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 to herself. When Quinn returned, she quietly prepped herself. Having a man consumed with her the way Quinn was carried its share of burdens.
Twenty minutes later, after surrendering once more to his ardor, Quinn lamented, “I wish I could stay here with you forever.” He was half lying and half telling the truth. “But tomorrow I need to spend some time with my family.”
“I’d love to stay too, but I understand,” she said, placing her arms around his neck and stroking the back of his head. “Your family needs to celebrate with you too.”
Quinn kissed her gently. They both stood under the large shower head in the steam room, feeling relieved as the cool water washed over them. Quinn’s relief was spiritual, having reclaimed his integrity by going to the FBI and now preparing to face the inevitable consequences. For Vargas, the relief was mostly physical, since her body was now in pain from their long weekend together. But she was determined to make sure that Quinn never knew. Little did she know he’d already slipped away.