Company Man (39 page)

Audrey's heart broke when Nicholas Conover's daughter played the first prelude from
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. It wasn't just that the girl hadn't played all that well—a number of note fumbles, her technique not very polished, her performance mechanical. Camille had all but stolen the show with the Brahms waltz, had played perfectly and with heart, making Audrey burst with pride. It was what was about to happen to Julia Conover. This little girl, awkward in her dress, had lost her mother, something that should never happen to a child. And now she was about to lose her father.

In just a couple of days her father would be arrested, charged with murder. The only time she'd ever see her remaining parent would be during supervised jail visits, her daddy wearing an orange jumpsuit, behind a bulletproof window. Her life would be upended by a public murder trial; she'd never stop hearing the vicious gossip, she'd cry herself to sleep, and who would tuck her in at night? A paid babysitter? It was too awful to think about.

And then her daddy would be sent away to prison. This beautiful little girl, who wasn't much of a pianist but radiated sweetness and naïveté: her life was about to change forever. Andrew Stadler may have been the murder victim, but this little girl was a victim too, and it filled Audrey with sorrow and foreboding.

As the teacher, Mrs. Guarini, thanked the audience for coming and invited everyone to stay for refreshments, Audrey turned around and saw Nicholas Conover.

He was holding up a video camera. Next to him sat a beautiful young woman, and next to her Conover's handsome son, Lucas. Audrey did a double take, recognizing the woman, who just then put her hand on Conover's neck, stroking it familiarly.

It was Cassie Stadler.

Andrew Stadler's daughter.

Her mind spun crazily. She didn't know what to think, what to make of it.

Nicholas Conover, having an affair with the daughter of the man he'd murdered.

She felt as if a whole row of doors had just been flung open.

It had to happen, since the two of them got into work at about the same time.

Nick and Scott had been avoiding each other studiously. Even at meetings where both of them were present, they were publicly cordial yet no longer exchanged small talk, before or after.

But they could hardly avoid each other right now. Nick stood at the elevator bank, waiting, just as Scott approached.

Nick was the first to speak: “'Morning, Scott.”

“'Morning, Nick.”

A long stretch of silence.

Fortunately, someone else came up to them, a woman who worked in Accounts Receivable. She greeted Scott, who was her boss, then shyly said, “Hi” in Nick's general direction.

The three of them rode up in silence, everyone watching the numbers change. The woman got off on three.

Nick turned to Scott. “So you've been busy,” he said. It came out more fiercely than he intended.

Scott shrugged. “Just the usual.”

“The usual include killing new projects like Dashboard?”

A beat, and then: “I tabled it, actually.”

“I didn't know new product development was in your job description.”

Scott looked momentarily uncertain, as if he were considering ducking the question, but then he said, “Any expenditures of that magnitude concern me.”

The elevator dinged as it reached the executive floor.

“Well,” Scott said with visible relief, “to be continued, I'm sure.”

Nick reached over to the elevator control panel and pressed the emergency stop button, which immediately stopped the doors from opening and also set off an alarm bell that sounded distantly in the elevator shaft.

“What the hell are you—”

“Whose side are you on, Scott?” Nick asked with ferocious calm, crowding Scott into the corner of the elevator. “You think I don't know what's going on?”

Nick braced himself for the usual wisecracking evasions. Scott's face went a deep plum color, his eyes growing, but Nick saw anger in his face, not fear.

He's not scared of you,
Cassie had observed.

“There aren't any sides here, Nick. It's not like shirts versus skins.”

“I want you to listen to me closely. You are not to kill or ‘table' projects, change vendors, or in fact make any changes whatsoever without consulting me, are we clear?”

“Not that simple,” Scott replied levelly, a tic starting in his left eye. “I make decisions all day long—”

The elevator emergency alarm kept ringing.

Nick dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “Who do you think you're working for? Any decision you make, any order you give, that's not in your designated area of responsibility will be countermanded—by me. Publicly, if need be. You see, Scott, like it or not, you work for me,” Nick said. “Not for Todd Muldaur, not for Willard Osgood, but for me. Understand?”

Scott stared, his left eye wincing madly. Finally he said, “The real question is, who do you think
you're
working for? We both work for our stakeholders. It's pretty simple. Your problem is that you've never really understood that. You talk about managing this company as if you own the place. But
I've got news for you. You don't own the place, and neither do I. You think you're a better man than me because you got all teary-eyed when the layoffs came? You talk about the ‘Stratton Family,' but guess what, Nick. It's not a family. It's a business. You're a great face to parade in front of the Wall Street analysts. But just because you look good in tights doesn't make you a superhero.”

“That's enough, Scott.”

“Fairfield gave you the car keys, Nick. They didn't give you the car.”

Nick took a deep breath. “There's only one driver.”

The tic in Scott's eye was coming more rapidly now. Nick could see a vein pulsing at his temple. “In case you haven't figured it out,” Scott said, “things have changed around here. You can't fire me.” He tried to reach around for the emergency stop button to get the elevator doors open. But Nick swiveled his body in one quick motion to block Scott's hand.

“You're right,” he said. “I can't fire you. But let me be really clear: so long as I'm here, you are not to conduct any discussions regarding the sale of this company.”

A thin smile crept across Scott's face as he kept staring. Several seconds ticked by. The only sound was the ring of the elevator alarm. “Fine,” he said freezingly. “You're the boss.” But his tone called to mind Cassie's interpretation of Scott's refrain: those unspoken words
for now
.

He returned to his desk shaken and began to go through his e-mail. More Nigerians who sought to share their plundered millions. More offers to add inches, or borrow money, or acquire painkillers.

He called Henry Hutchens and made an appointment for coffee or an early lunch tomorrow. Then he tried Martin Lai in Hong Kong, at home, where it was around nine in the evening.

This time, Martin Lai answered. “Oh—Mr. Conover, yes, thank you, thank you,” he said, a cataract of nerves. “I'm very sorry I didn't call you back—I was on a trip, sir.”

Nick knew that wasn't true. Had Lai, surprised to get a call from the CEO, checked in with Scott, who told him not to reply? “Martin, I need your help with something important.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“What can you tell me about a ten-million-dollar transfer of funds out of Stratton Asia Ventures to a numbered account in Macau?”

“Sir, I don't know anything about that,” Lai answered, too quickly.

“Meaning you don't know why the transfer was made?”

“No, sir, this is the first I hear of it.”

He was covering up. Scott must have gotten to him.

“Martin, this financial irregularity has been called to my attention, and it's something I'm quite concerned about. I thought I'd see if you know anything before the formal investigation is launched by Compliance.”

“No, sir,” Lai said. “I never heard of it before.”

 

As he stared at the computer screen, Marjorie's voice came over the intercom, and at the same time an instant message popped up.

“Nick,” she said, “it's the high school again.”

Nick groaned.

The message was from Stephanie Alstrom:

“Is it Sundquist again?” he said to Marjorie, as he typed:

“I'm afraid it is,” Marjorie said. “And this time—well, it sounds awfully serious.”

“Oh, God,” he said. “Can you put me through?”

 

Stephanie Alstrom was getting out of the elevator just as Nick was about to get in. He gestured for her to stay in the cabin, and once the doors closed, he said, “I'm in a rush. Personal business. What do you have, Steph?”

“Pacific Rim Investors,” she said. “Apparently it's a consortium whose silent partner—their anonymous sugar daddy—is an arm of the P.L.A.—the People's Liberation Army of China.”

“Why the hell would the Chinese
army
want to buy Stratton?”

“Capitalism, pure and simple. They've bought up thousands of foreign corporations, usually through shell companies to avoid the political backlash. I wonder if Willard
Osgood knows it. He's somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun.”

“I wonder,” Nick said. “But no one's a bigger archconservative than Dorothy Devries. And you can bet
she
has no idea.”

“Nick, I know you're an extremely busy man,” Jerome Sundquist said, leading him past the framed photos of multicultural tennis champs, “but if anyone owes you an apology, it's your son.” He spoke loudly so Lucas could hear.

Lucas sat in one of the camel-upholstered side chairs, looking small, shoulders hunched, furled into himself. He was wearing a gray T-shirt under a plaid shirt and track pants that were zippered above the knee so you could turn them into shorts, not that Lucas ever did.

He didn't look up when Nick entered.

Nick stood there in his raincoat—this time he was prepared for the lousy weather, even brought an umbrella—and said, “You did it again, didn't you?”

Lucas didn't reply.

“Tell your father, Lucas,” Sundquist said as he took a seat behind his overly large desk. Nick wondered, fleetingly, why it was that people with the biggest desks and the biggest offices were often not all that powerful, in the scheme of things.

Then he reminded himself that Jerry Sundquist might only run a high school in a small town in Michigan, but right now he was as powerful in the lives of the Conovers as Willard Osgood.

Lucas cast the principal a bloodshot glare and looked back down at his feet. Had he been crying?

“Well, if he doesn't have the courage to tell you, I will,” Sundquist said, leaning back in his chair. He actually seemed to be enjoying this moment, Nick thought. “I told you that the second time he was caught smoking he'd be expelled.”

“Understood,” Nick said.

“And I think I also told you that if we found drugs, we'd let the police prosecute.”

“Drugs?”

“The school board voted unanimously a few years ago that any student using, distributing, or even possessing marijuana on school property will be suspended, arrested, and face an expulsion hearing.”

“Arrested,” Nick said, suddenly feeling a chill, as if he'd just stepped into a meat locker. Lucas wasn't crying. He was high.

“We notify the police and let them prosecute. And I have to tell you, Michigan tends to be tough on minors in possession of marijuana. The two-thousand-dollar fine is probably insignificant to you, Nick, but I've seen judges give minors anything from probation to forty-five days in prison, as much as a year.”

“Jerry—”

“Under Michigan law, we're required to notify the local police, do you know that? MCL three-eighty, thirteen oh eight. We don't have a choice about it.”

Nick nodded, put a hand on his forehead and began massaging away the headache. My God, he thought. Expulsion? There wasn't another high school for forty miles. And what private school would take Lucas, given his record? How would Laura have handled this? She was so much better at difficult situations than he was. “Jerry, I'd like us to talk. You and me. Without Luke.”

Sundquist didn't have to do anything more than raise his chin at Lucas, who quickly got up, as if shot from a cannon. “Wait in the faculty lounge,” he said to Lucas's back.

“I'm sorry, Nick. I hate to do this to you.”

“Jerry,” Nick said, leaning forward in his chair. For a moment, he lost his train of thought. Suddenly he wasn't a prominent parent, the president and chief executive officer of the biggest company in town. He was a high school kid pleading with the principal. “I'm as angry about this as you are. More so, probably. And we've got to let him know it's totally unacceptable. But it's his first time.”

“Somehow I doubt it's his first time using marijuana,” Sundquist said with a sidelong glance. “But in any case, we have a zero-tolerance policy. Our options are severely limited here.”

“It's not a gun, and he's not exactly a dealer. We're talking about one marijuana cigarette, right?”

Sundquist nodded. “That's all it takes these days.”

“Jerry, you've got to consider what the kid has been going through in the last year, with Laura's death.” There was a note of pleading in his voice that embarrassed Nick.

The principal looked unmoved. In fact, he looked almost pleased. Nick felt the anger in him rise, but he knew anger would be the worst response in this situation.

Nick took a deep breath. “Jerry, I'm asking for your mercy. If there's anything I can do for the high school, the school system. Anything Stratton can do.”

“Are you offering a
payoff
?” Sundquist said, biting off the words.

“Of course not,” Nick said, although both men knew that was exactly what he was talking about. An extra deep discount on furniture could save the high school hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.

Sundquist closed his eyes, shook his head sadly. “That's beneath you, Nick. What kind of lesson do you think it's going to teach your son if he gets special treatment because of who his dad is?”

“What we talk about stays between us,” Nick said. He couldn't believe that he'd just offered the high school principal a bribe. Was anything lower? Bribes—that was the coin of Scott McNally's realm, Todd Muldaur's realm. Not his.

Jerome Sundquist was looking at him with a new expres
sion now, one of disappointment and maybe even contempt. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it, Nick. But I'm willing to show some leniency on the grounds of his mother's death. I do have to notify the police that we're willing to handle the incident ourselves, and generally they leave it to our discretion. I'm giving Lucas a five-day suspension and assigning him to crisis counseling during that time and for the rest of the school year. But the next time, I go right to the police.”

Nick stood up, walked up to Sundquist's desk and put out his hand to shake. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said. “I think it's the right decision, and I appreciate it.”

But Sundquist wouldn't shake his hand.

 

Ten minutes later Nick and Lucas walked out together through the glass doors of the high school. The rain was really coming down now—it was monsoon season, had to be—and Nick held up his umbrella for Lucas, who shunned it, striding ahead through the rain, head up as if he wanted to get soaked.

Lucas seemed to hesitate before getting into the front seat, as if contemplating making a run for it. As the car nosed through the parking lot and onto Grandview Avenue, the silence was electric with tension.

Lucas wasn't high anymore. He was low, and he was silent, but it wasn't a neutral silence. It was a defiant silence, like that of a prisoner of war determined to reveal nothing more than his name, rank, and serial number.

Nick's own silence was the silence of someone who had plenty to say but was afraid of what would happen if he began to speak.

Lucas's hand snaked around to the radio dial and turned on some alternative rock station, blasting it.

Nick immediately switched it off. “You proud of yourself?”

Lucas said nothing, just stared fixedly ahead as the windshield wipers flipped back and forth in a lulling rhythm.

“You know something? This would have broken your mother's heart. You should be relieved she isn't around to see this.”

More silence. This time Nick waited for a reply. He was about to go on when Lucas said, in a hollow voice, “I guess you made sure of that.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

Lucas didn't respond.

“What the
fuck
is that supposed to mean?” Nick realized he was shouting. He could see a spray of his own spittle on the windshield. He pulled the car over, braked to an abrupt stop, and turned to face Lucas.

“What do
you
think?” Lucas said in a low, wobbly voice, not meeting his eyes.

Nick stared, disbelieving. “What are you trying to say?” he whispered, summoning all the calm he could muster.

“Forget it,” Lucas said, making a little buzz-off gesture with his left hand.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I wouldn't know, Dad. I wasn't there.”

“What's gotten into you, Lucas?” The windshield wipers ticked back and forth, back and forth, and he could hear the regular clicking of the turn signal that hadn't gone off. He reached over, switched off the signal. The rain sheeted the car's windows, making it feel like the two of them were inside a cabin in a terrible storm, but it wasn't a safe place. “Look, Luke, you don't have Mom anymore. You just have me. You wish it were otherwise. So do I. But we've got to make the best of a bad situation.”

“It wasn't me who made that situation.”

“No one ‘made' that situation,” Nick said.

“You killed Mom,” he said, so quietly that for a moment Nick wasn't sure Lucas had actually spoken the words.

Nick felt like someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed. “I can't deal with this right now. I can't deal with
you
.”

You Conover men. Better defended than a medieval castle
.

“Fine with me.”

“No,” Nick said. “No. Scratch that.” He was breathing hard, as if he had just done an eight-hundred-meter sprint.
“Okay, listen to me. What happened to your mother that night—God knows we've talked about it…”

“No, Dad.” Lucas's voice was shaky but resolute. “We've never talked about it. You
refer
to it. You don't talk about it. That's the house rule. We don't talk about it.
You
don't. You talk about what a fuck-up I am.
That's
what you talk about.”

The windows had begun to fog up. Nick closed his eyes. “About your mother. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't wonder whether there was anything I could have done—anything at all—that might have made a difference.”

“You never said…” Lucas's eyes were wet and his voice was thick, muffled.

“The truck came out of nowhere,” Nick began, but then he stopped. It was too painful. “Luke, what happened happened. And it wasn't about me and it wasn't about you.”

Lucas was quiet for a moment. “Fucking swim meet.”

“Lucas, don't try to make sense of it. Don't try to connect the dots, as if there was some kind of logic to it all. It just
happened
.”

“I didn't visit her.” Lucas's words were slurred, whether from the pot or from emotion, Nick couldn't tell, and didn't care. “In the hospital. Afterward.”

“She was in a coma. She was already gone, Luke.”

“Maybe she could have heard me.” His voice had gotten thin and reedy.

“She knew you loved her, Luke. She didn't need reminding. I don't think she wanted you to remember her like that, anyway. She wouldn't have been sore that you weren't there. She would have been glad. I really believe that. You were always attuned to her feelings. Like there was some radio frequency only the two of you could hear. You know something, Luke? I think maybe you were the only one of us who did what she would have wanted.”

Lucas buried his face in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way off. “Why do you hate me so much? Is it 'cause I look like her, and you can't deal with that?”

“Lucas,” Nick said. He was determined to hold it together. “I want you to listen to me. I need you to hear this.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “There is nothing in my life more precious to me than you are.” His voice was hoarse, and he got the words out with difficulty, but he got them out. “I love you more than my life.”

He put his arms around his son, who at first stiffened and squirmed, and then, suddenly, put his own arms around Nick and clasped him tightly, the way he did when Lucas was a little boy.

Nick felt the rhythmic convulsions of grief, the staccato expulsions of breath, and it took him a moment before he realized that Lucas wasn't the only one who was weeping.