She nodded. “Second Tuesday of every month. You should rejoin.”
He’d probably do that. He’d actually once liked the gatherings. All the lawyers coming together to talk shop and visit. At his interview, the folks at Southern Republic had made it clear that they wanted him involved locally.
“Do you know the circumstances of Peter’s death?”
“It was awful. He drove out to Eagle Lake, took a shotgun, andended it. They found him a day later, after his wife reported him missing.”
But what he really wanted to know was, “Any indication why he did it?”
“No one knows. But he was a quiet man. Always friendly and no one had a bad word to say about him. But he wasn’t the life of the party, if you know what I mean.”
He did. “What about his family?”
“From what I heard, the widow moved away from here after it happened.”
If he askedto wherethe signal would be that he was far more interested than he was letting on, so he stayed coy and said, “That makes sense. Probably wanted to get as far away as she could.”
“I know I would.”
As would he, since that had been exactly what he’d done. “Thanks for the info, Doris. I’ll see you in the trenches.”
4:48P.M.
JON SHIFTED THE TRANSMISSION OUT OF OVERDRIVE AND PUMPEDthe gas. The SUV popped into gear and handled the tight curve, steadily climbing the steep road. He looked ahead at the A-frame perched indiscreetly on the side of a craggy incline. Redwood and cedar sanded smooth, stained dark, the oblong walls indistinguishable from the surrounding dense pines. There were neighbors, but none close, with each lot spanning at least two acres and carrying a high price tag for both the privacy and the view.
The elevations north of Atlanta were not really mountains, more part of the Appalachian foothills. Many were inaccessible, but the A-frame sat on the side of one of the more populated inclines, the road leading up curbed, paved, and well lit, winding its way through an enveloping canopy of maple and sycamore, passing driveways that led both up and down to expensive homes.
Title to the house officially lay in a nondescript corporationcreated first in Alabama, then purchased by a Texas company that was wholly owned by a Tennessee corporation, itself owned, through surrogates, by Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company. The trail was intentionally complicated and difficult to follow, particularly if full access to all relevant documentation was not available, which it wasn’t. The house was not used officially by any of the corporate entities in its chain of title. Occasionally, it provided a place of privacy for Hamilton Lee and Larry Hughes and their mistresses. But mainly the Priority program used it—though not regularly or predictably, no place had that distinction—as one of several locations where De Florio could discuss face-to-face with his associates their specialized business.
He rolled up to the paved drive and stopped.
In his briefcase he found the remote control. The iron gate swept back on command. Like all the company’s secured locations the A-frame was fenced, alarmed, and routinely patrolled by a private home security firm. He wound his way down the drive toward the house and parked in front, but intentionally left the gate open.
Guests were expected.
And even before he climbed out of the vehicle, a ruby Chevy Blazer motored through the gate and parked beside him.
He grabbed his briefcase and locked the car, then pressed the controller closing the gate. Using his key, he opened the front door and walked inside.
Three men from the other car silently followed.
All wore dark suits, nothing flashy or trendy, just traditional blue, charcoal, and gray, white shirts, matching ties, and black leather shoes. He rigidly applied a dress code to all associates and also conducted meetings in a precise manner. Two of the other men fully understood. The remaining man was attending his first gathering.
The two who understood were Milo Richey and Frank Barnard. He’d personally recruited both after a recommendation from several long-standing criminal contacts. Richey was twenty-nine, Barnard thirty. Nothing about either stereotyped them with their profession.No scars or readily identifiable marks. No beards, mustaches, or fancy hairstyles. No flashy jewelry, earrings, or gold chains. A watch was required, but it need only be accurate, not expensive. Just plain faces, on plain heads, attached to plain bodies with personalities to match. All difficult for any witness to later recall.
Both Barnard and Richey were professionals, thoroughly schooled in the techniques of murder for profit. Richey had worked as a payroll killer for a south Florida drug cartel, Barnard a freelancer used by a variety of West Coast organizations. Both came highly recommended, his offer of steady employment and good pay a powerful inducement.
The new man was Victor Jacks. Earlier, he’d specifically instructed Barnard to bring Jacks along. He was recruited three weeks ago, the Priority program expanding to the point that, simply to keep up, additional help was needed. Jacks was older than the other two but possessed a similar plain appearance and nothing personality. He was also experienced, previously working for a Chicago organized crime family. But just as with Milo Richey and Frank Barnard, the lure of regular work and steady pay finally enticed him to make a trip to middle Georgia.
Rule required that all associates be single with no dependents. Less complication and less chance of a breach in security. It also made them instantly available without the need for explanation. Girlfriends were tolerated. Anything steady or serious discouraged. One-night stands were much more common and preferred.
Though he maintained a public presence within Southern Republic, no one, including the board, knew anything of his associates’ identities. It was better that way. He exclusively hired and fired them, solely responsible for their actions, both good and bad.
“Gentlemen, have a seat. If you’d like anything to drink, the bar is over there.”
He gestured across the great room.
Overhead, the ceiling pitched to a point, a second-floor loft bedroom overlooking downstairs. The south wall was all plate glass that opened onto a cedar deck. Beyond the railing loomed the hazyskyline of Atlanta twenty miles to the south, illuminated from the west by the evening sun.
