Daniel — Boston, MA
Cheryl O’Grady was waiting when Daniel Redd arrived at the bar of the Exelsior, a swank New American-style restaurant overlooking Boston Public Garden. The maitre d’ escorted them to a table in one of the restaurant’s secluded alcoves. Cheryl had called Daniel after the merger closing and asked for a private meeting. He’d quickly decided that a public meeting would raise fewer questions than a private encounter. When they sat down in the Queen Anne wing chairs, Daniel casually placed a small surveillance-nullifying device in the middle of their table.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.
“Depends on whether you’re thinking like KaneWeller or Fielder amp; Company.”
“Both, and I’d say it’s a counter-surveillance device, not a recorder.”
“Correct.”
“You know what I want to talk about, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Can I see them?”
“We agreed they would remain in our custody,” Daniel said. “It was all spelled out in the documents we signed a few hours ago. Remember?”
“Let me make this simple, Daniel. Either I get access to those files or I scuttle the merger.”
Daniel searched her eyes. They looked no more sympathetic than an attacking Doberman’s. She was not about to back down. “I’ll let you see the files under my supervision-in our offices-on one condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“You can only use the information as background. None of it can be copied or shared with your colleagues. And none of it can be used in any way to justify your scuttling of the merger.”
“Agreed. My only interest is to understand exactly what we’re walking into-so we know what to avoid going forward.”
“Let’s have a drink,” Daniel said. “Then I’ll take you back to our office.”
After sharing a bottle of Shiraz and a platter of imported goat and sheep cheeses along with professional small talk, Daniel and Cheryl exited the restaurant onto Boylston Street. They walked to the intersection of Arlington and Boylston across from the Boston Public Garden and waited for the light to change.
Daniel hoped he wouldn’t regret bringing Cheryl to the office to examine the fifty-two files. But all things considered, he had little choice. As Deputy General Counsel for KaneWeller, Cheryl certainly had the power and influence to scuttle the deal if she were so inclined. Allowing her to review the files with an opportunity to explain their true purpose, he told himself, might well be the only way to save the merger and distance Wilson from Fielder amp; Company. Hopefully, it would also avert any negative press that might compromise liquidation of Charles’ other assets.
When the traffic light changed, Daniel and Cheryl began crossing Boylston Street. They walked past the center island, commenting on the beautiful budding elms and maples that lined the edge of the Public Garden.
Suddenly, without warning, a car swerved out from behind a lane of stopped traffic, crashed through a street construction fence, and headed directly for them at high speed. As soon as the two attorneys grasped the horrifying reality that the car was targeting them, they changed directions and began to run, but it was too late. The car struck them in the crosswalk before crashing into the back of a parked delivery van and exploding into flames. Their bodies were crushed instantly, hurled from hood to windshield and into the air. Cheryl’s body hit the asphalt like a ragdoll, twisting and rolling for fifty feet until it came to a stop beneath a parked car. Daniel’s was thrown against the back of a parked SUV, shattering the vehicle’s windows before dropping lifelessly to the street. Both of them had died instantly.
Later that evening, The Boston Globe posted a preliminary online report of a fatal Back Bay accident:
Boston Globe City amp; Region Desk
By SUSAN KITE.
A car racing at high speed hit two pedestrians in Boston’s Back Bay earlier this evening. The car swerved from behind a lane of stopped traffic and struck attorneys Daniel Redd of Boston and Cheryl O’Grady of New York City, who were walking in the crosswalk at Boylston and Arlington. Both were killed instantly. The car continued through the intersection and crashed into a parked delivery truck before exploding into flames. Remains of the driver have not yet been identified.
Even though the publicly reported details were sketchy, it was sufficient confirmation for Marco. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. It was a clean remote hit. The remains of the driver would soon be identified as a drunken street bum who’d gotten behind the wheel of a stolen car. The remote control equipment inside the car had exploded into a million indiscernible pieces, a method he’d employed for a dozen other hits. Marco’s two million dollar fee, with another million for no loose ends, would be wired to his Nevis account within twenty-four hours, as promised. Doing business with Tate was truly a pleasure.