“Think about it: It’s only younger, healthy widows and widowers being attacked—the ones who stand the best chance for holding on to their houses the longest. Coincidence?”

“You’re talking about a billion-dollar corporation, Jack. This is penny-ante stuff. Imagine the impact of four extra resales in a year on a nine-digit bottom line. Meaningless!”

“It may be meaningless globally, but what about locally? What if someone in Gateways South needs to boost his bottom line and this is a way—just one of a number of ways, say—to do it?”

Tom didn’t know what to say. Breaking into offices, digging up “clues”…he had to admire Jack’s initiative, and was touched that he’d go to all that trouble for him, but…Jack seemed to think he was Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade. And he wasn’t. He was an appliance repairman, and he was going to get in over his head and in deep trouble if he kept this up.

“I suppose you can make a circumstantial case for it, but it just doesn’t add up. You’re implying that Ramsey Weldon or someone at his level of management went out and hired those men to smash up my car and then have me eaten by an alligator. It’s preposterous.”

Jack scratched his head. “I know it seems that way, but so far he and Gateways South are the only ones I can see benefiting from your passing. I’ll have to go with Weldon for the time being.”

Tom felt a surge of acid in his stomach. “‘Go with’? What does that mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jack said with a smile that did nothing to relieve Tom’s anxiety. “Have a little tête-à-tête or something like that.”

“Don’t. Please, don’t. You’re just going to get yourself in trouble.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet. The very soul of discretion.”

Somehow Tom doubted that. But before he could say anything else, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Jack said.

A delivery man stood at the door holding a cardboard carton.

“I’ve got four packages for ‘Jack.’”

“That’s me.” Jack took the box and placed it on the floor. “I’ll help you with the others.”

As Jack followed the man outside to his truck, Tom stepped over and looked at the return address: Bammo Toy Co.

Toys?

He noticed too that the shipping label was addressed to “Jack” at this address. No last name, just “Jack.” Odd.

When all four cartons were inside the door, Jack tipped the driver, then lifted one of the boxes.

“I’m going to put these in the spare bedroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

As Jack headed for the bedroom, Tom lifted one of the packages to help. He hefted it…heavier than he’d expected.