Authors: James D. Doss
July 9
He Dithers
Since the unpleasantness at his residence, Samuel Reed had gotten accustomed to bunking in the Silver Mountain Hotel’s sumptuous presidential suite. After the police investigation of the crime scene was completed and two hundred yards of black-and-yellow tape had been removed from his domicile, the widower would drop by the Shadowlane homestead from time to time to make sure that everything was in order. But, though he had tried, Professor Reed could not manage to stay overnight. Grim memories of the violence that had occurred on the premises haunted the recently bereaved husband, and he was considering putting the place up for sale and moving to warmer climes. The wealthy man was toying with the notion of purchasing a secluded island in the Caribbean. Nothing ostentatious. He imagined a modest and tasteful hideaway that would not attract undue attention. The house should not have more than ten rooms. There must be essential infrastructure, such as a protected harbor with a dock for a sixty-foot yacht. Also a landing strip that would accommodate a Lear jet. He promised himself not to spend more than five hundred million dollars. But finding just the right property would probably take a year or two. In the meantime, he needed something to keep his mind occupied.
Sam Reed was at loose ends. Ennui had fixed its lethargic eye on him, and for the first time in his vigorous life, the concept of a quiet retirement was beginning to look attractive.
Sadly, Samuel Reed’s favorite pastime (making money hand over fist) would not suffice. Ever since the unnerving evening of June 4, he had apparently lost whatever ability he had to “remember the future,” which rendered him unable to foresee with certainty trends in the stock market or the outcomes of sporting events. One can imagine his dismay, but despite this handicap and to his credit, Reed did keep his hand in the game. He would spend an hour or two of each day in his office over the Cattleman’s Bank. During these quiet interludes, he would pace and sigh and remember splendid days gone by when he had amassed small fortunes in mere minutes. When wearied of pacing, sighing, and waxing nostalgic, Reed would find diversion by surfing Internet financial blogs for rumors of upcoming mergers, hot tips about which major midwestern bank was teetering on the brink of failure, or hints that a certain former Fortune 500 company was looking Chapter 11 right in the eye. From time to time the investor would purchase a few hundred shares of a promising stock or place a thousand-dollar wager on a major sporting event. As often as not, the stocks tanked. But even in his present debilitated state, Reed exhibited a modest knack for prognosticating the outcomes of horse races, baseball games, prizefights, and the like. This was gratifying, but he was unable to regain his former enthusiasm for life. His verve had taken a vacation.
What the man of business needed was some interesting business to conduct, but aside from the mildly entertaining diversion of playing games with his pocket money, Samuel Reed did not have enough work to occupy either his time or his mind. With nothing better to do, he became a familiar figure on Copper Street, which boulevard serves as Granite Creek’s main drag and provides most of the goods and services that a finicky nabob might require, including a variety of food and drink in a half-dozen restaurants, Fast Eddie’s Barbershop, suitable clothing in Eubank & Son’s Men’s Fine Apparel, and a variety of essential financial services in the bank below his office. The widower’s life was more orderly than ever. And dull as a butter knife.
Even so, there was bound to be the occasional perturbation that would prove jarring to this man who placed a high value on predictability. One such event was about to occur as Samuel Reed approached the customary barbershop for a touch-up, which occurred promptly at 10
A.M
. on alternate Fridays.
A Dangerous Lady
Though it was barely five weeks after his wife’s untimely demise, it was fated that dapper Samuel Reed would encounter a captivating woman who would catch his eye. Just as he glanced at his wristwatch to verify that he would arrive at Fast Eddie’s clip joint at precisely 9:59
A.M
., a sleek black Lincoln pulled up alongside the yellow-painted curb.
The woman on the passenger side lowered the window. “Excuse me.”
As he turned, Reed put on the perfunctory smile that is expected of civilized men who are queried by disoriented tourists who park beside shiny red fireplugs. As he got a gander at the attractive brunette whose eyes were concealed behind rose-tinted sunglasses, Reed’s smile began to feel welcome on his face. His left hand got the message and tipped the homburg.
Her matching rose-tinted lips smiled and said, “You must be Professor Reed.”
“If I must, then so be it.”
But who are you?
The lady lowered the rosy shades just enough to reveal a pair of stunning blue eyes. “But of course you don’t know who I am.”
“Alas, no. But I hope that oversight will be promptly remedied.”
The woman in the blue pinstripe suit who emerged from the luxury car was tall, and of the type often referred to as willowy. She offered him a business card.
Reed inspected the rectangle and mouthed aloud what was written thereon: “‘Theodora Phillips, Attorney at Law.’” He lost the smile and arched his left brow by almost a full millimeter. “That’s all—no name of your firm. No address. Not even a telephone number.”
“My name and profession will be sufficient, Professor Reed.” Looping a black leather purse over her shoulder, the elegant lady took him firmly by the arm. “This brief meeting shall be our only contact.” As she ushered her captive down the street and away from the barbershop, Ms. Phillips smiled.
Such behavior was more than a little off-putting, but Sam Reed’s curiosity was pleasantly piqued and so he went along without protest. Glancing back at the Lincoln—which had a Nevada license plate—he saw an older, tough-looking fellow emerge from the driver’s side. The broad-shouldered man, who wore a black shirt, black trousers, and black cowboy boots, could have passed as a lumberjack if outfitted in a black-and-red flannel shirt, faded jeans, and big muddy shoes with cleated rubber soles.
Obviously a combination chauffeur-bodyguard.
Reed treated himself to a mildly supercilious smirk. “Who is that—your law partner?”
Theodora Phillips replied in a coolly professional tone, “Alex is my driver and personal assistant. Not being privy to my business affairs, he will remain at a discreet distance while we drop into that quaint little restaurant”—she pointed her cute, turned-up nose—“where you will be immensely pleased to buy me a cup of tea.”
“The Sugar Bowl?”
“The very same. I am reliably informed that they serve Tangerine Orange Zinger, which is my favorite
chai
.” She laughed. “You may also treat me to an order of buttered whole-wheat toast.”
Being endowed with a sense of humor that leaned toward irony, Samuel Reed did not mind occasionally being manipulated by a forceful woman. But something about this attorney was beginning to make him feel uneasy. Looking for a graceful escape, he checked his wristwatch again. “I have a rather busy schedule this morning. I suggest that you call my office and leave a brief message on my voice mail—”
“Out of the question.”
Reed deliberately slowed his pace. “What’s this all about?”
As an openly curious passerby walked by them, Theodora Phillips lowered her voice. “I have been dispatched to convey some critical information to you.”
“Information?” This couldn’t be good news. “About what?”
“A matter of importance.”
Reed’s left brow arched again, and quite noticeably. “How important?”
The blue eyes behind the pink shades smoldered. “It falls into that category often referred to as ‘life and death.’”
“Whose life, my dear?” He smiled at the delightful little turned-up nose, which was liberally sprinkled with tiny orange freckles. “And whose death?”
“Why yours, of course.” With a gentle feminine relentlessness that could not be withstood by a gentleman, she maneuvered him to the entrance to the Sugar Bowl Restaurant. “Let’s go inside. After I have had my tea and toast, I will explain.”
They did and he did and she would.
Theodora Phillips’s driver/assistant followed, at a respectful ten paces. While a host took Samuel Reed and the out-of-town lady to a table with a fine view of Copper Street, Alex seated himself at a booth where he was well out of earshot of whatever conversation the pair might engage in.
The Lady Explains
Though despairing of the delayed haircut, while Samuel Reed sipped tentatively at black coffee he got a better look at the fortyish woman’s face. Outside in the high-altitude sunlight, her features had been soft and alluring as a tree-ripened peach. In the restaurant’s artificial twilight, the attorney’s finely chiseled features were cold and hard as graveyard marble. The exception to this grim aspect was her lips, which were genetically obliged to curl upward at the edges. Theodora’s friends interpreted this perpetual smile as evidence of her vivacious good humor. Not so her current companion, who had inherited a marked tendency toward obsessive suspicion. Unnerved by the persistent smirk, Reed was nagged by the conviction that the attorney was amused by some secret knowledge. Being a thoroughly self-centered man, he had no doubt that the irksome woman was privy to confidential information concerning himself.
Ever so often, a paranoid egoist’s suspicions are justified.
As a prelude to taking control of the situation, Reed cleared his throat. “You have your tea and toast and my undivided attention. Now what’s all this twaddle about a matter of life and death?”
Theodora swirled a bag of aromatic tea in her china cup, watching the amber whirl pool with intense interest. Then, as if she had just heard his query, the lady looked up. “You have been found guilty.”
This was hardly what the hopeful widower had wanted to hear from the attractive woman, especially on what practically amounted to their first date. “I
beg
your pardon.”
“Don’t bother.” Her remarkably expressive lips curved into a genuine smile and her next words sent a chill rippling along Reed’s knobby spine. “I am merely a messenger for the Committee, but I can assure you that they do not issue pardons. The Big C conducts thorough investigations, makes final decisions—and hands down sentences. That’s it.”
“What on
earth
are you talking about,” Reed heard himself say. “I mean, what am I supposed to be guilty of?”
“Improper conduct.”
“What the blazes does
that
mean?” He glowered at the impudent attorney. “And what in hell is the
committee
?”
“I object to your coarse language.” Theodora placed the spent tea bag onto a saucer. “An apology is in order.”
“Please forgive me. I am immensely contrite.”
“Accepted.”
“Allow me to rephrase the query.” Professor Reed raised his chin imperiously. “What in
heck
is the ‘committee’?”
“First of all, I don’t have any notion of who serves on the Committee—that is none of my business. I’m merely a—”
“Yes, I know—you’re merely a
messenger
.” Reed’s hand trembled as he pushed his coffee aside. “I don’t know what kind of con you’re attempting to run on me, Theodora—but let me assure you that I am not a moron.”
“It would never have occurred to me that you were, Samuel.”
“And neither am I without influential friends.” He aimed his high-caliber steely stare at the aggravating woman. “Among them is the local chief of police—who would no doubt be pleased to meet you.”
“A splendid idea.” The twinkle in Theodora’s blue eyes was barely concealed by her pink shades. “If you’re entirely certain that he is your friend, why don’t you give Mr. Parris a call and ask him to join us?”
Sam Reed’s bulging eyes blinked. “You know him?”
“Only by reputation. But I would be delighted to make his personal acquaintance.”
I’ll call her bluff and watch her fold.
The self-assured entrepreneur produced his brand-new BlackBerry and selected the programmed number for Granite Creek PD.
Theodora mouthed,
He won’t be in.
Reed smirked at the cheeky attorney and mouthed right back,
We’ll see about that
. Hearing Clara Tavishuts’s voice in his ear, he said, “This is Sam Reed. Please put me through to Scott.”
“The chief’s not in his office,” the dispatcher replied. “He’s in a meeting with the DA. Shall I connect you to his voice mail?”
“Uh…no. Thank you.” The red-faced man disconnected.
“You might wish to call District Attorney Bullet’s office.” The frisky young mare tossed her dark mane. “Chief Parris had a midmorning appointment with Pug, who is well known to my associates.”
Samuel Reed had never before encountered such an unnerving woman. “You seem to be rather well informed.”
The lady shrugged under her immaculately tailored jacket. “It’s a job requirement.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the waiter, who placed the bill facedown beside the gentleman’s coffee cup.
After the young man had departed to deliver a similar invoice to Theodora’s driver, she said, “The Committee has noticed your remarkably consistent tendency to garner large profits from gaming.”
Samuel Reed’s arms and legs went cold as a week-old corpse’s limbs.
So that’s what this is about.
In an attempt to conceal his fears, the flustered man fell back on bluster. “I do place an occasional wager, just like thousands of other men. If I am fortunate enough to guess right now and then, I don’t see why that should concern—”
“Oh come now. Don’t be so modest.” She aimed a slender finger at his nose. “We don’t yet know precisely
how
you do it—but you have managed to fleece the firms represented by the Committee of an enormous sum.” The attorney wagged the pointing finger at him. “You have been a very naughty boy.”
“This is patently absurd. I don’t know what your game is, but if you’re about to attempt some kind of shakedown—”
“Don’t go out of your way to annoy me, Professor Reed. That would not be in your best interests.” Theodora removed her pink shades to laser two beams of blue fire at him. “I’m about the closest thing to a friend you’ve got in this world—and I’m liking you less with every minute that passes.”
To avoid the woman’s sizzling stare, Reed glanced at the timepiece on his wrist. “Speaking of minutes, I still have time to get a haircut before noon. So let’s skip the seamy preliminaries and go directly to the bottom line.”
“I’ve never seen a man so anxious to hear bad news.” Watching the nervous fellow fidget, Theodora helped herself to a triangle of buttered whole-wheat toast. After daintily nipping off an acute angle, she washed it down with a sip of tea and licked her lips. “You’ve messed up big-time, Samuel. My employers will tolerate a high roller lining his pockets every now and then, but you went
way
over the top.”
“But—”
“Shush!” She wagged the finger again. “The Committee has decided that you must make amends.”
“Amends?”
Theodora nodded. “Call it repentance—a turning around.”
Well.
That doesn’t sound so bad.
“In the vernacular, I must straighten up and fly right?”
“Either that, or you face certain consequences.”
“
Consequences
is a rather off-putting word, Theodora.” The gambling man took a sip of coffee that he could not taste. “I would prefer to hear about how I am to make amends for my supposed sins.”
“Now that’s the spirit!” The lady opened her purse to remove a pale blue envelope, which she offered to her companion.
Grateful that she had not produced a cocked and loaded double-barrel .38-caliber derringer, Reed accepted the envelope between two fingertips. “What’s in it?” He winked at her. “A harmless white powder posing as anthrax? Or an insidious toxin derived from the lowly castor bean?”
“The envelope contains a list of several nonprofit institutions. Beside each of them is a sum which you will contribute.”
I knew it. A shakedown.
Producing a pearl-handled Case pocketknife, Reed used the single slender blade to slit the envelope open. It contained a single sheet of matching blue stationery, upon which the names of eleven organizations were printed. As Reed read, his lips silently formed the words. He looked over the paper at Theodora. “These appear to be reputable charitable organizations; I’ve heard of several of them.”
“Ten of the organizations have sterling credentials for worthy projects. Your contributions to them will be tax deductible and your generosity will feed widows and orphans and help to eradicate illnesses such as cancer, malaria, and diabetes.”
“But the eleventh ‘charity’ is a front for…your employers.”
“I would not say that, Samuel.” The lady shot a warning look. “And neither should you.” She added crisply, “But suffice it to say that the eleventh organization will be shut down shortly after receipt of your payment.”
The physicist did a bit of mental arithmetic, then swallowed hard. “This adds up to quite a tidy sum.”
“As have your ill-gotten gains at fraudulent gaming. I am authorized to advise you that your contribution to charities one through ten can be cut in half by revealing your system.” She wagged the finger a final time. “But don’t even
think
about lying to the Committee. Our experts are aware of every scam in the book—and a few that are not.”
Amused by the irony of his situation, the man who had told Moon and Parris that he
remembered the future
shook his head and sighed. “I have no system—just call me lucky.”
“Have it your way, Lucky. If you’d rather pay than disclose your method, that’s your choice.” Theodora took another nip of toast, another sip of tea. “But I daresay that even without the discount, your contribution will represent only a fraction of your ill-gotten winnings. The Committee’s purpose is not to recover the entirety of its members’ losses, but rather to put an end to your nefarious activities.” The lady had an afterthought. “Which reminds me of the other requirement. For as long as you live, you will not participate in any form of commercial gaming.”
Reed arched his left eyebrow to its uppermost limit. “You seem to assume that my cooperation is a foregone conclusion.”
“I assume that you are an intelligent man.” A pregnant pause. “In those rare instances when the offender is so foolish as to refuse the amendment option, the Committee provides severe penalties.”
Droplets of sweat began to bead on Reed’s face. “Define
severe.
”
“If all financial transactions on the list have not been made in the full amount within five business days—you should have all your affairs in order. The standard execution is three .22 slugs in the head.”
“Such a lowly caliber.” He tried vainly to smile. “Would a request for 9-mm cartridges be considered unseemly?”
“Given the gravity of your circumstances, flippancy is unseemly.” She presented a lovely smile. “Perhaps it will please you to know that the .22 slugs are hollow-points.”
“I am suitably impressed, and herewith withdraw my request.”
“So noted.” Her lips relaxed to the obligatory minimum upward curl. “You will naturally consider flight. I am directed to advise you that any attempt to avoid the Committee’s judgment will be futile and against your best interests. Try to hide in the Costa Rican rain forest, the vast plains of Outer Mongolia, or the disease-ridden hinterlands of Timbuktu. You might buy yourself a month or two—but you
will
be found. When you are, your death will be neither swift nor easy. Your grisly remains will be photographed and provided to the supermarket-tabloid news media and bloggers who delight in the macabre. The Committee’s policy in instances of flight is to make a gut-wrenching example so that other potential rip-off artists will think twice about crossing them and then making a run for it.” Theodora finished her toast and downed the last gulp of tea. “I would love to stay and chat with you, but the secretary of the Committee is expecting my telephone call. Before I say, ‘Goodbye, Professor Reed,’ I would appreciate the courtesy of a response.”
He thought about it for a couple of heartbeats, shrugged. “I’ll transfer the funds to the charities.” It was galling, but what else could a man do?
“A prudent decision.” As the lady got up from her chair, her associate in the booth did likewise. “Goodbye, Professor Reed.”
From force of habit, the gentleman got to his feet.
The attorney looped the black leather purse over her shoulder. “The service in this charming little café was quite satisfactory. I hope that you will leave a generous tip.”
As Samuel Reed watched the long-legged lady depart with her tough-looking driver tagging along, it occurred to him that, painful as it would be, making the payoff was much like getting an abscessed wisdom tooth pulled. The sooner the thing was done, the better.
I might as well visit the Cattleman’s Bank and get things moving.
Slipping the blue envelope into his jacket pocket, popping the spiffy gray homburg onto his head, the freshly fleeced man set his face like flint and headed—as they say in these here parts—
thataway
.