Shell Game (2 page)

“So the bottom line is six-point-two million,” said the most senior of the Hammer-Fire executives.

She had them.

“That's correct, Don,” Taylor said.

“And there'll be no cost overruns.”

“None. We have the quotes for television and print guaranteed for the time frames you need. Our figures are accurate to the dollar.”

“Okay, Taylor,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “You've got the contract.”

“Thanks,” she said, shaking his hand. She turned to one of her staff members. “Do you have the paperwork, Reg?”

The man nodded and flipped open a file. “Right here.” He slid it across the table to the executive. “I'll need a couple of signatures.”

Twenty minutes later, Taylor Simons retreated to her corner office and dropped into her padded chair. She hated the uncomfortable and harsh chairs in the boardroom, but her clients expected a cutting-edge advertising agency to project a certain appearance. And since they were paying the bills, they got the image. She touched her wireless mouse and the computer screen came to life. Seven new e-mails since she had left for the boardroom two hours ago. She was responding to the sixth one when a man walked into her office. He was one of the three from the boardroom, the head of her Web design department.

“Nice work today,” he said, leaning on the door jamb. His name was Kelly Kramer, a young-looking thirty-six-year-old and one of Taylor's most trusted and valuable employees. He had thick dark hair, parted in the middle and creeping down over his ears, a goatee that suited his rugged face and a quick smile. For almost five years, he had been a fixture in Taylor's inner circle and had grown close enough to be called a friend.

“Thanks,” she said, leaning back in the soft leather. She loved her chair. “Twelve percent of six-point-two million. Not bad for two months' work.”

“Our ideas were original,” Kelly said. “We deserved the contract over New York and Chicago. They were serving up rehashed concepts.”

“Whatever it was, it worked.”

“I'm out of here,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Been in since four this morning prepping for the meeting. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

Taylor Simons returned to answering her e-mail. At thirty-seven, she was successful beyond even her own high expectations. She owned G-cubed, one of the most sought-after advertising agencies in San Francisco, with 122 staff and annual revenues topping 150 million dollars a year. Her offices occupied seven thousand square feet of prime space in William Polk's brilliantly designed Hobart Building on Market Street. She was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones, vibrant red hair, green eyes and a facial shape close enough to Nicole Kidman's to warrant second looks from passers-by. People in restaurants often spent more time stealing glimpses of her and whispering among themselves trying to figure out if she was the famous actress than they did eating. All the downside of fame without the upside. But genetics were genetics. There was no changing how she looked.

Her private line rang, and she glanced at the call display. Earl Hinks, her personal banker at Bay City Trust. She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Earl. Calling to tell me I won't be paying any bank fees this month?”

“Taylor, something's happened,” Hinks said. His tone was ominous.

“What?” she asked, leaning forward on her desk.

“Call Alan and have him meet you in my office in half an hour. Can you do that?”

“Yes, of course. What's wrong?”

“Not over the phone. I'll see you in half an hour.” The line went dead.

Taylor punched a button for an outside line and dialed her husband's work number. He answered on the third ring.

“Hi, honey. What's up? Thought you had a meeting with the Hammer-Fire boys.”

“The meeting's finished. I just got a call from Earl Hinks at the bank. He said something happened, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He wants us to meet him at his office in a half hour.”

“What? Why? What's going on?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't say. He wants to meet.”

“Christ, Taylor, I'm busy. We've got deadlines on this unit we're designing.”

“I know. But he told me to call you and for both of us to be there in half an hour.”

“Okay. I'll get there as quick as I can. Half an hour's tight, though.”

“See you there,” she said, hanging up. She shut down her computer, stopped at the reception desk on the way out to let them know she would be out of the office for an hour or two, then took the elevator to P6, where her Audi A4 waited. The drive to the bank, on Sacramento Street, near Lafayette Park, was quick for a Monday afternoon. The September sun was high in its daily arc, and the temperature hovered in the mid-eighties. There was little breeze from the bay and no chill in the air. It was a perfect day.

Taylor pulled into the small parking lot behind the bank and squeezed the Audi between two SUVs. She slid out, her long legs cramped between her car and the truck. She entered the bank through the side door and headed for Earl Hinks's office, down the hall on the left. The receptionist looked up as she approached.

“Hello, Lois,” Taylor said as she walked past the woman's desk. Earl Hinks was the manager of the branch, but his door was always open to her, and she never waited.

“Ms. Simons, Mr. Hinks has asked that you and Mr. Bestwick go in together today. He'd like you to wait in the reception area until your husband arrives.”

Taylor stopped and cocked her head. “What is this all about?” she asked.

The woman shrugged. “I don't know.”

Taylor teetered between steps, then moved back to the small grouping of chairs where clients waited for Hinks or one of the high-end personal bankers who worked in the branch, serving financial advice to the wealthy. She had been waiting about ten minutes when her husband came in the side door looking confused.

“What's going on?” he asked, taking the seat beside her.

Taylor still liked what she saw when she looked at her husband. Alan Bestwick was thirty-eight, one year older than she was, and in peak physical condition. He had a ruggedly handsome face, with strong lines accenting his cheeks and jaw, and steely blue eyes beneath a mop of curly off-blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting shirt rolled up to expose his sinewy forearms. Taylor didn't have time to answer before Earl Hinks appeared in the hallway entrance.

“Come on in,” Hinks said, turning and shuffling down the hall to his office. Earl Hinks was in his late fifties and a poster boy for a heart attack. He was sixty pounds overweight, ate junk food three times a day, didn't exercise and drank to excess. And he smoked.

Taylor and Alan followed him and sat in the comfortable chairs facing his desk. Hinks closed the door and sat down, his chair groaning under the weight. He wiped his brow from the exertion and tucked the handkerchief in his inside suit pocket. He adjusted his glasses and opened the lone file sitting on his desk.

“There's no easy way to say this,” he began, clearing his throat, “but the bank is calling your loan.”

Alan sat forward. “What? Calling the loan? Why, Earl? Why would they do that?”

Now Hinks looked really uncomfortable. He fidgeted in his chair for a moment, then said, “NewPro has disappeared.”

Neither Alan nor Taylor uttered a word for the better part of ten seconds. Then Taylor said, “What do you mean, Earl? How can a company disappear?”

“Our bank regularly sends out teams of inspectors to monitor new companies our clients have used our funds to invest in. Strictly due diligence, nothing else. We do it all the time. When our man arrived at the NewPro offices this morning, they were empty. Everything inside was gone: the desks, the computers and servers, the copiers, even the coffee machine.” Hinks was quiet for a moment, then said, “This looks like it could be fraud.” He cleared his throat, a strange gargling sound. “Do either of you know about this? Did Edward Brand mention he was moving to a new location?”

Both shook their heads. Alan said, “What does this mean, Earl. For us?”

Earl Hinks took a couple of deep breaths. “The loan has to be repaid.”

“When?” Taylor asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Now.”

“Define now,” Alan said.

Hinks glanced at the file on his desk. “When you invested in NewPro, you gave them one-point-six million in cash and levered another thirteen million using the equity in G-cubed. The cash was yours, but the thirteen million was our money, and according to the contract, the money is due immediately if the bank decides the risk is too great. That's why it's called a demand loan. And obviously, if the business you invested in has packed up shop and disappeared, the risk is no longer acceptable.”

“You didn't answer the question, Earl,” Alan said.

“We need the money from the sale of G-cubed to cover the loan,” Hinks said. “That would mean you need to put the business on the market immediately. At a price where it will sell. We can wait a bit for you to find a buyer and for the deal to close, but we're talking within one to three months. Any longer and the guys in the head office are going to force the sale, and that'll mean you'll be taking a fire-sale price on the business.”

Taylor stared at the banker, the room about her swaying. “Earl, it's all we've got. The cash plus the business. Aside from our house, there's nothing else.”

Hinks didn't respond. He was taking shallow breaths and repeatedly wiping his brow despite the cool air being pumped into the enclosed room. Finally, he said, “I'm sorry. Maybe the police . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

Alan slumped back in the chair. “Jesus. We're ruined.”

Taylor didn't say a word.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Taylor caught a glimpse of her husband as she walked past the door to their home gym. He was on the treadmill and running hard. Probably still in shock, as she was. The Monday afternoon meeting with Earl Hinks, only three days ago, seemed surreal. A tasteless joke with no redeeming value. But she knew in her heart it was no joke. The paperwork on Hinks's desk had detailed the bank's position in black and white, no gray area.

The loan was due. Now.

Thirteen million dollars. Money they did not have.

She felt her knees buckling and ducked into the office, sitting on a stool before she collapsed. Everything she and Alan had worked for was gone. The business would have to go on the block. Finding a buyer to purchase the company she had worked twelve years to build would not be difficult. Letting it go would be next to impossible. She had put her heart and soul and an interminable amount of hours into the business, and her employees were like family. What was happening was impossible.

She glanced about the room, quiet elegance with dark, teak furniture and wall units. The brick fireplace was clean and ready to be lit. One wall was covered with plaques, framed accolades and awards her company had won over the years for its savvy in the highly competitive advertising world. Her eyes came to rest on Alan's degree from Stanford, set in a simple black frame against the taupe wall. No matting, nothing fancy—it was so Alan. When they had met three years ago, it had been packed in a box and stuck in his bedroom closet. They were learning about each other, talking to all hours of the night, when the subject of education had come up. He had never mentioned his Master's degree in Electrical Engineering. Nor did he wear the ring. It took him almost a week to find the box where the degree was tucked between a
Sports Illustrated
and a handful of
National Geographic
magazines. He didn't hang it on the wall until after they were married, almost seven months later. He did wear the ring, though. But only at her insistence.

That was a real difference between her and her husband. Alan didn't care about the house or what car he drove, and he certainly didn't care if anyone knew he was a Stanford graduate. What he did care about was doing things right. It wasn't the degree that mattered; it was putting the knowledge into action. He worked for one of San Francisco's most forward-thinking corporate security companies, and when he designed a new system for his clients, it was perfect in theory and in implementation. They had talked about it and planned it since they were married, and he was only a year or so from starting his own company. Silicon Valley was a veritable gold mine for companies that could provide secure environments for the software and hardware designers. Price was not an issue when it came to protecting a billion-dollar idea. But what had been a dream within their grasp was now a fleeting thought. The start-up costs were high and the carrying costs for the first year staggering. There was no chance Alan Bestwick would be controlling his own destiny for some time.

And Taylor's tangible dream was in tatters. G-cubed would have to be sold. Twelve years of novel ideas that grew to become national icons for some of corporate America's most innovative clients were history. And the six- and seven-figure billings that accompanied the print and television ads were gone. The good news was that the company carried no debt. And the net worth of G-cubed was at least thirteen million, which covered the loan Taylor and Alan had taken out to purchase a chunk of NewPro. That left them broke, except for the equity in their house.

It was a nightmare.

But to Taylor, the nightmare went far beyond the financial. She had invested heavily in her company not only financially, but emotionally. She couldn't count the number of times she had sat alone in her corner office with red eyes and a half-empty box of tissues. She remembered the day Amy Reid, one of her copy editors, had phoned in on a regular Monday morning. She could barely speak. Her baby had died of SIDS over the weekend. She wouldn't be in to work for a while. Taylor had met the baby three weeks before at a company picnic. Charles Reid. A perfect little boy, wide eyed at the newness of the world that surrounded him. Now deceased.