When Wainwright got to his hotel room, he returned his ex-wife Debbie’s many calls. She’d called his LA office three times and Bellevue four. He was fearful there was a problem with one of his two boys. The thought that Debbie would even bother to let him know was remote. She’d effectively turned both boys against him, and he had not been able to counter her efforts. He dialed the number. Her present husband answered. “Hello?”
“Norm, hi, it’s Garth. I’m returning Deb’s calls. Is she there?”
“Sorry, Garth, no. She took the kids to a movie.”
“Do you know why Debbie was so eager to talk to me today? She left a couple of messages.”
“Uh huh. Sorry, unless… No, never mind. I’ll have her call in the morning, okay?”
“Listen, Norm, I’m out of town, so it would be better if I call her. Tell Debbie I’ll ring back around ten, okay? Thanks, Norm.” He disconnected, wondering what the woman wanted this time. After ordering a burger and a bottle of Merlot from room service, Wainwright sat on his hotel room bed and dialed Lacey.
“Hi, babe. I sure hope it’s not too late to be calling.”
“Not at all. There are still a few folks in Boston who stay up past ten o’clock. Fortunately for you, I happen to be one of them,” she said, laughing. “I’m so glad you called, Garth. I was just thinking about you. Where in the wide world of sports are you?”
“I came back to the Grand Wollcott-Bellevue, my home away from home. I’m awaiting my gourmet meal from room service to be delivered. Oh, yum! Hey, how is Sonja getting along?”
“Well, I don’t know, to be honest. She slept most of the time on the plane. Not peacefully, but she did get some sleep. We talked a little, but something she said has made its way up my brainstem. I was just pondering it when you rang. It didn’t strike me as strange when she said it, but now…”
“What was it she said?”
“She told me that before they left home for Aspen, Thomas told her to be careful what she talked about in front of you. Apparently, he was having some misgivings about his new partners at CapVest. Don’t you think it’s a little strange to ask you on a ski trip, but warn his wife to be hesitant when speaking with you?”
“Very, and it surprises me. I thought I had a pretty good rapport going with Thomas.”
“Oh, you do—or did, sorry. Thomas liked you; he told me several times, as recently as our lunch Tuesday. And of course, I kind of think you’re fun to be with. That’s why he invited us to meet him and Sonja in Aspen. Thomas was aware we dated each other in Boston and asked me if it was okay to invite you along.”
“Well, that is awesome. Thank you for the endorsement, but it doesn’t track with what he told Sonja, ‘Be careful what you say…’” Wainwright said.
“Best guess is something happened in the last few months to change his mind. He must have felt he had some reason not to trust partners of your firm. Nothing else makes any sense to me.”
“That’s another piece of the puzzle. I’m getting a lot of those today, it seems.”
“What do you mean, puzzles?” Lacey asked.
“Well, my ex-wife, Debbie has left seven phone messages all over the place. When I called her back just now, she’s out with my sons. I’ll check with her in the morning. I would rather not be talking about her, not when I have the real live you on the phone.
“On this other, I’m grasping at straws here, Lacey, but the more I learn, the more this whole thing stinks. When you can, talk again with Sonja. May be she’ll give us another puzzle piece. Lacey, I’m no detective, but I’m persuaded Thomas was murdered, and I’m starting to think someone in Bellevue is involved. Hockney almost commanded me not to follow up with the cops in Aspen.
“A slight change of the subject, but I want you to know something very important to me,” Wainwright said. “I’d like you to know you have become very special to me. Not just because you’re an excellent attorney, and not because you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The reason certainly is not your passionate spirit, either. None of those reasons is why you are special. The reason is…what happens to my head when I think of you, which is often. Or to my heart, when we’re together, which doesn’t happen often enough. Now, I don’t want you to say anything to me about any of this, but I will try to sleep, hoping you appreciate my sentiments and may even share them. Good night, sweetheart.”
Wainwright put the handset in the cradle, smiling.
Six
“Each excellent thing once learned, serves for a measure of all other knowledge.” ~ Sir P. Sidney
FRIDAY—FEBRUARY | No matter what passport he might use on an assignment outside of Israel, he always left and returned as himself, Ariel Amiti. International flights to Israel arrive at Ben Gurion International Airport outside of Tel Aviv. His plane landed there almost nineteen hours after leaving Denver. Amiti left Aspen after completing that contract business with Burke for Dallas and drove the rented car out of the mountains to the Denver airport. That added almost another four hours to his trip. With a long layover in Chicago, another in London, and with the eight-hour last leg into Ben Gurion, he was pretty much wasted as he maneuvered his rolling suitcase through the terminal.
Amiti cleared customs without incident and exited to the taxi rank at the front of the terminal building. It was fewer than twenty miles to his condominium on the beach in Ashdod, and he was oh, so eager to be there. He’d been gone for eleven days, but the trip back home made it seem more like a month. But Amiti needed to make an important stop before heading home. The taxi arrived at the address he gave the driver.
“Please wait,” Amiti told the cabbie. “I’ll be just a couple of minutes.”
The receptionist at Ashdod Veterinarian Hospital recognized him and went to the back to get his cat. She brought the calico out in his cat carrier and handed her over the counter to him. “She was a good girl. She missed you, but behaved like a lady while you were gone. The boarding charges have been put on your account, Mr. Amiti. Thank you for the opportunity to be of service again.”
He didn’t think the taxi driver liked having animals in his cab, but he said nothing to Amiti, who watched the driver studying an exhausted and moody man through his rearview mirror. He wisely said nothing about his cat. When the taxi reached his condo, the driver unloaded his luggage from the trunk and Amiti lifted the cat carrier from the backseat.
“Hey, mister. This is some kind of a nice place you got here,” he said, lowering the suitcase to the terracotta-surfaced, covered driveway at the posh building’s entrance doors. It was a beautiful building, located in a fashionable part of an elite neighborhood.
“Thanks,” Amiti said as he paid the meter plus a generous tip for the driver and moved his burdens through the tastefully decorated high-security lobby. Amiti unlocked his front door for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. “Ah, home sweet home,” he said to the walls and Negev. “Let’s get you out of that carrier and get some food for the girl.” Amiti loved his cat.
Amiti was reluctant to let his wealth show in any way, with the exception of where he lived. The condominium was an extravagance, yes, but it was the singular one he allowed himself. Safety, comfort, and seclusion justified the purchase and maintenance expenses. He earned a great deal and invested in the same aggressive manner he worked. Both paid well.
In his line of work, having responsibility for an animal was a burden. He shouldn’t own one, but Negev had adopted him. Amiti recalled that on a holiday at home, four years earlier, when he and his girlfriend ventured to the edge of the Negev desert in southern Israel to explore ancient ruins.
**********
After a day in the hills and wadis of Tel Arad, they set up camp. Wanting this camping trip to be an educational experience, Amiti brought several guidebooks on the area with him. He read one to her by the campsite firelight:
THE ANCIENT CITY DATES FROM AROUND 4,000 YEARS BEFORE CHRIST. EXCAVATIONS AT THE SITE HAVE UNEARTHED AN EXTENSIVE BRONZE AGE CA
NAANITE SETTLEMENT, WHICH WAS IN PLACE UNTIL APPROXIMATELY 2650 BC. THE SITE WAS THEN APPARENTLY DESERTED FOR OVER 1,500—YEARS UNTIL IT WAS RESETTLED DURING THE ISRAELITE PERIOD FROM THE 11TH CENTURY ONWARDS, INITIALLY AS AN UNWALLED PIECE OF LAND. IT WAS THEN CUT OFF, AS AN OFFICIAL OR SACRED DOMAIN WAS ESTABLISHED ON THE UPPER HILL, AND THEN LATER AS A GARRISON-TOWN KNOWN AS “THE CITADEL”
They made themselves a decent dinner and had just about finished when his girlfriend noticed something moving at the edge of the campfire light. Amiti disappeared into the dark to investigate. He was gone long enough for her to become concerned.
“Ariel are you there?” she called to the desert breeze. He was too far away to hear her. Her concern now turned to worry. Louder. “Ariel, please, are you there?”
Amiti heard the distress in her voice and answered from the dark. “I’m okay. I’m coming in.” Back in camp, he sat next to the fire holding a calico cat in his arms.
“Where did that come from?” she asked him.
“Out there.”
“What do you plan to do with it? You’re not keeping that thing, I hope.”
“Did you pack any barbecue sauce?” he asked with a grin. She hit him on the arm and giggled. Amiti loved her little girl giggle.
“I’m serious,” she insisted.
“Well, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I thought when I first saw her she was feral, but she’s not, as you can plainly see. She is hungry, though. The smell of our dinner brought her in. Look how trusting she is. She’s been around people at one point, so maybe she was abandoned out here. This little girl seems quite gentle for someone that’s been surviving in the desert for any length of time. Go ahead; let her smell your hand. Then you can pet her.”
“No, I don’t like cats. I think I’m allergic, or something. I don’t want to pet it.”
He named the frail little calico Negev, after the place they found her, and brought her home. Amiti kept the cat, but dumped the girlfriend.
**********
It turned out Negev liked the sound of classical guitar; she recognized it because Amiti often played the acoustic instrument to unwind when he was home. He was reading a new Robert Crais thriller in his living room. His guitar was snug in its floor stand adjacent to the stereo equipment on the bookcase when the cat paced past the guitar, turned, and again walked back in front of that beautiful Gibson guitar.
“What is it, girl? You look a bit nervous. Oh, I know, do you think those strings might be a relative? Relax, pal, they don’t make guitar strings from catgut any longer.” Negev continued to pace. “Lighten up, will ya?” She stepped in front of the guitar, so he lifted it from the stand, strummed a few chords, and adjusted the tuning pegs some.
Negev came to him and rubbed his leg. She’d walk away, then come back and rub some more. After finishing the guitar tuning, Amiti ran the scales. Satisfied with the way it sounded, he played a piece he’d been practicing—an exercise by the great classical master, Laurindo Almeida. When he finished, it was clear the cat was impressed. Unable to applaud, she stopped pacing and rubbing. She sat in front of him for a second, turned the sitting into a laid-down full-out pose, crossing one paw over the other. Negev looked up at her roommate with anticipation. Amiti played some more.
“Hey, methinks tis a fan I have,” he said to Negev. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to hear?” Negev continued to stare at him with expectation furrowing her fuzzy face, but said nothing. “Okay, then, I’ll choose the piece. But, please, if you don’t like it, let me know and I’ll try something different.” He played for an hour. Negev stayed on the floor and continued to focus on the instrument, enjoying the performance. “I’m glad you like my playing, but I’ve got to do some work now. After all, the folks in this building think I’m a farm equipment salesman. I need to get my sales literature organized.”
So he did, placing stacks of farm equipment brochures around as if he were about to put them into his briefcase. He had photos of himself with powerful tractors, harvesters, and reapers, undertaking a supposed demonstration for a potential buyer. For obvious reasons, there were no photos of him demonstrating his true occupation. Amiti kept a half-full case of business cards out on an end table as if ready to reload his card case: Ariel Amiti, Farm Equipment Agent. You just never knew when someone would drop by to visit.
He swiftly learned to love his little lost feline. Whenever he received a new contract for some remote spot on planet Earth, his first thought was always of having to leave Negev. He hates that part the most. Talking to Negev was almost as relaxing as playing the guitar, and just as much fun. Keeping his sanity in his line of work was a constant struggle. How would one ever know when his sanity slipped over the edge? Amiti seriously hoped Negev would let him know if he exhibited unusual behavior that alarmed her. In Amiti’s mind, Negev was now the stability watchdog. (Sorry about that pun, Negev.) “I’m counting on you, girl,” Amiti told her on more than one occasion.
His answering machine light was flashing. There was a message on the farm equipment line. That meant the Assassin had a new contract, and that meant someone wanted someone else to die.
Seven
“I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien
FRIDAY—FEBRUARY | Wainwright’s first scheduled meeting of the day was with Arnold Chaplain. He planned to discuss the Burke properties that would be added to his portfolio. But Arnold was not in his office and Vida reminded Wainwright Herb Meyer now had the responsibility for property sales, as well as acquisitions; therefore, Arnold would no longer be involved with the process. “The meeting is in Mr. Meyer’s office, Mr. Wainwright. They’re waiting for you there,” Vida announced. Black knight takes white bishop. The match continues. So this was the power play to replace the CapVest Way. Wainwright had another recollection. An Italian proverb says, after the game, the king and the pawn go into the same box.
Arnold now had two adopted corporate sons, Ragnar N. Borstad and Herb Meyer. As Wainwright wandered the corridors on his way to Meyer’s office, he couldn’t help but think, this sibling rivalry between these two wannabe titans reminds me of Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson. In the 18th century, those two had a similar relationship as Borstad and Meyer. Two hundred years hasn’t done much for interpersonal relationships, I guess. Wainwright, a lover of history, read extensively as time on planes and in airports permitted. His favorite historical period was Revolutionary America. He guessed that is why he compared his two warring partners with Hamilton and Jefferson.
Both of those men were cabinet secretaries in the first term of President George Washington. Stalwart among America’s founding fathers, these two disagreed on both philosophical and political grounds. Both brilliant men, they derived their considerable influence and prestige from the close relationship with Washington—just as Meyer and Borstad’s statuses were due to their personal bonds with Arnold.
As with the historic two, Wainwright’s peers’ personal power-struggle flowed from ego aggrandizement and financial gain. Both Borstad and Meyer competed for the affections of the bitch-goddess Conquest. Driven by greed, power, and enhanced corporate territory, each man committed himself to the scheme of the other’s failure. Unlike the biblical brothers, Cain and Abel, Jefferson did not kill Hamilton. Wainwright was sure both were capable, but neither did Meyer slay Borstad, or vice versa…yet.
Each of Arnold’s adopted sons believed he was smarter than any other person at CapVest; that it was his destiny to run these companies. Each was convinced of his preordained right to control CapVest’s wealth. People on their staffs had adopted their attitude. Change was coming; everyone could feel it. A few years ago, the firm’s teams espoused common goals, guided by shared standards. The founders’ principles controlled the organization as it grew; their personal ethical values were baked into the business.
The transformation was small—a minuscule crack—but like an ancient
volcano, that breach was being extended by increasing heat and pressures. Attitudes, as well as behaviors, were shifting as people throughout the organization felt compelled to choose sides. Suddenly, you were either a loyal Borstad person or you were dedicated to the Meyer camp…and if you did not declare your allegiance, you didn’t matter at all. Two partners had committed themselves to a strategy of domination, and the founders seemed powerless to stop it. Perhaps they felt it no longer mattered. Perhaps they no longer cared.
She worked for Robert Keating, Chief Financial Officer of CapVest. As his administrative assistant—please, don’t say secretary—Barbara Joyce Dreaver was efficient and effective. Almost everyone called her by her long-time nickname, BJ, and she liked that.
She noticed Garth Wainwright moving hurriedly toward her office. They’d been casually dating for several months, whenever he was in Bellevue for meetings and such. Skidding by her desk, her sometime lover blurted out, “Hi, pal. I need to borrow an office for a phone call. Can you fix me up? Then I need to visit with your boss.” He pointed to Keating’s private office door. “Is Robert going to be free in a few minutes, BJ?”
“Well, and a very good afternoon to you, too, Mr. Wainwright. Sure, you may use Mr. Headly’s office over there.” BJ should have seen this coming. Wainwright hadn’t been rude, but he did seem a bit distracted and showed her little attention. That was not like Garth at all. Today, her horoscope said she would have problems with a romantic acquaintance. It must have been talking about Garth. La dee da.
Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1) Page 6
