“Of course I will, Jules, but trust me on this, ain’t gonna happen.”
Jules looked out the glass exit doors. His plane had taxied to the apron area. Jules reached down to take June’s hand and help her stand to leave. As Jules extended his hand to him, the thought occurred to Wainwright: There’s nothing as inspiring as being on good terms with powerful and wealthy people. Especially when they don’t like each other!
“Garth, it’s so good to see you. Why don’t you come up to Incline Village this summer? June and I would love to have you. We’ll be back in Tahoe by late May, right, honey? We’ll play some golf, water ski on the lake, lie around, and tell war stories over my best martinis. Bring your lovely wife, Debbie, and stay with us at the Castle.”
“I will definitely take you up on that. And thanks, but the lovely wife you mentioned is now known as property settlement number two, which is why I can’t afford a new car or a Learjet. You two take care of yourselves and stay out of trouble. And Jules, of course I’ll let you know if there’ll be any fallout from the Burke thing.” Turning to Jules’ wife, Wainwright said, “Bye, June. I love the color of your jacket; royal blue is so you! I’ll see you this summer. Love ya both—take care, Jules.”
Wainwright grabbed a cab and headed for the office. I love that guy. Jules is a bit flamboyant, but maybe that’s what appeals, that and his pluck. He knows his rights and stands up for them. Good for you, Jules.
Serendipity, huh? Visiting with them in Incline Village certainly would be pleasant, and possibly valuable, too. Wainwright was glad he still had a close connection. If it weren’t for Jules, he wouldn’t still be an employee now, let alone a partner. As the taxi worked its way northeast from the airport, Wainwright recalled the time fourteen years earlier when Jules discouraged him from leaving CapVest.
**********
For one and a half years, Wainwright was a CapVest wholesaler. He’d decided to leave CapVest, but hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Tommy Shaw, his partner. Wainwright finally informed Jules Jarvis of his intent to leave. After some lobbying by Jules, the four founders asked Wainwright to stay and head up marketing for a new securities offering. At $75 million, it would occasion the largest number raised in the organization’s history. In addition, this would be the first interstate Real Estate Investment Trust (REIT) offering by CapVest and would have a listing on the New York Stock Exchange. Wainwright stayed on as the new National Marketing Director.
Five
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” ~ Arthur Conan Doyle
THURSDAY—EARLY EVENING | The taxi dropped Wainwright at the front of the CapVest Building at a few minutes past five. Having focused on his history with Jules, Wainwright thought, what a blessed thing Jules completed for me back then. My success at the firm over the years made me more than well off and I have Jules to thank. Wainwright looked at the CapVest sign on top of the newest high-rise building in Bellevue. Jules would like this new place if he still worked here. This building’s character seems to be of an “in your face” typical Jules style.
Wainwright knew that most of the people he wanted to see tonight had already gone home. Bennie’s classic Mercedes wasn’t in its stenciled stall and Keating’s German sports car was missing. Oh, good, Hockney’s big boat is still here, he noticed as he walked into the lobby. Wainwright smiled a hello to Hank’s night-shift replacement behind the information kiosk. He’d go see Hockney and quickly rehash what he’d already told them on the phone, and then head to the hotel for a nice dinner.
“Hey, Ed, my man. Busy?”
“Sit down, Garth.” Hockney looked up from the papers on his desktop. “Good trip back? A Learjet, huh? Wow, haven’t you come up in the world. Hey, a word of caution. Don’t try to put that trip on your expense report.”
Ed Hockney had an overpowering physical bearing and, like many big men, Wainwright thought, he presented a gentle, non-aggressive persona. At forty-five, he still looked like a college basketball forward he’d been at the University of Washington nearly a quarter century earlier. Hockney was six foot eight, about 280 pounds.
He was one of the first African-American senior executives in the industry. His wavy black hair was a modest length and showed a hint of gray at the temples. Hockney scowled at everyone, like he must have done to opponent point guards past. With small dark eyes glaring out from under a heavy protruding brow, Hockney was not a fun chat. As an antidote to Bennie’s forever smiling face, Hockney’s exhibited constant concern. It was hard to know whether Hockney was actually worried, or if he suffered from a bad case of hemorrhoids.
“No problem. It was a freebie from a friend, and Ed, it was not a corporate expense, anyway. I was on holiday.”
Wainwright didn’t want to spend much time with Hockney, especially since he didn’t have anything new to explore. As was the man who occupied this space, the office was large, with a minimalist décor. Maybe the sparse adornment reflected the eastern spiritual philosophies Hockney recently adopted. Wainwright thought the empty space accurately reflected Hockney’s marriage had evolved years ago into one of conveniences. Wainwright took perfidious comfort that neither of his marital unions lasted long enough to decline to that point. Now, isn’t that something for me to be proud of?
Hockney sat behind his oversized rainforest wood desk, angled at 45 degrees to the flanking ten-foot floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s probably some Feng Shui thing, I’m guessing. Why else place it that way? The huge desk held stacks of file folders. Wainwright took a seat in front of the chairman’s desk. The setting sun over Seattle’s skyline was in Wainwright’s eyes, unpleasantly obscuring one of the most stunning views on the West Coast. Wainwright shifted the tropical print chair and spoke to Hockney from an oblique angle. “I thought I’d stop by to see if anything developed while I was in-bound. See if you guys have any questions before I hit the hotel for the night.”
“I assumed you would have gotten here sooner in a private aircraft.” Hockney was looking at his wristwatch. “You didn’t have any trouble on the way, did you?” Hockney was unsmiling, but then, Hockney rarely smiled.
“I bumped into Jules and June at the airport. We had a nice, albeit short, visit in the terminal. He’s looking good.”
“That’s nice.” Hockney seemed to have less-than-sincere feelings about his former partner of twenty years. “Yes, they were here for a bit. Oh, say, you do have other issues, I fear. Your ex-wife has been calling and harassing the troops here. When I told my assistant and Vida you were on your way in to see me, they gave me some messages from her.” Hockney handed Wainwright four pink phone message slips. “Now, you say the authorities think this was an accident, but you don’t. Is that right?”
Wainwright stuffed the slips into his shirt pocket. “Yes, sir, but that’s just my suspicion. Burke was a better downhill racer than Robert Redford. I just can’t see him skidding off the trail into a tree. I had to tell his wife he was gone. I hated to be the one to do that.” Wainwright looked down at his cowboy boots on the parquet floor, trying to ignore the memory of that moment with Sonja. “From what the deputy showed me, I’d lay odds his face was shoved into that tree by the guy who left the overlapping ski tracks. Deputy Sheriff McCoy still thinks it’s an accident, but the crime scene people found something fishy about the two sets of ski tracks. Thomas’ and another set run parallel, until the place he crashed. Thomas’ tracks skidded sideways, with deep marks, straight into a tree—as if he was pushed. The other tracks aren’t skids at all. My problem is, I can’t figure out what motive anyone would have for doing that to Thomas. I’ll follow up with the deputies to see if anything comes from the autopsy.”
“Garth, let’s not get in anyone’s way on this tragedy. Best leave the investigation work to the pros, right?”
“Sure, Ed.” Like hell, we will, he thought to himself.
“I want you back on property sales, Garth. A skiing holiday’s fine, but we all need to get back to work. Oh, one other thing. I’m ca
lling an emergency board meeting tomorrow at three. We’ll discuss any corollaries of this tragedy with the directors.”
“Fine. I’ll be there,” Wainwright said. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I think I’ll head for the barn, call it a day.” Standing, he bid good night to Ed.
“Good night,” Hockney offered, returning his attention to the open file on his desk.
Vida had called on the intercom an hour earlier. “Mr. Meyer? Would it be convenient for you to meet with Mr. Chaplain in his office at five thirty?”
“Please tell Arnold I will be there. Thank you, Vida.” Meyer was not aware Wainwright was meeting with Ed Hockney on the building’s far side when he left for Arnold’s office. To reach it, he walked down long corridors the length then the width of the building. Because he was still a few minutes early, he paused before entering Arnold’s private area and scanned his personal space without intruding.
Arnold Chaplain’s private office seemed to be smaller than Hockney’s, Bennie’s, or the other corner office Meyer now occupied. There was apparently some bad karma in that suite. Originally designed for Jules, but its first occupant was Borstad. Now it was Meyer’s when Borstad moved All Cities HQ to Denver.
Arnold’s office looked small and cramped even though all the partners’ offices were the same dimensions. Not just cramped, but cluttered with things important to its occupant. It seemed to Meyer that every time he walked in here, something new had been added—without replacing anything in the jumble. Things were messily strewn about the office, stacked on tabletops, or stuffed into shelves. Most of it reflected Arnold’s love of the game of chess. Many chessboards were set up and reflected games in progress. There was even an electronic game board so Arnold could play a Silicon challenger.
Photos and certificates attesting to his excellence in the strategy game adorned the walls. There was little furniture—a desk, and matching back-bar. Both had seen better days in Arnold’s old law office. Four filing cabinets and two black leather side chairs faced the desk. Next to the door stood a tall bookcase with a few law books, but mostly, chess tomes attended. As Meyer observed the decorations of the room, he realized none had anything to do with real estate.
Without knocking, Meyer entered the office where Arnold sat hunched over his desk reading a file. “I sure hope marketing can keep up the funding level. Buying whole companies takes a big bite out of our line of credit. Obviously, it takes a lot fewer to acquiring a one-off property. We need public funds to pay the banks back as soon as feasible,” Meyer said, standing just inside the doorway.
Arnold was short of height and about fifty pounds overweight, which made him look shorter than his five-eight frame. His dress shirt hadn’t been white for many launderings, and his soup-stained tie was loose and off center on his neck. He was wearing a dark gray suit that couldn’t have been more rumpled if he’d slept in it. Maybe he did sleep in it. I’m no fashion plate, but good God, Arnold, what if someone important came here to see you?
“The funds are doing fine—don’t worry about it, Herb. What you should worry about is getting a big Norwegian fishhook in the neck. I’ve never seen Ragnar so angry. First, you buy Burke’s company and accept his brother-in-law to manage the portfolio instead of a contract with Borstad’s All Cities. That got Ragnar’s juices flowing, and he took it as a personal insult. CapVest adds millions of dollars of assets; he gets zippo management fees out of the deal.”
“But Arnold that was your idea—”
“What was that?” Arnold asked, looking up at Meyer over the top of his glasses.
“Oh, nothing,” Meyer said, recalling the admonition not to disclose the meetings he’d recently had with Dallas. “Borstad just needs to be patient. He will eventually get the Burke properties, plus he’ll inherit the huge staff running them. Christ, the way he complains, you’d think the guy never caught a break.” Meyer moved into Arnold’s office area but continued standing, supported by the back of the club chair in front of him.
“Speaking of breaks,” Arnold said, “how are the Burke properties doing? Since All Cities isn’t involved, you’d better make it your business to keep an eye on the portfolio for us. Don’t let the cash flows decline.”
“Burke has a terrific number two on his Boston team. I’ve put him in charge of the portfolio. He is overjoyed with the promotion. I’ll call him out to Bellevue soon so he can give us a property report. He’ll consider the trip out here a real treat. I think you’ll be impressed with him.”
“Oh, goodie, let’s make sure we entertain all the little people so they have a good time. Let them enjoy themselves while they toil away at their overpaid jobs.” Arnold sneered.
“Gee, Arnold, did you get up grouchy this morning? You’ve been kinda cranky these last few weeks. Are you feeling all right? Is everything okay at home?”
“No, everything is not all right at home, or anyplace else, but it shouldn’t concern you, so forget about it, Herb.”
“Yes, sir, I didn’t intend to be nosey. Sorry.”
Arnold lowered his voice, leaned toward Meyer, and said, “Are you close to this number two person? Have you spent any social time with him?”
“No. Why?”
“You haven’t talked to him about the medication, then?”
“Of course not. What makes you ask something like that, Arnold?”
“Well, I made a mistake with Thomas Burke when he was around two or three months ago. I offered to take him into the city for dinner. I thought he’d enjoy going out and I could show him some fine dining spots—you know, brag about Seattle. I wanted to get to know our new partner on a more personal basis.”
“Sounds like fun. So what was the mistake?”
“Oh, he saw me swallow a capsule before dinner and asked what it was. He’d been a partner long enough and I thought it was time to let him into our private group. I told him what it was, why it was so wonderful, and offered him one. He didn’t like that. He instantly refused, espousing a straight-laced Bostonian attitude. The rest of the evening was a little awkward for me, despite the medication. I was hoping for a more cultured response, but that was my fault. He was still uneasy the next day when he flew back to Boston. As far as I know, nothing more ever came of it. Now he’s gone and won’t be telling any stories, if you know what I mean.” Arnold muttered this last almost to himself. Arnold didn’t say anything more. He seemed to be still thinking about Burke.
“Arnold, there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you. It’s kind of important,” Meyer said, moving to sit in the chair he’d been holding.
“Herb, please say whatever you have on your mind and get on with it. I have much more on my plate than your pathetic activities, believe me.”
Meyer explained that his father-in-law, Jake Weinstein, offered him a job running his extensive real estate portfolio. “Jake thinks I’m just a hired gun here.”
“Do you take that seriously? Does he mean it?”
“He not only means it, but he’d do it, just to make his little girl happy.”
“I wasn’t aware Heather is unhappy. Are you not happy, either, Herb?”
“To be candid with you, I’d be a lot happier if I were president of CapVest.”
Arnold dropped the pen from his hand and sat back in his chair. “Herb, you are one of the best acquisitions officers we have, and the only one that is a partner. You make a healthy six-figure income every year. You should be very happy. I don’t want to lose you, but I’m getting damn tired of these verbal extortion plots about you leaving imposed on me constantly.”
“Arnold, it is less about the amount of money I earn and more about my actual position. What would make me happy, and promote peace at home, is to be president and CEO of all the CapVest companies, except All Cities, of course.”
Arnold looked over the top of the eyeglasses that sat at the end of his nose. “Frankly, Herb, nothing would make me happier than to step aside and let you have my position in the firm. Let me talk to Ed, Ragnar, and B
en about this. I’ll need their input before anyone can discuss it at a board meeting. Just give me some space. Ed and Ben are consumed now with putting the mortgage REIT on the street. We all are, so don’t rush into or out of anything, okay? Can you keep Heather and Daddy quiet for a spell?”
“I can for a few weeks, anyway. Arnold, you know Borstad is not about to agree to my being president. You know how he feels about me—about the same as I feel about him. I’m betting you’ll be wasting your time if you need his validation.”
“Damn it, Herb,” Arnold yelled. “I don’t need his okay or anyone’s okay. What’s more, I think you’d better remember the Golden Rule: ‘He who has the gold makes the rules.’ Will there be anything else, Herb?”
Meyer was aware of Borstad’s long-time influence on Arnold, and he hated it. He attempted to counter Borstad’s impact at times by letting Arnold know his very rich and powerful father-in-law was not happy to have his daughter’s husband doing “menial tasks” at CapVest. On a moment’s notice, Jake could have his son-in-law take over management of his real estate portfolio. It was valued at several hundred million dollars.
“Arnold, on another subject, some of the Burke properties have reached their income goals and won’t grow much more in the near term. I want to put a few of them on the market. Do you have any thoughts about that?”
“Have you discussed this with Garth? He’d be the one to talk to about disposition, don’t you think?”
“Our connection, which was never a close one, has declined since I took responsibility for property sales, too.”
“Herb, you don’t have a close personal relationship with anyone in this firm! Talk to Garth. Now, if you don’t mind.”
But Herb Meyer was not going to consult with Wainwright; he already had a buyer in mind for some of the Burke assets he wanted to sell. His plan was to appease Heather’s daddy with some cherry-picked apartment buildings. Meyer knew that Wainwright would get higher prices if he marketed the assets, but appeasement was Meyer’s goal, not profits. What difference would a few million dollars more or less make anyway? It will only amount to pennies to each of the many investors at quarterly distributions. No big deal, so fuck Wainwright!
Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1) Page 5