Page 53 of The List
“What about Reed and Walker?”
“Forget them, for now. The problem’s here, not there.”
“How will I receive instructions?”
“Meet me at the office at four o’clock. The company jet is already en route to bring you back. Get your associates here however you need to. But not on the plane.”
“May I ask the nature of the matter?”
“Retribution.”
4:46 P.M.
J ON LISTENED INTENTLY AS L EE EXPLAINED WHAT HAPPENED WITH the lawyer, S. Lou Greene. They were sitting in the boardroom on the thirtieth floor of the Blue Tower. He’d been driven straight here from the airport after landing in Atlanta.
“That pompous bastard actually thinks he can blackmail me,” Lee said. “What do you know about him?”
He shrugged. “Greedy. Arrogant. Cocky. But successful. He’s been doing workers’ comp claims for years.
Has a reputation as one of the best in the state.
He came to Concord nine years ago. He’s the most difficult of all the workers’ compensation lawyers that industrial relations deals with.
Steadfastly refuses to compromise for anything less than what he demands.
He backs that up by a close relationship with the local administrative law judge.
They play golf and tennis together. We learned that Greene’s paid for several stays at a Jamaican resort for the old man.
That’s certainly an ethical violation and would make for excellent extortion.
I’ve kept a file updated in case the board’s patience ran out. ”
“What about personal stuff?”
“He’s nicknamed Cue Stick by the lawyers in the area.
For obvious reasons. Drinks a six-pack a day of imported beer.
Thinks of himself as a gourmet. Doesn’t bat an eye at spending $500 on dinner.
He’s forty-one. Married. But that doesn’t stop him from keeping a girlfriend on the side.
There are three little Greenes. A boy and two girls.
They live on twenty acres in northwest Chatham County.
His wife’s a registered nurse, but doesn’t work much anymore.
She mainly oversees the maid and gardener and keeps Greene happy. ”
“How do you remember all that?”
“I prepared the file myself.”
Lee shook his head. “Bozin has placed us in a totally untenable position.”
“But I’d bet Mr. Bozin didn’t figure on Greene’s involvement.”
“I agree. This is, what did you say? Cue Stick’s doing. Unknown to Reed or Walker too. Has there been any contact between Greene and Walker?”
“Yesterday, Walker went to Greene’s office. My man reported that Walker left the mill around 1:30 and casually made his way there. He carried files and left word that he was going to try and settle some claims.”
“That’s obviously where Greene found out what he did. Otherwise, we’d have heard from him earlier. What about Reed?”
“I had to pull my man off Reed to stay with Bozin’s body. As you recall, I’m shorthanded with only two associates. I tracked Reed myself till noon. My associate was not able to return and pick him back up till late afternoon. By then he was home. There was a three-hour stretch I couldn’t monitor.”
“So he could have been at Greene’s office too?”
“Possible. He hangs out there quite a bit.”
“Obviously there’s been communication among all three. Greene knew all about Bozin. He even played a damn recording, which was news to me.”
“Greene’s most likely acting alone. He sees an opportunity and is trying to make the best of it apart from Walker and Reed.”
“How fortunate for us,” Lee said. “We need to take advantage of this opportunity, Jon. I want Greene dead. Tonight. Something out of the ordinary. More public. I want to send a message that our two friends in Concord will understand. Can you do that?”
“Greene said he was staying at the Regency Arms?”
Lee nodded.
“Afterward, what are my instructions?”
“Return to Concord and get ready for Reed and Walker. I’m not sure exactly what our course of action will be as yet.
Needless to say, we certainly need to retrieve Bozin’s confession and that tape before we tie up the loose ends.
A memorial service is planned for Bozin in Concord on Monday.
Mr. Hughes and I have to attend. If we don’t have all the originals by then, I’m going to talk with Walker myself and up the ante. ”
He checked his watch. 4:57 P.M. “My associates are due here by 6:00. Greene will be processed by 8:00 and we’ll be back in Concord by midnight.”
“Excellent,” Lee said.
7:03 P.M.
J ON STARED OUT THE WINDSHIELD AND THOUGHT ABOUT B URT Wyler.
The man owned three auto transmission stores spaced triangularly around I-285, the eight-laned perimeter interstate encircling metropolitan Atlanta.
In the beginning, when there was only one store, Wyler had managed it himself, spending most of each day working under cars.
But now he employed a manager at each location and spent the majority of his time commuting among the three stores.
It was a prosperous business, one that made him a solid six-figure income, and he was already telling people store number four was in the works.
Wyler was a burly, slightly overweight, likable man with bushy brown hair.
He shaved only twice a week, which kept his fleshy neck and puffy cheeks dusted with a perpetual stubble.
He owned a house on the north side of Atlanta, not a mansion or anything pretentious, just a respectable two-story in an upper-middle-class neighborhood.
He wasn’t a big spender. His only real luxuries were the red Corvette convertible he bought a few years back and the eighteen-foot fiberglass speedboat kept at Lake Lanier for weekend waterskiing.
His only problem was his wife, who’d moved out three months ago but had yet to file for divorce.
He’d tried everything to win her back. Gifts. Expensive nights out on the town. Promises of change. Agreements to seek counseling. Whatever it took. Yet nothing seemed to work.
Burt Wyler was forty-eight. Vikki Wyler, thirty-eight.
She was his first wife, he her second husband.
She was a career woman, trained as a vocational rehabilitation specialist, initially working for a group of rehab providers whose services were heavily depended upon by workers’ compensation lawyers, insurance companies, doctors, and employers.
After their marriage Wyler staked the money that allowed her to start her own practice and soon she developed an extensive clientele, rapidly expanding her presence statewide, and realizing a high-five-figure income.
They’d been married twelve years, trying the whole time to have children.
Wyler wanted a son or a daughter, it really didn’t matter which.
But nothing had happened. They’d consulted specialists and both were tested.
The lack of success bothered Burt a lot more than it did Vikki, which in itself bothered Wyler since he’d come to believe that his wife had no real interest in having children.
Three months back, things came to a head and Vikki left, moving in with a girlfriend.
Their contact since had been only sporadic.
Wyler openly had told friends he thought Vikki was seeing someone else.
All the signs pointed in that direction.
But she repeatedly denied the allegation and skillfully turned the accusations around, arguing that Wyler’s jealousy was the main problem in their marriage.
And perhaps it was.
Wyler had admitted to others that he was possessive.
But Vikki did nothing to alleviate his fears.
She liked clingy silk blouses and tight-fitting dresses.
Her hemlines stayed short, exhibiting her thin thighs and long shapely legs.
She sported a thick head of brunette hair she liked to curl and tease.
And she owned an assortment of cosmetic lenses that tinted her eyes a variety of colors, a bright azure her favorite.
She wasn’t beautiful, just rawly attractive, and she liked to flaunt her appearance with a deliberate air of promiscuity.
They were a strange couple. A study in contrast. Wyler’s friends told him he was better off without her. Unfortunately, Burt Wyler adored Vikki and wanted nothing more than for them to be together.
Jon smiled.
Burt Wyler was about to get his wish.
He glanced next to him. Frank Barnard sat behind the wheel. He checked his watch. 7:12 P.M.
Just about time.
Burt Wyler’s third store sat on a corner lot in southeast Atlanta, a mile off the I-285 perimeter.
It wasn’t his busiest, or his slowest, but it was the closest to the apartment complex where Vikki now lived.
Wyler had spent the entire Saturday at the store, a call earlier revealing its manager was on vacation.
Jon assumed that afterward Wyler intended to go see his wife to try again to convince her to come back home.
The red Corvette was parked catty-cornered to the east end of the brightly painted block building.
At 7:15 Wyler locked the front door and headed straight for the car.
“Now,” Jon said.
Barnard cranked the Buick and sped across the busy boulevard into the parking lot. Wyler was only a few feet from the Corvette, about to unlock the driver’s-side door, when Barnard wheeled up.
“Burt Wyler?” Jon said, climbing out the passenger-side door. “I’m Walter Mason, a private investigator.” He flashed a brown leather case containing a fake investigator’s ID, identical to the actual ones issued by the state of Georgia.
“Am I supposed to be impressed? What do you want with me?”
“I think I could be of some assistance to you.”
“Look, buddy, I’m in a hurry.”
“It’s about your wife.”
He knew that would get Wyler’s attention. “What the hell do you know about her?”
“Could we go inside and talk?”
Wyler hesitated, sizing him up, then said, “Follow me.”
Jon signaled for Barnard to wait and keep his eyes open.
Back inside, Wyler asked, “Okay, Mr. Mason, what’s this all about?”