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“My ex has been stalking me and he upped the ante.”
“A love tragedy. Those are good too.”
“Maman.” JL’s protest falls on deaf ears as she produces a wheezing laugh.
The level of emotion has ebbed. The EMTs give Louisette a sedative and take her to the ambulance. When I look out, the police are gone. Not a trace remains of the shootout at the O’Hare corral. Sean and Liam have brought the GSU car over. “Hop in,” Liam says. “We’ll take you to the hospital.”
Clay and Metin push past. “I told Burak I’d get his wife home safely. He wasn’t best pleased she insisted on being here.”
“I don’t get much excitement, these days.” She slips her arm through Clay’s.
“Tell Kath I’m looking forward to our next meeting,” I call out as they stride away. Clay gives a little wave as they disappear into the dusk.
Max and Cress have vanished in his Porsche SUV.
The ambulance peels out, siren blasting, and JL helps me into the back of the GSU vehicle. Exhausted by the drama, I don’t want a lecture about my recklessness in coming to the airport.
“Time for a debrief,” he says.
“No, it’s not.” It may never be time, but definitely not now.
“It is,” he insists. I move out of his reach and look out the window.
Instead of cajoling me, he stares in the other direction, lips pursed.
When we arrive at the hospital, JL tells the guys to drop off the car and go home. Their job is done.
“Sean,” he says, leaning in to the driver’s side window, “See me Monday. I think you’re done with training.” Sean flashes a big smile as JL goes on, “Great job, both of you.”
They wave and pull out of the circle drive. We watch until the taillights disappear through the darkness. JL takes my hand, and we walk through the revolving door, where JL’s mother waits.
ChapterThirty-Four
If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.—Orson Welles
JL
Next on theagenda is Frederick Lanscombe. Sam called Daddy Dearest as soon as they gave him his one call. Fred’s been frothing at the mouth, giving statements to the media, telling them Micki, attracted to Sam’s money, lured him into this. She’s a gold digger who set him up.
Wonder who they’ll line up for the defense? There are possible murder charges on the line. Micki shouldn’t need a criminal lawyer, but GSU will provide a legal team if necessary. A friend has offered to help her with a civil suit against Fred and his son.
A little war council is necessary to deal with Fred the Dickhead. He is guilty of collusion and aiding and abetting, even if he didn’t know his son’s ultimate objective. We can’t meet on his home turf. Finding the best neutral ground is a crucial step. Clay invites him to a lunch meeting at the University Club. Whether he thinks we want him to hire GSU security, or offer software systems that might fit their needs, isn’t clear. As long as he shows up, we’re in business.
At the appointed time, two days after the confrontation at O’Hare, Clay, Max, and I convene with Clay’s PA, Elena, in a meeting room set for six. Frederick may or may not bring anyone with him.
Built between 1907 and 1908 by the well-known Chicago architecture firm of Holabird and Root, I would normally take time to appreciate the formal staircase and rich setting of the large foyer. Not today. The bank of elevators is the goal. I exit on the sixth floor and locate conference room D. The room, a narrow rectangle, paneled in dark wood has red carpet overlaid with an oriental runner. The opulence is heightened by the gold fabric of the draperies over the slightly vaulted windows.
We pull the dining chairs away from the table into a semi-circle. A credenza has water, tea, and coffee available. We sip, look at each other, but no one really wants to say anything. A power game ensues when our guest arrives half an hour late, with three other people in tow.
“Sorry,” Lanscombe says, not sounding sorry at all. “Partners’ meeting ran a liddle lahng.”
I’ve never met him, but I assumed he was an older version of his son. They are nothing alike—except they are both shallow façades. From his supercilious expression, I can see Lanscombe has no respect for anyone in this room, not even his colleagues. Heavy gold cuff links wink in the light as he shoots his cuffs. And then he does it a second time to make sure we all see how rich and important he is. The designer suit is classy, almost too classy. There’s a sheen to the fabric that offers a glitz unexpected in a man pushing retirement age.
He’s fit, unlike Sam, with slightly too long silver hair, a long narrow face with a pugnacious jaw, hawk eyes under heavy brows, and too-thin lips. He projects ersatz Eastern patrician until he speaks. Then he’s pure Southside Chicago.
Clay shakes hands as Elena slips out to alter the arrangements. When she returns, Clay makes introductions. “The head of WatchDog, Inc. and co-owner of Global Security Unlimited, Jean-Louis Martin. Head of CyberSec, our cybersecurity division, Max Grant. And this is my personal assistant, Elena Doukas.”
Frederick inclines his head in a regal gesture, then waves a hand toward his cohorts. “Rebecca Masters, Mark Hargrove, and Tyler Miller. All senior partners.”
