Page 104 of Maddy's Justice

“So, you think she believed you?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did.”

When Melanie left Gavin’s office, she stopped to say hello to Gavin’s assistant. While there, she saw the little red light from Gavin’s phone light-up on her phone console.

While walking away she very quietly whispered to herself, “You lying sonofabitch.”

Quentin Forrest looked at the wall clock and frowned. He was in the basement in his surveillance recording room with a headset on. He had spent the last three hours, it was almost 9:00P.M., listening to the recordings from Melanie Stewart’s office between Melanie and the lawyers, Kadella and Mickelson. He was booked on a morning flight to Chicago for a meeting and he would be up late transcribing all that he had listened to.

“Has to be done,” he finally said and got to it.

THIRTY-THREE

James Labelle and another man, a very serious man Labelle was always nervous around, were in the Four Seasons Hotel going up to a meeting. The second man in the elevator was Quentin Forrest, the ex-CIA surveillance expert currently working in Minneapolis. Quentin had a report to deliver.

“Ah good, you’re here,” the island’s owner said to them when he opened his suite’s door.

“Yes, sir,” Forrest said.

“Come in. Have a seat.”

They took seats in the living room and Labelle, who was meeting the occupant for the fourth time in two days, began.

“Okay,” he reached across the coffee table and handed the island’s owner several sheets of paper. “Here are the numbers.”

The man took several minutes to read through the document. When he finished, he handed it back to Labelle.

“This is good, Jim. Top-notch work.”

“Glad you like it. Over eighteen billion so far this year. It’s amazing and, good for the economy. Invest and wash eighteen billion isn’t chump change.”

“No, it isn’t. Then again, look at the expenses. Just to politicians in Mexico, Central and South America. People don’t realize the extent of the overhead.

“What do you have for me, Quentin?”

“Well sir, these lawyers, the ones in Minneapolis, it seems to me are a little reckless. This business with harassing female employees…”

“I know, I’ve had a chat with Troy McGovern. I made it very clear to him that we don’t need that sort of scrutiny or publicity,” the island’s owner replied. “He assured me it has stopped.”

“It has not,” Forrest replied. “The day before yesterday, one of my people followed him to the Westin in downtown Minneapolis. There, he met up with a senior associate named Marcie Belle. A married woman,”

“A senior associate of the firm?” Labelle asked.

“Yes, sir,” Forrest answered.

“They had lunch, a couple of drinks and a room. Her husband is one of our people. One of the senior partners. Alan Weems. A named partner.”

“Wonderful,” the island’s owner replied. “Apparently I need to have a more serious chat with Troy.”

“Would you like me to do it, sir?”

Of course, what the ex-CIA agent meant was a chat with a more physical part to it. Something to put the fear of God into Troy McGovern.

“Not yet. He is too useful to us. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Forrest said. He stood, reached across the table, and handed a copy of two documents to both men.

“Yes, Madeline Rivers and Anthony Carvelli,” the island’s owner said. “How are they?” he added.

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