“Not if you expect them to believe you,” Savoy said.
Seconds later, Wilson strode into his father’s Victorian-style study, furnished with cherry wood shelves and heavy drapes. “Detective Zemke,” he said as he closed the double doors behind him.
“Didn’t want to bother you, but figured you’d appreciate the latest update on our investigation. I know I would, if it were my father in a coma,” Zemke said as he shook Wilson’s hand.
“Thank you, detective. Can I get you something to drink?” Wilson asked.
“Oh no, I won’t be long,” he said as he gazed around the two-story study with its book-lined walls. Then he looked more closely at some of the titles. “Impressive collection,” Zemke said.
“My father has been collecting first editions of early American literature ever since I can remember.”
“Must be worth a fortune,” Zemke returned with a slightly sarcastic edge.
Wilson remained quiet, standing in front of one of the study’s brown leather sofas, waiting for Zemke to join him. The detective’s congenial curiosity contrasted sharply with the gruff disinterest Wilson had experienced in Sun Valley.
“Smart guy, your father. Guess he could buy anything he wanted.”
Wilson’s heart beat faster. He didn’t respond.
Zemke continued to look around the study for a few moments before he sat down on a matching brown leather sofa across from Wilson. He looked more official this time—light gray slacks and a golf shirt, the same color as his wiry hair, paired with a navy blue blazer. But the same cynical insolence radiated from his penetrating eyes, despite the outward pleasantness.
“We’ve uncovered a piece of new information since we last talked. The two executed women were daughters of one of your father’s business associates,” Zemke said, watching closely for Wilson’s reaction.
“From Fielder & Company?” Wilson blurted, shocked by the news.
“No. One of your father’s clients. Davis Zollinger, Chairman and CEO of Dutton Industries. Know him?”
“No,” Wilson said, his head was spinning. “Was he at White Horse?”
“No chance of that. Died six months ago. Apparent suicide. Boston PD’s looking into it again.”
Reeling with new questions about Zollinger and his daughters and what they had to do with his father, Wilson waited in anguish for Zemke to tell him more.
“Zollinger allegedly shot himself in the head with a .22 LR caliber pistol. Same type of gun used at White Horse. They found him the next day in his office on the twenty-ninth floor of the Dutton Industries Building, downtown Boston.”
“You’re assuming his death is related to the murder attempt on my father?” Wilson said, leaning forward.
“Won’t know that for a while,” Zemke said, maintaining his relaxed, authoritative position on the couch, but his bright blue eyes were actively probing Wilson. “There’s more here than I thought, especially after your father’s attorney was killed. We’re stepping up our investigation.”
“Good,” Wilson managed to say, but without much conviction.
“Boston PD is getting ready to close its investigation into the accident that killed Mr. Redd and Ms. O’Grady. With nothing at the scene of the accident and no charges from Fielder & Company or KaneWeller, there’s little reason to keep the case open. If we find a connection to what happened in Sun Valley, they promised to reopen the case,” Zemke’s sharp eyes were still trained on Wilson, watchful for any reaction.
Wilson’s grief and anger over Daniel and his cold-blooded murder, while in the service of Fielder & Company, returned with a vengeance, making him feel guilty and—irrationally—complicit in some way. But Wilson wasn’t yet ready to tell the police or any other law enforcement agency about Fielder & Company’s dark side. Daniel’s words rang in his head:
There are better ways to find out what happened here
. Ironically, following Daniel’s advice meant treating his death like an accident—at least until he could prove otherwise. Shaking his head in disgust, Wilson said, “I still can’t believe he’s gone—and in such a senseless accident.”
Zemke studied Wilson for several moments. “By the way,” he finally said, raising his chin and looking down his nose at Wilson. “I meant to thank you for the tip you gave me about your father hating guns and favoring his left hand—doesn’t make sense that he’d shoot those two women and himself with his right hand. We’re considering the possibility that someone tried to make it look like a murder-suicide.”
“I continue to believe he’s innocent, detective,” Wilson said as Daniel’s words reverberated in his head. At times like these, Wilson regretted his penchant for bully busting. The way he’d handled Zemke in Sun Valley had not only empowered the detective, but the Boston PD as well. It would only be a matter of time before they began investigating his father’s financial and business activities, he thought. “Do you have any other leads?” Wilson asked.
“Nothing right now, but something’ll break. Always does.”
“Thank you, detective,” Wilson said, standing up and waiting to escort Zemke to the front door.
Ignoring Wilson’s attempt to conclude the conversation, Zemke dug deeper. “Apparently, Davis Zollinger was a longtime associate of your father’s.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Wilson said, annoyed by Zemke’s persistence. “I haven’t been involved in my father’s business. I only know a handful of his clients and associates.”
“Your father’s firm helped Dutton Industries sell off some of its divisions. I don’t understand all those financial manipulations, but I’d wager that you
do
,” Zemke said, making no attempt to veil the accusation.
Wilson cringed at the detective’s tone and his choice of words. “I’m a management consultant, detective, not an investment banker,” Wilson retorted, feeling more vulnerable by the second.
“Has anyone ever tried to blackmail your father?” Zemke asked.
“Not that I know of, why?” Wilson said, sitting down again while keeping his eyes fixed on Zemke.
“Zollinger’s daughters tried to get the FBI to investigate their father’s death. Claimed their father was a member of some sort of secret society that was blackmailing him into siphoning money out of Dutton Industries. When their father decided to go to the authorities, he was killed.”
“What did the FBI find?”
“Not a thing. Pretty much closed the investigation after a couple of months. Lack of evidence. Considered it to be one more unsubstantiated conspiracy theory. According to friends of the family, the daughters went into hiding out of fear for their lives. Said they’d received a bunch of threatening phone calls.”
“That explains the phony IDs.”
“Sounds pretty farfetched, huh?” Zemke said, beginning to believe that Wilson indeed knew very little about his father’s business activities.
Wilson didn’t respond to Zemke’s probe.
“We need access to Fielder & Company’s files. Any problems with that?”
“Not at all,” Wilson pretended. “Contact Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd. They’re the company’s legal counsel,” Wilson said, nervously questioning whether Bill Heinke would be able to restrict the scope of access to Fielder & Company’s files afforded to Zemke, the Boston PD, or the FBI. He wanted to prevent a full-blown, asset-freezing investigation into his father’s life and business practices. He needed to go through his father’s files at Fielder & Company before they did, cleansing them if necessary. Not because he wanted to obstruct justice, he just needed to slow things down until the estate was liquidated and his loved ones were protected.
“We’ll be in touch.” Zemke stood up abruptly. As the detective was about to leave the house, he turned to Wilson. “Before Boston PD closes the Daniel Redd case, do you have any reason to believe that his death was something other than an accident?”
“No,” Wilson said. Then, with feigned surprise, he asked, “Do you?”
Zemke trained his eyes on him like a hawk ready to snatch its prey, but Wilson didn’t flinch.
“Be careful, Mr. Fielder. Seems your family has chosen a dangerous business,” he said as he turned and walked away.
Wilson watched Zemke stroll to his car, troubled by what an intensified investigation might bring. When he went back inside the house, his mother was in tears. Rachel, Darrin, and Savoy were standing next to her in the foyer hallway. “What’s wrong,” he cried.
“She just received a threatening phone call,” Rachel said, her voice trembling with fear and anger.
“Do we have any idea who it was?” Wilson asked, putting his arms around his mother while looking at Savoy.
His mother shook her head. “No. Just a man’s voice.”
“My team initiated a trace, but the signal was bouncing. These guys are professionals and very serious,” Savoy said.
“What did he say?” Wilson asked.
“He said you were putting the family in danger. They want you to stop asking questions and stop helping the police. He said if you ignore his warning, our family will pay the consequences,” his mother said before bursting into tears.
Wilson could see the terror in her eyes. He wrapped her in his arms again, attempting to console her. But inside his anger was raging, as fifty-two avenues of retaliation flew through his head.
“I think we should call the police right now,” Rachel said, feeling powerless.
“No,” her mother said, emphatically. “Let Wilson do what he’s planned.”
Wilson continued comforting his mother for several minutes before excusing himself. He went to the library. Emily needed to come to Boston as soon as possible. He picked up the phone. The scrambler was attached but not turned on.
After two rings, Emily answered, “Wilson?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Finally. I’ve been worried sick. How’s your father?”
Wilson gave her a brief description of his father’s condition. Then, after telling her to hang on a minute, he turned on the scrambler and said, “Don’t say a word. The phones are bugged. I just turned on a scrambler at my end so they can hear you but not me.”
For the next three minutes he told her about the surveillance, Daniel Redd, Hap Greene, and everything that had happened in the past few days, including the threat to his mother. He also told her about his plan to make the surveillance crowd think they were afraid and distancing themselves from his father’s business affairs. When he finished, he turned the scrambler off again.
“I’m back. Sorry. My mother’s not in very good shape. She received a threatening phone call a few minutes ago from the people who shot my father. They think I’m a threat, which is ridiculous. All I want to do is sell Fielder & Company and give my father the best medical care we can find. You and I have a lot to talk about. How soon can you come to Boston? I’d come to you, but there’s too much going on here for me to leave right now.”
Emily remained silent in utter disbelief, but she immediately understood Wilson’s dilemma. She wanted nothing more than to be with him.
“I’ve been so foolish, Em.”
“Oh God, Wilson. We’ve both been foolish.”
“I miss you. More than you know. ”
“You have no idea,” she said before promising to be on an airplane the day after tomorrow, once she’d turned her patients over to colleagues and wrapped up a few other loose ends.
As they hung up, he vowed to never again cause their separation.
Wilson stepped into the newly renovated lobby of the Harry Wilson Fielder Building, located on the Charles River in Boston’s Back Bay near Copley Square. His great-grandfather had built the ten-story edifice in 1921. Two security guards approached—not the usual uniformed types, more like undercover agents—quickly recognizing Wilson and escorting him to the elevators. One of them pushed the button to the executive offices on the top floor, while asking Wilson about his father. Wilson responded with a brief update.
Once inside the elevator riding up to his father’s office, he felt strange knowing that the office would be empty. When Wilson got off on the tenth floor he was greeted by another security officer, who seemed to expect him. The guard asked if he needed help finding anything.
“No, thank you,” Wilson answered, heading toward his father’s office. The most secretive consulting firm in America, Wilson said to himself, repeating words from a recent edition of
The Wall Street Journal
. The article stated that his father was considered by many to be one of the most brilliant business minds in America, having turned Fielder & Company into a highly influential corporate priesthood, with offices in Boston, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, London, and Hong Kong. But now there were only clouds of doubt and suspicion hovering over his father’s firm and legacy.
He walked through a maze of corridors lined with contemporary art to his father’s office and was surprised to see so many staffers and consultants working at their desks after hours. Luckily, Anne Cartwright, his father’s senior administrative assistant, was sitting at her desk outside his father’s office. She stood up to greet him.
“I’m glad you’re here, Anne,” Wilson said.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Fielder,” she said, looking surprised. Then, softly, she asked, “How’s your mother doing? I talked to her this morning about your father, she seemed so worried.”
“She’s doing fine, all things considered,” Wilson said, feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t like the idea of putting his mother through more pain, but they had to talk, either tonight or tomorrow morning. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Thanks for asking.”
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Fielder?”
“Please, call me Wilson,” he said, looking around to see if anyone else could hear him. The nearest desk was empty. “I’d like to look through some of my father’s files.”
“Mr. Emerson was here today. I gave him access to all the files, just as you requested.”
“Thank you, Anne. Hopefully, his history of the company will help us dispel some of the rumors.”
Anne nodded hesitantly. “Let me show you where things are and you can help yourself.”
She obviously wasn’t used to giving such free reign to anyone other than his father. Anne was a tall, professional-looking woman in her late fifties with an expression of sadness in her eyes. Wilson let her unlock the office door, even though he had his father’s key. “How many people have keys to this office?” he asked.