He Huffed and He Puffed by Barbara Paul

human life to get what he wanted. He’d dealt with people who killed indirectly—by ignoring safety precautions for their workers, by putting lethal products on the market. Killing a whole town by shutting down the only source of employment in order to get a tax write-off. But that was business; that went with the territory. But actually planning a murder and then carrying it out with one’s own two hands … that was something from another world.
    But then he’d set his sights on House of Glass and found himself up against not one killer but three. That made even A. J. Strode pause. Could he have dealt with killers before and not known it? But that wasn’t the immediate problem; right now he had to concern himself with Joanna Gillespie, Jack McKinstry, and Richard Bruce. Among them they were responsible for the deaths of forty-three people. Gillespie killed her family and McKinstry killed his friends, but for sheer numbers Richard Bruce was the winner hands down. Hands down indeed. All hands had gone down, in the stormy Hawaiian waters seventeen years ago. Richard Bruce had seen to that.
    This was the man they’d come to Los Angeles to meet.
    Their appointment was for eleven. When Castleberry arranged for a limo to pick them up, he’d asked for a driver familiar with the port area. Los Angeles harbor covered nearly thirty miles of coastline; everything was well marked, but it was still easy to get lost there. The driver took the Harbor Freeway to the West Basin, where Richard Bruce’s office was located.
    On the way Castleberry was still trying to talk Strode out of it. “You don’t know what else he might have done,” he argued. “One of his competitors conveniently died in an accident, you know. And Bruce is a widower—maybe he killed his wife. And a harbormaster who was giving him trouble simply disappeared. Disappeared! Mr. Strode, you shouldn’t even be in the same city with this man!” The two bodyguards were listening with interest.
    â€œAren’t you letting your imagination run away with you?” Strode asked testily, not liking Castleberry’s uncharacteristically tactless implication that he was no match for Richard Bruce. “Nobody can go around killing whenever he feels like it and never get caught. He’s not Superman, for god’s sake. I don’t want to deal with him, but I’m not going in with my eyes closed. I know what I’m up against.”
    â€œThen stay in the car with one of the guards and let me talk to him. Better still, just mail him the envelope. You don’t have to see him in person.”
    â€œThat’s where you’re wrong. A man like Bruce won’t tamely follow instructions that come in the mail. He’s going to have to see for himself that I’m not just making noise for the fun of it. And I want to make this as easy for him as I can. Just another business deal.”
    Sure it is , Castleberry’s face said.
    Bruce Shipping Lines occupied a five-story building, with the owner’s offices on the top floor. An unsmiling secretary ushered them in.
    The inner office gleamed with polished wood, even the floor. Richard Bruce was standing at his desk, his back to a wide window that looked out over the harbor. He was leaning over a set of printouts but stood up straight when Strode and company walked in, showing an almost military bearing. Bruce had a composed, expressionless face and a compact body, carrying no extra weight. Not too tall, in his early fifties, black hair with dramatic gray streaks in it. Bruce was a well-tailored man; he wore his obviously expensive suit with ease. The man was downright elegant. Castleberry thought he could have posed for a chamber of commerce advertisement depicting an idealized version of the successful American businessman.
    One of Strode’s guards stayed outside and closed the office door behind them. The other positioned himself with his back