The Last Day (7 page)

“I guess not,” Ward lied.

“He'd be a fool not to consider it. Mark's not getting any younger, and his skin is going to get blue from the Viagra he's got to be taking to keep Bunny happy.”

Normally the friendly dig might have made Ward chuckle. “Well, I don't intend to sell the
company. Unk can't sell his stock to anyone but me. What else?”

“But—”

“What else?” Ward locked his hands tightly together and frowned. His old friend knew when that was exactly that.

Gene flipped a page and looked at the sheet like whatever was written there was, before that moment, unknown to him. “Lander Electric's insurance company's attorneys want a meeting,” Gene said. “They want to settle. I think it's the smart move. Ward, you need to get this behind you. Natasha agrees.”

“Natasha told you she'd sign a confidentiality agreement? Jesus, Gene, how many meetings are you having behind my back?”

“She called me, Ward.”

“She said she'd sign?” he asked, not believing what he was hearing. She knew how strongly Ward felt about that. If Lander wanted to settle, they'd have to let the world know what they did.

“A
trial would be hard on both of you.”

“They put in a regular outlet instead of a GFI to cut maybe eight bucks and add it to their bottom line, and it killed my son,” Ward said, feeling the familiar anger boiling up inside him. He
punched the table with his trigger finger. “I want everybody they ever wire a home for to be watching over their shoulders and making sure their cost- cutting can't kill anyone else. Not negotiable. End of discussion.”

“There's the expense of a trial and no guarantee that you'll win the suit. Look, let's just hear their offer. They're looking at a lot of bad publicity and they don't want to admit wrongdoing.”

“A
confidentiality agreement is a deal- breaker,” Ward told him. He wasn't going to let that company cover up what their cost- cutting did to his son, to him, to Natasha, to people who loved Barney or would have in the years to come. “If you feel real strongly about it, I can find another lawyer to handle it and you can bill me for your time and your out- of- pocket to date.”

Gene threw up his hands in real exasperation. “You're the boss, Mr. Bullhead,” he said. “I'll tell them, but as I've said a hundred and two times, they can drag this out for decades.”

“I plan to live a very long time,” Ward said. “Now, I'd like to eat and get back to work.”

“Okay, one condition.”

“Name it.”

Gene put the pad away and closed his briefcase. He leaned across the table and fixed Ward with his dark blue eyes. “You'll tell me all about those showgirls you were stranded in the Grand Canyon with.”

Ward laughed out loud and felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Gene smiled; then his eyes focused behind Ward, and he said in a low voice, “Trey Dibble at twelve o'clock and closing.”

The scent of Trey Dibble's cologne ran ahead of the man like a wind- driven, toxic cloud. Ward braced himself and stared at the white linen tablecloth, clinging to the bright blue cloth napkin.

“Gene Duncan,” the confident voice boomed from behind Ward. “They'll let anybody eat here. You know what they call a hundred lawyers drowning in the ocean? A good start.”

“I've never heard that one before, Trey,” Gene said, trying his best to hold on to his smile.

“You know the difference between a lawyer and a turd?”

“No,” Gene said.

“Neither does anybody else,” Trey said, snickering.

“Another good one,” Gene said.

“Just kidding, Gene.” Trey Dibble moved to the side of the table within Ward's view to shake Gene's hand.

“You know I'm crazy about you,” Trey said.

Trey looked down at Ward and smiled as though he was surprised to see him there. Since Ward's company had a long- term contract for Flash Dibble's race team memorabilia, Ward looked up and forced himself to smile. He didn't personally care for all of his clients, but he was always polite to them. DME, or Dibble Motorsport Enterprises, ran a lot of money through RGI for the products they needed to sell to fans to promote their racing team.

Bracing himself, Ward shook the clammy hand belonging to the most unpleasant human being he knew.

Trey Dibble was a poster boy for the spoiled only son of a man who had worked both tirelessly and brilliantly most of his life to build a billion- dollar empire. Flash employed a lot of people, and appreciated—even if he didn't show it—people who had the ability to help build his holdings. So, on one hand, Ward had a lot of respect for what that man had accomplished and the good he'd done. Trey, on the other hand, had
a reputation for doing damage without any positive results.

Without lifts, Trey was five five, weighed a good two hundred pounds, wore his inch- long black hair heavily oiled, and had bushy sideburns and a thin mustache that gave him the look of a local-cable- channel evan gelist. His shirt was opened to show off a gold chain the size of a ski rope that supported a gold medallion with the letters
TD
spelled in diamonds within a field of rubies. The face of the gold Rolex precisely mirrored the medallion's design, and several thick gold bracelets wrapped his other wrist like overfed snakes.

“Ward, how the hell are you?” he asked, with the sincerity of a snake-oil salesman.

“Fine,” Ward said. “And you?”

“Good as a man can feel with his clothes on. Speaking of which, this beautiful young thing is Tami with an i Waterman. Not terribly long ago she was featured in an issue of none other than
Playboy
magazine.”

A woman in her late thirties, with overlarge lips, tight facial skin, and a sculpted nose, stepped into Ward's view. She was chewing enthusiastically on a piece of gum.

“Waterman like the pen. It's a French name. She's not Jewish,” he said, smiling.

“I'm a Sagittarius,” she said in a high- pitched voice that brought to mind a cartoon chicken character.

Trey guffawed and slapped Ward on the shoulder. “She's not Jewish, she's a Sagittarius! Tami, honey, this is Ward McCarty You've heard me talk about him.”

Tami Waterman's tight gold pantsuit coated her contours like latex, showing off her narrow waist and muscular legs. Her enormous breasts were like twin racing blimps, running neck and neck, and she wore enough jewelry to decorate a Christmas tree. She offered her hand to Ward as though she expected him to kiss it. He took her hand and shook it once, wondering if her inch- long nails were glued on.

“He inherited that little toy company you're buying, right?” she gushed. “I love toys.”

“We're still talking it over,” Trey said with a straight face. “Ne-go-see-ate-ting. Ward here is holding out … for a bigger payoff.”

Ward ignored that, tried hard to keep the smile from falling from his face to the floor.

“Not toys. NASCAR memorabilia,” Gene told her. “Everything the race fan desires.”

“You don't sell those little toy cars?”

“They do,” Trey said. “And a lot of other things.”

Using her tongue, Tami moved her gum to one side. “Well, did you ever think about making calendars featuring drivers with their shirts off, maybe in BVDs. Female fans would buy them by the thousands, I bet. And what about a line of fragrances or charm bracelets with itsy-bitsy cars on—”

“Whoa, Tami!” Trey interrupted. “Don't give away your money- making ideas for free.” He narrowed his eyes. “Man, I tell you, Ward. She has got a million of them.”

Tami's smile wavered, and she looked at Trey before meeting Ward's eyes again. “You wouldn't steal my ideas, would you?”

“Of course not,” Gene assured her. “New product ideas have never been a problem for Ward.”

“Gene here tell you the good news?” Trey asked, changing the subject.

Ward turned his eyes to Gene, and despite
their friendship, wondered if this meeting was a chance encounter after all.
Try to read a lawyer's eyes sometime.

“He was just telling me about your father's latest offer,” Ward told him.

“Trey running a toy company,” Tami said. “Can you just imagine it? His toys are mostly big expensive ones. Have you seen his new Viper? Oh, my god! Cherry red with those little sparkle flakes and heavenly yellow leather interior. And my lord, is it ever fast.”

“I bought it because it matches her lipstick and hair,” Trey said.

Ward couldn't think of anything at all to say that wouldn't have been insulting.

“Well, are we close to a deal yet?” Trey asked.

“We were just discussing it,” Gene said.

“Actually,” Ward said, “I've decided that although your father's offer is generous, I'm not interested in selling RGI at the present.”

Trey's smile remained, but something in his eyes was now decidedly reptilian. “That so? We'll leave the door open awhile yet. I'm sure you'll come to see that selling to us is in everybody's best interest.”

Ward felt his smile evaporate. “The truth is, I
don't imagine I can come around to see anything of the sort.” He was sure Trey was unaccustomed to having people turn down offers, and the fact that what Trey had just said sounded like a threat made his blood boil. He wasn't afraid of this malevolent slob on any level, and he would never defile his father's company by turning it or its employees over to this worthless sack of shit. He wanted him to know it.

“Well, I'll let you two get back to your lunch meeting,” Trey said. “I expect this lawyer's charging you an hour to watch him eat. I need to work the room.”

“You have to try the crab legs,” Tami said, rubbing her stomach and rolling her eyes. “I ate about twenty of them. I'll have to work out for a week to get rid of the calories.”

“She eats like a pig,” Trey said. “How she keeps her dancer's figure is a mystery to everybody.”

Trey and Tami moved on to another table to speak to the manager of the track. He was sitting at a table with Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and three men in suits Ward didn't know. Earnhardt, often called the best- loved driver in
the sport, had recently signed with a new team and would have a new number. Ward couldn't hear the conversation that Trey and Tami had hijacked, but Earnhardt's frozen smile was freakish in its insincerity, and Ward wondered if the young man might suddenly bolt for the door.

“I didn't know Trey would be here,” Gene said, sincerely.

“The idea of that prick ordering our de signers to work on Tami's product lines makes me want to throw a chair through this win dow.”

Gene shrugged. “ Twenty- two million dollars. Plus a percentage.” He winked. “It's very appealing.”

“Not if it was twenty- two billion. I'd live under a bridge first.”

When Ward went to the buffet to fill his plate, he didn't so much as look at the crab legs, going straight for the beef tips.

FOURTEEN

When Ward returned to the office an hour later, Leslie was in her office talking with a man Ward recognized from the picture she had on her desk. Todd Hartman had short red hair. He sat bolt upright, with an athletic build featuring wide shoulders, narrow hips, and eyes that were the same pale blue- gray as a Siberian husky's. He was a couple of inches taller than Ward, and looked to be in his early thirties. He was seated beside Leslie's desk with an aluminum briefcase at his feet.

“Mr. McCarty this is my friend, Todd Hartman.”

Todd stood and shook Ward's hand with a firm assuredness.

“Mr. Hartman, it's a pleasure to meet you. I didn't expect you to come right over.”

“Call me Todd. We had lunch earlier and Leslie said you needed some help recovering something, and I've got f orty- five minutes before I'm due back in the office, so I figured if you
came back in time and had a few minutes we could see how I might help you.”

“Please come to my office and we can talk,” Ward said.

He led Todd into his office and they sat opposite each other at the conference table. Todd placed his aluminum briefcase on the floor beside him.

“Leslie says you want to recover a model car that was stolen.”

“That's pretty much it.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No. I don't think law enforcement would be interested.”

“What's the value?”

“I've never thought about it. I suppose to a serious collector, it's worth a thousand or more, but its sentimental value is immeasurable.”

“Tell me about the theft first,” Hartman said. “As much as you know about the circumstances surrounding the loss.”

Ward showed Todd a picture of the car in its showcase his father had taken years before. He told Todd about the strange girl, his trip to the plane's lavatory, which left her alone with his
briefcase, and opening the briefcase that morning to discover that the car was missing.

“Is this something you want to spend your time on?” Ward asked.

“Of course I want to help, and I think I can. Are you sure you want to invest in the recovery?”

“I am. So I guess we should discuss your fee.”

“My base rate is seven a day plus expenses. I bill a buck a mile, and any additional per sonnel will be billed at forty dollars an hour. I usually ask for a two- day nonrefundable retainer to cover my start-up costs, payable upon signing.”

Ward nodded and thought about the expense for a few seconds.

“For friends, family and Leslie's boss, the rate is three seventy- five a day plus straight expenses, and I'll forgo the retainer. This appears to be a simple recovery job and I doubt it'll take more than a day or two at the most. If I don't have it back by then I'll be surprised.”

“I appreciate your generous offer, but I'll pay you your regular fee,” Ward said. “And I insist on paying the standard retainer. If you were doing me a favor, I'd feel like I was imposing if I made
suggestions, or wanted to be critical. Let's forget that you and Leslie are friends.”

“That's fine,” Todd said. “I don't want my personal relationship with Leslie to be awkward on a business level. I want to assure you that I don't discuss clients or my cases with anyone. Leslie knows that.”

The fact was that Ward's father had often told him that if you hired someone to do a job at less than their normal rate, it was just human nature that you usually received a discounted effort. And Ward could certainly afford to pay the investigator his full fee.