34
It was the paltriness of the sum that was the hook. Sandy Pereira knew it as soon as she heard the message on the Groanline. Jealousy, outrage, accusation, and counteraccusation—over a measly five hundred bucks. A “No, New York!” classic.
The only problem was that the lady on the phone was refusing to admit it.
“I never said it,” she claimed. “Never, never! Will I say such a thing? To my own niece?”
“Mrs. Torres, I know you did,” said Sandy Pereira.
“Who? Who tells you such a thing? Such a terrible thing!”
“I can’t tell you, Mrs. Torres.”
“People have dirty tongues. People are jealous.”
Jealous of five hundred bucks? According to the accusation on the Groanline—anonymous, of course—Mrs. Maria Torres had told her niece that she would withhold the money she’d promised her on her wedding if she married a certain boy called Felipe. She wanted the niece, Corazón, to marry Umberto, who was the son of one of Mrs. Torres’s friends. Needless to say, Corazón didn’t love Umberto. She didn’t hate him, she just didn’t love him. Umberto himself would marry Corazón, according to the Groanline, but this was because he had no scruples, as he had shown many times, for instance when he visited his mother in the hospital every day only to make himself seem better than his brother, Alejandro, who was unable to visit so frequently because his job as a debt collector kept him working late at night.…
The Groanline message had been a long and detailed one, with numerous diversions, worthy of an episode of a soap opera, if not an entire series. Mrs. Torres herself was childless. The “dowry,” as the anonymous female informer called it, that she had promised her niece was the sum of five hundred dollars. She had promised it ever since Corazón was a little girl. It was probably Corazón, thought Sandy, who had left the message.
If it had been a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been different. You would have been on one side or the other. You would have felt sorry for the niece, or you would have thought, Serves her right if she wants to go her own way, she has to take what’s coming. But at five hundred dollars, it made you cringe. You couldn’t sympathize with either side. It made you want to shout out, “You, for God’s sake, give her the five hundred bucks! And you, for God’s sake, if she doesn’t, forget about it!”
Sandy sighed. Five hundred bucks. She rolled her eyes. This was what she had to deal with.
Mrs. Torres was crying now. She was obviously guilty, guilty as sin. It was only a question of whether Sandy would use her name in the article. The readers liked to see names. But if she couldn’t get Mrs. Torres to admit it on the phone, which was being recorded, it would be safer not to. Not that Mrs. Torres was likely to sue, but you never knew. It could be a setup. Mrs. Torres might be recording the call as well, and she and Corazón could be in it together. Corazón leaves the message, Mrs. Torres denies it, the Herald publishes, then—bang—you’ve got your lawsuit.
“Mrs. Torres, it’s true, isn’t it, that you promised you’d give Corazón five hundred dollars on the day she gets married?”
“Is true!” wailed Mrs. Torres.
“And it’s true as well that you said she’d get nothing when she told you she was marrying Felipe.”
“Is such a horrible boy! Thoughtless, careless. Will he be good for her? You tell me this.”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Torres,” muttered Sandy in exasperation.
“Listen. Umberto, he is nice. He cares. When you get out from the car, he opens the door for you. This is nice, no?”
“It sounds nice. Mrs. Torres—”
“And when his mother is sick, he goes every day to visit her in the hospital.”
“Mrs. Torres—”
“Not once does he miss. You think Felipe will do this? If his mother is in the hospital, you think he will visit? For a histerectomía. You think a histerectomía. Imagine. For a man, a histerectomía is not something he likes to think. But every day, Umberto goes. His brother, Alejandro? Does he go? No. But Umberto, every day, not one day does he—”
“Mrs. Torres!” interrupted Sandy. “You refused to give her the money, didn’t you? I know you did. Admit it.”
There was silence.
“Admit it!”
“Maybe I say … maybe I am upset.… Corazón, she will never think I will not give it to her.”
“But you’re not going to, are you?”
“Who says this?”
“You told her you wouldn’t.”
“Was not serious. My Corazón…” Mrs. Torres began to cry again. “Ai! She is like my own daughter.”
“You don’t have a daughter,” said Sandy coldly.
Mrs. Torres wailed.
Sandy had had enough. “You said you wouldn’t give it to her, Mrs. Torres. I know you did.”
“I will give it.”
Great, thought Sandy. There goes the story.
“Thank you. I will give it.”
“What about Umberto?”
“Ah, it is Corazón I love. She is my light. If Felipe make her happy, I am happy.”
“But he won’t make her happy!”
“Who can tell? Life. Love. These are strange, no?”
Sandy listened to her in disgust. Suddenly the old tyrant had gone all philosophical.
“Thank you, miss. Is a very good talk we have. Why do you call me? Does someone tell you we must have this talk?”
Yeah, thought Sandy, and she felt like telling her exactly who.
“Thank you.”
“A real pleasure,” said Sandy.
She put the phone down. She thought about it, looking over the notes on her pad. She’d still write the story. No names, though.
She looked up. Marvin Koller was standing over her desk. Leering into her cleavage.
She straightened up.
Marvin ran his hand over his thin, oily hair. “Cracking another big story?”
“What do you want, Marvin?”
“I want a little action.”
Sandy rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious. A week ago, you give me this rumor about Louisiana Light. Come on, where’s the follow-up?”
Sandy shrugged.
“What about your source? You said he had proof.”
“Look, it’s very … you know, he’s…”
“What? This was some bullshit thing you picked up on the street, wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“You never had a source,” said Marvin. “You just heard something.”
Sandy didn’t answer that.
“Don’t try to put one over on me, honey, because I’ve seen it all.”
Marvin shook his head in a great show of disgust. In reality, he never really thought Sandy had had a reliable source. At most, he figured it was barroom bravado from some Wall Street type trying to impress her. But he was disappointed with the outcome of the story. He’d expected at least some kind of a response from Louisiana Light, which he could then use to push the story along a couple more issues. Make that the story, at least. But all he got was a call from Amanda Bellinger. He said he’d go off the record, expecting her to tell him something. But all she did was try to find out about his source and then threaten him with litigation if he published anything else. She didn’t give him anything, not a crumb for him to use, off the record or not. The whole thing, in short, was very disappointing. When Marv Koller was disappointed, he liked to share the pain around.
“Marvin,” said Sandy, “if I get anything else, I’ll tell you right away.”
“Yeah? Real stories don’t just come to you on the Groanline, Sandy. They don’t just walk up to you while you sit here on your fat ass. You gotta go out and get ’em. You gotta make ’em. Didn’t they teach you that at Columbia?”
“NYU,” muttered Sandy.
Marvin snorted. “You get out there and find me something on this. You let me know when you do.” He stared at her for a moment longer, then walked away.
Sandy turned ba
ck to her notes. She opened a new document on her computer and began typing.
How low can you go when two people fall in love? In Queens, an aunt who shall remain nameless has decided to show us. When her niece, 24, fell in love with
Sandy stared at the words. NYU, she thought resentfully. This is what they were preparing her for at NYU.
She backspaced.
When her beautiful young niece, 24, fell in love with
The phone rang. Sandy picked it up.
“Is this Sandy Pereira?”
“Rich?” Sandy giggled. Rich was a guy she’d been with a couple of nights before.
“No. Is this Sandy Pereira?”
Suddenly Sandy recognized the voice. Her expression changed. “Yes,” she said. “This is Sandy Pereira.”
* * *
Rob had gone to a pay phone. He couldn’t have taken the risk of calling from the war room even if no one else were there. And his cell phone bill went to Dyson Whitney, so they would have a record of his calls. It was a long shot they would ever check them, and an even longer shot they’d identify the number he was calling, but it was possible.
He had also taken the precaution of walking a few blocks from the office. He didn’t know if that was overkill, but if anyone saw him using a pay phone, it was going to be pretty hard to explain what he was doing there. He felt as if he’d stepped into a walk-on role in a thriller.
The journalist sounded surprised to hear from him when she answered the phone.
“You gave me your card,” said Rob.
“That’s right. I remember.”
Rob hesitated. He was about to cross a line, he knew. “This has to be strictly anonymous, all right? Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” said the journalist. “We do this all the time.”
“A journalist doesn’t reveal her source, right?”
“Never.”
“Do you promise me?”
“Yes.”
Rob hesitated again. He hadn’t crossed the line yet. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes. You can trust me.”
Rob took a deep breath. He looked around. A woman came toward the pay phone and glanced straight at him as she headed past. Rob turned away and put his hand up against his face, trying to shield himself from being seen.
“All right,” he said at last. “You were investigating Louisiana Light, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” On her notepad, Sandy wrote Louisiana Light and underlined it.
“For a long time?”
“For quite a while,” said Sandy.
“I have two names for you. You may already know them.”
“What are they?”
“Grogon and ExPar.”
“Can you spell those, please?”
Rob spelled them.
Sandy wrote. Grogon. ExPar.
“I need to know everything you know about them,” she said.
“It isn’t much.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
Rob told her. It was so little, he felt foolish. He added a few of his own thoughts about how the companies might be used to park debt off Louisiana Light’s balance sheet.
“And you’re sure this is reliable?” asked Sandy.
“Yes. Very sure.”
“How do you know about it? Did someone tell you?”
“I can’t say. But I can tell you why this is coming out now.”
I should have asked that one, thought Sandy.
“They’re doing a deal.”
Rob waited, expecting to hear some kind of reaction. Nothing.
“Did you hear what I said?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said Sandy. Doing a deal, she wrote, wondering why that made such a difference.
Suddenly Rob had the sense he was wasting his time. “Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course I do!” snapped Sandy.
“Okay. I can’t tell you who they’re doing the deal with. It’s a foreign company. In Europe.”
Foreign company in Europe.
“Do you know where?”
“I can’t say. But I can tell you when.”
“When?”
“The announcement’s next week.”
“Next week!” said Sandy, sensing that she was supposed to be surprised.
“That’s right. Next Friday. So you’ll have to act fast.”
“Right,” said Sandy. “That is fast.”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
“Is there anything else? Anything else at all you can tell me?”
Rob thought.
“The more you tell me,” said Sandy, “the stronger the story I can write.”
“Isn’t that enough for a story?” said Rob.
“Yes,” replied Sandy hurriedly. “Excellent. It’s exactly the break we were looking for. This is just great.”
“You got those names I gave you, didn’t you?”
“I got them.”
“You going to use them?”
“Absolutely. If you get anything else, let me know. The more information I can get, the better.”
“I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Yes, you can trust me.”
“This is confidential, right?”
“Absolutely. Rob, I need some kind of data so I can verify who you are.”
“You’ve got my name.”
“I can’t just have a name.”
“You know where I work.”
“I need something else. It’s not me. Those are the rules. What about your address? What’s your address?”
Rob hesitated.
“This is all confidential, Rob. It’s for internal purposes. I can’t publish this story without it. If we get challenged on this, I can’t say to my editor that I got it from some guy with a name.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
Rob thought about it. If this leaked, it wouldn’t matter if the journalist had his address. His name alone would be enough to sink him. “One-oh-three West Thirty-ninth Street,” he said. “Apartment twelve.”
“Okay. Rob, you’ve got my number. Anything else you find out, you let me know. Call me right away.”
“Okay.”
Rob put the phone down. He looked around. People continued to walk past. He backed away from the phone. A moment later, he had mixed in with everyone else on the sidewalk.
In the Herald newsroom, Marvin Koller stopped on the way back to his desk. He ran his eyes over Sandy. She smiled.
“You tell me when you get anything, right?” he barked at her. “You get off your fat ass and get out there and find something.”
“Sure, Marvin,” said Sandy, edging her elbow forward to cover her notepad. “I’ll let you know the minute anything comes in.”
35
The call had been scheduled two days earlier. Stanzy wanted an end-of-week review to cover off progress on a number of fronts. In reality, there was only one major area of concern, which was why John Golansky was sitting in Stanzy’s office when he dialed the number.
On the other end of the line, in Baton Rouge, Wilson was with Lyall Gelb.
“First of all,” said Stanzy, “I want to cover off the due diligence.”
“You guys happy at your end?” said Wilson.
“Yeah. So far, so good. Our team’s crunching the scenarios. We’ll have it ready for the review on Monday.”
“Nothing I’m going to have trouble with for the board?”
“No, as far as we can see, you’re fine, Mike. What about you? You hear anything yet from the lawyers?”
Wilson laughed. “They’re gonna be there all weekend. So far, they’re saying it looks all right. With about a thousand qualifications. They’re lawyers, right?”
Pete laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort them out for you on Monday.”
“And you’ll have the report finalized Tuesday?”
“Absolutely. What about Buffalo’s due diligence? You hear anything?”
“Their guys are starting today,” said Wilson.
“They’re leaving it kind of late, aren’t they? That only gives them a few days.”
“I don’t think they’re going to be looking too hard,” said Wilson. “Lyall’s got four big rooms of files all ready for them, haven’t you, Lyall?”
“That’s right,” said Gelb.
Stanzy glanced at Golansky. Golansky rolled his eyes.
“Okay,” said Stanzy. “Now, we still okay for the announcement?”
“Yeah,” said Wilson. “You guys are writing the presentation, right? My people are going to want to see it. And the Buffalo’s going to want to see it as well.”
“Absolutely,” said Stanzy. “We’ll have a first draft to you Monday, Mike.”
The announcement was scheduled for Friday, exactly one week away. Louisiana Light was listed on the New York Stock Exchange and BritEnergy was listed in London, so the announcement would be made simultaneously in both places. It was timed for ten A.M. in New York and three P.M. in London. Mike Wilson and Andrew Bassett would start talking at their press conferences at precisely the same moment, using identical prepared scripts.
“Now what about PR? I was thinking—”
“I’m gonna let Mandy Bellinger know about it today,” said Wilson. “I’ve kept her in the dark till now. She’s gonna handle the PR for us.”
“I thought your corporate affairs department would do that,” said John Golansky.
“No, John.” Wilson laughed. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust them with something this big. We want to make a splash.”
Stanzy and Golansky glanced at each other.
“Mike,” said Stanzy, “when you say you want to make a splash, we wanted to talk to you about the kind of PR you want to do. There are pros and cons to—”
“Now, you just leave that to me and Mandy, Pete,” said Wilson, cutting right across him. “You know Mandy?”
“No.”
“Well, she knows what she’s doing. Let’s not waste any more time on this, huh? What about the loan?”
In New York, John and Pete simultaneously leaned closer to the table. From their perspective, this was what the call was really about.
“We do want to talk about that,” said Stanzy.
“At the moment,” said Golansky, “we’re looking at about four billion.”
“What was that?” said Mike. “Did I hear you say ‘four billion’?”
Due Diligence: A Thriller Page 27