Legacy of Secrets by Elizabeth Adler Page A

Holdings’s shares tumbled. With the dramatic drop in the share prices the panicked bankers had demanded more collateral to compensate for the loss, and for a couple of weeks Bob had kept them all quiet, promising them that it was “all a mistake” and of course he had the money and everything would be all right, if only they would give him time to sort it out. But no more collateral had been forthcoming. And then Bob Keeffe had killed himself.
    “My colleagues are asking for more time,” J.K. said to the bankers, “but in all honesty I cannot.” He felt their astonished eyes riveted on him. “Bob Keeffe left us a billion-dollar mess. I don’t know what he did with all that money, but for a man like that, with a globe-trotting, flamboyant, gambling, plutocratic life-style, nothing was too big or too expensive. I know he overpaid by hundreds of millions on city building sites he insisted on buying and everything was bought with money he did not have, money he borrowed.”
    He lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug. “I knew nothing of Bob’s private dealings. Whatever he was doing, he kept it to himself. I was as close to him on a day-to-day basis ashis wife. I thought I knew the man. But I was wrong. And Bob Keeffe was not the man I—or you—thought he was. He betrayed our trust, gentlemen. And that is the truth of the matter.”
    The stunned eyes of the other two partners met his as he sat down again and the bankers shuffled their papers and conferred among themselves. There really wasn’t much left to say. J.K. had just confirmed their worst fears and there was only one thing to be done. Keeffe Holdings was finished.
    No one ever understood how the news of J. K. Brennan’s hatchet job on his dead boss at a highly confidential meeting of the company’s bankers managed to filter into the media, but it hit the press simultaneously with the news that the banks had foreclosed and after that it was a financial free-for-all to see who came out with any money. The FBI were involved as well as the Securities and Exchange Commission and all the company’s books were being removed from the headquarters to be examined.
    A week later J.K. was thinking of Shannon Keeffe’s distraught, pale, wistful face at the inquest as he took a cab over to the Keeffe Center on United Nations Plaza to meet with his partners. With a verdict of suicide, Keeffe’s insurers were refusing to pay out on the twenty-five-million-dollar life insurance policy that his daughter had been beneficiary of. She would get nothing. It was a pity, he thought with a sigh, that the innocent had to suffer in affairs like this, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It was too late.
    Wexler and Jeffries were already there, standing by the window, their heads together in conference. They glanced guiltily up as J.K. strode through the door on the dot of eight, moving apart quickly like men caught in a conspiracy. J.K. smiled. Tossing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, he rolled up his sleeves and went and sat in Bob’s chair.
    “Well, gentlemen,” he said, linking his hands togetherand leaning comfortably across Bob’s desk as though he owned it. “Why don’t you tell me what you have decided.”
    Wexler glanced at Jeffries and then he said angrily, “You can’t wait to step into his shoes, can you?”
    J.K. smiled a cold little smile. “Unlike you two, at least I waited until he was decently buried.”
    Brad said in a trembling voice, “Tell us the truth, J.K. Did you kill Bob?”
    J.K. sat back, gazing impassively at them. He locked his hands behind his head and stretched, then he said with a weary sigh, “Why me? What motive have I got for killing the man who helped me up the ladder?”
    “Dead men’s shoes,” Wexler repeated grimly.
    “I was better off with Keeffe alive, and you know it.” He glared at them. “Maybe I should ask if you, Jack, or you, Brad, murdered our beloved boss. After all, you have far stronger motives than