USA: Chapter One Click Title To Read Comments (1)

I didn't mind picking up David at the airport. What ticked me off was driving in a blinding rainstorm in my day-old car, a car that twenty minutes ago turned into an instant sauna when the air conditioner suddenly blew hot air. So much for technology and cars with automatic everything.

The Philly International terminal wasn't much more comfortable, but at least the rain had slowed some as I was parking the car. According to the arrival's board his flight was on time, which was the first thing to go right today. As I approached the gate the British Air passengers were just starting to file through.

His long flight and our heat and humidity aside, David Nesbitt looked like most people picture an affluent London banker, which he is; mid-sixties, steel gray hair and van-dyke beard, well over six feet tall without an ounce of fat and, as always, impeccably tailored. Walking ram-rod straight he obviously takes great pride in his appearance.

I haven't seen David in almost a year. We've worked together a number of times during the past dozen or so years, whenever his employer would retain my company to help spend their money - or more accurately, the money of one of their deep-pocketed clients. Over the years my company has found and bought things for them; things like ranches for raising cattle and thoroughbred horses, resort hotels, factories, farms, and land to build things on. All kinds of things. It was an intriguing relationship. I'd guess that over the years we've spent about a half-billion of somebody's money, plus or minus a few mil. And from what we could piece together, it was all for the same buyer. We knew David, and we knew his bank - one of the oldest and most prestigious in England - yet we hadn't a clue as to the identity of old moneybags. It was a screwy business relationship, almost bizarre.

"David, good to see you again."

"Likewise, Cole. Looks like you're having a bit of weather."

"We've had sweltering heat and humidity for almost two weeks; one of those damned Bermuda highs. It's typical Delaware Valley August, but if we're lucky the storm will cool things off some. I sure hope so, because we won't have air conditioning until we get to my office. I took delivery of my new car yesterday, and on the way here the air conditioning died."

"Pity. Had I known you were shopping for a new automobile I would have sent you literature on one or two of our superior British motorcars," David chuckled, knowing his dry humor wasn't wasted on me.

After claiming his luggage, we returned to my car and headed for my office in Jersey, with the windows down. The rain had stopped, but it was still warm and sticky.

"Is our property settlement still scheduled for the day after tomorrow?" David asked.

"Yes, four o'clock on Wednesday. Before we have dinner tonight I'd like to review the survey and settlement papers with you. Tomorrow morning we can drive out and look at the land. We've completed a preliminary site plan and there are a few problems, mostly with drainage and a buffer zone, but after my last meeting with the township engineer I think we have solutions he'll accept."

"That's good. I am anxious to see the land, particularly the surrounding area, but tomorrow morning presents a problem. Before I left London I had my secretary change my hotel reservations here. I'm spending tonight at the Taj in Atlantic City; I thought I'd give the wheel a try - but I can be back in your office by mid-afternoon tomorrow. That should give us ample time to visit the site, that is if it's convenient for you. And by the way, you are more than welcome to come with me to the casino."

"No thanks, as close as AC is, I try to stay away; I never seem to know when to walk away from the table. But please go and enjoy yourself - it's not the least bit inconvenient. How are you getting there and back?"

"I've arranged for their limousine to pick me up at your office at ten o'clock tonight. That should give us sufficient time for dinner, wouldn't you say? They'll return me to your office tomorrow afternoon."

"Ten should be fine," I replied. "I have a great little Italian restaurant in mind for dinner. I think you'll enjoy it."

The wet roads made the commute traffic worse than normal, whatever the hell normal is these days. By the time we arrived at my office the staff had left for the day but, as usual, my partner Suzy was still there. Suzanne Hammel - I'm the only one allowed to call her Suzy - is the better half of Hammel & McQuaid, Incorporated. I'm the other half. We're primarily builders and developers, and we do most of our own engineering and design. Over the years we've also acquired a number of investment properties, most as settlement on bad debts. This led us into real estate management, which in turn brought us more business from David's bank; management of a few of old moneybag's properties. Truth is, we'll do just about anything in our field as long as it's legal and will make money.

Suzy is the widow of Walter Hammel, the founder of our company, who died six years ago in an automobile accident. Walter hired Suzy as his secretary when she came east from San Francisco with her young daughter about twelve years ago, running away from a bad first marriage. Walter had hired me fresh out of engineering school about four years before Suzy showed up. When I interviewed for the job he told me he had a sixty-year old body with ninety-year old knees, and he was looking for an engineer with a strong pair of legs who wanted to learn the construction business. I qualified on both counts and he hired me. He was a widower, and even though considerably older than Suzy, he obviously also had an eye for a great-looking pair of legs. I always felt that she was somewhat on the rebound, and seemed to crave the kindness and affection that Walter freely gave - not only to her, but to her daughter Julia as well. But the chemistry must have been right, because less than three years later Suzy and Walter were married. Walter had no children from his first marriage and, from the beginning, treated me more like a son than an employee. We quickly developed a bond that was even closer than I enjoy with my own father; partly, I guess, because I've lived about twelve-hundred miles from my parents since finishing high school. When Walter died so tragically I felt as though my whole world had ended as well; the future I had so carefully planned revolved around Walter and the business. I really enjoy engineering and design, and spent the first few years in the company rotating between board work and field assignments, but the last nine or ten years I've had precious little time on the drawing board; mostly chasing around from one construction project to another, or bird-dogging something for David's client.

Walter's estate was divided between Suzy, Julia and myself. I inherited a nice little nest egg plus about thirty acres of prime land near Hilton Head, Julia had her college education secured with a fantastic trust fund, and Suzy was left everything else, including the business.

In the weeks following Walter's death Suzy received and promptly rejected two very lucrative offers for the business. She said Walter left it to her and, by God, she was going to either run it successfully, or run it into the ground. And, much to my surprise, she offered me a full partnership to help her run it. She became Ms. Inside, while I as Mr. Outside. Not only does she do a great job managing the office, but she can wrap a tough client around her little finger in nothing flat, combining a no-bullshit approach with a rare mix of high-society class and sensual charm. Better yet, she uses the same approach to keep our accounts receivable on time. Our aging schedule has to be one of the best in the industry.

On the subject of age, I know she tops my thirty-eight years by at least three or four; Suzy jealously guards her age, and can get really testy whenever anyone is stupid enough to ask her about it. But, not so amazingly, her age is rarely the subject of male conversation. What is, is her long-legged blond good looks, and the way she fills-out her clothes. And it appears the heritage will continue for a long time; Suzy's fifteen-year old daughter Julia is a clone of her mother.

After David washed-up, he joined Suzy and me in my office. As he usually does when he visits, he produced two small wrapped boxes from his attache case. Ever the gentleman, he bowed slightly as he handed both to Suzy. "Suzanne, you look lovelier then ever. This is another sterling owl for Julia's collection, and a small piece of Victorian jewelry I thought you might enjoy."

"Thank you, David, you're a dear," she said, "Julia will be pleased, and you know how I love Victorian jewelry. Julia's coming here directly from her tennis lesson - she's been looking forward to seeing you. She should be here any minute now."

"Suzy, bring Julia in when she arrives. David and I have a lot to do before dinner, and I'd like to get started. David's going to the casino later, so we have to be back here before ten. If you'd like, why don't you and Julia join us for dinner?"

"Thank you Cole, but tonight will be difficult. Julia won't be dressed for dinner, and I stayed late to catch-up on some paperwork; today has been absolutely impossible. Besides, I'm sure we can all get together before David returns home, possibly dinner tomorrow evening."

"Sounds excellent to me," David said with a grin, "as long as you all join me as my guests."

Dinner was exceptional. It's a small place where you bring your own wine. David and I shared an antipasto and then each had a great filet of blackened salmon, accompanied with sides of salad and linguine, warm, crusty bread and a bottle of my best Chianti. We finished with creamy cannoli and espresso. I've always had difficulty deciding which is more satisfying; good food or good women. I can live very happily with an excess of women. Luckily, good metabolism and exercise help offset my indulgence in the other.

We made it back to my office with half an hour to spare. My car's air conditioning still didn't work and, since it was a warm, steamy evening, I invited David in to wait for his limo. I decided to use the time to quiz him again about our mysterious client. Past attempts at this had produced almost nothing, so I decided to try a different approach.

"David," I started, after we settled into the two most comfortable chairs in my office, "Suzy and I consider you a good friend, in addition to being a great client. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what you and your bank have meant to Hammel & McQuaid. In the years we have worked together I don't think you and I have had one serious disagreement. But, unfortunately, the issue of your client's identity is beginning to cause real dissension between my brother Ben, Suzy and myself. I know you and I have gone in circles over this more than once - I've even tried making an inside joke out of it with Ben and Suzy - but Ben is dead serious and refuses to see any humor in it. And, common sense tells Suzy and I that we can't disagree with him.

"As our company attorney, Ben has badgered us for years to find out who we're involved with. It may seem ridiculous to you, but Ben's concern is that we're unknowingly aiding in the laundering of mob or drug money. He believes that if somebody were to come down on you or your client, Hammel & McQuaid would be in a very precarious position. Just yesterday, Ben told me he intends sending you a letter formally requesting identification of your client. He said he should have done it years ago. His pessimism and concern have started to rub off on Suzy, and, I admit, I'm getting..."

"Pardon me," David interrupted, an edge to his voice, "sending the letter will accomplish nothing, except to agitate my directors, and possibly jeopardize our relationship. Believe me when I tell you that we have been as concerned about this issue as your brother - and we have been for quite a few years. Not too long ago it resulted in the resignation of three of our directors. This happened when they panicked after discovering that over the years we had received a number of inquiries from Scotland Yard, Interpol, and even your own CIA, about the client's identity."

David got out of his chair and began pacing my office. His face was expressionless as he continued, "You must believe me when I say that no one in my organization knows who the client is. Also, other than myself and Alexander Trimble, our CEO, no one even has access to any of the key account records. With those records an investigation might uncover the name or names, but, with the mind-boggling paper trail and red herrings created by the client we're convinced it would take years of digging - and with no guarantee of success. Some years ago we did attempt an investigation, thorough but very discreet. It quickly ended in a blind alley and we backed off. To conduct such an investigation today presents a risk we just cannot take. It is not an exaggeration to say that if an investigation succeeded in identifying the client, and they in turn exercised their threat to terminate our relationship, it would most likely destroy the bank. At best, the financial impact would be staggering.

"Off the record, I can give you the reason for our dilemma, and how the whole bloody mess started." David's gaze drifted around the room. He seemed to be searching for words, almost stalling - totally out of character. He also was avoiding my eyes, and this bothered me even more. I'm pretty good at flushing-out a snow-job, so maybe I was hearing what he thought I wanted to hear.

"The account was first opened in 1953," he continued. "and by the way, the age of the account is what still convinces most of our directors that we are not handling drug money, either then or now. Likewise, the international dimensions of the account quells their fears about mob ties. Personally, I have disagreed all along with their rationalization - drugs and world-wide organized crime existed long before 1953 - but it satisfies them, so I keep my opinion to myself.

"To get back to my story, it all started when the bank received a detailed letter of instructions followed by a wire transfer from a Milan bank. The transaction was to cover the purchase of ten-thousand shares of our bank's stock - a relatively small purchase, and a bit out of the ordinary, but properly structured. What was odd were the instructions. They were brief, but very explicit. They stated that future investment activity would occur on a regular, but unscheduled basis, and would always be either by wire transfer or private courier. They also told us to retain all shares, unless notified otherwise, and to pay any administrative fees and taxes incurred by the account. Finally, they warned that outside accountants would conduct unannounced, periodic audits of their portfolio and, the kicker; that any attempt on our part to trace transactions, or otherwise meddle, would result in immediate loss of the total account.

"I've been told that Peter Willard, the bank officer who was assigned to handle the initial transaction, and later the full account, wasn't overly concerned about the unusual conditions. The bank was prospering in the post-war economy; our stock had appreciated more than twenty percent during the previous year, and Peter apparently thought the investor was some eccentric old coot trying to capitalize. At the time he also assumed that future investments would be in additional bank stock. He was wrong."

David sat down and loosened his tie. He was more up-tight than I had ever seen him and it was making me uncomfortable. "For the first year or so," he continued after a deep breath, "there was little activity, and the investments were limited to bank shares. But then we started receiving very large deposits, with specific instructions as to what other things we were to purchase or invest in. This type of investment management in the banking industry is fairly common today, but in the mid-fifties it was somewhat unique, particularly at our bank. Willard and the other bank officials at that time had, at best, little experience in such matters. In a matter of a few short years they placed the bank in an inextricable position. Alex Trimble and I agree they must have been blinded by optimistic dreams of unlimited bank growth, possibly fueled by personal greed.

"When I took over the account in 1967, after Peter's death, the bank had grown considerably, most of the growth attributable to the value of the account. It had mushroomed to the point where a majority of our directors finally began expressing concern about the phantom ownership. There was considerable talk about the situation - all behind closed boardroom doors - but they couldn't agree on a course of action. The issue was repeatedly tabled. By the mid-eighties, when Walter Hammel turned our projects over to you, the account represented a considerable percentage of our total assets. Today its value is staggering, probably more than the combined national budgets of two or three small countries I could name."

"David, I hear what you're saying. Most of it is news to me, but I seriously doubt it will change my brother's mind. And it'll add fuel to his argument when he hears your personal feelings about the possibility of drug and mob ties. You have to admit, it's a classic money laundering scenario."

"I agree, up to a point..."

"Look David, for now the best I can offer is to set up a meeting between you and Ben, maybe tomorrow afternoon after you return from Atlantic City. I think Suzy and I should sit in as well. Would that be acceptable with you?"

"Yes. I don't know what more I can add, but I'm willing to talk to Ben and try to convince him not to do anything rash."

"One other thing," I continued, "your statement that the bank's financial security would be jeopardized if the client's identity is disclosed puzzles me. How? What the hell David, if I know anything I know how much of the client's money Hammel & McQuaid has invested in hard, real property. No stocks, no bonds, no pork bellies or commodity futures. Just hotels, resorts, land, mineral rights, industrials - all rock-solid deals. We've never been permitted to buy into anything; it has always been buy it all - or buy nothing! The client wouldn't be a partner to anybody. I'm sure most, if not all, of our deals have appreciated ten-fold. I mean what the hell David, how can that hurt your bank?"

"Cole, your involvement usually ends when the investment is in place, so you probably don't know what frequently happens at the other end. You are correct about the present worth of most of the investments. Other than their early purchase of shares in our bank, no stocks, no bonds. And they have prohibited investment in any publicly owned entities. We can only guess that this is caused by their obvious desire for complete control, and concern for their anonymity."

David again got out of his chair and walked to the window where he gazed out at the darkness, his face expressionless. "We very closely monitor the performance of all account holdings. Early on, we were ordered by the client to liquidate anything that didn't appreciate at least seven percent each year. I can recall only one exception to that rule. And, regardless of performance, it applies to anything in which they feel a killing can be made with a quick turnover. So, and this is where the wicket gets sticky, with a percentage of the total account constantly being turned over, we're forced to retain considerable working capital, usually the proceeds of liquidated assets. However, to maintain a good bottom line, we invest most of this capital in short-term paper, usually at the highest current rate of interest. Good banking practice demands we do this. But this also forces us to outguess the client; we base our strategy on short-term market projections, plotted against what we think the client will order us to buy - massaging the crystal ball if you will - and creates the situation that can seriously hurt us. At any given time we're holding between four-hundred-fifty and six-hundred million in deposits for the client, only a small portion of which is liquid. Loss of the account would therefore cause a colossal cash flow pinch. If you understand the domino effect this might create, you can certainly appreciate our concern. It could even bring down the bank."

On a few occasions in the past I had actually felt guilty about some of the fees - large but legitimate - we had invoiced David's bank for our services. It now struck me that the effect of those fees was as significant as spitting in the ocean. The account was big all right; I never realized just how big. "I'm trying to understand, David, but it's hard to reconcile all of what you've said. How can so much money be handled for so many years without some direct contact, without a screw-up by somebody?"

"There have been a few, but fortunately they've been at our end and have been easily resolved. The basic procedure hasn't varied one iota since the first transaction." David looked at his reflection in the window and buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie. "All withdrawals requested by the client and account earnings are wire transfers to a number of banks in your country, South America and Switzerland, or are paid out as cash transactions, picked-up at our bank by courier, usually with about five days notice. They use a number of courier services, but never the same one twice running. Traceable, you ask? Probably. And I'm sure without too much effort; if it weren't for the confounded risk! All instructions and correspondence from their end arrive by messenger or, believe it or not, by regular mail. Mail comes with various postmarks, mostly from the continent, and always without a return address.

"Due to the paper balances on hand, actual deposits by the client are now much more infrequent, usually occurring only when they have ordered a major acquisition. When they do occur, it's by wire transfer from the same Milan bank. Speaking of Milan; in addition to the usual identification number, shortly after the account was opened it was labeled "The Milan Portfolio' by Peter Willard. It is still known by the same name. And Cole, to put things in perspective, in 1953 all account records were kept in a single manila folder in Peter's desk. Today the account has a dedicated file room, with an integral vault, and is administered by myself and a staff of five."

I was about to ask another question when a honking horn broke the silence. His limo had arrived. We agreed to continue the discussion tomorrow afternoon and I gathered-up his luggage and headed for the parking lot. After wishing him luck in the casino, I watched the taillights of the white Lincoln disappear down the drive, then set the security alarm, locked the office and headed for home. The Phillies were playing in St. Louis and I could probably catch the last few innings on the tube.

On the drive home I thought about what I had heard tonight. It was mind-boggling. Whoever our oddball client was, he or she - or maybe it - had been around a long time, and was very, very rich. Too rich for my tired brain to comprehend. It had been a long day.

USA: Chapter Two Click Title To Read Comments (1)

When I awoke the next morning the sun was shining and a light breeze was fluttering the birch tree outside my window. Mrs. Tomasello, my housekeeper, would undoubtedly suggest we turn off the air conditioning, as she usually did whenever there was more than a breath of air.

She didn't disappoint me. After I showered, shaved and dressed, I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when she came in from the rear yard, a bunch of fresh picked flowers in her hand. "Buon giorno," she said, "it's a beautiful day. The weather has changed, it's much cooler than yesterday and there's no humidity. Please turn off the air conditioning so I can open the windows. I love a breeze through the house."

"Consider it done," I said, smiling to myself. "By the way, I won't be home until late tonight, so please don't fix dinner for me."

"Mi scusi, you don't eat enough, and you're getting too thin," she said, scolding me with a wagging finger. "I'll fix something and leave it in the refrigerator for you. Something easy for you to heat-up when you get home."

"That won't be necessary because I'll already have eaten. Besides, I'm not losing weight, with you constantly feeding me I have to work like hell to keep my weight where it's been for the last ten years." As always, I knew this was a debate I'd never win, so I finished my coffee and headed for the door. After stopping to turn off the air conditioning.

"You won't let me cook breakfast for you either," she said, in her best wounded-dove voice, "so at least have some fruit on your way to the office, per piacere, and don't swear at me." She grabbed my arm as I opened the door and jammed an orange in my hand. Like I said, why argue.

Mrs. Tomasello is sixty-three years old, has two grown daughters, and buried two husbands before she was fifty-five. She's been my housekeeper ever since I got fed up with apartment living eight years ago and bought myself an old three-story Victorian money-pit in historic Haddonfield. She comes in three days a week to clean and do my laundry; no cooking - or at least that was the deal when I hired her. As it turned out, she cooks whenever I'm home to eat - sometimes when I'm not - and does whatever else she feels needs doing; everything from food shopping to watering the garden.

Angelina Tomasello is the traditional Italian momma; small in stature, strong as an ox, capable of totally intimidating you in her native tongue when she's frustrated or trying to impose her will, then wrapping you in a tender hug to show her affection. She treats me like a son, so I guess I shouldn't complain. And I'm sure she knows how much I care for her. When my parents came to visit from Florida, shortly after she came to work for me, I overheard part of a conversation between she and my mother. Mom gave her a complete set of instructions on my care and upbringing. I guess I'm now one of the few men accused of ignoring two mothers.

There was a stack of telephone messages from yesterday awaiting me on my desk. Nancy, my secretary, had also left a few letters for my signature. I knew I had about thirty minutes of peace and quiet before the staff arrived and the phones started, so I spent the time reviewing revised estimate sheets for a project we're bidding. It's a complex estimate; a new middle school and high school, plus heavy renovation of two old schools - lots of margin for costly error - and bids are due day after tomorrow. I'm due to meet again with our estimator at eight this morning to see how much we can sharpen some of our numbers.

Our meeting ended shortly after ten. I had just poured my second cup of coffee of the day when Nancy buzzed me. She said a Lieutenant Ronko of the Atlantic City police department was on my line and that he insisted on speaking with no one but me. Before picking up the receiver it flashed through my head that David had gotten into some kind of trouble, although I couldn't imagine him breaking the law. I didn't know anybody else in Atlantic City, and certainly not in their police department. "Hello, Cole McQuaid," I said.

"Mr. McQuaid, my name is Ronko, Lieutenant Ronko, with the Atlantic City police. I'm calling in regard to a David Nesbitt, from London, England. Do you know him?"

"Yes I do. He's one of our clients. What's the problem?"

"There is a problem, Mr. McQuaid, and it's serious. I can't discuss it on the phone, so I'm afraid I have to ask you to come to my office. If you don't have transportation I'll send a car for you. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but it's important that you get here quickly."

"I have a car, and I can leave almost immediately, but can't you give me some clue as to what this is all about? Is David in jail?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't discuss it further on the phone. When you get here ask for me at the front desk - Lieutenant Al Ronko." He then gave me directions to his station from the expressway.

"I'll be there in about an hour," I responded, and hung up the phone. All kinds of crazy thoughts were racing through my head. What the hell was going on? It must be serious, but why hadn't David called me if he had a problem - why Ronko? I didn't like the answer to that question. I stopped at Nancy's desk on my way out and told her what Ronko had told me, and that I would call her as soon as I knew what was wrong.

I made it to Ronko's office in just under an hour, and found him on the second floor of the building. His office was small and cluttered, and reeked of cigarette smoke. He stuffed out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on his desk as he arose to shake my hand. He was on the short side, bald on top, with a fat face and bushy mustache. The mustache did nothing to hide his veined, bulbous nose. It looked like Al Ronko enjoyed his booze. "Please sit down, Mr. McQuaid, thanks for getting here so quickly." He produced a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there's been a homicide. David Nesbitt is dead."

Damn! My worst fear had just come true. I had pushed this reality from my mind a dozen times on my way here. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. "God, no! What happened...are you sure it's David?"

"I'll tell you what I can at this point, but first I need answers to a few questions. Also, when we finish here I'd like you to come with me to the morgue. The description of Nesbitt given to us by the hotel staff fits, but we need a positive ID. Now, when and where did you last see him?"

Cold sweat trickled down my spine as I recalled my conversation with David last night, and of the plans we had made for the next few days. I told Ronko about having dinner with David, and of seeing him off in the limo. I also mentioned David's plans for last night and today at the casino. "I'm curious Lieutenant, just how did you locate me so quickly?"

Ronko leaned across his desk and handed me a business card. "Recognize this?" he asked.

"Yes, it's my card. Where did you get it?"

"It was in Nesbitt's pocket when he was found. Just before you arrived I spoke with a girl in the limo service office. Your name came up there, too."

"Please, Lieutenant," I asked, "tell me what happened. This whole situation is unbelievable."

"Well, we're still piecing bits of information together, but apparently Nesbitt returned to his room from the casino around three this morning. He phoned room service and ordered breakfast for seven-thirty. We don't think he ever made it to bed. When the waiter arrived with breakfast he found the door partly open, badly sprung. When he pushed the door open he saw Nesbitt on the floor in the bathroom. The waiter called security; they called us. Everything so far indicates Nesbitt had been dead for a couple hours before he was found. Those hotel doors are tough. By the looks of things, whoever broke in had some heavy-duty equipment and knew what they were doing. And Nesbitt must have been taken by complete surprise; there were no signs of a major struggle, no calls to the desk, and nobody in other rooms on the floor heard a thing."

"How was he killed?"

"Two shots through the temple, one on either side. We know the shots were fired at very close range, probably with a silencer since nobody heard anything."

"Is it possible he was killed resisting a robbery? He could have been carrying a lot of cash; after all he came here to gamble. Have you checked with the casino to see whether..."

"Hold it," Ronko interrupted. "We don't think it was robbery, there are too many inconsistencies. And we have talked to some of the casino people. But before I go any further with this I need you to come with me to the morgue. We've got to have a positive ID, just to be sure. I'm sorry to put you through it, but you can save us a lot of time and trouble, particularly since he's from out of the country. After you confirm the ID we'll have to come back here, "cause we'll need a statement from you, too."

On top of the foul smell, Ronko's office was hot as hell. My stomach needed this whole bad dream to end; I felt like I was going to lose my breakfast and I really didn't need any more upset - I needed to get outside. The morgue was probably in another building, and maybe on the way there I'd get lucky and find some fresh air. Besides, even though my heart still held out some hope, my head told me it was David.

The trip to the morgue did nothing to relieve my queasiness. Once inside, things got worse. When the attendant pulled back the sheet I knew it was David, not so much by the facial features as by the hair and beard. Unfortunately, there wasn't a doubt. I've always considered myself physically and emotionally tough, but I had never seen what gunshot wounds can do to a human face. The attendant offered to uncover more of the body if I had any doubts, but cautioned me that there were other wounds. I said no thanks, I had seen enough.

On the way back to the station Ronko questioned me about David's personal life, what little I knew of it, and his relationship with my company. He admitted that they had no suspects, but that the lab crew was still in the casino hotel room doing their thing, and that maybe they would turn up something his people could run with. He didn't sound the least bit optimistic.

I again questioned the possibility of robbery. "Anything's possible," he responded, "but I still don't think so. I admit, we have a lot more in-house casino robberies than the public ever hears about, but they rarely result in murder. Usually the victim gets mugged by some low-life trying to cover his losses, or by a doper desperate for a fix. We're waiting to talk to the roulette dealer from Nesbitt's table when he comes on duty today. One of the pit bosses remembers Nesbitt and said he thought he dropped about six or seven hundred at that one wheel, but he didn't flash around any big money. To further spoil your robbery theory, Nesbitt's wallet and credit cards were scattered on the bed in his room, along with traveler's checks and more than seventeen hundred bucks in cash. Why would thieves or druggies leave that kind of loot behind? It just doesn't happen, particularly when it appears they weren't scared off. The only thing that appears to be missing is his luggage. There was none in his room and the bellhop can't remember for sure, but he said he took up two or three bags when Nesbitt checked in. He said Nesbitt also gave him a nice tip."

"He had a carry-on bag and a two-suiter when he left my office last night," I said. "I know because I carried them out to the limo. But why in hell would somebody leave behind that much cash and steal two suitcases? It's crazy."

"Exactly," Ronko answered, pulling into the station parking lot. "There are a lot of things that don't add up. When he was found, your friend was gagged and his hands and feet were bound with duct tape. He also had what looked like burns - maybe from a cigarette or cigar - on his hands and the soles of both feet. It was almost as though he was being tortured. Maybe we'll know more after the autopsy. It's scheduled to be started within the hour."

I still couldn't believe any of this, it was crazy. I followed Ronko back upstairs and gave my statement to a police stenographer. I told Ronko I'd take care of notifying London about David, and that I would call him as soon as possible with instructions for the body. Ronko knew how to reach me, and I asked him to call me immediately if the autopsy turned up anything or if there were any other developments. He said he would.

Walking back to my car I felt totally wiped out, and I felt even worse knowing I had a couple of tough phone calls to make. My car was parked in the sun and was stifling. After putting down the windows, I called Nancy on my car phone and, as directly as I could, told her of David's death - leaving out the grisly details. She was stunned. She probably had had more frequent involvement with David than anybody in our office, including Suzy and myself. She usually talked with David or his secretary at least once a week. She liked him, and enjoyed mimicking his clipped British accent. I asked her not to say anything to Suzy; I'd take care of that myself, and I wanted to do it in person. I also told Nancy to cancel everything on my schedule for the next few days, since I had no idea what'll happen when I call London. I sensed, rather than heard, Nancy crying on the other end of the line. After I ended the call I fiddled again with the air conditioning controls, to no avail.

So I left the windows down and drove home with the wind whistling through the car, trying to get the stink of death and cigarette smoke out of my nose and off my body.

Suzy and Nancy were sitting in my office with the door closed when I arrived. They were quietly talking and trying to console each other. Nancy saw the unasked question on my face and apologized. "I'm sorry, Cole. I came in here to be alone and Suzy came in and found me crying. I had to tell her."

An apology certainly wasn't necessary and I said so. They both asked the expected questions, and I told them what I had found out in Atlantic City, leaving out the details I didn't even want to think about, much less discuss. When I mentioned David's missing luggage, Nancy said that shortly after I left for Atlantic City she had found his attache case standing on the floor next to the sofa here in my office. She had put it in my closet for safekeeping. She said she knew it was David's because of the hunter green color; he had had it custom made some years ago. I guess he and I were so preoccupied with our discussion last night, the attache was overlooked when we walked to the limo. It was now almost nine-thirty in the evening, London time, and I couldn't chance waiting any later to call. I asked Nancy to get me David's home phone number, but had second thoughts as I started to dial. Damn! I just hated delivering this kind of news by phone, even though I knew I had no choice. On top of that it seemed almost cruel for me to call his wife when I had never met the woman. Then I remembered that because of the time difference, David had also given Nancy other phone numbers where he might be reached after banking hours. I asked her to check and was relieved when she found a home telephone listing for Alexander Trimble, David's boss. I don't know why, but I felt a lot more comfortable calling him. I couldn't delay any longer so I dialed Trimble's number.

A woman answered the phone. I asked for Trimble by name, and after a long wait he came on the line. "Mr. Trimble, we've never met. My name is Cole McQuaid, of Hammel & McQuaid in the States. We've worked with David Nesbitt and your bank for a number of years..."

"Yes," he interrupted. "I know exactly who you are, Mr. McQuaid, David has told me quite a bit about you personally. And I'm certainly familiar with your company, including your latest endeavor. The parcel of land you procured for us seems to meet all of our client's specifications. But why are you calling, isn't David there with you?"

"Mr. Trimble, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I have very bad news...David is dead. He was killed early this morning." I heard a gasp at the other end and then a deep sigh. I waited, not knowing what to say next. Finally, Trimble spoke, his voice quivering, "McQuaid, oh god, this is terrible. He and I have been close friends for over forty years. This is unbelievable...you say he was killed - was it an accident?"

"No, I'm afraid he was murdered. The police say they have no suspects, and apparently they're not even sure what happened." I then told Trimble about David's side trip to the casino, and what I knew about his death. I also mentioned that David's family had not been notified. When I finished he said that he and Mrs. Trimble would immediate visit Mrs. Nesbitt to inform her of what had happened; the Nesbitt home was apparently just a short distance away. We then discussed arrangements for sending David's body home.

"Mr. McQuaid, if you'll be so kind as to contact British Air and arrange for shipment of David's body, I'll take care of everything on this end. Just let my office know which flight he'll be on. I believe they have a flight out of Philadelphia every evening. And please, call me if your police uncover any further information...anything. Do you feel the police are competent? Should we hire our own investigator?"

"Mr. Trimble, I'll take care of everything here. I think we should be patient and let the police handle things, at least for a few days. I don't even know the results of the autopsy yet. But I promise you, if I feel they're not doing enough, I'll call you. At this point I don't think a private investigator can do any more than the police."

"All right, I trust your judgment. At the moment I'm finding it very difficult to think straight. This news is so shocking to me I'm not sure what I should do, but there is one thing of which I'm certain; I think it very important that you and I meet in the immediate future. David's death is going to be devastating to my Board, and they're going to have many questions that I probably cannot answer. On the other hand, if his death was not the result of random violence, there are some things that may have a bearing on what has happened. At least you should know what they are. I apologize for the imposition, but how soon could you come to London? Of course we'll pay all expenses."

I was more than a little confused by what I'd just heard. David's death was scary enough, but what the hell was Trimble talking about? I'm not sure, but I knew I'd have to find out. "Can't we discuss this by phone, maybe in a day or so? It would certainly simplify things."

"No! I'm sorry, but that is out of the question - it is too risky. After we talk you'll understand why. I would greatly appreciate your cooperation in this."

Trimble may not realize it, but he really knows how to sink the hook. Now I'm really puzzled and frustrated. And if the situation wasn't so somber I'd probably be ticked-off. All my life I've hated waiting for things; particularly things that directly affect my life or my business. Things like waiting for a phone call you know is coming; tomorrow's answers to today's crossword puzzle; waiting for people to make a decision, when you know they've already made one - like bankers and clients; and waiting for people to share important information they admittedly have - like now. Maybe I'm just impatient, or maybe it's a flaw in my personality, but it annoys the hell out of me. Under the circumstances I guess I have to bite my tongue and cooperate.

"Well, today is Tuesday, Mr. Trimble, I'll have to cancel or reschedule some things to come this week, but that shouldn't be a major problem. There's also the question of how soon David's body will be released, and what you want us to do about settlement on the new property. It's still scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at two."

"Have the settlement postponed for thirty days. That certainly is not an unreasonable request, considering what has happened. If they refuse to cooperate let me know and I'll call them and threaten to cancel the entire deal.

"If David's body is released tomorrow or Thursday, you might possibly accompany it home. I'm sure services could not be held before next Monday, and that would allow us to meet on Friday or Saturday. I do think we should talk as soon as possible."

"Postponing settlement shouldn't be a problem, I'll call them first thing in the morning. I'll also call the police about David's body. And please assure Mrs. Nesbitt that we'll handle all arrangements here. I should be able to call your office by four tomorrow afternoon, your time, and give you the details. There is a British Air flight out of Philly for Heathrow every evening; at least there was the last time I flew to London. I don't know if everything can be done in time for the Thursday flight, but we'll certainly try. Friday is probably more realistic."

"Just do your best, Mr. McQuaid. I'm sorry you had to get caught up in this tragedy, but on behalf of all of us here I do thank you for your kind assistance. David and his wife Anne just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary - they were very close. I really dread calling on her tonight with such terrible news."

It was shortly after five when I walked into Suzy's office. She was curled up in a chair, looking out the window, and holding a cup of tea. Her eyes were still red and puffy. I told her about my conversation with Trimble, and asked why she hadn't gone home, considering how upset she was.

"I waited because I hate the thought of facing Julia alone with the news about David. She thinks the world of him. He has been the closest thing to an uncle she has ever had. I'd be grateful if you'll come home with me and help break the news to her."

"Sure, I understand how you feel. I'm sorry that both of you have to go through this. I can't help but think back to when Walter was killed. I was worried about how you would come through it, but I was totally convinced it would destroy Julia - she had become his pet, and other than you probably the center of his world. But we both know she handled it well, and seemed to get her life back on track faster than either of us. So don't underestimate her ability to cope. She's tough Suzy, and she's a survivor. Maybe it's just another blessing of youth."

"You may be right, Cole, but she's much older now and I just don't know how she's going to react. She baby-sat for a neighbor this afternoon, but was supposed to be home about half an hour ago. I haven't called because I'm afraid my voice will give me away if she answers the phone. She's probably getting dressed for dinner now, as you know we were supposed to be David's guests for dinner this evening. I hate to impose, but if you don't mind I think we should leave right away. I certainly don't want her hearing about David on the radio or TV."

Julia was coming down the stairs as we came into the living room. She was dressed for dinner, and her big smile told us that she hadn't heard the news. I got my usual high-five, low-five greeting from her, followed by a solid punch to my shoulder, to which I responded by pinching the tip of her nose. Julia is an unbelievably competitive athlete. A high school sophomore last year, she beat-out a junior and a senior to advance to first-singles tennis. She also played soccer, passed-up basketball because she thinks it's a stupid game, and, at third base was the leading hitter on the varsity softball team. But with all of that, Julia is a very beautiful young lady, and probably the nicest, most level-headed teenager I've ever known. To my knowledge, she has never given her mother a moment of grief. The only problem I've heard Suzy mention was the issue of Julia's dating; Suzy absolutely forbids lone dates until Julia is sixteen. Given the number of young stallions I've heard about, if she were my daughter I'd probably never let her out of my sight. At five-seven she is only an inch shorter than her mother. Her light blond hair is long but curly; it balances her height and beautifully frames her wide, full mouth and striking blue eyes. She and her mother have the most vivid blue eyes I have ever seen.

It upset me to think about what I had to do. It saddened me even more when my mind raced back in time six years, dejavu; I had stood in this same room, fumbling for words, trying to tell Suzy as painlessly as I knew how that Walter had just died in an automobile accident. A few minutes ago, on the way home from the office with Suzy, I was searching again for words to use with Julia. As I stared at her, I knew there were no right words, and that any further delay on my part would not make the telling any easier. Suzy's face was white as a sheet, and I guess mine reflected my thoughts; as I looked at Julia the smile left her face and she asked me what was wrong. Instead of answering, I took her by the hand and led her to the sunporch, with her mother following behind.

When I finished talking, Julia stared at me in silence for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck and began sobbing. "It's not fair," she cried, her tears wetting my cheek. "First I lost my daddy, now uncle David. Why does it always happen to my family, to me...it's not fair. It's just not fair, dammit...it's not!"

The three of us sat on the sunporch until well past sundown. I held Julia in my arms until the tears stopped and she finally began to calm down.

She then began asking questions about how David had been killed. I told her he had been shot, but was determined not to tell her any more. So I lied, and told her I had no further information or details, but that we probably will know more after the police finish their investigation. We hadn't eaten dinner, so I went to the kitchen and found the ingredients for a batch of McQuaid's famous country scrambled eggs. With muffins, jam, and lots of hot coffee, it makes for a decent meal, even though it's a much better Sunday breakfast. The three of us kind of picked at the food and wasted more than we ate. I cleaned up the kitchen while Suzy helped Julia get ready for bed, and finished just as she walked through the kitchen door and said that Julia was already asleep. The sedative she had given her earlier had apparently worked. "I'm glad," I said. "it's been a long, tough day for all of us. The next few aren't going to be much better either, I'm afraid. I'm going home and hit the sack."

She took both my hands in hers and looked up at me. "I couldn't have gotten through this tonight without you," she said softly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you for being so kind to Julia, and to me." With that, she kissed me tenderly on the mouth. In the years I have known Suzy, that was the first personal contact we have ever had, other than the usual Christmas and birthday pecks on the cheek. Even though we have been partners for some time, I have always considered her the boss's wife. Untouchable. And she has never indicated that she wanted it any other way. I guess old habits are hard to break.

USA: Chapter Three Click Title To Read Comments (1)

By nine-thirty the following morning I had contacted Ben and the property owner's agent and their attorney, and agreed on a new settlement date. The agent and his lawyer both bitched about the eleventh-hour postponement, but when I explained what had happened they reluctantly went along. It also didn't hurt that we threatened to walk away from the deal if they refused. I knew they needed our cash much more than we needed their land.

I then called Ronko. He told me the autopsy hadn't produced any surprises; the cause of death was the gunshot wounds. But David had been tortured before he died. Aside from the burns Ronko had mentioned yesterday, David's lower abdomen and groin areas had been pierced numerous times with something sharp, maybe an ice pick. Ronko said the wounds weren't deep, but had occurred before he died. There was a lot of blood. God, David must have gone through hell!

Look Lieutenant, David was big and strong, and in good shape. There is no way one person could have done this without a helluva fight, and you said there was no sign of that in the room. It just doesn't add up - something's wrong. The only way it could have happened is if there was more than one attacker. Even then they would have had a fight on their hands. Maybe they drugged him.

Ronko mumbled something I couldn't understand, then responded in a voice so low I could hardly hear him, We know he had a few drinks, but drug results were inconclusive. The lab boys still have some more tests to run. And we haven't ruled out the possibility that more than one person was involved.

There was a long pause. I was about to say something when he continued, again almost whispering, Mr. McQuaid, I'm sorry, but I've said too much already. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. I'll tell you part of it, but only because I think you should know that something screwy is going on with our investigation. Maybe you know something I don't. First thing this morning Captain Murphy called me into his office and chewed my ass - but good. Murphy's my boss. He said he doesn't like the way I've handled Nesbitt's homicide; supposedly sloppy procedure on my part, too many loose ends. So he ordered me not to discuss the case with anybody, including you. It's goddamn ridiculous, the case isn't two days old and everything's been done by the book. Murphy's had nothing to do with the investigation until now - he was off yesterday and hasn't even read my reports - so I told him it looked like somebody was squeezing him to muzzle me, but I sure as hell can't figure out why. He denied it; said I was overreacting. Truth is, other than the casino people you're the only outsider I've talked to, and the killing has gotten hardly any media coverage. After my session with Murphy, I had my men do a quick check through the department. As far as we can tell there have been no calls about Nesbitt, other than yours, and no sign of anybody snooping around. I don't know who or why but somebody got to Murphy; he knows who you are, and knows you were here yesterday, and that we talked. I told him I didn't discuss the investigation with you, that in fact you could be considered a suspect, and I only answered some of your questions because you i.d.'d the body. That's when he said no, you're a civilian, and could compromise our investigation; you'd just have to keep your nose out of police business. His words exactly. It's bullshit, you never stuck your nose in our business - I think he's the one overreacting. Just understand that Nesbitt's homicide still has top priority with my squad, and I'm not the one stonewalling you - I'm only following orders. Oh, one more question before we end this; you said Nesbitt was a London banker, do you know anything more about his background that might explain Murphy's action - was he some kind of big shot?

David was just a banker, and a hell of a nice guy. He was one of the top two or three executives in his bank, but certainly no big shot'. I've already told you all I know about him. I have no idea why anybody would pressure your boss or interfere with your investigation, certainly nobody I know of. And I have no intention of meddling in your case; all I want is for you to catch the bastards who killed him. I talked with David's boss last night, and believe me, he feels as I do about this, and he expects results. I can promise you that he has the resources to back up his demands and, if you don't come up with something in the next few days, you're going to have his private investigators all over your case like ants at a picnic - whether your boss likes it or not. That's the way David's boss wants it, and I can assure you that's the way it's going to be. Understood?

I knew I was going well beyond what Trimble and I had discussed last night, but since I didn't have a clue about where this guy Murphy was coming from, I felt it was a bluff worth running.

Yeah, I do. He started to say something else, but stopped. Again there was a long pause before he continued. I really can't talk any more now, but I'll tell Murphy what you said about Nesbitt's boss. In fact, it'll give me great pleasure. One other thing before I hang up - Nesbitt's body can be picked-up anytime this afternoon or tomorrow morning. We're finished with it. Are you handling the arrangements?

Yes, in fact that's the main reason I called. I'll call the funeral director now and see if I can have the body picked up this afternoon. I'm going to fly to England with the body, and I probably won't be back before next Tuesday or Wednesday. So, if anything important develops, tell your boss to call Nancy Todd, my secretary. She can get in touch with me, if she thinks it's necessary. I hope my sarcasm was obvious. And before you hang up, I have one question for you: what the hell do you mean by saying I could be considered a suspect'? How the hell can that be?

Come on, Mr. McQuaid, he said with no humor in his voice, unless we find evidence to the contrary, anybody who had contact with Nesbitt is a suspect. I resented it, but he was right.

After I hung up, I called an old college buddy who manages a local funeral home. I explained what had to be done, and he agreed to have everything ready for a Thursday evening flight; all he needed was the airline and flight number. I turned that chore over to Nancy and made my promised call to London just before eleven - four o'clock their time.

When Trimble came on the line he said he and his wife had spent most of the night with Anne Nesbitt. She had taken the news of David's death very hard. At first, she insisted on immediately flying here to be with him. Trimble had talked her out of it, but was relieved to hear that I would be arriving Friday morning with the body. He asked if I had checked other airlines for an earlier flight; I said no, I'd be coming British Air. I do a fair amount of flying, but unfortunately not as much as I'd like to Britain. Some of our domestic lines are O.K. but when I fly to England or Scotland I use British Air. I'm just impressed with the way they run their airline: smooth takeoff, drinks, close the shades, drinks, dinner, drinks, nap, breakfast, open the shades, smooth landing. Very orderly, good drinks, decent airline food, very professional.

There's only one British Air flight each day from Philadelphia, I said. It arrives at Heathrow about seven-thirty in the morning, your time. You mentioned that the funeral service probably won't be until Monday. I'd like to attend. You and I could meet any time before Monday that's convenient for you.

That's fine. I'll take care of arrangements here for the body, and I'll have a car pick you up at the terminal. The funeral service has been tentatively scheduled for eleven Monday morning, pending your call. I'll firm that up now. Services will be held at the family church just outside London, with burial in the church cemetery. If you'd like, we can meet in my office late Friday afternoon - that will give you time to check into your hotel and freshen up. We can conduct our business and then I'd like you to be my guest for dinner Friday evening. Can we arrange hotel accommodations for you?

No thanks, Mr. Trimble, that's not necessary. I've been to London a few times and know a number of good hotels. I'll have my secretary find out what's available and make a reservation. As far as our meeting is concerned, Friday afternoon sounds fine.

I no sooner finished talking with Trimble when Suzy walked into my office. A good nights sleep had done her a world of good; she looked great, and had the familiar sparkle back in her eyes. Cole, she said, If you have no serious objections, I'd like to go to London with you. I feel I owe it to David and his widow; I've never met her, but given the circumstances it must be doubly difficult for her. Besides, I've never been to England and I haven't had a vacation in three years. With all that's happened I think it would do me good to get away for a few days.

I agree... it's kind of a somber occasion for a vacation, but I certainly have no objections. In fact, I'll enjoy your company - I hate traveling alone. But what about Julia, you can't leave her home alone.

I wouldn't, I'm still concerned about her. I hadn't thought about going with you until Becky Seifert called before breakfast this morning. Becky invited Julia to spend the next ten days with she and her family at their cabin in the Poconos. The Seiferts' live just down the street, they're really lovely people. Becky and Julia are classmates. At first, Julia said she couldn't go; she told Becky she had to stay home to take care of me, can you imagine? I knew it would do her good to get away too, so I lied. I told her you had asked me to go to England with you, but I couldn't leave her home alone. Within a minute she had called Becky back and agreed to go. They'll be leaving this evening right after dinner. If you had said no I'd be in deep trouble.

Good, I said, trying to keep a straight face. I just changed my mind - you can't go. It'll be worth going alone just to see how you wiggle off the hook with Julia.

That's not fair. Besides, I can invoke executive privilege. After all, we are equal partners - I have as much right to go as you - so there! Problem was, she couldn't keep a straight face, so we both had a good laugh, our first in some time.

O.K., I said, We both go. We'll be leaving tomorrow evening; I'll have Nancy make the arrangements. Trimble wants to meet with me Friday afternoon, and have dinner Friday evening. I don't recommend that you attend my meeting with him; my gut feeling is that we'll be rehashing everything that's happened, but maybe you could join us for dinner.

I think you're right, but I'd also rather not attend dinner either. It'll give you an opportunity to get all of the talk over with. I'll do some shopping, or maybe just relax at the hotel.

One other thing, Suzy, Trimble said they will pay all of my trip expenses. I have no intention of letting him do that, but I don't want to offend him. Having you along will make it easier to decline; we're there to pay our respects to David's family, but we're also taking a little vacation. After lunch I had Nancy make the travel arrangements. In deference to Suzy's desire to shop, I told Nancy to try for two rooms at Dukes Hotel, just off St. James Place. It's in a great part of London, but is relatively small and quiet. It's also within walking distance of some of London's best stores, and is only a short taxi ride from Trimble's bank on Queen Victoria Street.

When Nancy buzzed me a short time later she said everything was confirmed. She reminded me to pick up traveler's checks and to dig out my passport. She said she had also reminded Suzy about her passport. Suzy had gotten a passport about a month before Walter was killed - he was going to take her to Paris - but she never got to use it.

I spent most of the afternoon closeted with Joe Mancuso, our estimator, going over the final figures for tomorrow's school bid. Joe had squeezed a number of our subs for better prices, and was still waiting to hear from two. Other than that our bid was ready and the numbers looked good, but you never know in this crazy business. You spend countless hours putting together what you think is a tight bid and then somebody hungrier, or dumber, than you decides to literally buy the job. He's in, you're out.

Even though I had a lot of unfinished work on my desk, I left the office at five. I had some errands to do on the way home, and there wouldn't be any time tomorrow. I also wanted to get home early, fix myself some dinner and hit the sack. I wanted to get to the office by six tomorrow morning to get a jump on things, and I knew I wouldn't be getting any real sleep on the plane tomorrow night.

I was pulling out of the dry cleaner's parking lot, my third stop on the way home, when something caught my eye in the rear view mirror. It was a dark blue Ford, with two men in the front seat, and I realized this was the third time I had noticed them since leaving the office. Oh, shit, with what's happened during the last two days it's damn spooky to think somebody is following me. Or is my imagination playing games? On the other hand, it's ridiculous. Why would anybody be tailing me? To put my mind at ease I decided to find out. I pulled out of line, hit the gas and passed a few cars. At the next side road I ducked back in line, braked hard and made a fast right turn, with horns honking behind me. Two blocks later I looked in the mirror and there they were. They stayed about a block behind me all the way home. At least I answered my question, but with all my bobbing and weaving of a few minutes ago, they have to realize that I know. When I pulled into my driveway they drove past without slowing and continued out of sight. It dawned on me that these guys were either rank amateurs or they don't really care that I know I'm being followed. If they know who I am they sure didn't have to follow me to find out where I live - my number's in the book. Then I thought about what Ronko said, and my concern was replaced with curiosity; they did nothing but follow me. Maybe they're cops.

USA: Chapter Four Click Title To Read Comments (1)

Between juggling my schedule, the bid opening, and last minute preparations for the trip, Thursday turned into a two-day marathon. As far as I could tell there were no more tailing incidents, although I admit to looking over my shoulder more than once. Every dark blue Ford on the road got my attention. I decided against telling anybody about what happened yesterday on the way home; nothing came of it, so there was really no point. Besides, who could I tell?

The funeral director called late in the afternoon and said that delivery had been made; the casket was at the airport awaiting placement on the plane. As usual, whenever I'm leaving on a trip the last hour in the office was bedlam - the phones never stopped. Always something off the wall, and everybody needs an answer. So, I did what I usually do: call Nancy and delegate, or totally ignore - about a sixty-forty split.

We made it to the airport with about ten minutes to spare, and our flight left on time. The 747 was crowded, but Suzy and I lucked-out and had a window row all to ourselves. The drink cart came down the aisle after we were in the air about fifteen minutes. While handing Suzy her vodka and tonic it struck me that this is the first time she and I have ever been alone together, outside the office, and also the first time we could sit and make small talk, without phone interruptions or an office crisis dominating the conversation. After that first drink, Suzy kicked off her shoes, pushed down the arm rest and rearranged herself in the seat, then told me she wanted a complete rundown on today's bid opening. I had forgotten that she was home packing when Joe and I got back to the office.

"All right," I said, "I'll give you the meat of it, but then no more shop talk until we get home. You're supposed to be on vacation, remember?"

"So are you," she smiled. "Just tell me how things went and I won't mention the office again until we get home. Promise."

"O.K., but I'm going to hold you to that." The attendant came down the isle with the food cart and we both selected the poached salmon. I also ordered wine for each of us. "Most important, we're the apparent low bidder on the combined package. I was also relieved to hear that we left only about eleven grand on the table, on a bid of just over forty-one million. You can't get much closer than that. Joe and the guys did one helluva job. What's even better is we know we're right on the mark; our three big competitors were all bunched together, with a spread of less than eighty-five thousand. Everybody wanted the job bad."

"That's great. With those two jobs we picked up last month, this gives us more work on the books than we've had in over two years. What's the completion date?"

"The school board rep said they want to award within a month and break ground by early October. We'll have about twenty-three months to complete the job, which shouldn't be a problem. I plotted it against our other schedules and I think we can do it without hiring any more inside people."

"That's great, and it's also going to look great on our statement," she said, patting me on the arm. "Now I'll keep my promise - tell me all about London, and all the fabulous things you're going to show me. Remember, I've never been there before."

Through the rest of dinner, and for an hour afterward, I talked. I get really wound up when I start talking about London; I think it's the most fascinating city on earth. I love the place. I told her about my favorite pubs and restaurants; about Soho and Mayfair and Piccadilly Circus; the museums; shopping on Oxford and Regent Streets; and walks along the Thames. I had been rambling on for some time about the bombing of London and how the city had been rebuilt after the war, when I felt the weight of her head on my arm. I looked down and saw she was sound asleep. So much for my scintillating conversation.

I turned out the overhead lights and closed my eyes. Sitting there, being lulled by the almost hypnotic harmonics of the jet engines, it suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten something; I had left David's attache case back at the office. The day after his death I had locked it in our fire file for safekeeping, intending to bring it with me tonight. I'll call the office from London and have them ship it to his widow.

My body craved sleep, but my churning brain wouldn't cooperate. I tried making a mental list of all the things Suzy and I should do and see in London. It didn't work. My thoughts kept drifting back over the tragedy of the past few days - the loss suffered by David's family and friends; how so many lives can be drastically altered so quickly, and in David's case so permanently. It also bothered me that I had no idea what to expect from Alex Trimble. The reality of this is: what the hell can I do to make this trip even resemble a vacation for Suzy? Maybe I should have insisted she stay home. After half an hour I gave up on sleep, grabbed my newspaper and started working the crossword puzzle, squinting in the semi-darkness. Suzy stirred and gave me a big sigh. O.K., I thought, whatever happens we'll try to minimize the nasty stuff and do our damnedest to have a little fun.

London was warm and dry. As promised, a car was waiting at Terminal 4, and, even with the commute traffic, we were at the Dukes in just under an hour. The Dukes is a comparatively small hotel, situated in a quiet courtyard off St. James Place. It's right in the middle of everything, yet seems private and low-key. Outside, gas lanterns and an abundance of potted flowers lend a lot of charm. Inside, the polished mahogany in the lobby and the crisp British service raised my concern that maybe it wasn't to Suzy's liking, but she seemed impressed. After registering, she insisted on peeking into the hotel restaurant to look at the luncheon menu. She came out a few minutes later raving about the murals and the Roland Batchelor watercolors on display. I knew she was hooked on the place. I told her the restaurant was good, but asked her to bear with me; I wanted to have lunch in one of my favorite pubs. We agreed to meet in the lobby at one, which gave me time for a couple hours of badly needed sleep and a hot shower.

Lunch at Watling's was as good as I remembered. I convinced Suzy to try the "Ploughman's Plate' with me. I love English Stilton and cheddar, with their course bread and hot mustard. Wash it down with a pint of lager and I'm set - at least until dinner. During lunch I bored Suzy with some of Ye Olde Watling's history. I knew it when she reached across the table and pressed the tip of her finger against my lips. I guess I never learn. She laughed and said the history lesson was very interesting, but we were wasting a lot of quality shopping time.

After spending the next hour or so in a couple of very pricey boutiques, I hailed a taxi and dropped Suzy at the Dukes on my way to meet with Trimble. She said not to worry; she was going to explore some of the stores near the hotel, have dinner in her room, and go to bed early. I knew by the expression on her face that she was like a kid in a candy store. These London shops may never recover. We agreed to meet at nine the next morning for breakfast.

Trimble's bank is in an area known as The City, London's answer to Wall Street. Only a few blocks from the Bank of England, the bank was clustered in a group of classic nineteenth-century buildings - somewhat as I had imagined. The massive entrance, containing huge bronze doors, was flanked by ornate marble columns, and imposing polished brass lanterns. Quite a contrast to the cookie-cutter drive-ins we have back home.

Trimble was expecting me, but I was asked to wait in the lobby. After a few pointed questions and some terse answers from a receptionist I concluded that as the bank's executive vice-president Trimble ran the show; the president was apparently a figure-head who spent most of his time in Bermuda. It was also obvious that at least the receptionist was totally intimidated by Trimble and considered him a pompous ass. After a short wait his secretary, a very unattractive pinched-face woman named Nickleby, Miss Nickleby, she informed me in a very acid tone, came out to escort me up in the elevator and into his office.

Trimble came from behind his desk to shake hands and invited me to sit in a narrow wingback chair opposite his desk. He didn't look like I imagined he would. On the short side, he was heavy, well past sixty, and wore his jet-black hair combed straight back. The hair looked like it came right out of a bottle, which I guess is preferable to coming off a wig stand. His clean shaven face and mottled pink complexion brought one thought to mind: if there was such a character, this was Mr. Piggy. He wore half-glasses low on his broad nose, and carried his head down to look over them. Trimble told Miss Nickleby to bring tea - I guess coffee wasn't an option - and when she did he snapped at her to close the door on her way out; we were not to be disturbed, and absolutely no calls. Maybe this explains the reaction to Trimble I had encountered in the lobby. He certainly doesn't come across as Mr. Nice Guy.

Without any small talk Trimble immediately asked about the details of David's death and the investigation, and then sat with his hands clasped on his ample stomach while I told him everything I knew about it. I didn't withhold anything, including the details of the torture and what Ronko had told me about somebody suppressing information. When I finished, he removed some papers from a desk drawer, placed them in front of himself, and looked at me with an obviously forced smile. "Cole," he said, "if you have no objections I'd like to eliminate the formality of last names. Under the circumstances I think it's important that we communicate freely, and in my opinion first names will help - please call me Alex."

"That's fine with me." Maybe the receptionist was wrong. "I do apologize for dragging you to London on such short notice, but David's death not only shocked me, it frightened the hell out of me! I'm not usually this blunt, but since you called with the news about David I've found it increasingly difficult to function. I'm frightened because I suspect his killing was not coincidence, or a random act of violence. If I'm right, there's no telling where this bloody business will end. I could be in danger...and so might you! If I'm wrong, I can only apologize for alarming you needlessly."

Alex picked up his cup and spilled tea on the papers lying on the desk. He nervously dabbed at the wet spots with his handkerchief, and then stuffed it back in the breast pocket of his jacket. As he continued, his face colored an even brighter pink and he looked annoyed, apparently embarrassed about what he had just done. "Because of your unfortunate involvement in David's death, and your relationship with us over the years, I feel I can be frank in discussing my suspicions with you. After you hear me out I would like your opinion; whether you agree with me, or possibly think my imagination is running wild. And please...be totally honest with me.

"David and I have worried about this situation for many years, and had more than a few discussions about what to do. We agreed that we could not go to the authorities, it would have been very risky and we had absolutely no proof. And, even though our board of directors know about the account, and our mysterious client, they know nothing of what I'm about to tell you. To involve them was also out of the question...there are two or three directors who might panic and run to the authorities, or worse, the media. Such a knee-jerk reaction could destroy the bank - or maybe bring about even more tragedy! With David gone I just didn't know where to turn, other than you. That's why I asked you here."

Based on what I had heard so far, my imagination was definitely running wild. I certainly knew which client Alex was talking about but I had no idea how much Alex thought I knew. I thought I had better find out. "I'm anxious to hear about what's bothering you, but if you're talking about the client we have mutually worked for, please understand that I know damned little."

"That is exactly who I am referring to. It might save time if you tell me what you do know."

This isn't what I had in mind, but I decided to go along. "Precious little, Alex. I don't know how many times I questioned David about this over the years. Both my partner and brother have been up tight about legal entanglements with you and your client, and I told David so. Until the night before he was killed David always refused to discuss your client, except in very general terms. We had a lengthy discussion in my office just before he left for the casino. He didn't say much that I didn't already know, other than to explain how the account was started, and how it prospered over the years. He insisted for the hundredth time that no one in your bank knows the client's identity, and the reasons you haven't tried to find out."

"David mentioned your questions to me more than once. Your curiosity is certainly not without justification. The very same issue caused David and I to be at odds with our board for many years. In retrospect, given the strong feelings expressed about it by some board members, I'm surprised they didn't replace both of us. On the other hand, I'm sure they were as concerned as David and I about survival of the bank."

Alex shuffled the papers in front of him and looked at me, his face without expression and his forehead beaded with perspiration. "I may regret this, but it's time to clear the air. I think it best that I start at the beginning and tell you what I do know...and also what I suspect. You can then form your own conclusions. Based on what you just said, David apparently didn't tell you about the many strange things that have happened over the years. Tragic, inexplicable things that happened to people; all of whom were tied in some fashion to the client - or the client's business ventures. The client may have been directly responsible for these happenings, maybe not - we just never knew for sure. Certainly no definitive proof. I do know that if the client has not been involved, the laws of probability and coincidence are stretched beyond belief. And now this business with David...I really can't ignore what has happened any longer."

Alex picked up the papers and scanned the top page. "I made some notes, I don't want to overlook anything important. There's too much to trust to memory.

" You see, for David and me this all began in 1954, when he and I joined the bank within a week of each other, fresh out of university. The client had opened the account a year earlier, and Peter Willard was assigned to handle the transactions. Willard was a senior teller at the time. My first involvement occurred in 1957. I had just been put in charge of international business development, a new department, when the client instructed Willard to purchase property in the United States, the first time that had occurred. Peter and I worked together researching real estate brokers in your country and settled, unfortunately as it turned out, on a firm in New York City. We retained their services and the first deal went very smoothly. Over the next few years they represented us a number of times, apparently without incident. Willard handled all transactions with them until his death in 1967.

"David was then appointed to replace Willard, and very quickly expressed dissatisfaction the way the New York broker was handling our projects. After reviewing Willard's records, David was convinced the broker had been padding expenses and gouging us with excessive or bogus fees. He decided to visit them, unannounced, to audit their records. It didn't take long to confirm his suspicions. He confronted them, and of course they denied his allegations. Before contacting me, David was invited out for drinks and dinner by one of their principals. After a few drinks, the chap tried to buy David off by offering him kickbacks. When that failed he got downright nasty and said if we didn't back off he would start an investigation to uncover the client's identity - and make sure the media heard about it; pure blackmail. Apparently Willard had let slip enough about the strange nature of the account and the client's insistence on anonymity, at least enough to give the broker big ideas. David then called me and we decided to counter with a threat of a formal audit of their books and criminal prosecution. The next day, after a conference call with their officers, we compromised: we don't prosecute, and they cease and desist, and accept a termination of services. The letter of agreement is still in our file. Shortly after, we offered our business in your country to Walter Hammel."

"So that's how we got your business. How did you happen to pick Walter?"

"He had built a manufacturing plant and office facility for one of your large pharmaceutical firms in Bolton, up near Manchester, about two years before. Our bank had handled the financing. While working together, Walter and I became friends. He was amazing. Not only was he expert at construction, but his business and political connections throughout the United States never failed to surprise us. Nothing was ever impossible for Walter."

I started to say something about Walter when Alex extended a hand in the air and continued scanning his notes; he obviously didn't want to be interrupted.

"We didn't have much business for Walter during the first few years. There were a few relatively small deals; mostly land acquisition, and a resort hotel in Florida. But in 1972 the client ordered us to find a ranch for them. It was totally unlike anything we had ever done for them. We thought it particularly odd when they advised us what they intended doing with it, and their criteria for the purchase. They wanted to raise cattle and horses; experimental breeding stock and thoroughbreds. They required at least six-thousand acres of undeveloped grazing land somewhere in your mid-west. It had to be remote, but with paved access to a rail connection, and with good water.

"Walter came through admirably. He found a site in less than a month; seventy-two hundred acres in eastern Montana, with the Powder River running through the property, and rail service less than five miles away. The purchase of that land was the beginning of a great number of acquisitions in the States for the client - first by Walter and later by you. It was also when and where the first of the strange events occurred."

"So, what happened?"

Alex again scanned his notes before continuing. "We had an ironclad agreement of sale for the purchase. About a week before settlement Walter was contacted by the seller's agent, a man by the name of Stiebris, who announced that the seller wanted additional contingencies placed in the agreement, mostly dealing with development restrictions. Walter refused, and David and I supported him fully. The long and short of it was the new contingencies were ridiculous - absolutely without merit and totally unacceptable. They would have prevented use of the property as our client apparently intended. With a signed agreement already in place we knew we could win in court, but were concerned about the possible delay; we knew the client wanted to move quickly. Stiebris and the seller knew we intended paying cash, so in our opinion the eleventh-hour ploy was pure extortion. They were squeezing us for more money. Walter was irate. We gave him the authority to do what he felt was necessary, so he ran a bluff and told them the deal was off.

"Well, two days before settlement Walter called and told David to catch his flight after all; the original deal was back on. As it turned out, Stiebris had suggested more money as the remedy. But, as you're fond of saying in your country, Walter told him to stick it! Walter had already pulled some strings; he discovered the seller was a speculator, but on a grand scale. The seller was deep in the pockets of a half-dozen banks. With Walter's prodding, two of the banks suddenly discovered that the speculator's methods of financing were a bit too creative. Two of his major loans were called, and within hours he became desperate. He needed our cash. End of problem. Incidentally, this was the first of many instances where Walter's connections and resourcefulness saved the day for us. Settlement was held in Billings, as scheduled, without any further glitches."

"I don't see anything strange in what I just heard, it happens all the time."

"So far I agree, but hear me out. Less than a month later our client brought in contractors to clear land and start construction of the main residence and remaining complex. There were no problems except for Stiebris. He persisted in snooping around the property, taking photographs, badgering the workmen, and generally making a pest of himself. He was escorted from the site a number of times by security guards. One morning, a few weeks later, Stiebris told his secretary he was going to the site to take more pictures, left in his car, and has never been seen or heard from since."

"Did he ever show up at the site that morning. His disappearance may have been totally unrelated. A girlfriend, money problems - maybe he was a head case."

"No one saw Stiebris after he left his office that morning," Alex continued. "His car was found about a half mile from the site, with the keys in the ignition and no sign of foul play. His empty camera and briefcase were on the back seat. The police investigated but turned up nothing. Absolutely not a trace. His wife even hired a private investigator. The consensus was: Stiebris had no girlfriend, no major enemies, no money problems, no family problems, no reason to disappear. But he did.

"No one ever determined why he persisted in visiting the site after settlement. Logically it made no sense whatsoever. The authorities could find no involvement on the part of the land speculator, the former owner. The only rationalization we could make was that Stiebris was being vindictive; he wanted to stick his finger in Walter's eye. He believed Walter had deprived him of an even larger commission and soiled his reputation with the local banks. He very nastily said so and created quite a scene with Walter and David as they were leaving settlement."

"If your suspicions were correct," I said, "Stiebris must have been unbalanced. It makes no sense at all - how could making a pest of himself at the site in any way embarrass Walter? Was there any evidence implicating your client, or for that matter any possible reason why the client would want Stiebris eliminated? Certainly your bank and Walter had no reason to be involved."

"No, certainly not Walter or ourselves. But it happened, and as I said, it was the first of many similar incidents. I know we had nothing to do with any of them, nor did your company. That leaves either coincidence or the client, and I am firmly convinced the events were not coincidence. I believe you'll feel the same... after you hear me out."

"Alex, I'm curious about something; you said the client brought in contractors to build the ranch. How did the client do that without some kind of personal involvement?"

"It was really quite simple. At about the same time that we started buying property in your country the client formed a real estate management and holding company. They're headquartered in Tampa, Florida. As we found out later, the client recruited a few key real estate and insurance people, and then proceeded to build the company around them - again, all by remote control. We had them investigated as soon as we were informed of the role they were to play. We found a very convoluted corporate structure, but absolutely no discernible link to the client.

"David and the rest of his staff have always referred to them simply as "Tampa', and David personally handled the coordination with them. Typically, Tampa steps in and takes control of most of the properties we acquire for the client, at least those that require development or long-term management. The exceptions are the quick turn-around deals we handle ourselves and the few properties managed by your company. So, to answer your question; as in our case, the client apparently issues the orders and Tampa carries them out. They obtain the architects and engineers, the builders, and whatever else is needed. Their operation apparently runs very smoothly."

"Maybe too smoothly. The links of the chain have to connect somewhere. What makes you so sure Tampa doesn't know the client - or maybe is the client? How can you be sure that's not the case?"

"That's part of my concern, Cole, I am not sure! Aside from investigating them, we've asked Tampa a lot of very specific questions, and on more than one occasion. David and I have talked with their top executive, a chap by the name of Alvarez, a number of times since our first transaction together, all to no avail. About a year ago Alvarez came to London to discuss a pending deal. At the urging of our bank's solicitor, David and I used the opportunity to subject Alvarez to a real third-degree. We asked many questions that I would have refused to answer, had our roles been reversed. We were impressed with his candor and apparent veracity, but he told us nothing we didn't already know. They seem to exist in the same vacuum the bank has operated in all these years; just different functions and a different setting."

I was becoming impatient and more than a little annoyed with this whole crazy situation. God, what have I gotten myself involved in! For days now it's been nothing but questions, foreign intrigue, and the thickest smoke screen since Oliver North. But dammit to hell, nobody ever has even one answer - just more lousy questions!

I snapped at Alex, "How can you possibly tie the disappearance of this guy Stiebris with David's death more than two decades later?"

Alex's face was devoid of expression, but his coloring was deepening from pink to red. He fidgeted and again shuffled the notes in his hands. He also avoided my stare as he answered. "Again, Cole, I'm not sure, but during those twenty odd years, starting with Stiebris and ending with David, there have been a total of seven disappearances or deaths. Seven! And in my opinion, all were tied in some fashion to the client."

"Seven! My God, that's incredible. How come we haven't heard about any of this before?" Now I was really upset, and Alex knew it. I got out of my chair and began pacing in front of his desk. I was tempted to walk away from this whole mess. The bank's business accounted for about ten percent of our total yearly gross. Did we really need this kind of aggravation and risk? Then my brother Ben flashed into mind. How is he going to react to this news? One thing I did know for sure - he'd want all the crazy details, verbatim - so I guess I'd better listen to the rest of it. Damn!

"I can understand your reaction," Alex said, his face now glistening with perspiration. "But please consider this: not one of these mysteries has ever been solved. And more importantly, as far as I know the authorities have never tied any of them together, or to any of us. You weren't told because - with the exception of David's death - each occurred well after your participation in the transaction had ended. We felt there was no point. You're hearing this now only because David's death has hit too close to home... I'm really concerned for both you and myself. Other than asking you to come here, I didn't know what else to do. I'm at my wit's end, and we've got to decide what to do before something happens to one of us... or our families. We have to find some way to stop this craziness once and for all!

His hands were shaking and he was really losing it. "Alex, we'll figure out something, you've got to get a grip on yourself! You said the authorities have never tied any of these incidents together. Has Hammel & McQuaid's name ever surfaced, or yours?"

"No, at least not yours. As I said, in each case you were no longer in the picture, so we made the decision not to involve you. David and I were questioned a few times, usually as a follow-up to an inquiry with Tampa. Nothing came of any of it, and no single event was ever tied to any of the others. I can only attribute that to the time spans between them and the fact they all occurred in different parts of the country."

I flopped back in my chair again. Alex was again blotting his face and looked like he was about to have a coronary. "I still don't understand why you or David didn't tell us what was going on. Hell, didn't it ever occur to you that we may have been at some risk, I mean we had a lot of exposure in every one of your deals."

"You're right," he said, his voice somewhat subdued. "But we avoided telling you for what we thought was a very valid reason: we were convinced you would insist on conducting your own investigation. Such action could have placed you in real jeopardy...and may have created the impact with the client we have tried to avoid since the beginning. Maybe not sound or ethical reasoning on our part, but after the second and third deaths I felt we were in a real predicament. And you can rightfully blame me for our silence; after the Chicago incident David wanted to tell you, but I ordered him not to. I truly did not know what to do but sit back and keep quiet."

"O.K., I still don't agree with your logic, but it's too late to argue about it now. You said the authorities never turned up any leads - so what makes you think the client has been involved in all this?"

"What else could we think. The client has been the only common denominator."

"Well, so much for Mr. Stiebris. Why don't you tell me about the rest." I knew this was going to take a while, and the rumbling in my stomach told me it had been a long time since lunch. At the rate we were going it would be a couple hours minimum until dinner - I hope Alex hadn't forgotten.

"I had planned to do just that," Alex said. He had started to calm down some; his coloring was returning to mottled pink. "Incidentally, to save time I'll try to stick to the main points, but I will give you a copy of my notes - they are fairly comprehensive. They're hand written, but they should provide you with most of the details. The only other person to see them was David - I keep them here in my personal safe - so please maintain them as confidential."

"Understood," I said. But I can't speak for Ben.

"The next incident occurred in 1977, about five years after the disappearance of Stiebris. Walter had negotiated the purchase of about three hundred acres outside Houston. It was another property that Tampa took over and developed - an industrial park venture. An attorney by the name of Matthews represented the seller at settlement. Shortly after settlement he approached Tampa and tried to shake them down for a considerable sum. Matthews was apparently connected politically and threatened serious zoning problems unless Tampa went along. Alvarez called David and David reminded him that all approvals had been obtained prior to settlement, thanks to Walter. They then agreed to ignore Matthews and continue the site work. A few days later, before anything further developed, Matthews stopped at a bar on his way home from his office. As he was leaving the bar later that night a small lorry - I believe you refer to it as a pickup truck - jumped the curb at high speed and ran him down, killing him instantly. There were two witnesses who both said they thought it wasn't an accident. The lorry had it's lights off and had no license plates. There were two men inside. After hitting Matthews it never slowed down, but veered back into the street and sped off. The lorry and men were never found.

"Four years later, in 1981, there was a woman who allegedly killed herself in Chicago. Her name was Joanne Myers, a very wealthy forty-one year old widow. We had purchased a hotel from her near O'Hare International, which netted her another ten million after taxes. After the purchase, Tampa took over the renovation and management of the property. They had barely started the renovation work when our client ordered them to sell the hotel to an anxious cash buyer, which naturally they did. The buyer was supposedly a front man for the Chicago mob. The deal went through, and the client made a fast six million clear profit in less than three months, all of which wound up back in our bank.

"The widow got wind of the resale and made a real stink. She said she would not stand by and see the mob take over the hotel her husband had built and left to her. She also owned a local TV station and threatened to turn investigative reporters loose on Tampa. Before she could do anything she died from an overdose of bourbon and barbiturates, or at least that was the listed cause of death. Problem was, she reportedly had an aversion to alcohol, and wouldn't even take aspirin for a headache. Everybody who knew her refused to believe she killed herself. There also was no suicide note.

"The next incident was another disappearance. You may remember the St. Louis shopping mall Walter found for us in '83; I believe you did the initial inspection of the property. It was owned by the McNaughton brothers, Lawrence and George. Both were going to retire after the sale. Lawrence apparently did, but George decided there was still more money to be made in shopping centers. About three months after our settlement he announced that he was going to build a new, bigger mall about ten miles from ours. Tampa told us later that the client instructed them to find a legal way of stopping McNaughton, but they could not. We had erred by not including any such restrictions in the settlement documents. McNaughton proceeded with his development plans and was negotiating with two major department stores to come in as anchors when he failed to show up for a meeting with one of them. He has never been seen or heard from since."

Alex now seemed to be performing like an actor reading for a part. He hardly took his eyes from his notes. I was interested, but I also wanted to get this over with, so I hated to interrupt. But there was a question I had to ask. "You said the authorities have never tied you or us to any of this. Unless you had your own pipeline, I don't understand how you came up with all this information."

"Actually, some information did come from official sources, but most came from David. A lot he dug up on his own, but a fair amount came from a...ah, relationship he established a few years ago with somebody in the Tampa organization; a woman by the name of Maria Sippano. The rest came from my meeting last year with the Tampa CEO."

So, David had a "relationship'. I wonder what kind? The usual kind would be somewhat out of character, I thought, but interesting. I decided not to comment on it yet. "O.K.," I said. "What happened next?"

"Almost seven years went by before the next event occurred in 1990. And then another happened in 1991. In many respects those two were similar to David's death - all were cold-blooded, brutal murders. To me, they don't seem to fit the earlier pattern; almost as though they were unrelated. The 1990 killing involved the marina and restaurant complex you located for us in Rhode Island in the fall of 1989. You may recall the place was deeply in debt and about ready to declare bankruptcy. After we bought it, Tampa completely renovated the entire property and imported a top-notch executive chef. They also hired a chap by the name of Ray Durwood to run the whole operation as general manager. Durwood had been with a big marina in Florida and had a reputation as a money-maker. He revamped their dockage and service facilities, brought in two new lines of boats, and within a year had them in the black.

"One morning Durwood failed to show up for work. The next day, after repeated unanswered phone calls, his secretary found him in his apartment. He was gagged and trussed to a kitchen chair, and had been shot twice in the head at point-blank range. No motive, no weapon, no clues. There was no sign of a break-in, and they ruled out robbery; there was quite a bit of cash in his wallet. As in all the rest, no one was ever apprehended.

"The 1991 incident was equally chilling. What set it apart from the others was the timing. You and David purchased the beach resort north of Santa Barbara in 1985. Again, Tampa was running the operation. Shortly after they took over, they installed a woman by the name of Phyllis Byrnes as executive director. As you may recall, it was a very posh hideaway to begin with, but she installed a make-over spa and a nine-hole golf course and made it even more exclusive. It became the in place for super-rich women.

"One evening in June of 1991, Byrnes was relaxing at home with her husband when she received a late phone call. She quickly dressed and left the house, telling her husband only that there was a serious problem she had to attend to at the office. Early the next morning her car was found in her parking space at the resort. She was slumped over the wheel - dead, shot twice in the head at point-blank range. Her unopened purse was on the seat next to her, intact. No evidence, no weapon, no leads. The case is still open."

I again got out of my chair and tried to walk off the stiffness in my legs - and my mounting frustration. Alex put his notes in a pile on his desk and sat back in his chair, looking more at ease than he had since I arrived. Recollection of things I had experienced or heard during the past few days - not to mention the past few hours - began rolling through my mind like chasing lights on a marquee. David's body in the morgue...the similar way he and Durwood and Byrnes had been killed...my being followed, maybe, by God knows who or why. Am I next on somebody's list? Questions. A string of deaths and only one common denominator. Questions. And then something hit me.

"Wait a minute, Alex. Something you said earlier about the client being the only common denominator - that's not true. What about Tampa? Based on what you've said, they've been part of this puzzle since day one. They could even have been involved in David's death. Am I right?"

Alex hesitated a long time before answering. "Yes, technically you are. But I'm still convinced that Tampa is no more involved in any of this than we are. I firmly believe that."

"I don't know what makes you so sure - I'm certainly not convinced, but for now I'll accept what you say. At least until I have a chance to sort out this whole mess. Another thing I find unbelievable is the time span. God, Alex, these incidents have occurred over a twenty-five year period. Could one person or a group of people be responsible for carrying this out over such a long period of time - they'd have to be pretty old by now? I just don't..."

"Excuse me for interrupting, but please understand that I don't expect you to have any immediate answers. And I never thought we could conclude this today; we haven't yet begun to consider how we should proceed with this. I know you need time to think this through - Lord knows I'm pushing you unfairly as it is - and I don't wish to intrude on your time here any more than is absolutely necessary. You were very gracious to come here on such short notice. I hope you might find time to meet with me again Monday afternoon, after the funeral, if that would be convenient. Maybe we ca