“I don’t know,” Quinn said, coldly.
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
“No.”
“I’m so sorry, David. I never expected…”
“It’s okay, Doctor. You’re not to blame for this. I am.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“Nothing,” Quinn said.
Dr. Drury began questioning one of the ER physicians who had attended Margaret, but Quinn had no desire to relive the tragedy. He excused himself to the restroom. Three undercover FBI agents and a fourth man hired by Bob Swatling watched as Quinn entered the restroom. One of the FBI agents followed him.
“Mr. Quinn,” the FBI agent said once inside. “I’m Agent Sylvester, FBI. I’m very sorry about your wife.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we have received instructions to move you and your children to a secure location, immediately.”
“Go to hell,” Quinn said defiantly. “Protect my children when they get here. I’ll be at the Lake House until I have to testify. Supposedly your people have secured it. Tell Wiseman I’ll be expecting his visit.” Quinn turned from the urinal and began walking out of the restroom.
Agent Sylvester grabbed his arm, but Quinn jerked it away. “Don’t touch me. I’m a protected witness not a fucking criminal,” Quinn said without breaking stride. Sylvester spoke into a small microphone attached to his suit sleeve. “He’s coming your way. Defiant and going to the Lake House. Stay with him. I’ll advise Wiseman and Kohl. Wait until I arrive.”
Quinn walked out of the emergency room at Adventist Hospital and got into a taxicab that took him to the end of Illinois Road in Lake Forest. When he entered the Lake House property, he spoke briefly to Jackson Ebbs before going to the library. Once inside, he pushed the power button on the stereo system and inserted a Mozart Exsultate CD, selecting the last number, “Benedictus from Requiem K 626.” Five minutes and fourteen seconds long. It wouldn’t take longer than that, he said to himself.
Sitting down behind the antique Chippendale desk, he removed a yellow pad of lined paper and a Waterman fountain pen before unlocking the thin center drawer to remove a Springfield Super 38. He placed the pistol on top of the desk and began writing his note.
To Jennifer, John, Rebecca, and David,
I don’t expect you to forgive me for the tragedy I’ve caused, but you must know that your mother was not in her right mind when she took her life. We meant everything to her. Sadly, I realized too late what all of you really mean to me. I will miss you, but it’s better this way. I will do everything I can to comfort your mother on the other side.
Father
At twelve minutes past six in the evening, David Albright Quinn placed the five-inch barrel of the Super 38 in his mouth-moments away from blowing his brains out. Everything had become corrupted because he wanted more. It was a common disease among prosperous men. He tried to pull the trigger, but couldn’t. After removing the gun from his mouth, he began sobbing like a child. He deserved to die for killing his wife, but killing himself wouldn’t fix things. It would never bring her back. But there were other things he could fix.
As he opened the drawer and replaced the 38, a man he’d never seen before entered the library and walked toward him with a gun in his hand. He was a Latin-looking man of average height in his early thirties, striking facial features, broad shoulders, extremely fit, and dressed in a jogging suit. His moves were fluid like an athlete’s. “Who are you?” Quinn cried in a loud voice, hoping to alert Ebbs, but the Requiem was just beginning its finale, masking his plea.
“Push your chair away from the desk, slowly,” Marco said, having arrived at the Lake House only minutes before Quinn. After the paramedics had arrived at the Quinn home in Hinsdale, Marco had gambled on the FBI surveillance specialists leaving the scene with the two ambulance vehicles, which is exactly what they did. As soon as they were gone, he walked three blocks to his car in a nearby church parking lot, and drove to Adventist Hospital where he waited in the parking lot, listening carefully for updates from his contact inside.
When Quinn had announced he was going to the Lake House, Bob Swatling’s man quickly conveyed the information to Marco, who made sure he got there first. A day earlier in Lake Forest, using advanced surveillance detection equipment developed in Israel, Marco had found a nearly surveillance-free corridor, giving him access to the Lake House. Twilight had provided cover as he made his way onto the estate. Once outside the house, he found Jackson Ebbs. In a single blow to the temple, he rendered Ebbs unconscious and then administered an injection of concentrated alcohol before pouring Jim Beam down his throat. After disabling the security system, he entered the den.
Quinn pushed his chair backward, “How did you get in here?”
Marco said nothing as he went to the desk and retrieved the Super 38 from the drawer.
Just as Quinn made a lunge at the intruder, Marco jammed the Super 38 into Quinn’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
The deafening blast was the last thing Quinn heard.
Marco disappeared the way he’d entered, thirty seconds before FBI Agent Sylvester found David Quinn’s body lying on the floor in the den, the back of his head splattered across the wall and credenza.
37
Wilson — Charter Jet G650, Inflight
Midway over the Atlantic, Wilson called an ad-hoc executive staff meeting to evaluate the whirlwind tour and its expected impact on the firm. It was six o’clock in the evening London time, but on board the G650 it was time for someone to swallow the bait he’d been dangling all week. Everyone turned their chairs toward the center of the aircraft, so they could face each other. The six vice presidents seemed anxious to talk, although most of them looked tired from the week’s arduous schedule. After a few words of praise and appreciation for their efforts, Wilson opened the meeting to general comments and feedback.
Not surprisingly, Joel Spivey, Mr. Human Resources, started it off.
“I think the response to your leadership has been extremely positive. Headquarters has received numerous calls and emails expressing appreciation for the tour. I think it’s laid the perfect foundation for your future here.”
“I agree,” Frank O’Connor added in his pleasant, therapist-like voice. “Your five initiatives have created a lot of excitement.”
“They’ve also created a lot of high expectations,” Leigh Tennyson cautioned, seemingly hard-wired to anticipate change issues. “If we don’t show real progress on your initiatives within ninety days, the tour will become an obstacle, not a foundation.”
“Absolutely,” Wilson said, smiling at her. She was refreshingly candid and non-apologetic. He liked her more every time he listened to her.
“I must say, I have some concerns about the marketing and publicity initiative,” John Malouf said.
Silence filled the plane’s cabin. The rushing air and hum of the Rolls-Royce engines grew louder. Everyone seemed to sense this criticism was coming.
Malouf continued, “I have no problem supporting our consultants in their writing and publishing activities, but the wrong kind of publicity campaign could backfire.”
Here we go, Wilson thought. It was now clear that Malouf’s earlier comments about publicizing Fielder amp; Company’s furtiveness belied his opposition. Maybe Tennyson’s comment had made him anxious, Wilson thought. More likely, the partnership was forcing his hand. Either way, Wilson decided it was time to freshen the bait. “How’s that, John?”
“High visibility has its own risks,” Malouf said.
“Such as?” Wilson said.
“Losing clients who don’t want more public scrutiny, compromising our credibility as independent and unbiased consultants, exposing the firm’s methods and approaches to our competition, diverting our focus from real issues, do you want me to go on?” he concluded with barely suppressed hostility.