34
Wilson – Charter Jet G650, Inflight
The Gulfstream G650 took off from Logan International with Fielder & Company’s senior executive team, two pilots, and a flight steward, en route to a repeat performance of their presentation in the Chicago office later that afternoon and evening. The sleek new executive jet came standard with twin Rolls-Royce turbofan engines, Mach 1.0 flying speed, a 7,000 mile range, 45,000 foot cruising altitude, and customized interior. The cabin could be configured to seat twenty passengers in comfort or seven to ten executives in plush, fully reclining seats, with stylish work tables, and individual computer monitors. Wilson had chosen the luxury configuration to carry himself and the six Fielder & Company vice presidents on their four-day, six-office dog and pony show.
As Wilson sat back in his soft leather chair, Frank O’Connor leaned across the aisle and said, “You show a maturity well beyond your years, Wilson.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said. “But don’t be too quick to judge. New circumstances and responsibilities have a way of bringing out the best in some people. Give me another assessment in three months.”
“In my experience, maturity is not something you can fake, even at the beginning of a new assignment,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you, Frank,” Wilson said sincerely.
“You’re also very good at the human dimension. Better than your father—and he was superb when he wanted to be. You seem to understand—or should I say empathize—with people at a deeper level,” O’Connor said.
“Not always,” Wilson said.
“None of us do all the time,” he said, smiling again. “But, I watched you today. You have a gift for it, and I’m never wrong about this sort of thing.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint you, Frank,” Wilson said, a little sarcastically, with controlled laughter.
“You won’t. The five initiatives you outlined already convinced me of that. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks,” Wilson said as Frank got up and walked to the small bar near the front of the plane.
Hopefully, Wilson thought as he looked out the window at Boston Harbor, his five initiatives would also strike the right chord and send the proper signals to those in the secret partnership. Someone would have to respond soon, because Fielder & Company’s days of low-profile secrecy and clandestine operations were about to come to an end. Anne had already sent out a request for proposals from the top advertising and publicity firms.
The rest of the week turned out to be a blitzkrieg for both Wilson and Emily. Emily’s editor flew in from New York City and they began working around the clock to finish the copy-editing of her latest manuscript by the end of the week. Wilson’s meeting with company employees in Chicago unfolded with few surprises, as did the meetings that followed in Dallas, San Francisco, Hong Kong, and London. Each office had received them with enthusiasm and excitement. Almost everyone seemed genuinely relieved that the KaneWeller deal had fallen through and that Wilson was carrying on his father’s leadership of the firm. Concern for his father had been abundant. Most employees seemed to believe his father would eventually be exonerated of any wrongdoing. Their expressions of concern and loyalty had been heartwarming.
Ironically, Wilson’s biggest surprise during the four-day excursion came when he finally acknowledged to himself how much he enjoyed the feeling of following in his father’s footsteps. His most lasting impression, however, came from the people who worked for Fielder & Company. The overwhelming majority of them were bright, ambitious professionals of the highest caliber, delivering highly valuable services, with seemingly no knowledge of a clandestine insiders club. Wilson vowed to preserve everything that was good and right about Fielder & Company.
On the flight back from London, Wilson reflected on his assessment of the six vice presidents, each of whom had performed brilliantly during the week. His father had picked his lieutenants well. Unfortunately, Wilson still couldn’t say for certain who was corrupt and who wasn’t, except for John Malouf. Malouf was a purveyor of secrets and even more shrewd and clever than Wilson had initially thought. Corbin Ashford, and his penchant for trying to make everything seem perfect, continued to be a big question mark.
As for the other four vice presidents, Wilson remained hopeful. Joel Spivey was extremely perceptive and caring, once you got past his veneer of cynicism. Leigh Tennyson was not only bright, but she was street savvy and felt as strongly as Wilson did about his initiatives. Bob Throckmorton was a bona fide sage. His attention to detail could only be characterized as operational omniscience. Frank O’Connor continued to make Wilson feel comfortable; in fact, Wilson had come to rely on O’Connor’s intuitive insights and friendly vigilance.
After a long, tiring week of dangling himself and his five initiatives as bait in front of the furtive insiders, there was only one thing left to do: sit back and wait. And that’s exactly what he was going to do. In Venice with Emily. But first, he had to get one of them—Malouf or Ashford, maybe Spivey—to swallow the bait, which meant conducting one more mid-air meeting before they landed in Boston.
35
Quinn – Hinsdale, IL
At ten o’clock in the morning, family physician Dr. Michael Drury arrived at the family home in Hinsdale at Quinn’s request to care for Margaret. She was still in the same emotional and mental state as the night before. Margaret had never wanted anything more than a faithful husband, a loving family, and sweet memories to cherish during her golden years. She loved being a wife and mother and had looked forward to her husband’s retirement, so they could spend more time with each other and their grandchildren. Now her memories would be scarred forever. She and David had sacrificed and struggled through the worst and best of times, but they’d never been untrue to each other or their values or their family. Nothing would ever be the same.
After the doctor examined her, he advised Quinn that a strong sedative would put her back to sleep for a several hours. Physically, she was fine. She just needed to calm down and relax. Time would take care of the rest. The doctor gave Margaret an injection of Secobarbital and by eleven o’clock she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
With Margaret resting soundly, Quinn left for the office. It would be his only chance to take care of a few loose ends before the America’s Warehouse grand opening began on Saturday. He managed to avoid Vargas during the four hours it took him to return calls and follow-up on last-minute details. Then, as he was getting ready to return home, she appeared at his office door.
“Are you trying to avoid me?” she said with a provocative smile.
“Just trying to stay focused, my dear. You have a habit of distracting me,” Quinn said, considering himself lucky that no one had showed up with news about impending arrests or subpoenas. Running Musselman from a remote location wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d mentally prepared himself to do just that for as long as the board would let him.
“Are we going to the Lake House this weekend?” she asked coyly.
“Saturday night we’ll have it all to ourselves,” Quinn said to appease her.
“Okay, I’ll let you off the hook for now,” Vargas said, satisfied with his response. “But first I need some attention.” She closed and locked the office door before prancing over to Quinn, wrapping her arms around him, and smothering him with kisses. Then she loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Quinn melted to her touch. Just one more time.
36
Quinn – Hinsdale, IL
When Margaret Quinn opened her heavy-laden eyes after several hours of deep sleep, there was a man standing over her. At first she thought it was Dr. Drury, but as her eyes slowly focused she realized he was a stranger. “Who are you?” she asked in an alarmed but groggy voice. Her body felt like cement.
“I work for Dr. Drury,” Marco said. He had entered the house at five o’clock in the morning, when the FBI’s surveillance expanded from two agents in an unmarked car to a te
am of surveillance specialists in a delivery van. The switch had provided enough distraction for Marco to momentarily disable the security system and enter the basement, where he spent the next several hours assessing the FBI’s surveillance. Once the van of surveillance specialists had set up, the perimeter of the house became virtually impregnable. Sophisticated sound and movement surveillance equipment monitored every inch of space outside the home; however, the FBI was relying on wall penetrating listening devices and outside cameras to monitor activity inside the house. As long as the FBI didn’t upgrade their internal surveillance equipment, Marco’s handheld jamming device would keep all movements and speech within a radius of twenty feet of the device masked from detection. Getting out of the house, on the other hand, would pose a challenge.
“He was called into emergency surgery,” Marco said. “He asked me to come over and check on you.”
“Where’s my husband?” she asked, feeling more and more nervous about the pleasant-looking young man standing next to her.
“He had to go to the office for a few minutes. Said he’d be back soon.”
“I’ve never seen you in Dr. Drury’s office,” she said, trying to move away from him but barely able to lift an arm.
“I’m a registered nurse in my third year of medical school. I started working part-time for Dr. Drury about a month ago, when my wife had to quit her job to keep the baby. She’s seven months pregnant but started having preterm labor. It’s our first. This job is allowing me to stay in medical school. Dr. Drury has been a life saver,” Marco said, enthusiastically.
The young man’s pleasant manner seemed to make Margaret feel better, until she remembered why she was lying in bed sedated. She began crying all over again, replaying her husband’s confession in her mind.
Marco leaned over and gently raised her up to drink from the cup he held in his other hand. “Drink this, Mrs. Quinn, it will taste a little like alcohol but it’s only a mild sedative to help you sleep.”
It tasted like gin and cough syrup mixed together as she drank it. “Dr. Drury gave me an injection before.”
“I know,” Marco said. “I’m going to give you another one now, so you can sleep without interruption.”
She was already beginning to feel woozy. “Why do I need…” but she was unable to complete her sentence. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was the young man removing a needle from her arm.
Marco placed the used needle in his bag and returned to his hiding place in the basement. Thanks to Wayland Tate, his recent string of assignments had made him a lot of money. He liked Tate, not merely because he paid well, but because he saw the world the same way Marco did. Dominate or be dominated.
Quinn felt relieved to find his wife sleeping soundly in their bed when he returned home. But when he spotted the Sapphire Gin and Tonic on the nightstand, he checked her more closely. She wasn’t breathing. Frantically, he grabbed her in his arms, trying to find a pulse. It was barely discernable. He called 911 and then gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The FBI agents arrived within seconds of his 911 call, followed by the Hinsdale paramedics minutes later. Efforts to revive her en route to Adventist Hospital a few blocks away gave way to frenzied procedures in the emergency room. But it was all in vain. Margaret Emory Quinn was pronounced dead from an overdose of barbiturates and alcohol, at twenty-seven minutes past five in the evening.
When Dr. Drury arrived a few minutes later, he immediately contacted the Quinn children and then attempted to comfort their grieving father. Quinn, however, was already well beyond Dr. Drury’s reach.
“Was she alone when she woke up?” Dr. Drury asked.
“I don’t know,” Quinn said, coldly.
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
“No.”
“I’m so sorry, David. I never expected…”
“It’s okay, Doctor. You’re not to blame for this. I am.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“Nothing,” Quinn said.
Dr. Drury began questioning one of the ER physicians who had attended Margaret, but Quinn had no desire to relive the tragedy. He excused himself to the restroom. Three undercover FBI agents and a fourth man hired by Bob Swatling watched as Quinn entered the restroom. One of the FBI agents followed him.
“Mr. Quinn,” the FBI agent said once inside. “I’m Agent Sylvester, FBI. I’m very sorry about your wife.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we have received instructions to move you and your children to a secure location, immediately.”
“Go to hell,” Quinn said defiantly. “Protect my children when they get here. I’ll be at the Lake House until I have to testify. Supposedly your people have secured it. Tell Wiseman I’ll be expecting his visit.” Quinn turned from the urinal and began walking out of the restroom.
Agent Sylvester grabbed his arm, but Quinn jerked it away. “Don’t touch me. I’m a protected witness not a fucking criminal,” Quinn said without breaking stride. Sylvester spoke into a small microphone attached to his suit sleeve. “He’s coming your way. Defiant and going to the Lake House. Stay with him. I’ll advise Wiseman and Kohl. Wait until I arrive.”
Quinn walked out of the emergency room at Adventist Hospital and got into a taxicab that took him to the end of Illinois Road in Lake Forest. When he entered the Lake House property, he spoke briefly to Jackson Ebbs before going to the library. Once inside, he pushed the power button on the stereo system and inserted a Mozart Exsultate CD, selecting the last number, “Benedictus from Requiem K 626.” Five minutes and fourteen seconds long. It wouldn’t take longer than that, he said to himself.
Sitting down behind the antique Chippendale desk, he removed a yellow pad of lined paper and a Waterman fountain pen before unlocking the thin center drawer to remove a Springfield Super 38. He placed the pistol on top of the desk and began writing his note.
To Jennifer, John, Rebecca, and David,
I don’t expect you to forgive me for the tragedy I’ve caused, but you must know that your mother was not in her right mind when she took her life. We meant everything to her. Sadly, I realized too late what all of you really mean to me. I will miss you, but it’s better this way. I will do everything I can to comfort your mother on the other side.
Father
At twelve minutes past six in the evening, David Albright Quinn placed the five-inch barrel of the Super 38 in his mouth—moments away from blowing his brains out. Everything had become corrupted because he wanted more. It was a common disease among prosperous men. He tried to pull the trigger, but couldn’t. After removing the gun from his mouth, he began sobbing like a child. He deserved to die for killing his wife, but killing himself wouldn’t fix things. It would never bring her back. But there were other things he could fix.
As he opened the drawer and replaced the 38, a man he’d never seen before entered the library and walked toward him with a gun in his hand. He was a Latin-looking man of average height in his early thirties, striking facial features, broad shoulders, extremely fit, and dressed in a jogging suit. His moves were fluid like an athlete’s. “Who are you?” Quinn cried in a loud voice, hoping to alert Ebbs, but the Requiem was just beginning its finale, masking his plea.
“Push your chair away from the desk, slowly,” Marco said, having arrived at the Lake House only minutes before Quinn. After the paramedics had arrived at the Quinn home in Hinsdale, Marco had gambled on the FBI surveillance specialists leaving the scene with the two ambulance vehicles, which is exactly what they did. As soon as they were gone, he walked three blocks to his car in a nearby church parking lot, and drove to Adventist Hospital where he waited in the parking lot, listening carefully for updates from his contact inside.
When Quinn had announced he was going to the Lake House, Bob Swatling’s man quickly conveyed the information to Marco, who made sure he got there first. A day earlier in Lake Forest, using advanced surveillance detection equipment developed in Israel, Marco had f
ound a nearly surveillance-free corridor, giving him access to the Lake House. Twilight had provided cover as he made his way onto the estate. Once outside the house, he found Jackson Ebbs. In a single blow to the temple, he rendered Ebbs unconscious and then administered an injection of concentrated alcohol before pouring Jim Beam down his throat. After disabling the security system, he entered the den.
Quinn pushed his chair backward, “How did you get in here?”
Marco said nothing as he went to the desk and retrieved the Super 38 from the drawer.
Just as Quinn made a lunge at the intruder, Marco jammed the Super 38 into Quinn’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
The deafening blast was the last thing Quinn heard.
Marco disappeared the way he’d entered, thirty seconds before FBI Agent Sylvester found David Quinn’s body lying on the floor in the den, the back of his head splattered across the wall and credenza.
37
Wilson – Charter Jet G650, Inflight
Midway over the Atlantic, Wilson called an ad-hoc executive staff meeting to evaluate the whirlwind tour and its expected impact on the firm. It was six o’clock in the evening London time, but on board the G650 it was time for someone to swallow the bait he’d been dangling all week. Everyone turned their chairs toward the center of the aircraft, so they could face each other. The six vice presidents seemed anxious to talk, although most of them looked tired from the week’s arduous schedule. After a few words of praise and appreciation for their efforts, Wilson opened the meeting to general comments and feedback.
Not surprisingly, Joel Spivey, Mr. Human Resources, started it off.
The Insiders Page 20