ALTHOUGH THE WAINWRIGHTS arrived in Ojai and located the chapel, they had trouble finding a place to park the Ghia. Finally, the perfect parking spot appeared toward the back of the lot. It was a long walk, but his baby would sit in the shade of a large California live oak tree. Since the top was still lowered, he hoped it wouldn’t rain while they were away, but the sky was pure blue, with only a sprinkling of puffy-white clouds.
Lacey took her husband’s hand, and they crossed the parking lot and entered the small chapel, which was overflowing with people. They didn’t try to find a seat in the sanctuary and instead stood in the back.
Wainwright leaned close to Lacey’s ear. “I didn’t know Bobby knew so many people. This place is clearly over capacity. If the fire marshal comes by, we’re all busted.”
Lacey understood that her husband’s joke was an effort to alleviate his stress and sadness. She squeezed the hand, which she hadn’t let go of, and smiled. The program they were handed listed the speaker at the pulpit as the jobsite foreman where Bobby had died.
She whispered, “Do you know many of his friends?”
“No. Just a few.”
Since joining the family, Lacey had realized how different these two brothers were. Bobby had been quiet, reserved, and thoughtful and had run a large construction company that built hotels, condos, and apartment buildings. Years ago, he had earned a graduate master builder (GMB) degree. Bobby had been rightfully proud of its significance, and his big brother was proud of him as well.
Lacey gave her husband another hand squeeze, but he didn’t respond, as he was intently listening to the man on stage praise his brother. Lacey had a Plan B, the ol’ elbow-in-the-ribs trick. His attention was now directed to her, albeit in a generally negative fashion.
“What?”
“Look at the tall blond guy in the pinstripe suit, five rows up on the aisle. See him? That’s Sean Quinn. I guess he knew your brother.”
“Yeah, he could have been a subcontractor on one of his projects. You said he makes cabinets, right? Maybe Quinn’s company produced the cabinets for the kitchens in some of the apartments Bobby built. Do you want to talk to him after the service?”
She shook her head. “Honey, I don’t want to greet a new client here. I’ve never met him before, but I recognize him from his photo in the background report. I’ll arrange a more appropriate meeting another time.”
As the memorial service was ending, the minister announced, “A reception will take place at Emma Shirey’s Montecito home immediately following the graveside service. All are invited. A map insert is in your program.”
As the crowd left the chapel, Wainwright sought out Auntie Emma and led her outside for a private conversation. He spotted her easily. She was the tiny lady surrounded by well-wishers. She wore her steel-gray hair short, in a man’s cut. Wainwright didn’t like it and remembered how Auntie Emma’s hair was when he was a boy—long, luxurious, and set so that one of her blue-gray eyes had to peek from behind her dark-brown locks.
Wainwright caught her attention. “Thank you for all your efforts for Bobby,” he told her. “The service was wonderful.”
“Oh, hush, child. You two were the best little boys. And you both grew up to be such fine men. Bobby ran that great big building company, and you—just look at you, Mr. Best-Seller List, my, my. You make an old lady very proud, Garth.”
Blushing, Wainwright said he and Lacey would talk to her more at the reception. He told his aunt he might skip the graveside service, though. He was far too choked up about losing his little brother and didn’t know if he could handle it.
“Garth, you were always the rebel—I guess you still are. Well, you listen to your Auntie Emma. You will be at the graveside, as is appropriate. Choked up? Don’t you think everyone who’ll be there will be in the same condition? Young man, if this old broad can control her tears, so can you. You will be there. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there, I promise.”
“That’s better. The manners and good judgment I taught you are showing.”
, the service was mercifully brief. Wainwright managed to maintain an arthritic British anterior surface of the body maxilla throughout—to those unopposed to cliché, a stiff upper lip.
Wainwright and Lacey walked across the neatly manicured lawn to their car and climbed inside. Ready to leave the cemetery, Wainwright put the car in gear and fell in behind the limousine carrying his aunt to her home in Montecito.
THE LIMO TURNED INTO the long driveway behind the large iron gates of a stately stone-and-timber mansion high on a hill. Uniformed valets took Wainwright’s car to park it off the property during the reception.
“Some fancy digs for your old widda auntie, huh?” Lacey said.
“This old widda lady was an early investor in Kodak and rode the stock price up for years, then invested nearly all her earnings in Berkshire Hathaway,” Wainwright told her. “She’s on a roll. My little ol’ widda auntie is worth north of twenty million. You don’t own a place like this in Monticeto on social security. Would you like to see the inside?”
Lacey and Wainwright mingled with guests in the downstairs public rooms. Walnut and pecan-paneled walls complemented the Persian rugs and some very recognizable fine art on the walls; Lacey thought she spotted a Chagall. Aunt Emma had augmented her household staff with those from the catering company. Wainwright counted three bartenders, each in a different room. A constant stream of waiters passed through the crowd, silver trays in hand. Dom Perignon, high-end hors d’oeuvres, and other delightfully delicious delicacies were all on offer. Emma Shirey had made sure that no guest would leave hungry.
Wainwright and Lacey sat in the window seat in the great room, champagne flutes in hand.
“Before Mom died,” Wainwright said, “Bobby and I took vacations here. I loved being in Auntie Emma’s house, back then and now. I used to sit and read in this window when I was a kid. Hey, look at that sunset. Is that spectacular or what?”
“Spectacular” might have been an understatement. Four of the eight California Channel Islands lay twenty miles in front of Montecito. The largest was Santa Cruz Island, behind which the sun was dissolving. Separated by the black island outline, the sea and sky blended into shades of orange, then reds of immense varieties, and finally into a deep purple that any royal would covet.
“Is this where you got your love of the ocean? It sure didn’t happen in Carlisle, Indiana.”
Wainwright chuckled. “Speaking of Carlisle, I got a letter from the Bakers, the family I lived with after Mom passed. In 1938, Carlisle was the center of the US. Half the people in the country lived east of Carlisle and half lived west. Mrs. Baker said last year the population had dropped to around seven hundred. It was three times that the year I was born. Things change so fast, don’t they?”
Lacey nodded and put an arm around him.
“Seeing this sunset makes me appreciate the influence the ocean has on my mental well-being,” Wainwright continued. “The beach has been my home ever since I moved to California after the navy. So you can blame my obsession with the ocean on Montecito and Aunt Emma.”
“I’m willing to bet your obsession with wealth got its start from your sweet ol’ widda aunt too.”
“Yeah, probably, but I don’t actually love money—it’s the chase I love. I guess that got loaded in with the rest of my baggage.”
“Garth, we all carry baggage.” Spotting their host approaching, Lacey decided not to pursue this conversation during his pity party. “Your aunt is...oh, she got sidetracked again.” She turned back to Garth. “So how about you tell me a little about Auntie Emma?”
“Okay, well, she’s my mother’s youngest sister. When Mom and Dad eloped, Emma stayed in Kentucky to care for her ailing father. She inherited the farm and a small savings account and grew that into a fortune. When my Mom died, Bobby came to live with her in Montecito. As you know, I stayed in Carlisle with the Bakers.” He put his hands-on Lacey’s upper arms. “P
lease forgive my spat of depression. I’m sorry. I’ll be fine as long as I have you in my life.”
“I know you will, sweetheart. Just give it some time. Why don’t we go outside for some fresh air?”
They adjourned to the garden, where they milled around for some time. Lacey’s skin glowed in the subtle moonlight. Wainwright took her hand in his. “You look exquisite in this moonlight, Mrs. Wainwright.”
Lacey looked into his cocoa-brown eyes. “Garth, I want you to know just how wonderful you’ve made my life. The joy you bring to our life together is priceless. You make me feel so special, especially hand in hand in this moonlight.”
Ernest Cruz walked close to where the couple stood, but neither paid any notice. They were too much in love to care about anything but the gorgeous rose garden and the moonlight.
This was the third or fourth time Wainwright had worn his duster and hat. With his trademark Tony Lama boots added to the ensemble, he looked like he’d just ridden in off the trail. In a manner of speaking, he had. Aunt Emma soon located her nephew and his wife in the garden. She wanted to conclude the conversation they had started at the chapel. Lacey also gave their thanks for the elegant tribute for Bobby.
“Thank you, honey. I’m so glad you enjoyed the day. Umm, enjoy might not be the right word. But you know what I mean, I’m sure. You’re both welcome to stay the night. I have plenty of room and would love to have you.”
“Thanks for the kind offer,” Lacey said, “but we’ll say good night to you here. We have a ways to drive, and both Garth and I have a pile of work to catch up on. No one did it for us while we played, so...”
It was Wainwright’s turn for a good-bye. “It’s such a gorgeous evening that I think we’ll take Topanga through the canyon.”
His aunt thought that was a marvelous idea. So did Ernest Cruz. He took less than two minutes to find the wall phone in the butler’s pantry to make a call. Cruz checked the time; it was nine thirty as the Wainwrights left Auntie Emma’s Montecito on their way to disaster
FIVE
REGAINING CONSCIOUSNESS, LACEY COULD tell how roughly she’d been handled from her soreness and bruises. Where am I now? Some kind of container? A box? Where was I before they moved me here? Why are these people doing this? Who’s doing the doing?
Although she had been drugged, as any addict will admit, you don’t rest when you’re drugged into unconsciousness. Drugged and moved again, from wherever she was to wherever she was going. Then sleep. In sleep, the pain isn’t as bad. Everything was dark as she bounced around in the small space.
Lacey smelled gasoline; the movement outside had stopped. She opened her eyes. The box suddenly opened, revealing a bright fluorescent light. Quick, shut your eyes—the glare.
Her hands and feet tied, Lacey lay in the box, fetal like.
Someone is pulling my dress up. Oh, that’s sharp—oh, God, not the drugs again. No.
She heard voices. “I call that a class ass, man. Dude, gonna get me a little taste o’ that sweet—”
“What? The boss man is savin’ that for himself.”
Who’s the boss man? Oh, God, I’m so sleepy. No sense of movement...or anything.
WAINWRIGHT WOKE BECAUSE he was wet. His jaw hurt, but the pain wasn’t as bad as the last time he was awake. He opened one eye. It’s bright. Maybe I can open the other one. No! Hurts...too bright. Close them both quick. Breathe. Yes, that seems easier now. Move your arms—no restrictions, a good sign. Okay, open your eyes slowly now.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, a nurse was about to apply a wet sponge to his chest. The warm water had a familiar smell.
What is it? Trying to remember. Yes, bath soap, but it has a name.
He could see now. The doctors had removed the bandages covering his scalp and eyes. Was that a sign that he was getting better? Who could tell him?
Wainwright gagged as he tried to speak, mumbling, coughing. He reached for his throat and found a hole with a tube. What the hell did they do?
A ventilator, a machine that supported breathing.
He tried to move his jaw but couldn’t open his mouth; it was wired shut. He managed to croak, “W-h-e-r-e?”
“Well, good morning, sunshine. Just let me finish you up here, and I’ll call Dr. Fitzgerald in for you.”
Wainwright tried again, with great difficulty, to ask where he was and why was he lying in a bed naked with a person washing him. “W-h-e-r-e?”
“You’re at UCLA Medical Center. You’ve been here for several weeks.” She moved to the chart at the foot of his bed. “Yep, admitted on April eleventh at 0225.” Looking back at Wainwright, she added, “That’s military time, dearie. Means two twenty-five in the morning. Now today is May the first, so let’s see...that makes this your twenty-first day in paradise. You’ve healed real good. Most of your injuries are behind you. But being in that coma like you were, you never got to enjoy all those terrific treatments they did to your body. Isn’t it amazing, all the stuff you can sleep through?”
Wainwright nodded his understanding.
“Your jaw should be unwired in a few days. ’Course I’m not trained in any of that stuff, so just forget where you heard this bit of medical wisdom, okay? What a lovely long sleep you’ve had.”
FOUR DAYS AFTER THEIR arrival and before the aircrew discovered they were hostages, Don Fuentes had the plane fly Amiti and BJ to Los Angeles. Before the former nun and handyman left, the don handed each of them a packet. “I have two used US passports with entry visas for my friends. For good measure, I’ve also provided Mexican passports and entry permits.”
Amiti might pass for a Mexican citizen, but blue-eyed, blond BJ would be a hard sell. She would use a US passport in the name of Eugenia Beatrice Bailey.
It seemed the don could pull rabbits out of his hat and arrange anything one might want. In this case, Don Fuentes wanted Amiti to meet Sean Quinn in Los Angeles. Don Fuentes had told him the meeting had been arranged. Quinn, a businessman about to sell his company, was considering an offer from a shell company backed by Marcos Murtagh, although Quinn didn’t know that. The issue for Amiti was to convince Quinn that Don Fuentes was a better buyer with a legitimate offer and that the Murtagh offer wasn’t in Quinn’s best interest.
As they walked from the hacienda to the van that would take them to the don’s newly acquired jet, Amiti explained to BJ, “Don Fuentes has a network of listeners equal to or better than Marcos Murtagh’s. If anything happens at any time to someone Fuentes watches over, he’ll know about it almost as soon as it happens.”
In the shadowy world where men like these operated, alerts were more valuable than gold. It took a lot of the yellow metal to maintain such a network, but the price of not having a collective ear to the ground was often death.
“Don Fuentes told me Murtagh has put out a contract on me, but apparently, no one has accepted the deal.” Amiti shook his head and laughed. “It seems no one’s interested in trying to kill the most successful assassin in the world.”
The charter captain had no difficulty obtaining FAA clearance to land at Van Nuys Airport in the San Fernando Valley. Assuring that the plane and crew would return to Mexico was the job of Don Fuentes’s three burliest amigos, one a veteran commercial pilot.
THE MOON HAD ROTATED around the earth five times since the duo had descended into Los Angeles on Don Fuentes’s new jet. Quinn had agreed to meet with Amiti. He’d been told his name was Gambol Schwartz, an attorney representing a rival buyer for Quinn Industries. The meeting would take place at Quinn’s Beverly Hills home at six thirty that evening.
A uniformed housekeeper answered the door. “Mr. Quinn is expecting me,” Amiti said.
Fully informed that he was expected, she smiled and held the door open, motioning him to follow. He did, down a marble corridor to a set of double doors, where she knocked softly.
“Yes, Rosemary, come in,” Quinn said, sitting behind a stunning custom-made wooden desk. It appeared to be crafted from some kind of exo
tic wood and featured chrome trim and a thick ebony-glass top. He stood as Amiti entered and motioned for him to take a seat.
Quinn stood six or seven inches taller than Amiti, making him close to six-six, and possessed a slim, athletic build to complement his height. Amiti attention was drawn to Quinn’s hands—hands told the tale about a man, he thought. Quinn had large, long, meaty fingers—the hands of a laborer, except his lacked the cuts, bruises, and calluses associated with manual labor. His fingernails had recently been professionally manicured.
“Your amigo who called to arrange this meeting didn’t seem to know much about you,” Quinn began. “Fact is, I got the impression he doesn’t know anything about you.”
Quinn sat and opened the top desk drawer. He placed a large semiautomatic pistol on the desktop. He was pleased to see that his guest took immediate notice, although he didn’t seem alarmed by the appearance of a weapon.
Amiti crossed one leg over his knee and folded his hands in his lap.
“So let’s start this conversation with you telling me who you really are. And why you went to so much trouble to have this meeting. We won’t be having another, Schwartz, and this one will be short-lived unless I get answers real quick.”
Amiti scanned the room and its occupant with a glance and smile. “Mr. Quinn, your weapon, impressive as it is, won’t be necessary. I pose no threat to your business or person. I’m merely someone with information. I hope to dissuade you from proceeding with the recent offer you received for Quinn Industries.”
“By the way,” Amiti continued, “the name you were given when the appointment was requested isn’t actually my name. And you’re correct: I don’t know who contacted you on my behalf. That person was providing a courtesy to my client, Don Armando Juarez Fuentes of Monterrey, Mexico. My name is William Bailey, and I’m here to discuss an alternate offer on behalf of Don Fuentes.”
Inside Moves Page 7
