by Jean Martino
Bianca stood up as Denholm entered the room and walked towards him; his face a study of suspicion and anger as he leaned heavily on the gold tipped walking cane he had used since his leg had been shattered in a shoot out in New York. His short wiry body was perfectly suited in an expensive Armani black suit, with a silver gray silk tie over his silver gray silk shirt. His face was scarred in many places, showing through the dark olive skin where his black eyes peered from behind black rimmed glasses above a short sharply thin nose.
Despite the tension between both men since the news had broken, he held out his hand. “Carl,” he said curtly. “Have a seat.” He swept his hand across the room to where two black leather couches were divided by a black wooden coffee table on which sat a silver tray with two crystal glasses, a plate of cheeses and crackers and a bottle of expensive red wine.
Denholm knew better than to push his reason for being there. He knew Bianca, like most Italians from New York, believed in formalities first, a strange custom that he abided for appearance sake.
“How is your wife?” Bianca asked as one of his security guards poured the wine into the glasses and handed them to both men.
“She’s well,” said Denholm, hoping he could swallow the wine without choking from the tension in his throat. “And your family?”
“Well also,” said Bianca, leaning back and swirling the wine in his glass.
For several minutes they continued their short discussion about their families, then Bianca leaned forward and half whispered. “We have confidential matters to discuss, Carl. It is better your men wait in another room.”
“And yours,” demanded Denholm, staring back at Bianca with cold blue eyes.
For several seconds Bianca returned Denholm’s stare, then finally he shrugged his shoulders, turned to his men and inclined his head towards the master bedroom. Both men followed Denholm’s men into that room, closing the door behind them, leaving their bosses to face each other off in privacy.
“Why aren’t the others here?” asked Denholm.
“They had business to attend to,” said Bianca. “It was decided that I would speak for them.”
“Why?” asked Denholm, not liking the fact that he had been excluded from that decision making. “What could be more important to them than discussing what to do about the situation we now find ourselves in?”
Bianca shrugged his shoulders. “It is better just the two of us discuss the problem first. Then we will talk with the others. More wine?” he asked, still congenial.
Denholm shook his head. He had already spent several hours in business meetings with the managers of his hotels and now all he wanted was to get this part of his trip over with as fast as possible and fly back to Palm Springs.
Bianca, realizing the social part of their meeting was over, turned suddenly cold. “We trusted you,” he said, his tone low and guttural, “to take care of our money. You promised us it would be safe there at that Investment Company and we could expect a good return. You promised us you had it all under control and no one would suspect where it came from or who it came from. You have let us all down, Carl. My associates are very concerned that all that money, that has somehow been transferred back into those Las Vegas bank accounts they set up for investment purposes, is going to cause some people to get suspicious, not to mention the losses they suffered.”
He stopped and Denholm felt a shiver racing down his back. “I know how it must look, Tony,” he said. “I got hurt myself.”
Bianca just stared at him, letting him struggle out of it on his own.
“Roger McLean showed up three days ago and told me someone had tampered with those accounts and put in sell orders and had the funds transferred back to those investors, but he didn’t know who or why. He told me that Michael Brampton, the broker who had been handling those investment accounts in a confidential manner, had suddenly left the firm a week ago and disappeared. He said the accounts were in a special data base that only Michael had access to. When the president of McLean’s told him of Michael’s disappearance and that he’d had one of their computer analysts break the code to learn the password to Michael’s accounts, Roger immediately put a stop to it. He had this computer guy tell him how to change that password so he would be the only one with access to the accounts.”
Bianca just stared at him silently waiting for him to continue.
Denholm explained as much as he knew which wasn’t much he decided, finally going quiet.
“Why did you have Roger McLean taken out?”
“He screwed up,” said Denholm, his eyes narrowing. “He told me he had not changed that password when he should have, which had given someone else, I am presuming Brampton, the ability to access those data files and cause the stock to be dumped as it was. On top of all that, he told me the files had been emptied out after the funds had been transferred to the Vegas bank accounts and he had no control over them any longer. I felt I couldn’t trust him anymore to keep his mouth shut. He had betrayed us and he had become a liability we could not afford.”
Bianca lifted his wine glass and took a sip. “You are a fool, Carl,” he said quietly, showing no signs of anger which made Denholm even more nervous. “Did it not occur to you that McLean was the least of our problems? This Brampton is the one we need to take out before the FBI finds him.”
Denholm shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew the FBI had partially closed down McLean’s and were investigating it for money laundering. It had been in all the papers and on all the television channels. “If Roger McLean couldn’t find those accounts in his computer,” he said, “then how would the FBI? Perhaps, despite the loss of profits on those stocks, Brampton somehow got into the firm’s data base from wherever he is hiding and did everyone a favor wiping them all off the company’s computer system.”
Bianca placed his glass back on the table and shook his head. “And perhaps he also kept a record of it all and will use it against us.”
“I am aware of that too,” said Denholm, thinking about the house he had let Michael live in for free for two years and cringing at his own stupidity. “Brampton is no fool.”
Bianca’s hand came down so hard on the table his glass fell sideways spilling red wine over the cream carpet. “You are the fool, Carl!” he yelled, raising his hand and shaking his finger at Denholm. ‘As long as that man is alive he will always be a danger to us.”
“I have a plan to flush him out of hiding,” said Denholm calmly.
Bianca stared at him in surprise and then laughed out loud. “So you are going to find him when the FBI and police can’t? How pray tell me, do you intend performing this miracle?”
“I have a contact, a retired police detective working as a private investigator, who I have used on some cases of my own over the years. I went to see him the other day and he told me the president of McLean’s, Wainwright, had also been to see him recently, asking him to uncover what was going on at McLean’s, namely with Michael Brampton’s accounts and Roger McLean’s involvement with them.”
“And?” said Bianca, leaning back in his chair and raising one eyebrow.
“He said he intended telling Wainwright he couldn’t help him, especially with the FBI breathing down his back. I told him I wanted him to help me find Brampton. He said he didn’t want to get involved. But, with the right persuasion, I convinced him he had no choice. I have a few things up my sleeve that could cause this man to be investigated himself. He is no saint. And he knows I mean business.”
“And exactly how can he help us find Brampton?”
“I have learned that Brampton’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Linda Rossi, had recruited the help of a retired detective from Sacramento to help her find her son-in-law and daughter. She is presently staying at his home in Sacramento which is under surveillance by the FBI as well as an associate of mine. But it seems like she knows nothing of her son-in-law and daughter’s whereabouts either at this time. The FBI hasn’t made a move to contact her and I feel they are hoping the missi
ng couple will one day try to contact her and then they will pounce.”
He leaned forward and picked up his glass, taking a sip of the wine before continuing. “I have suggested to this private investigator that we somehow lure the mother-in-law and her detective friend away from the watchful eye of the FBI agents and to a place where we can take her hostage. My contact’s prior police leanings have given him credibility if the other detective needs to check up on him, and he now has arranged to meet this woman and her detective friend at the San Francisco airport tomorrow at one pm.” He leaned forward again and deliberately took his time pouring more wine into his glass. “Two of my best men will be on that flight too. I plan on helping her find her son-in-law.”
“By kidnapping her?” asked Bianca, his eyes widening. “Are you totally out of your mind? Don’t you think the FBI has been tailing them also and will follow them to San Francisco? They also want to question Michael Brampton.”
“I know,” said Denholm, totally in control. “It’s a chance we will take. The airport will be swarming with passengers arriving and departing. My men know how to spot the feds and will work around that.”
“And how then will this bring Brampton out of hiding?”
“Every newspaper in the state will be informed. Her photo will be on every front page and on every television station. Brampton and his wife will know, believe me. He will contact me when it happens. He will know I was involved and want to help free his wife’s mother. And then we will negotiate.”
“Negotiate what? He has nothing we want to negotiate with him. He’ll know it’s a trap. He’ll know he’ll be taken out. What in God’s name are you thinking?”
Denholm just stared back at Bianca. “As you said earlier, Brampton would have kept a copy somehow of those client accounts to use against us if he feels threatened. In exchange for his mother-in-law’s freedom he will come clean. He knows I am not one to mess with.” The skin on his sun baked face stretched outwards as he grinned. “I know Michael Brampton. He is a man of honor. He won’t just sit back and hide knowing his wife’s mother’s life is in jeopardy. I will vouch for that. And I promise you when I have finished with him, Brampton will no longer be a problem for us.”
Denholm stood up and looked over at the closed door to the bedroom where his men were. “Now, if you have nothing further to discuss I need to get to the airport. By this time tomorrow our problem with Brampton will be solved.”
* *
Friday evening June 27th:
It was almost ten pm when Scott arrived home, finding Linda napping on the couch in front of the television set. He bent down and kissed her lightly on her lips. She woke up with a start. “Sorry to startle you, honey,” he said. “You looked so cute all snuggled up sleeping I couldn’t resist it.”
She sat up, smiling sleepily. “I tried to stay awake,” she said, yawning, “but I’m not a good television watcher, it always puts me to sleep. How did it go today? You were there a long time.”
“Accomplished a lot,” he said, removing his jacket and tossing it on a chair as he sat down next to her. “Still a lot more to do, but at this point Max will take over most of it.”
“Most of what?” she asked.
“The information on those discs Benny gave me, on who is who and how it all ties into that consortium that owns Denholm’s hotels. When we’ve finished there’ll be a lot of guys running for cover around the country. In fact I think it will open up a lot of previously closed doors in investigations concerning the security of this country.”
“My God,” she whispered. “Was Michael involved in something that heavy?”
“Unwittingly,” he nodded. “I think he did the right thing disappearing like he did and taking Cindy with him.”
She shook her head. “But if he’d stayed at McLean’s and done nothing he wouldn’t have put them at risk like this would he?”
“That’s a possibility,” he said. “But eventually the FBI would have found out what he was doing with those accounts and who they belonged to.”
“And then he would have been taken out as they say to keep his mouth shut.”
He grinned at her use of that term.
“Oh mercy,” said Linda, standing up. “It’s one big mess isn’t it?”
He reached up and took hold of her arms, pulling her down onto his lap. “Honey, please don’t get upset. Whatever happens now we are going to make sure Michael isn’t charged with anything.”
“So what if he does come forward and is cleared? Wouldn’t his life still be in danger? And Cindy’s?”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to him on his lap. He didn’t want to raise her hopes again and have them smashed once more. “That Parkinson guy who left a message on my machine yesterday,” he said, changing the subject. “I called him this morning and he wants to meet us at San Francisco airport tomorrow morning. He’s flying in from LA at 1pm.”
Linda sat up immediately and scrambled off Scott’s lap to stand staring down at him, her heart racing. “San Francisco? Why? What does he want?”
Scott got up and walked over to the kitchen to get a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine. “At this point,” he said, pouring wine into the glasses and carrying them back to hand one to her, “he said he has knowledge of Michael and Cindy’s whereabouts.”
“What!” she cried, her drink spilling sideways and running down her fingers. She ignored the spilled drink, her eyes widening with shock. “You never told me that this morning. What did he say?”
“Didn’t want to alarm you,” said Scott collapsing onto a lounge chair and taking a sip of his wine. “I wanted to check him out before I mentioned it to you.”
She continued to stand staring down at him, her face drained of color.
“The guy is a retired police detective from the Long Beach Police Department,” he continued. “Currently he’s running his own practice as a private investigator in Santa Ana. Has no criminal record but seems to have a clientele that includes some disreputable people, including Carl Denholm.”
She stared hard at him trying to concentrate on what he was saying but all she could think of was that this man who had called Scott knew where her daughter was.
“Denholm is one of Michael’s major investors,” Scott explained, starting to feel alarmed at how pale she had gone.
Quickly Linda put her glass on the coffee table and clenched her hands tightly together. “If this man knows where Michael and Cindy are then why didn’t he just tell you,” she cried angrily.
“I don’t think he does know,” said Scott, watching her carefully as she stood in front of him. Her body was shaking so badly he was ready to jump up and grab a hold of her if she didn’t stop and calm down.
“Oh my God!” she cried, raising her clenched together hands and thumping her forehead with them. “What is going on? What is happening? I don’t understand any of this.”
Scott was on his feet as she started to sway backwards, holding her tightly, feeling her violent shaking. “It’s ok, Linda,” he said as she struggled against him. “I shouldn’t have dumped that on you like that. Come on now, try to relax.” He led her to the couch and sat her down, sitting next to her, his arm still around her. “Take some deep breaths,” he said.
She did, feeling the air filling her lungs until her head had cleared and the shaking had subsided. Scott let her go and hurried to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said, seeing the color had returned to her cheeks. “Don’t talk right now. Just relax.”
“I’ve something to tell you,” she said after a few moments of quietness between them. She handed him the now empty glass. “I’m ok now. Sorry about that. Guess I was having a panic attack or something. Not like me to pack up like that. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, placing the glass on the coffee table. “What did you have to tell me?”
Slowly Linda explained about the travel brochure and Jessica checking the e
nvelope and it being mailed from San Francisco. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said, “because I know you didn’t really believe that scratch on Michael’s car was a message from Cindy. So I thought you would think this was another silly woman’s intuitional clues. But when you said this detective wanted to meet us in San Francisco and knew where Michael and Cindy were I panicked.”
“It’s not true that I think your clues are silly or intuitional,” he said. “At first I doubted that scratch was deliberate but it occurred to me that people had little ways of sending messages to each other and I did take it seriously. You must believe that. I always take everything you say seriously.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. “So perhaps now you could tell me if any of what I just said makes any sense. Do you think Cindy and Michael sent that brochure and it has something to do with that man my sister said was trying to find me in Australia?”