Flanagan walked his townhouse. He nodded at the security guard at the door dressed

as a waiter. He had decided on his scheme after five minutes of thought. It had taken

him a week to put things in motion.

Most of that time, he had spent at the lab. He put together a lightweight suit of armor.

He had boxed the armor up and brought it home to his townhouse. It sat in the closet

upstairs. He planned to put it on after he had dismissed his guests.

He had issued invitations to a bunch of people across the business scene in the tristate

area. Rydell and Rutherford were on the list. Courtland wasn’t, but the man had

shown up. Westwood had been alerted so he could find out who Courtland had ridden

with so they could add that to the list of things they knew.

He walked into the miniature ballroom. It stood full of suits and dresses filled by

people he barely knew. He noted the presence of guards dressed as waiters moving

through the room.

Miss Rich stood to one side with Mr. Coutri. Neither looked happy to be in

attendance.

“What do you think?,” asked Flanagan, as he joined them.

“I know most of the lawyers in this room, and only like two, or three, of them,” said

Coutri. He sipped from a snifter in his hand.

“Miss Rich?,” said Flanagan.

“We should have held this somewhere else,” Miss Rich said. “It’s like looking at a

can of sardines in nice clothes.”

“It’s fine,” said Flanagan. “It narrows our suspect list to the people in this room and

their staffs.”

“Not really,” said Coutri. “But it does narrow it down from the entire tristate area. We

need something physical to narrow it down to someone in this room.”

“I’m hoping to narrow it down to one person before the night is over if Mr.

Westwood’s detectives are as good as they think they are,” said Flanagan. “I think the

dinner is almost ready. We have to get these people outside.”

“I think that’s your job, sir,” said Miss Rich.

“All right,” said Flanagan. “Don’t call me sir.”

“Everybody!,” said Flanagan. He clapped his hands to get the crowd’s attention.

“Dinner will be served outside in the back yard. Please follow me, and we’ll get you

set up.”

He led the way down the central hall of his townhouse to the back door. He opened

it, and stepped outside. The party goers followed, drinks in hand.

Flanagan glanced at the caterers. They seemed ready to take care of things. The

detectives stood out against the regular wait staff. He hoped they didn’t spook

whomever wanted him dead.

After all, the whole point of the party was to set the bait for the trap.

As long as he was at his office, or his lab, it was going to be hard to get at him. But

his townhouse was in the city, surrounded by other townhouses, and anybody could

scale the low stone wall that surrounded his back yard. And three of the people he

didn’t trust knew he was going to be there all night after the party.

He wondered how long he had before someone showed up to kill him.

He checked his watch. He figured the party would start breaking up about ten, maybe

eleven. The caterers had to clean up. Westwood’s men would have to take up position

to watch the outside of the house and then stop anyone trying to leave. He figured the

killer would try after midnight.

His armor waited on him upstairs. He had timed himself and practiced. He could pull

it on in two minutes.

As soon as he had seen everyone off the property, he would go upstairs, put on his

armor, and wait. If they came for him in the limited window he had opened, he would

be able to shrug off most normal impacts and defend himself until the detectives took

action.

He had to hide the armor before they saw it. He didn’t want people knowing he had

it before he was ready to start selling it to the highest bidder. He was still working on

ways to mass produce the suit.

If it got him through the night, it had more than earned a successful rating from him.

Flanagan moved through the crowd as they found seats at the tables brought in for

them. He planned to eat his dinner in the kitchen, but he wanted them to think he was

thinking of them. It was his first party, and he couldn’t wait to clear these virtual

strangers off his property so he could move to the next phase of his plan.

After making sure everyone was happy, and the food was moving, he retired to the

kitchen. He leaned against the counter holding the sink and watched the backyard

through his window.

He hoped his plan went off without a hitch. He could see these people expecting him

to show up for their garden parties after everything was settled. He didn’t plan to do

that.

At least the caterers hadn’t been infiltrated. The last thing he needed was his party

turning into a blood bath.

He noticed Courtland had taken a seat by Rydell. Rutherford sat two tables over.

Westwood sat in a spot where he could watch all three.

Small talk seemed to rule the evening. That was fine.

Flanagan grabbed a plate and went through the prepared food, grabbing what looked

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good with tongs, or a fork. He poured a glass of milk to drink with his food. He

seemed to be the only teetotaler at this shindig. He should have expected that.

He hoped he didn’t have to pour the bunch of them into cabs by the end of this.

“It looks like everything is going smoothly,” said Billy Berra, the owner of the

catering service. He was gray haired, thin, and had a jaw that would make a

nutcracker proud. He wore the same white jacket, white shirt, black pants, bow tie,

as his employees.

“I think so,” said Flanagan. “Your guys have done a good job.”

“The extra help you rounded up made everything easier,” said Berra. “They’re a little

brusque but they seemed to have been able to keep things rolling smoother than I

would have thought.”

“Smoother than I thought too,” said Flanagan. “This is pretty good.”

“Just some chicken, some steak, some seasoning, and some sauce mixed together,”

said Berra. “The vegetables are mostly greens with potatoes and corn mixed in with

it.”

“No cordon bleu?,” asked Flanagan.

“That’s just chicken with blue cheese,” said Berra. “I like to make food with some

flavor in it.”

“It does have that,” said Flanagan. He took another bite and chewed. “If I ever need

a personal chef, I will call you first.”

“I own a restaurant you can eat at any time you want,” said Berra. He shook his head.

“Come by and I’ll fix you my recipe for an omelette.”

“That would be swell,” said Flanagan. “I’ll come by one day for that.”

Berra saw one of his employees doing something, and left the kitchen to talk to the

waiter. Flanagan finished his plate, loaded it again, and ate that while watching his

back yard. He spotted Miss Rich sitting in a group next to the house. She looked

uncomfortable.

He put the dirty plate down next to the sink. He stepped outside and walked over to

Miss Rich’s table.

“Ladies,” Flanagan said. “Do you mind if Miss Rich and I talk for a bit.”

“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Kiel. Rumor stated that she had conducted the trade with the

Indians for the island, and remained after everyone else was dead. She waved her

hand for them to go.

“You’ve done a good job with this,” said Flanagan. He led her away from the crowd.

“Thanks.”

“The caterers handled everything for me,” said Miss Rich. “All I had to do was give

them the order, and the money from the discretionary fund. I have already filed copies

of the receipts and sent the originals to accounting.”

“You’ve done a good job,” said Flanagan. “What do you think of the guests?”

“Some of them are very sharp,” said Miss Rich. “Some of them are very stupid. Some

of them mix it up in ways I am not sure how they were able to make money in the first

place.”

“They inherited it,” said Flanagan. “If something happens to me, Coutri has some

paperwork for you to sign. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Paperwork?,” said Miss Rich.

“Yes,” said Flanagan. “He’ll go over it with you if it becomes necessary. I’m hoping

it isn’t necessary.”

“All right,” said Miss Rich. “Nothing will happen. You have all these men around

you.”

“I also have one man standing outside your door,” said Flanagan. “When this over,

it will be back to business as usual. Until then, I want you to be as safe as possible.”

“Why would they come after me,” said Miss Rich. “I’m just a secretary.”

“You also know everything about the company from how many paper clips we buy,

to how much material we ship from one port to another,” said Flanagan. “If you were

to disappear, the company would flounder until we moved someone into your spot

who is as good as you are, if such a person exists.”

“There’s some,” said Miss Rich. “I know one girl who covers the accounting

department.”

“Put her on your list of replacements if you keep one,” said Flanagan. “But I am

going to try to make sure that isn’t required.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. We still have that

meeting with the people from the government.”

“I’ll be there,” said Flanagan. “The contracts look good, and it’s things we can easily

handle.”

“This has been a weird experience,” said Miss Rich. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I didn’t invite you,” said Flanagan. “I ordered you to put things together, and you did

with great efficiency. I couldn’t have got all these stuffed shirts here myself.”

“I noticed you were avoiding talking to them,” said Miss Rich.

“That’s another reason I ordered you to put things together,” said Flanagan. “None

of them would have believed it if I had sent the invites myself.”

“I can see that,” said Miss Rich.

“Now, we’re going to say goodbye to our guests as they leave,” said Flanagan,

checking his watch. “Then I will put you in a cab to take you home. Lock up when

you get there. You’re the linchpin to the company, and even with a guard, I want you

to be careful.”

“If something happened to me, what would you do?,” said Miss Rich.

“I don’t know,” said Flanagan. “If it was because of a person, I would hunt him or her

down and eat their liver. Anything else, I would probably have to join a monastery

and reflect on the conditions of life.”

“Really?,” said Miss Rich.

“No exceptions for the liver either,” said Flanagan.

“Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I will hold on to that statement until my dying day.”

“So we have to shake hands, and say goodbye,” said Flanagan. “How hard can that

be?”

“That nice old lady I was talking to thought we’re in a relationship,” said Miss Rich.

“Really?,” said Flanagan. “What kind?”

“Getting ready to be married,” said Miss Rich.

“I don’t think I would make a great husband, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. “You could

do better.”

“I seriously doubt that, sir,” said Miss Rich. “Every uncommitted woman, and some

of the committed ones, outside would throw themselves at your feet. I guarantee it.”

“They would be throwing themselves at someone who doesn’t have time for them,”

said Flanagan.

“Exactly,” said Miss Rich. “But they don’t know that. They just see the millionaire

financier entrepreneur who owns parts of five states and will give them anything they

want.”

“Really?,” said Flanagan. “What do you think? Would I make a great catch?”

“If the woman didn’t mind sitting at home waiting for you,” said Miss Rich.

“Otherwise, no.”

“That is sharp,” said Flanagan. He smiled to say he didn’t take offense. He liked his

work more than he liked people. He could live with that.

“It is better the truth come out now before you let some gold digger get her claws into

you and ruin your name and fortune,” said Miss Rich.

“That will never happen as long as I have you,” said Flanagan.

Miss Rich blushed.

The guests filed down the hall as they finished their talk and food. Flanagan and Miss

Rich shook their hands and let them out the front door to the street. Cabs and

chauffeur driven private cars were summoned to carry them away.

“I still want to buy your company,” said Courtland when his turn came up.

“I can’t sell it to you,” said Flanagan. “I’m in the middle of an internal investigation.

Have a good night.”

“Internal investigation?,” said Courtland.

Internal investigation?, mouthed Miss Rich silently.

“Someone tried to have me killed,” said Flanagan. “The thought is that it was

someone in the company. We’re going to root him out and turn him over to the

police.”

“Good luck,” said Courtland.

“I was wondering who gave you my private number to the lab,” said Flanagan.

“I think I got it from your secretary,” he said.

“I’ll have to talk to her about that,” said Flanagan. “Have a good night.”

“Good night, Flanagan,” said Courtland. He stepped out on the stoop, walked the

eight steps to the sidewalk, turned right, and started walking down the block.

“I did not give him the lab number,” said Miss Rich in a low whisper. She looked

furious at the claim.

“Rydell gave him the number,” said Flanagan.

“How do you know that?,” asked Miss Rich.

“It’s obvious they’re old friends,” said Flanagan.

He smiled at the next guest leaving and ushered them out.