Boardrooms Chapter Four

Driscol was not happy; a derelict is a needle in a haystack. They don't leave paper trails. If they work at all it is some menial under the table day job that doesn't require a social security number. he shook his head and began the search.
He studied the photographs, which Cynthia McQuaid had supplied. The first one was a grainy color shot that showed a teen-aged girl and boy waving at the camera in a park. The boy was several years older than the girl. They looked happy and were smiling broadly at the camera. It was a picture of Charles and Cynthia in a far happier time.
The next photo showed Charles sitting in a café with a small black haired girl, his head was thrown back with his mouth open and laughing, she was smiling shyly, obviously delighted to be with Charles McQuaid.
The third and final photograph showed an older Charles some where in a city center, his mouth was grim, and his face was tight with blazing angry eyes.
All the contacts were now cold. The last time any one had heard from him was five years ago from Denver Colorado.
The best place to start is in the penal system. There is a better than fifty-fifty chance that they have crossed paths with the law.
Sure enough the penal records from Denver showed two arrests for public disturbance. The last was dated four years back. There were no other records, could be a dead end but he sent an investigator to Denver to snoop out any leads.
They checked for government benefits. He contacted central data through friends in the FBI. Pay dirt. Checks were sent to a pickup
Box in Portland Oregon. The most recent pick up was just two weeks ago.
He called Randolph and reported his findings.
"Great, that's just great, go to Portland on the first plane. Find the little bastard."
Cynthia McQueen sat pouting in Randolph's office. He had called her and asked for a meeting. She was a client and a very rich client, unless you thought that one hundred million dollars was chump change.
"We have some leads on Charles," Randolph began.
"What makes you think that I am interested in finding Charles. “? Cynthia asked.
"Because I know that you are smart enough to know that finding Charles is precisely what you should be interested in."
"And that would be because?"
"That would be because Charles is sick. Charles needs love and comfort from his sister."
"Oh Please" she spit out the words.
"And that would be because a loving sister could become the Dowager Empress to The Child Emperor, whispering instructions from behind the screen.
There is nothing in your father's will to prevent you from occupying an office in the corporation"
"And what office do you think would be appropriate."
"Well, perhaps CFO."
"Interesting and what happens if Charlie boy dies before the first five years are up?"
"I am glad you asked. If he is actively functioning as CFO and if there is no foul play then he will be deemed to have completed the conditions of the will no matter how long he is Ceo and he will have inherited the estate and it shall pass to his heirs."
"His heirs and just who are his heirs?"
"I imagine that in a situation where there is no spouse, no parents, no children, that a loving sister would be the sole heir."
Cynthia looked radiant and said, "You would be amazed just how loving I can be."
He looked ... actually he gazed into Cynthia's blue eyes, momentarily lost, for they were the most beautiful he'd ever seen. Deep blue and like ice around the pupils. They were mesmerizing and she locked with his gaze.
She was not the type to blush and turn away. She arched her back delicately to display her breasts beneath her sheer silk blouse. Her stylish skirt was cut just above her knees, accentuating lovely legs.
Cynthia's aphrodisiac is power, he thought, her own power. Just the mere thought of taking over the company makes her hot.
"Cynthia I think we're going to be more than lawyer and client."
"A lot more." She said.
"No, I mean that you will need my help to control your brother and achieve your goals"
"I think that this couch is the perfect place to achieve one of my goals."
"Excuse me Cynthia" Randolph went into the bathroom. He needed to get out of her presence. He splashed his face with cold water. It would be beyond stupid to fuck an unstable bitch like Cynthia. He had too much invested. Too much hinging on his being able to control there
Relationship. Sex always swings the balance in the woman's favor. No way. No way. It was just
It is not only stupid, worse it it’s risky. Too risky. I'll tell her thanks, but no thanks.

When he reentered the office. Cynthia was sitting seductively in his own chair behind the desk. Her legs were right in his line of sight amid his work. She looked demurely at Randolph and sensually nibbled the manicured nail of her right hand. Her sensuality made his breath catch. She spread her legs slightly revealing a glimpse, just a glimpse, but enough for him to see that she was wearing no panties. She began caressing the inner thigh of her left leg; he came to her, his resolve fading as fast as it came.

Disco roamed and questioned for two long days among Portland's sizable homeless population, they would size him up with suspicion when he ask about McQueen. The homeless were easy marks for predators. He understood their paranoia.
On the third day Disco found the lubricant that greased the information highway.
He should have known from the start. It was booze.
A couple of bottles of cheap vodka bought him a snitch McQueen’s description and the alleys and flops that made up his habitat.
Driscol decided that he would wait until the morning to connect with McQuaid when he went for his daily food ration. Apparently he did not stay at a particular shelter and often slept on the street
He was too of the smells, the filth, to go amid the piss and vomit from one unconscious body to the next checking identities. He now knew some of his habits. Mr. McQuaid tomorrow is your lucky day.
He turned out his light and said good-bye to another day.
He saw McQuaid from a distance and recognized the plaid coat that had been described. He moved closer to confirm the identification.
Driscol watched from across Jefferson street, McQuaid was rubbing his head and Driscol could see the blood flowing from a deep head gash, one eye was swollen and going to black. He was staggering blindly.
Driscol walked directly to him, and said,
"Come with me Charles. I am going to take care of you."
For a minute Charles stared blankly "Get the fuck outa here!" He yelled swinging his arms wildly. Two of Driscol’s agents moved in quickly to each side of him . They pinned his arms and he was pushed into a long black car that had just driven up.

The slim Lear jet streaked through the skies with power to spare. Inside the luxurious cabin Charles McQuaid lay strapped onto a hospital gurney securely fastened to the deck.
Driscol sipped tea while his top agent; Eric Poste cradled a glass of wine and studied the supine figure of McQuaid.

"You know," said Poste, our evidence that this is the right man is less than concrete.

"And this troubles you?" Driscol placed his teacup onto the tray.

"Shouldn't it?"

" Actually considering this mans condition, I think that it is unimportant who the hell he is. He fits the requirements perfectly."

+++++++
He heard the voices through a fog distant, tinny as if from a cavern, If only they'd stop talking and whispering...it was about him but he could not concentrate well enough to understand,
...Everything was gray, various shades of gray, ... gray. There were figures. Blurred and without features. It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He was only vaguely aware of the of tubes in his nose and arms and he felt dreamy...floating.

"Is he unconscious?"

"Not really, but he is sedated"

"He looks so different"

"I am not surprised. He was nearly dead"

"Is he going to live?"

"He's not in good shape. He has a head injury, he is severely dehydrated, and in the middle of withdrawal symptoms. He has suffered one grand mal convulsion and delirium tremens. We have him on benzodiazepine now to help reduce the symptoms."

"You didn't answer my question. Is he going to live?" Cynthia repeated sternly.

"Yes, baring unforeseen complications he will make a recovery, we are still testing liver function, his GOLT level was high."

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean"

"I don't think that serum glutei oxaloacetic transaminase level will mean more to you, in short his serum levels are high. That indicates some kind of liver damage,"
The Doctor told her.

Both Mike Driscol and Herbert Randolph came into the hospital room where Charles McQuaid was hooked up to two IVs and a throat tube.

"I would never have recognized him,” Cynthia said. He looks different in so many ways. Are you sure that it is Charles?
His identification gives his name as Charles McQuaid birth date March 16, 1961.
What kind of identification does he have, I am sure that he didn't do a lot of driving"
It is a state of Oregon issued photo ID. They have to show it for check cashing and the like. The fingerprint on the identification matches his and they also match on the Denver arrest record." Driscol told her "Do you want to take DNA samples?"
"After ten years I don't think that we have any of Charlie's DNA," Cynthia said. "But we just might have a couple of his old sheets" she laughed
"In many ways he looks like I remember Charlie, he is so gaunt, so.well yellow."
"He is pretty badly bruised, "Herbert said.
"And he looks cadaverous. It would be amazing if he looked like the Charlie that you remember.
I don't think that we can accomplish much more here, Shall we have dinner?"
"How about dinner plus," Cynthia looked at him and smiled.