Page 54 of The List
“I’ve been hired by a woman in Savannah who believes her husband is having an affair with your wife.”
“Who’s the bastard?”
“A lawyer named S. Lou Greene. Your wife handles rehab services for a lot of his clients. They met about a year ago. He regularly comes to Atlanta and they spend quite a bit of time together. The Greenes are in the middle of a divorce and my agency has been hired to gather evidence for Mrs. Greene’s side of the case. ”
“Why are you tellin’ me this?”
“Mrs. Greene thought you could use the information. We’ve been doing some electronic monitoring. It seems your wife is getting ready to file for divorce. Greene has been giving her advice and they are intent on trying to get a piece of your business.”
“No-good bitch,” Wyler spat out. “A month ago I talked to a lawyer myself. She told me that twelve years of marriage was certainly enough to give her a claim. But I convinced myself she’d never do that. Hell, I bankrolled her career.”
“I’d caution you against trusting too much or assuming the other side will be fair.”
“Exactly what my lawyer said.”
“Sound advice. Your wife not only has a lawyer for a boyfriend, but seems intent on taking you for whatever she can get. I’ve heard the tapes myself. Your wife right now is downtown in a hotel suite with Greene. We’d like to take you there.”
“The crap for?”
“You need to see it for yourself. We also have electronic monitoring set up. Their conversations may be helpful in defending her claim against you. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but they like to pillow-talk and we’ve learned a lot from those conversations.”
“I didn’t hire you. Why go to all the trouble?”
“Mrs. Greene wants to help. Thank her.”
“Yeah, right. This was the last thing I wanted to hear. What I want is my wife back. I’d do about anything to make that happen. I was just on my way to see her.”
He twisted the knife. “She’s not home.”
Wyler paused, seeming to consider what he’d said. “No, she’s downtown in a motel room with some shyster lawyer screwin’ his brains out. Maybe you’re right? I do need to see it for myself.”
“We need to coordinate how this is going to happen. I have a man stationed near the room where your wife and Greene are now. I don’t want to raise any suspicions on anybody’s part, so please follow us downtown in your car.
The hotel is the Regency Arms. Park in the underground garage and head up to the lobby.
There’s a sitting area near the elevators.
Wait there. When my associate and I arrive, follow us into the elevator.
Don’t act like you know us. We’re uncertain of who Greene knows at the hotel.
Since he’s a regular, the staff is familiar with him.
When we get up to the floor stay quiet, just follow us into our room. We’ll talk there. Understand?”
Wyler nodded. “I got it.”
“You know where the Regency Arms is?”
“Yeah,” Wyler said, voice breaking. “Vikki and I spent a weekend there once.”
7:50 P.M.
J ON SMILED.
Burt Wyler followed instructions to the letter and stayed behind their maroon LeSabre all the way downtown.
This should be easy.
Thankfully, S. Lou Greene was a creature of habit.
When in Atlanta the lawyer stayed in Room 478 at the Regency Arms, a two-room suite with a whirlpool tub that faced the front of the hotel.
Greene’s affair with Vikki Wyler had been easy to document.
As was Burt Wyler’s weakness for his wife.
Greene had been seeing Vikki nearly a year, and ever since she’d moved out they’d regularly spent the weekend together whenever Greene was in Atlanta.
He thought it strange somebody like Greene would even have a mistress. After all, the lawyer wasn’t all that visually appealing. But the money liberally spent on meals, gifts, liquor, and hotel rooms apparently more than made up for any lack of physical presence.
And Vikki was an easy mark.
An ambitious woman who openly used Greene to ingratiate herself into the workers’ compensation bar. In fact, it was thanks to Greene that a lot of claimants’ lawyers from around the state now routinely used her professional services.
Arriving at the Regency Arms, Burt Wyler continued to follow instructions, dutifully turning into the underground garage and stopping at the automatic gate. The dispensed receipt would later provide excellent corroboration on the precise time of arrival.
Jon did not have Frank Barnard follow Wyler into the garage.
He assumed each level was closed-circuit-monitored by hotel security and the last thing he wanted was a videotaped record of his arrival and departure.
That privilege was reserved solely for the red Corvette, the videotape providing more than enough corroboration to the tragedy he was about to stage.
Barnard parked on the street, a couple of blocks west of the hotel’s main entrance.
Jon filled the meter with quarters so there’d be no danger of receiving a citation.
He and Barnard then strode back to the Regency Arms and entered the plush main lobby.
The hotel was one of Atlanta’s oldest, lovingly remodeled into a four-star jewel with elegantly decorated suites and first-class service to guests who could afford the luxury.
It was a favorite of businessmen during the week and couples on the weekend looking for two days of peace and quiet.
He and Barnard strolled through the lobby, appearing like two businessmen in town for the weekend returning from an important Saturday meeting.
Barnard toted a burgundy leather briefcase.
They headed straight for the elevators but kept their faces turned from the lobby cameras.
To his left, he caught a glimpse of Burt Wyler sitting exactly where instructed.
Wyler saw him too and dutifully rose, following them onto the elevators.
He pushed the button for the fourth floor and was pleased Wyler continued to say nothing.
When the doors parted, he, Barnard, and Wyler stepped off.
He pointed right.
They headed down the hall.
At Room 479 he inserted the plastic card and tripped the lock. He pushed against the spring-loaded hinges and inched the door inward, inviting Wyler in first. At the end of a short entrance hall was a double bed, desk, chair, and luggage rack.
Wyler calmly stepped forward into the room.
Once past the short entrance way Victor Jacks pounced, wrapping an arm around the man’s neck and clamping a cloth soaked in anesthetic across the face. Wyler resisted, but the compound worked fast and the big man’s body went limp. Jacks allowed it to ease down to the carpet and released his hold.
No one spoke. No one had to.
Each knew exactly what to do.
J ACKS WAS ALREADY WEARING A WHITE SHIRT WITH DARK PANTS AND black bow tie to look like a room steward.
Skintight latex gloves were quickly camouflaged beneath a white-cloth pair that Jacks yanked from his pocket.
A bottle of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket, two crystal glasses and a red rose beside on a tray.
Jacks carefully balanced the tray on his fingertips.
He held the gun in his right hand, finger on the trigger, concealed behind his back and headed for the door, stepping over Wyler’s body.
Barnard opened it.
He approached, looked both ways, then stepped out.
Room 478 was across the hall, a few feet down to the right. Quickly, he exited and was able to tap on the door with the sound suppressor at the end of the gun barrel without being seen. The first knock went unanswered. The room was a suite, Greene most likely in the outer bedroom.
He knocked again.
A door opened, then closed on the other side. A peephole provided only the appearance of a bow-tie-wearing steward balancing a tray of champagne.
“What do you want?” Greene asked from behind the door.
“Champagne, Mr. Greene. Compliments of the hotel. Our thanks for your patronage.”
He understood the plan. Greene’s vanity should allow a momentary drop in guard. After all, Greene had been staying at the Regency Arms for years, feeling right at home. A complimentary bottle of champagne would be expected, not suspected.
The door’s lock released, then opened.
Jacks moved forward, turning slightly to the right and shielding the gun. “Where would you like this, sir?”
“Over there on the table is fine.”
The lawyer was dressed in one of the hotel’s terry-cloth bathrobes, loosely tied at the waist, the distinctive gold crescent logo embroidered on the pocket.
Thin hairy legs and bare feet stuck out the bottom.
Jacks deftly set the tray down on the table.
Greene closed the door and momentarily turned his back on what he thought was a room steward.
Jacks used the moment to level his gun.
“Mr. Greene, keep your mouth shut and do exactly what I tell you.”
To the right was the closed door leading to the bedroom. He knew Vikki Wyler was waiting for Greene to return and he didn’t want her to hear him, so he kept his voice low.
“Move away from the door.”
He waved the sound-suppressed barrel of the gun.
Fear filled Greene’s square face. The lawyer backed away.
Jacks approached the hallway door and cracked it open.
J ON SAW THE DOOR MOVE.
Immediately, he and Barnard popped out of Room 479 and entered 478.
“Good evening, Mr. Greene.”
He closed the door and signaled Barnard, who whipped out a sound-suppressed pistol and leveled the barrel at Greene, taking over the watch.
Jacks grabbed a pillow from the sofa, approached the bedroom, turned the knob, and swung the heavy door inward.
The outside wall was lined with tall windows, their sheers and tapestry draperies drawn, casting the furniture in dim shadows.
Vikki Wyler lay naked on the covers.
She rolled over as the door opened. “Who was that, Lou?”