The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  She took her coat off but didn’t hang it up, instead tossing it over the back of the wingback chair. She sat down on the settee, crossed her legs, re-crossed them, and then got up and walked into the tiny kitchen. She never cooked anything but coffee here and doubted he did, either. She made herself a cup of tea. They say Chamomile is supposed to have relaxing qualities. She put some tea bags in the teapot while the water heated. She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. This new CFO—I’m not going to stay and work while he takes the credit. She’d already gotten the lowdown on Hardwick from a couple of the accountants that made the merger marathon to Seattle. Sneaky little bugger, that’s what they said about him. Not a stand-up guy like Keating was… poor Robert. What a tragedy, leaving sweet Caroline and the girls—those precious little girls. Well, Caroline is smart, rich, and exceptionally pretty. How long will she be on her own, I wonder. Count the days!

  The phone rang. Should I answer it? Why not? This place is partly mine, isn’t it? I’m the only other person who has a key, right? What if it is…

  “Hello.”

  “Hi. I thought you might have gone to University Street. Are you okay? They said at your office you were ill and went home. Are you not well?”

  “No. I’m fine. Are you coming over to the apartment?”

  “Yeah, but not until later. I’ve got some stuff to take care of before I can get there. Will you stay and wait for me?”

  “Of course I will. I wanted to see you. I have something to tell you.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. It’ll wait ’til you get here. Listen, since you’re going to be late, I’m goin’ to cab it over to the Purple Café and have something. I’m hungry. I found parking, so it’d be crazy to move the car and leave the space.”

  “I’ll see you around three thirty, quarter to four.”

  It was closer to four thirty when a key opened the door to the apartment and he walked into the room. BJ was on the couch, looking at some of the new things she’d found shopping after lunch. As she looked up, he walked hurriedly toward her with outstretched arms. She put the stuff back in the bags. “What other things do you have here that you don’t want to leave?” he asked her.

  “Leave? Where are we going?”

  “Away, and now. We’re leaving the country and we won’t be back.”

  “But my things in Kirkland…I need to pack and get some of my…clothes and jewelry and some paintings. Out of the country, did you say? Then I’ll need my passport, too.”

  “We don’t have time, and there isn’t anything I can’t replace for you when we get to where we’re going. Come on, I left the engine running. We have a flight to catch. Where did you park your car?”

  “In the city lot, a couple blocks up University. Why?”

  The man spent no more than five minutes looking through the few rooms, opening drawers, cupboards, and closets. He tossed a few things into a small carry-on and grabbed BJ by the arm, pulling her toward the front door.

  They left his car in BJ’s parking spot in the city garage and drove her Jaguar to Sea-Tac International. The man said he had plane tickets, photo identification in the form of passports for them both, and, if they hurried, they’d make the flight he had arranged. He drove fast; BJ thought it was too fast as she took in the view of the countryside. BJ had no way to know this was her last view of Seattle, the Pacific Northwest and the good ol’ US of A…forever.

  Twenty-four

  “The weakest spot in every man is where he thinks himself to be the wisest.” ~ Emmons

  FRIDAY—DECEMBER | Hockney was both angry and embarrassed by the way Arnold behaved in front of the others as he walked to his office. He didn’t need to do more than give a half smile or nod to those he passed in the corridor. People were accustomed to no more than that from Hockney. He’d heard Arnold swear, but only occasionally and in private, never in all the years he’d known him had Arnold used profanity in a public setting—that all changed today, and boy, was it offensive. He tried to calm himself, but his anger kept getting in the way. By the time he sat at his desk, Hockney was full-blown mad. This was not his usual demeanor, and it was best to keep your distance from an angry Hockney.

  There was just no way he could work. It was impossible to concentrate on anything other than the major tragedy Arnold had created. From all the evidence, it appeared the company had lost its genius, its franchise, Hockney had lost his best friend—and Arnold had lost his mind. Clearly, he was over the edge and might never come back. As Hockney pondered the ramifications of Arnold’s angry outburst and the root cause-–the SEC Agreement—the full picture finally dawned on him: Hockney, too, had lost everything he’d worked for all these years.

  Meyer left his office where Arnold sat alone and was about two minutes behind Hockney. That was how long it took him to find Hockney behind his desk. “I absolutely do not believe what just happened. Please, Ed, tell me this is a bad dream. Arnold has totally lost it, hasn’t he?”

  “’Fraid so. It sure sounds like it.”

  “Ed, is it possible that what we just witnessed could be because Arnold is involved with the murders? Do you think he’s capable of something as heinous as that?”

  “Herb, I didn’t think Arnold was capable of what just happened in your office. I suppose if he is capable of talking to us like that, he could…no, it just isn’t possible. Not Arnold, no, it can’t be anything like murder. May be. Oh crap… I don’t have any idea, I really don’t. His behavior has been deteriorating for months, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen.” Hockney was thoughtful for a minute, and then said, “Maybe what we just witnessed was what Emmons wrote: ‘The weakest spot in every man is where he thinks himself to be the wisest.’”

  Arnold was aware of what he said to the men in that room, those fools who blindly trusted him, looked up to him. All of them, they hung around to suck at his intellect like nursing piglets and they’d been doing it for so many years. That was the thing about Ecstasy—it helped you see everything clearly. Free of his past inhibitions, he now understood what intellectual trash they really were and would always be. Good riddance! I can jettison all those small-minded scumbags. All right, so we’re all broke. Don’t rely on me to make it back for you. I’ve taught you well; now use that knowledge to help yourselves, if you are able. I want nothing to do with any of you. One of you is a murdering bastard. Whoever you are, you are responsible for the hell we’re going through.... Damn you, damn you to hell!

  Arnold had fidgeted in his anger during the meeting; now he sat quietly, almost peacefully. His mind was clear and alert. He’d been in that chair for thirty minutes and it was time to leave. He stood and walked down the hall toward the elevators. He saw no one on the way, nor was he conscious people were steering clear of his path. The vitriolic language he’d vomited on his partners was heard in other offices as well as up and down the corridors. No one wanted to be in contact with Madman Arnold.

  The elevator took no time at all to open, or that was how it seemed to Arnold. He didn’t acknowledge the greeting from Hank as he walked past him in the lobby, trance-like, toward the parking lot. He wasn’t conscious of the hard rain or that he had no protection. Arnold’s mind was somewhere else. Small things no longer deserved his attention. They got none now. Arnold unlocked his car and started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed out of his space in the front lot. At NE 8th Street, he turned right, and then another right on to the southbound Interstate 405. He had given no thought to where he was going—just drive. That was unusual for Arnold. Being alone was what he needed right now. His mind was lucid, and for the first time in his fifty-seven years, he had not one single thought in his head.

  When he returned to his office, Meyer wondered where Arnold had disappeared. He didn’t care about him— Meyer was just glad he was gone. Arnold was out of his visitor’s chair and he didn’t give a damn about him at the moment. Something more critical was on his mind. It was not quite half past elev
en. If he could catch Jake in his office, maybe they could get together for a meeting over lunch.

  Meyer dialed his father-in-law’s office. “Elaine, it’s Herb. Is Mr. Weinstein available, please?” When Jake Weinstein answered his phone, Meyer greeted him enthusiastically. “Hi, Jake. I was heading your way and thought we might grab a sandwich.” Sandwich, you fool. Jake Weinstein may not have eaten a sandwich since his mother made him a PB&J in the second grade. “No, nothing is wrong. I have some ideas I’d like to fly by you. It is lunchtime, after all, and I thought, why not buy my ol’ dad some grub and talk deals? Ha, ha, ha.” Why not make a complete fool of yourself? You sound like a laughing hyena. “Oh, okay, that will be great. We’ll be at your place…no, sure, I can do that. Your house, yes. Fantastic, we’ll see…I understand. See you on Sunday, bye-bye, Jake.” Shit!

  While Meyer and Jake Weinstein were having an uncomfortable phone conversation about dinner on Sunday, Ragnar Borstad was in Denver being uncomfortable about everything. He was as depressed as any human being could be. Negotiations among the partners this past week had been fierce, and Borstad never liked being part of a confrontation he didn’t initiate.

  It finally was agreed the reimbursement to the funds would be made in equal shares. It was payback time for the initiator of the scheme—he recalled what his American mother often told him: lust, anger, and greed are the three gates to hell. Boy, was Mom ever right on that one! The proceeds due Borstad from his IPO funds were escrowed by the NYSE and unavailable to him. He had to sell most of his properties and liquidate other assets at fire-sale prices in order to contribute his portion of the Five’s restitution pot.

  The money paid was depressing enough, but the agreement required him to sell all his stock in All Cities and CapVest, and then resign his positions. The stock buyback agreement he designed years ago was loaded against the seller. Borstad never imagined he would be that person. Loaded against him as it was, the buyback would still give him a quarter of a million dollar stake to start over in…in what? What would he do to earn a living now? He hadn’t a clue.

  The new CFO was at his desk. It was almost three o’clock and the rain had continued all Friday. He had a list of questions for BJ when she got in Monday. Most were about active audits, due diligence status reports—CFO stuff. She became sick and left earlier today. Not a good way to start our first week together. Neal Patrick Hardwick liked punctuality as well as dedication. He thought he’d check on her and call BJ at home; a nice gesture—to see how she is getting along— and all that.

  Neal Patrick got no answer at her home number. Maybe she is sleeping and has the phone unplugged. I do that sometime, and hung up the phone. We will have to have a little chat when she gets here, that’s for sure.

  Two floors above Neal Patrick’s personnel problems, Ed Hockney was having a similar situation. He’d avoided Arnold all day, but it could no longer continue. He reluctantly sauntered to Arnold’s office. Vida emerged suddenly from the copy room, colliding with him. “Oh, Vida, I’m so sorry. That was clumsy of me. I was just on my way to see Arnold,” he said with as much of a smile in his voice as he ever allowed.

  “Mr. Hockney, I’m sorry. It was my fault entirely. I wasn’t paying attention to anyone coming down the hallway, don’t ya know. To my office? To see Mr. Chaplain?”

  “Yes, he’s in, isn’t he?”

  “No, sir, and I am frightfully worried about it, too. He always lets me know when he isn’t coming in or if he’s going to another place before he gets here. Always!”

  “So are you saying he’s not in his office and you haven’t heard from him?” Hockney, you are truly the master of the obvious.

  “Yes, sir, and I haven’t heard from him, either. He left the office after your meeting this morning.”

  “Vida, I want you to do something for me. Try to locate him. Call Arnold’s home, then his ex-wife, and any other person you think might have information about his whereabouts.”

  Vida didn’t say anything and stared at the tips of her shoes, the never-ending vigil for invading insects continued.

  Hockney’s voice brought her back to attention. “Vida, can you do that for me?”

  “I was trying to think who might know Mr. Chaplain’s whereabouts. Only you and you’re here, so, no, sir, I surely can’t think of anyone…not a soul.”

  “Okay, if you get no response from his ex-wife, then call the Bellevue Police Department and report Arnold missing. I’ll be in my office if you need help. Please do this right away, will you? And call me with the results, please.”

  Hockney turned around and went back into his office to call Ragnar Borstad in Denver. The reception desk transferred his call to Borstad’s administrative assistant, Clara Burgess.

  “Clara, this is Ed Hockney. I need to speak to Ragnar.”

  “Mr. Hockney, he’s not in the office. I found a letter on my desk this morning. It’s addressed to you, as Chairman, sir. I was about to call you.”

  “A letter? What does it say? Read it, please.”

  Clara read Ragnar Borstad’s letter, announcing his immediate resignation as an officer and director of both Capital Vested and All Cities. It gave instructions for the purchase of his shares in the companies. His attorney would handle that task. The letter included his Denver lawyer’s contact information. Short and to the point with no reason given, Hockney was happy to see, and no regrets expressed. Borstad was gone, period.

  Tommy Shaw was with Wainwright at his Century City office. A rare SoCal storm was doing little more than pestering the glass windows of the tower where Wainwright had his office. They had no way of knowing at that exact moment, halfway around the world, the same killer would soon take the life of the fourth CapVest partner.

  The surviving Musketeers met again to try to find the missing links that would connect the murders. They sifted through constituent parts of information about the murders of Burke, Clyburn, and Keating had produced. Everything they knew was rehashed for the umpteenth time. They’d been at it for more than three hours, and both men were tired and frustrated.

  “What the hell have we overlooked or maybe not yet considered? The conspiracy for the fraud was in the millions, but with the kind of money the Five paid themselves, it’s almost insignificant. That worries me. I just don’t get it. After Borstad’s confession, we never linked what we did have with anything we didn’t,” Wainwright complained to his partner. “Borstad confessed to fraud, but denied involvement with the murder. Nuh-uh. No way. That way won’t get us anywhere. It’s the dots we’re after—the links, the motive. We need to imagine a motive anyone of them might have for killing a partner. Let’s think it through again, we need to free associate here, brainstorm it.”

  “I’m pretty well brainstormed out, my friend,” Tommy said with a deep sigh.

  Taking a different tack, Wainwright said, “Tommy, when you die, what happens to you? You…don’t talk about what you know…don’t go anywhere anymore…you don’t have your senses of: touch, smell, hearing, taste, or your eyesight…you don’t pay your bills anymore and you don’t fall in love…”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Garth, this isn’t going to get us answers.”

  “Come on. Help me out here, will ya? I’m trying to come at this from a different direction. What is it you do when you die?” Wainwright again inquired of his fellow Musketeer. This process made him feel more like a Mousecateer, just like that asshole Meyer’s besmirching of them.

  Exasperated, Tommy said, “What do you do? You jerk…you’re dead! You are buried or cremated, or cryogenically frozen, whatever. You’re dead, you don’t do nothin.”

  Wainwright picked up on that thought. “Dead, buried, funeral, mourners, minister, prayers, tears, silence, flowers, death, death benefits…life insurance. Hey, Tommy, what about life insurance as a motive for murder?”

  “Life insurance? Naw, can’t be. That’s not it.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Robert had some personal insurance, and the proceeds have
already been paid to Caroline, she told me. In fact, she asked when the company would be buying back Keating’s stock. Do you happen to know if the key-man policy has come through yet, or how long it will take?”

  “Have not a clue,” Tommy offered. “Why don’t I call HR? They’ll know when to expect it.”

  “Please do. I’d like to pass that on to Caroline. Oh, you know what? Sonja Burke made me a trustee of her voting trust. I guess I’ll have to sign off for her no-sale decision. Let’s find out what the story is on both policies, okay?”

  Tommy called HR and was told that the Keating key-man insurance proceeds were expected by the end of the month. Then the HR clerk added, “The Burke check was received this week.” She explained it didn’t take this long, usually. “Small town police department investigated Burke’s death. There was a question that it might have been a suicide and the cops didn’t know how to expedite, so delay on delay. But the checks are here now.”

  Tommy asked, “Please fax copies of the check and the benefits sheet and cover letter to Garth’s office for me ASAP.”

  Tommy was using the whiteboard to jot down other insurance questions to consider as a motive for murder when Wainwright’s assistant walked into his office and handed him several sheets of paper. “This was just faxed to Tommy’s attention. I thought it might be urgent.”

  “Thank you, Mitch.” Examining the papers, he said, “Now, let’s see what Sonja has said no to in this stock buy-back deal.”

  Wainwright read the letter and studied the check copies in his hands. “Hey, wait a minute, Tommy. This says payment for the key-man policy is enclosed, blah, blah, blah, and a check for the addendum policy has been mailed to the Bahamian Trust Company, PLC, in Freeport, Grand Bahama, attention Bentley Slocum, Esquire—Trustee.”