Authors: Jeff Buick
The twelfth-floor boardroom was a testosterone-charged bastion of the good old days in banking when pinstripe suits and cigars
were the order of the day. Thick carpets covered the floors and four low-hanging chandelier-style light fixtures were evenly
spaced over the mahogany table. The walls were dark walnut from floor to ceiling, with pictures of every man who had served
as president of DC Trust. Almost to a person they were white males in their sixties or early seventies. Only one had made
the grade while still in his fifties. And he was the son of a previous president. It was a good-old-boys network if there
ever was one.
Leona walked in, the file tucked into a leather briefcase, and took a seat two chairs down from Anthony Halladay. Also present
were two other vice presidents, James Maher and Robert Grist, and she acknowledged all three men as she pulled out copies
of her report and set them on the table. The final version was eighty-one pages, bound with a glossy cover. Once each man
had a report, she started her presentation with no preamble.
“This was not an easy process,” Leona said as the men flipped through the pages. “Coal-Balt is a major source of carbon dioxide
emissions, and their equipment at both the coal-mining facility and the power-generating plant is quickly becoming antiquated.
Major work is necessary to bring it back to acceptable standards.”
“I understand the work at the plant is ongoing.” Anthony Halladay crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“It is, but each renovation is less than twenty percent of the power plant’s current value, which allows Coal-Balt to circumnavigate
the Environmental Protection Agency’s laws. In essence, the work being done is to improve production, not to reduce emissions.”
“Is the plant still within acceptable government standards?” Robert Grist asked.
“Yes. But that could change if new legislation is introduced that would close certain loopholes that Coal-Balt currently uses
to continue burning coal in an environmentally unfriendly manner.”
“Does that legislation exist?” Halladay asked.
“No, not yet. But it appears inevitable. At some point, Coal-Balt is going to be backed into a corner and the cost of the
upgrades will be astronomical. Those figures are noted on page eighteen.” She waited while the men perused the documents,
then continued. “The mining facility is depleting its resources at an alarming rate. The Demonstrated Reserve Base is detailed
on page thirty-one, and the projections show that the mine will be completely depleted of usable reserves in five years, give
or take six months. And a high percentage of what they are mining is low-grade bituminous coal. It burns dirty and produces
a lot of carbon dioxide. That means even bigger problems when the legislation to control fossil-fuel power-plant emissions
is introduced.”
“Do you have anything good to say?” Halladay shut his report.
“Of course. At present, the company is profitable, has adequate cash reserves and owes no outstanding taxes. The labor situation
is currently in hand, although they will be entering negotiations with five unions later this year. This could be a tough
time for the company, as the unions want concessions on wages and pensions. Coal-Balt is not in a position to sweeten the
pension pot, as the plan is only fifty percent funded at present.”
Halladay tapped the report. “What’s the bottom line, Leona? Is the bank behind the conversion?”
“My initial thought was to exercise caution and not approve Coal-Balt’s application. But then I took time to look at the picture
strictly from a risk perceptive. The increase in Coal-Balt’s net worth due to the anticipated share price increase substantially
diminishes our risk. Strictly from a risk point of view, the bank’s position is safe. That led me to approve the conversion,”
she said.
Halladay’s face brightened. “Good news, Leona. And a job very well done.”
“On one condition,” she continued.
The room was deathly silent. “What would that be?” Halladay’s voice was suddenly cool.
“The senator drafting the bill calling for stricter emissions controls died in a car crash on Sunday. Claire Buxton. You may
have read about it in the paper this morning. We need to wait for the coroner’s report on the accident before giving this
the green light.”
“Why? What does her death have to do with the issue we have on the table?” Halladay asked.
“Public perception,” Leona responded. “We have a fiduciary duty to our shareholders to ensure every company we fund is entirely
above reproach.”
Halladay leaned forward on his elbows. “Are you suggesting that there was something suspicious about the senator’s death?”
“Absolutely not. What concerns me is the public’s perception, nothing more. The chances are probably a million to one that
Senator Claire Buxton’s death was anything but an accident. But what would happen if there were something strange about the
crash? The press would be all over it. Especially if they could somehow tie in Reginald Morgan’s disappearance from the cruise
ship. And the first place they would look is at the companies fighting her new bill. Coal-Balt is front and center. It’s due
diligence to wait for the results on the accident.”
“How long will that take?” Halladay asked.
Leona shrugged. “I don’t know. A few days. Not long.”
Anthony Halladay stood up and walked to the south-facing bank of windows. Sunlight illuminated his face and reflected off
his eyes. He remained motionless for a minute, then turned back to the table. “I don’t like the delay, Leona. Coal-Balt has
regulatory approval, but that can be rescinded at any point. I think we should move ahead right now.”
Leona shook her head. “If a decision has to be made one way or the other today, I can’t okay it. There’s too much risk for
the bank if the police find something unusual in their investigation.”
“Are you saying that if you were pressed to give a firm decision today, you would reject the proposal?” Halladay asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
No one spoke for a full minute. Finally, Halladay said, “I could override your report, Leona. Veto any objections you have
and use my position as CEO to okay this project.”
Leona swallowed. This was a shaky limb on a skinny tree, and Halladay had a saw. But it was exactly where she had foreseen
this going and she was ready. “Anthony, you and I both know that vetoing something like this doesn’t make the report disappear.
It gets filed with the application. And then if something goes wrong, it’s not hard to figure out who everybody is going to
be looking at for making a poor decision.”
Halladay was thoughtful. “You’re sure it won’t take long for the police to wrap up their investigation?”
“Not positive, but my best guess is about five days.”
He nodded, a slight and very slow motion. “Then we wait for the results from the Utah police.”
“And if they come up empty, you’ll give this a green light?” James Maher said.
“Yes.”
“All right,” Halladay said. “This is your file, Leona. Your career. I trust your judgment when it comes to protecting the
bank.” It was all lip service. He didn’t sound overly happy.
“Thanks,” she said, packing the report back in her briefcase. “If there are no other questions . . .”
There were none. Leona left the room and headed directly back to her office. She closed the door behind her and sat down,
her heart beating fast. What had she done? Her decision was to approve the conversion, but once she was in the boardroom,
she had waffled. The simple way out was to give Halladay what he so obviously wanted. But she couldn’t do it. Reginald Morgan
disappearing was strange, weird even. Claire Buxton dying was bizarre. And then the union rep. How often did one hear of bodies
floating to the surface of a quiet lake in rural West Virginia? Not often. If there were something dark going on with Coal-Balt,
she didn’t want her name associated with it. Or the bank’s.
Leona ran her hands through her curls and rubbed her temples. She had bought some time, but ultimately she would have to give
Anthony Halladay her firm decision. If it mirrored what he wanted, her new job was safe. And her father would be pleased.
If not, she could well lose what she had worked so hard to achieve. But what was that? What had she worked so hard for? The
job? That was what her father wanted. Maybe she already had what was important to her. Integrity. Honesty to herself and her
convictions. A clear conscience.
There was a knock on the door and she called for the person to enter. Bill Cawder stuck his head in and smiled.
“Things went well?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Halladay didn’t get what he wanted.”
Cawder pushed the door open and stood a couple of feet inside the threshold. “What happened?”
“Bad timing on a couple of things. I had to attach a caveat to the approval. He didn’t like that.”
“I thought you said it was a go,” Cawder said.
“I thought so, but like I said, things happened that changed the outcome.”
“That’s too bad. Is it fixable?”
“Maybe. Time will tell. Can’t really say any more than that.”
“Of course.”
“At least things went okay for one of us today.”
Cawder gave her a slight nod. “This was important for you. I wish it had gone smoother.”
“Me, too.”
“Got to run. See you Monday.”
“Have a good weekend.”
Cawder closed the door behind him and quiet settled over the room. Why was her father in that boardroom with her? How the
hell did he get in there? Never physically, just in her head. Telling her to okay the deal, keep her job, move ahead, make
something of herself. Christ, why didn’t he realize the greatest impact she was making in her life was thousands of miles
away in the sticky jungles and sweltering savannahs that bordered Samburu? There, she was changing lives, helping feed hungry
children and saving a few hundred of the world’s most regal mammals from being slaughtered for their tusks. Here, she was
just another banker in a city full of lawyers and politicians and bankers. No matter how high she climbed in DC, her greatest
achievements would always be on the other side of the world. She closed her eyes as the tears began as she realized that an
opportunity to make a difference on this side of the world had been handed to her, and that she had dropped the ball. She
should have stopped Derek Swanson in his tracks when she had the chance. Now she had painted herself into a corner and left
no way out. If the police investigation turned up nothing suspicious, she had to okay the conversion. And the curtain was
drawn back on exactly what it was. A well-orchestrated business maneuver that would make a few people very rich—and eventually
wipe out a whole lot more.
She felt sick. Even sicker when she thought that this was the one moment when she would have her father’s approval.
“What do you mean she’s reneging?” Swanson asked. His face was crimson and his hand was shaking with rage, threatening to
crush the plastic telephone receiver.
“She’s not going to approve the conversion. Without her onside, you probably won’t get regulatory approval,” the voice said.
“Who the hell is this woman?” Swanson yelled. His voice echoed about his house.
“Leona Hewitt. She’s no pushover. I warned you she could be trouble.”
“We are a couple of days from closing this deal and you tell me some bitch named Leona Hewitt is going to fuck everything
up? I don’t think so.” Swanson stopped yelling for a moment, regained his composure, then said, “She needs to okay this. And
quickly.”
“I’m doing what I can at the bank,” the voice said, “but this is her show. There’s nothing you can do right now but wait and
hope she comes around.”
“Jesus Christ,” Swanson said, sinking into an arm chair, his shoulders sagging. “All right. Keep me in the loop.”
“Of course.”
Derek Swanson let the phone dangle from his hand as he sat in the silence of his living room. After a minute, the cordless
phone started beeping. He pushed the end button and let it drop to the floor. Early evening sunlight filtered through the
thick trees and shone in the west-facing windows, reflecting off the Swarovski crystal on a sofa table. The cut glass bent
the light, fracturing it into a menagerie of color. Everything so ordered, each color separate from the others. No overlapping,
no problems with one of the colors trying to overpower the rest. No color sticking their nose in another color’s business.
Order and harmony, just as his business should be.
Something changed in the room. A shadow that shouldn’t be there. He turned and looked behind at the entrance from the dining
room. A figure was moving from the other room toward him. He jerked around to face the other man as the light illuminated
his facial features.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” he said, his voice a blend of fury and loathing.
“Not happy to see me?” Darvin moved forward at a steady pace.
“You arrogant little puke. Get the fuck out of my house right now,” Swanson yelled, jumping up off the chair. He started toward
the other man, then stopped when he saw the gun.
Ten feet separated the two when Darvin finally stopped and stood in the center of the room. “Who is Leona Hewitt?”
“I want you out of my house. Right now.”
Darvin cocked his head slightly. “You don’t get it, Derek.
You answer to me now. You’re my bitch. And if I decide you’re a liability rather than an asset, I’ll kill you. And if you
piss me off any more than I already am, I’ll torture your ass before I finally end your pathetic little life.” He motioned
at the chair with the gun. “Sit down, or I’ll shoot you in the balls. I’ll castrate you with a bullet, you stupid bastard.
Three seconds. Two. One.” He stopped counting as Derek Swanson sat in the chair.
“That’s better.” Darvin slowly looked about the room, taking in the décor. “Nice stuff,” he said, touching a vase. “This looks
likes something from the Qing dynasty, back when Emperor Kangxi controlled China. This is a museum-quality piece. It must
have cost you a few dollars.”
Swanson swallowed heavily. “It was expensive.”
Darvin grinned, a sadistic curl of the lips. “I should break it. What do you think?” He hoisted the vase in his hand and held
it out in front of him. “Won’t be worth much if I drop it.”
Swanson’s throat was dry. “No, it won’t.”
Darvin glanced at the sofa table and something caught his eye. He set the near-priceless porcelain down and picked up one
of the picture frames. Inside was a photo of an elderly man and woman. “Your parents?”
Swanson nodded, glad to have the art back on the table. “Yes, those are my parents.”
“Nice-looking couple.”
Swanson didn’t know what to say. The killer was all over the map, no sense to what he was doing or his questions. “Thanks.”
“What did your father do? For a career, I mean. He must have done something to buy you all of this.”
“I bought this myself,” Swanson snapped, immediately wishing he hadn’t used a harsh tone. Darvin’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t
speak. Finally, Swanson said, “Dad was an investment banker. He made a good living. He provided very well for my mother and
I.”
“Ahh, I see. An investment banker. Big money in that profession. A lot of stress, though. Working on Wall Street and all that.”
“I suppose.”
Darvin set the photo back on the table and took a couple of steps toward Swanson. “I don’t like you, Derek. Never have. You
use people. You’re a condescending prick. You haven’t changed the slightest since I killed that union rep for you. Not one
iota. I’m not sure you realize how badly I want to kill you. I don’t need much of a reason. But while this gig is still on
the go, you’re worth more to me alive than dead. So, for right now . . .” He let the sentence tail off as he sat on the arm
of the couch. “Now if seems we have a bitch who is sticking her nose in things that she should leave alone. Who is Leona Hewitt,
and why is she fucking everything up?”
Derek Swanson stared into the killer’s eyes and for the first time felt total fear. Darvin had always irritated him, maybe
even scared him a bit, but this was different. There was no emotion in the killer’s gaze—the eyes were dead. “She works for
DC Trust. She’s the person assigned to our income trust file.”
“And she’s a problem?”
“I have a source at the bank. They phoned and told me that she’s not ready to okay the deal.”
“And what does that mean?”
“We could lose regulatory approval and the conversion would die.”
“And we would lose all that money from the increase in the share prices.”
Swanson caught the use of
we
rather than
you
, but ignored it. “Yes.”
“Then Leona Hewitt is a problem. Perhaps she’s a problem that should be removed.”
“You’ve killed enough people.”
“Apparently not,” Darvin said sarcastically. “You keep coming up with new glitches in what appeared to be a very good idea.
Glitches that need my attention.”
“Killing Leona Hewitt is not going to solve anything.”
“Nor is leaving her alive. She’s obviously a stumbling block.”
“Look, this has gone far enough. I’ll give you some money. I want you to go away.”
Darvin’s eyes flashed with anger. He stood up and walked toward Swanson, chambering a round in the pistol. “I don’t want to
go away, Derek,” he said, drawling out the name. “I’m having too much fun. The money is almost secondary at this point.” He
reached the chair. “Almost.” He raised the gun so it was pointing at Swanson’s head.
“Open your mouth.”
Swanson slowly opened his mouth and felt the cold metal against the back of his throat as the killer rammed the gun in and
pushed.
“Don’t ever defend her again, Derek. She’s a useless bitch who is standing between us and a lot of money.” He twisted the gun
slightly and Swanson grimaced in pain. “You have no idea how badly I want to kill you. I should, simply to show you how easy
it would be.” His face was only inches from Swanson’s, his eyes locked in and feeding on the fear in the other man’s eyes.
A minute passed with neither man moving an inch. Finally, Darvin said, “But that would really screw things up. End the quest
for our fifty million.”
He extracted the gun from Swanson’s mouth. “Did you catch that?
Our
fifty million?”
Derek Swanson nodded, his throat too dry to speak.
“You have a partner now, Derek. That’s how it works. You handle the legal end of things, like the stock exchange and the bank,
and I take care of any problems that pop up.
Like Leona Hewitt.”
Swanson’s voice was a mere whisper. “You can’t keep killing people associated with this or someone is going to catch on.”
“Then what?” Darvin asked, moving back a few feet and sitting on an oversize ottoman. “Who will they come looking for? Not
me. You. That’s who will be on the front line. You. They’ll suspect you of murder. And what can you tell them? That you hired
some guy named Darvin to kill a union rep four years ago, then asked him to take care of Reginald Morgan. But you never told
him to kill Senator Claire Buxton or Leona Hewitt. Pretty weak, don’t you think? And the moment you open your mouth, they’ve
got you for murder. Premeditated murder. And a US senator at that. You’d be lucky to escape with consecutive life sentences.
My guess is that they’d put you in the chair and fry you.” His eyes reflected light from the living-room window, and for a
moment they came alive. “Is that what you want, Derek?”
“No.”
“Then stop being such a wet dishrag. Get with the program. We’re in this together and we’ll reap the profits together. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Now what can you tell me about Leona Hewitt?”
“I don’t know the woman. I’d never heard her name until she was handed the file.”
“That’s okay.” Darvin rose from the foot stool. “I have my resources. I’ll find her easily enough.”
He walked to the entrance and slipped the pistol in his waistband. He pulled his shirt down over the handle and said, “You
know, you should be careful about that source in the bank. You can get in a lot of trouble these days for insider trading.”
He walked through the doorway and left the house.