Jackson swung and examined the faces of Bellweather and Walters. “Is he telling the truth?”
“No, he’s lying,” Walters insisted in a rush of words-of course it was true.
Bellweather affirmed the bald lie with a hard nod.
“Where’d you get that damned report?” Jackson demanded, more loudly and slamming a fist on the table.
“You must enjoy the same answer. None of your business.”
The four men on the other side of the table exchanged quick glances; without a word they decided to jettison the friendly approach, which really was never that friendly anyway.
Bellweather pushed forward in his chair and tried to look sad. “Sorry, Jack, you’re making us do this,” he said, trying to make it sound deeply lamentable. His hand reached out and punched a button on the table.
A few seconds later, the door swung open and Lew Wallerman entered. He swaggered to the head of the table and stood, smiling at Jack, smiling at them, smiling at the walls-he couldn’t stop smiling.
A look of what could only be called shock registered on Jack’s face. He tried to recover but it was hopeless. “Lew, what are you doing here?” he asked limply.
Lew was enjoying his moment in the limelight. He was thrilled to be here, and happier still to see the terror on Jack’s face. He was happiest of all, though, over the five million bucks wired only an hour before to the bank of his choice. That five now sat with the other two million chilling in a Bahamian vault. Lew was suddenly a rich man. “I’m friends with these boys here,” he boasted, directing an arm at the right side of the table, where the steering committee sat intently watching Jack’s face.
Jack said nothing. No wisecracks or grating taunts for once. His lips were stapled shut. He was staring at Wallerman as though Jeffrey Dahmer had just joined him at the dinner table.
“Hey, pal, don’t look so surprised,” Lew said, leering back. “I warned you we’d get together again.”
“This is crazy, Lew. We can work this out.”
“Can we?”
“Let’s have a word, just you and me, outside.” Jack began pushing himself out of the chair.
“Forget it, Jack.”
Jack collapsed back into the chair.
It was Jackson’s turn, and he shoved a large green file box toward the middle of the shiny conference table. “Know what this is?” he asked with a sadistic grin. He patted the top of the box fondly.
Jack gaped at it. After a short moment that seemed to stretch forever, he muttered, “I can guess.”
“I wouldn’t want you to guess wrong.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy educating me.”
“You’re right. I’ll enjoy it immensely. Inside is a long and incriminating report from a Greek detective agency about the disappearance of Edith Warbinger. Also plane tickets, charge card receipts, and hotel billings that shed a great deal of light on an old mystery. More than enough light, Jack, to resurrect a murder investigation.”
Jack couldn’t tear his eyes off that damned box.
“It might be somewhat circumstantial,” Jackson continued in a maddeningly calm tone. “But in my view, it’s enough for a conviction. Murder, grand theft, graft, those are just a few of the high points.”
He fell silent and allowed Jack a generously long moment to consider this news.
“This is blackmail,” Jack stammered.
“Well… yes,” Walters chimed in from the side with a dark smile. “You got us in this mess, Wiley. And you’re going to help us out of it, or we’re going to destroy you. You’ll go away for life, believe me.”
“We regret we had to do this,” Bellweather said gravely, trying to look and act like the good cop amid a roomful of horrible cops. It wasn’t convincing. “You left us little choice, Jack.”
“I can see it’s breaking your hearts. Tell me what you want.”
“For starters, where did you get that report?” Jackson demanded for the fifth time.
“Where do you think I got it?”
“Perry Arvan.”
“Good guess.”
“Did you know it was a false representation? Who was behind this scam?”
Jack sat up and rubbed his temples. “Why don’t you ask Perry?”
“He’s gone. Disappeared into the Caribbean. Hasn’t been seen in months.”
Walters complained, “He took our hundred million, saddled us with this pig in lipstick, and went on the lam.”
“Good for him,” Jack mumbled. He was back to staring down at the table.
“If you think that’s funny, it’s not,” Jackson roared. Incredibly, he thought he saw the hint of a smile beginning to form on Jack’s lips.
Jack stood up. He looked at the faces across the table. A change seemed to come over him. “You know what?” He paused and appeared to make up his mind. “I’m tired of your stupid questions.”
“No you’re not. Sit down and finish or I’ll shove this evidence up your ass.”
“I don’t think you will. For a lawyer you’re painfully inept, Jackson.”
“What?”
“You know the phrase Mexican standoff? Maybe mutually assured destruction works better. The moment I’m arrested, I’ll start singing. I’ll have nothing to lose. I’ll cut the best deal I can get, and tell everything I know, which is considerable. We’ll all hang together.”
Before anybody could answer, Jack faced Wallerman and suggested, “Go screw yourself, Lew.”
He ducked out the door before any of the stunned men could think up a reply.
Mitch Walters shut and locked his office door. He walked back to his desk, trying to avoid the harsh stares from Bellweather, Jackson, and Haggar, who were sitting stiffly in the chairs splayed around the office.
They were still stunned by Wiley’s response. They had been so sure he would collapse in fear and meet their every demand. They were going to force him to take the fall over this. The rest of his life in prison for murder, or a far shorter term for confessing to authoring this scam. That was the deal they were prepared to offer him. There really was no choice for Jack. That was the script they had cobbled together that morning; unfortunately, the lead in their nasty little play totally blew his lines.
Jack had a good point, though. They were pointing loaded guns at each other’s heads. Their finely honed plan was now in shreds. Somebody should’ve seen it coming. If they all weren’t so exhausted and under such miserable strain, they would’ve seen the flaw in their plan.
Nobody was ready to propose a new one.
Walters could sense the coldness from the others. Three sets of mean eyes watching him. He knew they were going to hang this on him if he gave them half a chance.
“Has anybody briefed the board about this yet?” Jackson asked.
Walters glanced at his watch and said nothing. The name of the game had just switched to damage control. That meant three big questions: How screwed were they? What steps did they need to take to squirm out of it? And how much was this going to cost?
“Not yet,” Bellweather answered, sounding miserable. “They’ll have to be told today, I suppose.”
They all knew it was going to be ugly. It was nearly impossible to assess the carnage at this point. So much hung on the immense profitability of the polymer. In a year of sorely depressed earnings, the polymer was going to be the golden fountain that spewed out such immense profits, the savior that covered up so many sins and weaknesses. It had promised so much.
The directors were going to throw a noisy fit. They would cry and howl and wail, and eventually they would demand heads.
What to do about the impending legal situation was a different matter, a far touchier one. Handled properly, it would be mildly embarrassing, but they were confident they could contain the damage and avoid a major scandal. They would do the usuaclass="underline" stonewall, bury the evidence, and pull all the right strings. In this town, the right favors in the right circles, enough money tucked in the right pockets, and who knew-maybe, just maybe, they could limit this to a minor humiliation.