Due Diligence: A Thriller

by Jonathan Rush

  Mike Wilson sent Ed Leary back home to Boston on the company jet. There would have been time for a quick round at Emory Point, or at least nine holes, but for some reason, Ed didn’t seem keen to get out there.

  When he got back to his office, Mike Wilson picked up the phone to Andy Bassett. It was midafternoon in Baton Rouge, late evening in Britain. Bassett was at his home in Berkshire, outside London.

  Wilson sat back with his feet up on the desk. “Andy,” he said, “I’m calling with good news. Our board meeting has just broken up and I’m calling to say we have unanimous approval to join Lousiana Light with your fine company.”

  “Mike, I’ve got good news as well,” said Bassett. “We had a very positive meeting here and we have overwhelming support to proceed.”

  “That’s great,” said Wilson. “Andy, when you say overwhelming…”

  “We did have one dissenter. Sir Charles Kitson. I think I mentioned to you he’d be a problem. Doesn’t like debt, our Charlie. Civil service man originally. Permanent secretary to the Department of Trade in a former life.”

  “Board member of BritEnergy in a former life.”

  “Quite,” said Bassett. “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “All right, Andy,” said Wilson. “I believe we have approval.”

  “I believe we do. If your data room’s still open, Mike, you can shut it down.”

  Wilson paused for a second, savoring the moment. With the BritEnergy board’s approval, the last big hurdle had gone down. He was on the home stretch, with nothing but clear turf ahead of him. Once the announcement was made, the BritEnergy board would be locked in and the focus would shift to the PR effort to make sure the share price stayed up and the shareholders of BritEnergy approved the deal. Given the quality of the offer, Wilson expected that to be time-consuming but relatively straightforward. He’d spend as much time as needed in England to keep the authorities, shareholders, and analysts happy. It was the BritEnergy board’s public, irreversible commitment to the deal that was the key ingredient. So it wasn’t time to celebrate yet, not for another two days. Keep focused, he told himself. And keep Bassett focused as well. Keep him working, not thinking.

  “Andy,” he said. “You got a copy of the draft for our announcement on Friday from Mandy Bellinger?”

  “I have,” said Bassett. “She e-mailed it through today. To be honest, Mike, I only saw it after the board and I haven’t had much of a chance to look at it. I’m getting together with Oliver and Anthony tomorrow to go over it in detail.”

  “Okay, I’ll have my secretary set up a conference call with you and me and Mandy tomorrow to finalize it. If we do it at, say, ten o’clock here, that’ll be four your time. How’s that? Will you have time to have seen it?”

  “I’m sure we will. I’ll get my secretary to let yours know.”

  “Okay. Well, good work today, Andy. I kind of like the way we’re working together already, don’t you?”

  “Yes, it’s going very smoothly,” said Bassett. “Must get you out to the house here next time you’re over, Mike.”

  “I’d like that, Andy. You ski, by the way?”

  “I have been known to try the piste,” said Bassett self-deprecatingly.

  “Well, I don’t know about piste,” said Wilson, and he laughed. “But we have one hell of a chalet at Aspen.”

  “Indeed?” said Bassett.

  “Didn’t your boys find that one in the due diligence?” Wilson tutted. “Andy, I’m disappointed.”

  Bassett laughed. “Must have a word to Oliver.”

  “Yeah, you do that. Okay, well, I guess—”

  “Oh, Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There was one other thing I meant to mention to you.”

  “What’s that, Andy?”

  “I had rather an odd phone call today.”

  “What was that?”

  “It was from one of your chaps.”

  Wilson frowned. “I’m not following you, Andy.”

  “Chap from Dyson Whitney,” said Bassett. “That’s the bank advising you, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Wilson.

  “Yes,” said Bassett, “I thought so.”

  Wilson could hardly bear to ask the next question. It took all his self-control to keep his voice calm, neutral, as if the news didn’t signify anything at all to him. “What did he say, Andy?”

  “I didn’t speak to him myself. Apparently the call came through just after I’d gone into the board. My secretary took the message. I thought I should speak to you before doing anything else. I’m not sure how it works in the States, Mike, but in Britain it’s not quite the done thing for the other fellow’s investment bankers to start ringing one up. It’s not cricket, as we say over here.”

  “It ain’t cricket here, either,” muttered Wilson. His mind raced. Obviously, Bassett was more surprised than alarmed by the phone call. There was still time for him to get control of the situation. “Andy, did this guy say what he wanted?”

  “No. Said it was urgent, that’s all. Apparently said I’d be very interested to speak with him. Wouldn’t tell Georgina anything else.”

  “Okay … okay…” Wilson was still thinking, still calculating. “Andy, his name wouldn’t have been Robert Holding, would it?”

  “Yes,” said Bassett in surprise. “That’s exactly what it says here.”

  “Listen, Andy. Dyson Whitney has a problem with this guy. He suffered some kind of a personal trauma in the last couple of days and he’s gone AWOL. They say he’s not a risk to leak anything about the deal, but as you can see he’s kind of a loose cannon. They think he’s gone off the deep end. Unstable, if you know what I mean. He’s just disappeared on them and they’d sure like to know where he is. The thing is, if he calls again, it’s probably best if you don’t try to speak to him, but if you just get your secretary to get his number or try to—”

  “Oh, I have his number.”

  “You have his number?”

  “He left it.” Bassett read out a number. “It’s a hotel. I’m to ask for room twenty-four. The Bartlett Hotel. Never heard of it myself.”

  Wilson had grabbed a pen. “Did you say that was room twenty-four, Andy? And how do you spell that, Bartlett? Is that with two Ts?”

  * * *

  Tony Prinzi was appreciative. “Michael, this is very good. If my own employees were so efficient, I would have a lot less problems.”

  “Can you do something about it?” said Wilson. “He’s in London.”

  “Yes, I believe we can handle that. Just like your business, Mike, my organization is international. I have many associates.”

  “In London?”

  “It’s the modern world, Mike.” Prinzi chuckled. “Globalization.”

  “So you’ll fix it then? I’ve got the details. I’ve even got the room number of the hotel he’s staying in.”

  “Provided the information is correct, we’ll fix it.”

  “And there won’t be any more mistakes?”

  “Mike,” said Prinzi, “there are no guarantees. Personally, though, I do regret the first incident. If we had a picture then, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Will your guys in London have a picture?”

  “Through the wonder of the Internet,” said Prinzi, “I believe they will. Now, give me the information where Mr. Holding is in London.”

  Wilson gave him the details.

  “Very good,” said Prinzi. “If this information is accurate, Michael, we should have this little problem taken care of tonight.”

  “And the girl?” Wilson closed his eyes. “Your guys were going to find his girlfriend. You don’t have to worry about her now, right?”

  “When the events are in motion, Mike, it is very difficult to stop them.”

  “But we don’t need her. You can call your guys off.”

  “Best not to act too hasty. Let’s first be sure our job is done.”

  “And then?”

  “Then it depends where e
vents got to. If she’s not in a position to compermise us, of course, why would we pursue her? I’m not a barbarian, Mike.”

  “And if she is in a position to compromise you?”

  “Michael, best some things not to discuss. Your deal, I leave to you. I trust you to do it as it must be done. My business, you leave to me.”

  Wilson felt the grip of cold nausea. “Tony, I don’t understand. What’s the situation? Have your guys found her or not?”

  “Let’s just say we’re waiting for her to come home.”

  51

  The Amtrak service to New York had pulled out of Rochester just a couple of minutes behind schedule at eight-thirty that morning. Rose Bridges settled in for the seven-hour ride. She was a small woman with dark hair cut in a bob, a bright smile, and a pointed chin. Emmy, who was a lot taller than her, had gotten her height from Marty. Rose carried a capacious, multicolored patchwork bag with wooden handles that contained everything she needed for a stay of a few days at Emmy’s apartment, including a couple of novels and a sweater she was knitting to keep her occupied on the train. She always enjoyed the ride to New York. She did it at least four times a year to visit her only daughter.

  This morning, however, she was too anxious to relax. She tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. By the time the train pulled through Syracuse, the first stop out of Rochester, she had tried Emmy’s cell phone half a dozen times. She knew it was ridiculous to try so often, but she couldn’t stop herself. The man in the seat beside her glanced at her and Rose smiled apologetically. She put her cell phone in her bag. But ten minutes later she couldn’t resist the temptation to pull it out again.

  “Is everything all right?” said the man.

  Rose nodded. “There’s just someone I’m trying to contact.”

  “And they’re not answering?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that happens a lot. I’m sure they’re okay.”

  “It’s my daughter,” said Rose.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Rose smiled. “No. Thank you. I’m sure everything’s okay.”

  “So am I,” said the man.

  But Rose wasn’t. All night, terrible thoughts had kept her awake. Marty, who always thought Rose pushed things out of proportion, wasn’t sure what to think himself. It wasn’t like Emmy to go off the radar without any explanation, and Rose kept saying she had been terribly upset the last time they spoke. Although Emmy had lived in New York for six years, Marty still thought of her as his little girl alone in the big, uncaring city. When Rose said she was going to New York that morning, he didn’t know whether he should try to dissuade her. Maybe it was the right thing to do.

  Rose pulled her knitting out of her bag. The needles clacked. The man glanced at her. And again.

  “I’m sorry. Is this disturbing you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. She could see it was, but she couldn’t stop. At least it was something to do with her hands. If she had nothing to do, she’d dial Emmy’s number every minute.

  The man got up and went to the snack car. When he came back Rose was still knitting. He found himself a vacant seat elsewhere. She saw him get off the train at Albany. Rose called Marty to see if he’d heard from Emmy. Nothing.

  Impatiently, Rose waited for the train to complete the last few miles to New York. Over the course of the trip it had fallen a little further behind schedule, finally pulling into Penn Station at ten to four, fifteen minutes late. Rose rang Marty again as she walked quickly across the concourse. She took the escalator up to the Thirty-fourth Street exit. A minute later, she was in a cab.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “West Seventy-sixth Street.”

  The driver headed into the traffic.

  Rose called Emmy once more. She left a message to say she’d just arrived and was heading over to her apartment. Then she searched in her bag for the key she had to Emmy’s apartment.

  52

  By now, Steve Engels and George Nabandian were just about certain they knew who had killed Greg Ryan.

  The two detectives had spent a day interviewing Greg’s colleagues and friends and drew a total blank. That morning there had been more interviews. According to Greg’s supervisor at the DA’s office, there were no known threats against him, and he was sure Greg would have told him if he had received any. No one else could remember Greg mentioning anyone with a grudge who might want to harm him. As for knowing that he had been staying at Holding’s apartment, it was news to them that he had even moved out of his girlfriend’s place, as it was to his parents, for that matter. The ex claimed to know only that he had gone, not where he had gone to. She herself had a rock-solid alibi, having been in Boston until Sunday morning, and she gave them the names of ten different people who could verify it. Nabandian and Engels stopped checking after a half dozen.

  The picture was utterly consistent. Ryan, it seemed, hadn’t told anyone else, not family, not friends, not colleagues, as if he were hoping he might make things up with his girlfriend and move back in before anyone found out what had happened. Which meant that only Holding, who had found the body, and his girlfriend knew where Ryan actually was the night he died.

  Holding had the time to do it. His two colleagues at Dyson Whitney put him leaving the office that Saturday night at around ten-thirty. But it could have been ten-fifteen, they agreed when pushed. And the phone records showed him making the call to Ryan’s cell phone at eleven-fourteen. Say he had actually left the office at ten-ten. Say he got to his girlfriend’s apartment at eleven-twelve, making the call a couple of minutes later. That gave him almost an hour. In an hour you could just about get from Forty-fifth Street, the Dyson Whitney office, to the apartment on West Thirty-ninth, where Greg was killed, and then to the girlfriend’s apartment on West Seventy-sixth, with a few minutes to commit the murder. If you got lucky with cabs.

  But there was one problem they couldn’t get past. There was only one call recorded for Holding’s cell phone that Saturday night, and it was the one to Ryan’s number at eleven-fourteen. Since the girlfriend stated that she witnessed Holding making a call from his cell phone, that must have been the one she witnessed. The records showed that that call resulted in a conversation lasting three minutes and eight seconds. Holding’s call to Ryan on Sunday afternoon—which was also on the record and timed at five forty-three P.M.—diverted to Ryan’s voice mail, exactly as you would expect if Ryan were dead. The call on Saturday night hadn’t. It had been answered, which meant Ryan was still alive to take it—alive after the only time during the period in which the coroner said Ryan had died when Holding had the opportunity to kill him.

  They couldn’t get around it. They returned to the precinct in the afternoon when they had finished their interviews. A DA was dead, and they were under pressure to come up with a lead. They went through the facts over coffee at their desks. Everything pointed to Holding, and yet the phone records seemed to say that Ryan was alive when Holding should have already killed him. Engels had the phone records in front of him. The records seemed to be mocking him, just as Holding had seemed to be mocking him when he told him to go check the records in the first place. They were missing something, they had to be. Engels wanted to go pick Holding up and bring him back to the station and put a little pressure on him to see if they could find out what it was.

  Nabandian shook his head. “We’ve got nothing.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  “We need something, then we can crack him open.”

  “Come on, George, we can crack him anyway.”

  “Not yet,” said Nabandian. “It’s too early for us to try going in there with nothing. He was a lawyer, remember? We start pressuring him now and he starts yelling harassment, then we can’t go near him. We need something first.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Engels threw himself back in his chair in frustration.

  A couple of desks away, a cell phone rang. Th
e detective who sat there, Jimmy Bartok, reached into a pocket and pulled out a phone. He cursed and shook his head and pulled out a second phone from another pocket and answered it.

  “Yeah?” he said brusquely. He listened. “Yeah … yeah…”

  Engels watched Bartok sitting with a phone in each hand, talking into one, holding the other.

  “Yeah … Fuck that … No … Yeah … all right.” He switched the phone off. He caught Engels looking at him and grinned ruefully. “I got so many fucking phones, I never know which one’s ringing. Look, I got another one as well.” He began to reach into a pocket.

  “Why don’t you give them different ring tones, you idiot?” said Gobineau, another detective.

  Bartok frowned. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea.”

  Gobineau shook his head in exasperation and turned back to what he was doing. So did Bartok. But Engels kept gazing at him, thinking about it. Two hands … two phones …

  He turned to Nabandian. “I’ve got it! He had the phone, George. He had the fucking phone!”

  Nabandian looked at him skeptically. “What are you talking about?”

  “At eleven-fourteen, it’s Holding who’s got Ryan’s phone. He calls it—but he’s got it himself! Ryan’s dead. Holding’s killed him, but he’s taken the phone with him. He gets to the girl’s place, makes the call. Ryan doesn’t answer, of course, but Holding talks anyway. The girl hears him talking to Ryan, or so she thinks. Bingo! He’s got his alibi.”

  Nabandian reached over for the phone record. “Someone answered that call.” He held the record up for Engels. “Remember? The Sunday call goes to voice mail. The Saturday one doesn’t. Which means someone answered that call.”

  “Exactly. Someone. Holding. He’s got the phone, he presses to receive the call. Bingo! The call’s answered. Not by Ryan, by him.”

  “The girl saw him make the call.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you think she would have noticed if he was holding a second phone?”