Another thing that bugged him was her secrecy about some things. She always knew when he’d be coming up from LA for meetings. It wasn’t a problem of her knowing his scheduled trips—many people in the firm needed to know. Before, he could plan to see her for dinner on those trips. They had fun and enjoyed each other’s company. Several times lately, she had other plans for some of the evenings. Someone else? Okay. He wasn’t jealous, but still, it changed the relationship, which he acknowledged was not based on affection, but lust. Lust is good, but a relationship with Lacey would provide affection as well as passion in a truly real sense. She’d become an ever-growing obsession for him. And he liked it that way.
Eight
“While man’s desires and aspirations stir, he cannot choose but err.” ~ Goethe
MONDAY—APRIL | The place Ed Hockney and Arnold Chaplain often used for private meetings outside the office was La Café. It was near a chess club Arnold frequented, which was how he knew of it. Arnold loved the quiet, tree-lined street and sidewalk tables. This place provided both privacy and a peaceful environment. It was a quarter to eight and Arnold was first to arrive.
The waiter approached to take his order. “Good morning, Mr. Chaplain. What may I get for you this morning?”
He ordered a latte, then leaned back in the small café chair to enjoy his rare good mood accompanied by the light classical music the café piped to the street. Arnold didn’t recognize the recording—a piano concerto, he thought—but it matched his present good mood. The spring morning sun was shining through tree leaves. It was peaceful and just what he wanted. He grew up here and knew the colorful history of these trees.
Before 1867, the area between Lake Washington and Lake Sammamish, where Bellevue is today, was heavily forested, with few inhabitants. Even the Native American tribes preferred the country to the west. The discovery of coal brought miners to the area, including many Civil War veterans, with homesteads awarded to them for their service. The settlers needed to clear the land for homes, and the new logging industry accommodated them. Arnold recollected from his readings about the little village that it built a post office and schoolhouse amid the many trees left standing. About 1880, the village was given a name, Beautiful View, for its location east of bustling Seattle. The postmaster liked the French version of the name better and it became Bellevue. The new mayor thought the French version gave the small hamlet a certain presence, so it stuck.
“Oh, here you are. I was beginning to think I’d be having coffee alone.”
Hockney joined Arnold, but he didn’t share the stoical reverie. It was immediately apparent Hockney was agitated, which was unlike him, let alone for him to show it.
“Hello, Arnold. I hope the rest of your day goes as peacefully as your morning has begun.”
“My good friend, you must take your respite when and where it is offered,” Arnold said, offering a smile.
“That’s just terrific, Arnold. I also think it’s unrealistic bullshit, if you ask me. Actually it’s not like you, Arnold.”
“Excuse me?” That is a surprise, coming from Ed Hockney. Very un-Ed like, he thought. “Ed, what’s going on with you this morning? You’ve been hypercritical of almost everything the past few months; you’ve even suggested I’m impossible to get along with, and as anyone can see, I am the essence of harmony. Now you jump into my rare good mood and trample all over it. So tell me, good friend, what is it that is maddening you this marvelous morn?”
“Oh, please! Don’t concern yourself about my attitude, Arnold. We have other more pressing problems. For one, I think it’s this medication. In fact, I know it is. I may not have voiced concern before, but I sure have been thinking it. I’m sure our capsules are affecting both of us somehow. We’re both moody. I used to think you and I benefited from this treatment. Now I’m persuaded it’s not as positive as we first thought.”
This is not the Ed Hockney I’ve known all these years. Go slow. He’s an emotional powder keg right now. “I admit I was apprehensive when I first suggested to you that one of those little capsules was better than years on a shrink’s couch, but I believe I was right. It’s been a good thing for the business and us. Your relationship with your wife and kids is better, right? You have less stress, and you’re more comfortable and can face issues without fear or anxiety. Am I correct? You even get along with Ben better than before and that, as we both know, is particularly hard to achieve.”
Hockney just held his cup and stared down the street, past his partner and best friend. To fill the silence that followed Arnold’s bonhomie speech, Hockney asked him, “So how is your home life, Mr. Bluebirds and Sunshine?”
Arnold felt his peaceful sensation slipping into that dark pool of emotional turmoil that so recently surrounded him. Christ! Ed comes here and busts my chops because he’s in some kind of mood. I wonder—is Ed’s personality changing? I’ll need to watch him more closely. “As for my domestic relationship, Lorraine told me last week to get my shit out of her house. So I did. Bitch!”
“Oh, that is a shame, Arnold. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just the way it goes sometimes. Look here. Do you see my smiling face? Am I concerned? It won’t affect anything at the firm, or me. She and I haven’t been happy for a while. I think the drug has shown me we just aren’t the matched pair as I originally hoped. The good news is her net worth is about equal to mine, so divorce won’t be a financial hardship. I won’t fret a farthing,” he said with an unconvincing grin.
Arnold saw that the behavior changes were not limited to him alone. While he recognized that he had become more aggressive, less tolerant, and even a bit bitchy, he acknowledged Hockney had morphed from the hard-charging executive of a few months earlier into some kind of blasé flower child. The magical cure of MDMA affects those who use it differently. Ironically, the charmed capsules make you aware of those negative changes they produce...at least, you can see it in others.
“You’ve been married for what…three, three and half years?” Hockney asked.
“Yeah, about that, I guess. Speaking of ass-end relations, what is going on with your efforts with your asshole buddy, Ben? What was the little jerk’s reaction to trying the MDMA with you?”
Hockney snorted a small interrupting laugh. “Nice one, Arnold. That was a world-class segues. Arnold, do us both a favor and climb down off Bennie’s back, will you? You’ve been riding Bennie harder than ever and now, there’s that foul language again. Seriously, are you okay? That is not like you at all. What’s up with that, my friend?”
Arnold’s good feeling from the surroundings, the piano concerto, and the latte were gone, vanished in the wake of Hockney’s criticisms. “Get off my ass. I’ve got trouble out my ears, and you want to slam my vocabulary? Enough, okay? As for Ben, I’d hoped the meds might work for him, too. Maybe he’d finally do something around here to earn his pay, for Christ’s sake.”
Arnold sensed Hockney also knew the mood of the meeting had changed. Hockney was slightly more relaxed than when he came here, but Arnold had become more animated, loud, and angry. Maybe it was bringing up Bennie’s name, but something had turned the tide of this convening.
“Yeah, sure, okay. Bennie passed, I’m sorry to say. He told me, in no uncertain terms, the capsules were no different from smoking a joint—marijuana, of all things. I tried to explain that we have a doctor’s prescription for the drug, but he had no interest. I wish he would. Running the company would be more efficient if we were all tuned to the same channel, both intellectually and emotionally.”
“Well, we had a prescription—past tense,” Arnold told Hockney. “Dr. Erstphole was unable to renew it this time, after telling me for the third or fourth time about its addictive properties. It seems he’s no longer participating in a clinical trial for the drug, so I’ve had to find another source. Don’t worry; I have it. It’s more expensive, but the quality is just as pure.”
“Did I tell you Bennie and Yolanda are out of town for two weeks? She
had an urgent want to visit her father in Miami, or something. You know Bennie—just never says no. Of course, he did just tell me no, didn’t he?” Hockney said. “Many of Bennie’s close friends—me included—consider him a bit pussy-whipped by Yolanda. Bennie wouldn’t argue the point, I don’t think. He accepts being dominated by that semi-attractive, aggressive, Jewish princess with an attitude, as normal.”
“Well, Herb and I spent some time at my new abode last week, after the beast threw me out. He had a good experience with the capsules, so I think we’ll be able to include him in our private conversations. He seemed receptive, even eager,” Arnold reported.
“Good, but that still leaves a lot of the board, er…unconverted.”
“Ed, don’t use that phrase. You make it sounds like we’re doing something illegal. I assure you, as a goddamn lawyer, that’s not the case. We’re just helping our partners achieve a higher mental order so they may grasp the reality of this world. We’ve made several of our people millionaires—shouldn’t we make them visionaries, as well? How can doing the right thing be wrong?”
“You’re right, Arnold.”
Arnold paused. “You know, Ed, you and I have accomplished some mind-boggling things over the years to make this firm successful. When you stop to evaluate them, we’ve been underpaid. Just think about it. I know we ought to get a hell of a lot more for our efforts all these years.”
“Come on, Arnold. We both get paid way more than we’re worth, and you know it. Shoot, we could hire a plethora of people to do our jobs for less than either of us is paid. Man, I get checks from accounting for companies we own I’ve never heard of. Hey, Arnold, how many millions have you earned since joining CapVest? I’ll bet you’ve lost count, just like I have.” Hockney paused for a contemplative beat. “Don’t try to give me that ‘underpaid’ stuff, either. Speaking for myself, I am overpaid, which makes me feel very guilty. I enjoy making it, but I don’t like having it. Arnold, does that make any sense to you?”
“Ed, you should feel good about the money we’re paid. We deserve it. Do not let your guilty thoughts invade our collective conciseness. That is one of the benefits of the capsules, remember? Your guilty feelings are why you set up that foundation, to give away your money, isn’t it? And by the way, Ed, I haven’t mentioned it before now, but I think that’s kind of sick.”
After a small pause, Hockney raised his line of sight to connect with his longtime partner’s eyes. “No wonder Lorraine threw you out. You’ve become a money-grubbing, grumpy old man, Arnold.”
“So now you’re my shrink? Listen to me, good friend. I feel no shame. None what so ever is inhibiting my psyche, I assure you. We built this firm with the sweat and blood of our collective consciousness. We’re entitled to every comfort we receive. Hard work, diligence, and commitment have taken us to this place. We deserve to enjoy the fruits of those efforts, Ed.”
Arnold was keenly aware of Hockney’s stare at him—the man he thought he knew so well. Hockney took in a cleansing deep breath, to relax his body and mind. “As the most revered and famous Swami Gitananda wrote, ‘We cannot pluck a flower without disturbing a star.’ Arnold, I sense an evil breeze is about to be blowing through our lives. Soon that breeze will become a wind. Unless we mend the tear in the moral fabric of our firm, it will become a windstorm.”
“Yeah, sure, Ed, if you say so. You and your swami must think you have the whole world by the balls. But, my friend, let me tell you a deep dark secret. Okay? I have no interest in stopping that particular windstorm.” The unfortunate reality was Arnold and Hockney no longer believed in the message of The CapVest Way.
The elegantly dressed executive, in a light gray gabardine three-piece suit, was placing his phone in its cradle. Garth Wainwright came through his office door and sat in a leather side chair across from Robert Keating’s chrome-and-glass topped desk.
“Good morning, Robert. Has the ‘custodian of the cash’ been able to struggle along without my powerful presence and able assistance?” Wainwright quipped.
“You know, Garth, all of us in the accounting department find your humble modesty so attractive. Thank you for stopping by to enrich our dull day. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this time?”
Wainwright and Keating became CapVest partners at the same time, five years earlier, along with T. Bradley Shaw. No one ever called him Brad—he preferred Tommy, and was Director of Development for CapVest. Wainwright, Shaw, and Keating were nicknamed the ‘Three Musketeers,’ somewhat behind their backs, but they all knew about it. The affectation stuck, possibly because they made partners simultaneously, or, alternatively, it might be because they were very close friends. Tommy hated the epithet, Wainwright thought it was hilarious, and Keating did his best to ignore it completely. Keating reasoned there is just no accounting for some folks’ sense of humor. Just like Alexandre Dumas’ three musketeers, each had abilities in different disciplines, but all three shared the vision of the CapVest Way.
Without preamble, Wainwright told Keating, “I think we might have a fox in the henhouse, to quote an old Portuguese aphorism. And you, my Portagee pal, used to work for the fox.”
“Are we speaking of the nasty Norwegian?”
“The same. Our very own Ragnar N. Borstad. Don’t quote me, but I think we are being ripped off by our property management guru, or at least, some people at All Cities,” Wainwright continued.
“No, uh huh, I can’t buy that. It’s not possible to embezzle funds with all the in-house controls, not to mention the audits from the outside accountants. No, there is absolutely no way!”
“Hey, Robert, ol’ man, your face looks like your dog died or something. Let’s just calm down, have an open mind, and check this out to see what we find.” Wainwright stood and handed Keating a folded paper from his jacket pocket. “I can show you quicker than tell you. May I ask you to get me the income and expense statements for these two assets in the disposition portfolio?”
Keating retrieved the files and laid them on his desk. Wainwright said, “What caught my eye is the expense ratios are running twelve to sixteen percent greater than standard. As far as I can tell, they’ve been doing that for several years.”
“Let’s see that.” Keating took the top folder he had retrieved and compared the year-to-date numbers to those of five years earlier when CapVest acquired La Tour Fontaine from Mill Creek Residential.
“This is a very good Houston property, but the numbers make it look like a dog. I think this illustrates the point I’m trying to make about our Norwegian mate. Do you remember the cause of my ‘original sin’ with Borstad, Robert?”
“Oh, yeah. Who could forget that epic battle? I’d been with All Cities for just a few months when you clashed with Arnold’s heir apparent. And it was about property sales, as I recall,” Keating said. “That was the day you and I first met.”
“Yeah, that’s right, it was. I remember it well.”
“Indirectly, your Borstad battle was a part of the reason I left All Cities and moved over to the CapVest side, a lateral move for which I give thanks to the good Lord in heaven every day. If Hockney and Arnold had not approved of my working at CapVest, I’d be long gone.”
Keating and Wainwright spent some time poring over general ledgers and journals. Keating said, “That is how they’ve gotten past the audits. Fees were charged for rehab or construction jobs never were completed. Even more problematic is payments were made to companies that did not exist.”
Keating was convinced Wainwright’s suspicions seemed well founded. “Hey, Garth, look at this.” Keating was holding the file sign-out log. “Just a few weeks ago, Arnold asked to see financials on some of these same properties. Now we’re going over the same stuff. That’s some coincidence, don’t you think? What the hell is going on here?”
“What I think is we get out of here, Robert, and go to the Seastar Inn where we can talk without being overheard or interrupted. We may have an adult beverage and search for answers in the in
tellectual firmament of good booze. Let’s find Tommy before we split.”
Tommy Shaw’s wife, Shirley, came home after having dinner with a woman friend and found her Laguna Beach home had been burglarized. A burglar entered the house from the rear yard, broke a window, and was in that easily. After she discovered the break-in, Shirley left the house quickly and called the police from a neighbor’s place. They found nothing was missing. Some papers on Tommy’s desk were scattered, but as far as Shirley could tell, nothing was lost. She was deeply concerned, but remained calm as she tried to reach Tommy at his hotel. He’d checked out that morning. She called the office in Bellevue and left a message with Vida to have Tommy call her immediately.
Caroline Keating was also in a panic to reach her husband, but he wasn’t in his office and BJ didn’t know where to find him. He’d left with Wainwright and Tommy, and BJ said she didn’t expect them back before the board meeting at seven.
“Is there anything I can do?” BJ asked.
“No. I want Robert. Please try to find him and tell him to call me right away. That’s what I need, BJ.”
“Of course, but you sound terrible. Are you all right?”
“I’ve been in a car wreck and I’m still much shaken. I’m not hurt, but the car is a mess. The police told me I was lucky I was wearing a seatbelt or it could have been fatal. I’m home. Tell Robert to call me as soon as possible.”
Nine
“Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
MONDAY—EARLY AFTERNOON—APRIL | The rustic Seastar Inn was the perfect backdrop for an intimate Musketeer meeting. It had dim lighting, background humming with noise, a smart bartender, and quick table service. After bringing Tommy up to speed and ordering cocktails, Keating said to the other two, “So what are we going to do about what we’ve found?”
Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1) Page 8