"It is important," Hardy said. He had his coat back on and pulled it close around him.
Stone sat kitty-corner to him, turned in. "Last night you said it concerned YBMG?"
Assuming Stone was familiar with the background, Hardy gave him the short version, concluding with Larry Witt's concern over the timing and tone of the offering circular.
When he had finished, Stone did not answer immediately. "You know many doctors, Mr. Hardy?"
Hardy nodded. "Some."
"You know how many people try to sell them things?" He held up his hand. "No, I'll tell you. Not a day goes by that the average successful doctor doesn't get ten stock brochures, two or three credit-card applications, offers of lines-of-credit, you name it. Even if you go to the trouble of trying to get the post office to eliminate all this solicitation mail, you're inundated. Believe me, I've tried. It's out of our control."
"All right."
"All right. But you seem to think a flashy presentation, high-profile sales pitch is going to matter. It is not. We get them every day. In fact, the Board specifically decided to issue a low-key circular rather than a sensational one. We didn't want to raise hopes in the Group's future success after it went for-profit. It was entirely within the realm of the possible that we could have gone under altogether. No one – certainly no one on the Board – anticipated PacRim's interest, or the windfall."
"What about the short turnaround time you gave everyone?"
"It wasn't that short." Stone sat back, apparently relaxed, and crossed his legs. "Doctors tend to be fairly literate people, Mr. Hardy. They can read. But like everybody else, often they don't act until they have to. So you give people a deadline, it moves things along. Besides, remember that this was a twenty-dollar investment at most. Twenty dollars. Not the kind of decision you'd have to discuss with your wife or lawyer. It was straightforward and everybody had an opportunity."
"But not everybody bought."
Stone shrugged, nodded. "If you see a conspiracy in that, I'm afraid we have to part company there."
It would have been easier if Stone had shown the slightest sign of defensiveness, but he was sitting so comfortably, speaking so moderately, and, worst of all, making such perfect sense.
Hardy leaned forward. "Ali Singh said only thirty doctors bought."
Stone agreed. "Perhaps forty. I'm not exactly sure. Certainly less than wish they had now." He spread his arms, palms up, apologetic. "But that's the nature of these things. Who doesn't wish they'd bought Apple when it opened, or even McDonald's?"
"But Dr. Witt complained even before the windfall."
"Do you know that he complained? Who did he complain to? Maybe he just wanted to ask for an extension. Maybe he had a quick question. Maybe anything. I didn't know Dr. Witt personally, so I have no idea."
This interview was taking on a sense of deja vu – Villars had had the same objections. Hardy just didn't know. He was surmising and hoping but he didn't have a fact. Another wave of nausea hit him and he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.
"Mr. Hardy?"
"I'd better be going," he said. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."
Taking Hardy's arm, Stone walked with him across the room, through the door to the hallway. "You know," Hardy said, "I've got one more question if you don't mind… What happened to the shares no one bought?"
This was just another administrative detail, and Stone was forthcoming about it. "Some of them are in an escrow account, part of the Group's assets. Others we gave as bonuses. Some we traded for services."
"Such as legal fees?"
Stone smiled. "As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Bachman pulled quite a coup on that. And we thought we were getting a very good deal, an incredible deal, in fact."
They had come to the door. Stone was still enjoying Bachman's cleverness. "Crane normally hits us for two-fifty and hour, and Bachman suggested he handle the paperwork on the turnaround for fifty thousand shares. We figured it would be a hundred hours of legal work and the shares were worth twenty-five hundred dollars – at the time. It was a steal. So the Board took it. And actually it turned out to be more like three hundred hours, so we thought we'd done very well indeed."
"Fifty thousand shares?"
"At a nickel a share, remember. It was peanuts. Of course, now…"
Hardy waited.
"Well, we all made out well, I shouldn't begrudge Mr. Bachman. He put in a lot of work and he's made us all much wealthier. Is that a sin?"
"How much did he wind up getting?"
Stone pursed his lips, smiled. "I suppose that's in the public record. I can tell you – a little over seven million dollars."
Hardy repeated the number. Slowly. Out loud.
Stone agreed it was a great deal. "Now you'd better get home and get in bed. Take aspirin every four hours."
"Drink lots of liquids," Hardy said.
The doctor smiled. "Right. Then send me fifty dollars." The smile broke into a wide grin. "Sorry, forget the fifty dollars. Force of habit."
But he didn't go home.
David Freeman was up and about, conducting a classical concert – Hardy wasn't familiar with the piece – in his living room. Hardy threw his briefcase on the floor and sank heavily onto Freeman's couch, pulled a couple of stuffed pillows over him for warmth, and watched Freeman – baton in hand – direct his symphony.
He dozed.
When he woke up the fog still clung to the windows. Freeman had thrown a blanket over him. It was quiet and the older man was working over his kitchen table, reading a file, taking notes.
"What time is it?" Hardy's bones were too heavy to lift his wrist.
Freeman looked up. "After two. I usually get sick after a trial, too."
"I can't be sick." Hardy tried to straighten up. He wasn't entirely successful. "Why did I come here?" he asked, half to himself.
"Why are you here? What is life? The great questions. That's why I like you. You feel like lunch? I'm starving."
"I don't think I can eat."
"Okay." Freeman, however, went to the refrigerator and started rummaging around.
"I remember." This time Hardy got himself pulled up. He wrapped the blanket around him. "Jody Bachman made seven million dollars."
The sound of rummaging stopped.
"Fifty thousand shares," Hardy said.
Freeman's head appeared above the refrigerator door. "Which was it?" he asked.
"It was both."
"You mean he got seven million dollars plus fifty thousand shares of stock?" He shook his head. "We're in the wrong business."
"No, he got fifty thousand shares of stock, which turned out to be worth seven million dollars."
Abandoning his foraging efforts, Freeman crossed the small living room and sat at the end of the couch. His face was suddenly troubled. He scratched at his stubble. "He took stock as payment? Is he the managing partner down there?"
"Yes, he took stock. No, he's not the managing partner. Why?"
Freeman sat back. "What were the shares worth?"
"A nickel each," Hardy said. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking maybe you found something."
"I thought that, too." Hardy knew exactly what he thought but he wanted corroboration. He'd flown off too many times without getting his facts nailed down. It wasn't going to happen again. "I'm not sure I know what it is, though," he waited.
The thought, the argument, seemed to be blossoming in Freeman's head. He stood up and went to the window, studied the fog. Hardy rode out another bout of the shakes, then realized he'd broken a sweat. He threw off the blanket but then the chills started again.
Turning around, Freeman's face showed distaste. "You look like hell." That said, he moved right on, coming back to the couch, sitting close to Hardy, and explained his reasoning.