Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Lyle had called Joe two weeks ago to tell him one of Earl Sanders’s underlings had inquired about him. Just a simple verification process, checking references. The other men on Dean’s hand-picked list of references had also chimed in over the next day or so to verify they’d been contacted too. The ruse had worked. George Spector had called him last week to invite Joe to an exclusive dinner at the Pinnacle, a swanky five-star restaurant in Newport Beach, to discuss the details of their impending merger. Joe had only been too eager to accept.

  And now the meeting was concluding as dessert wound down. Joe dabbed at his mouth with a white, heavy, cloth napkin. The meal had been excellent, one of the best he’d ever had, and he was even more pleased by the progress of the meeting. Earl Sanders seemed downright giddy. Joe nodded at Earl. “I’m very impressed,” he said. “I’m even more excited that we can bring our mutual strengths together and create something of long lasting and high yielding value.”

  “I’m excited about the possibilities myself,” Earl said. He set his napkin aside.

  “How’d you enjoy your meal, Bob?” George asked.

  Joe groaned, rubbed his stomach in mock display of fullness. “It was just...words can’t describe it. I have never had rabbit that was just so mouth-watering.”

  George grinned. “Chef Munchel has a way with exotic dishes.”

  “I bet he does a great duck, and an even better pheasant.”

  “Oh, he does,” John said. He was packaging the reports up in his slim briefcase. “His specialty is exotic dishes and the outré. What he offers on his menus at his restaurants is just the tip of the iceberg of his specialties.”

  “How about if we introduce you?” George exclaimed. He’d put away a little bit more wine than the rest of them, and had grown more chatty and outgoing as the meal, and the meeting, had progressed.

  “Sure,” Joe said. Why not? Wasn’t meeting and complimenting the chef on an excellent meal common courtesy?

  John shrugged. “Can’t hurt anything.” He turned to one of the servers, a slim Asian man in his twenties. “If Chef has a moment, ask him if he could come out and meet our guest.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lansdale.” The man nodded and removed John’s empty dessert dish from the table.

  Joe gathered his reports together as the dinner wound down. There was some small banter. When was Bob leaving to head back home to Aurora, Colorado? Was he going to take in some of the sights in Newport Beach tomorrow? Joe explained that he was thinking of buying a place close by. John mentioned a realtor he worked with, and was searching for the realtor’s business card when the Asian waiter returned from the side door with Chef Munchel.

  Chef Munchel appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. Dressed in chef’s whites, he was a bit on the portly side, standing about five foot nine. His close-cropped graying hair was receding from his forehead, but his features were those of a child engaged forever in mirth; his eyes twinkled in amusement, his lips curved up at some silent joke. He was very disarming and pleasant. “Mr. Garrison, I presume?” Chef Munchel said, stepping forward and holding his right hand out to be shaken. His grip was firm, his voice melodic with an inflection of merriment and humor. Joe nodded. “I surely hope you enjoyed your meal,” Chef Munchel said.

  “In a word, it was fantastic!” Joe said.

  Chef Munchel’s grin widened. “Wonderful! So good to hear.” His eyes fell on Earl Sanders and the rest of the group. “And I take it your meals were all to your satisfaction?”

  “As always, Chef, you’re Number One!” John said. He was standing up now, smoothing down his shirt, prepping himself for the walk through the main dining room to their waiting vehicles at the valet.

  “Very good,” Chef Munchel said, bowing politely. “I take it the facilities were to your liking to conduct business?”

  “Very much so,” George said. He was buttoning his sport coat and gathering his briefcase. He nodded to Joe. “We had a very good meeting.”

  “Ah! Wonderful!” Chef Munchel turned to Joe. “I take it I’ll probably see more of you, then?”

  “You probably will,” Joe said. He smiled.

  “Good! Good!” Chef Munchel exclaimed. “Well, if you men will excuse me, I really must get back to my kitchen. Mr. Garrison, it was a pleasure.” Chef Munchel bowed slightly.

  “Nice to meet you, Chef Munchel,” Joe said.

  Chef Munchel addressed Earl Sanders. “I suppose I’ll see you next week for your other dinner meeting, Mr. Sanders?”

  “Yes, you will,” Bill said. He stopped to talk to Chef Munchel as Joe exited the private dining room with John and George. As they left, he heard Earl say, “John will be joining us, but George has to fly to Atlanta for business. He’ll be—”

  The rest was drowned out as Joe weaved his way through the dining room, following John and George. His mind was racing as they exited the restaurant and stood under the awning that shielded the entryway from the elements. An older man dressed in a suit was waiting for them outside, standing near the valet station. “The valets are bringing your vehicles, gentlemen,” the man said.

  John nodded at the man and slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. The man made the bill disappear. And as Joe stood under the awning, talking to his new business partners, he hoped he didn’t come across as too eager to escape their company and head back to his hotel. He wanted to get back to the privacy of his room and call Dean Campbell to tell him the meeting had gone as perfectly as they’d hoped it would.

  CHAPTER 26

  It was a little after one a.m. and they’d taken the suite apart in their search for the missing money. Scott Baker stood in the middle of the living room, tired, frustrated, and at wits end. He regarded Pete Atkins and Glenn Cunningham, who had just finished a second search of the master bedroom. “We’ve gotta face the fact that the money just isn’t here,” he said.

  Glenn nodded. He crossed the room and slumped down in the large sofa. The sofa had been taken apart completely; the cushions had been opened, the stuffing gone through, the frame beneath it searched, the back torn up and inspected. Pieces of the sofa lay on the floor. Likewise, the easy chair had been taken apart and the entertainment center had been unpacked and inspected. Shane and Jackie’s belongings had been removed from their suitcases and gone over completely at least twice. The kitchen, bathroom, and the bedroom had been searched. The rug had been pulled up in places. They had spent three hours in this suite alone searching for the missing money. It just wasn’t here.

  Pete was standing in the kitchen. “So the money isn’t here, and it isn’t in Carl White’s suite or in the suites of the other victims.”

  Scott nodded. “Exactly.” They’d conducted similar searches of the rooms of the theft victims themselves after Paul suggested maybe they’d made false claims against Shane and Jackie. Not that making false claims mattered at this point with Shane and Jackie dead, but Paul was thorough like that.

  “So where the fuck is it?” Glenn asked. “I doubt the Westlakes or Mr. Goode would make shit up.”

  “No, they were serious about it,” Scott said. “I was there with Paul when Parker Goode filed his complaint. Guy was livid. Who wouldn’t be pissed off at half a million bucks disappearing from your hotel room?”

  Pete nodded. “Yeah, that would piss me the fuck off, too.”

  Scott was frustrated. To have two well-paying guests make theft claims like this in such a short period of time meant something fucked up was happening. The Westlake couple and Mr. Goode had been contacted by Paul via cell phone earlier in the evening and questioned about their relationships with Jackie and Shane. Neither victim thought Jackie and Shane were the culprits, but did admit to butting heads with the couple numerous times during their stay. Parker Goode had even mentioned Shane bragged that he could “clean his clock financially” when it came to gambling. When Mr. Goode had responded with a flippant, “Okay, hot shot, you think you can clean me out this week. You go for it.” Two days later, the cash in the suitcase earmarke
d for his yearly poker games with his friends went missing. The only reason Parker didn’t suspect Jackie or Shane was that during the time it was believed the money was stolen, he was in the lounge with the couple the entire evening. A dozen people had been able to verify this.

  So if Shane and Jackie hadn’t stolen the money, who did?

  “Something’s fucked up,” Glenn said.

  “Yeah, it is,” Scott said. He was tired, but he couldn’t stop thinking that something just didn’t add up. He looked at Glenn and Pete. “And it sounds like you guys are thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “Jackie and Shane didn’t steal the money,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, it looks like it.” Scott sighed. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna wake Paul up and tell him.”

  * * *

  Paul was sitting up in bed with the drapes to his suite closed, phone to his ear, listening as Pete gave him a rundown of their complete searches of all four suites in question—Jackie and Shane’s, Mr. and Mrs. Westlake’s, Parker Goode’s, and Carl White’s. Carl had been moved to an entirely new suite, recently vacated by a regular seasonal guest, and wasn’t aware his old suite was being searched. According to Emily Wharton, he hadn’t seemed too concerned that Jackie and Shane probably hadn’t stolen his money.

  Paul sighed. “Okay,” he said. He’d been in such a deep sleep he almost hadn’t heard his phone ring. He’d had to grope for it like a blind man in the dark, and had knocked the instrument off his nightstand. “I guess we need to do something about this.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Scott said. “We searched all the guest’s rooms last night, and we also searched the employees’. What next?”

  “I really don’t want to do this, but I see no other choice.” Paul rubbed his face, for the first time feeling nervous. “I think the next step is to search senior staff members’ rooms. Start with Rick Nicholson’s suite since he’s not due back until tomorrow. Report back to me on the results. I’m positive you won’t find anything in Rick’s suite, but report back anyway and continue on with Mark Robinson’s and Pete Pellegrino’s suites.”

  “Okay, will do,” Scott said. “Mind if I give my guys a few hours of sleep first?”

  “No,” Paul said. “Go ahead. Any word from the local police yet on Gaiman?”

  “None.” Out of desperation, Paul had contacted the head of the local county sheriff earlier that afternoon to report Brian Gaiman as an escaped ex-convict. The local authorities were well aware of the work-release program at Bent Creek, and Paul further informed Sheriff Stephen Brady that Brian Gaiman had psychiatric problems. “He’s paranoid,” he’d told Sheriff Brady. “He’s a tweaker and is convinced everybody is out to get him, from the government, to aliens from the planet Neptune. He’s also convinced there’s a race of cannibals that live in the woods beyond the Bent Creek grounds. We were in the process of getting his parole officer here and having him removed from his duties when he went AWOL on us. I’ve had my guys searching the woods and the surrounding properties and we’ve been unable to find him.”

  Sheriff Brady had assured Paul that his men would be on the lookout for him and that he would be held for Paul and his team when he was picked up. “I’m going to contact Sheriff Brady in a few hours,” he told Scott. “Get some rest, then start with Rick’s suite. I’ll talk to you at eight o’clock.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Westcott,” Scott said.

  When the call was over Paul sat up in bed, his mind running in a thousand directions. If he were running this show, he’d call this year’s event off entirely. Wayne Sanders wouldn’t have it though. He could probably convince Emily and a few of the other members, but Wayne would be a hard nut to crack. He would stubbornly insist that things go as planned and expect Paul and his team to handle security and provide that buffer they needed. Paul could do it—he definitely had the resources and skill—but with so many holes and dents in the armor now, from Brian Gaiman’s escape, to the three brazen thefts, and the sudden decision to eliminate Shane and Jackie, there were just too many distractions. If he could direct the efforts of his small crew in searching the executive suites, Paul could get to work on providing alibis for Shane and Jackie’s disappearances. They would probably be reported missing in a few days. As far as he knew, their car was still in the guest parking lot. That car would have to disappear, and the database records would have to be updated to reflect that Shane and Jackie had checked out promptly. A quick call to Mark Robinson, Bent Creek’s IT Director, would have to be made tomorrow morning as well. Mark could make those changes remotely without question. He jotted this down as a reminder to himself on the notepad he kept by the nightstand.

  Feeling better that he had some semblance of control back, Paul Westcott laid back down in his king-sized bed and tried to get back to sleep.

  But his sleep was fitful, and his dreams were nightmarish.

  CHAPTER 27

  Friday

  When Rick Nicholson arrived back at Bent Creek that morning at eight a.m., he felt relieved, but he was still on edge.

  His key card had let him in through the front gate. He piloted his car through a second set of security gates and parked in the executive lot in the rear of the administrative wing. I guess it wasn’t a dream then, he thought as he headed to the rear entrance of the building. They haven’t deactivated my access. I guess Wayne really does want me as a full-time permanent employee. This is good.

  Rick was still on an emotional high from yesterday. He couldn’t help but blurt the news out to his mother yesterday, at her apartment, when he arrived to check up on her. Mom had been happy for him, but he could tell that beneath her happiness, she was tired, worn out. Rick had pretended not to notice, but he could tell Mom knew he was faking it, and he cut his visit short. After making sure she had enough money to get by for the next week, and that her utilities, medical bills, and rent were taken care of for the next month, he’d stood at her front door talking to her for a few minutes. She could sense he was eager to get back to Bent Creek, and ushered him out. “Go on,” she’d said, shooing him out. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my pain meds, and I’ve got my vitamins, and I’ve got plenty of books to keep me occupied. Got plenty of food here, and Ms. Ellis down the hall stops in every day on her way home from work to check in on me.” Ms. Ellis was a thirty-something spinster who lived at the end of the hall in Mom’s building. She was a reasonably attractive woman, but she seemed to live for nothing else but her cats and providing diversion and entertainment for Mom; she regularly stopped in to bring things for Mom, making Rick feel like a good-for-nothing son. He’d complained about this to Mom once and she wouldn’t have it. “You’re in a bad spot right now,” Mom had said. “And you need to get on your feet. You’re working at this, and all that hard work you do helps me. Believe me, Ricky, you do plenty for me. And I thank you and love you for it.”

  Rick had given Mom a kiss and left the apartment. He’d swung by his own apartment where he took a quick nap, a shower, and changed into fresh clothes. He’d done a few other errands, called Gary Thompson at his office to make sure things were still in place for next week, and casually told him about Bent Creek’s offer. Gary offered a cautious congratulations. “Tread lightly, brother,” Gary had said. “Something that sounds that good probably has certain conditions attached to it.”

  After assuring Gary he would scrutinize the offer closely once he had it on paper, he locked up the apartment and headed out. He stopped at a roadside diner for a late dinner, then headed north into Wyoming. His goal was to get back to Bent Creek by eight or so, check on things, then go to his suite to sleep and get rested fully in time for the private event later that afternoon.

  He’d thought about everything during the four hour drive: the job offer, his mother and her illness, the things he’d had to do to keep himself afloat and keep a roof over Mom’s head and her healthcare maintained. He wasn’t proud of some of it, especially the stuff that went on at Bent Creek, but he had no other choice. Th
at’s why he’d started making these other arrangements with Gary, who was prepared to follow in Rick’s footsteps and leave the law firm. All he had to do was get through this week, get back home to Boulder, and he and Gary could get back to business. If what they were planning bore fruit, he might not have to take the position at Bent Creek.

  Once inside the building, Rick headed to his office. The neighboring offices and cubicles were empty and dark, the absence of the staff providing a welcoming calm. Rick turned on the lights, set his duffel bag on the chair in front of his desk, and sat down. He turned his computer on, and as it booted up he thought about the past twenty-four hours. He felt good about backing up Carl White’s suspicions about Jackie and Shane Daniels being responsible for the theft of his money. Part of the reason for backing up those claims was his severe dislike of the couple, especially when it came to their harassment toward Anna King, who he really liked. True, he had heard other disturbing rumors about them, but it was complete heresay. What mattered was he had used his power of persuasion to plant the seed in Paul Westcott’s mind, and apparently that had been all that was required. He didn’t know what the result had been, but he was sure Jackie and Shane had been questioned pretty extensively. They might have taken it as such a grievous offense that they were never going to vacation at Bent Creek ever again. That had been Rick’s goal all along. He was very confident his plan had worked. He didn’t want to have to deal with that godawful couple again.

  With his computer booted up, Rick accessed the administrative area of the company timesheet system. Paul’s group was now down to four, which was to be expected. As he scrolled down through the list of those employees who were tapped to work this week’s event, he was pleased to see that Anna had logged in for work during this morning’s breakfast duty. Good, he thought. He’d talked to Anna briefly yesterday morning, shortly after her own altercation with Paul’s security team and he frowned at the memory of it. Why hadn’t they been as thorough in their communications as they were last year when it came to tapping the help for the private event? Somebody had dropped the ball on that one. Anna hadn’t been aware of it, and her reaction was very realistic and genuine. He’d pulled Anna aside shortly after everything was cleared up and had a quick word with her. “I know how you feel,” he’d said. “I don’t really want to work the next five days either. I got a sick mother at home, and I’ll be lucky if I can get a day off between now and tomorrow night so I can make a quick day trip back to Boulder to see her.”