Bitch Slap (18 page)

Read Bitch Slap Online

Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Bitch Slap
12.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
 
Twenty minutes later, Lucy escorted Sheriff Douglas Pierce into my office, and the three of us sat around the table, where the letter was sandwiched between gleaming sheets of acrylic. After reading it, Doug asked, “Who's handled it?”
“I'm the only one,” said Lucy. “I opened it.” The torn envelope was on the table as well, protected by a second plastic sleeve.
“Good. The envelope may have been handled by dozens of people,
but chances are, the letter itself was handled only by you and the writer.” He took the letter from the table and held it up to a fluorescent fixture in the ceiling.
“Is there a watermark?” I asked.
“Yup. Ashton Classic Bond—twenty-five percent cotton.”
I recalled the slogan “‘The sterling standard of serious stationers.”'
Lucy wondered, “Do you suppose someone from Ashton Mills sent it?”
I paused in thought. “Ashton's stationery is available everywhere, especially around here. I wouldn't make too much of the paper. Besides, why would someone at Ashton tattle on Gillian? They had everything to
gain
from her scheme.”
Doug noted, “Not
everyone
at Ashton was involved in Gillian's plot. It may have been her doing alone.”
“True,” I allowed. “We don't even know if the letter is trustworthy.”
“‘Trustworthy,”' Doug repeated with a chuckle. “It's an odd description for a document that may have been written by a killer.” He put the letter on the table.
Lucy asked him, “You're thinking Gillian's death may not have been an accident?”
“The circumstances of her death were suspicious from the outset, but there was no physical evidence suggesting otherwise. This”—he tapped the letter with his finger—“is more than a subtle suggestion. It's safe to say this investigation has just entered a new phase. Gillian's death may well have been a homicide.”
I surmised, “You think the letter is credible.”
“This is conjecture, and the investigation will have to sort through it item by item, but here's my current take on the letter.” Doug sat back, explaining, “The central contention of the letter, that Gillian was plotting to destroy Quatro Press, strongly suggests that her death was tied to the merger. The writer, of course, may have fabricated this to conceal some other motive for Gillian's death, but the fact that the letter was written at all is a clear indication of foul play—if Gillian had died accidentally, why would the writer stir the waters? Bottom line: regardless of motive, the writer of the letter may well be the killer.”
Lucy had begun taking notes. The familiar grid had appeared on her pad—her method of visual logic. Swirling her pencil in one of the squares, she said, “So the best way to identify the killer is to identify the writer of the letter. And the best way to identify the writer is to identify his or her motive.”
Picking up on her reasoning, I added, “The motive to explore first is the one the writer implies, that Gillian was killed to prevent the merger from proceeding.”
“Exactly,” said Doug.
I recalled, “Tyler Pennell, the accountant performing due diligence, expressed growing reservations about various aspects of the merger. Maybe he was on to something.”
Lucy suggested, “Maybe he wrote the letter.”
Doug frowned. “I worked with Tyler on a recent case, and he really knows his stuff—but he doesn't strike me as the murderous sort.”
“Hardly,” I agreed. “Besides, he had no direct interest in the merger, as far as we know. His role was that of an impartial outsider, an auditor.”
Doug concluded, “He's the first person we need to see.”
Lucy offered, “Want me to track him down?” She stood.
I told her, “Sure, Lucy, thanks,” and she went to her desk in the newsroom.
Doug leaned forward, picked up the letter, and studied it for a moment. “We'll check this for fingerprints and send it out for typewriter forensics, but we don't need an expert to figure out this was written on an old clunker—maybe a piece of junk from somebody's basement.”
“Or maybe it was written by an old person, someone who never got modern. The wording seems intelligent enough, with a firm grip on business terminology.”
Doug nodded. “I noticed that. It must have been written quickly after the murder. The wording makes reference to Gillian's fall yesterday, and the envelope was postmarked the same afternoon.”
Dropping my head back, I breathed a sigh to the ceiling. “It's outrageous,” I muttered.
“What?” asked Doug. “The merger plot? Or the murder?”
“Both.” I stood, sorting through my thoughts, which I now realized
were highly conflicted. “On the one hand, if what the letter says is true, Gillian's actions were indefensible. She planned to victimize the whole town—bad enough—but she was also shrewd enough to understand that I would be victimized as well.”
Doug agreed, “It's awful. Maybe the letter writer wasn't far off base—she got what she deserved.”
Through a troubled squint, I said, “That sounds pretty strange, Doug, coming from you.”
“Hey, look,” he said, rising to speak to me face-to-face. “As a cop, I'm sworn to track this down and, if a crime has been committed, bring the wrongdoer to justice. And I'll do precisely that. But the point is, if Gillian had wrecked your life, Mark, I'd be tempted to throttle her myself.”
I couldn't hide my smile. “Doug, you're a good friend—as well as a great cop.”
With a modest shrug, he said, “Thanks,” then stepped to the glass wall and looked out into the newsroom.
I continued, “The point I was driving at, though, is this: There can be no justification for murder, certainly not as a means of settling a business dispute. Two wrongs don't make a right. I mean, why did the killer take such an extreme measure to quash the deal? Couldn't he have simply blown the whistle? The merger would have collapsed as soon as Gillian's true agenda was revealed.”
Doug said to the window, “We'll have to talk to the killer about that. Right now, we know nothing.”
Lucy popped back inside my office. “I managed to locate Tyler Pennell. He just headed over to Quatro Press—has an appointment with Perry Schield.”
Doug glanced at me. “Then we'd better get going.”
“We?”
He grinned. “I know you're as hot as I am to get to the bottom of this. Besides, you're fully acquainted with the terms of the merger. I'm clueless on this stuff—I wouldn't even know what questions to ask.”
“Great. Count me in.” I stepped to my inner office and grabbed my jacket. Returning, checking my pockets for notebook and pen, I told
Lucy, “By the way, put a hold on tomorrow morning's editorial page, will you?”
“You're the boss.”
“I'll dash off something after I get back from Quatro. I'm afraid when news of the letter hits—and speculation begins concerning the presumed murder—a lot of people will think of the killer as a hero. We need to keep this in perspective. This wasn't just a matter of payback. A deadly crime has been committed.”
Lucy nodded. “I'll hold the space for you.”
D
oug drove. We considered phoning ahead, both as a courtesy to Perry Schield and to make sure we wouldn't miss Tyler Pennell, but Doug decided, “Nah, let's keep our visit a surprise.”
To describe Quatro Press as a “printing plant” wouldn't begin to give an accurate picture of the sprawling facility. Located north of town not far from the interstate, Quatro might be mistaken by a passing motorist for a large industrial park, which would be a close guess, except that Quatro was the sole occupant of this veritable village, served by a grid of roadways and its own rail spur.
When Doug flashed his badge to the guard at the main gate, he got an awkward salute from the gal in uniform, who welcomed him, “Afternoon, Sheriff.”
As we rolled onto the grounds, Doug turned to me, noting, “It's been a while since I've been out here. I hardly recognize the place.”
I explained, “Quatro was in a phase of almost perpetual expansion during the last decade or so, until recently, when the manufacturing segment of the economy went flat and Chinese competition, with its dirt-cheap labor, began making inroads in both the printing and the paper industries.”
“And that's what the merger was all about?”
“Yup. Vertical integration and consolidation of resources—that's
one way to stay lean. At least that's what we
thought
Gillian had in mind.”
Pierce didn't recognize the place not only because it had grown, but because Neil had been on retainer the last few years and had given a face-lift to the existing facilities while designing new buildings from the ground up. The result was a tasteful, cohesive whole that had won plaudits in several urban-planning journals. An office tower contained the executive headquarters on its top floor, the sixth, highest in all Dumont (it even sported a winking red beacon on its roof to ward off errant, low-flying aircraft, which struck me as an exaggerated precaution). The tower had been built some thirty years earlier, but Neil's artful rehab of both interior and exterior had energized the glass-and-steel box with a gleaming new look of up-to-the-minute industrial chic.
Doug parked in a visitor's space near the front entrance. As we got out of the car and walked to the building, he said, “I know Tyler Pennell fairly well, but I've never met Perry Schield. Anything I should know about him?”
I paused on the sidewalk. “He's sixty-two and, frankly, not the most dynamic CEO that Quatro's had at the helm. He's really not the right person to lead the company through the challenges it's facing in a brutal business climate. That's why I found it so appealing to bring Gillian into Quatro's management team.”
“It sounds as if you were planning to push Schield aside.”
“We were,” I admitted. “I think Perry understood that, and I don't think it bothered him much. He would end up retiring a few years early. Cashing in a heap of Quatro stock, he'd walk away with millions.”
“Except,” noted Doug, “that Quatro stock would have become AQC stock, and there was no way to predict its worth.”
I gave Doug a knowing grin. “That's an intriguing wrinkle, isn't it?”
I opened the door for him, and we walked through the lobby. The receptionist flashed me a smile, saying, “Good afternoon, Mr. Manning,” then returned her attention to a crossword puzzle. I led Doug into a waiting elevator and pushed the top button.
When the doors slid open again, we found ourselves in the hushed, smaller lobby of the executive suite.
“Ah! Mr. Manning. So nice to see you,” said Janet, the woman behind the desk. The senior member of Quatro's secretarial pool, Janet had a mound of perfectly coiffed pewter-colored hair, which coordinated nicely with a nubby wool suit of mouse gray. “Had we known you were coming, I'd have posted your name on the welcome board.” She adjusted her glasses and peeped at a list on her desk to make sure she hadn't missed something.
“Sorry to pop in unexpected, but I wonder if Perry has a few free minutes.”
“Mr. Schield is always pleased to see
you
, Mr. Manning.” She knew me as both a board member and a major stockholder. “But I'm afraid he's tied up in a meeting right now.”
Doug ventured, “Does he happen to be with Tyler Pennell?”
Janet's eyes popped, as if Doug had performed a psychic feat. “Why, yes, in fact, he is.”
“Actually,” I told her, “we're here to see both of them. Do you suppose we could interrupt? It's important.”
She paused a moment to consider my request. “Certainly, sir. They're not in Mr. Schield's office, or I'd announce you. They went to the library.” She gestured down a hall.
“I know the way, thanks.” I stepped away with Doug.
“Uh, Mr. Manning?” said Janet, penciling something on a log sheet. “Your guest is … ?”
“This is Sheriff Pierce.”
“Oh.” She nodded an uncertain welcome, then glanced down to log him in.
Leading Doug through the hall, I asked, “Did you bring a copy of the letter?” The original was safely stashed in his briefcase, in the car. Lucy had made copies for us, but I hadn't noticed where he'd put his.
He patted the chest of his sport coat. “All set.”
Approaching the closed door to the library, a small meeting room decorated with a few books, I lifted my hand, prepared to knock. But Doug gave a tiny shake of his head. “Like I said”—he lowered his voice—“let's surprise them.”
So I turned the knob and walked right in with Doug on my heels.
Tyler and Perry were huddled at the end of a long table, comparing notes, (
literally
comparing notes, hunched over files spread open before them). Their silent tableau projected an unmistakably conspiratorial air, and when they saw us enter the room, they appeared not only surprised, but shaken. “Oh, gosh, sorry,” I told them. “I must have misunderstood Janet. I thought she said you were in the conference room, but there was no one there, so I just started opening doors.”
“No problem, Mark,” Perry said awkwardly, rising. “What can I do for you?” He struggled to suppress a cough.
“Doug,” said Tyler, also flustered as he rose, “it's been a while. Good to see you again.” He crossed the room to shake hands.
“Perry,” I said to the older man, “have you met Sheriff Douglas Pierce?”
“Uh, no, I don't believe I've had the honor.” He stepped forward, extending his hand.
When we had finished with introductions and some strained pleasantries, Perry, playing host, suggested, “Why don't we all sit down.” Then he and Tyler resumed their seats at the end of the table, closing their folders as they sat. They were similarly dressed again, as when I'd met with them in my office on Tuesday morning. Today their business suits were gray, pin-striped, instead of solid navy blue. They really could have passed for father and son.
Doug and I joined them at the table, putting several chairs' distance between us and them. I asked good-naturedly, “Why the meeting, fellas? Due diligence is now moot, isn't it? The merger is off.”
Perry nodded gravely. “I just wanted to make my intentions
explicit
to Tyler. With neither my signature nor Gillian's, the deal's off, and that's fine by me.”
“He could have read that in this morning's paper.” I grinned.
“I did, in fact,” said Tyler. “Perry and I still felt the need to touch base on a few issues. Anything wrong with that?” His breezy tone could not fully mask the defensiveness of his words.
“Nothing at all,” I told him.
“Mark,” said Perry, “I can't believe how close we came to making a colossal blunder.” He tapped the thick folder in front of him. “Gillian
was up to no good, and I hate to say it, but we were damn lucky she fell from that ladder yesterday. If a fatal accident ever had a silver lining, this is it.”
Doug's brow arched; I'm sure mine did as well.
Perry told us, “I'm sorry to sound insensitive, but that's how I feel.” Something gurgled in his throat. He covered a cough with his hand, then swallowed.
“Under the circumstances,” said Doug, “I can't say I blame you. But I'm surprised to hear you refer to Mrs. Reece's death as a ‘fatal accident.' Surely you've heard by now.” Doug knew very well that the existence of the letter he was carrying was not yet public knowledge. By implying that it was, he hoped to trip Perry or Tyler into acknowledging that they were aware of the letter, which would be tantamount to confessing to having written it.
But the ploy didn't work. Either Perry and Tyler had rehearsed their shared look of guiltless ignorance, or they were genuinely in the dark.
“Heard about what?” asked Tyler.
Perry added, “Why wouldn't I refer to her death as an accident?”
I explained, “We received an anonymous letter at the
Register
today. The sheriff believes, and I concur, that the letter is compelling evidence that Gillian didn't die by accident. Rather, Gillian may have been pushed from that ladder, and at issue”—I paused for effect—“at issue was the merger.”
Predictably, Perry and Tyler reacted to this news with stunned silence.
Notching up the drama of the moment, Doug added, “The writer of the letter was probably the killer.”
“Good God,” said Perry, running a hand through what was left of his silver hair, “this nightmare just gets worse and worse.”
With no apparent emotion other than curiosity, Tyler asked me, “What makes you think the issue behind Gillian's death was the merger?”
“The letter makes it plain that someone didn't want the merger to happen—and with very good reason.”
Perry interjected, “A
lot
of us were getting cold feet.” Then he swung his head away from us, indulging in a deep, hacking cough.
“According to the letter,” said Doug, producing the folded copy from his inside pocket, “Mrs. Reece was less than forthright with her intentions regarding several key aspects of the merger.” Both Tyler and Perry craned for a look as Doug unfolded the letter and skimmed through it for a moment in silence. He continued, “If these allegations are true, Mrs. Reece was guilty of attempting some extremely serious business shenanigans, and the big loser”—he paused, folding the letter and returning it to his jacket—“the loser would have been Quatro Press.”
Perry whipped the linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and worked up a ball of phlegm.
Tyler asked, “What, exactly, was she up to?”
“That's what I was hoping
you
could explain,” said Doug. “I'm a dunce when it comes to the intricacies of business and high finance.”
“Me? What would I know about it?”
I answered, “You were performing due diligence, Tyler, and you claimed several times to have discovered ‘blips' and ‘inconsistencies' in Ashton's books.”
“Those were accounting matters—concerning some odd travel expenses and such. It sounds as if
you're
referring to issues deeply embedded in the contractual language.”
“That was under your purview as well, wasn't it?”
“It was, but I generally defer those matters to legal counsel. Both Ashton and Quatro were well represented.”
I nodded. “Still, it seems strange that with all this talent and all these safeguards,
someone
didn't see through Gillian's scheme. What, you ask, was she up to? Nothing less than the total demise of Quatro Press. She planned to siphon off our assets, technology, and customers, transferring them to another plant offshore. Very quickly, Dumont would be faced with a monumental unemployment problem.”
I had assumed, by laying these details bare, I would elicit cries of surprise and outrage, if not from Tyler, certainly from Perry. Instead, they turned to face each other, looking not stricken, but smug.
“You see?” said Perry. “Our worst fears have been realized.”
Tyler corrected him, “Our worst fears were
almost
realized.”
“I suppose we should be thankful.”
“Thankful, sir?”
“The deal's dead.” With a snort of laughter, Perry added, “And
so
is Gillian.”
“Yes, sir. Thank God.”
Eyeing each other, Doug and I decided there was no purpose in prolonging our visit. We stood. Doug said, “Thanks for your time, gentlemen. I'm sorry for the interruption, but we thought you should be made aware of these developments.”
“Certainly, Sheriff,” said Perry, also standing. “We appreciate the courtesy.”
“We do,” echoed Tyler, rising. “Thank you, Doug.” They shook hands.

Other books

Dead Man’s Shoes by Bruce, Leo
Silver Linings by Debbie Macomber
Slightly Shady by Amanda Quick
The Deep by Mickey Spillane
Mating Season by Allie Ritch