Quinn — Lake Forest, IL
Beneath the ample canopy trimmed in an eighteenth-century Chinese coverlet, Quinn lay deliciously drained. The Levitra had worked miraculously during the past three days, just as his doctor promised.
“Your hands are absolutely amazing,” Vargas whispered into his ear as he gently stroked her long, slender body. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“Actually, no,” he said, but he was lying. His wife Margaret had told him the same thing years ago.
“You could hire them out and probably make more money than you do as CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company,” she said giggling and running her fingers through his chest hair.
Vargas had grown more carefree and silly during their three days together and so had Quinn. But her innocuous comment about hiring out his hands bothered him. Was it a Freudian slip in a lighthearted moment that had exposed her true self? His old suspicions had gradually started to return. No matter what she says about wanting to be with me, she’s still a hired hand, Quinn said to himself.
She shifted her lithe body, lying face down and snuggling her head into a pillow. Quinn gently stroked her neck and back until she was asleep. As he lay awake next to her, waiting to escape once more into sexual bliss, Quinn grew more cynical. He began admitting to himself that his passion for Vargas had been little more than a fabulous fantasy, facilitated by Wayland Tate as part of a larger strategy to manipulate him and the J. B. Musselman Company.
Musselman’s stock price had continued to climb on Monday, closing at 393/4. Tate and his partners have got to be raking in billions, Quinn thought. You and I, Jules, and a group of clients committed to helping each other make a lot of money, Tate’s words reverberated in his head. Quinn was finally admitting to himself that Tate might have orchestrated the whole thing. Was Tate really that good? Yes, Quinn told himself, and Vargas was probably getting a nice cut of the action.
His new sarcasm wasn’t really the result of anything Vargas had said or done, other than maybe performing too perfectly. Nor was it attributable to Tate’s baiting and trapping him. He only had himself to blame for that. In truth, his growing disillusionment derived from the interludes over the past three days when he was physically depleted, emotionally melancholic, and mentally introspective. That’s when he first realized that his appetites were feeding on themselves-more control demanded more scheming requiring more appeasement and double-dealing, eventually leading to more indulgence and escape.
Ashamed that his desperation in recent months had so easily impaired his judgment, Quinn began to reconsider his current state of affairs. Had it not been for his principles, the seductive cycle might have continued indefinitely. While he had indeed ignored them in recent weeks, he had never abandoned them. It was time to end the illusion and the manipulation.
Once Vargas was sound asleep, Quinn quietly got out of bed and removed his briefcase from beside the nightstand. He put on a robe and left the master suite.
Downstairs in the library, Quinn sat down at the antique desk and drew the telephone toward him. Wiping away the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, he removed a business card from his briefcase: Samuel P. Wiseman, Deputy Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Quinn punched in the numbers. He had met Wiseman a year earlier at a Chicago Children’s Museum fundraising event, where they instantly struck up a friendship. They’d seen each other twice since then, once at another fundraiser, and a second time when Quinn had invited Sam to join his foursome at a private golf tournament.
The line rang twice before a voice on the other end caused Quinn’s heart to skip. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago bureau, Special Agent Mullrose speaking.”
“Agent Mullrose,” Quinn said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’d like to speak to Deputy Director Sam Wiseman.”
“He’s not in, sir. How can I help you?”
“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.