“And you don’t believe it was his time?”
Erma’s gaze met his, “No. I don’t believe it for one minute. He’d just had a physical. ‘Fit as a fiddle,’ his physician had said. I should have spoken up then, but I was shocked and frightened. Edmund handled everything for me. And I let him. He was a good friend in that manner. Later, I learned that an autopsy would have been standard procedure, but the doctor had already signed the death certificate and there were no questions raised. I didn’t know what to think. I was just so devastated… so weak.” Jack could see she was fighting for composure.
He reached across the table and took her hand. “You did the best you could do under the circumstances. No one would ever fault you for that.”
They both sat in silence as he gave her a moment to calm herself.
“Do you think Edmund Lane killed your husband?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous. I just don’t believe Adam died of natural causes.” Sadness hung in the air. “I hope our talk helps you find whatever you’re looking for.”
“I hope so, too. Did Adam ever talk about Mort Fields?” Jack asked as they both stood.
“Yes, now and again. I assumed Mort was part of the Council. And Adam mentioned that he, too, spoke to your father about his concerns.”
“I see.” Adam and Mort were part of the so-called Council, and both had gone to his father. Their visits had to be related.
Erma walked him to the door. “If you need any further assistance, call me.” she said.
“Thank you. And please, if you think of anything else, I’m at the Best Western.”
Walking back to the hotel after dinner at a restaurant down the street. Jack felt as if he were being watched. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned quickly, taking a few steps backward, only to find the sidewalk behind him vacant.
I must he getting paranoid, he thought, tossing his keys on the dresser. It was seven o’clock in the evening, and he had left his room at five.
He noticed his computer and frowned. He was sure he’d left his laptop in his briefcase. Now it sat in plain view on the desk, plugged in. Son-of-a-bitch, someone had been in his room. The maid? No. She had made up the room earlier that afternoon.
Jack went through his computer files. Nothing seemed to be missing. But why would someone break in and not take anything? The bastards were looking for something. He was getting too close. Somebody was getting nervous.
He wondered if his own employer was checking up on him. That was crazy. But was it? He’d seen crazier. And he’d never bothered to find out how the magazine knew he’d been to Missouri before.
He unscrewed the phone and disassembled the light fixtures, hunting for listening devices. Then he tore the room apart looking for anything dangerous. He’d seen bombs planted under toilet seats, toothpaste laced with poison, and a multitude of maiming weapons.
Three hours later, sweat dripping from his brow, he had the room reassembled as if nothing had happened. He flopped down on the bed. Shit, I’m paranoid.
He called the switchboard for messages. The operator told him that Mort Fields’s assistant had phoned to schedule an appointment. A smile lit Jack’s features. Fields was back in town. He could put the pieces of the puzzle together. While Erma had certainty given him interesting information, it was all second hand and speculative. He needed Mort to fill in the blanks.
FORTY-THREE
The dimly-lit parking garage was all but vacant. A small Asian woman dressed in a janitorial suit and carrying a large purse approached the last remaining car. Pausing, she glanced around to assure herself that she was alone. She moved to the side of the vehicle and looked in through the driver’s-side window. The car was unlocked, the alarm disarmed. No surprise, she thought, given the amount of security she’d had to circumvent in order to gain access to the private garage.
With a slight click, the door opened. Silently. she moved around it, dropped to her knees, and leaned into the car, examining the steering column. Finding the standard construction, she set her large bag on the seat and removed her tool pouch. She unscrewed the bolts securing the steering column, and removed the structure, exposing the wiring harness for the airbag.
She found the termination of the wiring harness, made a splice, and inserted a small electrical switch completing the circuit. She threaded it to the speedometer needle, setting the strike point to seventy-five miles per hour.
This was one of her cleverest ideas, she mused. Without the benefit of a Porsche expert directly comparing factory wiring to her revision, no one would ever notice her handiwork.
Her job complete, she replaced the steering column, stuffed her tools back into her purse, and moved out of the car, closing the door behind her. As she stood beside the vehicle, she removed her gloves, shed the janitorial suit, and shoved the items into her bag. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, smoothed her hair, and straightened her dress. Then, she backtracked, making her way out of the garage the way she’d come in.
FORTY-FOUR
Mort Fields folded his small frame into his new Porsche Carrera Cabriolet, started the engine, and put the top down. As he drove out of the underground garage, he glanced at his watch: 11:16 P.M. He’d missed the benefit dinner given to support The Airoyo Del Yalle Camp for children with life-threatening illnesses.
“Damn.” Mort muttered. He was always running late by this time of the evening, especially when he’d been out of town. He’d hoped to at least make an appearance.
On the freeway, he pushed the accelerator down, enjoying the feel of power and speed as the vehicle responded. The speedometer registered seventy-three miles per hour as he accelerated into a mild curve. His mood lifted as the balmy, summer night air rushed over him, and the highway stretched vacant ahead. Pushing the pedal to the floor, he let the engine roar.
The air bag exploded.
The Jefferson City Democrat
August 12, 2000
Tycoon Killed in Cur Clash
JEFFERSON CITY – Local businessman, Mortimer Fields, died last night when he lost control of his Porsche Carrera Cabriolet. Apparently, the victim was not wearing a seatbelt at the time of the crash and was thrown from the car.
Recently divorced, Mr. Fields was not reported missing until the next day when he failed to make his morning appointments. His car was found in a ravine off a remote section of Highway 50. An investigation is underway to determine the circumstances of the crash.
FORTY-FIVE
Jack stood at the edge of the ravine. The mangled frame of the Porsche was crushed between two trees. Yellow crime scene tape corded off the area.
He identified himself as a member of the press. “Do you have any idea what time the crash occurred?” Jack asked the officer posted at the sight.
“After eleven last night.” the police officer responded. “Real shame, too.”
Jack nodded toward the yellow tape. “Do you suspect foul play?”
The officer adjusted his gun belt.
“This is off the record.” Jack said.
The man shrugged. “Doubt it. But with him being a bigwig and all, we’ve got to cover the bases.”
“You ever hear of him being in business with Carolyn Lane?” It was a long shot, but why not?
“Naw, but he was supposed to fly to New York to speak at the convention. That’s how he was discovered. He missed some appointments, then didn’t show up for the plane. I suppose that was for the Lanes.”
Fields was speaking at the convention? Why? And on what topic? Jack didn’t recall seeing him listed on the schedule. Who wouldn’t want Fields to be there? Was someone eliminating Warner’s obstacles, as Erma had suggested? If so, who? Attending the convention suddenly sounded appealing.