by Barbara Paul
Strode waited for Jack to introduce them, but his host remained pointedly mute. “You looked as if you were having more fun than any of the others,” Strode said to the woman. “Were you?”
“Probably. I usually have fun.”
“I thought so. I could tell by the way you moved. I couldn’t help but notice the way you moved.”
She laughed the same easy laugh as Jack’s and said, “I saw you talking to Jack, Mr.…?”
“Strode. Call me A. J.”
“All right, A. J. I’m Wendy.”
Strode smiled slowly. Wend-ee.
He was complimenting her on her service form when he felt Jack’s hand come down on his shoulder like a vise. “Hey there, A. J., my man—you’re not hittin’ on my baby sister now, are you? Won’t do you any good. She’s already spoken for.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Strode murmured toward Wendy and was rewarded with a wink. “Maybe we’ll meet again,” he called over his shoulder as Jack firmly steered him away.
Jack walked him up the stairway from the beach and around the house to where the limo was waiting. “If you ever so much as speak to her again,” Jack said between his teeth, big grin fixed firmly in place, “I personally am going to cut off all your toes. Do you understand?”
Strode didn’t answer. He climbed into the back of the limo and told the driver to get going. Only when they were well away did he relax.
For a moment there he’d been afraid. Afraid of Jack McKinstry! Who would have thought it? Strode didn’t expect people on the wrong end of a squeeze play to be accommodatingly pliant; he’d even anticipated counterthreats. But this was the second time within a week that he’d been made to feel afraid—and he didn’t like the feeling at all.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.
“This isn’t going the way it’s supposed to,” Strode muttered to Castleberry back in his office in New York. “One of them waves a gun at me and the other threatens me with dismemberment. Do the fools think I’m playing a game?”
“Joanna Gillespie has been trying to get you on the phone for the last three days,” his assistant pointed out. “Maybe she’s had time to see reason. She wants an appointment.”
“If she thinks I’m going to put myself within firing distance of her again, she’s got another think coming. Did anyone ever point a loaded gun at your face, Castleberry?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a sobering experience, let me tell you. She’s in New York now? Well, let’s get her on the phone and hear what she has to say.”
Whatever Jo Gillespie had to say, she wasn’t willing to say it over the phone. Strode agreed to a meeting and hung up.
Castleberry was aghast. “You’re not really going to meet her, are you?”
“No. You are. Take one of the security men with you, and make sure she understands he’s armed. You won’t need him, you know—it’s not you she’s mad at. But I’d like her to see that two can play that game. And Castleberry—if she demands the original affidavit her would-be hit man signed, tell her she’ll get it when the stock ownership transfer papers are signed.”
Castleberry smiled. “Will she?”
“Of course not.”
When Castleberry had left, Strode walked over to the window and looked out. The dishy babe directly across the street was no longer there; the office was now occupied by a man. Strode watched for a few minutes as the man grew visibly more frustrated and agitated—until he ended up spanking his PC. Strode went back to his desk.
He took out a file folder and dropped it unopened on the desktop. He sat down and rested his clenched fists on the folder. He didn’t want to have to deal with the third owner of House of Glass shares.
Strode was not a physically brave man. He kept more security than was absolutely necessary at both his home and his various businesses. Other than the usual boyhood scuffles, he’d never been in a fistfight in his life. He looked upon physical violence as a sign of ineptitude, as evidence of failure in the more sophisticated forms of persuasion. Now he was in the position of having to deal with three people who had killed for money; and of the three, the other man in Los Angeles was the most dangerous.
Strode had full confidence in his ability to outmaneuver the three who’d had to resort to violence to get what they wanted. But people who’d killed once would find it easier the next time. Look at Jo Gillespie; she’d let a year elapse between her first murder and her second, but she hadn’t lost her nerve in the interim. He’d slipped when he’d gone to see her and McKinstry alone; he’d at least have had a witness to their threats if he’d taken Castleberry or another member of his staff along. Well, that was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Even if Jack McKinstry calmed down enough to realize he had no choice and came crawling on his hands and knees, there’d be no more little tête-à-têtes on the beach.
Jack had threatened to go to his brother Phil with the story that Strode had fabricated evidence to make him look guilty. Strode was hoping that was exactly what he would do. Phil might believe Jack’s story, might not; Strode didn’t much care. But Phil McKinstry was a businessman; he’d know when it was time to deal. Strode was counting on him to knock some sense into Jack’s head. If he didn’t hear from somebody named McKinstry in the next couple of days, he’d send a copy of the affidavit to Phil.
What would Phil do then? He’d have several options. He could force Jack to sell his shares to Strode. He could refuse to clean up his brother’s messes any longer and kick him out. He could be so horrified by what Jack had done that he’d turn him over to the police. Or, he could hire detectives to investigate the authenticity of the affidavit; but Strode had made sure Billy the pilot was well hidden away until this matter was settled. Billy was just a little too willing to take money from anyone who offered it.
All in all, Strode thought it most likely that Phil would simply kick Jack out. The current amity between the brothers had to be tenuous at best; Phil wouldn’t risk the family and business name to cover up for a brother he already looked upon as something of a scapegrace. The only real danger was that he might turn his brother over to the police, thus defusing Strode’s most potent weapon. But Strode didn’t think Phil would go that far. And once Jack found himself on his own, he’d come around. But he might first think of solving this problem the same way he’d solved the Tony Dwyer problem four years ago. Well, he’d find A. J. Strode was no sitting duck.
Strode buzzed his secretary and told her he wanted to see the chief of security immediately.
It was a toss-up as to whether Myron Castleberry was more nervous or more curious; he’d never met a murderer before. Mr. Strode dealt with some pretty tough people—but a killer? Castleberry wasn’t worried that Joanna Gillespie would whip out her gun and let him have it right between the eyes. Not here, not in a public place. But there was no way he could view her as just another business adversary. Jo Gillespie was different, to say the least.
Castleberry glanced over to the next table where the security guard was seated. She’d said Fiorello’s at four; he and his guard had arrived early and taken two of the sidewalk tables. The inside of the restaurant was a little claustrophobic for a meeting such as this one. Not one to waste a gastronomic opportunity, the security guard had ordered a hot sausage sandwich and was making short work of it.
There she was. Castleberry watched her approach; Joanna Gillespie had an unattractive slouch and a don’t-give-a-damn walk. She made her way through the crowd of strangers on the sidewalk, both fists thrust into the pockets of her jacket and a shoulder bag bouncing off one hip in rhythm to her walk. Castleberry stood and said, “Ms Gillespie? Mr. Strode has asked me to meet you. He—”
“He’s not here?” she interrupted. “He agreed to come!”
This woman kills people, Castleberry reminded himself. “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say Mr. Strode is reluctant to meet with you again in light of what happened last time. We have to take such threats seriously.�
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“Threats? Oh—you mean the gun?”
“I mean the gun.” Castleberry was not prepared for her reaction; she burst out laughing. “It’s not funny, Ms Gillespie.”
“Yes it is! What about you? Aren’t you afraid to meet me alone?” She laughed again.
Silently he gestured toward the next table. The guard moved his jacket just enough to let her see the shoulder holster he was wearing.
She stopped laughing. “Good lord, you are serious, aren’t you? You needn’t be, you know. It was just that he made me mad, the way he—” She broke off. “There’s no way to explain it to someone who wasn’t there. And why should I have to? Who are you, by the way?”
“My name is Myron Castleberry.” He saw her eyes widen a fraction in recognition and wondered where she’d heard his name. “I’m Mr. Strode’s executive assistant. Please sit down.”
She sat. “Do you know that man you work for accused me of being a parricide?”
Parricide, Castleberry thought; that was the word he’d been looking for. Interesting that Joanna Gillespie should know it. “Are you sure you want to talk about that here?” In public, he meant.
“I’d just as soon not talk about it at all.” She waved a waiter over and ordered antipasto. “I have to eat something during the afternoon,” she explained. “Well, what happens now, Mr. Castleberry? Do you want to frisk me before taking me to see Strode?”
“You misunderstand, Ms Gillespie. Mr. Strode doesn’t want to meet with you at all. He asks that you tell me whatever it is you have to say. I’m empowered to act on his behalf.”
“Meaning you’re going to make me another offer for my House of Glass shares. Don’t bother. There won’t be any deal.”
Castleberry studied her face. Was the woman just stupid or did she have something up her sleeve? “Ms Gillespie, I’m sure Mr. Strode made it clear that—”
“Oh yes, he made it clear, all right. He’s going to start a smear campaign against me unless I sell. He even got that idiot Ozzie Rogers to sign a paper that makes me look bad. That got me to thinking—how did A. J. Strode know about Ozzie in the first place? I mean, how did he know I’d seen Ozzie’s ad and answered it?” She paused. “So I called Ozzie and asked him. He said Strode had wanted to hire him too. Isn’t that interesting, Mr. Castleberry? What do you suppose an upright businessman like A. J. Strode would want with a hired gun?”
Castleberry was thinking that Mr. Strode would have found this scene amusing. “Go on.”
“I asked Ozzie to put that in a letter and sign it, and he did. And it cost me only two thousand. He said my name came up during negotiations and Strode paid him five thousand dollars to sign an affidavit. Only it wasn’t Strode himself Ozzie dealt with. He said it was some lackey named Thornberry or something like that.”
Castleberry waited, not reacting to the dig.
“So you can tell your boss that if he has any ideas about publishing his little paper that Ozzie signed … he’d do well to remember I’ve got one too. And the newspapers would just love the one I’ve got. I brought a copy, in case you think I’m bluffing.” She took a folded paper from her bag and put it on the table.
Amateur, Castleberry thought, ignoring the paper lying on the table. “Ms Gillespie, Mr. Strode has need for a large and highly qualified security force. The men provided by the Rent-a-Cop agencies aren’t quite what we need. So we’re always on the lookout for someone sharper, quicker—”
“Like Ozzie Rogers?”
“No, not like Ozzie Rogers. We never made him an offer—we’re not looking for Rambo. But we have hired several men whom we learned of through various gun magazines.”
“Sure you have.”
Castleberry inclined his head toward the guard at the next table. “We found him in Soldier of Fortune. And there are others. We can prove it, Ms Gillespie. My interviewing Ozzie Rogers was simply part of our ongoing search for good security men. There was nothing illicit or secret about it.”
She stared at him.
“So I’m afraid you’ve wasted two thousand dollars,” he went on. “When I first talked to Ozzie, he said he couldn’t start immediately because he thought he’d be doing a job for some lady violinist he’d just met. Why did you tell him you’re a violinist?”
She looked disgusted. “Ozzie wanted to shake hands when we met, and I refused—I have to be careful of my hands. Then of course I had to tell him why. That’s how you traced me?”
“At the time it meant nothing. But when your parents died within a year of each other, I began to wonder if you were the lady violinist Ozzie had meant. Then when your name popped up as a House of Glass stockholder, I thought I’d better find out. It was a simple enough matter to show your photo to Ozzie.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. “I hope Strode pays you well.”
“Very well indeed.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Ms Gillespie, take a word of advice. Don’t try to play this game with Mr. Strode. He’s too experienced and too ruthless. Sell the shares quickly and be done with it.”
“God, I hate being bullied!”
“Doesn’t everybody? But you have no choice. I’m to tell you you’ll get Ozzie Rogers’s affidavit the minute the transfer papers are signed.”
She gave him a disheartened smile. “And of course you won’t be keeping any copies.”
“There are no copies. Mr. Strode will have no interest in your personal affairs once the stock is in his name. Incidentally, I’m empowered to make you another offer.”
She picked up the copy of Ozzie Rogers’s letter and jammed it carelessly into her shoulder bag. “Put it in writing, will you? I’ll have my financial manager look it over.”
“Look it over? Just tell him you want to sell.”
She sighed. “Mr. Castleberry, you got me this time, no question of that. But I know better than to make any decisions when I’m feeling this down. I’ll think about it.”
Castleberry pursed his lips. “I’d advise you not to put it off too long. Mr. Strode is not a man of infinite patience.”
“I said I’ll think about it.” She got up from the table and walked away.
Castleberry and the guard exchanged a querying look. Was it a victory or not?
Just then the waiter came up with the antipasto Jo Gillespie had ordered. “Did the lady leave?”
The guard moved over to Castleberry’s table. “I’ll take it,” he said, and started in on his third lunch of the day.
3
The company jet touched down in Los Angeles around five in the afternoon, too late to do any business that day. Strode had planned it that way; he was not as physically resilient as he used to be, and he wanted a good night’s sleep before tackling the man they had come to see. Castleberry never suffered from jet lag, but one of the two bodyguards they’d brought with them was looking a little peaked.
Two days had passed without a call from either Joanna Gillespie or Jack McKinstry. They were both going to lose money when he shut down House of Glass and they were both risking exposure as murderers by not selling to him. But still no word from either of them. There was only one explanation for that. They were both looking for a way to get A. J. Strode.
Regretfully Strode faced up to the fact that he’d run out of time. He had to close a deal for control of House of Glass and he had to do it fast. Then he had to send what he knew about the murderous activities of Gillespie and McKinstry to the appropriate police as well as publish the details in his newspaper. That’s the only way he could be safe; he was convinced that neither the violinist nor the former playboy would hesitate to kill him if either ever found a way past his guard.
Unfortunately, there was only one stockholder left. His name was Richard Bruce, and Strode’s file on him had been complete long before the other two. But what he’d learned about Bruce made him reluctant to move. Gillespie and McKinstry were small-time; Strode hadn’t worried about dealing with them (although perhaps he should have, he now admitted). Richard Bruce,
however, was a horse of a different color.
He was the sole owner of Bruce Shipping Lines, which consisted of a fleet of various-sized freighters that regularly sailed between Los Angeles and the Orient. Bruce had started nearly twenty years ago with one ship, the Burly Girl, a tramp steam freighter of 12,000 tons with a crew of thirty-seven. The Burly Girl was old and barely seaworthy; the constant maintenance costs and the ever-escalating insurance premiums kept Bruce from being able to get ahead of the game. He was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.
But an even greater threat to Bruce’s solvency came along in the new and radical changes being made in the design and operation of cargo ships that were taking place about that time. The Burly Girl was built the way all freighters had been built for over a century—the stackhouse amidships, with three cargo holds forward of the engine and two aft. The cargo was loaded by means of huge derrick-supported nets, a method that had not basically changed since the days of ancient Rome.
The newer ships went about it differently. The engine, the superstructure, and the stack were all moved aft, leaving a long empty hull forward. The hull was then divided by vertical bulkheads into compartments to hold aluminum or steel cargo containers. The containers were loaded with their cargoes while still on the dock and then shifted directly into the hull compartments; the nets were dispensed with entirely. Loading order was determined by a shipboard computer; the introduction of automation cut the usual crew by over half. One of the new container ships could arrive in port with its crew of twelve or fifteen, unload its cargo, load a new one, and be gone in less time than it took the Burly Girl just to unload. There was no way Richard Bruce could keep up with that kind of competition.
Then one August seventeen years earlier the Burly Girl sailed from Japan with a cargo primarily of textile machinery, with the remaining space taken up by refrigerators, sewing machines, and motorcycles. It was a full load; the Burly Girl was riding low in the water when she left Yokohama harbor. Just off Hawaii she ran into a squall that shouldn’t have caused trouble but did. A distress signal was sent out indicating the crew was jettisoning the cargo. But it did no good. Old and tired, the Burly Girl just couldn’t make it. Before help could arrive, she sank. All hands were lost.