Silent Partner

by Stephen Frey

  “Hello, Bob,” Hill said pleasantly, closing the office door.

  “Come on, Carter, let’s get going. I’ve got a dinner meeting. Thank God the snow stopped,” he muttered under his breath. He enjoyed the luxury of his limousine and hadn’t been looking forward to climbing into an SUV to get to the young woman’s apartment through the storm. His wife was vacationing in Palm Beach for February, and he wasn’t about to miss a single evening of pleasure with the young woman while nights away from his West End home didn’t have to be explained.

  Hill hustled across the office and sat down in the chair beside Dudley’s.

  “So, Carter, what did you find out about Angela Day?”

  Hill glanced down at the pad of white pages on which he had scribbled his notes. For the last six months Bob Dudley hadn’t allowed the bank’s purchasing managers to order any other paper color than white: no yellow, no accountant’s faded green, not even pastels or neons for Post-its. “Angela Day is a divorced mother of one.” Hill hesitated and looked up at the chairman. “Her ex-husband is Sam Reese.”

  Dudley’s eyes flashed from the small LCD screen of his Blackberry to Hill. His plan had been to riffle through e-mails while Carter gave his report, multitasking as his dictatorial father had taught him to do from an early age. “Chuck Reese’s son?”

  Charles “Chuck” Reese was the senior and managing partner of Albemarle Capital, a private investment management firm that had handled most of Richmond’s stock market money since the War between the States. Sumter Bank and Albemarle Capital were the city’s most prominent financial institutions, and Dudley and Reese her most prominent business leaders. They had trained in finance together at Sumter after rooming together at the University of Virginia. And they’d been best friends until Reese had left Sumter in his midthirties to join Albemarle Capital, where his meteoric rise to the top of that institution had been rivaled only by Dudley’s at Sumter. Over the years their relationship had deteriorated. They’d gone from friends to rivals to enemies, competing aggressively in everything from the number of articles written about them in the national press to an annual head-to-head golf match held at the Country Club of Virginia. They played the match under the guise of good-natured charity, but it could not have been fought more intensely if their lives had depended on the outcome.

  After Dudley had successfully constructed his fifty-story downtown monument, Chuck Reese had tried to get zoning for asixty -story building that would have blocked the Sumter Tower’s panoramic view of the James River. But the zoning application had bogged down in city red tape, and it had become very clear who Richmond’s alpha dog was. However, Reese had won their golf match each of the last three years, and the losses gnawed at Dudley. Last year it had come down to a five-foot putt on the eighteenth green in front of a gallery numbering in the thousands. Dudley had missed the putt, and Reese had been crowing about the victory—and Dudley’s choke—for six months. Since that day Dudley had been working with a pro three times a week. He was determined to win this year.

  “Yes, Chuck Reese,” Hill confirmed. “Your favorite person.”

  “Bastard.” Dudley rose from his chair and grabbed a putter leaning against the wall. “I remember that now.” He snickered as he hunched over a dimpled Titleist, aiming it toward an automatic ball-return device on the floor a few feet away. “It was a messy divorce. Happened about . . . “ Dudley’s voice trailed off as he swung the putter back and forth, then tapped the shiny white ball and watched it roll smoothly across the carpet directly into the target. “Damn. That should have happened last summer.”

  “You were saying, Bob?”

  “The divorce was four or five years ago.”

  “Six, actually.”

  Dudley chuckled, thinking about the embarrassment the situation must have caused Reese. “The divorce actually went to court, right?”

  “Yes. Two men, acquaintances of Sam Reese, testified that they had engaged in sexual intercourse with Ms. Day during the time she was married to Reese. The judge found her guilty of adultery and refused to grant her alimony.”

  Dudley putted again—with the same result. “I’m sure Chuck didn’t want his son married to some poor Italian from a trailer park. I bet he didn’t leave anything to chance during the proceedings.” Dudley laughed loudly. “The only thing worse for Chuck would have been if Angela were black. Too bad she isn’t,” he muttered. “I wonder if she ever brought any of her nigger friends home. That would have killed him.”

  Hill winced. “Bob, this behind-closed-doors racism’s got to stop. It’s going to get you in real trouble. I can’t emphasize—”

  “Enough, Carter.”

  Hill bit his tongue. “Bob, I haven’t been able to confirm that Chuck Reese paid off the two men who testified in court.”

  “Stop trying,” Dudley advised Hill. “You’re wasting your time. As much as I’d like to have that kind of information on the prick,” he added. “You and I both know he bribed the men, but we’ll never be able to prove it. Chuck’s too careful. He has too many ways of covering his financial tracks. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I’m focused on Ms. Day right now.” He lined up the golf ball with the device once more. Once more the ball found the target. He smiled, satisfied on several counts. “So our own Angela Day was Chuck Reese’s daughter-in-law. I’ll have to remind him of that just before we tee off on the first hole next summer.”

  “Good idea,” Hill agreed. “That ought to distract him.”

  “You said Ms. Day has a child?”

  “Yes. A boy named Hunter.”

  “Sam Reese’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey, I had to ask. Could have been anybody’s kid. She’s probably been screwing like a rabbit since she was ten. What else is there to do in a trailer park?” Dudley chuckled as he looked out the window at the city lights beneath him. “Don’t tell me; let me guess.”

  “Don’t tell you what?”

  “Whether Chuck Reese allowed Ms. Day to keep the little boy or took him away, too. When Chuck goes to war, he doesn’t go halfway. He goes for everything.” For a moment Dudley relived the miss on the eighteenth green last summer. The ball had been headed straight for the cup, then hit a spike mark at the last second and darted left, lipping out. He could still hear the loud groan of the crowd as if it were yesterday. “I bet Chuck took Ms. Day aside when Sam brought her home the first time and forbid her to marry his son. Probably warned her that if she went through with the wedding, she’d ultimately lose. That in the end he’d drive her away and take everything.” He looked over at Hill. “Is Ms. Day originally from Richmond?”

  “No.”

  “Where is she from?”

  “Asheville, North Carolina.”

  Dudley nodded. “Well, Carter, my guess is that Ms. Day lost custody of her son in the divorce. I bet the judge found her unstable and incapable of caring for a child, probably citing her promiscuous lifestyle before and during her marriage to Sam Reese as evidence.”

  Hill nodded, impressed. “That’s right.”

  “Of course it is. Otherwise Ms. Day would have been on the first train out of town right after the divorce. Too many nasty memories here. Women are weak and associate physical places with memories. But her maternal instinct is stronger than her desire to leave a place she has terrible memories of, so it keeps her here.” Dudley stroked his chin for a moment. “What kind of visitation rights did she get?”

  “A weekend a month and two weeks in the summer.”

  Dudley whistled. “Jesus. Chuck didn’t screw around. The judge on the case was probably able to buy himself a nice new beach house on the Outer Banks after coming down with that decision.”

  “Brutal, huh?”

  “So that’s an important piece of information for us,” Dudley commented, propping the putter back up against the wall and sitting down again. “She needs this job. How much do we pay her, Carter?”

  “A little under fifty grand.”

  Dudley burst
out laughing. “Can you believe anybody actuallysurvives on that kind of salary? Christ, that’s minimum wage.”

  “It’s not that bad, Bob. It isn’t the three million you pulled down last year, but she’s able to live comfortably. She rents a two-bedroom apartment in the Fan for twelve hundred a month, drives a Saab convertible she bought new a year ago, and vacations in the Caribbean twice a year. She was in Saint Bart’s a few weeks ago, and she’ll go again in the fall if she follows her pattern of the last four years. She doesn’t live extravagantly, and she doesn’t have any real expenses as far as her son is concerned. The Reese family takes care of all that.” He paused. “Oh, and by the way, it’s the top drawer.”

  Dudley looked up. “Huh? What is?”

  “The drawer she keeps her panties in.”

  Dudley flashed a quick smile.

  Hill shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, Bob. If she doesn’t work with us on this Jake Lawrence thing, we could threaten her. But she’s a talented banker. With her contacts, she’d get another job.”

  “Not in Richmond,” Dudley replied confidently. “There aren’t any other big banks with corporate lending operations here in the city anymore now that the Carolina banks have acquired all the other big Richmond houses except us. All the important positions have been moved out of town. Mostly just administration stuff here now. And I could make certain no one in Baltimore, Washington, or Charlotte would hire her either. Especially if I let people know that she was fired because she was screwing married men in the bank. Everybody from tellers to Ken Booker.”

  Hill gazed at the chairman, then chuckled. “Bob, I think you might actually give Jake Lawrence a run for his money if the bastard does decide to launch a hostile bid. I don’t think he understands what he’s up against, the lengths to which you’ll go.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m sure that’s how it was intended.”

  “Of course—”

  “Back to Angela Day.”

  “Okay.”

  “You see, Carter, shehas to live in or near Richmond,” Dudley said. “Chuck probably had the judge insert some tough language into the custody order about that. Like if Ms. Day misses more than three consecutive visits with her son, she has constructively abandoned the boy and automatically relinquishes any further rights to visitation unless the Reeses give her specific permission to see the boy—which, of course, they wouldn’t.” Dudley smiled, pleased with himself. “So, we’ve figured out how to manipulate Ms. Day. Now she’ll have to be loyal to me if she was telling us the truth this morning and Jake Lawrence really did try to get into her pants. Even if she can’t stand the sight of him, she’ll have to do what I want.” Dudley pointed at Hill. “Next week you will have a conversation with Ms. Day and deliver the gist of what we’ve just discussed.”

  “Bob, I don’t think that’s necessary. She got the message this morning. If Lawrence contacts her, she’ll let us know right away. She seems levelheaded. She knows where her bread is buttered.”

  “I’m sure Jake Lawrence can be very persuasive,” Dudley said. “I want Ms. Day to understand exactly how vulnerable she is.”

  “Bob, she seems plenty smart. I’m sure she gets it. I don’t think we need to get into the intimidation racket.”

  “Carter,” Dudley snapped, frustrated with Hill’s passive nature, furious with his penchant to search for a middle ground. “I don’t want to hear any of your Good Samaritan bullshit. Do as you’re told.”

  “I’m sure if I didn’t, you’d make it as tough for me to get a job as you would Ms. Day,” Hill muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “On second thought, you have your chat with Ms. Day tomorrow,” Dudley decided. “There’s no need to put it off until next week.”

  Hill nodded obediently. “All right,” he agreed, standing up. “I’ll do as you wish.”

  “Good boy. Oh, one more thing, Carter.”

  “Yes?”

  “I noticed in the internal second-quarter operating report that the growth of our on-line mortgage portfolio was off.” One of the ways Dudley had grown Sumter so quickly was to implement an aggressive Web-enabled mortgage offering.

  “Year-to-year we were still up 14 percent,” Hill protested.

  “That’s not enough, Carter. I want at least twenty.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Russ Thompson about it tomorrow.”

  “Call him tonight at home.”

  “All right,” Hill agreed stiffly.

  The intercom on Dudley’s desk buzzed.

  “What is it, Betty?” Dudley called to his assistant in the anteroom.

  “Ken Booker is here to see you.”

  Dudley glanced up as Hill’s eyes flashed to his. “Tell him it will be another few minutes. I’m just finishing up my meeting with Mr. Hill now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” Hill asked.

  “No.”

  “Why do you need to see Ken?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to speak with him one-on-one for a while. I think it’s a good idea for me to keep in touch with the men a rung below you.” Dudley’s only direct report was Carter Hill. He’d turned over all other reporting responsibilities to Hill several years ago to free himself up to focus on strategic initiatives, mostly acquisitions. “Don’t you?”

  “I suppose,” Hill agreed tepidly.

  Dudley suppressed a smile, aware of the stress the other man was feeling. He had deliberately arranged the Booker meeting right after this one so Hill would know. It was an effective management technique to keep a direct report back on his heels, wondering. “Good.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to stay? Ken and I have been working on several important projects together, but he isn’t up to speed on all of the developments. It might help if I were here to fill in the gaps.”

  “No need,” Dudley replied brusquely. “This will be mostly social.” That would make Hill feel even worse. “We’re done, Carter.”

  Chuck Reese leaned back in his office chair and gazed out into the darkness at the lights of the Sumter Tower a quarter of a mile away, visible again now that the snowstorm had let up. Bob Dudley was up there at the apex of that tower, twenty stories above the top of the building Albemarle Capital leased. Probably looking down here right now with smug satisfaction, Reese thought to himself glumly, catching his reflection in the glass. Winning the golf grudge match wasn’t enough any longer. There had to be more.

  Reese turned to the side, checking his profile: still no spare tire and not even the hint of double chin, still a full head of blond hair, still in pretty damn good shape for sixty-two years old. He took great pride in the fact that, late last year, theWall Street Journal had run an extensive article on him, describing him as “a high-energy executive who looks and acts half his age. A man who turns one day into four because he accomplishes twice as much as others do in half the time.” The reporter had documented the fact that Reese was a natural-born risk-taker, parachuting from airplanes, driving his collection of Porsches in a southern road-race circuit, and, last summer, sailing from Newport News to England solo.

  Which was why he was completely at ease in the ulcer-inducing equity markets and Bob Dudley had chosen banking. Bob Dudley had no appetite for risk. He was a bully when he had the odds in his favor, but he never took a chance without them. He’d never go for that long shot over water with a fairway wood. He’d always lay up, which was why he would always lose.

  Reese turned away from the window and punched up a couple of stock tickers on his computer, wondering how he and Dudley had become such bitter rivals. They’d been close in college and during the first few years at Sumter. But somewhere along the way, the relationship had soured.

  “Chuck.”

  “Yeah, come on in, Andy,” Reese called, looking up from the computer screen.

  Andy Phillips was Albemarle’s head of equity research. Only six years out of
Harvard Business School, Phillips already had a growing reputation on Wall Street as a superb stock picker. “Had another idea, Chuck.”

  Everyone was on a first-name basis at Albemarle, no matter the age or seniority of position. And dress was business casual every day. Reese liked all of that. Being comfortable made for a better working environment. He knew full well how staid and stiff things were at Sumter. “What’s that, young gun? What’s your next billion-dollar idea?”

  “I think we oughta short General Datacom in a big way. It’s a—”

  “A storage device company out in San Jose,” Reese interrupted. “About six hundred million in revenues and they’ve suffered delays getting their next-generation device to market. So what?”

  Phillips chuckled. Of course, Chuck Reese knew that. Chuck Reese knew everything. “They’re about to report bad results for the last quarter.”

  “The market already seems to know that,” Reese said, punching up a chart of the company’s stock. “The share price is off 10 percent in the last two weeks.”

  “Right, but what the market doesn’t know is that the senior managers out there are about to mutiny. They can’t stand the CEO. The stock’s probably going to fall 30 to 40 percent when the shit hits the fan in a couple of weeks.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A friend. He says the product is ready, but the problem is that there’s infighting among senior management.”

  Reese held up his hand. “Andy, never attribute to malice what can be explained by ineptitude. Hold off on that one. They’ll end up getting it right out there. But I liked your ideas earlier today concerning the health-care sector. Go for it there.”

  “Right.”

  “That’ll be all.”

  “Thanks, Chuck.”

  “Sure.” Reese watched the young man exit the office, then turned back to the window and glanced up at the Sumter Tower again. Everything else in his life was good. If only he could lookdown on the Sumter Tower.