Company Man (38 page)

There wasn't any e-mail from Cassie. Not that he expected any, but he was sort of hoping there'd be something. He realized he owed her an apology, so he typed:

Then he adjusted the angle on the flat-panel monitor, opened his browser and went to Google. He typed in Randall Enright's name, and the name of his law firm, from the card Cassie had gotten from him last night.

Abbotsford Gruendig had offices in London, Chicago, Los Angeles, Tokyo, and Hong Kong, among other places. “With over two thousand lawyers in 25 offices around the world, Abbotsford Gruendig provides worldwide service to national and multinational corporations, institutions and governments,” the firm's home page boasted.

He typed in Randall Enright's name. It appeared, as part of a list of names, on a page headed with the rubric
MERGERS & ACQUISITIONS
and then more boilerplate:

Blah blah blah. More legal gobbledygook.

But it told him that Scott sure as hell wasn't getting up to speed on new accounting regulations.

He was up to something completely different.

 

Stephanie Alstrom, Stratton's corporate counsel, wore a navy blue suit with a white blouse and a big heavy gold chain necklace that was probably intended to make her look more authoritative. Instead, the necklace and matching earrings diminished her, made her look tiny. Her gray hair was close-cropped, her mouth heavily lined, the bags under her eyes pronounced. She was in her fifties but looked twenty years older. Maybe that was what decades of practicing corporate law could do to you.

“Sit down,” Nick said. “Thanks for dropping by.”

“Sure.” She looked worried, but then again, she always looked worried. “You wanted to know about Abbotsford Gruendig?”

Nick nodded.

“I'm not sure what you wanted to know, exactly, but it's a big international law firm, offices all over the world. A merger of an old-line British firm and a German one.”

“And that guy Randall Enright?”

“M and A lawyer, speaks fluent Mandarin. A real hotshot. China law specialist, spent years in their Hong Kong office until his wife forced them to move back to the States. Mind if I ask why the sudden interest?”

“The name came up, that's all. Now, what do you know about Stratton Asia Ventures?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Not much. A subsidiary corporation Scott set up. He never ran it by my office.”

“Is that unusual?”

“We review all sorts of contracts, but we don't go after
people and insist on it. I assumed he was using local counsel in Hong Kong.”

“Check this out, would you?” Nick handed her the e-mail from Scott to Martin Lai in Hong Kong, which Scott had tried to delete.

“Ten million dollars wired to an account in Macau,” Nick said as she looked it over. “What does that tell you?”

She looked at Nick, looked down quickly. “I don't know what you're asking me.”

“Can you think of a circumstance in which ten million dollars would be wired to a numbered account in Macau?”

She flushed. “I don't want to be casting aspersions. I really don't want to guess.”

“I'm asking you to, Steph.”

“Between you and me?”

“Please. Not to be repeated to anyone.”

After a moment's hesitation, she said, “One of two things. Macau is one of those money-laundering havens. The banks there are used for hidden accounts by the Chinese leaders, same way deposed third-world dictators use the Caymans.”

“Interesting. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

She was clearly uncomfortable. “Embezzlement—or a bribe. But this is only speculation on my part, Nick.”

“I understand.”

“And not to be repeated.”

“You're afraid of Scott, aren't you?”

Stephanie looked down at the table, her eyes darting back and forth, and she said nothing.

“He works for me,” Nick said.

“On paper, I guess,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Her remark felt to Nick like a blow to his solar plexus. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“The org chart says he's under you, Nick,” she said hastily. “That's all I mean.”

“Got something for you,” Eddie said over the phone.

“I'll meet you in the small conference room on my floor in ten minutes,” Nick said.

Eddie hesitated. “Actually, why don't you come down to my office?”

“How come?”

“Maybe I'm tired of taking the elevator up there.”

The only thing worse than this kind of idiotic, petty game, Nick thought, was responding to it. “Fine,” he said curtly, and hung up.

 

“You know how much e-mail Scotty blasts out?” Eddie said, leaning back in his chair. It was a new chair, Nick noticed, one of a premium, super-limited run of Symbiosis chairs upholstered in butter-soft Gucci leather. “He's like a one-man spam generator or something.”

“Sorry to put you out,” Nick said. He also noticed that Eddie had a new computer with the largest flat-panel monitor he'd ever seen.

“Guy's a Levitra addict, first off. Gets it over the Internet. I guess he doesn't want his doc to know—small town and all that.”

“I really don't care.”

“He also buys sex tapes. Like
How to Be a Better Lover
.
Enhance Your Performance. Sex for Life
.”

“Goddammit,” Nick said, “that's his business, and I don't want to hear about it. I'm only interested in
our
business.”

“Our business,” Eddie said. He sat upright, reached over for a thick manila folder, and set it down in front of Nick with a thud. “Here's something that's very much our business. Do you even know the first fucking thing about Cassie Stadler?”

“We're back to that?” Nick snapped. “You stay out of my goddamned e-mails, or—”

Eddie looked up suddenly, his eyes locked with Nick's. “Or what?”

Nick shook his head, didn't reply.

“That's right. We're joined at the hip now, big guy. I got job security, you understand?”

Nick's heart thrummed, and he bit his lower lip.

“Now,” Eddie said, a lilt to his voice. “I'm not reading your fucking e-mails. I don't need to. You forget I can watch your house on my computer.”

“Watch my
house
?” Nick shook his head. “Huh?”

Eddie shrugged. “Your security cameras transmit over the Internet to the company server, you know that. I can see who's coming and going. And I can see this babe coming and going a
lot
.”

“You do not have permission to spy on me, you hear me?”

“Couple of weeks ago you were begging for my help. Someday soon you'll thank me. You know this chick spent eight months in a psycho ward?”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Only it was six months, and it wasn't a ‘psycho ward.' She was hospitalized for depression after a bunch of college friends of hers were killed in an accident. So what?”

“You know that for the last six years, there's no record of any FICA payments on this broad? Meaning that she didn't have a job? Don't you think that's strange?”

“I'm not hiring her to be vice president of human re
sources. In fact, I'm not hiring her at all. She's been a yoga teacher. How many yoga teachers make regular Social Security payments, anyway?”

“I'm not done yet. Get this: ‘Cassie' isn't even her real name.”

Nick furrowed his brow.

Eddie smiled. “Helen. Her name is Helen Stadler. Cassie—that's not on her birth certificate. Not a legal name change. Totally made up.”

“So what? What's your point?”

“I got a feeling about her,” Eddie said. “Something about her ain't correct. We talked about this already, but let me say it again: I don't care how sweet the snatch. It ain't worth the risk.”

“All I asked you to do was to find out what Scott McNally was up to.”

After a few seconds of sullen silence, Eddie handed Nick another folder.

“So, those encrypted documents my guys found?”

“Yeah?”

“My guys cracked 'em all. It's really just one document, bunch of different drafts, went back and forth between Scotty and some lawyer in Chicago.”

“Randall Enright.”

Eddie cocked his head. “That's right.”

“What is it?”

“Fuck if I know. Legal bullshit.”

Nick started to page through the documents. Many of them were labeled
DRAFT ONLY
and
REDLINE
. The sheets were dense with legal jargon and stippled with numbers, the demon spawn of a lawyer and an accountant.

“Maybe he's selling company secrets,” Eddie said.

Nick shook his head. “Not our Scott. Huh-uh. He's not selling company secrets.”

“No?”

“No,” Nick said, once again short of breath. “He's selling the company.”

“Why do you trust me?” said Stephanie Alstrom. They met in one of the smaller conference rooms on her floor. There was just no damned privacy in this company, Nick realized. Everyone knew who was meeting with whom; everyone could listen in.

“What do you mean?”

“Scott's stabbing you in the back, and you hired him too.”

“Instinct, I guess. Why, are you working against me too?”

“No,” she smiled. Nick had never seen her smile before, and it wrinkled her face strangely. “I just guess I should feel flattered.”

“Well,” Nick said, “my instinct has failed me before. But you can't be distrustful of everyone.”

“Good point,” she said, putting on a pair of half-glasses. “So, you know what you've got here, right?”

“A Definitive Purchase Agreement,” Nick said. He'd looked over hundreds of contracts like this in his career, and even though the legalese froze his brain, he'd learned to hack his way through the dense underbrush to uncover the key points. “Fairfield Equity Partners is selling us to some Hong Kong–based firm called Pacific Rim Investors.”

Stephanie shook her head slowly. “That's not what I pick up from this. It's strange. For one thing, there's not a single mention in the list of assets of any factories or plants or em
ployees. Which, if they were planning to keep any of it, they'd have to list. And then, in the Representations and Warranties section, it says the buyer's on the hook for any costs, liabilities, et cetera, associated with shutting down U.S. facilities or firing all employees. So, it's pretty clear. Pacific Rim is buying only Stratton's name. And getting rid of everything else.”

Nick stared. “They don't need our factories. They've got plenty in Shenzhen. But all this money for a
name
?”

“Stratton means class. An old reliable American name that's synonymous with elegance and solidity. Plus, they get our distribution channels. Think about it—they can make everything over there at a fraction of the price, slap a Stratton nameplate on it, sell it for a premium. No American firm would have made a deal like this.”

“Who are they, this Pacific Rim Investors?”

“No idea, but I'll find out for you. Looks like Randall Enright wasn't working for Fairfield after all—he represents the buyer. Pacific Rim.”

Nick nodded. Now he understood why Scott had given Enright the factory tour. Enright was in Fenwick to do due diligence on behalf of a Hong Kong–based firm that couldn't come to visit because they wanted to keep everything very quiet.

She said, “The least they could do is tell you.”

“They knew I'd go ballistic.”

“That must be why they put Scott on the board. Asians always demand to meet with the top brass. If Todd Muldaur thought firing you would help, he'd have done it already.”

“Exactly.”

“It freaks potential buyers out if a CEO gets fired right before a sale. Everyone's antennae go up. Plus, a lot of the key relationships are yours. The smarter move was to hermetically seal you off. As they did.”

“I used to think Todd Muldaur was an idiot, but now I know better. He's just a prick. Can you explain this side agreement to me?”

Her pruned mouth turned down in a scowl. “I've never
seen anything like it. It looks like some kind of deal-sweetener. From what I can tell, it's a way to speed up the deal, make it happen fast. But that's just a guess. You might want to talk to someone who knows.”

“Like who? Scott's the only one I know who understands the really devious stuff.”

“He's good, but he's not the only one,” Stephanie said. “Does Hutch still speak to you?”

Nick had begun to dread going out in public.

Not “public” as in going to work, though that still took a fair amount of effort, putting on his Nick Conover, CEO act, confident and friendly and outgoing, when a toxic spill of anxiety threatened to ooze out through his pores. But whether it was school functions or shopping or taking clients out to restaurants, it was getting harder and harder to keep the mask fastened securely.

What was once just uncomfortable, even painful—seeing people the company had laid off, exchanging polite if tense words with them, or just generally feeling like a pariah in this town—was now close to intolerable. Everywhere he went, everyone he ran into, he felt as if a neon sign was hanging around his neck, its gaudy orange tubes flashing the word
MURDERER
.

Even tonight, when he was just another spectator at Julia's piano recital. Her long-dreaded, long-awaited piano recital. It was being held in one of the old town performance theaters, Aftermath Hall, a mildew-smelling old place that had been built in the nineteen thirties, a Steinway grand on a yellow wooden stage, red velvet curtain, matching red velvet upholstered seats with uncomfortable wooden backs.

The kids in their little coats and ties or their dresses streaked across the lobby, propelled by nervous energy. A
couple of little African-American boys in jackets and ties with their older sister, in a white dress with a bow: unusual in Fenwick, given how few blacks there were.

He was startled to find Laura's sister there. Abby was a couple of years older than Laura, had two kids as well, married a guy with a trust fund and no personality. He claimed to be a novelist, but mostly he played tennis and golf. Abby had the same clear blue eyes as Laura, had the same swan neck. Instead of Laura's corkscrew brown curls, though, her brown hair was straight and glossy and fell to her shoulders. She was more reserved, had a more regal bearing, was less approachable. Nick didn't especially like her. The feeling was probably mutual.

“Hey,” he said, touching her elbow. “Nice of you to come. Julia's going to be thrilled.”

“It was sweet of Julia to call me.”

“She did?”

“You seem surprised. You didn't tell her to?”

“I can't tell her to do anything, you know that. How's the family?”

“We're fine. Kids doing okay?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. They miss you a lot.”

“Do they? Not you, though.” Then she softened it a bit with a smile that didn't look very sincere.

“Come on. We all do. How come we haven't seen you?”

“Oh,” she breathed, “it's been crazy.”

“Crazy how?”

She blinked, looked uncomfortable. Finally she said, “Look, Nick, it's hard for me. Since…”

“Hey, it's okay,” Nick put in hastily. “I'm just saying, don't be a stranger.”

“No, Nick,” Abby said, inclining her head, lowering her voice, her eyes gleaming with something bad. “It's just that—every time I look at you.” She looked down, then back up at him. “Every time I look at you it makes me sick.”

Nick felt as if he'd just been kicked in the throat.

Little kids, big kids running past, dressed up, taut with the
preperformance jitters. Someone playing a swatch of complicated music on the Steinway, sounding like a professional you might hear at Carnegie Hall.

Laura's nude body on the folding wheeled table after the embalming, Nick weeping and slobbering as he dressed her, his request, honored by the funeral director with some reluctance. Nick unable to look at her waxen face, a plausible imitation of her once glowing skin, the neck and cheek he'd nuzzled against so many times.

“You think the accident was my fault, that it?”

“I really see no sense in talking about it,” she said, looking at the floor. “Where's Julia?”

“Probably waiting her turn at the piano.” Nick felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and was stunned to see Cassie. His heart lifted.

She stood on her tiptoes, gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Cass—Jesus, I had no idea—”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Did Julia order you to show up too?”

“She
told
me about it, which is a different thing. I'd say a daughter's piano recital falls in the category of a family obligation, don't you think?”

“I'm—wow.”

“Come on, I'm practically family. Plus, I'm a big classical piano fan, don't you know that about me?”

“Why do I doubt that?”

She put her lips to his ear and whispered, her hot breath getting him excited: “I owe you an apology.”

Then she was gone, before Nick had a chance to introduce her.

“Who's the new girlfriend?” Abby's voice, abrupt and harsh and brittle, an undertone of ridicule.

Nick froze. “Her name's…Cassie. I mean, she's—”

I mean, she's what? Not a girlfriend? Just a fuck? Oh, she's the daughter of the guy I murdered, ain't that a funny coincidence? Tell that to Craig, your alleged-writer husband. Give him something to write about.

“She's beautiful.” Abby's arched brows, lowered lids, glimmering with contempt.

He nodded, supremely uncomfortable.

“She doesn't exactly seem like the Nick Conover type, though. Is she an…artist or something?”

“She does some painting. Teaches yoga.”

“Glad you're dating again.” Abby could not have sounded more inauthentic.

“Yeah, well…”

“Hey, it's been a year, right?” she said brightly, something cold and hard and lilting in her voice. “You're allowed to date.” She smiled, victorious, not even bothering to hide it.

Nick couldn't think of anything to say.

 

LaTonya was lecturing some poor soul as Audrey approached, wagging her forefinger, her long coral-colored nails—a self-adhesive French manicure kit she'd been hounding Audrey to try—looking like dangerous instruments. She was dressed in an avocado muumuu with big jangly earrings. “That's right,” she was saying. “I can make a hundred and fifty dollars an hour easy, taking these online surveys. Sitting at home in my pajamas. I get paid for expressing my
opinions
!”

When she saw Audrey, she lit up. “And I figured you'd be working,” she said, enfolding Audrey in an immense bosomy hug.

“Don't tell me Leon's here too.” LaTonya seemed to have forgotten about her sales pitch, freeing the victim to drift off.

“I don't know where Leon is,” Audrey confessed. “He wasn't at home when I stopped in.”

“Mmm
hmm,
” LaTonya hummed significantly. “The one thing I
know
he's not doing is working.”

“Do you know something you're not telling me?” Audrey said, embarrassed by the desperation she'd let show.

“About Leon? You think he tells me anything?”

“LaTonya, sister,” Audrey said, moving in close, “I'm worried about him.”

“You do too much worrying about that man. He don't deserve it.”

“That's not what I mean. He's—well, he's gone too much.”

“Thank your lucky stars for that.”

“We—we haven't had much of a private life in a very long time,” Audrey forced herself to say.

LaTonya waggled her head. “I don't think I want to know the gory details about my brother, you know?”

“No, I'm…Something's going on, LaTonya, you understand what I'm saying, don't you?”

“His drinking getting even worse?”

“It isn't that, I don't think. He's just been disappearing a lot.”

“Think that bastard is cheating on you, that it?”

Tears sprang to Audrey's eyes. She compressed her lips, nodded.

“You want me to have a talk with him? I'll slice his fucking balls off.”

“I'll handle it, LaTonya.”

“You don't hesitate to call me in, hear? Lazy bastard don't know what a good thing he has in you.”