THE TAINTED TRUST: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 2) (6 page)

Toronto. December 12, 1980. Ten A.M.

Mike jerked the telephone receiver to his ear.

“It’s William Dare, Mr. King. I’m sure you remember me.”

“What can I do for you?” Mike snarled. Even though he was in no mood to talk to Dare, he was curious to know why he had called. Pangs of anger, paranoia and anxiety coursed through his blood stream.

“I would like to arrange to meet with you and your wife as soon as possible. Of course it would be at a time and place convenient to both of you. I’d like to ask some questions about Karen’s former husband and his financial affairs. I’m hoping you might be able to help us to recover the considerable amount of money he stole from our government.”

A powerful rage invaded Mike’s mind as he vividly recalled the search and seizure operation conducted by Dare and his C.S.I.S. agents in his office. “I think a meeting would be wasting your time and ours. Under the circumstances, I think you should direct your questions to our attorney. Would you like his number?”

“Is Dan Turner still your lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“We have his number on file. Thank you very much.”

CHAPTER 14

New York. Friday, August, 21, 1981.

Gerry Mara, Visconti’s partner, was genetically structured for Wall Street, and he dressed for the roll. He wore a svelte black pin striped suit, neatly pressed blue shirt, yellow silk tie and suspenders, and black Gucci loafers. His long black hair was slicked straight back, exposing his cerebral temples. He butted his cigarette, popped two champagne corks, then displayed a proud smile as he mounted an elevated wooden platform erected for the occasion. He raised both bottles above his head. “May I have your attention, please?” he shouted.

The loud conversations of staff members and account executives ended. A hushed silence ensued.

“A little over a year ago, Louis Visconti succeeded in landing the biggest account in the history of our firm. With courage and steadfast conviction, he defied popular market opinion by liquidating most of the stock positions of the portfolios he managed, then shorted government and corporate bonds. Those brilliant moves have generated astounding returns, and made us all absurdly rich… A toast is in order.” He smirked at Visconti. “To the Crown Prince of Wall Street… May his brilliance and clairvoyance live on, and continue to keep us all in the style to which we have become accustomed.”

Mara’s toast was followed by the clinking of glasses, loud cheers, whistles, and warm applause from the entire office staff. “Speak to us, Louis,” he demanded.

The cheering, whistles and hoots intensified as Visconti slowly mounted the platform. He sipped his champagne, flashed a triumphant smile, then took a deep bow. When he moved his lips close to the microphone, his audience hushed, anxious to listen to anything he had to say. “Thank you very much for your kind words, Gerry. Coming from you, it is indeed an honor. I also want to thank all of you for your support and capable assistance during these trying times. I deeply appreciate it… I’m really not sure if what I accomplished in the past year was the result of brilliance, clairvoyance, or just plain luck. Whatever it was, I hope it continues forever. In any event, I will try to wear the crown with pride and humility.”

Again a loud applause erupted.

Allan Griesdorf, the genius of the three partners, overweight, bald and a PhD in math from M.I.T., stood. “Predictions, Louis?” he shouted.

As if in deep thought, Visconti gazed at the ceiling, then surveyed the crowd. He was where he wanted to be, admired, respected, on top. For him, the feeling was better than sex. He was surfing the crest of a huge wave of good fortune, one he fully believed was entirely the result of his divine intelligence, unique talent and insight only few possessed. “It’s time to cover the bond shorts,” he pontificated. “Interest rates have peaked, but the stock market’s still going south.” He smiled and waved regally as he stepped from the stage. He was on a high. The buzz of numerous hushed conversations fed his ego, excited him to know that each was diagnosing his advice.

Visconti followed his own advice by covering his bond shorts and going long. As interest rates plummeted, the value of the bonds increased enormously. So too did Visconti’s income, the fortunes of his firm, and the value of the King’s trust.

CHAPTER 15

Toronto. Saturday, August 26, 1981.

Joy and happiness was the mood in a private room on the fourth floor of Toronto’s North York General Hospital. Almost twenty years after their first fateful meeting, Mike and Karen had consolidated their marriage with a love child. A smiling nurse delivered Kevin King, an eight pound seven ounce baby boy, to his proud parents.

“He’s absolutely beautiful,” Karen said with a broad but strained smile. “Almost as beautiful as his father.”

“He doesn’t look like me at all,” Mike protested.

“Bullshit, King! Maybe he doesn’t have your beautiful thatch of blond hair or as many straight teeth, but he’s a dead ringer for you.”

With tears of joy in his eyes, Mike sat on the bed beside his wife. The birth had filled a void. For a very long time the loss of Kerri from his life had been an unhealed wound. “Thanks, Babe,” he said, then kissed her lips. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is the happiest day of my life.”

New York. Thursday, December 31, 1981.

Pride urging him to boast about the extraordinary success of his investments, Visconti dialed Mike King’s office number in Toronto. “I’m sorry to bother you Mike but I couldn’t resist calling. I have fantastic news.”

“What is it?”

“The value of your trust now exceeds four hundred and fifteen million.”

“That’s wonderful. This is the last time I’m going to tell you this. If you ever call me again and mention one word about the trust, you’re fired. Is that understood?” Mike barked, then quickly hung up.

Humiliated, Visconti swallowed his pride and had the annual report on the trust mailed to Mike’s postal box in Toronto.

CHAPTER 16

Toronto. Wednesday, June 30, 1982.

Now fourteen, Phillip’s cheeks and chin sported peach fuzz and pimples, trophies of the transition into manhood. To give him spending money and to keep him out of shopping malls, Mike had given him a summer job with his company, XG Petroleums. His responsibility was to pump gasoline at one of XG’s serviced retail outlets in Scarborough, a Toronto suburb.

Three days after Phillip started to work, Mike received a telephone call from his very excited manager. “Mister King, it’s Terry Morgan. Sorry to bother you. I just had to call. Your son was supposed to be here at seven this morning. He’s still not here. I’m going to have to call someone else.”

Mike glanced at his watch. It was nine fifteen. “I’m glad you called, Terry. Go ahead and get a replacement, but call me if Phillip shows up.”

“I hope you weren’t talking about Phillip,” Karen said as she entered the room.

“Unfortunately we were,” Mike replied with a disappointed frown. “He was a no-show this morning. The second he shows up here, we’re going to have a nice little chat, and this time I’ll take the gloves off. I’m going to get through to that kid, one way or another.”

Mike approached Phillip when he returned to the apartment at six P. M. “Hard day at work?” he asked.

Using his foot to remove his shoes while they were still tied, Phillip nodded. “Yup,” he said, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Mike placed his hands on his hips and glared at Phillip. “What did you work at? Terry Morgan called at nine-fifteen this morning. He said you weren’t there.”

“I was late.”

“I asked him to call me when you showed up. He didn’t call. Now don’t lie to me again. Where were you today?”

Phillip hung his head. “Hangin’ out with my friends,” he admitted.

“Where?”

“At the mall, mostly.”

Mike struggled to restrain his anger. He knew venting it would help him, but not Phillip. “Put your shoes back on,” he demanded. “You and I are going for a walk.”

Annoyed, Phillip wiggled both feet into his shoes, then reluctantly followed Mike to the sidewalk.

“Let’s go,” Mike said, then turned and began to walk at a brisk pace. Phillip was forced to trot to keep up. When he did catch up, Mike began to run and continued to run until Phillip stumbled and fell to the pavement, exhausted and unable to run further. “What’s the problem, son?” Mike chided. “Can’t keep up with an old man?”

Phillip’s face was beet red and contorted with anger and frustration as he jumped to his feet and continued to run. Mike quickly outdistanced him, but when he noticed Phillip had quit the race, he turned and hurried back. “I wanted you to run this little race for a reason,” he said, placing his hands on Phillip’s shoulders. “I want you to understand that you’re living in a very competitive world. If you don’t prepare yourself to compete in it, you’ll never make it. I have to assume you want to be more than a shiftless mall-rat.” Mike turned and walked away.

“I promise I’ll work,” Phillip shouted when Mike had distanced himself by fifty feet.

“Talk’s cheep, son. Show me,” Mike said, continuing his walk.

Phillip nodded. “But I really don’t like school.”

Mike stopped and turned to face Phillip, encouraged that he might be making some progress. “I didn’t like it either, until I discovered the more I put into it, the more I got out of it. So far you’ve put very little into it. It’s no wonder you don’t like it.”

CHAPTER 17

Aurora, Ontario. Six months later.

Mike sat at one end of the long mahogany table in the center of the St. Edwards School staff-room, adjacent to the headmaster’s office. He had arranged through the school’s secretary to have Phillip excused from class and sent to the staff room. The door opened and Phillip entered. Sloppily dressed in a navy blue blazer, white shirt, blue and yellow school tie, and gray flannel trousers, he shuffled to the far end of the table, then slumped in a chair, his face contorted to express his annoyance. He said nothing.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m here,” Mike said, leaning forward and glaring at his adopted son.

Phillip looked away and slumped further in his chair. “I know why you’re here,” he muttered, as if bored. “The secretary told me. It’s because my marks aren’t very good.”

“That’s only one of the reasons. I want to know why you’re misbehaving. Is it because you’re unhappy here?”

Phillip reached for the heavy cut-glass ashtray in front of him and began to twirl it on the surface of the table with his index finger. He said nothing, avoided eye contact.

Mike waited patiently for an answer, then stood. “I guess you’re too important for this school. I’m going to make arrangements to have you removed. Then you can decide what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”

“I’ll try to do better,” Phillip said, his voice barely audible.

“That’s not good enough!” Mike shouted. “You will do better and there will be no more meetings like this! Is that understood?”

Phillip nodded in silence.

“Dammit, Phillip! Give me more than a casual nod. Convince me you’re serious. I’m at the end of my rope with you, son. If I don’t see positive results, and soon, I’m going to pull you out of this school so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Phillip sat erect and stared directly at Mike, his eyes glazed with contempt. “Okay, I promise I’ll work harder.”

CHAPTER 18

New York. Friday, April 17, 1987.

The flashing green light on Visconti’s telephone console indicated his secretary was calling. He pressed the speaker-button. “Yes, Sue.”

“Mister Raza’s here. Would you like me to show him in?”

“Give me sixty seconds,” he requested, then terminated the call. He was about to entertain Assif Raza, an extremely wealthy investor from Kuwait City. Visconti hurried to the full length mirror behind the door to his lavish private washroom, anxious to ensure that every aspect of his appearance was perfect. He stared at perfection: the three thousand dollar dark blue suit, the yellow silk tie, the custom made black Italian leather shoes, the fifty dollar haircut, the complete package.

A gentle knock on Visconti’s office door was a signal for him to return to his office and stand in the center of the expensive multicolored Persian rug adorning the floor. “Come,” he commanded.

Sue entered with Visconti’s visitor. Smiling and with graceful and professional hand movements, she performed the introduction. “Mister Raza, please meet Louis Visconti.”

Visconti displayed his triple-A commercial smile, then stepped forward and used both hands to clasp the extended hand of his visitor. “Very pleased to meet you, Assif. Welcome to New York and to my office.”

“A pleasure to be here and to meet you, Louis,” Raza replied, stone faced. Raza, a fine featured but plump Kuwaiti wearing a black suit and tie, appeared to be in his mid-forties. His skin was light brown, his black hair thinning on top and graying slightly on the sides of his head. His brown eyes were beady, his nose hawkish.

Visconti gave a barely perceptible nod to Sue, giving her the cue to leave.