Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Mr. Gerritt. A Mr. Andrew Hadlow is here to see you.”

  Gerritt frowned. Andrew Hadlow? Somewhere far back in his mind that rang a bell.

  “He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says he met you at a cocktail party at Mr. Perotti’s house several months ago.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  His secretary lowered her voice. “He said it’s about our financial problems. That’s all he would say, Mr. Gerritt.”

  “All right. When I buzz you, send him in. And hold all calls.”

  He sat down and leaned back. Perotti. The enigma. When he and Jessica had gotten the invitation to the cocktail party at Perotti’s house, Gerritt had been totally surprised. And totally intrigued. Perotti lived more than a mile away in a massive home on the crest of a ridge overlooking the Pacific. He had said then that he wanted to get to know some of the neighbors, but many closer “neighbors” had not been invited. Afterward, Gerritt checked to find out who Perotti was but turned up little. He was into real estate, owned an import-export business, had major interests in some financial institutions. There were recurring hints that Perotti was tied to organized crime, but Gerritt had shrugged those aside. Someone always threw in organized crime when they couldn’t pin down a man’s source of wealth. But whatever it was, one thing was certain. Lyman Perotti was big money.

  Gerritt opened the lower drawer on his desk, checked the cassette in the built-in recorder, flipped a switch, then shut the drawer again. He leaned forward and punched the intercom. “Send Mr. Hadlow in, please.”

  Hadlow was short, no more than five seven. His hair was jet black and graying at the temples. He combed it straight back, which added to the severity of his angular features. His eyes were a pale blue, like Gerritt’s, but alert, always moving. The suit was custom tailored; the shoes, Italian. Even the briefcase was pure elegance. Clearly, Mr. Hadlow did very well in his own right.

  Gerritt came from behind his desk and extended his hand. “Mr. Hadlow, good to see you again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gerritt motioned him to a chair, then drew another up across from it. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Hadlow smiled as he shook his head. It was a smile that only touched the surface of his face. The eyes remained cool and aloof.

  “How is Mr. Perotti?”

  “Fine. He sends his regards.”

  Gerritt nodded and leaned back. Hadlow had obviously not come to see how things had gone since the party.

  “I apologize for coming without a prior appointment.”

  Gerritt waved that away.

  “But we understand the timing is critical.”

  “Timing?”

  “Yes. Before Gerritt Industries goes into receivership.”

  Gerritt swore inwardly. He knew that rumors about the company’s troubles were rampant, but the receivership was strictly hush hush…

  “Look, Mr. Gerritt, I’ll come right to the point. My people know all about your situation. We know about Bank of America. We know about the union’s ultimatum. We’ve seen the receivership papers that are being drawn up.”

  Gerritt was struggling to keep his face impassive. Whoever “my people” included, they were up to the minute on the death struggles of Gerritt Industries.

  “We think we could arrange some financing, if certain conditions were met.”

  “Oh?”

  Hadlow nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you. Expressions of shocked surprise and bland denials would have been a disappointment.”

  Gerritt smiled fleetingly. “I must admit, you have my attention.”

  “Please turn off the recorder and we can proceed.”

  Again there was the quick temptation to bluff, instantly rejected. Gerritt shrugged, stood up, and walked around behind his desk.

  As he came back to his chair, Hadlow was getting a paper from his briefcase. He handed it to Gerritt as he sat down again. “Are these figures correct?”

  As Gerritt studied the sheet his amazement grew. It was all there—the note to Bank of America, the missed payrolls, back taxes, research and development needs, operating capital. It wasn’t to the penny, but the dollar figures were almost right on the nose. He looked up, not trying to disguise his surprise. “You’ve got it all.”

  “All right. We have a group that will fund you the total amount, one percent above prime. Seventy-five percent of all profits will go toward the payback until fifty percent of the principal is paid back. Thereafter, fifty percent of the profits will go toward the pay back until the debt is retired. Agreed?”

  Gerritt looked at him for several seconds. The conditions were stiff, but not unreasonable under the circumstances. Gerritt Industries was hardly providing the top collatoral. Finally he nodded. “Are those the only conditions?”

  Hadlow’s eyes were expressionless. “First, two questions. Is the radar device your engineer developed—I think his name is Jonathan Taggart—as revolutionary as he claims it is?”

  This time, Gerritt was openly stunned. Only he and his two top executives knew about that. In a world of rampant industrial espionage, secrecy was paramount. “Yes,” he said slowly.

  “How long would it take to bring it into full production?”

  He took a deep breath. “Two to three months to develop the prototype. If we pushed hard, we could complete testing in another six to eight weeks. We could also start tooling up during that time. I’d say six to nine months, altogether.”

  “You’ve got six. Here are the conditions. You will meet with Jonathan Taggart at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The appointment is already made in your name. You will offer him one hundred thousand dollars cash now, one hundred thousand more when the prototype is tested, and ten percent royalties on all sales.”

  Gerritt was staring. “Are you crazy? I’ve offered him twice that, but he won’t budge. If we don’t give him four hundred fifty thousand by—”

  Hadlow’s eyes had narrowed, and Gerritt felt a sudden chill. “Second condition. I will be appointed to the Board of Directors of Gerritt Industries as of this morning. I will not be a member of record or attend any meetings. You will continue to serve as Chairman of the Board, but I will be senior member next to you.”

  Gerritt swallowed hard, then nodded. “Go on.”

  “A Mr. Alex Barclay of Barclay Enterprises in El Segundo is beginning preliminary work on a major sale of jet aircraft to Saudi Arabia. There are a lot of competitors. Your radar package would go a long way to cementing the deal for him, not to mention creating about fifty or sixty million dollars worth of immediate business for Gerritt Industries.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “When you make contact with Barclay, you are not to mention Mr. Perotti or myself in any way.” He paused, but Gerritt didn’t speak.

  He took a small slip of paper from an inside pocket. “You will be having some openings on the night shift at the Hawthorne plant. These two men will be hired.”

  He sat back, watching Gerritt closely.

  Gerritt knew some kind of response was expected, but he was still a bit dazed.

  “We have no desire to take Gerritt Industries away from you, Mr. Gerritt. If we did, we would have taken action after Bank of America made its move.”

  “I understand that. Your offer is very generous.”

  Hadlow stood, moved to the desk, and scribbled on a pad. He tore it off and handed it to Gerritt, who stood now also. “If the conditions are satisfactory, call me at this number once you have Mr. Taggart’s decision. Funds will be transferred immediately. If you decide you do not wish to work with us, simply cancel your appointment with Mr. Taggart.”

  “What if I have further questions?”

  “You know the conditions. You know the arrangements on the loan. There are no further questions. It’s either play or pass, Mr. Gerritt.”

  Jonathan Taggart had come into the office of Quinn Gerritt promptly at nine o’clock the next morning. He had been in a jubilant mood then. Now he stared at the contra
ct before him with disbelief. “A hundred thousand dollars…” He looked up. “Is this some kind of a joke, Mr. Gerritt?”

  Gerritt was tipped back in his chair, fingertips pressed together. “No, Jonathan. In the long run, considering the royalties, you could come out of this with much more than what you are asking for.”

  Taggart shook his head. He was a large man, thick through the shoulders and chest. He removed his glasses. “I told you before, I told Shurtliff, I told Wuthrich. I know what my design is worth.” His voice rose. “I didn’t have to come to Gerritt Industries. I’ve been more than fair with you.” He tossed the contract back across the desk with contempt. “And this is what I get.”

  Gerritt picked up the contract and looked at it curiously. “I think you ought to consider this very carefully, Jonathan. Take the longer view.”

  Taggart shot to his feet. “I don’t appreciate playing games, Mr. Gerritt. Good day.” He turned and stalked to the door.

  “I’ll keep the offer open until tomorrow morning,” Gerritt called. Taggart didn’t break stride, just went out, leaving the door to close softly behind him.

  Charlene Taggart was a junior at Cypress High School and one of the varsity cheerleaders. She and the rest of the cheerleading squad had just finished the pep assembly for that night’s game with Long Beach, and she was still flushed with excitement as she came to her locker.

  “We’re gonna kill ‘em tonight, Char!” a student called out behind her.

  “You better believe it!”

  “Good job, Charlene!”

  Charlene half turned and smiled at her English teacher as she opened her locker. “Thanks, Mrs. Townsend.”

  As she turned back to get her books, the smile on Charlene Taggart’s face froze. Then she threw her hands to her face and screamed and screamed.

  Staring out at her from the top shelf was the head of Charlene’s pure white Persian cat, Muffy.

  Mildred Taggart looked up from her counted cross-stitch, then reached over and turned down the stereo. This was her favorite of all the Mozart piano concertos, and she had immersed herself in the sound. She waited, her head cocked. Then the doorbell rang again.

  The man was dressed in a suit and a tie, and as she opened the door wider, she saw he had a wallet in his hand. There was a quick flash of a badge.

  “Karl Belknap, Los Angeles Police Department, Ma’am. Are you Mrs. Jonathan Taggart?”

  She felt a sudden lurch of fear. “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She opened the door and stepped back. He smiled sadly as he entered, and she shut the door behind him. Mildred started for the living room when suddenly she felt him move behind her. There was not even time for a surprised gasp. One hand grabbed her arm and yanked it up viciously behind her, the other clamped over her nose and mouth. She fought wildly, flailing with her free arm, twisting her body, but she was like a child in the grip of some gargantuan creature. He pulled her body in against his, lifting her off the floor.

  “Come on, Mrs. Taggart,” he hissed in her ear, “this won’t take but a minute.”

  He pushed her, then dragged her down the hall toward the master bedroom. She clawed at him over her shoulder, tried to gouge his shins with her heels, but he just laughed and jerked her arm up higher toward her shoulder blade. The scream of pain choked off in her throat as he tightened the pressure across her nose and mouth. The terror of the man gave way to the greater terror of suffocation. Now her body fought too, chest heaving, muscles contracting in agony. But the grip only tightened, crushing her nose and lips against the bones of her face.

  And then suddenly they were into the bedroom. He flung her away from him, sending her crashing into a chair, then onto the bed sprawling. In an instant she was on her back, scrambling away from him, eyes wide, gulping air in huge, desperate gasps.

  The man watched her for a moment without moving, then straightened his tie, pulled down his coat, and ran his hand quickly through his hair. He smiled, that same sad smile she had seen in the entryway. “I would suggest you call your husband before you talk to the police, Mrs. Taggart.”

  He nodded, turned, and was gone. Mildred Taggart leaped off the bed and ran to the door. She slammed it shut, fingers scrambling at the lock. When she felt it click, she collapsed to the floor and began to sob.

  The car rounded the corner with screeching tires, hit the driveway with a bang, and slammed to a halt. Jonathan Taggart was out and running for the house, leaving the car door wide open. The hysterical, nearly incoherent call from his wife had completely shaken him.

  He burst in the door, looking around wildly. Everything was in order. He darted down the hall to the bedroom, rattled the knob. Through the door he heard a soft cry, filled with terror.

  “Mildred, it’s me!”

  There was a sob of relief, a quick fumbling at the door, then it jerked open. Mildred Taggart threw herself into her husband’s arms. “Oh, Jonathan!”

  “Daddy!” Charlene Taggart rose shakily from the bed. He opened one arm and swept her into his grasp along with her mother.

  It took almost five minutes to calm them to the point where they could stammer out their stories, and even then he had to let them pause, as the horror of the morning would overwhelm them again and again. But when they were finished, a fury lay on Jonathan Taggart.

  “Everything’s okay, now,” he soothed, moving them both over to the bed. “You just lie here. I’m going to call the police.”

  “Don’t leave Jonathan!”

  “I won’t, Mildred. I’ll be in the kitchen. But we need to get the police. You just stay here with Charlene.” He patted her hand and then pulled loose from her grip.

  The muscles along his jaw pulled into a tight line as he picked up the phone and angrily punched out the 911 number. He put the phone to his ear. There was nothing. He hit the numbers again. They beeped in his ear, but again nothing happened. Then a sudden prickling went up his spine as he realized someone was breathing into the phone.

  “Who is this? Who’s on the line?”

  “Mr. Taggart?” It was a man’s voice, deep, rich, pleasant, and yet full of chilling menace.

  “Who is this?”

  “The police cannot help your family, Mr. Taggart. Only you can. If you choose to be difficult, we can find them anywhere, any time.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Remember, only you can keep your family safe. Look on the front porch.”

  There was an audible click, then the dial tone cut in.

  Taggart stared at the phone, then put it back in its cradle slowly. He moved back into the entry hall and opened the front door. There was nothing on the porch. He opened the screen door to step outside, but it bumped up against something soft. He pushed harder, felt it give, then recoiled in horror. A dark red stain was on the cement. Taggart gave the screen a hard shove, stepped around it, and stared.

  The headless body of Muffy was blocking the door through which he had entered his house just minutes before.

  “Mr. Gerritt, Jonathan Taggart is on the phone.”

  Gerritt was startled. It had been little more than an hour since Jonathan Taggart had left his office. “Put him on.”

  “Mr. Gerritt?” There was a deep bitterness, but also resignation.

  “Yes, Jonathan, this is Mr. Gerritt.”

  “I’ve been talking over your offer with my wife.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve decided to accept. I’ll be in this afternoon to sign the contract.”

  “Well,” Gerritt said, feeling a sudden chill of his own. Barely an hour! What had Hadlow done. He shrugged the thought off, not wanting to know. “Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. I know you won’t regret it.”

  “Just tell your people.”

  “What?”

  “You know what I mean!” Taggart nearly shouted,
then fought for control. “Just tell whoever you need to tell that we have accepted your offer.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was one of those winter days for which Southern California was justly famous. The overcast had burned off, and the temperature was nearing seventy, even though it was the first of December. Golfers were out on the course of the Wilshire Country Club in great numbers, taking advantage of the day.

  The clubhouse sat at the eastern extremity of what surely must have been some of the most expensive recreational acreage in California. Sprawling fairways, immaculate greens, sand traps, water hazards, palm trees—hundreds of acres rambled through the heart of high-rise condominiums, office buildings, and expensive private homes in the heart of downtown Los Angeles.

  Jacqueline Ashby and Alex Barclay were on the front steps of the clubhouse, waiting for Marc. They had been chatting leisurely, but had fallen silent. Without looking at him, Jackie finally spoke. “I can take Marc to get his car, if you’d like.”

  That brought a sharp look from Alex.

  She smiled, knowing there was no hiding from his razor-sharp intuition. “Does that surprise you?”

  “Well, yes, a little.”

  “At first, on the night of the lecture, I just thought he was kind of cute. And nice. But then last Saturday, when he came to the office…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I could get interested.”

  “Well, I did have an appointment right after lunch and was going to ask if you might have time to run Marc out to get his car.”

  She laughed lightly. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I know, but adorably so, don’t you think?”

  Again she laughed.

  “Derek will be envious.”

  Jackie gave a derisive hoot.

  “No desire to return the rather obvious interest of Mr. Parkin?” Alex chuckled. “He’ll be crushed.”

  “Only his ego, and I’m not sure it’s possible to crush that.”

  “True. Derek does think rather highly of himself. But he’s competent. He’ll do for what we need.”

  “How about Marc Jeppson?”

  Alex bit his lip thoughtfully. “Still a little too early to tell. But so far, just as you, I kind of like what I see. Today will give us a better idea.”