Chapter 17
CHAPTER
A HALF HOUR LATER NASH LIFTED his head and wiped his eyes with a tissue pulled from a pack in the console. Then he applied eye drops so he wouldn’t go into the office looking like a total wreck.
Before he started the SUV he phoned the main number for the local FBI office. A woman answered and Nash asked to speak to Agent Reed Morris.
The woman put him on hold and then came back on the line. “He is not available right now, but I can put you through to his voice mail.”
“That would be fine, thanks.”
The voice that came on was an automated one, so Nash couldn’t compare it to the man’s actual voice.
“This is Walter Nash, please call me back on this number as soon as possible.” He then left his phone number.
He started the engine and pulled off. He hadn’t left the parking lot before his phone rang. It was Morris.
“Why didn’t you call my direct line?” the agent said. “It was on my card.”
“I had my reasons. I want to meet with you and your superior.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your superior, as high up as possible.”
“And why is that?” Morris demanded.
“To confirm that all of this is on the up-and-up.”
“You’ve been talking to your neighbor Hal Rankin, haven’t you?”
Nash involuntarily glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being tailed. “And how do you know about Hal Rankin?” he asked.
“He told you to trust but verify?”
“More verify than trust, actually.”
“That’s right. He made the big bucks, which is why he’s your neighbor. He’s not getting into that gated community with Uncle Sam paying the freight.”
“And how did you get into my gated community that night?” asked Nash.
“Not at liberty to discuss.”
“So, your superior?” said Nash.
“You’re traveling to Washington, DC, tomorrow, correct?”
“How did you hack into my calendar?”
“That would require a search warrant, Mr. Nash. We have other ways.”
“Illegal other ways?”
“Will you have time in DC to meet for, say, a half hour with someone?”
“Yes. Where?” said Nash.
“Your hotel. Text me with the place and a time. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“Oh, so you don’t know what hotel I’m staying at?”
“If it makes you feel better, no, we don’t,” replied Morris.
That did not make Nash feel better. “Who will you be bringing?”
“I’ll leave it as a surprise.”
“I’m sorry if you think this is overkill on my part, but there is a lot of crime going on out there, committed by some really scary people.”
Morris said in feigned surprise, “Oh really? I had no idea.”
“No, I meant that I just need to be careful, that’s all.”
“Look, truth is, if I were you, I’d be doing the same thing, too.”
That was the first time that one of the agent’s comments had not pissed Nash off. “I’ll text you,” he said, and clicked off.
He reached his office twenty minutes later and rode the elevator up.
Ellen Douglas, the prim receptionist, pointed to a tray of cookies set on the counter.
“Fresh this morning, Walter. Almond and chocolate chip. Two of your favorites.”
Nash, who hadn’t eaten breakfast, snagged two and thanked her. He strode quickly to his office to find that someone was waiting for him.
Rhett Temple was sitting on the small couch in the meeting area off to the left of Nash’s desk. Rhett looked pale, and he carried one arm stiffly as he rose to greet Nash.
“You okay, Rhett? You look like you’re coming down with something. And what’s up with your arm?”
“Late-night flight back to town. And en route I fell and banged the crap out of my arm,” he added, lifting his limb up a few inches. “Feel like an idiot.”
“You probably need to rest and put your feet—and arm—up for a few days.”
“I’m fine,” said Rhett distractedly. “And I’ve got meetings this afternoon.”
“So what’s up?”
“You’re out tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, DC. Those regulations in the hopper we want to push back on. Our lobbying folks thought if the key legislators heard my take, it might change some minds.”
“Right, right, good,” said Rhett absently. “Look, I got a call right when I landed. You know Peter Lombard?”
“He’s the comptroller of Nano-BioLogics, a company we purchased two years ago.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“He’s a good guy. And Nano’s been an outstanding performer for us.” Nash then picked up on Rhett’s obvious distress. “But what about Lombard? Is he leaving the company? I should have heard if that was the case.”
“No, it’s a lot worse. They just found Lombard’s car abandoned in a mountainous area near his home.”
“What?” said Nash sharply.
“And there was a suicide note found inside the car.”
“Oh my God! Did they… did they find his body?”
“They’re searching, but from what I heard, it’s pretty treacherous terrain.”
“Why would he kill himself?”
“I was just wondering if you had some idea. You obviously led the acquisition.”
“I met him a half dozen times. And there’s been lots of emails and Zooms as he’s reported in with his team.
He seemed a normal, stand-up kind of guy.
He was a good resource during the deal and afterwards from an operational sense.
I recall that he was happily married with grown kids.
I never saw anything that would point to a suicide. ”
Rhett nodded thoughtfully. “It just doesn’t add up at all.”
“Could you keep me in the loop if you hear anything?”
“Sure.”
Nash regarded him and said, “You really should look after yourself better.”
Rhett glanced up at him with a weary expression. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
After he left, Nash sat at his desk and recalled two other tragic deaths connected to Sybaritic: Alexandra Singer and Danielle Cho.
Singer had been an accountant at Wheelhouse, Inc.
, a company that had been purchased by Sybaritic four years before.
Wheelhouse was a niche business that helped other businesses get their operations going full bore in as short a period of time as possible.
While on vacation with her boyfriend nearly two years ago, she had fallen off a cliff at the Grand Canyon and died.
Danielle Cho had been a midlevel contracts person at PLA Corp., a company that looked for undervalued industrial assets in the Pacific Rim region. Cho had been shot and killed in a home invasion in San Francisco that was still unsolved a year later.
And now Peter Lombard, the comptroller at Nano-BioLogics, had abandoned his car and left a suicide note.
Each case was starkly different: supposed accident, perhaps a burglary gone wrong, and now an alleged suicide. But three people connected to three different acquisitions by Sybaritic were now dead in just under two years.
A possibility hit him like a freight train.
The FBI had recruited a mole connected to Sybaritic three times before, but they’ve been discovered and killed.
And now I’m number four.