Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) (12 page)

“Thanks for being here, Larry,” Felton said. “Mitch shouldn’t be a problem. I think Dave may take more persuading, but between the two of us, I think we should be able to…” He looked past Greenway toward the hostess stand. “There they are now.”

Mitchell Gaynor’s corpulent five foot, three inch frame was clothed in a dark, pinstriped suit. The slimming color and vertical stripes gave the illusion he’d shed a few pounds—the equivalent of shaving the peel off an apple.

Underwood, with a head of beach-boy-blond hair, led the way to the table. Hand extended, he greeted Felton and Greenway flashing a perfect, whiter-than-white smile. “Stuart, Larry, how are you?”

Gaynor panted along behind him and pulled out a chair. “This will have to be quick,” he said, taking his seat. “I can’t stay long.”

Oblivious to Gaynor’s comment, Underwood turned to Felton. “Saw you at Canterbury Park yesterday. The horses treating you well?” he asked.

Felton glossed over the reference to the race track in Shakopee with a simple “It wasn’t my day. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he said. “I apologize for the short notice, Mitch, but the issue we’re here to discuss requires immediate attention. In fact, in yours and Dave’s absence, the rest of the board has already worked out a tentative course of action. We’re all in agreement. As before, the decision must be unanimous, which means the final say now belongs to the two of you. I’m hoping we can wrap this matter up quickly.”

Greenway downed his gin and tonic and grabbed a passing waitress by the wrist. “Get me another one of these, will you, sweetheart?” Still holding her hostage, he asked, “Mitchell, Dave, what are you two drinking?”

“A club soda, please,” Gaynor told the waitress, “with a lime twist.”

Greenway balked. “Have something with a little clout, Mitch.”

“No. My diabetes… Just a club soda, please, miss.”

“A bourbon on the rocks,” Underwood told her.

The waitress extricated her wrist from Larry Greenway’s grasp and hurried away, but not before he managed to slap her shapely butt. She threw an angry look over her shoulder, but kept moving.

“What’s this about, Stuart?” Gaynor asked.

“Paul’s suicide.”

Underwood shifted in his seat. “What about it?”

Felton kept his voice low. “In hindsight, the rest of us feel claiming Paul won the election was a serious mistake.” Underwood groaned. Turtle-like, Gaynor’s neck disappeared between his shoulders. “We’re concerned about having misled the police. We avoided upsetting the stockholders, but our strategy has backfired.”

“Damn straight,” Greenway said, chewing an ice cube. “Absolutely. The timing of Paul’s suicide has the police talking murder.”

“Are you serious?” Underwood asked. “Murder?”

Felton placed a hand over his flaring ulcer. “The police have been asking some very probing questions about Ed. It’s obvious they’re pursuing a homicide investigation and, naturally, they’re focusing on him.”

“Yeah, we did a real bang-up job.” Larry Greenway licked gin and tonic off his lips. “Based on our statements, they think Ed finished a close second to Paul. They’ve taken that information and using the company presidency as a motive.”

Underwood fiddled with his tie. “You’re certain that’s the way they’re headed?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Felton told him. “We have to put a stop to it—the sooner the better.”

“Damn right,” Greenway said.

The waitress returned. Staying out of Greenway’s reach, she served their drinks and left. When she was out of hearing range, Underwood asked, “So what are you proposing we do—tell the police we lied?”

“I don’t see that we have any other choice.” Felton leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. “Ed and the company are linked. If he’s arrested for Paul’s death, he and ACC will both be ruined.”

A lock of blond hair fell over Underwood’s brow as he vehemently shook his head. “I think you’re overreacting, Stuart. Nothing is going to happen to Ed. We all know it was suicide. Eventually, the police will come to that conclusion on their own. My God, they only have to open their eyes. First he lost his wife in that horrible murder, then Chet, and even his mistress…all in such a short time.”

“Innocence is no guarantee, Dave,” Felton pointed out. “We underestimated the police investigators. They’re being exceptionally thorough. It’s apparent they know how long and how badly Paul wanted the presidency. It’s natural they’d find the timing suspicious considering we told them he’d just been elected; we should have foreseen that. It’s best all-around that we correct our mistake before things go any further. Once we explain, they’ll understand that losing the election was the final straw—that it pushed him over the edge.”

“Is Ed asking us to do this?” Underwood said.

Felton lowered his head. “No, but—”

Larry Greenway raised his glass, a finger pointed at Underwood. “Ed doesn’t want us stepping in and stirring the pot, but—”

“Then why stick our necks out? It’s his problem—his company.”

“But largely our responsibility, Dave,” Felton argued. “Ethically, how can we justify doing nothing?”

Unmoved, Underwood shook his head.

“All right,” Felton said, “let me appeal to your baser side. As members of the board, our affiliation with ACC comes with its own rewards. On a purely selfish level, are you prepared to give up the money and prestige? And let’s not overlook something else: the majority of us are stockholders ourselves. Each of us has a lot riding on ACC’s success.”

“You don’t get it, Stuart. We lied to the police. If we go to them with this information, do you think they’re going to shake a finger at us and send us on our way? I don’t think so. Board membership certainly has its advantages, but I see them as a bonus. And as for my stock holdings in the company, I can cut my losses and tighten my belt if necessary. My biggest concern right now is self-preservation. I don’t give a damn about the rest.”

“I don’t deny there could be consequences, Dave,” Felton said. “But coming forward now of our own volition may be our salvation.” He held up a hand, postponing another barrage from Underwood. “We’re not a group of thugs. We’re respected members of this community—reputable businessmen looking after the best interests of the company and,” he continued, “by extension, everyone who benefits from its profitable management: employees, customers, investors, manufacturers.”

Underwood straightened his tie. “You may have convinced the others with that sanctimonious bullshit, Stuart, but we’ve interfered with a police investigation. Saying we could be in deep shit is an understatement.”

“I don’t believe the situation is nearly as dire as you think,” Felton said. “Consider this: misrepresenting the election results was purely a business decision. It’s not as though it had any bearing on the method of Paul’s death. It’s not as though we were aiding a criminal. After all, there was no crime. All we did was conceal one of a number of reasons Paul took his own life. Nothing else.” Felton let that sink in as he gulped the last of his water. “There are twelve of us, Dave,” he continued. “We’re all C-level executives, CEOs, CFOs and the like. We make up an important part of this city’s commercial backbone. Prosecuting us for a little discretionary fudging wouldn’t reflect well on the police either.”

Underwood drummed his fingers against his glass. “I don’t like it; it’s a huge gamble.”

Greenway’s tone was accusatory. “So you’re going to sit back and let Ed hang out to dry?”

“I know you and he are friends, Larry, but the risk is—”

“Negligible,” Greenway insisted. “Stuart’s right. We’re not drug runners or mob bosses for God’s sake. Lighten up, Dave. Under the circumstances, they’ll be forced to cut us some slack. Prosecuting us for what amounts to a white lie would create serious problems for everyone—the police included. They’ll have to take that into account.”

Felton sensed the moment was right. “How about it, Dave, are you with us?”

Underwood downed the rest of his bourbon. “I hope like hell I don’t live to regret it, but all right, I’ll go along with you and the others.”

Felton turned to Gaynor with confidence. “Mitch, you haven’t said anything. I trust that means you agree.”

Gaynor’s intertwined fingers twisted back and forth. “I’m sorry. No, I can’t.”

The color drained from Felton’s face. “Mitch, this decision has to be unanimous.”

“I know; I heard you.”

“Then you realize that doing the right thing is up to you now.”

“Exactly. That’s why I can’t agree to this.”

“But, Mitch—”

“I said no.”

Felton’s jaw dropped. “No? That’s it?”

Gaynor tugged at the collar digging into his fleshy neck. “I have my reasons, and I say we let the police complete their investigation.”

“You can’t be serious,” Greenway said.

“Mitch,” Felton tried again, “Ed may not be able to weather this by himself.”

“If Ed Costales is so sure he and ACC will come out of this in one piece, so be it, Stuart. If he’s innocent, he and the company should be all right. Either way, we need to stay out of it.”

Felton sat back, astounded. “
If
he’s innocent? Mitch, we all know it was suicide. It’s up to us to make sure the police know that, too.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Felton leaned closer. “Mitch, for God’s sake, why not?”

“I have my reasons.” Using a linen napkin, Gaynor obliterated the fine dew of perspiration on his face and bare scalp. “Stuart, if I could do differently I would. I’m sorry.”

“You owe us an explanation,” Greenway said.

“I don’t owe you anything. You wanted my decision, and I’ve given it.”

In thirty years of friendship, Felton had never known Mitchell Gaynor to be anything but compliant—a sheep, not a shepherd. His sudden opposition to the wishes of the majority was totally out of character.

Felton took another turn. “You understand that without your consent, our hands are tied.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“Mitch, please,” Felton said, “you need to reconsider.”

Gaynor struggled to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”

Felton stood and caught him by the arm. “Mitch, I thought you of all people... I mean, no one on the board is more dedicated. No one is more conscientious. You—”

Gaynor pulled his arm away and checked his watch. “Stu, I’m running late.”

“Will you give it some more thought at least?”

“You can’t know how much thought I’ve already put into this.” He started away, returning a moment later to leave his napkin on the table. “I’m sorry. My decision is final.”

14

Ray yanked the plastic film off a frozen dinner and tossed it into the oven. He wasn’t sure if the meal ranked a step above or below fast food and, at the moment, he didn’t care. His back had finally mended to the point that he’d managed a quick tour of a grocery store—a good thing since he’d run out of toilet paper.

Popping open a can of Coke, he did a visual inventory of the boxes still littering his apartment and came up with a plan. Organizing the kitchen could wait. His culinary skills sucked anyway, and he could put up with take-out and drive-thru food awhile longer. He spent most of his time in the bedroom with his eyes closed anyway, so that could wait, too, as long as he left a clear path from the door to the bed. That left the living room as the logical place to start.

As he unpacked odds and ends, he passed his only plant for the twelfth time. Several of the ivy’s yellow leaves dropped off on the way to the kitchen sink where he let water trickle into the arid soil. The plant was dying a slow, needless death.

Hoping to find it a new home, Ray picked up the ailing plant and stepped into the hallway just as a pretty blonde slammed Patrick Gerrard’s apartment door. Tears streaming down her face, she glanced at Ray and hurried away. Before he could retreat, Patrick’s door flew open.

“Sandy, wait,” Patrick called after her, but she kept moving. He turned and saw Ray standing stock still, the wilted ivy clutched in his hand. Patrick’s bruised face looked like someone had used it for batting practice. His right eye was swollen shut, his lower lip, split. He pointed to the plant. “Who’s your friend?”

“My roommate,” Ray said. “We’ve got a case of irreconcilable differences.” His lighthearted tone changed on a dime. “What the hell happened to you? I’d have put my money on you not that cute, little blonde. Seriously…what’s going on?”

He waved Ray inside. “C’mon in. I’ve got something on the stove.”

Setting foot in Patrick’s apartment was like stepping into an alternate universe. The floor plan of their apartments was identical but reversed. Furnishings with splashes of bold-colored throw pillows livened up the dull brown tones of the walls and carpeting. In two corners, tall, palms stood behind matching armchairs. Small display shelves held scores of thriving houseplants. Artwork, mostly nature scenes, hung on the walls.

Patrick returned from the kitchen, carrying two plates of food. “Come eat.” He set the dishes down on the table in the cramped dining area.

“Thanks, but—”