As for the other four vice presidents, Wilson remained hopeful. Joel Spivey was extremely perceptive and caring, once you got past his veneer of cynicism. Leigh Tennyson was not only bright, but she was street savvy and felt as strongly as Wilson did about his initiatives. Bob Throckmorton was a bona fide sage. His attention to detail could only be characterized as operational omniscience. Frank O’Connor continued to make Wilson feel comfortable; in fact, Wilson had come to rely on O’Connor’s intuitive insights and friendly vigilance.
After a long, tiring week of dangling himself and his five initiatives as bait in front of the furtive insiders, there was only one thing left to do: sit back and wait. And that’s exactly what he was going to do. In Venice with Emily. But first, he had to get one of them-Malouf or Ashford, maybe Spivey-to swallow the bait, which meant conducting one more mid-air meeting before they landed in Boston.
35
Quinn — Hinsdale, IL
At ten o’clock in the morning, family physician Dr. Michael Drury arrived at the family home in Hinsdale at Quinn’s request to care for Margaret. She was still in the same emotional and mental state as the night before. Margaret had never wanted anything more than a faithful husband, a loving family, and sweet memories to cherish during her golden years. She loved being a wife and mother and had looked forward to her husband’s retirement, so they could spend more time with each other and their grandchildren. Now her memories would be scarred forever. She and David had sacrificed and struggled through the worst and best of times, but they’d never been untrue to each other or their values or their family. Nothing would ever be the same.
After the doctor examined her, he advised Quinn that a strong sedative would put her back to sleep for a several hours. Physically, she was fine. She just needed to calm down and relax. Time would take care of the rest. The doctor gave Margaret an injection of Secobarbital and by eleven o’clock she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
With Margaret resting soundly, Quinn left for the office. It would be his only chance to take care of a few loose ends before the America’s Warehouse grand opening began on Saturday. He managed to avoid Vargas during the four hours it took him to return calls and follow-up on last-minute details. Then, as he was getting ready to return home, she appeared at his office door.
“Are you trying to avoid me?” she said with a provocative smile.
“Just trying to stay focused, my dear. You have a habit of distracting me,” Quinn said, considering himself lucky that no one had showed up with news about impending arrests or subpoenas. Running Musselman from a remote location wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d mentally prepared himself to do just that for as long as the board would let him.
“Are we going to the Lake House this weekend?” she asked coyly.
“Saturday night we’ll have it all to ourselves,” Quinn said to appease her.
“Okay, I’ll let you off the hook for now,” Vargas said, satisfied with his response. “But first I need some attention.” She closed and locked the office door before prancing over to Quinn, wrapping her arms around him, and smothering him with kisses. Then she loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Quinn melted to her touch. Just one more time.
36
Quinn — Hinsdale, IL
When Margaret Quinn opened her heavy-laden eyes after several hours of deep sleep, there was a man standing over her. At first she thought it was Dr. Drury, but as her eyes slowly focused she realized he was a stranger. “Who are you?” she asked in an alarmed but groggy voice. Her body felt like cement.
“I work for Dr. Drury,” Marco said. He had entered the house at five o’clock in the morning, when the FBI’s surveillance expanded from two agents in an unmarked car to a team of surveillance specialists in a delivery van. The switch had provided enough distraction for Marco to momentarily disable the security system and enter the basement, where he spent the next several hours assessing the FBI’s surveillance. Once the van of surveillance specialists had set up, the perimeter of the house became virtually impregnable. Sophisticated sound and movement surveillance equipment monitored every inch of space outside the home; however, the FBI was relying on wall penetrating listening devices and outside cameras to monitor activity inside the house. As long as the FBI didn’t upgrade their internal surveillance equipment, Marco’s handheld jamming device would keep all movements and speech within a radius of twenty feet of the device masked from detection. Getting out of the house, on the other hand, would pose a challenge.
“He was called into emergency surgery,” Marco said. “He asked me to come over and check on you.”
“Where’s my husband?” she asked, feeling more and more nervous about the pleasant-looking young man standing next to her.
“He had to go to the office for a few minutes. Said he’d be back soon.”
“I’ve never seen you in Dr. Drury’s office,” she said, trying to move away from him but barely able to lift an arm.
“I’m a registered nurse in my third year of medical school. I started working part-time for Dr. Drury about a month ago, when my wife had to quit her job to keep the baby. She’s seven months pregnant but started having preterm labor. It’s our first. This job is allowing me to stay in medical school. Dr. Drury has been a life saver,” Marco said, enthusiastically.
The young man’s pleasant manner seemed to make Margaret feel better, until she remembered why she was lying in bed sedated. She began crying all over again, replaying her husband’s confession in her mind.
Marco leaned over and gently raised her up to drink from the cup he held in his other hand. “Drink this, Mrs. Quinn, it will taste a little like alcohol but it’s only a mild sedative to help you sleep.”
It tasted like gin and cough syrup mixed together as she drank it. “Dr. Drury gave me an injection before.”
“I know,” Marco said. “I’m going to give you another one now, so you can sleep without interruption.”
She was already beginning to feel woozy. “Why do I need…” but she was unable to complete her sentence. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was the young man removing a needle from her arm.
Marco placed the used needle in his bag and returned to his hiding place in the basement. Thanks to Wayland Tate, his recent string of assignments had made him a lot of money. He liked Tate, not merely because he paid well, but because he saw the world the same way Marco did. Dominate or be dominated.
Quinn felt relieved to find his wife sleeping soundly in their bed when he returned home. But when he spotted the Sapphire Gin and Tonic on the nightstand, he checked her more closely. She wasn’t breathing. Frantically, he grabbed her in his arms, trying to find a pulse. It was barely discernable. He called 911 and then gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The FBI agents arrived within seconds of his 911 call, followed by the Hinsdale paramedics minutes later. Efforts to revive her en route to Adventist Hospital a few blocks away gave way to frenzied procedures in the emergency room. But it was all in vain. Margaret Emory Quinn was pronounced dead from an overdose of barbiturates and alcohol, at twenty-seven minutes past five in the evening.
When Dr. Drury arrived a few minutes later, he immediately contacted the Quinn children and then attempted to comfort their grieving father. Quinn, however, was already well beyond Dr. Drury’s reach.
“Was she alone when she woke up?” Dr. Drury asked.