He Huffed and He Puffed (6 page)

He said, “All right, Jack, what's it going to be? I pay off the loan, you reclaim the shares you used as security and pass them on to me. I'll even see to it that you make a profit. So what do you say? A nice friendly sale we agree on right now?”

Jack laughed. “Oh me—I can almost hear you thinking
or else
. What are you going to threaten me with, A.J?”

“I think you know. The minute you heard I was asking questions about your helicopter accident four years back, your pilot buddy dropped out of sight. Is that what you needed the loan for, Jack? To pay him to get lost?”

“You mean Billy? He's still living in Redondo Beach as far as I know. Haven't seen him for a while, though. All that business about the helicopter crash—that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away. It's over, man.” Still smiling.

Strode grew impatient. “Enough of this, Jack. You were the one who set the time and place for this meeting. So I come here, I see the picture of family unity you want me to see, I get the message that the McKinstry clan is solidly behind you now. But do you know something? It doesn't make one damned bit of difference. I want your House of Glass shares, and you're going to let me have them. You're going to do it for the simple reason that you don't want brother Phil to find out you murdered four people because you owed one of them money.”

The smile disappeared. “Hey hey, A. J.—that's not funny. Not funny at all!”

“It's not meant to be. You intended to kill all five of them when you flew that copter into the cliff, but one of them got away. Why didn't you just kill the pilot later, Jack? One more death shouldn't have bothered you.”

Jack stood up slowly, his eyes boring holes in Strode's face. “You're out of your fuckin' mind, do you know that? Billy was flying that bird.”

“Bullshit. Tony Dwyer was putting the screws on you for the money you owed him, and you sent three of your oldest and dearest to their deaths rather than pay up. When it came down to it, greed outweighed friendship. You call
me
a wolf? I'm a lamb compared to you.”

Jack looked as if he were entertaining thoughts of strangling Strode. The younger man said, slowly and carefully, “I don't know what makes you think you can accuse me of a thing like that and get away with it. You try spreading that story and I'll have your balls on toast for breakfast.”

Strode snorted in derision and reached into his jacket pocket for an envelope which he handed to Jack. The envelope held a photocopy of the affidavit the pilot had signed.

A tic appeared under Jack's right eye as he read the paper through. “It's his word against mine.”

“Yes, you can argue that if you think it'll do you any good. But don't you imagine the French police can find what my detective found—once they know there's a reason to look? The debt to Dwyer, the payoffs to Billy the pilot.”

“You didn't find any record of a payoff. You couldn't have.”

“Does it matter? All I have to do is make that paper public and the case will be reopened.” Strode gave him his lupine smile. “What do you suppose brother Phil will do when that happens, hmm?”

Jack growled low in his throat and tore the affidavit into pieces that he hurled angrily toward the sea. A breeze carried the pieces back and scattered them across the rocks. “Don't bother telling me that was just a copy. I could see that!” Abruptly Jack charged off deeper into the rocks; he scrambled over a boulder and was out of sight.

Strode used the time to empty the sand out of his shoes. His buttocks had grown numb from sitting on the rock; he stood up and gave his backside a brisk rub. Let Jack have his little tantrum; in the end he would do business. Then Strode remembered something: Joanna Gillespie had charged off into her bedroom in just that same way, and
she
had come back with a gun in her hand. What if Jack was looking for a hunk of rock just the right size to make a good head-bashing weapon?

He was seriously considering leaving when Jack came back—empty-handed, Strode was relieved to see. “I'm not going to let you do this,” Jack announced. “One thing you don't know is that my brother and I are on better terms now than we've ever been before in our lives. Phil already knows I was at the controls when the autopilot locked. I told him so, four years ago.
He's
the one who paid Billy to say he'd been piloting. And he'll believe me when I tell him you've bribed Billy to accuse me of murder—just to force me to sell my House of Glass shares. Well, forget it, Strode. You're not taking on just me but the whole McKinstry organization. You're
never
going to get your hands on those shares.”

Strode shook his head in disbelief. “You're not very quick, are you, Jack? You don't have the sense to know when you're over a barrel. Do you think I'm bluffing?”

“No, and neither am I. Don't try to bully me, Strode. I won't let you.”

“You're willing to risk a murder investigation rather than give in to me, is that it? What do you think's going on here, some boys' game?”

“I think you like making people crawl. Well, not this time, old buddy. You'll have to get your kicks somewhere else.”

“You think that's all this is? Muscle flexing?”

“What else? I told you before, I'm not going to let you do this to me.” Jack paused. “Now we're going back. And you're going to smile and act as if we're two good buddies returning from a friendly little chat. Do it, Strode.” He started back along the way they'd come.

Strode had no choice but to follow. He was angry; the asshole was letting his pride get in the way of his own best interests. Strode wondered if Phil McKinstry really did know his younger brother had been at the helicopter controls instead of Billy. Jack was such a glib liar that nothing he said could be taken at face value.

The volleyball game was over. Two children were splashing in the water. Most of the players had gone into the house to shower or collapse, but a few remained on the beach. One of them, Strode was pleased to see, was the long-legged woman in the red shorts. He stopped by her and said, “That's a vigorous game of volleyball you play.”

She grinned at him confidently. “Good for getting the kinks out. It's kind of hard on the younger kids, though.”

Strode waited for Jack to introduce them, but his host remained pointedly mute. “You looked as if you were having more fun than any of the others,” Strode said to the woman. “Were you?”

“Probably. I usually have fun.”

“I thought so. I could tell by the way you moved. I couldn't help but notice the way you moved.”

She laughed the same easy laugh as Jack's and said, “I saw you talking to Jack, Mr.…?”

“Strode. Call me A. J.”

“All right, A. J. I'm Wendy.”

Strode smiled slowly. Wend-
ee
.

He was complimenting her on her service form when he felt Jack's hand come down on his shoulder like a vise. “Hey there, A. J., my man—you're not hittin' on my baby sister now, are you? Won't do you any good. She's already spoken for.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the least,” Strode murmured toward Wendy and was rewarded with a wink. “Maybe we'll meet again,” he called over his shoulder as Jack firmly steered him away.

Jack walked him up the stairway from the beach and around the house to where the limo was waiting. “If you ever so much as speak to her again,” Jack said between his teeth, big grin fixed firmly in place, “I personally am going to cut off all your toes. Do you understand?”

Strode didn't answer. He climbed into the back of the limo and told the driver to get going. Only when they were well away did he relax.

For a moment there he'd been afraid. Afraid of Jack McKinstry! Who would have thought it? Strode didn't expect people on the wrong end of a squeeze play to be accommodatingly pliant; he'd even anticipated counterthreats. But this was the second time within a week that he'd been made to feel afraid—and he didn't like the feeling at all.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

“This isn't going the way it's supposed to,” Strode muttered to Castleberry back in his office in New York. “One of them waves a gun at me and the other threatens me with dismemberment. Do the fools think I'm playing a game?”

“Joanna Gillespie has been trying to get you on the phone for the last three days,” his assistant pointed out. “Maybe she's had time to see reason. She wants an appointment.”

“If she thinks I'm going to put myself within firing distance of
her
again, she's got another think coming. Did anyone ever point a loaded gun at your face, Castleberry?”

“No, sir.”

“It's a sobering experience, let me tell you. She's in New York now? Well, let's get her on the phone and hear what she has to say.”

Whatever Jo Gillespie had to say, she wasn't willing to say it over the phone. Strode agreed to a meeting and hung up.

Castleberry was aghast. “You're not really going to meet her, are you?”

“No. You are. Take one of the security men with you, and make sure she understands he's armed. You won't need him, you know—it's not you she's mad at. But I'd like her to see that two can play that game. And Castleberry—if she demands the original affidavit her would-be hit man signed, tell her she'll get it when the stock ownership transfer papers are signed.”

Castleberry smiled. “Will she?”

“Of course not.”

When Castleberry had left, Strode walked over to the window and looked out. The dishy babe directly across the street was no longer there; the office was now occupied by a man. Strode watched for a few minutes as the man grew visibly more frustrated and agitated—until he ended up spanking his PC. Strode went back to his desk.

He took out a file folder and dropped it unopened on the desktop. He sat down and rested his clenched fists on the folder. He didn't want to have to deal with the third owner of House of Glass shares.

Strode was not a physically brave man. He kept more security than was absolutely necessary at both his home and his various businesses. Other than the usual boyhood scuffles, he'd never been in a fistfight in his life. He looked upon physical violence as a sign of ineptitude, as evidence of failure in the more sophisticated forms of persuasion. Now he was in the position of having to deal with three people who had killed for money; and of the three, the other man in Los Angeles was the most dangerous.

Strode had full confidence in his ability to outmaneuver the three who'd had to resort to violence to get what they wanted. But people who'd killed once would find it easier the next time. Look at Jo Gillespie; she'd let a year elapse between her first murder and her second, but she hadn't lost her nerve in the interim. He'd slipped when he'd gone to see her and McKinstry alone; he'd at least have had a witness to their threats if he'd taken Castleberry or another member of his staff along. Well, that was a mistake he wouldn't repeat. Even if Jack McKinstry calmed down enough to realize he had no choice and came crawling on his hands and knees, there'd be no more little tête-à-têtes on the beach.

Jack had threatened to go to his brother Phil with the story that Strode had fabricated evidence to make him look guilty. Strode was hoping that was exactly what he would do. Phil might believe Jack's story, might not; Strode didn't much care. But Phil McKinstry was a businessman; he'd know when it was time to deal. Strode was counting on him to knock some sense into Jack's head. If he didn't hear from somebody named McKinstry in the next couple of days, he'd send a copy of the affidavit to Phil.

What would Phil do then? He'd have several options. He could force Jack to sell his shares to Strode. He could refuse to clean up his brother's messes any longer and kick him out. He could be so horrified by what Jack had done that he'd turn him over to the police. Or, he could hire detectives to investigate the authenticity of the affidavit; but Strode had made sure Billy the pilot was well hidden away until this matter was settled. Billy was just a little too willing to take money from anyone who offered it.

All in all, Strode thought it most likely that Phil would simply kick Jack out. The current amity between the brothers had to be tenuous at best; Phil wouldn't risk the family and business name to cover up for a brother he already looked upon as something of a scapegrace. The only real danger was that he might turn his brother over to the police, thus defusing Strode's most potent weapon. But Strode didn't think Phil would go that far. And once Jack found himself on his own, he'd come around. But he might first think of solving this problem the same way he'd solved the Tony Dwyer problem four years ago. Well, he'd find A. J. Strode was no sitting duck.

Strode buzzed his secretary and told her he wanted to see the chief of security immediately.

It was a toss-up as to whether Myron Castleberry was more nervous or more curious; he'd never met a murderer before. Mr. Strode dealt with some pretty tough people—but a
killer
? Castleberry wasn't worried that Joanna Gillespie would whip out her gun and let him have it right between the eyes. Not here, not in a public place. But there was no way he could view her as just another business adversary. Jo Gillespie was different, to say the least.

Castleberry glanced over to the next table where the security guard was seated. She'd said Fiorello's at four; he and his guard had arrived early and taken two of the sidewalk tables. The inside of the restaurant was a little claustrophobic for a meeting such as this one. Not one to waste a gastronomic opportunity, the security guard had ordered a hot sausage sandwich and was making short work of it.

There she was. Castleberry watched her approach; Joanna Gillespie had an unattractive slouch and a don't-give-a-damn walk. She made her way through the crowd of strangers on the sidewalk, both fists thrust into the pockets of her jacket and a shoulder bag bouncing off one hip in rhythm to her walk. Castleberry stood and said, “Ms Gillespie? Mr. Strode has asked me to meet you. He—”