Shattered Legacy (6 page)

And it had been that way ever since.

He cleared his throat. “The place looks great, Teresa. Thanks.” Then he loosened his tie as he headed for the staircase that led to the upstairs loft.

“Glad you appreciate it,” she called out, “considering that you forgot to pay me last week.”

Halfway up the steps, Tyler pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing the billfold to the couch. “Take what I owe you. I have to get ready for a dinner engagement.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow. “A dinner engagement?”

“That's right. With a colleague.”

“That sounds like a code word for a date,” she noted with a frown. “Something
we
haven’t done in weeks. Tell me, is this
colleague
pretty, Samson?”

At the top of the stairs, Tyler paused and thought for a moment. “No.” He shook his head. “No, he’s not.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“It’s best to let the investors see that you’re willing to put everything you own into the venture,” W. Sinclair Dorian once confided to Samson Tyler. “If you won’t put up your own money, why should they put up theirs?” With that philosophy in mind, Dorian had sold his sprawling New Canaan, Connecticut mansion during his acquisition of Templar Enterprises and moved to a smaller home in Scarsdale, an affluent New York City bedroom community.

Similar to other estates in the neighborhood, the six-bedroom colonial home was set on a secluded, acre lot. An eight-foot high wall surrounded the perimeter, maintained by an elaborate electronic security system.

The breeze was cool, and shadows were growing long from the setting sun as Tyler pulled his Porsche Boxter off the street and came to a stop before the wrought-iron gate. The convertible top was down, and the engine growled like a living beast.

He peered over his sunglasses to eye the old house and the crisply manicured grounds, dotted with old elm and maple trees. He smiled wryly.
So, this was how billionaires went slumming.

The guard in the brick gatehouse recognized Tyler and the gate rolled open. Tyler drove up the circular driveway and parked before the arched front entry. The brown Tudor house was vine-covered, with bright white trim. Low hedges trimmed the ground and walkway. Tyler walked up the brick path and rang the doorbell. While he waited, he removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his inside jacket pocket.

The deadbolt clicked and the door flung open to reveal Shannon Kiel, Sinclair Dorian's personal assistant. She was dressed in jeans and a red blouse. In her early forties, Shannon was blonde, with a round, almost pudgy face. Her cheeks were dotted with light freckles. She looked flushed, as if she had just run to the door.

When she saw who it was, she slumped against the doorjamb and exhaled. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re early,” she said flatly.

“Traffic was light,” Tyler replied with a smile. He reached up to adjust the knot on his tie. “Is this a bad time? Should I come back later… or just wait out here until you're ready?”

She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “No…come in.”

Sinclair Dorian had hired Shannon eight months ago. Though Dorian insisted that she was simply an administrative assistant, it was obvious to everyone close to him that Shannon was his personal nurse. She was always with him now, and doted over him like an overprotective mother.

Tyler followed her through the parlor and down the main hall. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Tyler looked around, taking the place in. Several landscape paintings stared down from the oak-paneled walls. They were all watercolors, painted by Sinclair Dorian. Other photographs showed a smiling, younger Sinclair with U.S. Presidents, business leaders or famous entertainment personalities. Despite the artwork and photographs, the house had a lack of personal touch. It reminded Tyler of a museum, where everything had its own place, arranged specifically for show.

“How’s Sinclair doing?” he asked casually. “Haven’t seen him around the office lately.”

Shannon kept a brisk pace as they passed the entryway to the living room. “He’s fine. He caught a cold after that last television interview. It kind of took the energy out of him.”

“Is he all right?”

“You can see for yourself, Mr. Tyler. He’s in the dining room.”

She led him into a walnut-paneled room. A large empty fireplace stood against the far wall, flanked by shelves lined with leather-bound books. The opposite wall was windowed, with French doors leading to the back patio. An oval mahogany table large enough to seat twelve sat in the center of the room. A large floral arrangement hid the far end of the table. Tyler turned to say something, but Shannon had disappeared.

Tyler hesitated. “Sinclair?” he called out. No one replied, so he took a few steps forward and peered around the flowers.

He froze in shock. The old man was in a wheelchair, dressed in a button-down white shirt. A plaid blanket covered his legs. His chin rested against his chest. His large ears were partially hidden behind thick shocks of white hair that stuck out from the sides his head. His nose, like the rest of his face, was long and thin. Hollowed cheeks and drooping lips only accented his poor condition. Sinclair Dorian had aged years in only a few short months.

Tyler was still taking in the sight when Dorian's head jerked up. He coughed loudly and looked around, blinking. Through his haggard features, his pale blue eyes still glimmered with a raw intensity. Slowly he focused on Tyler.

Dorian placed his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and tried to push himself up. After a moment, he grunted and released his grip. “Sorry.” He grimaced and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “My legs are acting up today. Arthritis, you know.”

Without missing a beat, Tyler stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“You too, Samson.” The old man's grip was stronger than Tyler expected.

Dorian smacked his lips. “Did you watch the launch this morning? It was something, wasn’t it?”

Tyler shook his head, no. He did not want to admit to Templar Enterprises’ Chairman and CEO that he had not bothered to watch the
Naiad
launch or even a televised replay. Instead, he changed the subject to the purpose of his visit.

“I met with the Penraxis attorneys about the factory purchase this morning. The deal fell through.”

Dorian stared at Tyler, and then frowned. “What happened?”

“Penraxis was trying to get around posting a legitimate environmental bond. Turned out they owned the underwriting company.”

Dorian cocked his head to one side. “That was an important purchase, Samson.”

“I know.”

“Very important.”

Tyler pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat down beside Dorian. He folded his hands on the table and focused his attention on the older man. “They lied to us, Sinclair. Their underwriting company was a shell corporation. We were being set up to absorb some major environmental liabilities. I had to protect the company’s interests. What else could I have done?”

“You could have consulted me about it. You could have used their duplicity as a bargaining tool. Is this what our outside counsel advised? What did Ramona say about all this?”

Tyler shifted in his chair. Ramona Vargas was Templar's Director of Operations, and Tyler answered directly to her.

“I didn’t tell anyone what I was going to do.”

“Why not?”

“Ramona would have ordered me to go forward with the deal. There was no way I could have convinced her otherwise.”

“So that gave you the right to - ” Dorian stopped when he saw Tyler’s face tighten. He sighed and nodded slowly. “All right. I trust your judgment, Samson. A bad deal is a bad deal. If it comes down to it, I’ll back you on this.”

“Thank you, Sinclair.”

The old man sat quietly for a moment, and then rubbed his left eye with the back of his hand. “Well, maybe in the long run we’ve saved ourselves some headaches.” He sniffed. “Speaking of headaches, have you spoken to Jacob about our financials?”

Jacob Jackson was Templar’s Chief Financial Officer and an old friend of Dorian's. “We’re scheduled to meet this week.”

Dorian looked up, smiled, and changed the subject again. “You should have seen that orbiter take off, Samson. I was never so proud in my whole life. After this mission, we're going to have to build a fleet of those ships to keep up with payload and passenger demand.”

“I'm sure we will. But to be honest, sir, right now we have larger concerns.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Larger concerns,” he mimicked. “You should be excited, son. We just started the biggest thing since - hell, you don’t remember the Apollo missions, do you?”

“I wasn’t even born, sir.”

Dorian sighed. “Well, anyway, if you're here about the FBI problem, Ramona already filled me in.”

Tyler hesitated. He hadn’t expected that Dorian would know about that. There was no telling what Ramona had told the old man.

“What did she say?” he asked neutrally.

Dorian shrugged. “Enough. But I'd like to hear your take on the matter.”

Dorian listened carefully as Tyler explained what had happened that morning. Tyler kept his recollection brief, and tried not to shade the facts with personal opinion. Dorian's blue eyes flashed when he learned that the agents had followed through on the warrant even after Tyler had contacted the U.S. Attorney's office.

Finally, Dorian asked, “How big of a problem are we facing?”

Tyler considered the question for a long moment. “Could be serious, but I wouldn’t want to guess until we’ve had some time to investigate the matter ourselves.”

Dorian shrugged. “Ramona doesn’t seem to think this a big deal.”

“I'm presenting a full briefing to her tomorrow morning. I'm sure she will better appreciate the situation once she knows all the facts.”

Dorian made a face. He stared out the windows at the bright outdoors, drumming his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. After a moment, he glanced back at Tyler. “Why the hell do they care what we buy?”

“We're looking into that.”

“We run a clean operation, Samson.”

“I know, sir.”

“Tell me we’re not going to get dragged into another lawsuit.”

“Sinclair, we are in the space exploration business. There are thirteen federal regulatory bodies, two international organizations, and four global treaties that my legal department has to contend with on a daily basis. Believe me; we can handle a few trigger-happy G-men and an Assistant U.S. Attorney.”

Dorian still looked dissatisfied. “What about those animal rights people? That environmentalist group?”

Even before the Thomas Dorian Space Center had broken ground, environmentalists had protested the location of facility, claiming that the construction would destroy the ecosystem of several species of rare snakes and cacti. Lawsuits had delayed initial site construction by almost a year, and the ensuing legal battles had become an ongoing nuisance to the company. When Samson Tyler became general counsel, he took a hard line against the lingering suits.

“I spoke with the EverViro executives. I told them that endangered species aside, the Dorian Space Center was already built, and that our first orbiter had already been through three test flights. I said that we weren’t going anywhere, that they didn’t have a chance of beating us in court, and that we could last longer than they could because our friends have deeper pockets than their friends.”

“You actually
said
that?”

“I also told them that if they continued to harass us, by the time we were finished with them, they wouldn't have the resources to launch a newspaper recycling drive at the local supermarket. Then I suggested a few other entities more worthy of their attention. I gave them a few telephone numbers and pointed them in the right direction. It actually worked out well for everyone.”

Tyler did not miss the irony in the fact that now, only a few days after they beat back the environmentalists, the government starts trouble. Sometimes he wondered if Templar's mission – Sinclair Dorian’s dream - was worth the never-ending struggle.

He decided to stretch the truth to put the old man at ease. “I have everything under control, Sinclair. We’ll be fine.”

The old man's eyes bored into Tyler's from beneath his furrowed brow. “I’m counting on you to take care of things, Samson.”

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

Dorian gave a grim smile. “Good. Because I don’t want our investors to become nervous. Whatever problems -”

Suddenly, Dorian lurched forward and broke into a violent coughing fit. He gagged, clutching the tablecloth in his fists. Color drained from his face as he wheezed and gasped for air.

Shannon was at the doorway sooner than Tyler would have expected. She crossed the room, practically pushing him out of the way to reach Dorian's side.

“Easy, Sinclair,” she said, drawing close and throwing her arm around the old man to keep him from falling out of his chair. Still hacking with dry coughs, Dorian tried to wave her away, but Shannon carefully eased him back into his wheelchair. His head rolled back and he grimaced. He shifted himself, as if trying to relieve pain in his lower body.

“Easy, easy,” she whispered soothingly. “Let me get you a pill.”

“No,” he replied through gritted teeth. “No medicine. I’m fine.” His eyes were slits, his breathing shallow. Shannon picked up a cloth napkin to wipe spittle from his lips.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tyler asked.

“You’d better leave now,” she replied.

“But his -”

“Leave!”

Never taking his eyes from the old man, Tyler stood and straightened his sleeves. “He should be in a hospital.”

“Get out,” Shannon replied without turning her attention from her patient. “He’s had a long day. He’s tired.”

Tyler was shocked that Dorian's health had declined so rapidly. A withering glare from Shannon stifled his inclination to ask about his condition. He backed away from the table.

Slowly, Dorian raised his head. His face was pallid and damp with sweat. “Thanks for coming by,” he managed between labored breaths. “I’ll… I'll talk to you later, Samson.”