Dead Wrong (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 7) - Jack Patterson (13 inch ebook reader .txt) 📗

fifteen. He waited for the photographer to snap a photo before turning to face her.

“Congratulations again,” he said as he shook her hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Gavin. This has been such an honor.” Allison Albright, who won CTE Communications’ Young Entrepreneur Award for her essay on integrating social media with common forms of communication, stood up straight and looked him in the eyes.

He laughed and stroked his graying beard. “I need women like you in this company, women with ideas to help us create a communications network that can be more tailored to women’s needs.”

“When I graduate from college, it’d be a privilege to work for you, sir.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, no. It’d be a privilege to have someone like you work for me.”

One of his assistants whispered in his ear. “I hate to cut short our visit as I’d love to stay and chat, but I have something else that I must attend to at the moment.” He turned toward one of the three media relations members flanking her. “Make sure she gets tickets to the Wizards’ next home game.”

Gavin strode toward the elevator with his assistant. Once inside, Gavin inserted his key and turned it, granting him access to the bottom floor.

“Sorry about pulling you away from your appointment, sir,” the man said.

Gavin shook his head. “No need to apologize. You did me a favor. I’d much rather be attending to the issue in the basement.”

The man took a deep breath. “Pardon me for speaking so frank, sir, but isn’t this something someone else should be handling? Don’t you have better things to do?”

Gavin ran his hands through his thin gray hair, raking it to the side in an effort to conceal the glaring bald spot in the center of his forehead. “The best thing the leader of an organization can do is be informed. The more I know, the better I can run this company.”

“This is a company related matter?”

“Everything I do is related to either this company or the Wizards. And if I’m going to succeed at either of them, I must know what’s going on at all times.”

“Even something as trivial as this?”

Gavin stamped his foot. “Any attempt to undermine either of the organizations I lead is not trivial. You’ll see how serious I am in just a moment.”

A few seconds later, the elevator slowed down and finally stopped before the doors opened to reveal Gavin’s secret speakeasy.

Fashioned after a 1920s speakeasy, the room transported one back in time. Waitresses wore devoré shawls and bobbed hairstyles. The bouncers at the door sported conk hairdos and tailored suits. “Bye Bye Blackbird” blared over the speakers and smoke danced near the dim lighting.

The clientele of Gavin’s Prohibition Bar consisted of D.C.’s highest profile movers and shakers. Judges, senators, CEOs, lawyers—people who made things happen in a system that was forever assailed as never doing anything.

“Good morning, Boss,” the bartender said to Gavin as he walked past him. “Would you like a glass of Iordanov?”

Gavin turned toward his assistant. “Who is this fool?”

The man shrugged.

Gavin sauntered up to the bar and leaned on the counter. He fingered the bartender to come to him. Gavin then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. “If you want to continue working here, listen very closely. Just because I’m Russian doesn’t mean I like vodka. Don’t go shouting out drink suggestions. This isn’t the Macombo Lounge. You ask a customer what he wants and then you serve him. It’s really simple. Got it?” He released the bartender’s shirt and pushed him away.

The bartender nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand. My name is Hal Umberton.”

“Nobody cares what your name is. Now get me your best scotch, neat.”

Moments later, Gavin collected the glass in front of him and meandered toward the back of the bar. He stopped outside a door and entered a code on a security pad, giving him entrance into the room. The door clicked open and Gavin slipped inside.

He walked down a short corridor before opening another door that led him to his purpose for visiting his bar this early in the day.

“Mr. Gavin, so nice of you to stop in,” said a man as he turned around.

Gavin couldn’t see past him and the half dozen or so men standing in a semi-circle near the man. But Gavin didn’t need to. He knew who sat in the center.

Gavin walked over and scanned the wiry figure fastened to a metal chair. “Has he said anything yet?”

The apparent man in charge shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Continue until he does.” Gavin threw back the rest of his drink and spun toward the exit. He swayed as he walked, uninterested in prolonging the conversation.

The apprehended man moaned and pleaded for help as the sounds of fists hitting flesh spilled down the hallway.

Gavin smiled and headed back toward the elevator.

***

LATER THAT MORNING, Gavin nursed his coffee as he stared out over the nation’s capital. He remained impressed that any country could have such a well-planned city, though he attributed it to the fact that Washington, D.C. was relatively young in comparison to the rest of the world’s major metropolitan areas. He concluded it had an advantage many large cities didn’t have, especially Moscow.

His assistant opened the door. “Mr. Gavin, Mr. Hough is here to see you.”

Gavin didn’t turn around as he motioned with his hand for her to bring him in.

He spun around to see Daniel Hough, the Wizards’ general manager. Hough was little more than a stroke of luck for Gavin. When he purchased the Wizards ten years before, the team was in disarray. For the first few years, he tried to run the team himself but with no success. Then he hired Hough on a whim. At the time, Hough was a relatively new college graduate with a masters in statistics. He worked as an intern for the Wizards and one afternoon impressed Gavin with his knowledge of the game—both tangibly and statistically speaking. Fed up with