T H R E E
* * *
Every Man for himself and the Devil Take the Hindmost
IT’S BEEN SEVEN days since Sophie’s disappearance. Seven long, wretched days since Oliver started looking for her, looking for anything that might bring her back to him. Work and karate help keep his mind and body occupied. Karate has always done positive things to his body, toned legs, strong torso. Now his legs feel heavy and his pants are a little big. Work has given him an outstanding reputation, a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction, luxury, status. But now, Oliver Black isn’t worth much at work. He is King Midas in reverse.
Oliver broods on the uncomfortable sofa where Sophie sat when she first came into his office, and pays close attention to the glass in his hand. Scotch has always been his drink of choice, but especially so for the past seven days. He sits with a stack of boxes overflowing with papers full of details from the case on the floor all around him. He’s spent days and nights reading every piece of information on Bridges, organizing clues in his mind, over and over again. He keeps telling himself it’s his fault Sophie disappeared.
John Henry Bridges is a successful neuro-psychiatrist and owner of a private practice in Manhattan. He’s won awards for his insights into the human psyche, and been named among the Best Doctors of America. He’s developed a reputation for his work involving memory with attachments formed in childhood. He strikes everyone as a charismatic, good-looking gentleman, a polite individual, a good member of his community. According to Sarah, Sophie’s half-sister, Bridges concentrates on lonely women who won’t be instantly missed if they vanish, and woos them with money and promises of love. He strangles his victims after raping them, then dumps them in rivers. He doesn’t keep his victims alive for more than a day.
Bridges never confessed to the killings. For nine hours in the interrogation room of the county jail, without an attorney present, the detective volleyed questions at Bridges before his escape. Oliver stood behind the two-way mirror allowing him a clear view.
“Do you believe in God, detective?”
He didn’t expect that question, but then again, what could a person expect from a psychopathic serial killer? There was an evil air about him. Something different, something almost inhuman.
“God isn’t going to help you now. What happened to the woman with the red hair?”
“Who?”
The detective whipped out photos of a redhead wrapped in plastic, dug up from the concrete floor of her clutter filled basement.
John leaned his head forward. “Oh, you mean Anna Summers? Yeah, she looks pretty dead to me.” He sat back in his chair. “That’s what this is about? Because if it is, you’ve got the wrong person.”
“I know you killed this woman,” the detective said, his face exacerbated. “I have enough to charge you. You’re going down for the murder of Anna Summers and I’m going to enjoy every single moment.”
“Look, detective, had you asked me nicely, maybe I would have helped you. But in the time I’ve been in this room, you have threatened me, disrespected me, harassed me, and you refuse to remove my handcuffs. I am not about to give you the satisfaction. I assert my right to remain silent. Now get me my lawyer.”
Oliver pushes the memory from his mind. How perfectly he can reminiscence about the past. The finest detail remains intact. Anything can be a clue, he says to himself. There are too many little facts, but not one sign that can lead him to Sophie. As far as Oliver can tell by learning about Bridges, Sophie doesn’t fit the victim profile. What does he want? It doesn’t make any sense. But this gives him hope that she’s still alive. Problem is, if something doesn’t make sense to Oliver Black, he can’t let go. He can’t do anything else until he figures it out. With him, it’s all or nothing.
Oliver turns the page and a picture of a smiling Sophie is clipped to the edge of the paper. He stares at the picture until, sick of the world, he sends the papers flying across the room. He looks away, distracted by the memories of Sophie that keep leaping to his mind, making it hard for him to focus.
Get a grip, Black, he thinks, you are a man of reason.
“Mr. Black.” Emma springs into view with an especially urgent voice and hard knock on the door.
His assistant’s sudden and loud appearance could’ve startled anyone, but not Oliver Black. Not so much as a ripple in his glass of scotch. He pushes away thoughts of Sophie in the arms of another man, Sophie floating on water…and takes a swallow of his drink, then turns his attention to Emma.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says, looking at the chaos of boxes on the floor. She’s never seen him like this, though she’s been his assistant for years. “I know you said you didn’t want to be interrupted, sir. But the board is holding a closed-door meeting of executives. It’s about your investors and Gordon Flynn is here. I thought you should know.”
Gordon Flynn. That name can make Oliver’s stomach do backflips. He stares off into the distance, deep in thought. “Any word?”
“Sir?”
“Sophie. Any word on Sophie?”
Silence.
“Well?”
“No, sir, not yet,” she says. “But police received a second call on the kidnapping line from the same person. The man claimed he dialed the wrong number.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“The phone is registered to a Mable Paterson, eighty-eight, widow, lives on Social Security in a subsidized house in St. Albans, Queens.”
He sighs. “Why is an old woman a suspect?”
“She has a grandson. It could be something.”
Oliver deems the information trivial and strains the last of the scotch.
“There are reporters on the first floor,” Emma says. “They’ve been here since early morning trying to get a word out of anyone who will talk. It’s a circus, sir.”
“Get rid of them.”
“But—”
“Do I have to repeat myself?”
Emma nods curtly. “I’m right on top of that, sir.”
“Good.”
Oliver despises how the press has been invading his place of business and accosting him when he leaves and returns to his house. They want to know about his girlfriend who’s been missing since Sunday. He especially hates how they’ve been making Sophie come off as a former beauty pageant princess—born to an unmarried mother and a convicted sex offender—who lived a troubled childhood.
Oh, what do they know? They don’t know her, not like I do.
He stares at the view in front of him, uninterested. “You said there was a meeting?”
“Yes,” says Emma. “Mr. Flynn called a board meeting for this morning.”
Oliver looks at his watch. “Do you think I should attend this meeting?”
“I think this is your company, sir.”
That seems like a strong enough answer for Oliver. He gets up.
“But…first, don’t you think, maybe, you want to change clothes?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Black, look at what you’re wearing.”
“And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“A sweatshirt and running shorts, sir? Perhaps…you want to take a shower?”
Oliver stands and completely disregards her remark. He has his own walk—a slow, rolling gait—that indicates his untroubled state of mind. That’s how he carries himself as he passes his assistant and pushes open the double doors leading to the conference room. He knows how to lead. He knows how to run meetings and get things done. Even if he’s wearing clothes from the day before, he has the air of a professional.
Eight men and three women are gathered around the table. Most are either old, divorced, or widowed. Simon Jacobs, a bald fellow with a high-paying job and a tidy suit, says, “If only Warren was here. He’d know what to do.”
Oliver walks inside. “But he’s not, is he?” His voice is firm and strong, never wavering, never the voice of a man who harbors wrath insi
de him. “My father is dead, Simon. You shouldn’t call upon the dead to rise.”
All eleven chairs turn their focus on him.
“I’m sorry, this is a closed session,” Gordon Flynn says, relaxing his back in the chair and his arms on the elbow rests.
Gordon Flynn is a middle-aged fat cat of society with a reputation for being ruthless. He comes with ego, greed, and evil deeds. He’s slender despite his years. His combination of platinum gray hair, transparent skin, and steely, blue eyes make him look like an alien. Gordon Flynn was once a good man, but occupying the seat of power is his ambition. The thing about power is that it’s not some canned product sitting on a shelf at the store waiting to be bought. People kill for power. And for a man like Gordon Flynn, there are no morals too loose.
There is an uncomfortable silence hanging in the conference room. At the far end of the rectangular table, Luke Wolfe—Oliver’s long-time friend and a trusted board member—raises objection. “Whoa, Flynn! Take it easy. There’s no need to overreact, right? He can stay.”
Oliver struts around the meeting room, looking at every person taking up space in his chairs. They drink vapor-distilled water with his name on the glass bottles. They use his high-definition equipment, his offices. He feels as though they are breathing his air.
“Gordon,” Oliver says, “do you remember October fourth of this year?”
Flynn sort of chuckles, swiveling in his chair. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I’m afraid I do.” Oliver’s tone is all humor. “It was a Tuesday. Tom Clancy died. Unfortunate. He was one of my favorite novelists. That’s also the day I—how do you say?—removed you from your paying position. It means you no longer work here.”
“Oliver, just take a seat, man,” Luke presses.
“It’s Mr. Black.” He doesn’t sit, but instead grabs the empty chair he would normally have been sitting in from the beginning of their meeting by the back and says, “Does anyone mind telling me why the chairman, president, and CEO of this company—me—wasn’t informed of a closed-door meeting?”
Chief Administrative Officer Jeffrey Travers chimes in. “Oliver, we didn’t want to trouble you. You’ve got your hands full. We all know. But, now that you’re here…Amanda,” he turns to the board member in the blue pantsuit, “why don’t you start discussing alternative avenues to improve investor trust?”
Amanda nods. “As you all know, we haven’t been operating at our highest level of performance. Our major shareholders have been losing confidence, and two out of three want out. The company is facing public outcry, and stock has just crashed twenty-seven percent.”
“Then we average down,” interrupts Oliver. “We lower our cost in stocks.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Black, but that is a huge risk and this is our money on the line,” Board Secretary Laura Lundy says.
“And mine,” Oliver retorts. “Don’t you forget that. Yes, it’s a risk. It’s been rough. You don’t see me crying about it. You don’t see me selling off my stock. We have an interest in this company. All of us. If that’s not the case, then what are you even doing here? When the stock drops, we don’t cut our losses and move on to the next deal. It’s temporary. Our best course of action is accumulating more shares. Anything else? I have an agenda to complete.”
“Oh, Oliver,” Flynn teases, “always so adamant to wave your magic wand and, abracadabra, make it all right again.”
“That’s far more than I can say about you, Flynn. Give me problems. Give me work. I know exactly what to do.”
“You have done your job well. No one denies that, kid. But now, you are the reason this company is bleeding.” Gordon Flynn finds it unconceivable that Oliver Black is running the business because he sees him as only his father’s child, and not as the grown man and professional he has grown into.
“I beg to differ,” Oliver says earnestly. “I’m the reason why this company exists.”
Flynn shakes his head and slams the morning newspaper onto the table. Front page reads:
Is Black International in Decline Under Oliver Black?
“Look, kid, I don’t have to tell you that your public actions are harming the company. You’ve been in a relationship with a woman whose name is spoken about on every news station. That doesn’t look good. And frankly, neither do you. Your taste in fashion these days is, well, lacking. If you are in crisis, then the company is in crisis. The end result is…we are all in crisis.” He looks at the other board members one at a time. “The board proposes that Gordon Flynn is elected as a new member of the board. Oliver Black will step down from his position as CEO, chairman, and president. Board member Jeffrey Travers motions to nominate Gordon Flynn for the position. Simon Jacobs seconds. Do I hear a third?”
“Jesus, Flynn. What the hell are you trying to do?” Luke flares-up.
Flynn springs from his chair and pounds his fists on the table. “I’m trying to save this company! I have every right! Isn’t that what we all want?”
“What are you talking about? He’s Oliver. He’s Oliver Black. That means something around here.”
Flynn shouts, “Enough already!” and lapses back into his chair.
As the two continue to bicker, Oliver keeps thinking about John Henry Bridges, Sophie fighting for her life; obsessing in his pain and worry for her.
“I object,” Oliver says.
All eleven heads turn toward him.
“What?” says Flynn.
“I said I object.”
“Well, in that case, if the chairman states opposition after solicitation, such resolution shall be voted. Travers and Jacobs are in. Anyone else?”
“I support the resolution,” Vice Chairman Donald Murray says with raised hand.
“The board doesn’t want to ruin your good name, kid,” Flynn assures him. “Leave quietly. Take some time to, you know, get better. You smell of alcohol, Oliver. Don’t let it turn into a drinking problem. Accept the offered settlement. It’s all in there.” He points to a leather folder on the table. “It’s just business.”
Just when things can’t float any further up shit creek for Oliver, they do. He stares at Flynn for a good five seconds, then speaks in a tone that could thrust a knife. “Travers owns ten percent of the company’s shares, Jacobs is down to eight, and Murray is at five. Chapter one, article nine in the ‘Special Procedures for Voting’ calls for two-thirds of the voting rights in order to move special resolutions. You do the math.”
Flynn blinks at the vehemence in his voice and the exact, spot-on accuracy of his statement. When it comes to numbers, Oliver is infallible. He hasn’t slept for days, but strangely, his mind is thriving. “Let me help you out. You are missing over forty percent of the votes required to approve a special resolution.”
A thin smile comes across Flynn’s face. He won’t admit to loss. He looks around the table. “All right. Let’s see a show of hands. Motion to approve the proposed plan?”
Doubt is pervading the remaining eight. It makes sense to them. Oliver is losing it and they can’t afford further negative hype. And, if someone like Gordon Flynn can overthrow Oliver Black from power, then Flynn must be a kind of god. Moreover, when it comes to people’s money, especially losing it, everything changes at the first sign of trouble. Friendships are put to the test. Slowly, one by one, the remaining board members raise their hands, all except Luke.
Shaking his head, Luke says, “I’m not agreeing to this.” He folds his hands on the table and leans forward.
“Luke, you are sitting on two million shares of Black international stock,” Flynn says. “I know Oliver is your friend, but put your emotions aside. You have to think about yourself. What’s more, your father put in five million of his own money. Is he going to be disappointed? What is he going to say? I can get him on the phone if you like?”
Luke sighs. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do I hear ‘aye’?” Flynn calls out.
Luke’s pulse spikes. His mind makes up instantly at the thought
of his father becoming involved. He’ll go ballistic. His father is controlling, ruthless, and shows little, if any, mercy even for his own blood. “Aye,” Luke says in the lowest of tones. “I’m sorry, man.”
A grin appears on Flynn’s face. “So it’s decided then. The members of the general body present approve the resolution unanimously and an undisputed consent overrides the need for two-thirds of the voting rights to pass when the chairman rejects a proposed adjustment. From this point forward, Chairman Gordon Flynn presides over the meeting on behalf of the board.” He turns to Oliver and projects “you can leave now” with nothing more than the expression on his face.
Oliver looks at each of them, nods, and starts off toward the door calmly. Another day, he tells himself. Another day.
F O U R
* * *
Big Red
ST. ALBANS, QUEENS. That’s where Oliver goes after leaving his office. He’s got nowhere else to go. Home is too painful. Work is too infuriating. His head, his heart, all of him is dedicated to a single purpose: find Sophie, get her back. He has to see about the old lady who owns the phone the man has been calling from on the kidnapping line. He has to keep looking.
He stands a few feet away from a house guarded by a beat-up chain link fence, his hands in his pockets to escape the cold. He sighs, eyeing the house warily. It’s a two-story house with a messy tree towering over the front lawn, chalky walls on the outside, and a tan roof. The grass is unkempt, overgrown. Studying the place, Oliver doesn’t see a car in the driveway, nor a trashcan put out on the sidewalk for garbage pickup like the rest of the houses. He pushes open the squeaky fence door after confirming the house number barely hanging onto the porch post and walks up to the front door.
Knocking one, two, then three times, it’s obvious he’s desperate. From behind the white drape on the side window peeks a wrinkled hand and a head covered in white curls. The door groans open. Oliver turns his eyes toward the shriveled lady. A yellow cat runs out from underneath her long skirt. Oliver can almost hear the old lady’s bones creak as she moves. She’s tiny, and bent over her walker. He wonders what’s wrong with him, coming to disturb an old lady and her cat in the middle of the day. Everything is wrong with him; until he finds Sophie, he’s dying a slow agonizing death.
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