Simon Wood

by Accidents Waiting to Happen

  Memories of that time bombarded him, cutting short his explanation. He relived those terrifying weeks seeing his first child fight to survive and him powerless to do anything to save her.

  "Yes, of course I remember," she said softly.

  "You've got to understand I did it for the right reasons and I didn't want to worry you."

  Fear forced Kate to squirm. "Josh, tell me. Please."

  "You were so scared for Abby. Worried whether she would pull through. I don't know what I would have done if she'd died."

  Kate grabbed his wrist. "Jesus, Josh, don't say that.

  Don't even think things like that."

  Josh stopped rocking on the swing and he stared into her eyes for recognition. "But I did and you can't say you didn't think the same, either."

  She looked away from him. "Oh, Josh."

  "It's okay to admit it. Look, she's okay, there's nothing wrong with her and she's great." He lifted Kate's face so she looked at him, then turned his gaze to Abby.

  Red-faced, Abby hung upside down from the climbing frame, her hair hanging down. Her arms outstretched, she stroked Wiener, who stood beneath her.

  She spotted her parents looking at her. "Are my five minutes up?"

  "No, not yet," Josh said.

  "Cool."

  Josh couldn't help smiling.

  "What did you do, Josh?"

  His smile melted. "She wasn't getting better and the medical bills were piling up. The insurance was stretched to the max and MediCal couldn't help us."

  "Josh, you said the insurance would cover it."

  "It didn't."

  "What did you do?" she repeated, dread eating up her face.

  "I remember the crying. I couldn't bear to listen to it.

  It was like listening to fingernails being drawn down a blackboard." He shuddered at memories of years past, the despair rising to the surface. "The insurance was saying they wouldn't pay out any further and the doctors said they needed to carry out more procedures. I didn't know what we were going to do."

  Kate placed a comforting hand on Josh's knees.

  "Tell me."

  "I was carrying out building inspections on an apartment development in Dixon. The construction company had cut corners to make a profit and they knew it would never make the grade." He stopped looking at Kate again and stared into the sand at his feet "What did you do?" she whispered.

  "They offered me ten thousand to sign the development off as safe."

  "And you took it."

  "Yes."

  "Oh, Josh." Her hand slipped from his knee.

  "I took it happily," he blurted. She needed to understand.

  "I saw it as our way to save Abby. You've got to understand I didn't do it for greed. I did it out of necessity."

  Kate's face said it all. Disappointment scarred her expression, but Josh expected that. This kind of news didn't come with a round of applause and a ticker tape parade. He was just glad she wasn't angry.

  "How dangerous is the development?"

  "Not very. The owners are likely to have problems with subsidence or structural integrity over time. I don't know how well it would hold up in earthquake conditions, but it would have to be a very large quake to have an effect in Dixon and that's very unlikely."

  "Josh, why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

  "I couldn't. You were too preoccupied with Abby at the time and too happy when she was well. I didn't want to burst your bubble. But I promised myself I would tell you when the time was right." He paused. "I never found the right moment."

  "Until now. Why?"

  "Someone knows and they used it against me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Blackmail."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty-five thousand, so far."

  "Fifty-five thousand? Where did that money come from? You haven't been taking more bribes, have you?"

  Josh recoiled. "Christ, no. I only did it the once. They did try me again, but I left rather than be in someone's pocket. That's why I got out of the construction business altogether. I didn't want to get involved again."

  "So how did you pay the blackmailer?"

  "With a life insurance policy. I sold it."

  "You sold your life insurance? What if you'd been killed last week, what would have happened if you had no insurance?" Kate's temper began to slip.

  "Don't worry, I've got insurance. I started a new policy after I sold the other one. It was a quick way to raise money."

  Kate calmed down. "So why the big confession all of a sudden?"

  "I think what's been happening to me recently has something to do with it--the car accident, the wreath, the guy at the party. I think the blackmailer is calling in the marker. I think someone is going to release my part to the press."

  "Do you know who's doing this?"

  "Yes."

  "Was it the man with Bob?"

  "No. I think he's a hired hand. We checked him out and he doesn't work for Pinnacle."

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't want to say."

  "I think it's a bit late for what you want," Kate said sternly.

  Josh had hoped to keep this detail from Kate. "It's Belinda Wong."

  "Your secretary?" She was incredulous. "How did she find out?"

  "She overheard a phone call," Josh lied. He couldn't bring himself to tell her about their affair. He would, but just not now. Neither of them could handle the enormity of it all. That was what he told himself.

  "Go to the police."

  "I can't."

  "I don't care."

  "I'll be ruined."

  "You don't have a choice."

  "Let me deal with it. I'll finish it."

  "Abby, we're going," Kate fired across the playground.

  "Oh,"

  she whined.

  "Now, Abby," Kate snapped. She stood up from the swing and walked away from her husband.

  "Kate, tell me what you're thinking. Kate, Kate, please," Josh called after her.

  She didn't answer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sitting at the front desk, two security guards occasionally glanced at the surveillance monitors. The main focus of their attention was on the fourteen-inch portable television perched on top of the bank of monitors. One guard got up from his seat and changed channels. The other guard checked his watch.

  "Patrol time." He picked up his walkie-talkie and set off for the elevator. "Tell me if anything good happens, eh?"

  "Sure," the other guard said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  At seven p.m., they were only two hours into their shift and a shitload of television would be watched before their time at Pinnacle Investments was over at seven the next morning.

  The building was quiet in its slumber. The burble of activity of buying and selling investment interests was on hold. The only sounds came from the television and its bored viewers, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the bleeps of a phone being dialed from an office on the top floor in the east wing.

  In his office, Dexter Tyrell tapped a number into a cellular phone. The phone was registered neither to him nor to Pinnacle Investments, per the professional's instructions. He was contacting his hired killer. He wanted a progress report, and more importantly, he wanted results. He needed results.

  His meeting with the board had gone as he expected.

  The report hadn't been well received. Tyrell's viatical division was returning a profit, but it was again short of the fifteen-percent growth target required by the firm and promised by Tyrell. The results were better than the quarter before, and those were better than the quarter before that. He had it under control; all he needed was time and he would turn it around. He knew the board was turning against him. They wanted to be rid of him. He could see himself being replaced by someone who they thought could do the job more effectively.

  The idiots, if they only knew. Would any of them have had the guts to do what he had done? He doubted it. His only way out was to increase t
he pace of his program.

  He knew he risked exposure and an investigation, but his back was against the wall and he would be damned if he would let them have his division. He had to risk it.

  Tyrell listened to the burr of the telephone ringing.

  "Come on, come on, answer the phone. I want to know what you are doing," he muttered to himself.

  After several rings, the professional picked up.

  "Hello." His one word was impenetrable. It gave no indication to his feelings, his location, his well-being. It didn't even sound like a welcome.

  "Where were you? Why didn't you answer the phone right away?" Tyrell demanded.

  "What do you want?" the professional said dismissively.

  "I want to know how far you have gotten with your assignments."

  "They're proceeding."

  "But when will they be completed?"

  "Probably a week to ten days."

  "I want them concluded as soon as possible, and that means less than a week," Tyrell snapped. "I have other assignments for you. I'm increasing the pace of the project."

  "Do you consider that an acceptable risk?"

  "Are you worried you'll be caught?" Tyrell liked his snide remark.

  "I think you should be. If it ever came down to it, the police would never find me and neither would you."

  "Are you sure? You seem to be losing your touch.

  You've missed this target once already. Have you managed to try again?"

  "Yes, I have. This target is a fortunate man. I arranged for his aircraft to have some problems."

  Tyrell interrupted. "Did you get him?" He already knew the answer.

  "No, I followed him to the airport and he changed his mind."

  "So? He'll probably use the plane again."

  "No, his flying partner took it and was killed."

  "Congratulations, you killed the wrong man," he scolded.

  "Does that bother you?"

  "No," Tyrell said bluntly. He was only bothered if the killing exposed him and his project. "Are you?"

  The professional didn't answer.

  "Is he suspicious with two accidents occurring so close together? If I were him, I'd be wondering about a third."

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "That makes your task harder. And does he have any suspicions regarding Pinnacle Investments?"

  "Oh yes. The wreath that someone sent from your company did that. Was that you?"

  The vice president was angrier with himself than his hit man. He'd indulged himself and it had backfired.

  Every time one of the viatical clients died he sent a wreath to the family. He got special enjoyment out of knowing the client was dead before the family did.

  He'd made the mistake after he'd received the phone call that Josh Michaels was dead. He'd sent a wreath, and why shouldn't he? His hired gun had never missed before. He wouldn't make that mistake again; no wreath until a kill was confirmed.

  "If I hadn't been given the wrong fucking information about his apparent death, that mistake would have never been made," Tyrell said. "What have you got planned now?"

  "The woman is proceeding according to plan, and I see a conclusion to that soon. My investigations have shown that Michaels has a dubious past. He is or was involved with a woman and I think there's a possibility for something spectacular that wouldn't raise suspicion.

  But it'll take a little arranging." The professional's pride shone through.

  Tyrell's heart sank. Whatever it was the professional had planned, it didn't inspire confidence. "Just make sure that you don't miss this time. I don't want these failed attempts becoming habit. It's the wrong time for fuck-ups, for all of us."

  "I've never failed you before, have I?" the professional asked.

  "Good night," Tyrell said and hung up.

  The vice president tossed the phone onto his desk. It bounced across the smooth surface and came to a halt at the edge of the table. His contract killer pissed him off.

  He was getting too flamboyant with his staged accidents, and his arrogance made him ineffective. For some time his hit man had worried him. The last three kills had gone according to plan, but the kills were so elaborate that the outcome could have easily gone the other way.

  So, what were his options? Lay the hit man off? God knew he wanted to replace him with someone who had a more straightforward approach. Somehow, Tyrell didn't think hired killers were canned from jobs. It wasn't that sort of business. So what could he do with the professional? He was too much of a liability left to roam free, but he knew almost nothing about him. His thoughts were leading him to a conclusion his hit man wasn't going to like.

  But for now Tyrell needed the hit man, and he really needed the kill rate increased. The life expectancy of his clients had to be shortened for the success of the company. He would love to show the board members who could make this company sparkle. Tyrell pocketed the discarded phone, picked up his briefcase and left his office. He hoped that tomorrow would be more promising.

  An hour later the professional sat in a restaurant bar.

  The food and drink were expensive, like the clientele, which were a mix of state officials, businessmen and high-income white-collar workers. He wondered how many of these men had big life insurance policies in the hands of viatical companies like Pinnacle Investments.

  Would he be making a visit to any of them one day? He smiled at the thought. The human race's ability for creating complex problems amused him. His clean-living lifestyle, simple and without appendages, would never have him looking down the barrel of a gun.

  He had a mineral water in one hand and his eyes fixed on the television's baseball game. Disinterested, he watched the game, but his mind was elsewhere. He decided Dexter Tyrell was a prick. The businessman wanted everything to happen now, but this type of work needed planning. Tyrell's problem was greed, and greed meant sloppiness, which meant errors. He mused on the notion that he might blow off this gig, close the post office box and get rid of the cellular phones. And if he discovered Tyrell was becoming a liability, then he would take care of him. Permanently.

  A hand lightly touched his shoulder and someone spoke, tearing him away from his thoughts.

  "Hi, James." Belinda Wong was a vision in a scarlet dress that enhanced her to-die-for figure.

  The professional had gotten her phone number at Josh Michaels's birthday party as part of a fallback plan. He'd called her after Mark Keegan had been killed in his aircraft. With that particular avenue closed for Michaels's demise, he turned to Josh's ex-mistress.

  He saw potential with this woman on his side. He thought Michaels was a fool to get involved with someone like this; she had trouble written all over her.

  Belinda was pleased to hear from him. The professional took her interest in him as a positive sign and felt his luck change with the Michaels assignment.

  She'd suggested this place--expensive and exclusive.

  "Belinda, you look breathtaking."

  "Thank you. Call me Bell."

  "Can I get you a drink, Bell?"

  "Yes, I'll have a white wine." Bell slid onto the stool next to him.

  He asked the barman to get the lady a white wine.

  The barman offered her a choice, and she selected a quality Chardonnay. The professional told her the table would be ready for them in a few minutes. She smiled, exposing teeth that could consume him in a single bite.

  "Are you in a better mood than when we last met?"

  he asked.

  "Yes, thank you." She smiled. "I wasn't having a good time at the party."

  "What were all the bad feelings about?"

  "Oh, a long story."

  "I've got time."

  "We'll see." Bell's perfectly manicured fingers with long bloodred fingernails gripped the wineglass as tightly as the scarlet dress hugged her delicate frame. She sipped her drink.

  He looked at the woman. He studied her face, trying to see what was going on in that mind. It is so obvious what kind of wo
man she is, he thought. As dangerous as she is beautiful. The professional finished off his mineral water.

  The maitre d' came over and told them their table was ready and showed them the way. The men noticed Bell, with her provocative dress and elegant good looks. Obvious stares meant to be stray glances were sent in her direction from all quarters of the restaurant.

  The men wanted her and she knew they did.

  They were seated at a window table for two. The table was an arm's width too narrow for the professional's comfort.

  The server took their orders and left them. Their conversation was lost in a sea of voices. The appetizer course came and went, as did the exchange of words about everyday life, careers and other forgettable subjects.

  He'd noted boredom creeping into her demeanor.

  When the main course arrived, he decided it was time to make the meal more interesting.

  "Do you want to play something? Just for fun."

  Suspicion flashed in her eyes. "Like what?"

  "I used to work with a guy many years ago and he had the perfect way of breaking the ice with new people.

  He always swore that this one question gave him more insight into people than weeks of working with them," the professional lied.

  "Was he a salesman?" She dabbed her mouth with the napkin and sipped her wine.

  "Yeah, he used to spring this question on his clients at social functions. You know, business dinners and lunches--stuff like that," the professional said, embellishing the lie.

  "So what was the question?"

  "So you're interested?"

  "Yes." Bell's dark eyes bored into him.

  She was interested. He had her.

  "What is the worst thing you've ever done?"

  "That's the question?"

  Smiling, the professional nodded. He took another mouthful of food from his fork.

  "Why not the nicest thing you've ever done?"

  He put down his fork, swallowed his food, placed his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers. "Because the nice things aren't that interesting. But people are very keen to tell you the worst they have done, because in some twisted way we're all turned on by the evil that men or women do. People would rather hear that I hung out with Al Capone than Mother Teresa.