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.
84
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.
85
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:
Nick-info for you-talk soon?
“Is it Sundquist again?” he said to Marjorie, as he typed:
come by my office now.
“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?”