Company Man (46 page)

The special board meeting was set to start at 2
P.M.
, and by a quarter to, most of the invited participants had arrived in the narrow anteroom. Scott had come first, and he didn't dance around the subject. Nick had a stack of unanswered phone messages from him, all from this morning. Marjorie had been instructed to keep him away from Nick's home base.

“Don't leave me in the dark here, Nick,” Scott said. Nick noticed he was wearing a brand-new shirt: white, narrow-point collar, looked like Armani, completely different from the frayed Oxford-cloth button-downs he usually wore. “Come on, Nick, I can't read my lines if I don't have a script, okay?”

“I thought we'd be spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous,” Scott repeated. “Spontaneous combustion. Spontaneous abortion. Spontaneous aortic aneurysm.” He shook his head. “I don't like that word ‘spontaneous.'”

Nick cocked his head. “We're trying something new, here,” he said, deliberately cryptic.

“I just want to help, Nick.” There was a sullen look in his lilac-rimmed eyes.

“I'm counting on it,” Nick said. “In fact, could you get me a Diet Coke? No ice if it's already cold.”

Scott looked like he was about to say something when
Davis Eilers—khakis and a white polo shirt beneath a blue blazer—slung an arm around Scott's shoulder and took him away.

“So where's the agenda?” Todd Muldaur asked Nick, as the anteroom started to grow crowded. “Dan, Davis, and I flew here on the Fairfield corporate jet together, and guess what—none of us got an agenda.”

“Oh, there's an agenda,” Nick said with a smile. “It's just not printed.”

“I never heard of that. Special board meeting but no written agenda?” He exchanged glances with Dan Finegold. “Hope this isn't one of those panic moves,” he said to Nick with what was meant to be a look of kindly concern in his too-blue eyes.

Finegold gave Nick an upper-bicep squeeze. “Slow and steady, right?”

“How's the brewery?” Nick asked him.

“Couldn't be better,” Finegold said. “On the brewing end, at least. Micro's a crowded category right now.”

Nick dropped his voice confidingly. “Truth is, Rolling Rock's more my speed. I like a beer I can see through.” He scanned the room until he saw Scott McNally, huddled in a corner with Davis Eilers. Nick didn't need to hear them talk to work out that Eilers was trying to get the lowdown from Scott. Scott's response was evident from a series of nervous shrugs and headshakes.

Now Todd took Nick by the elbow, and spoke to him in a low, tense voice. “Pretty short notice, don't you think?”

“The chairman of the board has the power to convene an extraordinary session of the board,” Nick said blandly.

“But what's the goddamned
agenda?
”

Nick grinned, didn't answer. “Funny, I was remembering what you said about turtles and turtle soup.”

Todd shrugged. “Dan and I didn't mind canceling our other appointments, but, hey, there's a Yankees–Red Sox game tonight. We both had to give away our tickets. So I hope it's going to be worth our while, huh?”

“Definitely. Count on it. We weren't able to rustle up
that good coffee, though. You'll have to overlook a few things.”

“We're getting used to that,” said Todd with a grin that snapped shut an instant later. “Just hope you know what you're doing.” He craned his head and exchanged a long glance with Scott.

Nick noticed Dorothy Devries making her entrance. She was wearing a royal blue skirt suit, with big clown-suit buttons. Her mouth was pursed and she was fingering her silver brooch with a clawlike hand. Nick waved to her from across the room, a big hearty gesture that she returned with a refrigerator smile.

Nick continued to shake hands, and make welcoming noises, until he noticed that Eddie Rinaldi had entered the room. Eddie sidled up to him with a look of impatience. “Guess what? Your fucking alarm went off again.”

Nick groaned. “I can't—can you handle it?”

Eddie nodded. “Gas leak.”

“
Gas
leak?”

“Alarm company called, then they called back, said a ‘Mrs. Conover' told them she's handling it, but I think I should check it out. Unless you got married without telling me.”

Nick, distracted, shook his head. “And Marta's out of the country.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“She's not there. The kids should be home by now, though.”

Eddie put a hand on Nick's shoulder. “I'll head over there. You don't fuck around with a gas leak.” He took an amused look around the room before sidling off.

“Well, why don't we go sit down?” Nick said. His words were addressed to Todd but were loud enough to count as instructions to the room.

A couple of minutes later, everyone had taken a seat around the oversized mahogany table in the boardroom. Scott was playing with his plasma screen, raising it and lowering it nervously, like a kid with a Transformer Action Figure.

Nick didn't sit at his usual spot at the head of the table. He left that chair empty and took the seat next to it. He nodded at Stephanie Alstrom, who wore her usual look of arid unease. She rested her hands on a thick file folder.

“I want to start with some very good news,” Nick said. “Atlas McKenzie is in. They signed this morning.”

“Why, that's
tremendous,
Nick,” Todd said. “Good going! You talk them off the ledge yourself?”

“Wish I could take the credit,” Nick said. “Willard Osgood had to get on the horn himself.”

“Really,” Todd said, coolly. “That's an unusual tactic.”

“He volunteered,” Nick said. “I didn't twist his arm.”

“Did he? I guess he likes to show that he can land a big one from time to time.” Todd's expression hovered between amusement and condescension. “They don't make 'em like that anymore.”

“I'll say.” Nick pressed an intercom button and spoke to Marjorie. “Marjorie, I think we're all ready here. Could you let our visitor know?” Looking up, he went on, “Now, I didn't convene this extraordinary session to crow about good news. There are some serious issues we've got in front of us, which have to do with the future of this company.” He paused for a moment. “A number of you have urged me to take a hard look at manufacturing costs. I've been resistant, and maybe I've been too resistant. Looking forward, now, we have decided to start diversifying our manufacturing base. Stratton is going to contract out the manufacturing for our low-cost Stratton/Basics lines. We're currently in negotiation with a number of overseas manufacturers, including some strong candidates in China. It's a move that will ensure we'll continue to be competitive in the most price-sensitive part of our market.”

Dorothy Devries's expression was almost a smirk. Todd and Scott both looked confused, as if they were on a train that had gone one stop past their destination.

“We've reached a different decision about the higher-end lines, which are at the core of our brand identity,” Nick went on. “These we'll continue to manufacture right here in Fenwick.”

“I'm sorry to step in,” Todd said, clearing his throat. “But you're referring to ‘we,' and I don't know who you mean by that. Are you talking about your full management team? Because a lot of us are inclined to think that it's too late in the day for half measures.”

“I'm aware of this.” In a louder voice, he said, “As some of you here know and some of you don't know—and until recently, I was among those who didn't know—certain parties representing Fairfield have been negotiating to sell the Stratton brand to a consortium called Pacific Rim Investors, which controls a large Shenzhen-based manufacturer of office furniture, Shenyang Industries.”

Nick didn't know whether he had been expecting gasps or cries of astonishment, but there weren't any. Just the sound of shuffling papers and cleared throats.

Todd looked smug. “May I say a few words?”

“Absolutely,” Nick said.

Todd turned slightly, addressing the other members of the board. “First, I want to apologize to the CEO of this company for keeping him out of the loop on the deal. We at Fairfield have been taking a long, hard look at the numbers, and, frankly, we see an opportunity here, one we cannot afford to pass up. Stratton has entered into a crisis phase. Nick Conover—and I want to commend him for his candor—has made it very clear, every step of the way, that there are certain options he just can't accept. Well, we respect his views. And we certainly respect his excellent work on behalf of the company. But this is a case where management cannot be given the final word.” A beat. “The greatest praise I can give any manager is to say that he does his work with passion.” He turned to face Nick. “That's certainly true of you, Nick. But when a firm reaches a critical inflection point, there are hard choices to be made—and they need to be made with
dis
passion.”

He leaned back in his black Stratton chair, looking sleeker by the moment. “That's the thing about being in a crisis zone,” he said, hardly bothering to conceal his self-satisfaction. “It's what everyone at McKinsey gets drummed
into their heads from day one. The Chinese word for ‘crisis' combines the characters for ‘danger' and ‘opportunity.'”

“No doubt,” Nick said breezily. “And the Chinese word for ‘outsourcing' combines the characters for ‘lost' and ‘jobs.'”

“We owe you a lot,” Todd said in a lordly tone. “Don't think we're not grateful. I'm sure I speak for
everyone
when I say that we appreciate all you've given to Stratton. It's just that the time has come to move on.”

“I know you'd
like
to speak for everyone. But maybe some of us prefer to speak for themselves.” Nick stood up, nodding at the tall bespectacled man who had just let himself into the room.

Willard Osgood.

The central monitoring station for Fenwicke Estates also serviced three other gated communities in and around Fenwick, including Safe Harbor, Whitewood Farms, and Catamount Acres. It was a low-slung windowless building located in an anonymous area of strip malls and fast-food restaurants. It could have been a warehouse. It was surrounded by chain-link fencing and was unmarked except for a street number. Audrey knew this was for security reasons. Out back were two hulking emergency diesel generators.

When in doubt, get a warrant. You couldn't count on people to be cooperative, even in an emergency, so she'd called in for a search warrant, had it faxed over to the central monitoring station, to the attention of the facility's general manager. Police headquarters had all that information on file.

The assistant operations manager, Bryan Mundy, was a man in a wheelchair who was as cooperative as could be, as it turned out. He was also extremely voluble, which was annoying, but she nodded and smiled pleasantly, silently urging him to hurry. She pretended to be interested, but not too interested.

As he led her through a maze of cubicles where women, mostly, sat in front of computers wearing headsets, he maneuvered his chair deftly and boasted about how they also monitored fire alarms for quite a few businesses and resi
dences in the area. He talked about how they were connected via secure Internet protocol to the many cameras and guard booths they monitored. About how they did live remote viewing of all cameras via a Web browser. Rolling through another area where other people, mostly men, were watching video feed on computer monitors, he talked proudly, and in endless detail, about the digital watermark on the video files that provided authentication using something called an MD5 algorithm that ensured the image had not been altered.

Audrey didn't understand but stored away the fact that Bryan Mundy would be a good resource when the case went to trial.

He told her that he'd considered a job in law enforcement too, but preferred the pay of the private sector.

“Events up to thirty days ago are stored right here,” he said as they entered another area, which was crowded with large racks of computer servers and storage media. “You're in luck. Anything older than that gets sent off to secure storage.”

She gave him the date she was interested in viewing, and he hooked up the black disk-array box, inside of which were several hard drives containing digital video backups. He located for her the video file from between noon and 6
P.M
. on the day that Nicholas Conover's family dog had been killed. She'd gotten the date and time from the uniform division. He showed her how to identify the files by camera number, but she told him she didn't know what camera it was she was looking for. Any camera located along Fenwicke Estates' perimeter fencing whose motion sensing might have been triggered during that time period.

Anyone, she thought, who had slipped into, or out of, Fenwicke Estates in the time surrounding the slaughter of Conover's dog.

“Lot of interest in this disk, huh?” Bryan Mundy said. “Log says that the security director of the Stratton Corporation came in here a while back and made some video caps off of it.”

“Do you have a record of which video frames he copied?

Mundy shook his head and poked at his teeth absently with an orange wooden plaque stick. “He said he worked for Nicholas Conover, the CEO of Stratton. Wanted to know if we had any perimeter video near the Conover house, but no dice. Conover's house is apparently a good ways from the fence.”

It didn't take her long to find a tall, gawky figure in a flapping coat, wearing heavy-framed glasses, approaching the fence, captured on camera 17.

“That's what he wanted too, the security director.”

Yes. That's how he and Conover came to believe it was Stadler who had eviscerated the dog.

But she could see from the way Stadler was craning his neck and squinting, his body language, that he was following someone. He wasn't looking behind, not afraid that he might have been followed. He was definitely
following
someone.

She knew who he was following. Dr. Landis's speculations made a terrible and clear sense.

“Can this rewind slowly?” she asked.

“Doesn't really rewind per se,” he said, smacking his lips around the plaque stick.

“How do I view earlier images, then?”

“Like this,” he said, and he pointed and double-clicked the mouse.

“Let's go back, I don't know, fifteen minutes and go from there.”

“You know which cameras you want?”

“No, unfortunately. Any one of them for fifteen minutes before this guy appears.”

He set it up for her and sat back as she moved through the images. His curiosity had gotten the better of his politeness; he sat there and watched as if he had nothing better to do.

Fortunately there weren't too many images to go through, since the recording was triggered by motion.

Seven minutes before Andrew Stadler had climbed the fence around Fenwicke Estates, scrambling like he was in hot pursuit, she found another figure. This one was smaller,
wearing a leather jacket, moving nimbly and with great purpose.

Dr. Landis's words:
Stadler would go off his meds periodically. His wife was unable to stay married to the man, understandably, and she abandoned her child, then took her away from her father a few years later—a psychic wound from which the child might have recovered had she not had an inherited genetic predisposition
.

As the leather-jacketed figure approached the wrought-iron fence, it turned its face to the camera, almost as if posing. A smile.

The figure's face was now distinct.

Cassie Stadler.

Helen Stadler, Dr. Landis had corrected Audrey
.

She changed her name to Cassie some time in adolescence. She thought it was a more interesting name. Maybe she liked the association with Cassandra, the Greek heroine endowed with the gift of prophecy whom no one heeded
.

She had been the one who had repeatedly broken into Nicholas Conover's house to spray ominous and threatening graffiti. The timing now made it clear that Cassie had been the one who had killed the Conovers' dog.

Not her father, who had followed her to Conover's house, just as he'd probably followed her many times before.

Knowing that his daughter was disturbed.

Andrew Stadler knew Cassie was afflicted with this disorder, talked about it with Dr. Landis obsessively, blamed himself.

With unsteady hands she picked up her cell phone and called Dr. Landis. His answering machine came on. After the beep, she began speaking.

“Dr. Landis, it's Detective Rhimes, and it's urgent that I speak with you at once.”

Dr. Landis picked up the phone.

“You told me Helen Stadler was obsessed with the notion of the family she never had,” Audrey said without giving her name. “Families she could never be a part of, families that excluded her.”

“Yes, yes,” the psychiatrist cut in, “what of it?”

“Dr. Landis, you mentioned a family that lived across the street from the Stadlers where Cass—Helen used to play all the time when she was growing up. A little girl she considered her best friend—she used to spend all of her time over there until they became annoyed and asked her to leave?”

“Yes.” Dr. Landis's voice was grave.

“Andrew Stadler was questioned years ago in connection with a tragic house fire across the street in which an entire family, the Stroups, died. He apparently did some repair work for them. Was this—?”

“Yes. Andrew said his daughter had his mechanical ability, and he'd taught her how to fix all sorts of things, and one night after they'd asked her to stop coming over she slipped into their house through the bulkhead doors, opened the gas line, and lit a match on her way out.”

“Dear God. She was never charged.”

“I was quite sure this was simply a fantasy of Andrew's, a manifestation of his paranoid fixation on his daughter. In any case, who would suspect a twelve-year-old girl? The authorities thought it was Andrew, but his alibi apparently held up under questioning. Something similar happened, you know, at Carnegie Mellon University during Helen's freshman year there. Andrew told me that his daughter belonged to a sorority, and she was quite obsessed with them as a surrogate family of sorts. Much later, he said, he heard about the terrible gas explosion in the sorority house in which eighteen women perished. This was the same night that Helen drove home from Pittsburgh, quite upset that one of her sorority sisters had said something to make her feel rejected.”

“I—I have to go, Doctor,” she said, ending the call.

Bryan Mundy had rolled up to her in his wheelchair and was signaling to her. “Talk about coincidences,” he said. “We were talking about Conover's house, and what do you know? We just got an alert on that system, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

“An alert?”

“No, not a burglar alarm or anything. Combustible gas
detector. Probably a gas leak. But the homeowner said she's got it under control.”

“She?”

“Mrs. Conover.”

“There is no Mrs. Conover,” Audrey said, heart knocking.

Mundy shrugged. “That's how she identified herself,” he said, but Audrey was already running toward the door.