The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  “My agenda, Mr. Shaw, is the truth. That is all it has ever been, despite some of your associates’ contrary opinions. Where would you suggest I start my homework, as you so delicately phrased it?”

  “You might consider the FBI, for one. They were the agency that caught the people responsible for some of the tragedies I mentioned.”

  “But the killer got away. I doubt the FBI would cooperate with me while I report that fact.”

  “Mr. Crocker, when you have the facts—all the facts—and decide to publish the truth, we’ll be happy to cooperate with you. Now, if you would be so kind, Mr. Wainwright and I have some pressing business to deal with. Would you please excuse us?”

  The reporter stepped back from the table, gave Wainwright a brief glance with a hint of a grin, turned a 180, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Alone again, Garth said, “I like how you handled Crocker’s encounter. If that kid can make the turn to getting all the facts, he’ll be good to have on our side. Yes, sir, you’re going to be a first class CEO, pal.”

  Wainwright stirred his coffee and stared into the swirling black liquid. He did not speak for a beat and Tommy gave him the space to think. After, Tommy asked, “So what’s on your mind that has you so melancholy?”

  “I’m thinking about a time very long ago when I needed to tell someone I was planning to leave the company. I picked Jules. I was feeling guilty because I hadn’t talked to you first about my plan. Back then, you were both my earlier recruiter as well as my wholesaling partner. I should have spoken to you before anyone else. Now, I won’t make that same mistake. I am speaking to you first. Today, you’re the CEO of a very large and complex company with many problems to overcome, and I’m planning on leaving you with it.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? Don’t dump on me, Garth. It’s going to take all the help we can muster to pull off a winner. What’s the deal—what other plans do you have, Garth?”

  “My plans? I have several. In order of importance, I’ve asked Lacey to be my wife. I would be honored if you consented to be my best man. You are and have always been my best friend, so be my best man now.”

  “Well…er…congratulations! I’m happy for both of you. Of course, I’ll stand up for you. I’m pleased to be asked, but what I meant was, what are your plans if you leave CapVest?”

  “First, while I’m still a director, I want to put a proposal before the newly expanded board. I will suggest we merge CapVest into All Cities. Then change the publicly traded vehicle’s name to Capital Vested Corp. That done, I retire, and I’ll keep my stock to enjoy the dividends from all the good things you and your team are going to make happen over the next few years.

  “I will have married Lacey, a wealthy and highly paid lawyer who intends to continue to work. We’ll live at the beach, and…I’ll write a novel.”

  “What do mean a novel? About what? What are you going to call it?”

  “I’m thinking of calling it Seven Deadly Sins.”

  “Been done, I’m sure, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, the list of those seven deadly sins goes back to the dawn of Christianity. Society and the church use them to give people alerts and guidance for their behavior. We have seen them—all seven of the Cardinal sins—in the midst of our former partners. Maybe we should have seen that those behaviors could destroy the company…and us with it. Gluttony, sloth, pride, greed, wrath, envy, and lust, these are the seven big ones! Okay, it’s an idea and needs work, but the novel will be about all that has happened to you and me since back in the day when you popped up to Beverly Hills for lunch. Do you remember that lunch?”

  Tommy gave a small chuckle. “No, not too well. As I recall, we drank most of the wine the restaurant had in their cellar.”

  “Tommy, when we left my office to go to lunch, you held both elevator doors open, blocking the entrance. I can picture you there as if it were yesterday. You said something like, ‘Lunch won’t be over until you have agreed to go to Seattle with me.’ Do you remember?”

  With another little huff of a laugh, Tommy said, “Not actually, no, but go on.”

  “Tommy, ‘lunch’ still isn’t over for you and me. It never will be, my friend! My book will share the story we’ve just lived through together. It will dispel some myths that have grown up around the deaths of some partners, and shoot holes in the bad press the company has suffered.

  “I would like you to make me a special consultant to the board after I resign as director. I can help you more from the outside than I ever could as a partner.

  “Tommy, you are now the last Musketeer, my friend. So, ride on, Tommy, ride on!”

  The End

  Table of Contents

  Praise for The Tipping Point

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Excerpts from Inside Moves: A Wainwright Mystery

  About the Author

  A Personal Note

  Dedication

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to those amazing readers who sent emails and messages to me. Thank you (from the bottom of my heart) for your support. It means so much to know people appreciate the novel. My loyal readers tell me they are also fans of Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, Sandra Brown, Harlan Coben, and David Baldacci. Well, so am I. These great authors have influenced my work and I can think of no better role models to study.

  This second edition of The Tipping Point is for you, the readers who have complimented my work and asked for more of Wainwright, Lacey, and the Assassin. I want all my published novels to be the best I can make them. That is at the heart of why there is a second edition.

  As I worked on the storyline for the sequel, I realized parts of The Tipping Point needed to change in order for Inside Moves to work. Bending grudgingly to the idea of revising the first novel, I considered some of the comments from reviewers would make the novel better. I agreed with many of the comments.

  The sequel demanded a rewrite of the first book and at the same time modifications could be made to address other issues. I was almost convinced.

  Then I talked with friends; other authors, and editors and my publisher about the conundrum. The consensus was to leave well enough alone. They said, “Spend your energies on getting the next manuscript ready to publish.”

  The logic was economically sound, but I was emotionally committed to the idea of a better book.

  I went to work on the revisions. They are complete and you now hold the second edition in your hands. I believe it was the right thing to do.

  Some of you will tell me what you think, and for that, I am grateful. I respond to emails sent to me at walter@walterdanley.com. I hope you will keep our dialog open and, if you like the story and the characters, you will consider telling a friend about the books. Thank you for your support and loyalty. I honor them and will do my best to continue to earn your praise and patronage.

  Acknowledgements

  IN A LIFE BEFORE writing novels, I worked with many fabulous people in the business of real estate investments—and a few not quit
e so marvelous. The real estate professionals—brokers, associates, colleagues, and principals with whom I worked—all of these have contributed to this story.

  Not directly, of course, and in no case are the characters real or the incidents in the story true, but they are representative of events and those who inhabited the commercial real estate investment business in the ’70s.

  The idea for The Tipping Point came from an image, one of the first in the book, of Ariel Amiti chasing Burke down the steep mountainside of Aspen Mountain. My lack of skiing proficiency and a lifelong case of acrophobia is probably to blame for the image staying with me so long. From there, it was my job to figure out why Burke got himself murdered, and what Garth Wainwright discovered about his partners as he searched for the killer. I had a great time writing this, both times and hope The Tipping Point will entertain you.

  No book is ever the result of a single person, this one in particular. My gratitude and thanks belong to a special group of people who contributed to this novel. First, thanks to Susan Uttendorfsky of Adirondack Editing. My editor gave insightful comments and criticisms which enriched both the story and characters as did the talents of Fiona Jayde with the cover design and much good advice far beyond a book cover.

  Good feedback is a hot commodity to a writer. This edition of The Tipping Point owes thanks for fair and objective reviews to Big Al, Kelly Burrows, Jaq D. Hawkins, John Hohn, Diane Robinson, Bev Stout and Jefferson Morgenthaler, as well as my critique group of first readers, which includes Christopher Norris Clines, George Thomas Cox, and Jack Wishard. These friends are avid readers who shared valuable insights constructive comments. They will find their thoughts between these pages.

  My thanks go to Jim Nagle, who helped with geographical locations in Washington State (Go Cougars!). Thanks go to MAC, my publisher, Marble Arch Communications, who put my book into the hands of readers like you.

  And finally, but unquestionably first in all things, I give a hearty thank you to my amazing readers for their constant and continuing support. It is because of them I will continue to write the creations of my imagination.

  You may want to take a sneak peek at excerpts from Inside Moves A Wainwright Mystery at the end of this book.

  Excerpt from Inside Moves

  He walked into the setting sun just outside of the United States Penitentiary, Marion. Former inmate number 201207 took a deep breath of freedom. He was now officially, again, Marcos Murtagh. Slowly, Murtagh exhaled, tasting the air as he had savored one of his rare vintage wines from his extensive cellar in the past. Freedom was far superior to wine. The February winter sun was warm and it felt good on his face and arms, protruding from the short sleeve shirt issued on release.

  Murtagh had spent eleven-years in this Illinois maximum security penitentiary. Having been convicted by a jury of his peers of racketeering, prostitution and drug trafficking, he’d been granted parole. That cut the last ten years of his original sentence. Murtagh had been a model prisoner and felt he’d earned the parole, if not for his behavior, then certainly by being confined twenty-three hours of each day in a cell with one four inch wide window four feet high. Everything in the cell was made of pored reinforced concrete, including his bed, desk and stool. The stainless steel toilet unit, a one piece affair, included a wash basin and drinking fountain. Yeah, he damn well did deserve this parole.

  In 1982, Marion Penitentiary was the only federal supermax in the United States. It was located away from everything, seven miles south of the city of Marion, Illinois.

  One of the things Murtagh quickly acquired in the slam was patience. He needed this learned technique now because his pick up crew had yet to arrive. He thought he’d see them come into the compound as there were few trees to block his view on this flat-as-a-pancake land. The few landscaped trees lined the long lonely straight approach from the highway to the parking lot. Murtagh watched the singular approach. He could see for almost two miles, and there was no car on the road.

  He’d have to make sure to punish the asshole that was responsible for making him stand out here in front of this hateful place, like a God damned tourist. Murtagh paced in front of the reception hall. Man, did he ever want a smoke. When he arrived here, he decided this would be a good opportunity to quite cigarettes, so he did—cold turkey. Now, waiting for his ride, he wanted one badly. He looked at the barely there, slowly sinking sun. Then he saw it; a black stretch limousine had turned onto the perimeter road from the state highway. It wouldn’t be long before it got through the parking lot and to him.

  The Lincoln limo had three occupants; two hoodlums in the front and a smaller man in the rear compartment. The long automobile navigated the parking lot and came to a stop next to him. The passenger in the shotgun seat opened his door, spun-stepped to his left and opened the rear door for his distinguished guest. As he did, he said to Murtagh, “Welcome home, boss.”

  Murtagh nodded his acceptance of the greeting and lowered his head, entered the vehicle, joining the man in the compartment. The man extended his right hand in welcome and handed his guest a flute of champagne, all with a fluid practiced move. Murtagh took the glass of wine, and said to the man with barely controlled anger, “Thanks Cruz, now please explain to me why you assholes are late. I waited in the sun for more than twenty minutes, and I do not like to wait on anyone, especially not a fucking disbarred lawyer. And don’t tell me traffic delays held you up ‘cause there wasn’t another fucking car on the road for the twenty minutes my ass was frying.

  “Sorry, Mr. Murtagh, but it was not my fault. Those two picked me up at the hotel thirty minutes late. We rushed to get here on time, but couldn’t make up the lost time. Sorry, sir. I truly am sorry you were forced to wait. I have some information for you,” handing him a manila file folder.

  “Does this paperwork have anything to do with what I told you to find?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll find the latest information we have in there. Kinkaid is married and on her honeymoon in Austria. They’re hotel registration info is in there along with some photos the tracker took. As far as the other guy, Amiti, we don’t know where he is…can’t find him anywhere, and believe me boss, we have looked long and hard.”

  Murtagh said nothing and continued thumbing uninterested in the paper file. He looked out the side window at the leafless tress bordering the highway. “Did you bozos think to bring me some other cloths? This shit I’ve got on smells like Marion.”

  “Yes, here in the duffel bag.” Cruz reached for the expensive leather tote on the seat next to him. “Can I help you, boss?”

  Murtagh said nothing as he took the offered bag from Ernest Cruz, his attorney. He found a dress shirt, tie, socks and underwear stacked on top of suit pants wrapped in a dry-cleaners plastic bag. Under the trousers was a pair of black Gucci loafers with leather tassels. Murtagh pawed through the contents, and said, “Which one of you ferries picked out the shoes?”

  “Why, what’s not to like?”

  “They look like you took em off some fag. Hey, how long to the plane?”

  “Boss, you been away for a while. These are very stylish and they cost three hundred and thirty dollars. I can’t afford them, but we wanted you to have the best, boss. Anyway, you have time to change. We’re about an hour from Paducah. The jet is there waiting on us. Then back to St. Louis.”

  “We’re not going home. We are going to my place in Monterrey. I’ve got some work to do and it’ll get done better in Mexico. Make the arrangements to fly there. I am gonna pull two thorns outa my side; two people need killen, real bad.

  Garth Wainwright sat at a table on the café’s small covered patio. The April sun showed warm and bright. He was glad he’d dressed in khakis and a polo shirt this morning. The Salzburg sky was almost lapis lazuli blue with a few clouds drifting by on the breeze. His yellow legal pad was on the tabletop, next to a plastic box of sharpened pencils. Additional novel writing equipment consisted of his long lens camera mounted on a small tripod and pointed toward the
oncoming foot traffic on the bike path.

  Wainwright liked the café. He had been here several times in the past week. The Café Amadeus was only fifty meters from the riverbank with the Giselakai bike path bisecting the span. He had a splendid view of the Giselakai and its constant flow of human traffic. His camera pointed down the path where people streamed toward him. The snow fed river Salzach moves in the same direction as the path of people. It pours hastily out of the Alps, southwest toward Italy. Wainwright kicked off his loafers and thought this an ideal spot to work on his novel.

  He drank in the warm spring breezes that bounced languidly off the water. The air was fragrant with scents of the new spring blooms. He stopped work to appreciate the majesty of the snow crowned Alps standing guard beyond the Salzach valley. High thin cirrus clouds promised rain before the week was through. New life was abundant wherever Wainwright looked.

  He watched over the camera’s long lens, as if sighting down a rifle barrel. People made their way up the path toward him. With a cable release attached to his Nikon 35mm close at hand, he could inconspicuously snap shots of interesting faces. The faces he captured had to be unusual and interesting to deserve a photo. Whatever he saw that motivated him to take a picture, a face, clothing, behavior or some other action, he’d jot down his thoughts on his legal pad, noting the face or attire that inspired it. He was careful to include the photo frame number with his notes. Wainwright had ample photos of some of Salzburg Austria’s more bizarre inhabitants. A few of these photographed folks will become the model for a character in the current WIP, work in process, or some future novel.