The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  The Assassin glanced over his left shoulder and saw skiers glide off the chairlift to begin their run down Walsh’s Trail. They made a sharp left turn at the watchers’ stand where the trail led down the mountain’s steepness. He flexed his stiffening knees and felt them pop. Snow-stacked sprigs above his head dripped onto his neck, running cold down his spine. It made him shiver. Considering what he was there to do, the Assassin thought, Shivers, how appropriate is that. And he continued his wait.

  It had been snowing soft dry powder all week, but today was bright and warm; the summit temperature registered just above freezing. Snow had iced up on the sunny runs. The Assassin had been shadowing his target for six days—Thomas K. Burke, a competitive skier who pushed himself hard, taking the steepest and longest runs on the mountain. All week, Burke made Walsh’s Trail his last run for the day. The Assassin was sure he would come.

  The ski patrol closed the high double black diamond runs at 4 p.m. That was fewer than thirty minutes away. The sun dropped early behind the 11,212-foot elevation of Aspen Mountain. Burke would die before twilight. The Assassin continued his wait.

  The Assassin received this contract assignment as he usually got them. A phone called instructions to get a package from some obscure place—an out-of-the-way phone booth or an envelope taped to the underside of a coffee shop table. His client, a man who called himself Dallas, instructed him to pick up the briefing materials from a dumpster outside the back door of a Denver restaurant.

  Stinking of garbage and fried fish, the dirty envelope contained background information on the target, together with his photo and the specifics needed to fulfill this contract kill. Most importantly, the envelope contained his offshore bank’s wire transfer deposit slip confirming payment for services. The Assassin learned long ago, you better be paid up front before doing any heavy lifting.

  He looked with satisfaction at this contract, but not the killing to come. The pleasure he anticipated was skiing Aspen. His client paid him to spend time at one of the best world-class ski resorts. Yeah, sure, a paid vacation. Of course, it was not anything like a vacation, but it was handsomely paid. Killing was not pleasing to his temperament. He never felt good about the ultimate outcome, so he was pretty sure he was not a psychopath. The Assassin was capable and competent. Successful? You bet—at the top of his profession. Nevertheless, he did not enjoy the act of homicide. He tried to keep an objective view of it as a professional, but how do you justify ending a life?

  Most of his contracts involved people the world was better off without—drug kingpins, a few foreign spies, and even the occasional fellow professional killer. Most of the targets were notorious, evil, and powerful men—like his clients that hired him—which helped to justify the action in his mind. The Assassin was constantly aware of his precarious psychological vulnerability. He did these contracts for the money. If he started to enjoy how he earned a living, which would be the time to quit…if he was able.

  This past week, the Assassin had observed Burke, unnoticed by the target. That was the easy part, basic tradecraft stuff. The Assassin was a highly trained professional, thanks to the Israeli Army and Mossad. Like many veterans, his military training led to a civilian career. Mossad had trained him to be a professional killer. That is what he was. His choices were to pursue a profession as a politician or an assassin. To his way of thinking, there was little difference.

  Hitting a target with a high-powered rifle at a thousand yards was not easy, but it was impersonal. His instructions were that this hit must appear to be an accident. This task would put him very near his target, close and personal. Shit! This was not how he wanted to operate. He didn’t know much about Burke, nor did he want to. From several days of watching, Burke seemed to be an okay kind of guy. The Assassin cautioned himself—arbitrating a contract was not his responsibility. Dallas is wearing the judge’s robes on this one. This is just another job.

  On Aspen Mountain, the most challenging trails—one of every four runs—was designed EXPERT ONLY. Shadowing Burke was testing the Assassin’s skiing skills, which he had perfected during the intensive mountain survival training courtesy of the Israeli Army. The Army made certain you completed the program. None failed, and his squad all graduated as experts on the slopes. Growing up in a small village near Tel Aviv provided few opportunities to ski, and he found the years since training had not dulled his skills much. He was just as expert on the slopes as his prey.

  The briefing materials mentioned Burke’s wife, but nothing about Garth Wainwright and the lady lawyer. He’d learned she and Wainwright were sleeping together from talking to hotel staffers. The fact that his client did not know they were going to be here was troubling. Maybe that means there are other faults with the briefing materials. It is a big mistake to give the Assassin wrong information. He did not allow himself the luxury of mistakes and was intolerant of any who did.

  The Assassin sensed he should be keeping an eye on this Wainwright guy as well as Burke. Something about Wainwright made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. Wainwright looked like he was thirty-five, maybe early forties. While he would not be trying out for an Olympic ski team berth, Wainwright was a reasonable recreational skier. The Assassin judged Wainwright to be close to his own size and build, just short of six feet and about 180 pounds or so. Wainwright moved with deliberate confidence, although he walked with a slight limp in his left leg. He dressed in designer ski suits on the mountain. Off, he wore custom-made monogrammed dress shirts and Tony Lama boots. Boots with jeans or with trousers and sports jacket … the boots seemed to be an affectation. The Assassin was intrigued. This is no office weenie, but a West Coast cowboy. What fun is this?

  The Assassin admired Burke for always interrupting his ski time to meet his wife for a late lunch and a glass or two of wine every day. Burke was a man of routine; a late lunch with Sonja, then they would ski from the mid-slope eatery to the lodge at the bottom of the mountain. That’s nice. He’s a good man. After that daily ceremony, Burke would take the chairlift to challenge the mountain’s 3,333-foot vertical drop once again. On this Tuesday morning, the Assassin saw Burke’s routine was the same as the other five he’d watched. Consistency, that’s what makes for a good contract, the Assassin considered, waiting in the lift line, six back from Burke.

  Assassin sat in the restaurant two tables away from the Burkes, Wainwright and the female lawyer, who were enjoying their noontime meal. Burke said to his companions, “Is this snow fantastic or what?”

  “It could only be improved if it were warmer,” Wainwright said. “But I will admit the ski trails are exhilarating. I’ve never had such a good time.” He took Lacey’s hand in his, gave it a little squeeze, and then said, “Of course, I’ve never had such a wonderful companion before, either.”

  Wainwright’s highest priority seemed to be with the captivating woman.

  “Well, for Sonja and I, the fun has too soon come to an end, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  “Oh? When did you plan on leaving?” Wainwright asked.

  “Today will be our last day skiing. We’ll take the air shuttle to Denver in the morning. Our plane leaves Stapleton at one thirty, so I’m afraid we won’t have time to meet you two for lunch. But we would like to make up for the abruptness of leaving by asking you to join Sonja and me tonight for dinner. I’ve made reservations at Gisella at nine. It’s one of the best five-star restaurants on the mountain. I think you’ll both enjoy it.”

  Overhearing Burke describe their travel plans, the Assassin forced himself to suppress a smile. They would be gone tomorrow, Wednesday. The assignment would conclude today with no more skiing, no more watching and waiting. The time had come to execute the contract and Burke unknowingly had chosen his own death sentence. When Burke skied off the lift at Walsh’s Trail this afternoon, his last run of the day would be his last run…forever.

  The time was a quarter to four; the Assassin continued to wait in his hidey-hole. He looked ov
er his shoulder again. This time, he saw Burke was alone and calm as he expertly executed a neat slide-step off the chairlift, skidding into the run-up area. Hooking his pole straps around his wrists and under his thumbs, Burke looked around for anyone he might know. Recognizing no one, he pushed off the flat with great excitement and joy and headed down the hill. When Burke neared the sharp left turn and the sheer drop-off, the Assassin poled out of his hiding place in the tree stand. Kicking hard, he traversed the slope. He was twenty feet behind Burke, tracking to his left, perfectly matching his target’s pace.

  Burke crested the ridge and shot down the exposed slope at top speed. The trail’s steepest section was a windblown, naked mountainside where icy wind crusted the snow into a slick, slippery stretch. Burke concentrated hard to keep his skis under him on the sheer incline. He leaned low, edging his skis into the hill. Burke heard the wind in his ears and the chattering steel cutting ice. He skied toward the spot where the trail turned back into the forest, across the ridge, and through a stand of mature Aspen.

  The Assassin was close behind his target. Both skiers were going very fast on a narrow trail through the old growth Aspen. The wind in the Assassin’s face was freezing, but he felt exhilaration joined with his anticipation of the hunt. His eyes watered. It was hard to keep his target in focus. Burke wore a pair of goggles. Advantage, prey, but that was not going to save his butt.

  Skiing from the sun-streaked slopes onto softer snow, Burke heard the skier behind him. Some moron is trying to pass me, and on my left! Does this guy know nothing? Burke couldn’t believe it. Wrong side, asshole. The thought had just crossed his consciousness when cold, wet gloves encircled his neck, covering his ears. The weight of another body pushed Burke suddenly to his right. In that split second, Burke’s face smashed into immovable tree bark at over fifty miles an hour.

  The Assassin skied on, down the track, and was gone before the rooster-tail of snow spitting from his skis settled over the crumpled corpse of Thomas K. Burke.

  Two

  “You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

  TUESDAY—EARLY EVENING | Sonja was worried. Her husband had not shown up at the lodge. He was very late and had not called to let her know he might be detained. Maybe Lacey has some information that will explain his absence. Sonja picked up the phone on the suite’s entry table and dialed Lacey’s room. Maybe he was on an important business call or something. Lacey’s room phone rang and rang, unanswered. Sonja paced up and down in their corner suite. Of course, he’d been late in the past, numerous times, but he was unusually thoughtful and always called to let her know his plans had changed. Where is he? Why hasn’t he phoned me or left a message? Staying here isn’t going to solve anything. She left the room to locate Lacey.

  Wainwright sat comfortably with Lacey on the big overstuffed leather couch, gazing into one another’s eyes. A large pine log fire warmed the lodge’s first floor lounge. Both were bundled in ski pants and sweaters, après boots resting on the cocktail table. Wainwright, cheek-to-cheek with Lacey as they watched the smoke columns curl and chase up the chimney. The aroma of boiling sap as it crackled and cooked was intoxicating, as were the hot buttered rums he shared with his charming companion. With his arm around Lacey, he gently rubbed her shoulders with his fingertips. The background music system featured a series of Sinatra songs from the ’40s. Life is good.

  “I can’t imagine a more perfect ending to a picture-perfect day,” Lacey said as she molded into Wainwright’s chest. Her long black hair was shiny and silky; it tickled his nose, but he didn’t want her to move. He favored the lemony scent of her shampoo. It was heaven having her close as they embraced in caring comfort. He enjoyed being with her like this. Hell, he like being with Lacey anytime in any way. Wainwright thought this lady was a knockout, but was she out of his league. He knew little of her background and hoped there would be plenty of opportunities to learn everything about her in the coming months. Hey, cowboy, it’s only your sixth date. Let’s just see how this trip plays out.

  Wainwright knew his feelings were changing for this intelligent and affectionate woman—both qualities he very much prized. Her physical presence was all consuming. Lacey’s sexuality smoldered under her lithe and dark beauty. He was beginning to realize the relationship was moving from ‘friends with benefits’ to something much more important. At least, he sure hoped so. Wainwright sensed that a yet-unspoken acknowledgment had passed the magical link between them. The gift of love filled him with a bright joy, as does the bright sunshine after a rainsquall.

  His instincts told him this special woman was the one for him, and his instincts were usually right. He had learned to rely on them early on as a criminal investigator for the US Navy. His instincts saved his life in the service more than once. Relying on them later in business had made him financially successful. Why would they abandon him in love?

  “How’s your drink, sweetheart? May I get you anything?”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “Yes, you are…very fine, indeed.”

  “Besides, I don’t want you to move. I’m way too comfortable with you on this couch.” Lacey tilted her head to look up into his eyes. Her smile told him they agreed, and Wainwright definitely liked being with this enchanting woman.

  Wainwright was not a player. Not in the sense that he kept a little black book and worked its content. That was not his style. He preferred a monogamous relationship, at least for as long as the liaison lasted. When he was without a significant other, he thoroughly enjoyed his own company and used the alone time for productive work. Being with one woman he respected, admired, and with whom he could enjoy stimulating conversations were all high on the list of what he wanted in a mate. Living a monogamist lifestyle was not a moral judgment for Wainwright, but one of conveniences. One woman meant one birthday to remember and celebrate, one set of drinks to remember, and foods to request or avoid. It was his way and it always worked well for him. It seemed to be working just right with Lacey.

  When they first met in Boston—a great place for beginnings, as well as revolutions, as it turns out—Wainwright was there for the merger with Burke’s organization. Lacey was Burke’s outside legal counsel. In the first few days of meetings, Wainwright and Lacey got along well doing their respective jobs. He admired her business smarts as much as her beauty and charm. At the end of the third days’ meetings, it seemed natural for Wainwright to ask her to have dinner with him. Lacey’s quick acceptance told him his attraction to her was shared. Great start, cowboy!

  After that first date, the two spent most off-duty hours together that week. The mental stimuli and physical attraction turned into a lustful coupling. It was sex for sex’s sake, or so Wainwright at first thought. The time spent together was pleasurable for them both.

  Lacey had the body of a Broadway dancer: long legs, a tiny waist, and a derriere that would break a man’s heart. Her eyes…those big, almond-shaped ebony pools captivated him. For a big-time business attorney, she presented herself more like a runway model. He decided he’d have to check the ‘out of my league’ contention, but not right then.

  After Wainwright returned to Los Angeles from the Boston business, he was surprised at how much he missed Lacey. He was developing feelings for her that seemed softer, more real than just a sexual liaison. Oh, he missed that as well, but his caring for this beautiful Bostonian barrister seemed to be more genuine than he had experienced with other women he dated. It rather embarrassed him to realize these emotions were more powerful than those he had in any of his prior marriages. His feelings for her were intense, he recognized. Is this infatuation or true love? How can you tell?

  One clue was he could not stop thinking of her. He phoned her as often as he could devise a reason. She seemed pleased that he did. He wanted to be with her more than anything. She called, too, missing him, she said. They would talk on the phone for hours, about everything and absolutely nothing. Someh
ow, being within her aura gave him an emotional peace he never had before. Funny, he didn’t think of his former wife much anymore, not since he’d met Lacey.

  Now here they were, together in Aspen, in each other’s arms in this lovely lodge. Can it get any better than this? “I was hoping the perfect day still had some legs left to it,” he told her.

  “Umm, we’ll see how long the day’s legs are after dinner. Speaking of, how is that leg of yours holding up?”

  “That last trip down Dead Man’s Gulch was a bit challenging. You did great. It was all I could do to keep up with you. I love all the attention my limping around generates.”

  “But you are okay, aren’t you? I mean, all that skiing stuff today, it won’t prevent you from...aah, from some physical activity later, will it?” Lacey giggled behind her smile. “By the way, you’ve never told me how you hurt your leg in the first place. What happened? An ex-wife kicked you, or what?”

  “Fortunately, no. The scars and limp are a result of a bad boy who didn’t want to follow directions. I was a Naval Officer on shore patrol night duty. I attempted to recapture an escaped convict. That sailor just didn’t want to return to the brig peacefully.” Unconsciously, Wainwright placed his hand over his thigh. When a bullet rips into your leg, shattering bone and muscle, it leaves some significant scars in a number of places. “How about we skip the rest of that story? I can tell you some other time, if you’re interested. In fact, let’s skip the restaurant and order room service.”

  “Oh, babe, I’d very much like tonight to be just the two of us, but we can’t disappoint Sonja and Thomas after agreeing to join them for dinner. Besides, I can’t flake out on my biggest client.”