by Barbara Paul
Her mouth was working but no sound was coming out. Strode took her speechlessness as a favorable sign.
He bore down even harder. “You became a wealthy woman when your father died, Jo. Half his money went to you and the other half to your mother. But you wanted it all, didn’t you? Money you never earned. That must have been quite a year for you, right after you killed your father—waiting to find out if you’d got away with it and cranking yourself up to do it again. Or did you enjoy doing it?”
“You’re sick, Strode,” she hissed. “You’re sick and twisted and perverted. How dare you accuse me of killing my parents? How dare you!”
“I dare because I’ve got Ozzie Rogers in my pocket,” he said bluntly. “I own a newspaper, in case you didn’t know. They’ll run the story as long as I want them to. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen unless you get down off your high horse and let go of those House of Glass shares. Is that what you want? All that bad publicity, the police reopening the case?”
She whirled and ran into the bedroom before he’d finished his last sentence. Strode smiled and got up from the table to follow her. Hysterics were good. Hysterics meant he was winning.
But he’d taken only a few steps when she was back—and now she had a gun in her hand. She pointed the gun directly at his face. “Now you get out of here, you piece of slime,” she said furiously, “or by god I will shoot you! Just give me the excuse!”
Strode believed her. He left as fast as his legs could carry him.
Back in his own room, he sank to the side of the bed and willed himself to calm down. She’d pointed a gun at him. Joanna Gillespie had pointed a gun … at him! He looked at his hands; they were trembling. He’d been doing business for forty years and no one had ever pulled a gun on him before. Jesus, Jo Gillespie was supposed to be the easy one! God damn the woman. There’d be blizzards in hell before he’d let her get away with that.
He went into the bathroom and washed his face with cold water. Then he leaned over the sink for a few moments, bracing himself with his arms. Joanna Gillespie would regret this day. Strode’s first impulse was to go ahead right then and there and do what he’d threatened: publish the Ozzie Rogers story. But Strode hadn’t gotten to be a fat cat by yielding to impulse. He’d work on the other two stockholders first; and as soon as one of them sold, he’d lower the boom on that Gillespie bitch.
But he couldn’t risk exposing her until he was sure House of Glass was his. There was always the chance she’d change her mind and sell to protect herself; she couldn’t be feeling any less upset right now than he was. Just wait a bit, let her cool off. If she thought it over and decided she had no choice, he’d buy her shares—and then he’d publish the story. The bitch.
When some measure of calm had returned, Strode called the desk clerk and told him he was checking out.
Myron Castleberry was impervious to Katie Strode’s tears. The silly cow must have known what was going to happen, but she’d made no preparations for her future. I don’t have anyplace to go, she’d wailed. What nonsense. There were lots of places she could go. Mr. Strode would give her a generous settlement; he always did, with all his wives, all except that whore Mollie. Katie wouldn’t be hurting for money.
Castleberry had finally gotten Katie Strode into a taxi to the airport. He’d suggested she go someplace warm and take it easy for a while before she made any decisions. Evidently he’d sounded just the right note of concern because she’d nodded agreement, shoulders slumping in defeat. But she was out of Mr. Strode’s house now. Castleberry didn’t feel sorry for her; she’d had a good nine years. But he did feel Mr. Strode had been unnecessarily harsh with her. Castleberry knew his boss; if Joanna Gillespie had agreed to sell, Mr. Strode wouldn’t have been so rough on Katie.
Castleberry got into one of the company limousines. On the way back to the office, he wondered who would be next to inhabit the mansion just off Park. He didn’t think it would be Tracy. Twice Mr. Strode had married his current mistress, but that wasn’t likely to happen this time. Castleberry didn’t know what had gone wrong, but it was plain that Tracy wasn’t playing her cards right; Mr. Strode had on several occasions shown displeasure at something she’d said or done. She’d probably be following Katie to the airport before long. Too bad; Castleberry rather liked Tracy.
He wondered what his own wife would think if she knew some of the things he did for Mr. Strode. She’d probably be shocked, but then she’d pretend not to know anything. Alice was on the whole a placid woman, accepting what came her way without fuss; it had been years since she’d last complained about his devoting all his time to work to the neglect of herself and the children. She was resigned to the fact that she was married to a company man—a man who was totally absorbed in his work, who had an infinite capacity for handling detail and for adjusting his ethical standards as needed, and who had not one spark of originality or creativity in him. Myron Castleberry had found his niche in life, and he gave himself to it heart and soul. He’d never been unfaithful to Alice; he’d never had time.
Women were the one indulgence Mr. Strode allowed himself. He drank in moderation and didn’t smoke at all. He tended to wolf his food down, but he never overate. He was orderly in his habits, both work and personal. Life was created for the conducting of business, from A. J. Strode’s point of view, and that suited Myron Castleberry just fine. If Mr. Strode needed women as a pressure valve, his assistant would be the last to criticize. Mr. Strode controlled his personal life as stringently as he controlled everything else; he never allowed sex to interfere with business. The women served a legitimate function.
But one woman was giving them trouble. Castleberry had been appalled when Mr. Strode told him Joanna Gillespie had threatened him with a gun. What a primitive creature she must be. Castleberry was forced to revise his original assessment of the violinist; unlike his employer, he’d never been convinced that Gillespie’s murder of her parents had been anything other than two mercy killings spaced a year apart. Mr. Strode had been sure from the first that she’d killed them for her inheritance. There was no doubt in either man’s mind that she had killed them; one doesn’t consult hired assassins when one’s intentions are benign.
Maybe she did kill them for the money after all. Joanna Gillespie was first a patricide and then a matricide. Was there a word for someone who killed both parents? Other than orphan. What was she doing with a gun in her hotel room anyway?
Well, now, wait a moment, Castleberry thought; she might have a legitimate reason for carrying a gun. A woman who traveled as much as she did, a celebrity besides—she might have need for protection. Transporting firearms on an airplane was simple enough; all she had to do was pack the gun in a suitcase going into the baggage compartment and then declare it at the check-in counter. She probably took it with her on all her out-of-town engagements. Then when Mr. Strode had moved in for the kill, she’d become frightened and confused and turned to the only form of defense immediately available to her. Though from the way Mr. Strode told it, she’d been more angry than frightened.
The limousine stopped and let him out. He’d barely walked into the office before his secretary said, “Mr. Pierce has been trying to reach you all morning, Mr. Castleberry. He says it’s urgent.”
“Get him back, please.”
Castleberry felt a stir of excitement. Pierce was the private detective Mr. Strode kept on permanent retainer; he wouldn’t have said urgent unless he had something. When the call came through, Castleberry lifted the receiver and said, “Yes, Mr. Pierce?”
“I found him. I didn’t approach him, like you said. But he’s here, living in a fleabag.”
“A fleabag? He doesn’t have money?”
“Not now, he doesn’t. I found out he was trying to negotiate a coke buy with some Cubans, but he’s flat now. It’s my guess the Cubans burned him.” Pierce filled in details of what he’d learned.
“Give me the address.” Castleberry wrote it down. “Stay where you are unt
il I talk to Mr. Strode—I’ll get back to you. That was good work, Mr. Pierce.”
On his way out he told his secretary to book him on an afternoon flight to Miami. In Strode’s outer office, he looked a question at the efficient-appearing woman guarding the fort. She nodded; he was in. Castleberry opened the door and stepped inside.
Strode didn’t ask if he’d gotten Katie out of the house; that was taken for granted. “Something?”
“Pierce has found McKinstry’s helicopter pilot. He’s in Florida, and down on his luck.” He explained about the failed attempt at a drug deal.
“So he had a stake and he blew it,” Strode mused. “He must be scraping bottom about now. Better strike while the iron is hot.”
“I’m flying down this afternoon. Any inducement other than money?”
“Offer him a job if that’s what he wants. But try cash first.”
Castleberry nodded and left. Strode took out the file folder marked McKinstry and smiled as he looked through it. He had him now.
The phone whirred. “Joanna Gillespie on one,” his secretary’s voice said.
“I’m not here,” Strode said.
Let her stew.
2
Normally A. J. Strode avoided California during the warm months, and he tried to avoid the Los Angeles area all year round. But the McKinstry family business was in Southern California, so to Southern California A. J. Strode had come. He’d sent Myron Castleberry earlier with his second offer to buy Jack McKinstry’s House of Glass shares; but since the answer had been no, Strode felt compelled to make this trip himself.
The third House of Glass stockholder also lived in Los Angeles. Strode wanted nothing to do with him.
Jack McKinstry had seemed affable and open on the telephone; he and Strode were quickly on a first-name basis. McKinstry had said he’d be happy to sell his House of Glass shares if he could; unfortunately, he’d used them as security for a loan and couldn’t touch them until the loan had been paid. Strode offered to pay off the loan in exchange for the shares. McKinstry had said, Well, now, A. J., I don’t know—let me think about it.
So it had to be a face-to-face. McKinstry was stalling; he’d want to consult someone in the family more knowledgeable about the buying and selling of stock than he was. He’d inherited his House of Glass shares, just as he’d inherited everything else he owned. Jack McKinstry was not known for his business acumen.
What Jack McKinstry was known for was his ability to have a good time wherever he was, whatever the circumstances. For most of his adult life he’d been labeled with that quaint term playboy. Jack’s only discernible talent was for making himself liked; he was always welcome in the posher playgrounds of the world. He did not supply drugs or try to invent new variations on la dolce vita; he was just a pleasant fellow that everyone liked. A good host, a good guest. Good company. He’d been married once, briefly; both bride and groom had quickly decided a workable marriage required more effort than they were willing to put into it. There’d been no hard feelings on either side; it was a friendly divorce. Jack was a friendly man—friendly, self-confident, easy to get along with, and utterly superficial.
But four years ago something had happened to change some of that. The McKinstry family fortune had been built on the manufacture and sale of light aircraft, a fortune that had grown dramatically when one of the more astute McKinstrys had decided that helicopters were where the big money was coming from in the future. Now McKinstry Helicopters, Inc., supplied police and the armed forces of several countries as well as a sizable chunk of private industry. Four years ago the company had announced a new model, a technological marvel that, it was rumored, would revolutionize helicopter design. Jack McKinstry, then playing in France, had taken four of his friends to the branch of McKinstry Helicopters that was located near Marseilles to try out the new model. Jack had recruited one of the company’s pilots, and they’d taken off.
The six of them had headed east over the Mediterranean, following the coastline in the direction of the Riviera. But they’d barely passed Toulon when they ran into trouble. Witnesses on the island where the accident took place said they’d heard no engine sounds to indicate anything was amiss; they’d watched in disbelief as the helicopter sailed serenely into the side of a high cliff that ran straight down to the sea. There’d been no explosion, no burst of flames; the helicopter had wavered there a moment like some giant insect burrowing into the cliff face, its tail bobbing gently in the air. Then the craft had begun a slow-motion slide downward, breaking into pieces as it fell into the sea.
Only Jack and the pilot had survived.
They were the only two who’d been able to jump into the water before the helicopter hit the cliff. At the subsequent inquiry the pilot had testified they’d been cruising along on autopilot when he spotted the cliff ahead. But when he tried to return the helicopter to manual control, the autopilot lock had refused to yield. In spite of his best efforts, he could do nothing to increase the craft’s elevation or change its direction. An investigation of the recovered parts confirmed the pilot’s testimony; the helicopter had indeed been on autopilot when it crashed.
The crash had made headlines not only because the new model was the latest thing in helicopter technology but also because its passengers had belonged to the beautiful-people set. At the time A. J. Strode had thought there was a fishy smell to the story; but it was something he had noted only in passing as a matter of idle curiosity. It wasn’t until Jack McKinstry emerged as one of the obstacles on his road to the ownership of House of Glass that Strode became actively inquisitive about the accident. Strode’s detective, Pierce, pretending to be an old friend of McKinstry’s, had talked casually to a number of his real friends. While every one of them was sympathetic, they all shared a suspicion that it had been Jack who was flying the helicopter when it crashed.
The reason was simple: Jack loved helicopters. He couldn’t resist the big noisy toys that lifted him up off the ground and then put him back down again. He’d been licensed to fly since he was nineteen, but he’d taken a pilot with him on the ill-fated jaunt along the Mediterranean coast because the new model had instruments and controls he wouldn’t have been familiar with. But his friends were all agreed that Jack could no more ride in a brand-new helicopter without trying his hand at the controls than he could learn Sanskrit overnight.
One friend speculated that the pilot had been teaching Jack how things worked, and they’d both gotten so engrossed in what they were doing that they hadn’t looked up and spotted the cliff until it was too late. Pierce didn’t explain that the helicopter had an audible proximity warning system that made such an eventuality virtually impossible. None of Jack’s friends saw anything wrong with his jumping to save himself. They quite reasonably pointed out that his dying wouldn’t have saved the others.
So did he pay off the pilot to take the blame? Strode had wondered. It was certainly consistent with the image of Jack-the-playboy. And it went a long way toward explaining the change that took place in Jack after the accident. For the first time in his life, Jack was putting his talent for making friends to work for the family business. Atoning? More likely the family had just laid down the law; after all, he’d cost the business a small fortune by his spectacular demonstration that the new model still needed work. Whichever way it was, Jack became a PR man for the company; his years of socializing with the rich of two continents had given him an enviable list of contacts. The McKinstry sales department quickly learned to schedule Jack for a softening-up visit before sending in their hard-sell specialists to clinch the deal.
Jack took his job seriously. He was as amiable as ever, but he no longer wanted to spend his life playing. A whiff of his own mortality had made him look back over the life he’d led and left him dissatisfied? That was the view taken by those who knew him well.
But A. J. Strode, who didn’t know him at all, wasn’t buying it. Look further, he’d told Pierce. Check on those four who died in the crash.
&nb
sp; The detective did just that—and came up with something interesting. Three of the dead passengers had been Jack McKinstry’s playmates for years; but the fourth was a man relatively new on the playground. His name was Tony Dwyer, and he was as nouveau riche as they came. He tried very hard to fit in with those who’d always taken it for granted that life was one big catered party. But Dwyer just didn’t have the knack; no matter what he did, he remained instantly identifiable as The Outsider.
He didn’t look right, for one thing. He was short and stocky and he wheezed whenever he exerted himself. His clothes were always brand-new and he never seemed at home in them. He talked incessantly, as if afraid the others would forget his existence if he ever stopped making noise. He laughed too loud and too often. He was rude to waiters. His feelings were easily hurt. And whenever he felt particularly left out, he’d throw it up to the others that it was his own money he was spending, not Daddy’s or Grandpa’s or Aunt Helen’s.
Jack’s crowd tolerated his presence for two reasons. First, it was fun having someone around to laugh at; and second, Tony Dwyer picked up the tab more frequently than anyone else. He could also be counted on to come up with a quick loan in time of need. But Dwyer didn’t have the same casual attitude toward borrowing and lending money as the others. He expected to be repaid, and within a reasonable length of time. Jack McKinstry had borrowed from him on many occasions.
From what Pierce had been able to dig up, it looked as if Jack had been deeply in debt to Dwyer at the time of the accident. Jack lived on the dividends paid by the various stocks he’d inherited; and while the family did not exactly look upon him as a black sheep, the work ethic ran strong in the McKinstry clan. The family had long since made it clear it would not bail him out if he lived beyond his means. Jack’s elder brother, who now ran the business, was less tolerant than the others. He’d disapproved openly of Jack’s unproductive life and threatened to take his younger brother to court on a charge of fiscal irresponsibility, with the purpose of having the control of Jack’s money put into the hands of a court-appointed banker or lawyer. Only his deep-seated distaste for airing family troubles in public had restrained him thus far.
