Thin Blood Thick Water (Clueless Resolutions Book 2) (22 page)

The Squad Commander was aware that Maggie had seen men leaving the scene and he asked her if they were carrying anything as they ran off. She couldn’t say positively and explained that one of the two left before the other and she only had a fleeting glimpse of him. The Commander told her that a nylon-plastic ratchet strap had been looped through the rear stabilizer bar adjacent to the gas tank. It appeared that someone was preparing to attach something about the size of a small wine bottle and were interrupted in the process. He suggested that she make a statement to the officer in charge and work with the investigators in the follow-up.
“This could have been a prank or it could have been for an explosive device. You interrupted them soon enough and no harm was done. The investigative department will keep the attaching strap for future reference,” he continued, holding up a sealed clear vinyl bag showing the strap.  “If this was an attempted explosive attachment the device would have been connected to the brake light wires and would have activated when you took the car out of park,” he lectured. “If that was the intent, you are a lucky young lady, Ma’am,” the squad commander concluded.

The special squad personnel drove their vehicles away and the patrolman asked if Maggie would accompany them to the precinct to give a statement. She agreed and drove behind the patrol car. Along the way Maggie felt secure enough in the police presence so she transferred her pistol to the glove compartment. No one asked her if she was armed and going into the police station, a metal detector might cause a search. To keep things simple she decided that she wouldn’t mention the pistol during her official statement.

On the highway back to East Wayford Maggie sensed that the relaxed state, which she and Max had finally reached the day before, was gone. Between being lured to the luncheon meeting by the disingenuous lawyer-agent, and the confrontation in the parking garage afterward, she was stressed. Her mind drifted back to the squad commander’s haunting words about her ‘good luck’ but her experiences during the last two weeks seemed to be more bad luck than good, she felt.

She had been ready to dismiss the attorney debacle as a deliberate miscommunication, or the result of a limited-response survey, whereby she and only a few others responded. But what would explain the inability of the hotel receptionist to find a scheduled luncheon on the hotel agenda and the almost immediate response when the attorney’s name was mentioned? That was a question in the back of her mind.  Also, in that vein, what about the almost immediate departure from the hotel by the attorney? He was finishing gorging on a huge lunch when she walked out and, by the time of the quick response to her 911 call by the bomb squad and police patrol, he was outside getting into a cab.  Was the tampering with her vehicle deliberately connected to her appointment time?

With these thoughts rotating through her brain like a vividly animated carousel, Maggie had reached her destination on ‘auto pilot’. As the sun was disappearing into the horizon, she exited the highway, drove the short distance to Hargrove House Apartments, and rolled into the parking area labeled APARTMENT MANAGER.

Senior Partner Chip Chaplain had spent two days holed-up in his studio office at USAP headquarters. He had showered, changed clothes and, on three occasions, sent out for food. He had spoken by phone with head secretary Heather Copeland several times and had called two Canadian phone numbers and received one response. Several intercontinental emails were exchanged.

After his flight to Lakeside on Thursday morning, Max got down to business doing a thorough examination of the USAP account files, looking for any debits that would have been the source of the large fund transfer to the European Banks. By late-afternoon he hadn’t found anything noteworthy in that respect. He decided that a one-on-one discussion with Chip was in order. Chip’s phone extension, however, was in recorded message mode.

Max was hungry and opted to go to his apartment to make a sandwich, or two. By the time he had ridden his run-about to his garage door, darkness had set in. Through the crisp, quiet evening air, he heard the pop-pop-pop of a helicopter’s blades coming from the direction of the headquarters complex. Glancing in that direction he saw the helicopter landing lights shining downward as it lowered slowly to land. The top of the office building was not visible from where Max stood, but the light on the radio antenna and the lighted wind-direction indicator showed that the copter was landing on the USAP roof-top landing pad above Chip’s office.

Max’s cell phone jangled with a call from Maggie just as he had assembled the makings for two baloney-and-cheese melts.

“You’re just in time babe, pull up a chair,” he answered. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure,” she responded. “Can you fly one-handed and not spill a drop? Oh, wait, it’ll be stale by the time you get here, so you’ll just have to drink it yourself.”

Max had his sandwiches made and a beer poured by the time they finished the banter. He sat munching at the dining counter while Maggie began recounting her interview in Hartford which she had thought was a group luncheon, and the parking lot incident with the follow-up police report given at a local Hartford police precinct station. She told Max how the gun had scared them off, otherwise they might have attacked her. Max choked on his food and had to take a swig of beer to clear it.

“For Christ’s sake, Mag,” he croaked. “That might have been an attempt on your life!  Do you think it was connected to the interview?”  Maggie had no way of connecting it. Max asked how the interviewer got her name and Maggie explained that it originated in Nova Scotia, but she assumed it was a luncheon canvassing effort including all local finance practitioners.

“I’ve been to these kinds of luncheons at lot. You rub shoulders with people in the business and develop contacts,” Maggie said, rationalizing her going there.  “Who would expect that I would have to pull out a gun in a parking garage?”

“Don’t tell me,” Max said exasperatedly. “The cops confiscated your weapon, right?”

“No. I didn’t tell them that I pulled out the gun. I had stashed it in my shoulder bag by the time they got there. They didn’t ask, and I wasn’t in the mood to go through the third degree. I was so pissed-off at wasting time with the lawyer that I just wanted to give my statement and get back to East Wayford. Besides, I thought the gun might get picked up by a metal detector going into the station so I left it in my car.”

“You know it’s not only your good looks that make you so attractive, it’s your brains that make you irresistible,” he kidded, trying to calm down. Maggie had no good way to counter that comment, so she didn’t comment back.

Changing the subject, she asked if he was getting any answers to the USAP mysteries and he responded by telling her about how Chip had isolated himself in his ‘tower’.

“A helicopter landed on the roof over there after dark, just as I got back to the apartment, and it wasn’t the chopper that Brad has been working on. I’m going to call Chip when we hang up and pressure him to get together for a talk,” he stated with resolve.  Maggie knew Max was serious about pinning Chip down on several questionable issues. She reminded him to find out about the river water turning red, ‘just out of curiosity’, from Chip. Max agreed.

Getting back to her being accosted in Hartford he suggested that they call their friend Don Chace at the F.B.I. and see if they could connect this ‘agent’ guy that she had lunched with, to Nova Scotia.  Maggie agreed to give that some thought and they said their mutual farewells for the night.

Max dialed the USAP code-red number for the first time. It was set up for an ‘emergency or intense urgency’ on a direct connection to the senior partner’s office via satellite. If Chip wasn’t present a recording would indicate that the call was being transferred to whomever he voiced-in as the designated PIC (Partner in charge).  Because of Chip’s aloofness and lack of leadership during recent critical periods, Max was feeling a sense of ‘intense urgency’.

“Is that you Max?” Chip answered.

“Yes it’s me, Chip. I know it’s a little late but I was wondering if we could talk. I can be at your office in five minutes,” Max responded solemnly. After a moment of hesitation Chip asked if fifteen minutes would work. Max agreed, and then hung up.

Within ten minutes Max was dressed, had a pocket pad with pen for notes and was aboard his run-about, heading toward the headquarters building. As the run-about headlight probed through a ground fog surrounding the lake area, helicopter sounds rolled across the lakefront again. Max saw the bright spotlights mounted on the undercarriage of the sizable rotary-winged aircraft shining downward as it lifted into the air, turned in place, and started off on a northwest heading at a low altitude.  By the time Max reached the air strip entrance door of the hangar the sounds had faded.  An eerie silence greeted him upon entering the hangar at this late hour. He had punched-in his code on the door pad when he arrived and he saluted the watchman’s monitor camera as he strode across the service area toward the elevator at the rear.

Chip greeted Max with a handshake and, with a cautious stare, offered him a seat on the sofa in a conversation grouping of fine leather furniture. As he placed his attaché case on the sofa and opened it, Max could sense the recent presence of another person, or persons. This was due to either a lingering scent hanging in the air, Chip’s guarded demeanor, or the slight disorder of the room. What with all the recent mystery, he wondered who the helicopter visitor or visitors might have been.

“Would you join me in a dram of cognac?” Chip asked, as he was pouring one for himself. Max accepted and glanced around the large open room. Chip brought the cordial drinks on a small tray, which he set on the coffee table between them. The hospitable reception Max was receiving belied the curt demeanor exhibited of late by the Senior Partner. It occurred to him that this might be a deliberate attempt by Chip to mitigate any objectionable questioning, while allowing him time to probe for the reason behind Max’s emergency phone call. He might also be trying to deflect attention from any tell-tale signs of the recent visit.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet on short notice,” Max stated calmly, with a practiced diplomacy equivalent to that which Chip was displaying. This was actually the first time he had met one-on-one with Chip, in a formal scenario, since his initial interview for the Partnership.

“Was that Brad’s recent addition to our fleet that I saw taking off?’ Max asked as innocently as he could muster, referring to the helicopter. He knew full well that it wasn’t, because it was much heavier and more powerful.

“Er…no. That was just an old acquaintance of mine who decided to ‘drop in on me’ during my off duty hours,” he responded with a forced chuckle while making quote marks in the air. It seemed to Max like a rehearsed answer.  Max nodded in a feigned, ‘guy-to-guy’ indication of understanding. That was the end of that discussion.

More seriously now, Max took his notepad out of his attaché case, looked directly at Chip and said, “There are several instances of recent USAP activities that need to be filled for me, so that I can continue to perform the requirements of my position with confidence,” Max stated. “You are the only one that I should ask, and the only one I will ask.” Chip’s demeanor began to change. He blanched slightly as he knitted his brow. Max had his full attention now.

“First, I need feed-back on the status of the Bickford Laboratory acquisition, and a few questions about the business history. Secondly, I have some questions as to what you and your bodyguards were able to uncover when you stayed-on in Nova Scotia after we limped home, Max stated firmly. “I have other questions but we can start with these,” Max continued, after glancing at his notes.

There was a long pause as Chip’s eyes glazed over and he seemed to struggle with his faked ‘chummy’ attitude for a moment. Max waited with a steady gaze watching Chip’s reaction. After a few blinks, Chip wiped his eyes with both hands as if to clear away the blurriness and dragged his hands down both sides of his face. He leaned back in his seat, bowed his head slightly and folded his hands on his lap.

Suddenly, Chip stood up and turned to his right. Max reacted to the sudden movement by reaching inside his sport jacket and putting his hand on the grip of his automatic pistol. He shifted his seat forward on the couch, but Chip, not looking his way, strode around the opposite facing sofa and began pacing while looking up at the ceiling with his hands clasped on his head.  Max settled back on the seat, satisfied now that Chip was making stalling moves, not aggressive moves.

“Let me figure out where to begin,” Chip sighed, apparently recognizing that he would have to reveal something that would satisfy Max’s concerns, but without divulging more than what was needed.

Based on Chips reaction, Max was beginning to feel that his few questions might be just touching on the tip of the ‘proverbial iceberg’. Reflecting back on Maggie’s latest encounter in Hartford, along with their abduction in Nova Scotia, he began to wonder if he and Chip were alone at this very moment, in his ‘den’. Although he was armed, Max had sampled the cognac served by Chip. For all he knew, it might have been doped.

Realizing that they were virtually alone in the massive building, except for a watchman whom may or may not be in attendance tonight, alert signals started going off in Max’s brain. He had acted impulsively in pressing for this meeting, and his intuitive reaction now suggested that the prudent thing to do, at this point in this ‘chess game’, was to feign inexperience, make a ‘stupid’ move to throw his opponent off guard, and allow him to win the current exchange without sacrificing anything. Max could then try to back off to a less precarious position.

“Hey Chip, I’m sorry to be pressing you on issues which are probably none of my business,” he blurted out trying to sound naïve. He rose, tossed his notepad into his attaché case, snapped it shut and moved toward the elevator. Once there he activated the door opener.

“Well…, okay Max,” Chip said, off-balance now on what the next move would be. “Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll sit down and figure out what you need.”  Max opened the elevator, entered, and pushed the button indicating ground floor.

Remembering Danyel’s warning about cameras and/or microphones in the elevator, when the door closed Max bent downward as though tying his shoe lace and drew his automatic from its holster.  He remained in that position until the elevator door opened at the hangar level. As he stood up he slipped the pistol out of sight into his right slacks pocket. Holding it there while walking with his attaché case in the opposite hand, he made his way to the exit. Looking left and right as he left the building, Max didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  The ride back to his apartment on the run-about was also uneventful and didn’t pose any problems. “
So far, so good,”
he silently said to himself.

As he opened the automatic door to the 2-car basement garage, Max saw what seemed to be the silhouette of a person outside moving right-to-left past a rear window, heading toward the corner of the garage structure. He drew his automatic, pulled back the sliding breech mechanism and released it, loading a live cartridge into the firing chamber. Holding the weapon pointing downward, Max side-stepped to the outer wall, did a quick peek toward the rear and pulled his head back out of sight to process what he had seen.

A weak, bluish beam of light was being scanned around the backyard shrubbery. Timing the walking speed of the figure that had passed by the rear window, he stepped out quickly with his pistol aimed at the end of the garage wall. Just then a pair of green eyes, reflected in the searching light beam from the back yard, came into view.

“There you are Penelope, you naughty kitty,” said the high-pitched scratchy voice. It came from a stooped figure of an elderly woman in a bathrobe and slippers, as she stepped out from the shadow of the building and into the moonlight. She walked away into the backyard toward the cats eyes. Max, realizing that she hadn’t seen him, ducked back into the garage.

He didn’t want to carry an automatic pistol around with a live cartridge in the chamber, even though there was a safety mechanism on it, so he released the cartridge clip from the butt of the pistol grip and pulled the slider back to extract the live cartridge. He then reinserted the cartridge back into the ammo clip and re-locked it in place in the pistol grip.

He holstered the gun and looked out to the backyard to see how the cat lady was doing. He didn’t see her but he could hear her scolding her cat, as she shuffled back toward the house on the abutting property.