Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [97]
Pulling out a chair, he sat down with a thud, dread bubbling up inside him. Slowly shifting through the folders, the worry spiked when he saw the white envelope stuck into the pocket slot. He hadn’t left it there. Only too well he knew what was in it. Regardless, he opened it, compelled to scan the contents again.
The cover letter wasn’t there. Jago felt like puking.
On a letterhead for Trident Ventures and addressed to Desmond, with copies to Trev and him, it had confirmed all the arrangements for Trident’s hostile takeover of Montgomerie Enterprises, how the arrangements would be kept under the table until everything was in place. Once the maneuvers were complete, a press release would be issued announcing Mershan International was buying out Trident. In essence, his brother would be CEO of a company that owned Trident Ventures and Montgomerie Enterprises as subsidiaries. Desmond’s vengeance would finally be complete.
He went through the case again to double check. Maybe the snooper had mistakenly placed the letter in one of the other files, which contained information on the buyout for the horse farm, the offers and counter-offers between Trident and Asha’s father. Nothing that would be damning. Not like that letter would be.
Only the letter was gone. What remained was the question: Why would anyone break into his bungalow and steal that piece of paper that had little value to anyone but him?
Jago stalked back into the restaurant, his eyes sweeping the room. Colin had just finished tightening the nuts on the stool. Jago couldn’t help it; his eyes fixed on the man’s bigass screwdriver and couldn’t look away.
Sensing that all was not right, Colin glanced up. He rose with a slight frown. “It’s called a screwdriver, Jago. You poke it into things and screw with it. I’d think you’d be rather familiar with the concept.”
“Watch it, or I might have to show you a new place you can put that damn oversized tool—as in, where the sun doesn’t shine,” he warned.
“Hoo-hoo . . . someone got up on the wrong side of Asha’s bed this morning.” Colin grinned unrepentantly. “You don’t scare me, Jago. I told you before; you can’t beat on me; Asha wouldn’t like that. So save the high camp. You’ll come to adore me soon enough. Everyone does.”
“Okay, I adore you.” Surprisingly disarmed by the chatter, Jago laughed. Easing back on the temper, he went to get a beer from the cooler. “Can you use the monster tool to change a lock on the bungalow?”
“Is this a test? No one said anything about a test. I’m really good on killer leeches, Vincent Price and Boris Karloff. Did you know Karloff’s real name was William Henry Platt? Remember the old Song “Monster Mash,” where the guy sounded like Karloff? Karloff actually sang the song himself on television once! Now how many people know that?” The man beamed at his esoteric acumen.
“I’m sure you are a killer at Trivial Pursuit.”
Colin fetched a Dr Pepper and twisted off the top. “So why do you need the lock changed?” Using the cap, he arched it into the trashcan. “He shoots! He scores!”
Observing the strange man with the irritating, yet oddly likable personality, Jago shook his head. In his role for Mershan International, it was commonplace for him to look high-powered corporate executives in the eye, wait for them to ‘blink,’ then walk away with whatever Desmond had wanted from the negotiations. His incisive mind, the ability to assess quickly another’s strengths and weaknesses served him well, thus saw him a good judge of character. It didn’t ring true Colin would break into his bungalow simply to steal a letter that had little value to him. Except . . . except