Seventeen days in between.
A lot could happen in seventeen days.
He sighed, feeling a pit of dread in his belly.
What the hell had happened to his daughter, Carla?
CHAPTER 5
Rick Nicholson glanced at his watch, hoping this evening’s meeting with the board members and the executive staff would go quickly. As the last of the board members filed in to the conference room, briefcases and slim leather folders in hand, Paul Westcott passed by and clapped him on the shoulder. “How’re you doing, Rick?”
“Okay,” Rick extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and laid them out in front of him, ready to get to business. He offered Paul a warm smile. “Busy day, huh?”
“Tell me about it.” Paul sat down next to him. He was about to lean forward and say something else to Rick when Wayne Sanders quickly brought the meeting to order.
Standing at the podium at the head of the long conference room table, Wayne addressed the group with his sonorous and commanding voice. He was a small man, slim and balding, his face finely chiseled as if it had been cut out of granite. He wore perfectly tailored suits, favored colorful ties, and was usually soft spoken. Rick had only seen him angry once. When Wayne got angry his entire head turned a deep red; a vein would pulse in the center of his forehead, and his voice would change to a low growl that...well, it was rather scary, actually. Thankfully, that had only happened once, which was enough.
Wayne nodded at the assembled throng. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Why don’t we get started?”
As the meeting got underway, Rick did his best to pay attention to what was going on. Cathy Becker presented the financial report to the group, which was met favorably. Gary Zimmerman reported that he had struck a deal with Dimension Films and Universal Studios to offer sneak previews of both big budget A-list talent films, and Cannes and Sundance quality art house films for next season. This, too, was met with approval. Mark Robinson gave a brief report on the IT side of the business; once again, he recommended the company seriously invest in virtual remote backups, and once again, Wayne said the board would consider it. Rick suppressed his grin. One of the many things the IT Director had spoken to him about privately was the firm’s inability to invest serious money on the best systems to efficiently and securely run their operation. “My budget’s so small, I feel like I have to string everything together with baling wire and little balls that run down paths that hit something that triggers a spring that bounces up and hits another spring that strikes a match that provides heat to a burner that...well, you get the analogy.” Rick did. He was under similar budget constraints.
“Once the season ends, I’ve established an adequate VPN system on the network that will enable a more secure connection,” Mark continued. “I’ll be able to shut down the system remotely after the private event—Casey Security will take over with monitoring the outside security system and the physical grounds.”
This, too, was met with approval. Rick was fairly computer savvy, but there were things in place at Bent Creek that were beyond him. He knew that Mark had established various security methods up the wazoo, and the wireless network and hotspots for the guests were top notch. One thing Mark insisted on maintaining—and the Board agreed vehemently with him on this—was maintaining strong network and internet security for the resort’s guests. It was important for the guests to have remote access to sensitive financial data and, if possible, to make financial transactions while on resort grounds. Working with some of the best internet security specialists and consultants in the field, Mark maintained an extremely tight and impenetrable network.
Kyle Smart was next. He gave a quick rundown on the sporting and gymnastic equipment, reported that they were in need of a new stair master in the gym, and reported that one of the horses, an Appaloosa mare named Goldy, was beginning to show her age. “Jackie Daniels loves that horse,” he went on. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid Jackie will want to take Goldy out tomorrow. Dr. Cauble has already advised me that Goldy needs to be retired. I need some guidance on how to handle this.”
Wayne nodded. This was a sensitive issue. Jackie and Shane Daniels were Bent Creek’s best clients. The couple dropped over a million dollars a year at Bent Creek, and to turn down her request to ride her favorite mare, Goldy, would not go over well. At the same time, to adhere to her wishes would not be in the mare’s best interest and would not make Dr. Cauble happy. Chris Cauble was a good vet, but he was not on staff. Rick was pretty certain that Cauble was the kind of man who would report Bent Creek to the SPCA for Animal Abuse at the first sign.
“Call Dr. Cauble,” Wayne said. “Ask him to evaluate Goldy. If he is of the strong opinion that she be retired, ask him for a recommendation for a new stable she can be sent to. If he can get her off the grounds tomorrow, that would be ideal. In the meantime, make arrangements with Randy Temple that we’re interested in obtaining a new mare for the club. A young one.” Randy Temple was an Appaloosa breeder in the area who owned a fifty-acre horse ranch on the north end of the county.
Kyle nodded, made a notation in his spiral-bound notebook. Case closed. If they were lucky, Jackie Daniels would sleep in until early afternoon and would not be ready to go riding until very late, around five or six. Goldy would be off the grounds by then; at least that’s what Rick was hoping. Besides, tomorrow was the last day of the season, too.
Wayne turned to Rick, addressing him. “Mr. Nicholson?”
Perfect timing. Rick had his notes out and ready to go. “Operation wise, we’ve run a smooth ship. We’re all set for our last day.” He continued by reporting on a minor annoyance—the destruction of one of the suites by the adult children of one of their clients who’d trashed it in a drunken party—as well as detailing the dining room and bar inventory levels, office administration supplies, and maintenance equipment. “Chef Munchel reports that he is down to the appropriate levels of stock and food in the kitchen for the private party and banquet after we close for the season,” he concluded. “Likewise, housekeeping is almost finished with laundering the sheets and towels, and I have a graveyard shift in place for Wednesday night to finish. That shift will be the last of the staff to leave the premises on Thursday until next season.
Wayne nodded in approval. After the season closed tomorrow, September 24, and the last of the guests left, Bent Creek would be left with a skeleton crew of only eighteen to handle the private party that had rented the facilities for the five days following its formal closure. Rick had stayed on last year for a similar private party to supervise this skeleton crew; he’d be doing the same this season.
“Very good,” Wayne nodded. “Chef Munchel reports the possible addition of a late arrival for the private event. Aside from that, everybody else is already present, including the staff.”
Rick nodded. Last year, the skeleton crew had been cherry-picked personally by Wayne at the last minute. It was a condition of employment for Bent Creek; if you did exceptionally well and were noticed, Wayne tapped you for the extra duty upon closing of the season. The ten employees (actually, eight—two of them had abruptly quit within the first two nights and left the premises) who’d been chosen last year had walked away with a nice little bonus at the end. “My report on employee performances will be on your desk by tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Good. As discussed earlier, and in accordance to past work structures, we’ll only need a handful of staff. One housekeeper, one groundsman and maintenance worker apiece, one member of the athletic department, one or two staff members to run the theater, and three of Paul’s staff to assist with security. With the exception of one member of the wait staff, Chef Munchel will be flying solo. After all, this is his show.” Wayne smiled slightly. The only thing Rick Nicholson knew about the private party was that they had hired Chef Munchel, who was a world renowned chef, to prepare dishes exclusively for them from his personal recipes. Rick knew that the price for such a party usually ran in the tens of thousands of dollars;
one of the partners at the law firm had hired a well-known chef for a similar affair, at his Aspen home. Chef Jim Munchel was even more well-known and in high demand, so the fee for his services would have to run in the hundreds of thousands. Chicken feed to the dozen or so guests who’d booked Bent Creek for the season’s conclusion.
“I assume you’ll retain Charlie Thompson for maintenance duties?” Rick asked.
Wayne nodded, his features contemplative. “Yes. It was rather unfortunate that Brian Gaiman left so suddenly.” He looked at Paul Westcott. “Do you have an update on Gaiman’s whereabouts and the latest news on the theft?”
At the mention of the theft, all eight board members and members of the executive staff seemed to take notice. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, others sat up straighter, their attention more focused. If news of such a brazen theft got beyond the gates of Bent Creek, it could bring unwanted attention.
“Well, this is the first time a theft has happened at Bent Creek,” Paul said. “The victim, Parker Goode, is still very angry about it. Frankly, I don’t blame him.”
There were several nods of understanding around the room. Wayne was pacing the small area at the head of the big conference room table where he was holding court. “Yes, I don’t blame him, either,” he said. “Mr. Goode is also part of the private party that has booked the premises for the five days after our formal closing. Have your men examined his room for evidence?”
“Absolutely,” Paul said. “There’s no sign of forced entry to the front or back doors to the suite, and the lock wasn’t forced open on the briefcase. Parker said the briefcase wasn’t locked. Of course, he didn’t think anybody would break into his suite in the first place, and now he’s mad at himself for not locking the briefcase.”
“No reason to be angry at himself,” Wayne said. “Until now, we’ve run a very secure resort.”
“Of course,” Paul continued. “Which is why we were on this the moment it was reported.”
“You found no fingerprints? No forensic evidence?”
“None whatsoever. My team went over the entire room. The first report I received was this afternoon. Initial forensic reports indicate that the only trace of DNA from hair fibers we’ve recovered from the room is Parker’s.”
“He hasn’t had any other guests in his room, then?”
“No.”
“And what about fingerprint evidence?”
“We compared his prints with those recovered. They’re a match. We also matched prints with two of the housekeepers that have turned his room. We’ve searched their quarters and haven’t found anything.”
“Are the housekeepers cooperating?”
“Very much so.”
“What is your assessment of them?”
“They didn’t do it,” Paul stated. Rick could tell Paul was adamant about this. “They’re both exceptional workers, and when I questioned them they didn’t give me any overt signs that they were lying.” Paul would be able to spot evasion; in a past life, he was a homicide detective for the LAPD.
“What about our missing maintenance worker?”
Paul sighed. Rick caught his eye and nodded. They’d talked about Carmen’s report earlier, and Paul told Rick that he’d let Wayne know about it. “Carmen was one of the housekeepers who turned Parker’s room. She reported Brian missing this morning to Rick.”
Rick cut in. “She seemed rather upset about it, too.”
“We turned Brian’s quarters and found nothing,” Paul continued. “We also turned Charlie’s room, and questioned him extensively. He was rather angry at the fact. Claimed Brian gave him no cause for alarm despite his background.”
One of the board members, a tall, handsome man named Robert Barker, spoke up. “If I can cut in here real quick with a comment?”
Wayne acknowledged Robert with a nod. Robert nodded back, cleared his throat. “Myself and a few other members of the board have brought up the validity of revisiting the charter in our bylaws regarding the work-release program. In light of this recent event, I wonder if it’s a subject that merits discussion for a future meeting.”
A smartly-dressed woman whom Rick didn’t know by name, murmured agreement. Other board members nodded silently. The only other board member Rick knew by name, Emily Wharton, said nothing. She was jotting down notes on a laptop.
Robert continued. “While it’s hardly evident that our missing maintenance worker is the culprit in the theft of our guest’s money, I think his disappearance will bear further investigation. The missing money is obviously no longer on the grounds.” Robert directed his gaze to Paul. “What are you doing to locate Brian?”
Paul shrugged. “The state police have been informed of the theft. They also have Brian’s photo and vital stats.”
Rick cut in. “Paul and his team are cooperating fully with the state authorities and are doing admirably well under the circumstances.”
Paul continued. “We’re making an effort to locate Brian’s family and known contacts, both outside the prison system and his old cronies.”
“That’s all very good, but what about the future?” Robert was obviously concerned, and several of the other board members bore similar expressions. For the first time, Rick felt a sense of unease coming from the board members. It was something he couldn’t put his finger on, but they seemed to be uncomfortable with the theft and Brian’s disappearance. “Until the other members of the board and myself can discuss our work-release program and whether or not to revise or eliminate it altogether, I believe there must be some discussion on how to better screen future candidates from this program.”
“Agreed, and I share your concern,” Paul stated.
“We can discuss that part of our by-laws at the winter meeting,” Wayne stated, nodding at Robert, his gaze sweeping across to the other members of the board. “Until then, we should address the matter at hand.” He turned to Paul. “As an ex-con on work release, Gaiman’s parole will be revoked when he’s picked up by the police. My suggestion is to cooperate with law enforcement if they need your help. I assume they have Brian’s photo and vital statistics. Have they talked to Carmen?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Carmen will be rather busy over the next twenty-four hours with the last day of service. If the police need to talk to her, they can do so at the conclusion of the season. Unless, of course, Brian is found before then.” Wayne smiled. “And I suppose if that is the case, it won’t matter then, will it?”
“I guess not,” Paul said. He was jotting down notes in a spiral notepad.
Wayne turned back to Rick. “Anything else, Mr. Nicholson?”
Ignoring the tinge of unease he’d felt, Rick looked at his list and quickly brought the board up to speed on the rest of his agenda items. When he was finished, Wayne thanked him and moved on to Pete Pellegrino, Bent Creek’s Business Administrator. Pete was in his early sixties, balding, and always wore spotless long-sleeved white dress shirts with dark slacks and either dark red or blue ties. As Pete started his report, Rick tuned the meeting out. It was almost done. In less than a week he’d be heading back to Denver with enough money to live on for the next year, maybe more if he stretched it out. He could spend more time with his mother—he’d been meaning to get out for a quick visit this season and had been unable to due to his workload at Bent Creek. Maybe now he could see her. She could use more than the visit; she could use the extra money he was planning on giving her. Mom hadn’t been doing so well financially since the cancer had taken his father and had now come to lay claim to her body. Why have health insurance when it didn’t pay for even half of her visits or medications?
As Pete Pellegrino ran down his list of items in his presentation, Rick glanced casually at his watch. Hopefully this would wrap fairly quickly, then he could get back to his quarters and give Mom a call, see how she was doing. Then he could relax a little bit, take advantage of one last meal in the dining room. Unlike the other staff members of Bent Creek, Rick and the other me
mbers of management were allowed to eat in the dining room and drink in the lounge. That would change when the season closed, however. For the five days that followed, Rick would have to eat at the little bar-and-grill in the employee lounge, which would be the only thing running aside from his skeleton crew. Meals for the skeleton crew were to be provided at specific windows—breakfast between 7:30 and 8:00, lunch between 11:30 and noon, dinner between 5:00 and 5:30. Anything beyond that, like snacks, would have to be procured prior to the bar-and-grill closing and reheated in the room microwave. Chef Munchel would do double-duty between his own kitchen and that of the bar-and-grill during the private event, hence the small window of time. He would be spending most of his time preparing his extravagantly exotic and, most likely, expensive meals for the wealthy clients who had hired him for this private soiree.
Rick leaned back in his seat, feigning interest in the meeting and thought about how much he was looking forward to not only the close of the season, but that of the private party and his fall and winter sojourn in Denver.
CHAPTER 6
He’d been tied up for three days now. Tied up, gagged, left in the dark in God only knew where, and he’d long given up on anybody coming to rescue him. It just wasn’t going to happen.
There was no way anybody could rescue him. After all, they were in on it.
Dale Lantis had liked the job. It was a desk job, and it was pretty boring, but the building was nice and so were his co-workers. Dale spent most of his time going through files, analyzing and scanning documents—mostly receipts and contracts—and putting them out on a server. Easy as cake. His supervisor, Joann Bigelow, was very easy-going. She was a very hands-off supervisor. As long as he did his work, she didn’t care if he spent three hours a day surfing the Internet or playing games on his computer. He got his work done and that was all that mattered.
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