Amiti hadn’t accepted a contract since he and BJ had escaped from the Bahamas. He considered Bennie Rubens his last hit, paid or otherwise. Since a church handyman gets so few offers to kill for money, he’d been forced to draw on his extensive offshore bank reserves and had transferred funds to an account he could access. BJ had dipped into Bennie’s cash hoard, which she had taken from the Bahamas penthouse. As Sister Beatrice, she had little need for money, but BJ was another story altogether.
Amiti concluded his business of chartering a long-range Gulfstream G-IIB, including an international overwater crew of three. The plane left that evening, with only two passengers, headed for Monterrey, Mexico. Amiti had chosen that destination because he had an old client there who had asked for his help. And this client would help with the business Amiti had to accomplish in the US.
Mexican airspace wasn’t as sacrosanct as it was in the US, meaning they could land at a private airport unknown to all those pesky government people, such as customs inspectors. While chartering the plane was a pricey proposition, Amiti considered the expense necessary. Even though he had promised BJ he’d get them new visas and passports, his contact in Salzburg hadn’t panned out. This had eliminated their traveling on a commercial flight, bus, or train, leaving them only the private-charter option.
The plane landed outside the large metropolitan city on the private airstrip owned by Amiti’s friend, Don Armando Juarez Fuentes. The don now used the landing strip for his extended family’s private transportation. Up until eight-years ago, however, it had served as one of the busiest drug-transportation hubs in the Western hemisphere.
The don sent bodyguards in two limos to bring Amiti and BJ to the hacienda. Although they weren’t aware of it, the Gulfstream was the second business jet to enter Monterrey airspace that day. Busy is as busy does.
The limos pulled into the circular drive of Hacienda Fuentes, then stopped in front of the main building, where the seventy-six-year-old Don Fuentes awaited his guests. The aging don moved about his large hacienda with the help of his electric scooter. In the terra-cotta-tiled foyer, he greeted Amiti and BJ from it and welcomed them to his home. He hated that scooter; it was so damn embarrassing. It appeared to Amiti that Don Fuentes had grown much older in the years since they’d last done business. It also seemed that the don had physically expanded in girth and shrunk in height. He no longer captured Amiti’s imagination as the agile leader of a fearsome fraternity.
Don Fuentes’s past drug-trade profits had provided the seed money for him to acquire and operate legal businesses, such as cattle-feed lots, manufacturing firms across both sides of the border, and transportation assets—rail cars, cargo ships, and truck lines—along with their various support facilities. With virtually unlimited investment capital, he had taken control of industries in Mexico, South America, and the United States. The don’s operations and reputation had grown quite large.
The reunion between the former drug kingpin and his guests was made more festive when Amiti gave the charter jet and its crew to Don Fuentes. Amiti knew the don would follow established procedures to ransom the crew back to the charter firm in Italy and keep the plane to add to his small fleet. A twenty-six-million-dollar airplane was a wonderful gift to cement an old friendship.
When they were settled in the living room, Amiti said, “I’d be most grateful, sir, if you could arrange for new passports and US entry visas for the two of us.”
“Of course, mi amigo. You and the beautiful senorita shall have them in two days.”
“Why, thank you, Don Fuentes,” Lacey said. “Your compliment is most appreciated.”
“As are your beauty and charms, which now grace my humble home, BJ.”
“There’s one other small courtesy,” Amiti continued, “if I may be allowed to ask your favor.”
“Please, you are my guests. Don Fuentes is at your service. What may I do to thank you for the unexpected aeronautical gifts with which you have honored me?”
“You have business interests in Los Angeles, right?”
The don nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I’d like to contact your most senior person in LA. I’d appreciate it if you’d advise this employee to cooperate with requests I’ll make of him or her when I’m there. Believe me, Don Fuentes, I’ll ask nothing of this person that will be of any concern to you. Is this something you could help me with?”
“But of course,” Don Fuentes said. “And in return, I ask that you attend to a small matter of interest to me while visiting the City of Angels.”
[]
FOUR
THEY ARRIVED FROM THE airport a little after 1:00 a.m. Friday. From Wainwright’s avoidance of the subject, Lacey knew her husband wasn’t dealing well with Bobby’s death. Neither was she, for that matter, because she had fewer memories to comfort her loss.
That morning, Wainwright got up very early—or hadn’t slept at all—and called Bobby’s wife. Although Lacey was trying not to eavesdrop on his private conversation, she heard him speaking in a soft, low tone. She also heard him sobbing when he came back to bed for an hour of sleep. Lacey said nothing when he got in and turned away from her. She moved in close, spooned his back, and silently held him as he wept. The drive to Ojai was going to be a long one.
Lacey got out of bed at 7:00 a.m. to go through some files and make notes for the office call she planned to make at nine. She stared at the pile of files labeled “Sean Quinn.” A cup of fresh coffee seemed a better bet than starting on those. In fact, coffee definitely would help, as she was still jet-lagged and exhausted from the frantic departure from Salzburg. But now she was home, and home is where the heart is, or something along those lines. After she sat down with her coffee, she mused on that as she jotted down yet another reminder on her legal pad. She decided the healing brew was helping.
The next two hours flew by. Lacey realized her new assistant probably had arrived at the office by now. She called the private line at her office. “Good morning, Myrtle.”
“Welcome back. How was your honeymoon?”
“It was wonderful.” Lacey paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, but since you only started a few days before I left, I don’t know that much about you. Are you married?”
Myrtle sighed. “No, you know, still waiting for Mr. Right. I was engaged when I was in law school, but that didn’t work out. Neither one did, actually—the engagement and law school.”
“Stay the course, girl. It will. I had to wait awhile, too but finding the right guy is worth it. Anyway, I need to go over the Quinn files you left for me. I’ve made some notes and have a few questions.”
In Lacey’s review of the files, she found them complete and orderly, and Myrtle’s memo was well thought out. Lacey was glad Myrtle had been assigned to her; she’d be a big help.
The backgrounder on Quinn Industries started with Sean’s grandfather, KC Quinn. No first name, just initials. I guess that wasn’t uncommon back in the day, she thought. KC had started the company in 1924 at age nineteen. Originally the company had manufactured coffins. KC’s son, Arthur, replaced much of the hand labor with modern machinery when he had taken over the business. He also added a furniture line to their products. Sean started working for the company after one year at UCLA, when he dropped out to work on the assembly line. When his dad died in 1970, Sean inherited the business. His initial contribution was more mechanization and fewer employees, following his father’s business strategies. But he also entered additional markets and developed new products due to the plant’s new production capabilities.
Home and apartment construction was booming in the 1970s, so Sean expanded into wooden cabinets for kitchens and bathroom. He sold the products to home improvement stores and also directly to builders. He expanded the business into forty-two states and several countries, including Canada, Australia, and the UK.
Lacey glanced at her notes. “You said his sales for the last fiscal year are estimated at more than forty million. Estimated?”
/> “Yes. Quinn Industries is privately held,” Myrtle replied. “They don’t publish numbers. I was able to see a few tax returns, but...don’t ask.”
“I won’t, but I salute your ingenuity and perseverance.”
“Sean Quinn lost his wife and only child in an auto accident fifteen years ago. Never remarried and lives alone in the house he built for his family in the Trousdale Estates neighborhood of Beverly Hills. He has no business partners—he owns it all without debt and goes to work seven days a week.”
“Wow, he sounds like the life of the party.”
“His friends say he doesn’t drink or smoke,” Myrtle continued. “He stays in shape by working out at his home gym at night. He invests, but no one knows in what or how much he has. He hasn’t taken a vacation since his wife and child passed away. He’s reported to be very handsome, stubborn, undereducated, and socially inept. Somehow he’s turned all that into a large fortune. Forbes Magazine estimates his worth at two hundred million dollars.”
“Good job, Myrtle. Thorough and detailed is the way I like my reports.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your support.”
“Did you copy Mr. Starr on the memo?” Lacey asked.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t work for him; I work for you.”
“Myrtle, don’t kid yourself. We all work for Carson Starr. That, dear girl, is why his name sits prominently on the letterhead of Jamison, Langley & Starr, PC. Some days I think the whole world works for Carson one way or another.” Lacey took a thoughtful pause. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it when I get in on Monday.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Myrtle quickly added.
“I know you didn’t. It’s okay. Now why don’t you tackle your to-do list, and I’ll dig more into these files you put together? Again, I’m very pleased with your work so far, Myrtle. Thank you.”
IT WAS CLOSE TO 9:30 a.m. when Lacey dialed Carson Starr’s private line. Sitting at his expansive mahogany desk, he pushed the speakerphone button. “Yes?”
“Carson, it’s Lacey. Do you have a few minutes to chat? I need to go over some Quinn stuff.”
“I always have time for a beautiful gal. Come on up.”
Starr’s office was on the floor above Lacey’s. The firm had grown since she had transferred to her firm’s LA office three years ago. Although she had joined as a partner, her office was on the fifteenth floor with the associates. There wasn’t room for her yet on the sixteenth floor, but she was okay with that. Using the stairs instead of the elevator helped her stay fit. But not this morning.
“I’m at home, Carson. I was hoping I could catch up with you over the phone. Garth’s brother unexpectedly passed away, and we’re driving to Ojai for the services tomorrow. The weekend will give me some time to get some work done before I come in Monday.”
Starr stood and paced his office. “Sorry to hear about Garth’s brother. Please give him my condolences. And sure, the phone chat works. I hope you got some rest on your honeymoon. We’ll need you at the top of your game next week.”
“I’ll definitely bring my A game. Listen, Carson, I’d like to fly this Quinn research by you that Myrtle did while I was away. By the way, she’s terrific. I see senior admin in her future.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said with little enthusiasm. “So what about Sean?”
“I’ll give you a copy of Myrtle’s background memo when I come on in Monday. Since you’ve been friends with him for years, I wanted to get your perspective on a few matters. There’s little information about his worth. The memo estimates it at around two hundred million. Does that sound about right?”
“No. It’s probably half again that high. Why do you care?”
“It could be significant if the proposed sale is accepted and there are problems later. Do you know of any domestic issues with a girlfriend or companion?”
“Lacey, are you moonlighting for the National Enquirer? Why all this interest in Sean’s personal life? Your assignment is to facilitate the negotiations for the sale of his business, not be matchmaker.”
“Carson, I asked Myrtle to do a background-research memo. I’m just trying to get my arms around the client. His business is a reflection of who he is. Know the man, you’ll know his business. I’m not nibbling for salacious reasons.”
“Of course. We all have our own way of doing the job. I’m sorry to have questioned yours. Go on. Do you have other areas you’d like to explore?”
“Would Sean answer these questions if I asked him?”
“I doubt it. He’s a very private man, and his abhorrence of polite conversation is legendary. He’s rarely polite, except on the golf course, and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of him. Still, it couldn’t hurt if you took your best shot with him one on one. Whatever happens is all you’ll ever get, so good luck with him.”
“Thanks, Carson. As usual, your advice is appreciated. With your comments in mind, I’ll work up the specifics about Sean, the business, and anything else I’ll need. See you Monday.”
THE SCENERY BETWEEN Lacey and Wainwright’s condo in Playa del Rey into Ventura was breathtaking. Avoiding the freeway in favor of the Pacific Coast Highway—or State 1, as it’s labeled on area maps—is the stuff travel commercials are made of: miles of broad white-sand beaches and the gentle surf rolling to the shore in sets of three; sand dunes alternating with sandstone bluffs east of the road. The traveler on this highway finds himself in a nature sandwich.
“There’s an Italian café—Pagliacci’s—on the Ventura Pier,” Wainwright said. “It’s on the way, and we’ll be hungry by the time we get there. I was there once before with a literary agent and loved the atmosphere. You know I’m a sucker for an ocean view from a red-leather banquette.”
After lunch, on their way back to the car, Lacey said, “The food was marvelous, and you sure nailed the appeal of the place. How do you feel about all the compliments you got from employees and customers?”
Whether they were for his books or his now-trademark outfit of a duster, Australian hat, and boots, it didn’t much matter.
Wainwright answered, “As someone once said, if they spell your name right, that’s good PR.”
Lacey buckled the seat belt in Wainwright’s convertible as he started the car. “What a beautiful day. How about we put the top down and soak up some vitamin D?”
And that’s what they did, enjoying SoCal’s fresh air and sunshine as much as any two people could on their way to a funeral. Wainwright was quiet on the drive to Ojai, a small village tucked back in the hills and canyons east of the ocean. Lacey sensed Bobby’s death was weighing more heavily on his mind than she’d suspected, which didn’t make for a Chatty Cathy travel companion. She guessed his depressed manner eventually would subside somewhat after today’s services. Funerals are for the survivors, not the dearly departed, Lacey knew, and one goal of a memorial service is to bring closure to the deceased’s loved ones.
To distract him, Lacey talked about her new client, Sean Quinn. Garth might have some insight into the business arrangement she was about to lawyer for Quinn. After all, before retiring, Garth had negotiated multimillion-dollar transactions as an executive with CapVest. Who better to bounce the deal off?
“Have I told you about this Quinn transaction Carson put me on?”
Pulled from his thoughts, Wainwright caught up quickly. “No, I don’t think you’ve mentioned that name before.”
“Well, if you’ll give me your Scout’s honor you won’t tell anyone I’ve discussed this with you, I have some business questions for you. Agree?”
“Sure. So, what’s the deal?”
Lacey gave Wainwright the abridged history of Quinn Industries from 1924 up to the present. She included some deal points she had gleaned from the files. Wainwright loved deal points.
“Wow, that’s some kind of operation,” he said.
“Yes, and therein lies the problem. Quinn has received an unsolicited offer from someone who wants to buy the business.
He needs advice, so he called Carson, who called me.”
“And then you called me.” Wainwright chuckled. “Okay, tell me about it. Start with who made the offer.”
“The offer came from a shell company incorporated in Geneva, Switzerland. There’s no way to verify any of the buyers provided background information. No bank account info because of Swiss banking laws. No business history because there isn’t any. And no trade references, since this is the first project they’ve done under their business name. It’s a blank slate. Quinn’s dealing with a nonentity purchaser.”
“That’s enough to stop me right there. If you don’t know who you’re dealing with, don’t deal.”
“Quinn’s worth a ton of money. Except for the FF&E—sorry, the furniture, fixtures, and equipment—it’s mostly in properties and QI stock. He wants to sell, though, and the price is right. Actually, a bit more than right, according to him. He wants to take his chips off the table and go play. He’s been in this business since he was nineteen or twenty and thinks he has a bird in the hand and doesn’t want it to fly away. My job is to help make the deal and protect him from any contingent liability.”
“So it’s a done deal in Quinn’s mind.”
“Pretty much.”
“He wants to sell, and he’s okay with the price, so what’s the problem? Just verify the money’s in Quinn’s hands before allowing any encumbrance of title. You’re more the master of that than I am, so again, what’s the problem?”
Lacey smiled. She’d gotten that fertile brain of his to focus on something other than despair.
Inside Moves Page 6
