For another, as soon as TFAC came back with the goods, Jack was history. The partnership contract was going into the trash. His ass was going to be out on the street.
At this point, the less he knew, the better.
“Don’t worry about it,” Walters snapped, as though Jack were an ingrate. They’d just turned him into a potential billionaire, after all, and here he was, yapping about the details. “Just be damned glad this happened so fast.”
“I’m so happy I can barely express myself. But as your partner, I thought I had a right to know.” Jack leaned on his desk and looked him in the eye. “I am still your partner, aren’t I?”
“Oh, sure.” Walters and Bellweather locked eyes in a way that Jack wasn’t meant to catch. “We always honor our contracts,” Bellweather said very solemnly.
“Glad to hear it.” Jack put down his champagne flute and backed off.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Walters lied. “We’ll definitely take care of you,” he promised with a rubbery smile.
Andrew Morgan had begun to feel he was chasing ghosts. He easily got his hands on a complete personnel roster for Primo Investments, circa 1998, the year Jack departed the firm for calmer waters.
The CEO that year was one Terrence Kyle II, graduate of Yale and the highly esteemed Wharton School of Business. His CFO was Gordon Sullivan, Harvard undergrad, Harvard Business. They were the two who caught Jack, the same two who tried to enlist him in another scheme, and then, eventually, the two who cooked up the questionable deal to pay him a million bucks to go away.
A quick search through Nexis revealed that Terrence and Gordon died in a tragic plane crash less than a year later. A little more digging revealed the circumstances.
In December of that year, six months after they parted ways with Jack, they rented a small private jet and flew to a glitzy investors’ conference in Vail. After three days of mingling with their fellow financial pirates, of partying and boozing and hitting the slopes, they took off in a snowstorm and promptly flew into a mountainside. The jet was instantly obliterated. All aboard were lost. The bodies were atomized by the collision and/or the ensuing fire. The National Transportation Safety Board conducted the investigation.
The private jet had been leased from a small firm that catered to the rich and famous. That firm had an excellent safety record. The pilot and copilot were both former military-both in good health, both had extensive flying careers, both had flawless records. The controllers in the tower testified that the storm had let up enough to allow a safe takeoff, and in their view weather wasn’t a factor. The cause of the crash was listed as pilot error, a conclusion based on nothing particularly definitive. It was the catchall phrase the NTSB often used when no specific cause could be found.
Nothing strange about this. An aviation expert Morgan tracked down informed him that NTSB investigations involving private aircraft sometimes weren’t all that thorough or extensive. In a typical year, the NTSB investigated several hundred accidents. It was a small agency, overworked, bouncing from one disaster to another. Unless an accident involved a commercial airline, a high-profile celebrity death, an excessive death toll, or there was cause for unusual suspicion, the investigators tended not to probe too deeply.
But factored in with Charles’s tale about Edith Warbinger, Morgan couldn’t avoid feeling that the timely deaths of Kyle and Sullivan were terribly convenient for Jack. A mysterious airplane crash that wiped out the two men who knew the most about Jack and Edith-was it too convenient?
When further research revealed that three board members from those years also were dead, under interesting circumstances, Morgan had a strong sense he was on to something. Were they all part of a cabal to get Edith’s money? He had to consider the possibility that Jack might have been clearing up the loose ends, eliminating any witnesses he left behind. If he could kill an old lady in cold blood, after all, what was the harm in killing a few more? Jack might be much naughtier than they thought.
First up was Paul Nussman, banged by a car as he bicycled through Manhattan. The collision was so violent that Nussman flew sixty feet before he was impaled on a fire hydrant. A hit-and-run, midday, yet no witnesses, no pictures. The killer was never found.
Bernard Kohlman fell off a ladder and broke his neck as he cleaned the gutter of his Greenwich home. He was sixty-two, a severe acrophobe, arthritic, overweight, lazy, with no history as a handyman. His wife told the police she didn’t even know they owned a ladder.
And Phillip Grossman committed suicide; his body was discovered hanging from the balcony in a gay movie theater. He was a closet homosexual, and though his secret was well-known, he went to great lengths to conceal his lifestyle. A public death in such an incriminating manner and place seemed spectacularly out of character.
Apparently those were not healthy years to be a senior executive or a board member at Primo.
The first living survivor of the firm Morgan decided to track down was Marigold Anders, executive assistant to Terrence Kyle II, the now deceased CEO. Assistants were always a fount of inside dirt; they tended to be gabby, too.
Anders, it turned out, lived on Long Island, in the quaint town of Montauk, as far east as you could travel before you dropped into the ocean. He called and identified himself as a federal officer performing a routine background check on Jack. The standard spiel.
Marigold said yes, of course she remembered Jack. When he invited himself out for an interview that afternoon, she said she had nothing better to do, then hung up. He took that as permission to drop by.
After a long, traffic-choked drive on the LIE, Morgan rolled into her dirt driveway at five in the evening. Marigold lived outside the town in a small clapboard house surrounded by flat potato fields and the occasional picturesque winery. It seemed as far from New York City as she could get, physically and spiritually.
He spent a moment taking in the house as he parked. The outside screamed for a thorough painting, there were missing shingles on the roof, the yard was wildly unkempt, and the car in the driveway was a model so old he didn’t recognize it. With a cracked windshield, missing hubcaps, a patchwork of oxidized paint, the heap should’ve been junked ten years ago. After ringing the bell twice-he doubted it worked-he wound his way around the house to the back.
He found Marigold there, hunched over in a rusted green lounge chair, puffing a cigarette and staring into the distance.
He introduced himself and produced the shiny badge O’Neal had issued him.
“Have a seat,” she said, casually pointing at another rusted wreck about five feet away from her chair.
He eased carefully into the chair-one of the four legs was barely holding on by a thin strip of rusted metal-and studied her a moment. Probably a looker in her day, but age and wrinkles of bitterness had taken a steep toll. Late sixties, he guessed, with the leathery skin and deep rasp of a lifelong smoker. It was a cold late December evening, and she wore a ratty blue overcoat that, like her, was well past its prime.
He yanked out a notebook and assumed a professional demeanor. “You said you used to work with Jack Wiley. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
“You the one who called this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You drove all the way out here, didn’t you?”
Oh, great, Morgan thought. Getting anything out of this sour old prune was going to be worse than a Sunday afternoon with his wife’s church group. But he’d made the long drive and was determined to come back with something.
“How well did you know Jack?” he asked.
“Not very. I was the CEO’s executive assistant. He was just a lowly associate.”