by Anna Burke
“Thanks Eric. That is high praise, coming from you.” The CEO failed to keep sarcasm from his voice. “Where did you hear that?” he asked, as paranoia crept into his tone. Eric clenched his teeth maintaining a forced smile, as he responded.
“I have my sources, Charlie. You know that.” Eric saw the man gulp as he gave the bumbling CEO a friendly wink. Charlie knew. This little charade of camaraderie would be over soon, too. Charles Tilly, CEO and Chairman of the Board at Pinnacle Enterprises, was one of half a dozen people in the room Eric Conroy had between a rock and a hard place.
Today, the lead underwriters were stopping by to give the board a formal update on their progress lining up buyers of Pinnacle shares to be issued. All the big boys were in on the deal, their names on the ‘tombstone’ published in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. An ad taken out by the investment bankers, the tombstone provided bare bones information about the offering, along with a list of those shepherding the deal, in order of their importance. The ad also provided instructions on how to find out more about the IPO. However, by the time it appeared, with its heavy black border and dark print, it was often a done deal. Too late to get in on the IPO for most, the ad was a place to display “bragging rights” by those with an inside track. If they only knew, Eric thought. Never had the concept of tombstone been more aptly applied to an ad, given the death throes imminent at Pinnacle.
He continued to make his way around the table shaking hands, asking about the family or the golf game, with no interest in the responses he got. When he reached Donnelly, he gave him a hearty greeting, slapping him on the back. That Donnelly bastard had intended to be a no show, forcing him to play a little hard ball with the man. Sure he’s in knots, given that his daughter’s missing, but he owed him, big time. Besides, he wanted to tell him, who cares? His daughter had plans to rob Donnelly blind with the one-two punch of false allegations followed by threats to extort money from the old guy. What a loser. Extortion, now that was another matter. A reliable method of getting your way when persuasion failed. Sometimes the old ways still worked the best.
Donnelly was there, but he wasn’t in good shape. He had lost weight and his jowls hung loose. His eyes were blood shot and his complexion had a sallow tone that did not look good in contrast to the sickly gray shade of his hair. Eric wished he could tell the man to buck up. It was unfortunate he had to yank Donnelly’s chain, threatening to expose his daughter’s allegations to get him to show up today. At this point the board needed to be unified—out in full force, as the crescendo built before the IPO on the 20th.
As Eric took his seat, he caught Donnelly’s eye. Smile, you bastard, he thought to himself as he peered at Donnelly. When Eric smiled at the man, Donnelly did his best to emulate that smile. Eric gave him a reassuring nod. That’s more like it, he thought, as the loathsome CEO called the meeting to order.
Two hours later, Eric whistled as he glided back to his office. Photos of bankers shaking hands with the CEO, Eric at his side, would soon be circulated worldwide. Behind them the full board, even the distressed Donnelly, smiled at the good news. They were certain to hit the billion dollar mark in shares, no doubt about it. The anticipated share price was already at the high end of the range originally proposed.
Who the hell came up with the idea that Friday the 13th was bad luck? Eric wondered. From now on, thirteen would be his lucky number. There was good news on another front, too. The Van Der Woert broad had taken a turn for the worse. Even if she lived, there was a good chance she would not be much more than a vegetable. Chances were even slimmer that she'd say a word about Carr or Shannon Donnelly or anything else in the week prior to the IPO. After that it didn't matter.
“From parasite to vegetable,” he muttered as he reached the door to his office suite. His dutiful executive assistant was sitting at her desk, fielding phone calls.
“Wow, it must have been a good meeting. Word got out fast—the phone has been ringing nonstop. Do you want me to put off lunch?
“No, that won’t be necessary. Go have a nice lunch. Charge it to me! I’m feeling celebratory,” Eric said.
“That was some meeting, wasn’t it?” She asked, wide-eyed. “You sure about lunch?”
“I’m sure. A free lunch once in a while is the least I can do, given all your hard work around here,” he said. You’d better enjoy it. By Christmas you won’t have a job. He did not flinch as that thought flitted through his mind. Nor did he let it put a damper on his upbeat mood. It was regrettable innocents like her got ground up in the marketplace. But what the hell, it’s only business.
In his office, with the door closed, he let himself do a little two-step. It was all going his way. By Christmas day, he would be on a beach, lounging in a chaise, with a quarter billion dollars tucked away in an offshore account. Libby Van Der Woert was down for the count, after seizing up in the ICU. Jessica Huntington, off in her corner, was licking her wounds. Almost a week had passed since the debacle at the top of the tram in Palm Springs. If either of those women had reported anything of significance to the police, his eyes and ears on the ground would have found out and notified him by now. Eric burst into a chorus of I'm dreaming of a white Christmas... as in a snow white sandy beach white Christmas, he thought.
21 Field Trip Plan
The Cat Pack had assembled on the back patio, with Frank Fontana at the grill. Jessica tried not to gaze too long at the dark hair curled up against the collar of his shirt; the man was always in need of a haircut. He had caught her once already, staring at him, and sent her one of those smoldering smiles of his. She was still off balance from a close encounter with him minutes before. Frank had been the last to arrive. Everyone else was outside when he rang the doorbell. Frank did nothing to hide his delight at seeing her when she opened the door for him.
“So you’re out and about. I guess no one wants you back at that hospital,” he teased, stepping into the foyer and shutting the door.
“You’re right—especially after a near-riot by my angel heiress fans,” she quipped. He tilted his head, a quizzical look on his face she found beguiling. “I’m a star, Frank. Come on in and you’ll hear all about it.”
“I could have told you that,” he said as he swept her up in a gentle, but possessive hug, without jarring her ribs. “You’ve got star quality even wearing a cast, and with that little scrape there, he said, brushing the scrape on her cheek with a kiss.” Jessica giggled and felt her whole body flush. She tried to play it cool.
“Really? What about the bruise over my eye?”
“It does not detract from your charm,” he added, placing a light kiss there, too. Jessica’s heart pounded. He was still holding onto her and must have felt her heart beating like that. “You are a star, Jessica Huntington; an heiress, for sure, but an angel? We'll have to see about that, won’t we?” The words tickled as he spoke them, so close to her ear that his warm breath made her tingle. Just then the patio door slid open.
“Jessica, was that the doorbell I heard?” Bernadette asked, as she bustled down the hall toward them. She took in the scene before she spoke. “Hello, Frank, you ready to do a little cookin’—outside?” Frank let Jessica go, and moved a step toward Bernadette, who was smiling a crooked little smile. Jessica felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. It didn’t seem to bother Frank at all. He gave Jessica’s free hand a little squeeze.
“Sure thing, Bernadette, put me to work,” Frank beamed back at her.
“You’re working pretty good, already,” she said. Frank burst out laughing and put an arm around Bernadette’s tiny shoulders. Frank reached over and pulled Jessica to his side, draping his other arm around her. Jessica sighed, under Frank’s spell, as the three of them walked to the back door together. What was it about the exasperating man that left her feeling lost when that hug ended? Frank was trouble—puzzling, pleasurable, but trouble.
Cookout food was the order of the day. Frank had gone straight to the grill, after greeting everyone, incl
uding Betsy Stark. He and Betsy had met once, years before at Jessica’s house, when he came to pick up Kelly and Tommy. Bernadette’s carne asada was sizzling, sending out the most wonderful aroma. Tofu steeped in the same marinade used on the strips of flank steak, was sizzling on a nearby surface for Peter-the-vegan and Kim who was a vegetarian, most of the time. A grill pan full of colorful peppers and onion slices was next to that, alongside neat rows of sweet potato wedges, sprinkled with spices before grilling. Bernadette had set pans of rice and frijoles charros, cowboy beans, off to the side to keep them warm.
The weather was chilly, by desert standards, edging below sixty after sunset. Jerry, Tommy, Laura and Kim had ventured in for a swim in the heated pool. Patio heaters were on to keep them warm when they finished swimming. For now they were content to float around, trying not to miss a word of the story Peter March was telling about that trip home from Jessica’s doctor’s visit the day before. It had been Brien who alerted Peter to the fact they had picked up a tail.
“Brien stopped going on and on about the nachos he got from the hospital cafeteria and went silent for 30 seconds. He’s sitting there, still. Then, out of the blue, he says, ‘Yo, Peter, there’s something not right about that dude back there in the pizza delivery car. I think we should prepare to take invasive maneuvers’.”
Brien lounged in a chaise next to Peter, a cold bottle of beer in his hands, and a bowl full of chips on his lap. He was happy about the praise from Peter, and ready to embellish Peter’s story, if need be. At the moment he was not even eating!
“All I said,” Peter went on, “was ‘not right,’ what’s not right? I wasn’t ready to ask Brien what he meant by ‘invasive maneuvers,’ but I took a look at the car behind us.”
“Yeah, when Peter asked me I told him that car behind us might look ordinary but that’s a brand new Chevy Camaro Zl1, supercharged with a 6.2 liter V8 that cranks out 580 horsepower and about 550 pound-feet of torque. It’s a sweet ride outfitted with GM's third-generation Magnetic Ride technology, a special valve-less damping and fluid system to adjust suspension firmness to match the road and driving conditions.” A stunned silence followed as Brien spit out that stream of specs.
“What?” Brien asked, looking up at a round of gaping mouths. Except for Betsy who hadn’t known Brien long enough to be surprised by such a lucid spiel, and Bernadette, who had the bewildered expression on her face she often wore when Brien spoke.
“Now you know how I reacted yesterday when Brien described the car,” Peter said.
“Oh yeah, and 20 inch wheels with smokin’ rims—that costs extra. Good, huh, for a pizza delivery guy?”
“Unless he delivers more than pizza,” Frank commented, as he removed tofu from the grill.
“Well, I noticed it first in the parking lot at the medical center, Jessica. It didn’t have that pizza delivery sign on top. So, later, when I saw it again with that Pizza Pros sign on top, I was thinking, ‘whoa, Man, what’s going on?’ The most bogus thing of all: they don’t even deliver pizza in this part of town.” Brien-the bobble-head was back.
“When I got over my shock at discovering Brien’s latent powers of observation, I knew he had to be right.”
“Dude, my powers aren’t latent.” Another moment of silence ensued. Both torque and latent in the vocabulary of a man who regarded the good things in life as “gnarlitious” or “bitchin,” how could that be?
“There’s nothing plastic about them, Peter.” A sigh released them all from the fear they had somehow misjudged the desert-dwelling surfer dude in their midst. Betsy had a puzzled look on her face, not getting it at all.
“He means latex, Betsy. At least, I think that’s what he means. With Brien it’s sometimes a little complicated.” Jessica spoke in a low voice, hoping not to offend Brien. Peter picked up the story.
“Anyway, I knew something was up, so that’s when I called for reinforcements. They joined us as soon as they could, to provide you an escort so Brien and I could apprehend the phony pizza guy. There’s a sniper on the loose, so I was taking no chances by leaving you exposed, or signaling we were on to the guy too soon.”
“It was kind of scary, at first,” Bernadette said.
“Peter’s right. If we hadn’t been so sneaky and swift, that bozo would have gotten away. That car can move—0 to 60 in under four seconds,” Brien assured them all.
“Fortunately, another of my guys cut him off real quick, so we had him cornered in no time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t our sniper, but a member of the paparazzi. He was looking to shoot you, Jessica, but with photo equipment rather than bullets.”
“Lucky for you it was a roving photographer,” Frank commented piling items from the grill onto platters. Bernadette took the platters Frank filled and lined them up on the granite surface of the outdoor cook island.
“I’m not so sure I’d say lucky, Frank. That was crafty, finding me and tagging along like that. As pushy as the autograph hounds were that had me cornered in the hospital yesterday, I’m not happy about being hunted by a reporters or snipers.”
“Word has gotten around about ‘that Huntington woman’ causing another scene at the hospital,” Laura said as she stepped out of the pool and slipped into a robe. “You’re famous among the nursing staff, that’s for sure.”
“Infamous, is more like it, Laura. I just hope I don’t have outraged nurses with loaded hypodermics after me now. I’m glad we got back here in one piece! Two rescues in one day, Peter. So, thanks.” Jessica raised a glass of sparkling water she was drinking. No wine until she finished the course of antibiotics the docs had given her.
“Hey, what about me—after all I am Thor or Uber-Thor or whatever...” A round of puzzled expressions appeared on the faces of her friends.
Jessica spent the next few minutes filling them all in on the events at the hospital, including that Thor-Uber-Thor thing. Jessica also told them about that visit with Nora at the ICU, and Libby’s latest health crisis. The revelation that Nora had given Jessica keys to Libby’s car and condo caused an immediate clamor from Tommy to go take a look. Detective Hernandez had agreed that Jerry could have a look around at Shannon Donnelly’s condo, with the understanding that whatever they found got turned over to him.
“All that talk about pizza delivery guys is making me super hungry,” Brien said as he rose from his lounge chair and refilled his bowl with chips, pushing them to one side to make room for Bernadette’s spicy, tequila-laced salsa. He snatched a couple of empanadas before sitting back down.
The empanadas, neat little packets of dough folded around cheese, meat or vegetables, were only one of the savory appetizers set out for dinner. They sat on a table alongside goat-cheese-filled dates wrapped in bacon, sautéed peppers, tossed with garlic and roasted pine nuts, and kabobs made of fresh fruit. Besides the salsa, Bernadette had prepared guacamole and chismol, a Central American take on pico de gallo, all set out in bowls. The mouth-watering accompaniments to the carne asada created a colorful display. Bernadette was waiting until the last moment to bring out warm, fresh-made tortillas from Cardenas, a local Latino grocery.
“The rest of you had better get out of the pool and dry off, before Brien wipes out the tapas,” Frank said, as he stepped away from the grill. Brien eyed that table full of tapas as he crammed food into his mouth. Frank had remained quiet while Peter and Brien told the story of events the day before.
“You have incredible luck, Jessica Huntington,” Frank said, pondering the latest round of mayhem.
“Betsy and I were talking about my life in the low probability event zone, earlier. Incredibly good and bad luck, I’d say, Frank.” Jessica countered. She would have said more but had just taken a bite of one of Bernadette’s empanadas, filled with a savory blend of acorn squash. “Good luck as in living under the same roof with one of the world’s great cooks. This acorn squash empanada is amazing, Bernadette.”
“Gracias, Jessica. But let’s get back to snooping.”
“And my p
oint is about your propensity to attract bad luck, Jessica,” Frank admonished.
“A certain amount of bad luck goes with the territory when you deal with troubled clients. I know that much from my own work,” Betsy said. “You’re in the same boat, too, Frank, right?”
“True enough, Betsy. I have been in some bad situations courtesy of my work as a police officer and homicide detective. Who knew that paparazzi could cause the trouble that jerk created for you yesterday?”
“Not just paparazzi, but fans. Don’t forget I have fans now, too.”
“All that makes it harder to figure out who's out to get you. The best thing you can do, until the police come up with the identity and whereabouts of that sniper, is to lie low.”
“I understand, Frank, but there are things I have to do. I have to visit Mom in Malibu and I need to find that little blue bag. Maybe something in that bag will validate Libby’s claims about her relationship with the dead shrink. If my screwy good luck is working for us, we could also get a lead about what’s happened to Shannon or who’s hired that sniper. While I’m out and about, on my way to Malibu, we might as well check Libby’s condo and car. Presuming the blue bag exists.”
“Let’s hope you don’t run into that red devil, Jessica. That could be screwy bad luck,” Bernadette said making the sign of the cross. It took another round of catch up to make sure everyone had heard about Libby’s claims that Carr was in league with the devil—a red one.
“There’s no reason Jerry can’t go check out Libby’s place. It would be better to have the police there, too. That way, if you find something of value, you don’t have to worry about chain of custody later.”
“True, Frank. But I have to go to the coast anyway, and I’d find it helpful to check out the place where Libby and Shannon lived in Manhattan Beach. I’m trying to get a handle on these two young women and their relationship. Maybe something will gel if I spend more time in their bizarre little world. The Manhattan Beach PD already went through there, days ago, when Shannon disappeared. They found nothing out of the ordinary. No evidence of any foul play. So it’s not a crime scene, at this point. Given the circumstances in which the whole topic of a suitcase came up, it’s possible this is all a wild goose chase anyway. I think that’s why Hernandez said, ‘go for it’ without chewing me out first.”