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. 7:12P.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?”
“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.”
