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L.J. whistled as he strolled toward Art Whitten’s office. He’d shaken off his disappointment about the biker attack. The plan was good. Damn good. It would survive this setback.
He nodded a greeting to his partner’s executive assistant.
“Go right in. He’s expecting you.”
Hunched over a gleaming mahogany desk, Art’s balding head bobbed up briefly. His coal black eyes darted to his vice president, then back to his task.
L.J. claimed his customary chair and tilted back to stretch his legs. Art would talk when he was ready. His former brother-in-law liked to provide the occasional reminder that, while L.J. owned forty-nine percent of Whitten stock, he owned fifty-one percent. Controlling interest.
While L.J. didn’t actually like Art, he admired him. The man took cunning and greed to impressive heights. Plus he never questioned his weakling sister’s untimely death, just a few weeks after old man Whitten kicked the bucket. Art knew a profitable alliance when he saw one.
Art shoved aside some papers. “I understand funerals were held for our D.C. friends.”
Though the soundproof office was swept regularly for bugs, the men talked obliquely.
“The bodies are ashes now,” L.J. confirmed. “Our DoD friend was incinerated in his car crash. The reporter’s family cremated him.”
Art’s eyes bored into L.J.’s. “What about the paper trail that got us into this mess?” His tone left no doubt where he assigned the blame.
Damn you. Art had suggested using the real estate swaps and set an impossible deadline.
Over the years, Whitten Industries had bribed its DoD “friend”—Beck—a dozen times. When a contract worth billions came up, the procurement officer upped the ante. Buying a piece of property from Beck for half a million above market value was Art’s brainchild. Though L.J. filtered the deal through three cutout corporations, Oldfield, the busybody reporter, found a tie between Whitten Industries and one leg of the transaction.
“The property transfer records have vanished,” L.J. answered. “And the Washington Post was shocked to learn its ace investigator left no notes on the scandal he was pursuing.”
Nice of Oldfield to keep a complete electronic journal.
The reporter’s journal confirmed he’d shared details of his scoop with just one person, Senator Yates. Oldfield wanted to finish fact checking before plunking a full-blown exposé on his editor’s desk. As soon as Senator Yates died, all threats would disappear.
“We’re ruined if we lose this contract,” Art reminded. “We leveraged our projected profits on the Beck deal to finance the merger with Allied Armaments. Our stock will sink like the Titanic if the deal falls through. Even a delay for a half-assed investigation would be catastrophic.”
L.J. chafed at the lecture. He understood the consequences—corporate and personal. He fisted his hands. He wanted to leap over the desk and pummel Art. Feel the cartilage in his nose snap. Hear his bones break. Reunite him with his dear departed sister.
They’d worked together for years. L.J. started as Whitten’s corporate attorney. After he married Art’s sister, he moved steadily up the family company’s hierarchy. Normally Art’s Little Napoleon blame games didn’t bother him. Today L.J. struggled to swallow the words he longed to scream. If I fry, so will you, sucker.
When Art broke eye contact, L.J. wondered if he’d gotten a mental whiff of his anger.
“If we . . . graduate to the next step, you’re certain we’ll remain blameless?” Art asked.
“I’m certain. Our surrogate’s agenda is light years from our dollars-and-cents interests.”
L. J. simply needed to keep all hands rowing in the same direction—a challenge when some Onward knights didn’t seem to have two oars to put in the water.
He kept his doubts to himself. No need to step Art through Saturday’s bombing a second time. They’d hashed out the details two days ago while sitting on an isolated park bench.
Onward’s two bombs would be delivered at 2:15 p.m. The second attached GPS devices confirmed delivery, L.J.’s cell phone would detonate the third, primary bomb. Its fifty-foot kill zone would incinerate the senator along with everyone else seated in the VIP section.
While the punier Onward explosives would do little more than blow up the delivery boys, they’d add to the panic and ensure the home-grown terrorists shouldered the blame. Authorities would have no reason to question who benefited from Yates’ passing. A tragic collateral loss.
A smile crept across L.J.’s face. The FBI and the campus cops were focused on Onward. That made Pearl Yates Reid the perfect improvised explosive device. As the senator’s only sister, she’d have a place of honor at her niece’s commencement. Too bad she had to die. He had a soft spot for the old lady.
Art nodded approval. “You’re absolutely sure it’ll end here? This is a huge risk.”
He motioned L.J. to follow him onto the office balcony and activated a white noise device. The men faced the building’s bricks so no one with binoculars could read their lips.
“This wraps it,” L.J. assured Art. “Oldfield warned Yates that his staff was compromised, which, of course, it is. Lucky for us the senator selected our mole to look into Oldfield’s allegations. When the senator dies, Charles will destroy all evidence.”
“How can you be so confident this Charles will do as he promises? What if he has a last-minute bout of conscience when his boss’s remains are scraped into sandwich bags?”
L.J. shook his head. “He’s desperate. His lover has full-blown AIDS and no health insurance. We’re giving him a million reasons to bury this.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” Art said. “They can’t hang us twice.”
Before L.J. departed, his partner dictated a couple minor changes to the plan. He was displeased BRU’s security director remained a wild card. However, he agreed that killing the Reid woman wasn’t a viable option. They needed her mother to attend graduation, not likely to happen if the woman’s only daughter was on ice in a morgue.
They needed Riley Reid disabled or distracted, not dead.