by Simon Wood
His meeting with the board had gone as he expected.
The report hadn’t been well received. Tyrell’s viatical division was returning a profit, but it was again short of the fifteen-percent growth target required by the firm and promised by Tyrell. The results were better than the quarter before, and those were better than the quarter before that. He had it under control; all he needed was time and he would turn it around. He
knew the board was turning against him. They wanted to be rid of him. He could see himself being replaced by someone who they thought could do the job more effectively.
The idiots, if they only knew. Would any of them have had the guts to do what he had done? He doubted it. His only way out was to increase the pace of his program.
He knew he risked exposure and an investigation, but his back was against the wall and he would be damned if he would let them have his division. He had to risk it.
Tyrell listened to the burr of the telephone ringing.
“Come on, come on, answer the phone. I want to
know what you are doing,” he muttered to himself.
After several rings, the professional picked up.
“Hello.” His one word was impenetrable. It gave no indication to his feelings, his location, his well-being. It didn’t even sound like a welcome.
“Where were you? Why didn’t you answer the phone
right away?” Tyrell demanded.
“What do you want?” the professional said dismissively.
“I want to know how far you have gotten with your assignments.”
“They’re proceeding.”
“But when will they be completed?”
“Probably a week to ten days.”
“I want them concluded as soon as possible, and that means less than a week,” Tyrell snapped. “I have other assignments for you. I’m increasing the pace of the project.”
“Do you consider that an acceptable risk?”
“Are you worried you’ll be caught?” Tyrell liked his snide remark.
“I think you should be. If it ever came down to it, the police would never find me and neither would you.”
“Are you sure? You seem to be losing your touch.
You’ve missed this target once already. Have you managed to try again?”
“Yes, I have. This target is a fortunate man. I arranged for his aircraft to have some problems.”
Tyrell interrupted. “Did you get him?” He already knew the answer.
“No, I followed him to the airport and he changed his mind.”
“So? He’ll probably use the plane again.”
“No, his flying partner took it and was killed.”
“Congratulations, you killed the wrong man,” he
scolded.
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” Tyrell said bluntly. He was only bothered if the killing exposed him and his project. “Are you?”
The professional didn’t answer.
“Is he suspicious with two accidents occurring so close together? If I were him, I’d be wondering about a third.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“That makes your task harder. And does he have any suspicions regarding Pinnacle Investments?”
“Oh yes. The wreath that someone sent from your
company did that. Was that you?”
The vice president was angrier with himself than his hit man. He’d indulged himself and it had backfired.
Every time one of the viatical clients died he sent a wreath to the family. He got special enjoyment out of knowing the client was dead before the family did.
He’d made the mistake after he’d received the phone call that Josh Michaels was dead. He’d sent a wreath, and why shouldn’t he? His hired gun had never missed before. He wouldn’t make that mistake again; no
wreath until a kill was confirmed.
“If I hadn’t been given the wrong fucking information about his apparent death, that mistake would have never been made,” Tyrell said. “What have you got planned now?”
“The woman is proceeding according to plan, and I see a conclusion to that soon. My investigations have shown that Michaels has a dubious past. He is or was involved with a woman and I think there’s a possibility for something spectacular that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
But it’ll take a little arranging.” The professional’s pride shone through.
Tyrell’s heart sank. Whatever it was the professional had planned, it didn’t inspire confidence. “Just make sure that you don’t miss this time. I don’t want these failed attempts becoming habit. It’s the wrong time for fuck-ups, for all of us.”
“I’ve never failed you before, have I?” the professional asked.
“Good night,” Tyrell said and hung up.
The vice president tossed the phone onto his desk. It bounced across the smooth surface and came to a halt at the edge of the table. His contract killer pissed him off.
He was getting too flamboyant with his staged accidents, and his arrogance made him ineffective. For some time his hit man had worried him. The last three kills had gone according to plan, but the kills were so elaborate that the outcome could have easily gone the other way.
So, what were his options? Lay the hit man off? God knew he wanted to replace him with someone who had a more straightforward approach. Somehow, Tyrell
didn’t think hired killers were canned from jobs. It wasn’t that sort of business. So what could he do with the professional? He was too much of a liability left to roam free, but he knew almost nothing about him. His thoughts were leading him to a conclusion his hit man wasn’t going to like.
But for now Tyrell needed the hit man, and he really needed the kill rate increased. The life expectancy of his clients had to be shortened for the success of the company. He would love to show the board members
who could make this company sparkle. Tyrell pocketed the discarded phone, picked up his briefcase and left his office. He hoped that tomorrow would be more
promising.
An hour later the professional sat in a restaurant bar.
The food and drink were expensive, like the clientele, which were a mix of state officials, businessmen and high-income white-collar workers. He wondered how many of these men had big life insurance policies in the hands of viatical companies like Pinnacle Investments.
Would he be making a visit to any of them one day? He smiled at the thought. The human race’s ability for creating complex problems amused him. His clean-living
lifestyle, simple and without appendages, would never have him looking down the barrel of a gun.
He had a mineral water in one hand and his eyes
fixed on the television’s baseball game. Disinterested, he watched the game, but his mind was elsewhere. He decided Dexter Tyrell was a prick. The businessman wanted everything to happen now, but this type of work needed planning. Tyrell’s problem was greed, and greed meant sloppiness, which meant errors. He mused on the notion that he might blow off this gig, close the post office box and get rid of the cellular phones. And if he discovered Tyrell was becoming a liability, then he would
take care of him. Permanently.
A hand lightly touched his shoulder and someone
spoke, tearing him away from his thoughts.
“Hi, James.” Belinda Wong was a vision in a scarlet dress that enhanced her to-die-for figure.
The professional had gotten her phone number at
Josh Michaels’s birthday party as part of a fallback plan. He’d called her after Mark Keegan had been
killed in his aircraft. With that particular avenue closed for Michaels’s demise, he turned to Josh’s ex-mistress.
He saw potential with this woman on his side. He
thought Michaels was a fool to get involved with someone like this; she had trouble written all over her.
Belinda was pleased to hear from him. The professional took her interest in him as a positive sign and
felt
his luck change with the Michaels assignment.
She’d suggested this place—expensive and exclusive.
“Belinda, you look breathtaking.”
“Thank you. Call me Bell.”
“Can I get you a drink, Bell?”
“Yes, I’ll have a white wine.” Bell slid onto the stool next to him.
He asked the barman to get the lady a white wine.
The barman offered her a choice, and she selected a quality Chardonnay. The professional told her the table would be ready for them in a few minutes. She smiled, exposing teeth that could consume him in a single bite.
“Are you in a better mood than when we last met?”
he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “I wasn’t having a
good time at the party.”
“What were all the bad feelings about?”
“Oh, a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“We’ll see.” Bell’s perfectly manicured fingers with long bloodred fingernails gripped the wineglass as tightly as the scarlet dress hugged her delicate frame. She sipped her drink.
He looked at the woman. He studied her face, trying to see what was going on in that mind. It is so obvious what kind of woman she is, he thought. As dangerous as she is beautiful. The professional finished off his mineral water.
The maitre d’ came over and told them their table was ready and showed them the way. The men noticed Bell, with her provocative dress and elegant good looks. Obvious stares meant to be stray glances were sent in her direction from all quarters of the restaurant.
The men wanted her and she knew they did.
They were seated at a window table for two. The table was an arm’s width too narrow for the professional’s comfort.
The server took their orders and left them. Their conversation was lost in a sea of voices. The appetizer course came and went, as did the exchange of words about everyday life, careers and other forgettable subjects.
He’d noted boredom creeping into her demeanor.
When the main course arrived, he decided it was time to make the meal more interesting.
“Do you want to play something? Just for fun.”
Suspicion flashed in her eyes. “Like what?”
“I used to work with a guy many years ago and he
had the perfect way of breaking the ice with new people.
He always swore that this one question gave him
more insight into people than weeks of working with them,” the professional lied.
“Was he a salesman?” She dabbed her mouth with
the napkin and sipped her wine.
“Yeah, he used to spring this question on his clients at social functions. You know, business dinners and lunches—stuff like that,” the professional said, embellishing the lie.
“So what was the question?”
“So you’re interested?”
“Yes.” Bell’s dark eyes bored into him.
She was interested. He had her.
“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“That’s the question?”
Smiling, the professional nodded. He took another mouthful of food from his fork.
“Why not the nicest thing you’ve ever done?”
He put down his fork, swallowed his food, placed his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers. “Because the nice things aren’t that interesting. But people are very keen to tell you the worst they have done, because in some twisted way we’re all turned on by the
evil that men or women do. People would rather hear that I hung out with Al Capone than Mother Teresa.
There’s something inherently sexy about being bad, as twisted as it may sound.”
Bell paused on the thought. She picked up her knife and fork.
He smirked. “Well?”
“Well what?” She glanced at him and cut into the
fish on her plate.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he repeated.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes. I think I do.”
“Okay then.”
The professional grinned.
“I blackmailed someone.”
Although she tried to pass off the comment as no big thing, it was impossible for her to hide her pride. The professional smiled. His question never failed.
“Wow. That is bad.”
“It is, isn’t it? I thought you might be impressed.”
Picking up his knife and fork, the professional
started to eat again. Just the confession for which he was looking. He had the reason why Michaels had sold his life policy. Michaels had to have money for the blackmail. “So, what was the blackmail about?”
“That isn’t enough for you?” she asked, her tone provocative.
“No. I want details. You’ve given me the answer. I’ve seen the menu, but you haven’t let me sample the food.
Without the details there’s no way for me to judge what kind of person you are.”
“I blackmailed a man I was having an affair with.”
“Good. Tell me more.”
The server interrupted them to check on drinks. The professional asked for another bottle of wine.
“So you blackmailed him over the affair?”
“Partly.”
“What was the other part?”
“He once told me he took kickbacks when he was a
building inspector. I suppose he was playing true to form. As your friend was saying, he told me his worst to impress me.”
The server returned with the wine and topped off
their glasses, then moved on to another table.
“Did you blackmail him after he told you?”
“No, I did that when he tried to break up with me.”
“Did you know about his wife?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So you were under no illusions that he was unattached.”
“Oh,
no. I knew about his marriage and I had even
met his wife a few times.”
The professional laughed. “You are a dangerous
woman.”
Smiling, she said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The professional nodded.
“I found it quite stimulating, having a conversation with his wife while she was completely unaware that I was fucking her husband. It used to make sex very intense after seeing her. I liked to have my tete-a-tete
with his wife and then screw him afterwards.”
“So why the blackmail?”
“He got an attack of the guilts and wanted to break things off. That wasn’t acceptable to me. He’d made a decision to start a relationship with me, but hadn’t had the courtesy to break it off with his wife. So when he decided that his relationship with me had been a mistake and that it was over, I decided I would make him
pay a price for his betrayal.”
“To his wife?”
Bell laughed. “No, to me. He betrayed me as well as his wife. I wasn’t concerned with her feelings. It was up to her to do whatever she wanted to take revenge for her husband’s infidelity.”
The professional noticed the more she talked about Josh, the colder she became. Bell’s deep-rooted hatred for Josh Michaels became very apparent. This was the kind of woman with whom the professional could do business. He stopped eating and gave his full and undivided attention to Bell.
“So, when did you stop blackmailing him?” he asked.
“Who says I have?” Bell hid her smirk behind her
wineglass.
The professional grinned again. He was getting all the information he wanted.
“What’s his name? This unfortunate betrayer of
trust and breaker of hearts.”
“I’m not sure I should say,” she said, the smirk still on her face.
“Oh, come on, Bell, you can’t leave me hanging. It’s not like I would know him or anything.”
“But you do know him.”
“Do I?” he replied, trying not to show he knew the answer already.
“It’s Josh Michaels.”
The professional had surmised correctly. He knew
the hold she had over Michaels; now it was time to exploit it, and her.
“So is that why you were upset at his party?”
“Yes. He’s starting to refuse to play along with my demands and he used one of his friends to try to talk me out of hurting his happy home.”
“It sounds like he’s trying to call your bluff.”
“Maybe. But what can I do about it?”
“Show him that you’re not bluffing.”
“How would I do that?”
“I could show you.”
Surprised, Bell raised an eyebrow. “Could you now.”
“Is the money your main concern?”
“No. It’s a punishment.”
“Well that gives us options.”
“Us?”
“Yes. Us.”
“I think we should discuss this somewhere else. The dinner table is not the right place,” Bell said.
“That’s fine with me.”
“So, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Bell asked.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
While sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, Josh leafed through the initial findings of the joint FAA and National Transport Safety Board investigation that had come through the letter slot that morning.
In brief, the report stated that the Cessna had run dry of oil and the elevator and rudder bolts had detached themselves. The reason the engine sump had
been devoid of oil was because the oil cooler hoses were not sufficiently tightened. It was assumed that the missing bolts had come loose and fallen from the plane during flight, which meant it was probable that the split pins weren’t secured through the nuts and bolts. In the opinion of the NTSB, these simple mechanical failures should have been detected during the overhaul prior to the fatal flight, and the pilot should have taken better care during the pre-takeoff checks. The NTSB planned to put the majority of the blame on the mechanic and the remainder on pilot negligence. The findings were preliminary and were in no way to be taken as final. He read through the brief report again.