Death on Demand: A Mystery

By Walter Stewart

Was it a heart attack... a murder... or something else more incredible and perhaps even more unimaginable as to defy all human understanding and logic?
Taylors on the trail in a bizarre case that pits every facet of his expertise, training, and knowledge to unravel a tangled web of corruption, lies, and deceit by those with the power to exact death on demand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514406939

Walter Stewart

Walter Stewart was a Canadian writer, editor, and veteran journalist. Over the course of his career, Stewart worked for the Toronto Telegram, Star Weekly (published by the Toronto Star,) Maclean’s magazine, and the Toronto Sun, and was a regular guest on the CBC’s As It Happens. A prolific writer, Stewart penned more than twenty works, including Shrug: Trudeau in Power, Towers of Gold, Feet of Clay: The Canadian Banks, The Life and Political Times of Tommy Douglas, and the fictional Right Church, Wrong Pew and Hole in One, featuring reporter-turned-sleuth Carlton Withers. Stewart died of cancer in 2004.

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Copyright © 2015 by Walter Stewart.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2015914958

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5144-0695-3

   Softcover   978-1-5144-0694-6

   eBook   978-1-5144-0693-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/03/2015

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 1

Youthful John Scott Foster sat at the head of the mile-long conference table in his Goncalo Alves natural-wood swivel chair with his fingers laced behind a head of flaxen hair and something like an insincere smile or an irritating smirk plastered across his face. A bank of a dozen stuff-shirted managers, accountants, and flunkies from various divisions of his corporate empire sat on either side of the table in expectation of an idea that he had only partially formed in his mind. He pursed his lips and then wet them with his tongue.

Look, Bob, he said finally as he directed the thought like an arrow at a middle-aged, balding fellow just two chairs down from him, I appreciate your feedback, but I don't give a good goddamn what the government wants. We don't work for them.

But our assurances... the other shot back earnestly.

...Are strictly a two-way street, came the unexpectedly sharp reply. "If they're too damn busy to honor the deal we made with them for a date certain as stipulated for both of the signatories, then we certainly are not obliged to do so. And in any case, they forfeited not just any perceived rights to the device but also the monies that they advanced as a good-will investment on completion of the product as a shared enterprise."

Jesus, Scotty, the other shot back again, ya can't screw the government for chrissakes.

Scotty wrinkled his otherwise smooth GQ brow and turned to another of his minions. Larry, where's legal stand on this? he asked shortly.

Lawrence Fry, a sixty-something patrician-looking consulente who had been the legal beagle for various large corporations before many of the presently assembled had even built their first lemonade stand, pushed himself back in his chair easily, took a deep breath, and unhurriedly removed his rimless glasses as he took out a cloth to clean them.

Far as I can see, Scotty, we're on solid ground, he answered definitively as he carefully replaced the glasses. More than that, if they do decide to come after us, just based on their failure of completion for not just the financial end of the deal but also with respect to their promises for direct access to their tech, they'd fail in court. Believe me, we could keep 'em spinning their wheels and tie them up for years.

Then, that settles it. Meeting adjourned. See you all next week at the same time, Foster said with a decisive rap of his knuckles on the table as he rose from the black leather seat of his chair.

That does not settle it! Bob threw in agitatedly as he rose and walked quickly to the head of the table, getting into Foster's face even as others were already exiting the room.

Meeting's over, Bob, Foster repeated shortly as he unhurriedly headed out the rear door of the conference room and down the hallway to his office.

But Scotty, ya gotta understand... Bob Allison was explaining as Foster opened the door to his suite and walked in.

Bob followed right behind him yapping all the way like a Chihuahua.

Noel, could you get me the Willard Wright file, Foster asked his executive secretary as he walked past her desk. Noel Laury was black, a looker, and very stylish.

Yes, sir, she replied crisply as she stood and turned to a wall of tasteful oak cabinets.

Allison followed his boss through the reception room and through his office door. When Foster finally reached his French desk, he tossed his thick folder on it and then turned to his uninvited guest.

Bob, I said that's it, he stated firmly. And that's it! he repeated with both palms facing his interlocutor. Now, I know how much you're personally invested in the project, but we simply have to go in another direction, he concluded as he let his arms drop to his sides.

That's easy for you to say, godammit, the other pressed. You didn't make promises to old friends and stick your neck out and pull all those strings with the DOD and Langley like I did to make this deal work. You're killin' me, Scotty. Do you know how many people I owe? Do you really have any idea what these guys are capable of---the danger all of us are in? I'm tellin' ya, the Mafia has nothin' on these guys. Nothin'! he threw in for emphasis.

Foster chuckled a little and patted the older man on the shoulder. Your connection to people in places is your greatest asset. It's why I had you spearhead this project. But cool down, man. Don't worry, it'll work out. This isn't Soviet Russia we're talkin' about, and it isn't our first rodeo, y'know. Believe me, it'll work out.

Bob sort of sagged inside. Jesus. You're killin' me, he repeated. But if that's the way you want it... he mumbled, leaving the rest of the thought to evanesce in the cold air of Foster's office.

That's the way I want it, Foster returned confidently.

Bob walked slowly to the door but turned before he walked out.

Scotty, look. You and I go way back from when I started with your dad and you were an office boy. I just think you ought to consider this again before you take any steps. This isn't like the old days when me and your dad were just startin' and could get by using a lot of schlocky wheelin' and dealin' tricks to bring home an account. These guys are ruthless, murdering bastards when they wanna be and are capable of anything. A-n-y-t-h-i-n-g! If death's what's required, then its death on demand, no ifs ands or buts. I'm not kidding. Seriously consider the consequences before you do something we may all regret.

Absolutely will do, Foster assured him with his best Crest toothpaste smile to assuage the older man's fears.

Promise?

Absolutely promise. Anyway, our future's locked securely in my vault and isn't going anywhere, Foster said in a consoling voice.

Look, I have some stats that maybe would help you see my point of view in a more convincing light. If I could just call you tonight... he called out as a final Hail Mary pass.

Night, Bob, the other said definitively. See you in the morning.

Okay, okay. See you in the morning, a beaten Bob Allison repeated as he closed the door.

Foster turned and was heading to the rear of his office when there was another knock at the door.

Come in, he called out, half expecting Bob to return.

Instead, the door opened and in stepped Lawrence Fry wearing his best cadaverous mien.

Just passed Allison. He isn't taking this too well. That's the problem with having a conscience.

Well, he's right about one thing; the government isn't very happy about this.

How'd the trip go? asked Fry.

They're threatening to take control of this thing. Take it right out of our hands.

How? I wouldn't worry. They can't do that. This isn't the old Soviet Union, y'know.

That's what I told Bob, but I kinda don't believe it either. I'm convinced if they want it, they may not stop at anything to get it.

Glad you didn't tell the staff any of this, Fry put in.

"Yeah, but Bob knows. You don't have to tell him. He's been around long enough to know how his buddies at foggy bottom get things done."

Well, screw 'em, said Fry bluntly. "I don't think they're going to do anything; they can lick their chops all they want. We control this thing, they can't get at it, and they can just damn well wait for us to let them in on it. In three month's time they'll be begging for a piece of the action when the device is perfected and ready to be put on the block for international bids. And if I know the government, they'll make their usual demands and then fold because they know we've got 'em by the short hairs. Believe me, Scotty, because of what this baby promises to do, they'll never allow it to go public, and we'll be able to name our price. There'll be profit as far as the eye can see."

When can we start further development and final production?

I've already got the legal notifications drawn up. They can be posted in the morning, and you can shift the start-up to tomorrow if you want to.

Sounds good to me. What about Daggett?

Daggett missed their chance, he proclaimed almost bored. We got their prototype, regardless of how unethical they claim the deal was. Sure Valinsky'll be eternally pissed, but that's life. He'll have to live with the deal he made. It's not our problem; it's their loss. He should have read the fine print more closely. That's tough, but that's business. They should've thought ahead. It's what comes from not having vision and playing small ball all those years. I wouldn't worry about 'em.

Their twenty-billion net worth is hardly small ball, but I'll go with you on this one, Foster said as he nodded and seconded Fry's professional appraisal. Okay then, counselor. We start tomorrow.

Fry rubbed his hands together. That'll be perfect. By the way, how'd the side trip to Palm Beach go? he asked.

The business part or the pleasure part? Scott quipped.

Both.

Both excellent, he reported, although those Thursday through Sunday junkets always leave me with jet lag that takes me three days to get over.

Grace have fun? Fry asked.

She didn't go this time. Said she didn't want to stay in the hotel room or mindlessly shop all weekend; so, she stayed home.

I guess I can understand that, Fry returned.

I can't. Who the hell understands women?

You've got me, my friend. You've got me, commiserated Fry.

Okay, then I'll see you early tomorrow. Tomorrow our company's going to blow the lid off the Dow, believe me.

The two men laughed, shook hands, and Fry left the way he'd come.

Scott Foster entered the anteroom to his Custom Mega Security Vault---a huge impenetrable safe that was installed by his father before the rest of the office was built around it. He ran the intricate combination to the heavy door and spun the spoke-wheel handle to open it. He entered the vault and then went to a smaller second safe with another combination lock. He opened it up and placed the file from the desk on one of its shelves. He moved another file and frowned for a second thinking that it was somehow a little out of place, but he shook his head and snorted a laugh---that was clearly impossible. He then patted a twelve-by-eight-inch rosewood box on the shelf beneath softly and smiled broadly to himself with an accompanying little chuckle. All was right with the world! In a moment he exited the solid-steel chamber and spun the spoke wheel to jumble the combination. He was in a pretty good mood as he returned to his office.

The door rang with three soft knocks.

Come in, he said as he turned slowly to gather his things together.

In stepped Noel Laury. I have the Wright file for you, Scotty, she said with a smile on her face as she held the thing out to him.

That's great, he said as he took the file and set it on his desk.

Did anybody come by the office Friday or today to see me before I came in? he asked

Noel quickly searched her memory. No, she replied at last. No, nobody either day. I was here the entire time.

He nodded to himself. Hm! he grunted. Just wondering.

Besides, she added, no one could get into your vault anyway, if that's what you're worrying about, she added with a devilish smile.

Scott Foster laughed. No, of course not, he said more relaxed. Sorry, but it's been kind of hectic today. Bob got on my case again. I guess I'm just a little worked up from the meetings this weekend and the one today.

Noel nodded. I just hope it means the start of a better week, she declared with a bright smile.

And so it will, he added. And so it will.

Thirty minutes later Foster locked his office door and stepped into his executive elevator. In no time he was stepping out onto the parking level to get home after yet another profitable day at work. It was already after seven o'clock, and as he scanned the parking level, he could only see two other cars that were still awaiting their owners.

He exited the small vestibule that opened onto the parking level and walked confidently towards his car. He stopped suddenly when he heard a kind of whirring noise and looked around, but there was no one and nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. Deciding that it was only his imagination, he continued on but stopped again when he reached his personal parking slot. He stood stock still momentarily at the door of his car when he heard the same sound. He looked around again, but there still was nothing to be seen.

He slid into the leather seat of the brand new silver Aston Martin concept car that he'd gotten as a gift from the president of the British company as thanks for a special project that Foster Enterprises Inc. had done for them. It was a one-of-a-kind beauty that probably would never see production. He put his papers on the passenger seat and then cranked the engine. In a second the low-slung thing took off towards the exit like a feline creature hot in pursuit of prey.

Foster stopped at the gate and lowered his window to speak to the guard.

Jesus! he called out.

Yes, Mr. Foster sir, the mustachioed man at the station responded at once with military precision.

I thought I heard something on my parking level. Maybe you could check it out. I only saw two other cars down there and no one else.

Yes sir! Right away, replied the guard.

Where's Hector? Foster asked out of nowhere.

He was out sick on the weekend. He ought to be back anytime.

That's good. Well, have a nice evening, said Foster in an upbeat tone as he sped out into the February rain and traffic of the early evening.

Jesus Montalvo grabbed his Maglite and patted his holstered gun before he locked his kiosk and headed for the subterranean stairs.

Once on Foster's parking level he switched on his powerful flashlight and shined it all around and in every corner, nook, and cranny. But just like Foster had told him, there were just two other parked cars in the place, and that was it.

Montalvo shrugged his shoulders and went back up the steps.

Meanwhile, Scott Foster drove through the traffic of the Wilshire corridor listening to the soft rhythmic swipe of his wipers and contemplating the events of the day. He thought about what he'd have to do tomorrow in order to set his plan in motion, and he grinned a little just thinking about it. After all, this was it: the biggest deal the company had ever made; bigger than anything his dad had ever conceived; the deal that would put him on the cover of Fortune, Forbes, and Business Week; the deal that would ensure him wealth and power beyond his wildest dreams. He smiled again and then punched a button on his console.

Hello? came a warm female voice over the car speaker system.

It's me. I ought to be home pretty soon. Wanna go out to celebrate?

Celebrate what?

The resolution of our company's biggest business deal ever. I'm telling you, we're gonna be on easy street the rest of our lives. There's no turning back.

Have you forgotten? I promised you that I'd make your favorite prime rib for dinner. I called all over the place at the office to remind you, but I guess you were en route. Anyway, it's raining, and I don't want to go out in the rain.

No problem. To tell you the truth, after all the traveling I did over the weekend and the crummy meeting I had today, a relaxing evening would be real nice, he considered.

That'll be great!

Good, then I ought to be home in about fifteen minutes.

See you soon, she signed off brightly and hung up with a click.

Foster happily tapped his finger on the steering wheel. He pushed another button, and the twang of country music instantly filled the car. He hit the accelerator. After all, he didn't want to be late for dinner.

He drove into the guarded underground parking of one of those sky-high condominiums for the exceptionally well-healed that was on Wilshire just down the way from Beverly Glen. He drove into the garage and stopped at the doorman's desk. A tall man in a gray and burgundy uniform stepped up to him and opened the door.

Looks like it rained, sir, he said as he held the door open for him to exit.

Yes, it has, Frederick, returned Scott Foster.

Are we going out again, or should I wash her for you and put her away?

No, I'm in for the evening. Please clean her up, Frederick, he returned.

Happy to, sir, Frederick responded.

Foster walked to the vestibule and entered the posh elevator as he took off his driving gloves. He pushed a button and the lift zipped him to his penthouse condominium. When the cab finally stopped, he inserted a special key into a security lock, exited the elevator, and entered his condo.

Actually, the term condo apartment hardly encompassed what this place really was, for it occupied the entire top floor of the building and at almost 4,000 square feet was larger in space than many luxury homes. In fact, it was an amazing suite that had a panoramic view of the city on three sides and an eclectic collection of objet 'dart and original paintings by Picasso, Pissarro, Sisley, Matisse, and Klee all over the walls. In the living room, one could take in the entire city in one sweeping gaze from the downtown business district, past Long Beach and past the entire South Bay all the way out to Catalina---on a good day, of course---and over to Malibu. But today, and because of the rain, you couldn't see much more in the distance than twinkling lights.

Foster slipped off his coat and tie which he slung over his arm as he entered.

That you? Grace Foster's voice called out.

Yeah, he replied and then stopped in his tracks. Ummm. Hey, that smells great! he bubbled as he headed for the kitchen.

I didn't take all those lessons at the Cordon Bleu and put up with those French jerks for nothin', bub, she returned saucily. It'll be ready in about ten more minutes. Why don't you clean up and change your clothes, she said as he walked into the kitchen.

Deal, he said and walked off. I think I could eat a bear.

Well, bear's unfortunately not on the menu; just beef, she kidded. Oh, by the way, she added, when I was calling for you I spoke to Bob Allison, she called out.

Oh, brother, he called back from the bedroom less than enthusiastically.

I told him you'd be here shortly, so he's liable to call back.

Foster shook his head but brushed it off. That's okay. I think I know what he wants. It'll be a short call.

It only took five minutes for him to change into some comfortable togs and make it back to the living room where he threw himself onto the tan leather couch in front of the over-sized tropical fish tank. He flipped on the TV.

Saw Marjorie this afternoon at The Grove, Grace reported from the kitchen.

Oh, yeah? She and Ken doin' okay? he asked as he switched channels on his wall-sized TV with the sound muted.

Seem to be. Billy and Silvie just started their second semester at Brentwood Elementary.

That's your sister, he replied absently as he concentrated on the TV screen.

Ken wanted Catholic school, but she always knows how to get just what she wants. You know, she went on, Brentwood would be a good place for our kids to go---when we have 'em, of course, she said as she opened the oven to take out the roast.

Oh, yeah? Then we'd probably have to sell this place and move to Brentwood just to...

Ringggg! suddenly went the phone.

I've got it, called out Grace and she deftly lifted the receiver.

Hello?... Oh, Bob... Oh, sure, she said. Yeah, he just stepped in. Lemme give him the phone.

It's Bob from the office, Scott, she shouted as she stepped behind the wall separating the kitchen from the living room.

Okay. Bring it here, he called out.

It seemed that no sooner had Grace entered the room than there was a brilliant flash of light and a popping noise followed by a horrible scream.

Scotty? hollered Bob on the phone's receiver, but for a moment there was only silence.

Then Bob heard a horrible sobbing from the other end of the line.

Scotty? Grace? What the hell is happening? yelled Bob Allison.

But Grace couldn't answer. She stood dumbstruck with tears streaming down her face as she beheld her husband in a sort of sprawled sitting position on the couch with his mouth open and his head back against the rear cushion. The back of her hand covered her mouth as she ran to help him, but then she stopped abruptly and backed away as though he had a contagious disease. Even at that distance she could see what had happened.

John Scott Foster sat looking blankly at some fixed spot on the ceiling with his eyes wide open and a look of infinite surprise on his face. He was dead---quite dead---which was obvious from the pencil sized hole in the middle of his forehead that ran all the way through to the back of his skull.

Grace Foster let out a blood-curdling scream.

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Now, what do you wish to see Mr. Flake about again, Mr. Bernstein? the receptionist asked the mousey fifty-something, gray-haired, gray-mustachioed man in the gray suit who sat alone in the anteroom.

Uh, marriage problems, the other returned with a cramped voice that alone seemed to evince the pain of his present connubial state.

Ah, I see, the receptionist returned sympathetically. Well, Mr. Flake can see you now, Mr. Bernstein. Just knock on the door at the rear of the anteroom.

Thank you, the man replied quietly as he rose a little unsteadily and headed for the door as instructed with small, apologetic steps. When he reached the door