“A lot more than helped, Mrs. Mallory. Your husband saved my life twice in one afternoon.”
“Well, thank you Mr…?” Dennis fished for the name.
“Oh, God, how rude of me! Miles, Miles Taggert.”
“Well, Mr. Taggert, I appreciate your generosity, but I came here to tell you that I can’t accept this money.”
The maître d’ gasped as if Dennis had just used a salad fork to cut into a chateaubriand.
Taggert shook the smile off his face. “Why not? Is it not enough?”
“Oh, no, no. That’s not it. It’s very generous. It’s just that I can’t accept money for helping you. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Wow, you really are a hero,” Taggert said.
“Yes, he is,” Cynthia said. “And thank you, but really, there is no need.”
Taggert walked back around and sat behind his desk. He gestured for the Mallorys to take the seats facing him. He pondered for a second. Then he reached his hand across the titanium desktop. “May I have the check, please?”
Dennis patted the pockets of his off-the-rack Macy’s sport coat, having absentmindedly stuffed the check in his breast pocket. He handed it over.
Taggert ripped it up. Then he turned to his keyboard. Typing quickly, he finished with a double tap on the return key. He then swiveled his high-tech, ergonomic chair and faced the Mallorys once again. “Okay, so let’s talk about you for a minute, Mr. Mallory. You were a decorated New York City detective, shot three times in the line of duty and retired with thirty-five years under your belt. I don’t know for sure, but my dad was a cop and I know your last three years couldn’t have been padded up too much, so I figure you’re making do with a comfortable but not great pension.”
Dennis bristled.
“Please don’t take offense,” Taggert added. “I just like to know things about people. All from the public record, by the way, and what I have learned from my father.”
“Who is your father?” Mallory asked.
“He was a sergeant, the seven-eight in Queens. He retired when I went past 500 million in personal wealth. It was my idea. I didn’t want my mom to lose him to some junkie or hoodlum after she worked so hard and sacrificed so much for all of us.”
“Wow, aren’t you the son of the century,” Cynthia said. “Dennis, I like this boy.”
“Anyway, so here’s my next idea. Do you know what we do here, Mr. Mallory?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Dennis said, turning his palms up.
“We protect secrets, our own and those of clients. We protect secrets that have to be out in the open to have any value. We make it safe for trillions of dollars to find its way from point A to point B.”
“Okay, so that explains all of this.”
“Then hopefully it also explains why I’d like to hire you as a consultant.”
“Me? I don’t know anything about your business.”
“You don’t have to. I need what you already know. Security, police procedure, and how to keep my secrets secret.”
“What about your dad?”
“We’re not talking.”
“Now you are down to son of the month,” Cynthia said.
“He objects to my hang gliding.”
“With good reason,” Dennis said.
“He just doesn’t want your mother to lose you, after all they did to grow you up,” Cynthia said.
Taggert ceded their point. “You should meet them sometime. You’ll get along swimmingly!”
Just then, Dennis noticed the lady comptroller had silently glided across the “oil slick” and appeared in his periphery. If he was in an undercover operation, he could have been dead. It had been twenty years since he worked undercover, and upon reflection — the wavy one of the comptroller reflected in the slick black floor — that was a good thing. She handed Taggert an envelope. He peeked inside, nodded, and slid the envelope across the desk to Dennis.
“Here, I hope you’ll agree to work with us.”
Dennis opened the envelope to find a check for $100,000. He dropped his hands, wrinkling the check. “It’s another check for 100 grand!”
“Yes, but this one is different. It is an advance on your salary.”
“Are you some kind of a wiseguy?”
“Actually, yes! Three degrees and four patents. But if you are asking me if I am being a smart aleck, no. Look at this, please.” He gestured to the maître d’, who surrendered a note to Dennis. Scanning it, he quickly surmised it to be a nasty letter from some nutcase threatening Taggert.
“Have you heard about Intellichip?” Taggert asked.
“That place that blew up in Westchester?”
“Yes, well I did business with them and a company called Mason Chemical.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They were destroyed last month.”
“Have you notified the police about this note? It is a threat.”
“I’d rather not. They probe around, and I keep secrets, remember?”
“So does the mob.”
“I assure you everything we do is legal and within not only the letter, but the spirit of any law.”
“So, why me?”
“Why not? You saved my life twice already.”
“You think your life is in danger?”
“You tell me.”
“Look, I’m retired.” Dennis grabbed his wife’s hand. “We are retired.”
“Will you at least consider helping me?”
Dennis tapped the new check on his knee. “We’ll think about it.” He placed the check back on the desk in front of Taggert. “Meanwhile, you can hold on to this for a while, ’til we decide.”
“Fair enough. And whatever you decide, thank you for everything you have done for me. I hope you’ll at least be my guests from time to time for a weekend in the country.”
“Why, thank you very much, Mr. Taggert,” Cynthia said.
As the Mallorys turned to make their exit, Dennis hesitated. Glancing back at Taggert, he said, “When did you receive that note?”
“A minute before you entered my office.” Dennis noted the tinge of anxiety in Taggert’s voice.
Dennis now saw this man, a billionaire who was half his age, as a vulnerable, scared young boy. His immediate thought was of Taggert’s father. Or more correctly, himself in Taggert’s father’s shoes. After being a cop all those years, how would he feel if his daughter sought protection from some other cop? He knew that would never happen because … he couldn’t think of why it would never happen, which had the effect of softening Dennis’s demeanor. “We’ll let you know soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
The collegiate calm and serenity of the MIT campus were suddenly disrupted by the thumping sound of heavy composite resin rotors chopping through air. Hiccock looked down at the bike path he used to pedal between classes during his graduate study here at the nation’s premiere brain trust of genius. Leaves and dirt swirled, causing tiny whirlwinds that eventually developed into mini-tornadoes. A Marine Huey helicopter made an unscheduled landing on the highway in front of the vaunted institution, the commonwealth’s state police having closed both the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge and Memorial Drive to give wide berth to the hurriedly arranged arrival of the president’s science advisor. Hiccock emerged and was greeted by a school administrator and the head of school security. He was hurried into the gym.
At the front doors was a sign that read, “AUCTION TODAY 3–5 PM INSPECTION 9 AM–2 PM.” He was met at the door by John Wallenford, a man with long gray hair that was not in a ponytail, green-gray eyes, and a body alignment that made you think he was listening for baseball scores through the static of a table radio with one ear.