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

by Walter Danley

  Wainwright tightened his arm around Lacey and grinning, said, “Are you kidding me? I’ve got much better plans than to spend another night dining across from Tommy Shaw.” He led Lacey to the elevators and said over his shoulder, “Tommy, I’ll see you for breakfast down here at seven o’clock. Sleep well, Mr. CEO.”

  Entering the elevator cab for the short ride to their floor, Lacey said, “You guys have been burning your candles at both ends, to quote an eighteenth century cliché. I’ll bet you’re not even aware of why Shirl and I flew up here today, are ya?”

  Wainwright looked at the beautiful and vibrant Lacey through exhausted eyes, barely able to lift an eyebrow in response.

  “Happy New Year, darlin’. Tonight is New Year’s Eve.”

  Wainwright straightened and slapped his forehead in surprise. “Oh my God! With the stuff we’ve been chasing the past several days, the current date slipped my mind completely. Well, I’ll be…New Year’s Eve. Happy New Year, my sweet one. Happy nineteen seventy-nine!”

  “What kind of lady would I be if I didn’t spend it with the man I love?” The elevator doors closed as Wainwright leaned into Lacey for another long kiss.

  Twenty-eight

  “The more sand has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.” ~ Jean Paul

  MONDAY—NEW YEAR’S DAY 1979| The two couples met in the hotel coffee shop at seven for breakfast. This is a holiday people tend to sleep in, so few others were in the café at this early hour. After placing their breakfast orders with the waitress, Tommy pulled a sheaf of stapled papers from his briefcase and put them on the table in front of Wainwright. “Andrew gave this list to me before he left Saturday. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

  “Happy nineteen seventy-nine, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw,” Wainwright said with a smile, toasting them with his glass of OJ. After briefly scanning the sheaf of papers, “You, Jules, and I own CapVest and most of All Cities. That blows my mind. I hadn’t focused on this aspect of our mess before. This is awesome…and frightening at the same time. Tommy, when you recruited me all those years ago, my hope was to earn enough from CapVest to keep my home and toys together. Now look, I am a one-fourth owner of her. It surely is a very Happy New Year.” Wainwright took Lacey’s hand, brought it to his lips, tenderly kissed her knuckles, and then raised both their arms high in a victory sign. “Ya-hoo!”

  Lacey said, “I guess I should marry him now that he’s rich.”

  With just a hint of a smile, Shirley said, “Honey, these guys are ex-landmen. That means I should divorce Tommy before he gets poor!”

  Tommy ignored the joking at his expense and said, “Technically, until the key-man insurance comes through for the widows Clyburn and Burke, we’ve got them as additional shareholders.”

  “Tommy,” Lacey said, “Sonja won’t sell her shares. I’m telling you that as her lawyer, but also as your friend. You may know Jules Jarvis set a precedent for her position. I’ve talked to her about the voting trust. She would like for you to sign on as co-trustee with my ever lovin’ here.” Tommy nodded that he understood Sonja’s position and didn’t need to comment.

  Lacey and Shirley made plans to head back southern California. In a few weeks’ time, they’d worked out a better system than their counterparts had done in all the years those two had been flying into Seattle. The ladies liked their system better. Each drove to the Long Beach airport to meet there, traveled on the same plane to Seattle, and shared a cab to their destination. Long Beach was mid-point between LAX and Orange County’s John Wayne Airport, so they’d each drive a little more, but they’d fly and arrive together.

  When the women got into a cab and received kisses from their respective mates and good wishes for a pleasant flight, Wainwright and Tommy retrieved their rental from valet parking and drove back to the building now owned jointly by Sonja, Jules, and them.

  Supervising Special Agent Greg Mulholland was in the field the second day of 1979 when he received a call from his boss. An inspector of the California Highway Patrol wanted to see him. The car crash that killed Robert J. Keating was now part of an interstate homicide investigation. Mulholland’s superior wanted to speak to him right away. He wondered, Why? Does the agency know about my masquerade at the Bellevue Five confrontation meeting? Am I in trouble? Is my career somehow in jeopardy? There was only one way he was going to get any answers to those questions: go see the man. But he would call the CHP first and see what they had.

  Stacy was back in the SEC’s Boston office. Supervising Special Agent Mulholland missed her very much, but they talked on the phone every night. Mulholland hoped when he called Stacy tonight, his being transferred to North Dakota to pay for his transgressions would not be on the agenda. Each of them had submitted requests for transfer to the other’s city. God forbid both transfer requests should be approved at the same time. No way! The Federal government was just not that accommodating.

  At his desk, Mulholland called the CHP inspector, who gave him a summary status report. The inspector was unaware of Mulholland’s involvement with the CapVesters, so he decided for the moment, at least, he’d keep it that way. The inspector told Mulholland the CHP’s Keating file would be couriered to him promptly. Either this guy didn’t know where the FBI office was located, or he just didn’t mind spending state funds for a delivery fewer than two blocks away. He should have the file in the next few minutes.

  “Thank you, Inspector. I hope you won’t mind if I check back with you from time to time if there is something I need...clarified.”

  “No, that will be okay, but I didn’t think the FBI needed help from anyone,” he chided.

  “Inspector, please don’t believe all that urban legend stuff. We need and want any help given. See ya around,” he said, placing the handset in the cradle.

  He read the transcripts from the Pitkin County Sheriff and the one Detective Daugherty in Chicago had sent him. His next step was to go see Special Agent in Charge Neal, his boss.

  That meeting lasted about three minutes, to Mulholland’s surprised pleasure. A man of few words, Neal told Mulholland he’d tagged him to head the interstate homicides investigation into the murders of Burke, Clyburn, and Keating. “The locals will take their lead from you. Get this sombitch, Mulholland. That will be all.”

  When Mulholland finished reading the messengered CHP file, he doodled a timeline of the new information. Rubens went missing, and so did Keating’s administrative assistant, Barbara J. Dreaver. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. Rubens’ car was found in a Seattle city-owned parking garage on University Street, hers in long-term parking at Sea-Tac International.

  Mulholland already knew from Wainwright and Tommy about the addendum insurance policies, the beneficiary being a Bahamian trust administered by the Freeport law firm of Slocum and Rubens. A phone call to DC confirmed the Rubens’ in this case were brothers. No, too many coincidences. Bennie Rubens was almost certainly traveling with Barbara Joyce Dreaver. I’ll bet he is on his way to the Bahamas, either to get the insurance money, or to visit a relative—probably both.

  He could track flights easily with the help of the local US Immigration and Customs Enforcement office, which was conveniently located in his building. He was sure the INS records would show them leaving Seattle and entering Freeport in the Bahama Islands. Another phone call could confirm or eliminate that possibility. Man, this lead investigator stuff is easier than I ever thought. This job is going to be a walk in the park.

  Let’s see now, what else do I have? Rubens’ disappearance was relative to the Five’s agreement, of which he officially knew nothing. Murder? Maybe. Running was a pretty smart response to the Five agreement’s harsh necessities. It would be an absolute necessity if Rubens were involved in killing his partners. He placed a phone call to INS.

  It didn’t help. No one with a passport in the name of Rubens had left or entered the ports with which he was concerned. So they went somewhere else. No record of a Bennie Rubens leaving
any US port—sea or air—on the day or the next Rubens and Dreaver both had vanished.

  Either they are still here and in hiding, or they used different passports. How can I find the name on the new passport, if that’s what it is? Wait, I’ve seen the little bugger, know what he looks like, and can ID him. Back to the phone he went with just one more question for INS.

  “Hello, is this Mr. Borstad, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “I am so sorry to interrupt. I am Ortega, from Vulcan Systems in Jacksonville.”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Ortega. Have you come to a decision on my proposal? I hope that is why you are calling me at my home.”

  “But Mr. Borstad, this is the number you gave me to call you. Did I do wrong?”

  “No, of course not. So, tell me, what you have decided to do with Vulcan Systems, Inc.?”

  “I would like very much for you to continue the operations of this wonderful company. I believe it can prosper under your leadership, Mr. Borstad. But, of course, there is a question of value. I think you may have been somewhat too conservative in your proposal on that issue. I would suggest the price you offered is only seventy-five percent of its actual market value. Also, sir, I must insist the full purchase price be paid in cash and all at the time of finalizing the transaction, rather than the series of payments you suggested. If we can agree on those two small points—actually a matter of perception, would you not say?—then I would welcome a modified offer from you. We can conclude the transaction promptly, if that is your wish, sir.”

  Borstad was astonished. This wetback is more perceptive than I’d given him credit. He hit the two most important points of the proposal head-on. He wants a price increase of one third, and all of the cash at the closing. After he’d listened to Ortega, he paused for a couple of seconds before saying anything. “Sir, my bid was fair as we have valued your business. It may be worth more to others, but it is valued correctly for my purposes. If you were to consider the purchase price acceptable, I could consider modifying our agreement for paying the full price at the closing.”

  “Mr. Borstad, your courtesy and consideration is very much appreciated. I will accept payment in full at closing, as you say, but the price, sir, you must increase the value for me. Let us find a price where neither of us is fully satisfied, but not so discouraged either will walk away from this opportunity. Would you be able to increase your offer by an additional seventy-five thousand dollars, sir? That price and payment in full would be acceptable to me, and hopefully, to you as well. What do you say, Mr. Borstad? Do we have—what do the executives call it—deal?”

  Ortega was smooth, but he was right to say the deal would be one that fully satisfied neither party. “Yes, yes—fine. I’ll have my attorneys prepare a new offer with the terms you’ve outlined. They will fax it to you. When I receive an executed copy, we will send you the earnest money deposit and start due diligence. I assume you are prepared to make your books available to us, together with all patent documentation when my team is there for the physical inspection of your manufacturing facilities, warehouse, and rolling stock. Is that doable in the next few days?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Borstad. Yes, sir, that is an acceptable schedule. In fact, you will see some locks systems to be shipped to All Cities. Many are being processed on the assembly line now.”

  Ragnar Borstad assembled a due diligence crew and began the process of buying Vulcan Systems. He was happy for the first time since Arnold discovered his fraud. A new venture. A new opportunity. I’ll show all those who opposed me I am, in fact, the best of breed. They will stand in awe when I make a success of Vulcan. No more partners to tweak every suggestion or mock my moves. Meyer is selling ranch land in the boondocks—what a laugh that is. That is where he belongs, anywhere away from me. I wish Arnold were alive to appreciate what will soon be my new success.

  Borstad and Ortega met at a Jacksonville, Florida, bank and closed the sale at 9:18 a.m. on a sunny Tuesday morning. Borstad was now the new owner and operator of Vulcan Systems, Inc. His excitement grew as he drove to the plant adjacent to Jacksonville to take charge of his new business. Vulcan is the vehicle to restore my superiority and pride.

  He walked the assembly line. At the place where individually packaged locksets were put in shipping cartons, he saw many of the shipping labels were for All Cities’ properties. Some were to go to New England, others were destined for Texas, and still several other cartons were destined for properties on the opposite coast, in Oregon.

  He asked the woman who appeared to be responsible for putting the packaged locksets in the carton, “Why are so many packages unsealed and being sidelined?”

  “Well, sir, they ain’t got no keys in ’em.”

  “Where are the keys?” Borstad asked.

  “Don’t know. Ain’t my job to find the keys. I’s jus’ puts ’em in the package and the package in da carton and run this here tape gun over. That be my job.”

  Borstad went to see the plant supervisor, a Mr. Crane, if he remembered correctly. “Why is there a holdup with the keys at shipping?” He was told the key vendor hadn’t shipped them, yet. These were special keys mated to the Vulcan locking system, and could be obtained from one vendor only— a company in Orlando.

  He told Borstad, “The key is under a separate copyright, and Vulcan was under an exclusive contract with the key company. You need a new contract with that group.”

  Somehow, the contract expiration date was missed in the due diligence investigation. “The key company won’t ship keys without a new agreement in place. They said they wanted to be paid CIA—cash in advance. With you as the new management, Vulcan Systems is a new account to them. I’m sure you can understand that, sir.”

  “No, I do not understand. Get them on the phone and I’ll rectify this situation right now,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the small plant office. How did the due diligence team miss this expired contract? Somebody is going to get his ass kicked up ’tween his shoulder blades, which is what I think. Well, a new contract will set things back on course. In the office, he found the general manager, explained what he knew, and said to get this problem solved and ship the product ASAP.

  “It isn’t quite that simple, sir. The company wants an increase in the price of each key they make for us, along with a new contract. It’s a significant increase, I’m afraid.”

  “Bring me their file. I’ll deal with this myself.” Can’t you people do anything right? How did Ortega tolerate such incompetence? When the file was placed on the desktop, he found the last contract for key purchases. It looked like Vulcan paid about a buck per key, on average—some more, some less depending on the system they operated. He found the name of the person who signed the contract and called him. Borstad explained his situation and wanted to know what had to be done to expedite getting his keys to the Jacksonville plant.

  “Well, sir, I understand that you are the new owner, so we’ll need an agreement with y’all, along with some personal guarantees. There have been some horrific troubles here—labor, ya know—so our costs are much higher. That means we must charge more for the keys. That is, if you still want to buy them.”

  “But of course I want to buy them. My locks aren’t much good without your keys, now are they? What kind of price increase are you talking about?”

  “Well, sir, that is the rub, if you know what I mean. We have to get an average of ten dollars per key now. I know that is a lot, but that’s what my boss said would be our new price. You wouldn’t expect me to violate something my boss said, now would you?”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you do with your boss. That is a ridiculous price increase, and I won’t stand for it. This is blackmail! I will not tolerate it!”

  “Sir, you are welcome to get your keys from another vendor. But our keys are the only ones that will work in your locks. And, as I have been told, patents protect them, so I don’t see what you are going to do about this situation; I surely don’t. Well, go
od luck to y’all.”

  Borstad realized he’d not done a good job investigating Vulcan Systems, or Mr. Felix Ortega. He was screwed. He’d bought a company that made locks he couldn’t sell without keys. To get the keys, he must submit to onerous blackmail demands. Ten dollars a key, two keys per lockset. Ridiculous. It took all the profit from the product. If he tried to increase his sales price to cover the increase in cost for keys, he’d be priced out of the market. There were other locksets close to or comparable to Vulcan’s, but those sold at lower price points.

  In the next few days, Borstad made futile efforts to find another key maker that could replace the blackmailing firm in Orlando. There was no key compatible with the Vulcan locksets system. He would be forced to buy his keys from Orlando at the tenfold price increase. The new contract he reluctantly signed also decreed all purchases would be CIA. Yes, he had been screwed…royally.

  It would be several months before Borstad learned of Mr. Ortega’s minority interest in his cousin’s Orlando key firm. Family is most important in the Cuban culture. Mr. Ortega believed families should support one another. And his did. Mr. Ortega’s investment in his cousin’s key company would continue to pay him increased dividends for the foreseeable future.

  The new year of 1979 found Mr. Ortega, now retired from his labors, sitting on the fantail of his large fishing trawler in the Jacksonville marina. Nesting gulls voiced the serenity of the harbor and the setting sun cast a golden hue over the water. That golden tint reflected onto the face of Mr. Ortega. With a cold Corona in one hand, and a good Cuban Monticristo cigar in the other, he thought, It is a law of nature with the Anglos: Screw them before they can screw you.

  Twenty-nine

  “Kites rise highest against the wind—not with it.” ~ Winston Churchill

  TUESDAY—SECOND DAY of the NEW YEAR | Sacramento is a small town, despite being the capitol of a very large state. The INS office was located three floors below Mulholland’s office, and that is where he went. He showed his FBI creds to the duty officer at the INS information desk. That’s a misnomer—Information Desk. He thought the label was a little deceiving. Someone with a sense of humor in public relations came up with that handle. There is no way to get any information from the woman sitting there, other than directions to the powder room.