FORTY-THREE
The dimly-lit parking garage was all but vacant. A small Asian woman dressed in a janitorial suit and carrying a large purse approached the last remaining car. Pausing, she glanced around to assure herself that she was alone. She moved to the side of the vehicle and looked in through the driver’s-side window. The car was unlocked, the alarm disarmed. No surprise, she thought, given the amount of security she’d had to circumvent in order to gain access to the private garage.
With a slight click, the door opened. Silently. she moved around it, dropped to her knees, and leaned into the car, examining the steering column. Finding the standard construction, she set her large bag on the seat and removed her tool pouch. She unscrewed the bolts securing the steering column, and removed the structure, exposing the wiring harness for the airbag.
She found the termination of the wiring harness, made a splice, and inserted a small electrical switch completing the circuit. She threaded it to the speedometer needle, setting the strike point to seventy-five miles per hour.
This was one of her cleverest ideas, she mused. Without the benefit of a Porsche expert directly comparing factory wiring to her revision, no one would ever notice her handiwork.
Her job complete, she replaced the steering column, stuffed her tools back into her purse, and moved out of the car, closing the door behind her. As she stood beside the vehicle, she removed her gloves, shed the janitorial suit, and shoved the items into her bag. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, smoothed her hair, and straightened her dress. Then, she backtracked, making her way out of the garage the way she’d come in.
FORTY-FOUR
Mort Fields folded his small frame into his new Porsche Carrera Cabriolet, started the engine, and put the top down. As he drove out of the underground garage, he glanced at his watch: 11:16 P.M. He’d missed the benefit dinner given to support The Airoyo Del Yalle Camp for children with life-threatening illnesses.
“Damn.” Mort muttered. He was always running late by this time of the evening, especially when he’d been out of town. He’d hoped to at least make an appearance.
On the freeway, he pushed the accelerator down, enjoying the feel of power and speed as the vehicle responded. The speedometer registered seventy-three miles per hour as he accelerated into a mild curve. His mood lifted as the balmy, summer night air rushed over him, and the highway stretched vacant ahead. Pushing the pedal to the floor, he let the engine roar.
The air bag exploded.
The Jefferson City Democrat
August 12, 2000
Tycoon Killed in Cur Clash
FORTY-FIVE
Jack stood at the edge of the ravine. The mangled frame of the Porsche was crushed between two trees. Yellow crime scene tape corded off the area.
He identified himself as a member of the press. “Do you have any idea what time the crash occurred?” Jack asked the officer posted at the sight.
“After eleven last night.” the police officer responded. “Real shame, too.”
Jack nodded toward the yellow tape. “Do you suspect foul play?”
The officer adjusted his gun belt.
“This is off the record.” Jack said.
The man shrugged. “Doubt it. But with him being a bigwig and all, we’ve got to cover the bases.”
“You ever hear of him being in business with Carolyn Lane?” It was a long shot, but why not?
“Naw, but he was supposed to fly to New York to speak at the convention. That’s how he was discovered. He missed some appointments, then didn’t show up for the plane. I suppose that was for the Lanes.”
Fields was speaking at the convention? Why? And on what topic? Jack didn’t recall seeing him listed on the schedule. Who wouldn’t want Fields to be there? Was someone eliminating Warner’s obstacles, as Erma had suggested? If so, who? Attending the convention suddenly sounded appealing.
It seemed no coincidence that his father was dead along with the men who’d spoken to him about the Lanes. But the deaths were either from natural causes or an accident.
FORTY-SIX
Jack ran for the gate. He never wasted time. scheduling appointments up to the last moment, and stepping onto the airplane as the door shut behind him.
“Please grab any available seat. We want to take off on time,” the gate attendant called as Jack darted down the ramp to the aircraft.
The plane was congested. Jack made his way down the aisle, spotting two free seats. Quickly, he sized up his options. With his long legs, the empty aisle seat was the most comfortable choice, but then he spotted her. Katherine Seals.
What was she doing in Jefferson City? Jack’s heart quickened. How long had it been? Years. Would she even speak to him? She sat in the window seat, the center seat was open. Jack stored his laptop in the overhead bin, then excused himself and slid into the seat next to her.
Katherine glanced at him. Her face flushed with recognition, but before he could speak, she deliberately turned back to her work.
So much for warm reunions, Jack thought. But what did he expect? As far as she was concerned, he’d shown himself to be the lowest life form ever to inhabit the earth. She’d never allowed him to explain. He understood why she hated him. He decided to say nothing. Chicken. No, he assured himself, only a brave man would have chosen to take this seat – or a man set on self-torment.
After take-off, someone doused his head with Coca-Cola. “Son of a…” Jack said.
He shot a look upward to see a woman giggling, her hand over her month. Standing behind him, talking to friends, she had spilled her drink.
Katherine was drenched as well.
“She got you too?” Jack asked unbuckling his seat belt.
“I’d say so. Damn! My computer.”
Jack pressed the overhead button for service. “Here, let me help. I’ll hold your computer, and you can wipe off
