He Huffed and He Puffed by Barbara Paul Page A

back of the limo and told the driver to get going. Only when they were well away did he relax.
    For a moment there he’d been afraid. Afraid of Jack McKinstry! Who would have thought it? Strode didn’t expect people on the wrong end of a squeeze play to be accommodatingly pliant; he’d even anticipated counterthreats. But this was the second time within a week that he’d been made to feel afraid—and he didn’t like the feeling at all.
    The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.
    â€œThis isn’t going the way it’s supposed to,” Strode muttered to Castleberry back in his office in New York. “One of them waves a gun at me and the other threatens me with dismemberment. Do the fools think I’m playing a game?”
    â€œJoanna Gillespie has been trying to get you on the phone for the last three days,” his assistant pointed out. “Maybe she’s had time to see reason. She wants an appointment.”
    â€œIf she thinks I’m going to put myself within firing distance of her again, she’s got another think coming. Did anyone ever point a loaded gun at your face, Castleberry?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œIt’s a sobering experience, let me tell you. She’s in New York now? Well, let’s get her on the phone and hear what she has to say.”
    Whatever Jo Gillespie had to say, she wasn’t willing to say it over the phone. Strode agreed to a meeting and hung up.
    Castleberry was aghast. “You’re not really going to meet her, are you?”
    â€œNo. You are. Take one of the security men with you, and make sure she understands he’s armed. You won’t need him, you know—it’s not you she’s mad at. But I’d like her to see that two can play that game. And Castleberry—if she demands the original affidavit her would-be hit man signed, tell her she’ll get it when the stock ownership transfer papers are signed.”
    Castleberry smiled. “Will she?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    When Castleberry had left, Strode walked over to the window and looked out. The dishy babe directly across the street was no longer there; the office was now occupied by a man. Strode watched for a few minutes as the man grew visibly more frustrated and agitated—until he ended up spanking his PC. Strode went back to his desk.
    He took out a file folder and dropped it unopened on the desktop. He sat down and rested his clenched fists on the folder. He didn’t want to have to deal with the third owner of House of Glass shares.
    Strode was not a physically brave man. He kept more security than was absolutely necessary at both his home and his various businesses. Other than the usual boyhood scuffles, he’d never been in a fistfight in his life. He looked upon physical violence as a sign of ineptitude, as evidence of failure in the more sophisticated forms of persuasion. Now he was in the position of having to deal with three people who had killed for money; and of the three, the other man in Los Angeles was the most dangerous.
    Strode had full confidence in his ability to outmaneuver the three who’d had to resort to violence to get what they wanted. But people who’d killed once would find it easier the next time. Look at Jo Gillespie; she’d let a year elapse between her first murder and her second, but she hadn’t lost her nerve in the interim. He’d slipped when he’d gone to see her and McKinstry alone; he’d at least have had a witness to their threats if he’d taken Castleberry or another member of his staff along. Well, that was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. Even if Jack McKinstry calmed down enough to realize he had no choice and came crawling on his hands and knees, there’d be no more little tête-à-têtes on the beach.
    Jack had threatened to go to his brother Phil with the story that Strode had fabricated evidence to make him look guilty. Strode