May Be the Case Read online

  Rachel J.Queen

  May Be The Case

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  Table of contents

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  1

  An anguished moan, almost a scream, broke that silence.

  In the row of grieved family members, the red-haired girl stiffened, her body brutally shaken by a steady tremor. She automatically stared at her older sister, the widow, but the blond woman, a silk handkerchief clenched in her gloved hands, didn't move. She didn't speak. Neither she nor the others. The girl looked around her, confused, then felt an arm embracing her and pulling her towards a solid male body. A gentle hand pulled her face toward a comfortable and reassuring chest. It was her husband, who tried to calm her down. He embraced her, getting between her and her sobs.

  "Don't do that, my love..."

  At those words, she realized that the scream was hers.

  London newspapers dedicated him their main pages. The news was rapidly getting around the globe: the President of the Lance Company had passed away. Even those who ignored the world of finance knew who he was. For someone, it was an article to read in a breath during the ordinary metropolitan transit. There was certainly someone who discerned but also people who browsed pages without batting an eyelid. Few people had been allowed to attend the mass. No press. The widow wanted a private function.

  The August sun uncertainly fluttered between yellow clouds, agglomerated in disorder. The horizon was dark with rain. An obstinate sun brought a moderate warmth in the pine forest, a misty atmosphere right for the balance of the function. However, rays between trees didn't last long. Soon, yellow patches ate the remaining blue space. The menacing curtain closed, pouring a cold shadow over the pine forest. Rain attacked in a thin tick, as it grew in frequency, forcing umbrellas to open up in a quick pounding. Rain sparkled on the crowns of soft lilies, bent rosy buds covering the closed coffin, in the eternal rest of Logan Lance. Next to the red-hair girl, the shoulders of the beautiful widow Paris Wood were covered by a male arm. Lalanny Wood, her younger sister, had appropriately hidden her copper chinon under a rigid wide-bottomed hat. She was wearing a thin dress, closed from neck to wrists, tight and strict. Restless and full of tears, she watched the torment of dozens of incredulous faces. Reason had abandoned her for a while, making room to a deaf anger. A fleeting thought struck the meticulous contemplation of the familiar faces present. After three days of rain, air was blowing colder, she shouldn't have dressed so lightly. She shook her wrist. Under the sleeve, she concealed an object from which she would never separate. At the same time, staring at the coffin, she thought of the funny, uncomfortable coincidence in which she found herself mumbling Janis Joplin giving her back to the kitchen door where he had stopped to attend. Her own personal interpretation of Cry Baby had made him laugh to tears.

  Now I do, she would have liked to tell him. I'm crying.

  Corrugating her forehead, she wondered if others had similar thoughts at that time. In its hegemony, the mystery of death arbitrated the thoughts of anyone. It could sink into your mind, awaken sleeping consciences. Injuring.

  The burial ended, stifling Glenn Lance's inconceivable guilt.

  A decent procession, in turn, laid a flower. Glenn wiped his face with a handkerchief, his arm on Paris's shoulders got down clenching her hips: looking at them together, a stranger would have thought they were a beautiful couple. Much of Glenn's distinct elegance resided in his abundant a meter and eighty in height, a part of merit undoubtedly resided in his elongated eyes, almost almond-like, of a watery blue, chiseled under regular eyebrows placed on a flat, polished forehead. One point went to his androgynous body, the juxtaposition held on, they were of the same elegance of Paris, blond and delicate, perhaps a bit dramatic with those gold curls around a graceful face, yet rather vague, but still charming.

  Yeah, they could have been a pretty couple together, the point was they were not, and Paris couldn't have been farther away from Glenn.

  Next to Glenn, there were the parents of Paris, Shepard and Domina Wood, and the widow's sisters, Myra and Lalanny, respectively from Sidney and Athens, and finally William, their sixteen-year-old brother. Lance's company members were bitterly hit by the sudden loss of their president. When they did bid farewell, Lalanny caught some of them in an upset indignation toward Glenn. The news had come distressing them on the treaty with the McGregor industry, on whose plan Logan had put the last signing. Spacy for medication taken, Paris was certainly unable to comprehend the dynamics of certain attitudes, and had indeed wandered in her thoughts without a goal. Moving a few grass clutches with the tip of her shoes, he felt their tickle where her high sandals opened. She was a widow at twenty-six. Her clear eyes became dimmed in tears. She dried so much. Copious, uncontrollable. There was nothing left of her marriage. Perhaps God, to punish her for having sullied a sacred ceremony, had deprived her of her husband to let her know the gravity of her sin? But had it been such a serious sin, hers? She didn't know.

  Glenn scrutinized her half-face, hidden by a lace retina. " We have to go."

  Divided into groups, those who were present to the function slowly reached their cars, almost all limousines, placed in aligned rows along the sidewalks. "Glenn.. I want to wake up from this nightmare..." hers was just a whisper.

  He found very few words. "Be strong!"

  "No" Paris rejected, her mouth half open. "I don't have this strength. I want it to be an atrocious joke."

  About three weeks earlier, the elevator stopped at the last floor of an immense building overlooking the city, built in an unusual modern style. A bunch of tied clerks came out murmuring a good morning and took various directions, neutral faces that never crossed. Having freed the elevator, the golden plate inside, Lance Company, returned visible.

  Opening a gap in the small pile, a thirty-two-year-old man with an athletic body arranged in a meter and ninety ran through the corridors of the administrative offices: he was the chairman of the company. Strong of a mixed bloodstream genetic baggage, British father, Swedish mother, Asian breed, his hereditary traits focused on an inexpressibly beautiful face: there was purity in the high and slightly chiseled cheeks, the nose was slim and thin, a regular mouth, full and sensual in the lower section. The chin softly squared. An impeccable haircut enhanced a wide, smooth forehead, a sturdy neck. Under the Armani suit, the harmony of his shapes was blatant. There were no defects. But what striked were his eyes, fixed and penetrating, two green puddles stained in yellow. They showed the most curious nuances, on a beautiful day they were the color of water, or of wood, then, with extreme ease, they became of a hot dark brown. Lance was a man lethal for women. He knew it, but he dosed charm and charisma when possible. From the time of the company first acquisitions, he appeared regularly on Time. He had recently reached the top of a very small list, placing himself among the most powerful and handsome men in the financial world.

  Recalling his casual walk, young Taylor Keshawn appeared behind the mighty male figure, as a hound, armed with a palmtop and a daily relation. Usually she began to tell the chairman of the office, but in recent times the impatience of the boss put her nerves to test, so for a few weeks she updated him on the second, trampling the beige carpet of the corridor.

  "Good morning, Mr. Lance!"

  "Good morning, Tylor!"

  "Thorne Atom wants to set a meeting with you tomorrow at seven o'clock, we'll have to revisit commitments, the agenda is complete." Logan's soft and sober voice anticipated her, "Don't pretend to be surprised. So many people queue to get the time I ga
ve to my psychoanalyst." Having hanged the elegant jacket in the coat rack, the man went to sit at the desk of a bright studio, putting his briefcase on the polished mahogany surface. The sober elegance of the luxurious place resisted to the enthusiastic inspiration of Tylor, a sequence of ornamental plants shrouded in various angles, capable of clashing with any other type of furniture, and with a scary certainty in the absence of the majestic sofas of the meeting space. Deprived of shelving or bookcases, walls only hosted abstract art; the rooms instead were embellished by a structurally modern perimeter furniture with a classic look, with cuts and timeless leather trim. Scarce dated furnishings and remarkable pieces of various art auctions were distributed at strategic points. The exterior walls of the study were rigidly paneled to prevent internal vision. Fixing his tie, the man turned on his computer.

  "Let's start from tomorrow commitments, Tylor, I know by heart today ones.”

  Wibbling her hips, Tylor Keshawn closed the door and the expensive tropical perfume in which she navigated spread into the environment. "Tomorrow you have breakfast with McGregor at eight o'clock, then you dedicate ten minutes to Sam, who begs you not to take action on the PIP, and you'll choose who will assist the Willies for the launch of their new company." The secretary was given a fleeting gaze, through which she noticed the unusual color of his eyes, a bright green moss balanced by those golden spots that were instinctively counted, but recklessly turned to blue. A dark blue, deep as the tone of his voice. "Tell Sam that the failure to certify the financial statements of his P.I.P is considered an exceptional suit for me, and I should take very serious measures, but we can deal if he gives me free rein at the next meeting, that won't be the next day. Did the watch touch the zenith?"

  "No, after you'll lunch with Duke McGregor, and at five the periodic budget analysis of J.R.D."

  "J.R.D should be at the top of our favorite customers. What an unjust world."

  "The representative of Atom C. is angry" Tylor informed him, tapping on her palmtop.

  Logan paused on the secretary's blouse, frowning. Did she have a DD? He realized he got distracted and cleared his voice.

  "Who's angry?"

  "The Atom C spokesperson" Tylor raised her shoulders fiercely, supporting his glowing look. Thanks to this she kept her job: she was able to look at a man and awaken a dead body's hormones while keeping her genital apparatus intact. In any case, she wasn't immune, no one was, but the frigid relation imposed by the boss prevented any approach. She spoke without interrupting "He implied to Mr Shelby that he thinks this pointing to their small potential outlet markets a move to lower the price of acquisition, Mr Shelby told me to report it if he hadn't done it in time. They don't want a compromise, according to Mr Mitchell's spokesman, Atom is already underestimated enough."

  "The world market underestimate it, not us."

  Tylor was speechless but her voice languished. "If you want me to tell him..."

  "No, let it go" They were on the in depth investigation and during the preliminary he hadn't heard them complain about the hypothesis of the purchase price. Thorne Atom's grandson was bothered by something else. For example, the impact on key executives. Logan wrinkled his forehead. "Tylor, your shirt seems to burst..."

  His secretary was an all pepper blonde. She returned a postcard smile on the marked tan, finding the comment rewarding "Of course, I know!" she returned serious and consulted her palmtop. "You have a pause at six o'clock, but Miss Danbury called asking for a jump to the show again, so there's no space for Atom."

  Logan picked up the mail and flipped it fast. "When was the council assembly moved?"

  "To... afternoon."

  "And no one understands why"

  "Because your brother Glenn has asked time to trace a new bargaining form, though you opposed to delay it. That's what Mr Shelby said."

  Logan balled up and threw away the useless paper playing on being an ambivalent playmaker. "Delaying too much in a negotiation is not a shark feature, Tylor. We are transparent in acquisitions as well as the contractual clauses of our individual contractors, tell that as well."

  "I know" The secretary cited by heart: "Every contract that comes out of here protects the customer entirely, preliminary, contextual information, and so on, and no competitor can boast a turnover like ours based on just as clean operations." She showed her teeth in a pre-set smile.

  "Exactly. Now the number one goal is to destroy competitors, they all depend on us, or almost. Ours is the best offer, that's why they will give up. Given the debt burden accumulated in recent years, Atom should have disappeared much earlier. Zack threw down a mile list of potential buyers, I'm on top and I want to stay there. Call my brother and tell him to come here."

  "Right away."

  Logan lit a cigarette and took a first breath. He asked himself where Glenn was, since Tylor's sideways look only naming him put a sad flea in his ear. Glenn always parked the car beside his in the garage. Arriving, he didn't see it.

  "Your brother is back with Mr Sinn" she informed him.

  Logan slightly startled. "Playing squash with him isn't enough? He's not normal, an absorption should scorn him, give him a moral buzz "

  "Maybe he can hide emotions like you" she whispered.

  Logan ignored the insinuation, sure that it would never have been a daring accusation. His eyes blinked, amused. The opportunity to speak on a free wheel was particularly pleasing with Tylor. Sometimes he tested her to shake her, but results were always desolating. Tylor was a female shark, an ice plate with tits. "Suggest me. Did he seemed angry when you saw him?"

  Tylor took time to reflect, in fact she was just admiring her brand-new decolleté. "No. We changed the appointments. Is there still something I can do?"

  Logan kept the cigarette in his mouth opening the briefcase.

  "Yes. I need you to go to Bettany and Jamie Lloyd, they know Sinn well, tell them I'm sending you, interrogate them. I want a full profile of the type, note down anything: childhood, eating habits, phobias, sexual preferences, and do not forget his very short political career."

  The phone rang as Tylor kept a groan: she hated that pair of old investors. At the threshold of retirement age, they were still arguing as brokers. Logan answered with a dry tone on the cellphone. " Yes?" "I went back to my office forty-nine hours before expected and on the desk there are two notes I can't read. What does it mean?" He had no idea. It was embarrassing not to have an answer, and even very simple. He just ignored the question. "Hi Jack." Tylor came out of the studio moving like a diva. Jack's voice vibrated of irritation. "I blab you everything and then you confirm with formal apologies another exploit of your brother's double personality. I wasn't at the meeting."

  "Nether do I" Logan said, putting the cigarette in the ashtray. "And... I'm sorry"

  "But you were held back" Jack ignored him. "I wasn't there to take a well-deserved break. This morning, Keshawn called me as I bake some cookies for Gracie, telling me that I have to go back because the president wants a reform of the project. I've named her liar because I know you would never do me wrong knowing my situation, the divorce, etc., and you know what name came out of that vamp?"

  Logan bent his lips in a grimace that his friend could guess.

  "Glenn."

  " Indeed. Your brother needs to get a life. He needs to stop looking at your wife and start looking for one."

  Logan put a pencil in an electric razor. "The known universe doesn't host a female who can be knocked down by him. We should affix the victim an identity."

  "You mean a whore, don't you?"

  "Eh... unfortunately he's interested in the visual aspect. Marriage is a serious step."

  "I don't give a damn about his frustration. Let him marry Tylor. He doesn't have to think about making money and sewing dresses of a barbie with an infant girl. Next time he wants to change the original plan you should remember him that Grace deserves to start her studies without falling into bankruptcy at five years."

  Logan blew on the pe
ncil, dusting its tip. "You're a great father. You would sell her barbies and buy new shares. Can we lunch together afterwards?"

  Jack pressed his foot on the brake, slowing down visibly. "Yes, but I don't know how much it will take. I'm going to Lex, and there's the usual traffic." Logan understood the movement of the man who was moving the cell phone from one ear to the other to change gear. "You should take the subway like all good Londoners. See you later." Jack didn't hang up. "How fast, why weren't you at the meeting, you never missed one."

  Logan narrowed his eyes, stuck. Lie? Don't lie? He surrendered. " I was drunk."

  "What?" Jack burst out laughing. "Are you joking? Why?"

  "Because I drank too much."

  His friend was astonished " You..! You got a hangover...?"

  Logan turned on the chair and stared over the windows. Through the elegant glass palaces isolated from the morning chaos of the outside, there were a million fragments of the night spent in bed at the mercy of his animal instinct, with the fixed thought of leaving his room and entering the next one. He had an impatient gesture. "Let's talk about the Atom. They continue to lose liquidity like a pierced tank. "

  Jack followed him back to that speech, drawling. "Yeah! I also would like to proclaim victory, if it weren't for Glenn's passionate suggestion to change the divisions where the losses came from. In his long relation he missed the small detail of the new plant, we have the payment of an astronomical figure for the expansion plan, but he doesn't seem to notice it. However, I don't understand why you were drunk."

  "I have to do something to keep Glenn's step. See you later" Logan hung up.

  Around noon, a Ferrari Testarossa slowed down to stop at the edge of a restaurant. Logan passed the keys to the valet with a greeting, then headed to the table that he and Jack usually occupied. It was one of his favorite Italian restaurants in Paris. Big shots of London-based company for a continuous time, chic environment that required a small tone. When, like today, Jack was in a bad mood, the wrinkles on his forehead creaked and his hazel eyes became small. He wondered if he didn't deserve other thoughts beyond his own, Logan thought.