Sheriff Mosbey waited in his cruiser while the medics and firemen milled around outside, everyone biding their time until the divers signaled the tow truck operator to begin hauling the submerged car up the steep bank. The kids who had reported it kept trying to sneak in for a closer look, only to be shooed away, and Deputy Scruggs was stationed in the middle of the road, using his flashlight to wave on what traffic came along.
Word had already spread, and a small crowd of locals had gathered, parking their cars along both shoulders of the road.
Hoping to see something gruesome, Sheriff Mosbey thought grimly. It never ceased to amaze him how tragedies and accidents fascinated the populace at large.
Otis Mosbey was not in the best of moods. He was cold, crabby, hungry, drenched, and tired. Gettin' too old for this kind of shit, he thought, chewing a wad of tobacco.
Weatherwise, it was the kind of evening he'd have liked to spend indoors. Someplace snug and warm and dry—preferably Lurleen's mobile home out in the boonies, with an X-rated video in the VCR, an ice cold beer in one hand, and Lurleen, the exotic dancer from the Crazy Kitty, exchanging professional courtesies. They had an understanding, he and Lurleen. The cops didn't roust the club so long as she serviced him regularly.
A sudden flurry of activity drew the medics and firemen to the edge of the riverbank.
'She-it,' Sheriff Mosbey muttered. 'Here goes.'
He chucked open his door, scooted his big-bellied bulk out of the cruiser, grabbed his Stetson, and shoved it down on his head.
'Comin' through,' he growled, clearing himself a path to the prime vantage point.
Down in the water, the divers, shiny as seals in black neoprene, signaled the tow truck operator. The winch started up and began pulling in the cable, and the divers expertly flippered themselves out of the way.
Slowly the trunk of a dark 1996 Chevy Lumina broke the surface, silty water sluicing off the rounded curves.
'What d'ya make of it, Sheriff?' one of the firemen drawled.
Mosbey grunted. 'Too soon to tell,' he muttered, wishing Lurleen wasn't going on duty right now. Shit. After this drenching, he could use some TLC—which, in Lurleen's case, inevitably amounted to LLC—Lots of Lovin' Care.
Just his bad luck to have this car found in his jurisdiction.
The Lumina was half out of the river now, water pouring out its open windows.
'Sheriff? Looks like we got ourselves a stiff,' one of the firemen called out.
'Son of a bitch.' Sheriff Mosbey spat out his wad of tobacco, hiked up his pistol belt, and strolled leisurely around the tow truck to the driver's side of the Lumina.
Taking his time now, not about to rush things.
He stood there, big meaty red hands resting on big wide hips, staring expressionlessly in through the open window.
Sure enough. A pale, bloated corpse was slumped over the steering wheel. The air bag, he noted, had inflated but been punctured.
Purposely? he wondered. To make sure the vehicle sank quickly? That would explain why all the windows had been rolled down.
An investigation would tell.
But he had a gut instinct for accident scenes because he'd seen plenty of them, more than he would have liked. And the feeling he got from this one was that something wasn't quite right. He couldn't have explained why. But that was the hunch he had.
'Don't nobody touch this here vehicle,' he said.
Using that soft authoritative drawl. Looking around at everybody through squinty eyes, making sure they knew he was serious.
Then, unclipping his flashlight from his belt, he took a few steps back and played the light around the Lumina's rear license plate, returned to his cruiser, and squeezed in behind the wheel.
He picked up the mike from the console and got on the radio.
'Sally, hon?' he told the dispatcher. 'Run the following Georgia plates through DMV while I wait, will ya?'
He proceeded to reel off the letters and numbers.
A minute passed. Through his squeaky windshield and thumping wipers, he could see the hood of the floodlit Lumina slowly coming up out of the water, the metal body pulsating blood red from the flashing emergency lights.
'Sheriff?' Sally came back on amid squawks and static. 'Those plates're registered to a Dr. Wo Sheng Yi.'
Otis Mosbey frowned. 'That supposed to ring a bell?'
'Uh-huh. 'Member that Chinese doc from the CDC? One whose wife made a stink about the police waitin' seventy-two hours before listin' him as missin'?'
'Vaguely,' Sheriff Mosbey said. The unsettling notion that things were about to become a lot more complicated was getting stronger by the second.
'I was you, Sheriff?' Sally said. 'I'd try to look a li'l spiffy. Y'know?'
'Yeah? An' why's that?'
' 'Cause I got me a feelin' the newspaper and TV people're gonna show up for this one.'
Sheriff Mosbey caught sight of approaching headlights. A familiar van with a satellite dish on top was coming over the bridge. He didn't need to see the logo on the sides to recognize it.
'Sally, hon?' he said wearily.
'Sheriff?'
'You're wrong,' Otis Mosbey grumped.
'How's that, Sheriff?'
'The vultures are already here,' he growled, getting ready to replace the mike. 'Over 'n' out.'
34
'I'm not going to mince words. The reason I summoned you is because this company is in the midst of a crisis. Probably the biggest crisis we've ever faced.'
Dorothy-Anne looked around the airborne conference room. Her words had hit the department heads like a shock wave. That was clear from the jumpy glances they exchanged, the moist furrows that suddenly contoured usually smooth, dry brows, the worry clouding eyes that were unused to anticipating anything but the sunniest, most certain of all futures.
Now, the realization that they, the corporate Chosen, might face the same uncertain job security that haunted their counterparts in other companies filled them with dread.
It's true, Dorothy-Anne realized. You really can smell fear.
'I shouldn't have to mention that everything we discuss here is strictly confidential,' she continued. 'However, just so that we understand each other, I'll say it again. You are not—repeat not—to discuss this with anyone. That includes your spouses. Leaks of any kind, be they intentional or unintentional, shall not be tolerated.'
Pausing, she added: 'That's a surefire way to join Mr. Weekley.'
Her eyes held no mercy as she looked around the table. 'Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, ma'am.' The hushed chorus came from everyone present.
'Good,' she said. 'Now, as you're probably aware, Hale Hotels has suffered its second bacterial outbreak in four months. How or why this has occurred, I do not know, though I intend to find out. What I do know is that the result is nothing short of . . . catastrophic.
'That's right. Cat-a-stroph-ic!' She pronounced each syllable separately. 'We've been flooded with cancellations, not only in the hotel division, which has been the hardest hit, but'—she lifted a hand and brought it down hard on the pile of printout she'd carried in, so hard that the resulting thunderclap caused everyone to jerk like marionettes whose strings had been twitched—'across . . . the board!'
Dorothy-Anne's cheeks were suffused with an angry flush. After a moment she withdrew her hand and sat back, nostrils flaring.
No one spoke. It was obvious she hadn't finished, just as it was obvious that speaking out of turn was like taunting a grizzly cub in the presence of its mother, only more dangerous.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' she said softly, 'if an occasion ever called for radical measures, this is it. During the ride to the airport I spent a highly unpleasant forty-five minutes scanning the overnight updates of your various departments. The overall picture does not look good. It looks, in a word, dismal.'
'How dismal, exactly?'
The question came from Yoshi Yamada, who handled the Hale Companies' investments, the one division
impervious to the trials and tribulations of everything except the stock and bond markets.
Dorothy-Anne's voice was hushed. 'So dismal that we may be forced to liquidate our investments, Mr. Yamada. So dismal that we could well be facing disaster. Yes, disaster: even filing for bankruptcy protection is not entirely out of the question.'
Bankruptcy!
There was a communal gasp of disbelief, bewildered utterances of shock.
A midair collision couldn't have stunned them more completely. That things were temporarily shaky they could understand; after all, what company didn't experience occasional crises, or have its ups and downs?
That was the price of doing business.
But that the foundation—the very bedrock—that had solidly supported this multibillion-dollar behemoth should suddenly have turned to sand, and that this could happen to the Hale Companies, long known as a bastion of security, was inconceivable.
Her senior executives' numb stupefaction reminded Dorothy-Anne of news footage, of a camera intruding upon the survivors of a disaster.
Only they're sitting down instead of wandering around in a daze.
'Believe me,' she resumed, the irony evident in her tone, 'if anyone can understand your shock, it's me. Admittedly, I described the worst- case scenario. The trouble is, there's no such thing as a good one, not in this case. The threat we're facing is real—all too real.'
Hands gripping the armrests of her seat, she sat slightly forward, her sharp-eyed gaze scanning her audience.
'The trouble,' she went on, 'seems to be that despite our efforts at diversification, in spite of making sure each department is a separate entity, we haven't diversified enough. In our clients' minds, our divisions remain psychologically linked, which is why the ripple effect is being felt throughout the company.
'Take Hale Lines, for instance. It's been horrendously affected. And why not? After all, what is a cruise ship but a floating hotel with multiple restaurants?'
She stopped strolling and looked across the table.
'Mr. Short.'
'Ma'am?' Marvin replied, coming to attention in his seat.
'As the acting head of your department, you're more knowledgeable about Hale Lines' day-to-day operations than anyone present, myself included. Could you give us your assessment of the current situation?'
'In one word? Bad.'
'I'd rather you were a little more specific. Why don't you tell us exactly how bad.'
Taking a deep breath, he said: 'Several major tour operators in Germany and Japan have canceled block bookings on our ships. A lot of travel agencies, including the big chains, are sitting on the fence and taking a wait-and-see attitude.'
'In short,' Dorothy-Anne said quietly, for the benefit of the others, 'while not canceling any reservations, they're not booking anyone on our boats, either.'
'That's right.' Marvin nodded. 'They're steering their customers to Carnival, Royal Caribbean, Princess, and Crystal.'
Dorothy-Anne smiled sourly, her mouth expressing the aftertaste of the bitter pill she was being forced to swallow.
'Mr. Short. Could you tell us how much revenue we've lost through cancellations?'
'You mean, since yesterday?'
'Yes.'
'If you'll give me a moment, sure. I can make this baby'—he patted his laptop—'give up all its secrets and then some.'
'Take all the time you need,' she said in a kind voice.
Marvin lifted his hands, shot back his cuffs, and wiggled his fingers dramatically, then attacked the keyboard like a concert pianist. After a minute, he let out a soft whistle, shook his head in stunned disbelief, and slumped back in his seat.
'Holy shit!' he exclaimed under his breath, and stared up at Dorothy-Anne in horrified awe.
'And what number did you come up with, Mr. Short?' she asked.
'One point . . . ' His voice cracked.
'Yes?' Dorothy-Anne asked inexorably.
He swallowed and tried again: 'One point eight six nine mil!' he whispered hoarsely. 'Plus loose change. That's . . . that's nearly two million dollars!'
'That's right.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded briskly, and continued to prowl around the cabin.
'And bear in mind, ladies and gentlemen, that's just the Hale Lines, and just since yesterday. God only knows what tomorrow will bring.'
She added grimly: 'Not that it matters. Even if our ships are half empty, they still have to keep their scheduled departures and sail.'
'Wait a minute,' rasped Bernie Appledorf. 'Back up there, will ya?'
'Yes, Bernie?' Dorothy-Anne looked over at him.
He was a tall, ill-formed dybbuk of a man, all sharp angles and gaunt, twisted branches for limbs. He had a balding head with a few long, thin strands of hair trained across it. A narrow face half hidden by thick- lensed, black-framed glasses, eyes lugubrious and bloodhoundish. But his mind was abacus sharp, and his knowledge of corporate finances and tax law was such that he could send an army of senior IRS agents chasing their tails for years.
'Ya ask me,' he growled, 'ya better start canceling some o' them cruises.'
'Spoken like a true comptroller,' Dorothy-Anne observed, with a thin smile. 'You're a numbers cruncher and bean counter, Bernie, and admittedly the best there is. But permit me, when it comes to the hospitality business, I know best.'
He blinked at her from behind Coke bottle lenses. 'So what's that got to do with the price o' oranges?'
'Everything, Bernie,' she sighed, 'absolutely, positively everything. If we cancel so much as a single cruise, we'll be perceived as an unreliable carrier, and then we'd really be up the creek.'
'Sounds like we're up it as it is,' he pointed out gloomily.
'Yes, but at least we still have part of a paddle. But if we stopped honoring our commitments, we'd lose it—and fast. Travel agents and tour operators are notoriously fickle about carriers that don't deliver. Our reputation's on the line here, Bernie, our reputation. Once you've lost that . . . well, in this business, it's good night, nurse!'
'Yeah, but sailin' half-empty ships? You'd have to be crazy!' He shook his head. 'Even you can't afford to do that.'
'Bernie, we can't afford not to,' she retorted. 'Among other things, we'd be in danger of losing our berthing slots. Every port has a limited number, and the other lines would grab ours in a minute.' She shook her head vehemently. 'We fought long and hard to get those slots, and by God, I'll be damned if I'm going to relinquish them!'
'Seems to me you'll be damned if ya don't,' Bernie rasped.
'Anyway, enough about Hale Lines,' Dorothy-Anne decided. 'Let's move on to another division that's been affected by the hotel's outbreak of salmonella: Sky Hi Catering.
'Owen? Why don't you fill us in on the fallout you've been receiving.'
Owen Beard, the president of the airline catering division, drew himself up in his seat. A golf enthusiast, he had boyish good looks, with a face like an apple at the tail end of its blushing freshness, a ready smile, lively gray eyes, and an infinite repertoire of locker room jokes.
Like his colleague Bernie Appledorf, Owen Beard was a notorious corporate penny pincher. His proudest achievement—and there were many—had been to remove the single cherry tomato garnishing the salads Sky Hi Catering supplied its airline clients, an inspiration he'd had in the midst of swinging his club at the eighteenth hole of that toughest of all American golf courses, the Koolau Golf Course at the base of Oahu's Pali cliffs in Hawaii, an inspiration that had caused him to lose his concentration and the game, but which had resulted, in sheer volume, to a savings of nearly a quarter of a million dollars each year.
'I've been fielding calls all morning from our clients,' he announced in his rich, plummy voice, then tossed his head. 'From the head honchos, actually.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded and sighed.
Owen said, 'Naturally, they're very concerned—our largest client in particular—and although none of them would come out and say as much—golf buddies that we are—th
ey all hinted at the health and safety clause in our contracts.'
Dorothy-Anne stopped behind her seat, her fingers squeezing its glove leather back. 'In other words,' she said tightly, 'they're threatening to use the escape clause and take their business to Skychefs. Is that it?'
'They didn't put it that bluntly,' he said, 'but in essence, that's what it boils down to. Yes.' He nodded.
Dorothy-Anne thought: If the situation were reversed, that's exactly what I would do.
'I wish I could say I blame them,' she said, 'but I can't.' Her eyes glittered with anger even as her voice reflected the weariness she felt. Steeling herself for the worst, she said, 'Dare I ask the outcome of the calls?'
'Well, my next three weekends are shot.' He smiled disarmingly. 'I lined up four games of golf.'
For the first time since boarding the jet, the tension eased and there was a round of chuckles. Even Dorothy-Anne had to smile.
'Phoenix, Ponte Vedra, and Rancho Mirage,' he said. 'We'll continue the discussions when we tee off.'
'So they won't pull their accounts until after you've talked face-to- face?'
'That's right.' His grin broadened.
Dorothy-Anne felt a few pounds of the crushing tonnage lift from her overburdened shoulders. 'Good work, Owen.' She shook her head admiringly. 'I don't know how you do it. Is it your silver tongue or your golf swing?'
'I like to think it's both.' His good-natured grin abruptly disappeared. 'But we're not out of the woods just yet,' he warned. 'I'm ninety-nine percent certain I can talk them out of defecting to Skychefs. But that's contingent on no more of these damned outbreaks occurring! If one does . . . ' He shrugged eloquently.
'Let's pray it doesn't.' Dorothy-Anne's eyes swept around the conference table. 'Better yet, let's all make sure it can't.'
'Amen to that,' Venetia murmured.
Dorothy-Anne fixed her gaze on Heather Solis. A well-groomed, silver-haired woman in her mid-fifties, Heather Solis projected the air of a kindly, well-to-do maiden aunt. Actually, she was happily married, was the mother of three, and had six grandchildren to dote on, and was the president of Hale Vacation Villages, the Hale Companies' family-oriented theme resorts.
Second Love Page 32