“Do you have a number where I can reach him? It’s very important. He told me to call him personally if I ever needed his help. I need his help, and I need it now.”
There was a brief silence on the line before agent Mullrose said, “Just a minute, sir. I’ll connect you. Can I have your name?”
“David Albright Quinn, CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” he recited, closing his eyes and waiting. The senior security officer of the property management firm that maintained Lake House had assured Quinn that the mansion’s counter-surveillance system would intercept and jam any possible electronic eavesdropper, but Quinn’s nerves were still frayed.
Five minutes later, Samuel P. Wiseman, Deputy Director of the FBI and acting head of the Chicago bureau was on the line. “How can I help you, David?”
Quinn swallowed hard, his throat and his voice trembling slightly, “I’d prefer not to do this over the phone, but I have no choice, Sam. My people have assured me that the phones are clean. I have detailed information about a web of illegal stock manipulations and I’m fully prepared to tell my story, including testifying in court. But I want immunity for myself and the J. B. Musselman Company.”
“You’ll have to give me a few more details, David,” Wiseman said.
“If I do, what guarantees will I have?”
“There can be no guarantees without more information.”
“I have first-hand information about an organization that cleverly blackmails CEOs into manipulating stocks, making illegal stock purchases, and providing insider information to its clients.”
“Give me a name,” Wiseman said.
“Wayland Tate, CEO of Tate Waterhouse, the advertising firm.”
“Who else?”
“I need assurances,” Quinn insisted as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead once again.
“Who else, David?” Wiseman insisted.
“Jules Kamin, COO of KaneWeller.”
“What sort of evidence do you have?”
“Loan documents, stock purchases, and my own eyewitness testimony,” Quinn said becoming more nervous. “But only for immunity.”
“I’m sorry David, but I can’t promise anything without going over the evidence.”
Quinn ran through his options, finally recognizing that he had no choice. “I’m under heavy surveillance. Can you at least allow me to determine how, when, and where the information will be delivered?”
“Of course,” Wiseman said.
“Come to my company’s Lake House mansion at the end of Illinois Road in Lake Forest tomorrow at one o’clock with a female agent that can pass for your wife. Identify yourselves as Dale and Shirley Frederickson from Austin, Texas, owners of the Cap and Tool chain of hardware stores. Bring some luggage to make it look like you’re going to stay for the night.”
“We’ll be there,” Wiseman said.
Quinn replaced the receiver and returned to the master suite where Vargas was sleeping. The seductive cycle had been broken. Now it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to tell his wife and children, and ask for their forgiveness. Maybe someday he would be able to forgive himself.
For now, however, Quinn’s plan depended on continuing his relationship with Vargas. She was the only one who could keep Tate convinced that he hadn’t succumbed to feelings of regret or remorse-only bliss. Surprisingly, Quinn felt considerable guilt for having to keep Vargas in a charade to serve his purpose. Part of him still wanted to believe that she really loved him, the other part recognized the lie.
Nevertheless, Quinn resolved to enjoy the remaining moments of his love affair with Andrea Vargas-until he had to face the insufferable consequences that awaited him.
30
Quinn — Lake Forest, IL
At precisely one o’clock in the afternoon as Quinn was preparing to join Vargas in the large whirlpool bath, the phone rang. He picked up the extension in the master suite’s spa and bath area. It was the voice of senior security officer Jackson Ebbs informing him that Dale and Shirley Frederickson, a.k.a. Deputy Director Wiseman and companion, had arrived.
“Take them to the library,” Quinn said. He knew that meeting with the FBI while Vargas was in the house presented a risk, but it also offered the necessary cover. Tate and his people had to be assuming he was totally involved and preoccupied with Andrea Vargas, which he had been. In any case, Jackson Ebbs and his security team were well instructed to alert him if anything looked out of the ordinary.
“Who was it,” Vargas asked from the whirlpool.
“Just one of our clients and his wife, Dale and Shirley Frederickson from Austin, Texas. I told you about them. They’ll be staying at the Lake House tonight, but there’s nothing to worry about. We won’t have to do a thing. I only need to spend a few minutes making them feel welcome. Stay right where you are until I can join you,” he said with a big smile. “Pamper yourself.”
“Hurry back,” she said as she half-rose out of the water and rested her breasts on the edge of the whirlpool.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Saying goodbye to her would be one of the hardest things he’d ever done, Quinn thought. “Believe me, I won’t let this take any longer than necessary,” he said, wishing for a brief moment that he’d never called the FBI.
When Quinn arrived in the library, Sam Wiseman greeted him and then introduced the woman standing next to him as Kirsten Kohl, head of the Bureau’s Corporate Crime Division. Wiseman looked like the prototypical version of a mature, experienced FBI agent, fifty something, perfectly combed brown and gray hair, even features, gray suit, white shirt, conservative blue tie and a trim, six-foot physique. His partner, Kirsten Kohl, was equally predictable, forty something, dark blue business suit, light yellow blouse, short brunette hair, plain features, and a stocky five- foot-eight-inch frame.
The three of them sat at the center of the richly decorated, knotty-pine-paneled library, while David Quinn spent twenty minutes recounting the Musselman saga up to this weekend’s celebration with Andrea Vargas. He then gave them his copies of the documents he’d signed. The Nevada corporation documents that showed his stock options as collateral and the Nevis Trust papers that showed the borrowed funds to buy ninety-five million shares of Musselman stock on margin.
As Kohl reviewed the documents, Wiseman’s clear green eyes studied Quinn’s face. “Are you ready to have your life examined with a fine-tooth comb?”
“If that’s what it takes to make things right-yes, I am,” Quinn said, feeling certain once more about his decision to bring in the FBI.
Kohl looked up from the documents at Wiseman. “I don’t think immunity will be a problem.”
“When will you know for sure?” Quinn asked, feeling suddenly apprehensive.
It was Wiseman who answered. “We’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours,” he said. “Will you still be here?”
Quinn nodded as Wiseman and Kohl rose from their seats. Quinn walked them to the mansion’s ten-car garage, where they had parked their gray Ford Expedition.
Wiseman removed his tie and jacket and put on a yellow sweater. Kohl took off her jacket and put on sunglasses. They both assured Quinn that their return to the office would be disguised as a trip to Michigan Avenue for shopping. There were three FBI units in the area. Two would provide cover or intervention, if needed, for Wiseman and Kohl. The third unit would keep the Lake House under discreet surveillance.
As Quinn returned to the master suite, he wondered what an FBI investigation would mean for Andrea Vargas. Suddenly, a craving for her engulfed him. A wicked man’s lament, he told himself, grieving over a once fulfilled but now fleeting fantasy.
Lying on two towels spread over the steam room’s spacious sitting area, Vargas had been savoring the time
