Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1)

by Walter Danley

  “Wow! That sounds pretty final. You’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh? We’ve never been exclusive, so I guess it shouldn’t be of any concern. No biggie. In fact, I’ve recently developed a significant relationship of my own. I don’t know if it will go as far as what you have with Lacey…oh yeah—the ol’ water cooler scuttlebutt knows all, sees all. Anyway, thank you for the visit to tell me personally. Some guys would have just called; others, not even that. As I have said before, you are one class act, Garth Wainwright. Good luck with Lacey. I hope she appreciates what she’s got and it all goes the way you two want. Yeah, you know what? When you’re in love, it shows.”

  Wainwright leaned over her desk and planted a brotherly version of a kiss on BJ’s cheek. “And the same back at ya, beautiful. Bye-bye, babe.”

  Wainwright’s efficient good-bye gave BJ a small mental jolt. She was okay with Garth breaking up with her, and appreciated his straightforward approach, but it brought back the memory of leaving her last lover in Chicago. Wainwright was kind in his departure. She had not been.

  **********

  BJ Dreaver liked Chicago. It was very different from the small Illinois town she grew up in, but was still the Midwest and, therefore, familiar. The city was bigger, but the attitudes and values of the people were similar to the folks back home. She felt comfortable there. She had her first ever psychic reading in Chicago. It told her she would be happy and find comfort and fulfillment in this city. She found employment with a large real estate investment firm. Everyone there called her BJ. She liked that. She appreciated that her nickname was personal, yet not too girly—appropriate for the many men she worked with. BJ worked for the CFO, which daily placed her in proximity to Mr. Clyburn. She coyly became the lover of Billy Clyburn, the married CEO of the company. She’d been in the city for just a year when her comfort level stepped up considerably.

  After she had agreed to Clyburn’s lustful alliance, he suggested she no longer needed to work at the firm, saying it would be easier for them to spend time together if she weren’t at the office. With a broad smile, he handed the key to a very nice two-bedroom apartment in a better—not the best, but better—part of Chicago. BJ knew you could always count on your friendly astrological reader to come through! With hope for her future, she resigned her position to become his occasional escort and full-time pleasure provider.

  BJ was thus maintained for the next year. The work wasn’t difficult. As a lover, Clyburn was easy to please…and speedily. BJ confided to a girlfriend that she had nicknamed him Quick Willy, but not to his face, of course. When she was unoccupied with Clyburn, she had free time for shopping, beauty salons, shopping, and afternoon tea after shopping. BJ knew all the stores on Michigan Avenue by heart, and most of them knew her by name.

  By the end of her second year in the Windy City, BJ decided she should spend off-duty time in more lofty endeavors than filling her walk-in closet, so she started taking courses in 20th century literature and interior design at a community college. Her goal was to improve her mind and her surroundings. It made her happy, and Clyburn never complained about her redecorating expenses.

  BJ excelled at interior design, and began talking to Clyburn about starting an interior design studio. Clyburn bristled. “Listen to me, BJ. Our arrangement means you are available to me when I’m free. I do not want you running a business, even though I know you are more than capable of doing so.”

  The ending to their relationship came one night when she asked again about an interior design studio. Clyburn was in a less-than-sober condition. He grabbed a fistful of hair, exclaiming, “All the money you cost me? I’m buying pussy, and when I want it, you’d better make damn sure it’s here for me.” Shortly after that, Clyburn left the apartment. So did BJ, leaving most of her clothes and all the new furniture. She caught the next flight to Seattle. But why Seattle, you ask? Because that was the next flight out of Chicago.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d do next or how she would get along. She needed two things as soon as feasible: a psychic reading, to dispel her insecurities about the future, and to meet another rich guy, to dispel her anxieties. She felt the cold wet of uncertainty in her belly but even without her future being foretold, Barbara Joyce knew she would be just fine. She brought with her stuff from Clyburn’s wall safe—all her jewelry, and Clyburn’s stash of cash.

  Twelve

  “The sorrow of knowing that there is evil in the best is far out balanced by the joy of discovering that there is good in the worst.” ~ Dr. Austin Fox Riggs

  THURSDAY—JUNE | By the time Wainwright got from Keating’s eighteenth floor office to the ‘C’ suite, Bennie had left for the day. Kimberly, the pretty twentieth floor receptionist, informed Wainwright that Yolanda required Bennie’s presence for shopping. Arnold was at a chess tournament in Seattle and was not likely to return to the office. When told that Arnold was playing chess in Seattle, Wainwright recalled his first exposure to the genius Arnold, which occurred during Wainwright’s interview for the southern California job.

  **********

  “We have plenty of time to chat and get acquainted. That is, if you don’t mind taking a short drive with me. We can talk in the car, and after my appointment, I’ll take you to the airport. How does that sound?” Arnold asked over his shoulder as Wainwright followed him downstairs to the garage. “Wonderful, Mr. Chaplain.” Wainwright expected Arnold’s car to be comparable to Bennie Rubens’ classic Mercedes. He was disappointed when Arnold pointed out the dirty, dented pea-green AMC Gremlin in his assigned space. This was the automobile car magazines most often voted “Ugliest” or “Worst Car Ever Made.”

  As far as Wainwright was concerned, the interview with the fabled Arnold Chaplain was, at this point, a bust. Nothing he was told about the man was evident: successful real estate investor, wealthy legal guru, or partner in one of the best real estate investment firms in Washington. Who is this guy, and what am I doing here? He must be a nut case, not a genius at all, and I surely am nuts for driving with him in this tin-can car, he thought. “Mr. Chaplain, pray tell, where are we headed?”

  “Please call me Arnold. I play chess,” he said. “Much of my life has been devoted to the strategies of the game. Tonight, I have a challenge match at a chess club in Seattle. That is where we’re going now.”

  The chess club was a converted ’60s coffee house, one of many in that area. The owner, Mr. Elam, met them at the entrance and escorted them into the club. Chessboards were set up on both sides of the aisle, each with a game in progress. Behind each board sat an anxious opponent, studying his board, anticipating the master’s imminent moves. Arnold paced the aisle, all his attention focused on each of the twelve games on the right, studying each intently. He turned about-face and studied the games on the other side of the aisle.

  Mr. Elam reached below the reception desk, extracted a black blindfold, and placed it over Arnold’s eyes. He then led Arnold back to the game board he first inspected. Arnold described to his opponent from memory what move he would make. The player informed Arnold of the chess piece he’d selected, his move, and described its location on the board. Arnold then responded with his second move. “Mate.”

  Arnold moved to the second game board, then the next. The spectacle continued for about forty-five minutes. When Arnold and Mr. Elam returned to where Wainwright was waiting, Arnold lifted the blindfold and asked, “So, how did it go?”

  “You won eighteen of the twenty-five matches outright. Congratulations, Mr. Chaplain. That was spectacular!”

  “Hum, that would be seventy-two percent; not bad, but hardly a world-class performance. If this had been a teaching assignment at the U, I’d have to give that presentation a B-minus.”

  “Arnold,” Wainwright said, “you memorized sixty-four squares on each of twenty-five boards in just a few seconds. That is sixteen hundred squares with thousands of potential moves. I must tell you, that was the most astonishing demonstration of mental agility I have witnessed since Sandy
Koufax pitched a perfect game in nineteen sixty-five for the Dodgers.” Wainwright was dumbstruck at the demonstrated genius of this poorly dressed man.

  “Thank you, but I didn’t memorize all the squares, only those with a chess piece on them. I appreciate your approval. Shall we get you to the plane?”

  Garth Wainwright decided right then to work for CapVest. More significantly, he became a dedicated fan of Arnold’s from that day forward.

  **********

  Hockney was in his office, but Wainwright needed to be in just the right frame of mind to spend time with Hockney. Right now he wasn’t, but what the hell? On the way, he found Musketeer Robert Keating in the copy room and gladly detoured to him. As Wainwright walked toward his friend, with thoughts of Arnold’s remarkable chess feat still vibrating in his cranium, he considered what he’d heard and pondered if it were true—that Arnold’s behavior had become erratic and cruel. If true, he mourned the obliteration of genius. There is but a fine line between genius and insanity. What the fuck is happening to our business? Okay, lighten up. You don’t want to bum out ol’ Keating, do you?

  “Robert, has this organization degraded to the point partners run the copy machines? Look out, Hank; your work is in my future.”

  Robert J. Keating looked up from the copier and said, “Oh, hi, Garth. No, but it’s late, and most of the staff are gone. In the accounting profession, we train mundanely. That is what accounting is—mundane. I decided to copy it up here while I still remember what part of this report Hockney needs. What are you doing in town? Or am I just an excuse so you can ogle the beautiful Barbara Joyce?”

  “Absolutely right, to your last question, but I have company business to discuss with you, O exalted sovereign of journal juggling.”

  “Hey, where do you get that stuff, Garth? Besides, I’d much rather hear about your plans for BJ! You know Caroline is going to ask me.”

  “I don’t divulge secrets, and assuredly not to her boss. You can tell Caroline BJ is someone else’s girl now, and we’re just pals. But for Caroline’s joy and satisfaction, you can tell her Lacey and I have moved our relationship to an exclusive phase.”

  “Hey, has BJ given you that fortune-telling business? She lays that crap on me constantly. She says it truly works, and now, Caroline wants a reading from her psychic. Is that dumb, or what?”

  “Fortune-teller? Get real! Yeah, I’ve heard BJ talk about it. Do we need that to run our business? I don’t think so. So, how is our CFO doing? Making lots of money for our investors?”

  “Come downstairs with me where we can be more comfortably than standing over a hot copy machine. But you ain’t gonna like it.”

  They took the stairs to Keating’s office. His office should have been upstairs on the ‘C’ floor, which Arnold, Bennie, Hockney, and Meyer all called home. Keating preferred to be close to his guys and gals, as he called the sixty or so CPAs, accountants, bookkeepers, and secretaries who inhabited the cubicles and glass-walled offices on the eighteenth floor. Besides, all the corner offices on twenty had already been claimed.

  Wainwright first met Keating when he became CFO for All Cities, the newly minted property management arm of CapVest. Why he left All Cities for the lateral move to CapVest, he never disclosed. Wainwright remembered that first meeting well for, within a period of twenty-four hours, he’d made a close friend of a stranger and a lifelong enemy of CapVest partner number five, Ragnar Borstad.

  Borstad’s influence on Arnold was evident from the beginning. Arnold’s supervision of him and All Cities appeared to be minimal, even non-existent. The adopted son ran his fiefdom autocratically and autonomously, some might even say capriciously. Wainwright often did.

  Keating became a dear and trusted friend of Wainwright’s since their first meeting. As the two entered Keating’s private office, he answered the question asked two floors up. “We are. We’re doing a very good job providing for the welfare of widows and orphans. However, just between the two of us, not as spectacularly as we did a couple of years back. The properties are not producing as much cash flow. As a percentage of invested dollars, our return has dropped considerably. It’s pretty hard to make up for the embezzlement of something south of twenty million smackers, but still, we keep on a buyin’ ’em.”

  “Good God, I hope we keep on buying. If we don’t, I won’t have anything in my portfolio to sell. And that, my proper Portagee pal, would be a blow to both investor profits and my bank account.”

  As the discussion waned, Wainwright thought, Stay here, or go back to LA tonight? He couldn’t decide if being in Bellevue another day would be a benefit. Back at his LA office, there was an offer for that Pocatello shopping center. The potential buyer isn’t what he consider serious. Undoubtedly a bottom-feeder, but to quote ragtime great Fats Waller, ‘One never knows, do one?’

  Keating made the decision for him. “Caroline has a girl’s night out, so how about I buy you a nightcap and you can tell me all about your fling with the late Thomas Burke’s delightful and sexy attorney? Caroline can’t wait to hear about that. How do you do it, Garth? You have two honeys I know of, who mistakenly think you’re some kind of stud.”

  “I’ll vote ‘yes’ to the drink, but I’m only going to tell you Lacey is a lady of the first order and a wonderful person. Let’s have a cocktail at the Hyatt. We’ll charge it to my room, so all our partners can share the cost.”

  Seated in the Grand Wollcott lobby bar, Keating said, “You know what, partner? We are still dealing with a couple of those ripples today from that time you and I first met. When you and Arnold threw a giant boulder into All Cities’ fee income pool, remember?”

  “Ripples? What are you talking about?” Wainwright asked. Keating reminded Wainwright of the meeting they both attended, his introduction to Wainwright, when Ragnar Borstad proposed Wainwright resign as CapVest marketing director and head up property sales for All Cities.

  “He did a land salesman job on you about how great it would be to switch horses and sell CapVest’s properties so All Cities could collect the commissions. I remember he avoided answering most of the questions you asked him. I think ol’ Borstad thought you were going to be a shoe-in to join All Cities after his pitch.”

  “I remember. That was the most conversation I ever had with the guy, before or since. Now he just ignores me. He is such an arrogant asshole! There was, and still is, a big difference in the corporate culture between the firms, as you know only too well.” Wainwright thought for a moment, then continued. “The main issue wasn’t Borstad’s personality—which still needs a lot of work, by the way—but the conflicts of interest inherent in what he was proposing. I told Arnold I didn’t believe disposition should be the responsibility of property management.”

  “And everyone knows what happened after that.”

  “You said ‘ripples’ earlier. What did you mean?”

  Keating reached for his highball glass. He traced a circle of condensation with the tip of a finger. “Well, one is a ripple from your property sales trouncing of Borstad. I’ll get to that in a minute, but I’m worried about Arnold. He’s been out of sorts lately. The kindly old college professor has morphed into an ill-tempered, shortsighted, irritable old cocker. I’m not the only one that has noticed it, either. The other day, Arnold jumped all over Andrew Thompson. Said he’d botched some documents or something. The whole legal department heard him chew Andrew’s ass. His focus is no longer the same,” Keating reported.

  “You know, that sure isn’t like Arnold, is it? It’s strange you’d mention this. Tommy also said Arnold’s behavior is different, and Bennie said Vida, bless her sweet ol’ heart, got yelled at. Something is up with Arnold. Any ideas what it might be?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid I do. I’ll tell you, but listen, pal, this stuff just has to stay here between us, okay? I mean, what I’m going to say to you is highly inflammatory and could put me in some jeopardy.”

  “Stop it, Robert. You’re scaring the crap out of me,” Wainwright joke
d.

  “No joke, Garth. This is some really bad shit! Without the reinforcement of a single malt scotch, I may not have brought it up to you, so be cool, okay?”

  Wainwright indicated approval of Keating’s conditions. He could see the sweat on Keating’s upper lip. Now he noticed his friend was sitting on the front of his chair and fidgeting from side to side. His hands were shaking holding his highball glass. “Robert, I’m sorry. Just go ahead and lay it out for me.”

  “A few weeks ago, Arnold called me from his new place. You know he and Lorraine split, right?” Wainwright nodded his assent. “He asked me to come to his house and bring a property file. I forget which one, ’cause it turned out not to matter. We never discussed the file when I got to his apartment. You’ve been there, right? I’ll just tell you; he asked me over to do drugs with him.”

  “You are shitting me! This is a bad joke or something.”

  “No, I’m telling you just as it happened. And you are the only one who knows this, so keep it to yourself ’till we can figure out answers. I mean it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Arnold tells me about being in therapy; his shrink prescribed a drug called MDMA. Arnold described it as ‘one capsule worth more than a year on the psychiatrist couch’. Garth, he wanted me to do it with him.”