Legacy of Secrets by Elizabeth Adler Page B

I do.” He smiled grimly. “How much was it, Brad, that you’ve stolen over the years? Ten, twenty million? Maybe more? You knew Bob was a dreamer. He employed you to look after things in the office while he went out and got the jobs and the financing. And you nickeled and dimed him, right from day one, until after seventeen years your hand was in the till more often than it was out. And as the business grew so did your thieving.
    “It was a good thing Bob never got to know about that secret expensive horse farm in Kentucky, eh, Brad? In beautiful bluegrass country, and with a string of beautiful expensive Thoroughbreds,
and
a beautiful expensive young lady trainer to look after them for you. Not even
Mrs.
Jeffries knew about her, did she, Brad?”
    Brad retreated, pale-faced, to the sofa. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sipped it silently.
    “And you, Jack,” J.K. said, smiling icily. “Don’t you have an equally good motive for killing Big Bob? When I first started to work for Bob I asked myself right away, how come a man like you—an architect working for Keeffe Holdings, earning good money to be sure, but not
that
good—how come a man like you managed to live in thestyle you lived in? Sure, later you became a partner, but you already had the town house on Sutton Place and the Aston-Martin and the Bentley. You already had the art collection; it was in a different style from Bob’s because you were men with vastly different tastes. But Warhols and Rothkos go for a pretty penny at auction, just like van Goghs, and you could almost have matched his, dollar for dollar.
    “You took kickbacks on everything, from the shipments of marble from Italy to the contracts for the steel girders. You made money on every aspect of the construction of Keeffe buildings, and you gave contracts not to the lowest bidder, or even the best man for the job, but to whoever paid you off the most. Even so, it was still a bit hazardous, with your flashy, expensive life-style. Still a bit hand-to-mouth. And maybe you wanted more?”
    He sat back and smiled his genial smile at them again. “I am the one who knows where all the bodies are buried. I am the one who could turn either of you, or even both of you, over to the cops, the FBI, the SEC, even the IRS. You name it, I could do it.”
    Wexler’s face was gray under his year-round tan. “You wouldn’t do that,” he snarled, standing menacingly closer to the desk.
    “Maybe not. It all depends.”
    “Depends on what?” Brad Jeffries said wearily. “I’m getting too old for this, J.K. Tell me the worst. Am I a dead man, or what?”
    “Brad, Brad! How can you say such a thing? There’s only one dead man around here and we buried him last week. All I am here for is to remind you of your loyalty to Keeffe Holdings.”
    “I still don’t understand why you said what you did about Bob at that meeting with the bankers,” Wexler complained angrily. “We could have gotten them to give us time, we could have finished the Keeffe Tower and stayed in business. We could have arranged for it to be kept separate from the holding company mess, if only we haddanced enough, begged enough,
sweated
enough. All those bastards wanted was their money back, and I know I could have at least swung it on the building. It was our one solid asset.”
    J.K. buttoned his jacket and walked to the door. “You’re wrong there, Jack,” he said pleasantly. “Keeffe Holdings no longer owned Keeffe Tower. Bob sold it just a week before his death to a company in Liechtenstein. At a considerable loss to us.” He shrugged. “You can thank your leader for that one, Wexler. Bob never did have a good head for business and when the walls were caving in he just grabbed what he could.”
    “But how much?” Wexler gasped, stunned.
    J.K. shrugged. “What does it matter? It all went to bail out whatever creditor was most pressing. And it’s gone. When they sell off the remaining assets the banks will probably