I’d appreciate that.”
61
FOR TWO DAYS, Chris accompanied Jordan as she traveled, paying her respects to the families of Rock Dionne, flight Captain Peter Sanders, First Officer Cameron Brentworth and flight attendants Julie Todd and Gayle Konrath, all of whom perished in the horrific jet crash that claimed the lives of her parents and Keith.
The family stood inside the Great Mausoleum at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, listening to Reverend William Harding deliver the committal service, recite prayers and readings, deliver the eulogy, and share stories of the countless acts of generosity and benevolence for which Michael and Mary Farrow had come to be known throughout their lives. He spoke of their boundless love for their grandchildren, Emma and Aiden, and how fortunate they were to be blessed with such a strong, confident and capable daughter in Jordan. The memorial was difficult for young Emma, who cried for her father throughout the brief service, her head buried in her grandmother’s dress. Aiden held his own. He stood beside his grandfather, David Quest, listening to the words of the kindly old priest. Marissa DeSola and Grant Carnevale stood at Jordan’s side. Positioned throughout the cemetery, FBI agents, including Chris Hanover and Director Andrew Dunn, as well as Farrow Industries shadow security team, kept a close watch on the crowd who, behind the locked gates, appeared to be enjoying their brief glimpse into a private moment in the life of the famous family.
After the service had concluded and final goodbyes were said, Emma and Aiden returned to the limousine with their grandparents and Marissa.
Grant Carnevale rejoined his colleagues. They watched from across the parking lot as Jordan thanked the Reverend and received his blessing.
“Think they’ll be all right?” Chris asked.
“Jordan will need a little time,” Carnevale answered. “But yeah, they’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got one hell of a goddaughter there,” Andrew Dunn remarked.
“Thank you, Director,” Carnevale replied. “I certainly do.”
“She can back me up anytime,” Chris said.
“Damn straight,” Carnevale agreed. “She’s her father’s daughter all right, through and through. By the way Chris, how’s the shoulder?”
Hanover’s wounded arm hung in a sling. He lifted it gingerly. “Hurt’s like a sonofabitch.”
“And your neck?”
“About the same.”
Dunn turned around and saw his daughters and Lily standing inside the front gates of the cemetery. He waved to them to join him.
Jordan walked over to the men and received a hug from her godfather. “How are you, s
weetie?” Carnevale asked.
Jordan smiled. “All things considered, I’m good.”
Shannon and Zoe joined their father. Lily stood back, unsure of her place. Shannon took her by the hand. Zoe put her arm around her, pulled her close.
“Jordan,” Andrew Dunn said, “I’d like you to meet my daughters, Shannon and Zoe. And this is Lily Maynard. Girls, this is Jordan Quest. Jordan helped us locate you.”
“Please accept our condolences on your loss, Mrs. Quest,” Zoe added.
“Yes,” Shannon added. “Thank you for all you’ve done to help my father, and us.”
“You’re most welcome,” Jordan answered. She leaned over and shook Lily’s hand. The psychic connection with the girl was immediate. In a flash Jordan saw the stables, the bodies buried beneath the ground, the nuclear fallout shelter, the framed pictures of her parents. “They’re fine, Lily,” she said. “They’re with you now, you know.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said.
“Your parents,” Jordan said. “They’re here, watching over you, keeping you safe.”
Lily’s eyes welled. “They are?”
Jordan smiled. “Indeed. Never doubt that. Not even for a minute.”
Dunn interjected. “Perhaps I should explain, Lily. Jordan has a very special gift. She’s one of the world’s foremost psychics.”
“I recognize your name,” Shannon said.
“Me too,” Zoe added. “Shannon and I are both lawyers. We studied a case you were involved with two years ago in Connecticut. The Bamford kidnapping and murders. You helped the police locate the bodies and catch the killers.”
“I remember it well,” Jordan said. “I understand from your father you both attended Harvard?”
“We did,” Shannon said.
“I sailed for Harvard.”
“Basketball was my game,” Zoe said. “Go Crimson!”
Shannon raised her hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t have an athletic bone in my body.”
“Me neither,” Lily added.
Jordan laughed.
Andrew Dunn’s cell phone rang. He checked the display. “Excuse me,” he said as he walked away from the group.
Jordan introduced Shannon, Zoe, and Lily to her godfather and Special Agent Hanover. Lily shook Chris’ hand and blushed. Zoe noticed her reaction and being Zoe, seized the opportunity to tease her. “Hot, isn’t he?”
Carnevale laughed.
Chris smiled, tried to turn away. Jordan grabbed his jacket, saw his face, pulled him back. “Are you blushing, tough guy?” she joked.
Andrew Dunn returned. “That was Commander Reed with Hostage Rescue. CSI found several blister packs of Rohypnol hidden in the wheel well of the Chevy.”
“Uncle Emmett’s car,” Lily said. “Ben and Basil used it all the time.”
“Must be what they used to knock us out,” Shannon said.
Their father nodded. “Trace amounts of the drug were found in the wine in the condo. CSI also found a manila envelope containing surveillance pics of the two of you on the Harvard campus. The address of the rental condo in L.A. was inside the folder. Prints on the blister pack came back to three subjects: Ben and Basil Maynard, plus a small-time drug dealer by the name of Dwayne Kirby. Agents picked up Kirby and brought him in for questioning. He rolled on Ben. Said he had accepted the kidnapping contract but got cold feet. He still wanted the payout, or at least part of it, so he sub-contracted it to Ben. The phone you used to call me, Ben’s phone, contained audio he recorded of his meeting with Kirby detailing the plan, who was involved, information on your coming and going, the works. Kirby’s cooked. And with Ben and Basil dead, he’s the one left holding the bag. By the time the Bureau’s done with him he won’t see the light of day for years to come.”
“But why take us in the first place?” Zoe asked.
“The Bureau’s been keeping a close eye on me for the past few months,” Dunn said. “I can’t get into the details. They’re classified. All I can say is that the people associated with Kirby wanted to get to me through you.”
“There were photos of you on the stable wall,” Shannon said.
“So I heard.”
“Are you still in danger?” Zoe asked.
“I don’t think so, honey. Kirby provided us with enough information to go after the people responsible for this. Arrest warrants have been issued. The raids will take place today. It’s over.”
“Thank God,” Zoe said.
Dunn nodded. “Reed also told me CSI found the remains of a kerosene lamp on the back porch of the house. They lifted finger and palm prints and ran them through RISC, the Repository for Individuals of Special Concern. They came back to Emmett Maynard. Why the old man torched the place is anybody’s guess. Maybe he was trying to destroy evidence or cover something up. No matter. CSI’s still sifting through the debris and continuing their investigation. With that will come more answers.”
“What about the men who tried to kill my family?” Jordan asked. “Have you been able to identify them?”
“We have,” Dunn answered. “Their names are James Rigel and Harrison Tasker. Rigel, the man you shot in the house, is the same man who tried to kill you in the hospital. Quantico reviewed the hospital footage we sent them. Biometrics confirms it. We’ve been looking for him for some time. We found his car parked on a new home construction site down the road from the estate. The site supervisor called it into LAPD. They called us when Rigel’s name came up as someone we were interested in talking to. The address on the car’s registration was for a condo in Safety Harbor, Florida. Tampa agents searched the residence and found a cache of weapons along with scrapbooks filled with newspaper articles covering a series of unsolved homicides. Some stories had been blown up to poster size, framed, and hung on the wall like pieces of art. They also found a trunk in the bedroom closet containing four wooden cigar boxes. We found a fifth in the trunk of his car. All were filled with miscellaneous women’s items: nail files, hairbrushes, scarves, panties... you name it. The box in the car trunk contained a barrette and a tongue-stud, among other items.”
Jordan remembered the conference, her conversation with Chief Wayne Ballantyne, and her vision of the final moments in Becky Landry’s life when her struggle for survival ended with the barrettes being pulled from her hair.
“They’re souvenirs,” Jordan said. “Kill trophies.”
Dunn nodded. “That’s right. Trace DNA on the items matches fifty victims, all unsolved homicides. Most of the names coincided with the articles in the scrapbook or the wall posters. The sick sonofabitch was following the media’s coverage of his kills. Trust me, as much as I would have liked to have seen him stand trial for the crimes he committed and the lives he took, you did the world a favor by taking him out.”
“My pleasure,” Jordan said
“One more thing,” Dunn added. “When Quantico ran the hospital surveillance, they got a hit against a photo taken a year ago by our Organized Crime Task Force. The picture showed Rigel meeting with Salvatore Monterra, the boss of New York’s Monterra crime family. The Monterra’s are into everything from drug trafficking and money laundering to prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, and murder for hire. Various agencies… FBI, Justice, and DEA, had noticed a shift in Monterra’s financial activity over the last couple of years. Most notable was the sudden interest he’d taken in the tech sector. A Joint Task Force was established between the agencies to take him down. Investigator’s concluded the family was trying to transition away from illegal business activities to legitimate ones. One of Monterra’s first investments was a small tech start-up, SerraDyne Terratech, headed by a guy by the name of Allan Marsden. Monterra paid Marsden five-hundred-thousand dollars for the company, then sunk another million into patent filings.”
Jordan recalled the book signing. “Allan Marsden showed up at the American Association of Police Chiefs conference I spoke at a few days ago. He told me my father had cost him everything, that somehow he had ruined his life.”
Dunn shook his head. “If anyone ruined Marsden’s life, it was Marsden himself. There was a back story to his company; one that Marsden conveniently failed to share with Monterra. As you know, Farrow Industries is always on the lookout for up-and-coming tech companies they can acquire to make use of their intellectual properties within one or more of their divisions. SerraDyne Terratech came to Farrow’s attention. They offered to buy the company from Monterra for twenty million dollars, including the in-process patent applications. Monterra accepted the deal. But when Farrow’s attorneys performed their due diligence on the proposed acquisition, they discovered a problem. One of SerraDyne Terratech’s patent applications infringed upon one of their own. They dug a little deeper and looked at the computer files Monterra provided them as part of the deal. The files had been authored by Marsden, who had in fact worked at Farrow Industries for a while. They concluded he’d stolen the technology from Farrow while still in their employ. After leaving the company he waited two years before starting SerraDyne Terratech. Never in a million years could he have imagined that the company that would one day offer to buy SerraDyne Terratech from Monterra would be Farrow Industries.”
“At which point Farrow would have cited ‘just cause’ and walked away from the deal,” Jordan said.
“That’s precisely what happened. When Farrow pulled out, Monterra was furious. He accused Marsden of costing him twenty-one and a half million dollars. He went after him for the five-hundred grand he paid for the company, plus the million for the patent applications and twenty million he lost on the deal. But Marsden didn’t have a dime to his name. He was being sued by Farrow Industries for breach of contract and theft of intellectual property. He figured Monterra would probably have him killed, so he played a card that saved his skin but ultimately concluded with Rigel and Tasker coming after your family. He’d developed another computer technology, one that was worth tens of millions of dollars. That tech was wholly his design. He told Monterra that he could have it, free and clear, to settle the debt, but only under one condition.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 24
