LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.

      A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.

      With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.

      Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.

      A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.

      Quickly, Marc laid his business clothes out on the sofa. Then he sat down beside them and opened his laptop, checking his email box as instructed, and seeing the email from Ryan that had arrived seconds ago. The damned genius even knew the exact time when the FedEx truck would show up.

      The email was strictly an audio attachment. Marc clicked on it, and Ryan’s voice filled the room.

      “Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” he said soberly, in true Mission Impossible style. “Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to interview John Morano and learn all you can about him, his real-estate development project and anything he knows about Paul Everett. If there are any leads to be gotten, you’re the guy to get ‘em. You have an appointment scheduled with Morano at eleven o’clock this morning—right after his 9:00 a.m. breakfast with Lyle Fenton. Oh, as an aside, sorry I let myself into your apartment, but I had to get you proper business attire for a stick-up-the-ass journalist. And while I’m still on the aside, your wardrobe’s boring. Remind me to give you some pointers. Back to business. I’ve included all you need to be a real live news correspondent. This email will erase in ten seconds. Good luck, Robert.”

      Marc couldn’t resist watching and counting backward from ten—although he had no doubt that the inevitable would happen. Sure enough, the instant he muttered “zero,” the email vanished from his screen and his in-box.

      Another Ryan-ism. The guy might be full of himself, but he had good reason to be.

      Putting down his bottle of water, Marc rose. He had his work cut out for him. He glanced at his watch—7:45 a.m. Enough time to do some comprehensive indoor sleuthing, drive over to Paul’s neck of the woods and chat up a few neighbors and maybe a poker buddy or two, and then head out for Morano’s dock.

      It was going to be a productive morning. Marc could feel it in his bones.

      John Morano walked into the Living Room, the Maidstone Inn’s rustic but upscale restaurant in East Hampton. He peered around, shifting from one foot to the other as he searched the room.

      Lyle Fenton was relaxing at a quiet corner table, sipping a cup of coffee and glancing over the menu with the casual ease of someone who’d memorized the whole damned thing.

      Morano waved to catch the hostess’s attention, pointing at Fenton to indicate he’d be joining him. When the hostess nodded her understanding, he went straight over to join Fenton.

      “Good morning, Lyle.” Morano pulled out his chair and sat down on the bright, primary-colored upholstery.

      “Morano.” Lyle acknowledged him with a gesture at the silver urn in the center of the table. “Coffee?”

      “Sure.” John poured himself a cup, then accepted the menu the hostess handed him. “I’m glad you could meet me.”

      “Your message sounded as if it were important. So I made some time. But not a lot of it. I’m flying to D.C. for lunch.” Lyle turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and onion omelet,” he instructed, passing back the menu. “And a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

      “Yes, sir.” She jotted down his order.

      John glanced down quickly, scanning the options. “Two eggs over easy, please, with bacon, crisp.” He nodded his thanks at the waitress as he, too, returned the menu to her.

      “What’s on your mind?” Lyle asked.

      John folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I need those permits. I need you to get them for me. I can’t start construction without them. And I need you on board once I get them.”

      Anger flashed in Lyle’s eyes. “You called me here for that? We’ve had this conversation, Morano. You know my terms.”

      “Yeah. I also know my pressure. I’ve been paying these guys off for months now. I’ve only got so much cash to go around. You know who I’m dealing with. They don’t play games. And they sure as hell don’t take MasterCard. I don’t want to wind up like Paul Everett.”

      “I’m afraid that’s in your hands. Being on Southampton’s Board of Trustees, I have my own pressures. It’ll take a lot of calling in favors on my part to get those permits approved, and a lot of feather-smoothing to get the necessary people to accept my company’s involvement in this venture. Turning Southampton into a mini-Manhattan is not a popular idea with the locals. I’ve got to resort to all kinds of incentives. And I never do something for nothing. You know that. You also know what I need from you. This project of yours has the potential to bring in big money. I want a major chunk of that.”

      “I promised to give you ten percent of the profits over and above the generous amount I’ll be shelling out to your company. I’ll have documents drawn up to that effect.”

      “That’s not enough.”

      John blinked. “How much do you want?”

      “I want an ownership stake. I believe I mentioned that.”

      “No, you definitely did not mention that.”

      “Then I’m mentioning it now. I’m also mentioning that I want the ability to bring in my own people as investors.”

      John’s coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking.”

      Lyle’s gaze was steely. “I never joke about business.”

      “What investors? Who are these people?”

      “That’s not your problem.”

      “Not my problem? How do I know these investors of yours aren’t more dangerous than the thugs I’m dealing with now?”

      “You don’t. Life’s a gamble. The way I see it, you could start demolition, ground-breaking and dredging before winter, or you could go broke and probably wind up dead.” A shrug. “Your decision.”

      “Great choice.”

      “One other reminder while you make your decision. My company only uses union labor. You’ll have to get the business agents on board with this project.”

      John frowned. “It’s one thing to be union on your end. I’m not sure I can afford an entire project using union labor.”

      “Again, that’s your issue, not mine.”

      “I’ll have to straighten that out with the business agents.”

      “Indeed you will.” Lyle paused, nodding at the waitress as she placed their breakfasts in front of them.

      “Now I’m going to sit back and enjoy my breakfast,” he informed John as soon as they were alone. “I suggest you do the same. No more on this subject. You know where I stand. My demands are not up for negotiation.”

      John’s jaw was working. “Fine. You win. Get me my permits.”

      “I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.” Lyle calmly chewed and swallowed a bite of his omelet. “Once they’re signed and locked away in my safe, I’ll get you what you need.”

Скачать книгу