House Rivals Read Online Free PDF Page A

kill ’em wasn’t hyperbole, not when it came from Doug Thorpe.
    Thorpe crushed the beer can he was holding like it was made of paper. “I just want her to stop, DeMarco. I think she’s tilting at windmills and isn’t going to accomplish a damn thing. She’s been at this for almost two years, and as near as I can tell, nobody believes her. At least nobody with any authority, like a state attorney general or a federal prosecutor. But she’s not going to stop. I know her. She’ll keep pushing until somebody does kill her. What I’m hoping you can do is figure out what’s going on and then get John involved. John’s got the clout to force somebody with a badge to help her.”
    â€œI’ll go see her, Mr. Thorpe. Where does she live?”
    â€œShe has a house in Billings. In fact, thanks to her mom, she’s got property all over the place. But she’s in Bismarck right now. She spends so much time there she leased an apartment.”
    â€œOh,” DeMarco said. “How far is Bismarck from here?”
    â€œFour, four and a half hours.”
    â€œFour and a half hours ?”
    â€œYeah. If you leave now you can be there by supper time. I’ll send her an email and tell her you’re coming.” Thorpe shook his head. “I’d call her but she’s become so paranoid she thinks her calls are being monitored. And, hell, maybe she’s right.”

4
    Bill and Marjorie met Curtis at a restaurant called the Pirogue Grille near the Radisson where Curtis was staying. The Pirogue Grille was an elegant place with old redbrick walls, dark furnishings, intricate brass chandeliers, and eye-catching artwork on the walls. It had an excellent wine list and a menu that included venison and buffalo as well as more traditional fare. But the menu and the elegance were wasted on Curtis, a man who usually had a bowl of soup for dinner. If a restaurant had a children’s menu, Curtis would often order from it not only because the portions were small but because the kiddie meals cost less.
    Curtis was a complete mystery to Bill and Marjorie. The man was seventy-four years old, worth over a billion dollars, and if the insurance actuaries were right, he was most likely entering his last decade. A man with that much money and that little time left on earth ought to be enjoying all the money he’d made, but it seemed as if Curtis had only one interest in life: making more money.
    He stayed in modestly priced hotels like the Radisson. He didn’t drive a luxury car. He didn’t own a yacht. He did own a jet, but only because he needed one to get around the country and didn’t like to be tied to the airlines’ schedules. His clothes looked like the sort you’d buy at Macy’s—nice enough but nothing fancy; Bill spent more on his clothes every year than Curtis did. In the time they’d worked for him, as far as they knew, he’d never taken a vacation. He didn’t go on cruises. He didn’t play golf. He didn’t have any hobbies. He spent most of his life on his plane or in conference rooms and law offices. What in the hell was the point of living that way?
    When they first met him, Marjorie tried to get him to talk about himself and his family. They knew he was married and had been married to the same poor woman for almost fifty years. He had two children. His son was still a bachelor and a doctor in Austin. His daughter was the mother of two, like Marjorie, and owned an art gallery in Dallas. But even as good as Marjorie was at getting people to talk about themselves, she couldn’t draw Curtis out. When he was with them the only thing he wanted to talk about was whatever problem he was having at the time that was preventing him from making more money. Marjorie eventually stopped asking how his wife, kids, and grandkids were doing. She came to the conclusion that Curtis honestly didn’t care how they were