Once I’d been diagnosed as dyslexic, I’d been taught a lot of coping strategies, such as better visualization and memorization skills. I have a rocking good memory, which is why I’d been a good bike courier. I knew landmarks all over this city and could find an address easily. I paid attention in class, and if my notes looked more like hieroglyphs than words, it worked for me. That’s what I used now—more pictures than words.
Jake is telling me I need to stretch myself. My mom always accepted the way I had compensated, and since I’d managed a job and a place to live, learning to read and write better never actually occurred to me. Plus, if there was anything I hated more than being viewed as weak and impaired, it was going to school. I make a face even though no one can see me.
At noon, I call to Jake, “I’m going to lunch.”
“The office will be locked when you come back. I have a meeting with a tech firm to take a look at some security systems. Put the machine on.”
“Will do.”
Another reason I’m not lunching with Ian is because today I’m having lunch with Sarah Berkovich, an old high school friend. She’d called me a week ago saying she saw the notice in the Observer about my mom’s funeral. It would never have been there if I hadn’t been standing next to Ian. In fact, my name wasn’t even mentioned below the picture of him standing behind me with his hand on the small of my back. The caption read Ian Kerr, billionaire investor, attending the funeral of a friend, Sophie Corielli.
Sarah and I are meeting at Telepan—a place I wouldn’t have been able to eat at before Ian. Even though the prices are considered midrange, it still would have been too expensive when Mom and I had five-figure medical bills hovering over us and I struggled to make rent on a one-bedroom, fifth-floor walk-up on the far Upper East Side. There was some pleasure in being able to agree that Telepan was just fine when Sarah suggested it, instead of having to say I needed to bring a sandwich from home.
Sarah is already there when I arrive. Her dark brown hair is full of wiry curls, which are about the only distinctively Jewish thing about her other than her last name. She has a heart-shaped face and a sloped nose that curls up just slightly at the end, making her look pert and mischievous. As I enter, she stands and hurries to the door.
“Vic!” she cries, and pulls me against her five-feet-eight frame. Thankfully she’s wearing flats instead of heels, so I don’t feel like a complete shrimp next to her. My family—and Ian—call me Tiny. Everyone else has their own variation of Victoria. For Sarah, it’s Vic. Her generous breasts squish against my smaller torso. As she leads me back to our table, every male head and some of the female ones turn to watch her.
“God, you haven’t changed at all,” she says as we sit down.
“Neither have you. You look amazing, as always.”
She uses a hand to smooth some of her wild curls back. “I’m getting better at putting on makeup, I hope.”
“Definitely,” I laugh. We’d had a sleepover once with Sarah acting as the beautician. We were going for smoky eyes but ended up looking like frightened raccoons.
“Before we go any further, I have to apologize. I’m so sorry that we lost contact. I had no idea your mother was sick.”
She looks sincere, but I hope she doesn’t start crying. Sarah was a weeper in school, and if she tears up here, given my precarious emotional health, I’ll join her, which will be an embarrassing mess.
“Thanks, but no apologies are necessary. We moved close to the hospital and kind of lost touch with everyone. Plus, you went to Pace and I didn’t.”
The waiter forestalls any more apologies. I haven’t looked at my menu, but it’s a pizza place. I figure they have cheese pizza. After he takes our order, Sarah asks, “Are you still messengering? That’s what you did after high school, right?”
“No. I got in an accident and thought I would look into something else, so I’m dispatching for a security firm.” I’d actually gotten beat up by a paranoid drug addict, and my inability to get right back up on the bike got me fired, but she doesn’t need to know those kinds of details.
“Oh no. I didn’t realize it was dangerous. You’re okay now though?”
I nod. “Yes, all healed up. How about you?”
“I graduated two years ago with a BA in English, which netted me a publishing assistant job. If I didn’t live at home, I wouldn’t be able to go out at all.”
“I hear you.” I completely understood those kinds of money problems. Every dime I had went for food, rent, or paying down Mom’s medical bills. I didn’t have the time, energy, or—most of all—the money to go out to a bar or a club. Now I have Ian, who seems intent on seeing that everything I missed out on before is brought to me on a silver platter. It’s nice but overwhelming.
“Hopefully I’ll get a promotion one of these days into an editorial position, make a little more money, and then finally move out on my own. But I don’t want to live so far outside the city that I’m taking a two-hour train ride to and from work.”
“But do you like your job?”
“Love it. I’d do it for free if I had to. I get to read manuscripts all day, work with authors, give input on covers and stuff. I once wrote the back cover copy of a book that got published.” She pumps her fist. “My boss, Diane, tells me that the dewy innocence in my eyes will dry out after I’ve read my share of crappy manuscripts or dealt with awful authors, but for now, I’m still full of youthful exuberance.” She smiles back at me, every ounce of her joy visible on her face.
I can’t help but return her grin.
“I forgot how cheerful you are all the time.”
“Irritatingly so, according to Diane,” she says, unperturbed. “I’m guessing by the lack of gushing that you aren’t as in love with your job as I am with mine.”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s okay, but I can’t see me doing it for the rest of my life.”
“Do you even need to work?”
“Because I’m dating Ian?” I ask.
“My god, Vic, it’s like winning the lottery and The Bachelorette at the same time.”
“It’s better,” I admit. “Not gonna lie.”
She slaps the table and hoots a little too loud, but I don’t mind. The waiter delivers our food and in between bites of cheese pizza, we catch up, talking about people from high school, particularly her hated ex, Cameron O’Toole, who she’d discovered was cheating on her while she was at Pace University and he was at Columbia.
“Cam is just finishing his MBA. New York is sick with business school grads, and they’re all insufferable. No offense to your boyfriend.”
“He never went to college, so no offense taken,” I say.
“No college? Wow, one of those dropouts like Jobs or Gates, huh?”
“Kind of.”
“You guys have a lot in common, then,” she observes.
I’m taken aback by this. “What do you mean?”
“Neither of you went to college. You both made your way successfully in the world despite it. That’s cool. I see why you fit.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “You’re surprised, but you shouldn’t be. You’ve always had your shit together. Even though you had your reading disability, you still sat in class like it was no big deal. You never asked for accommodations and you went out and got a job before half the class was employed.”
She’s more right than she knows. Ian and I do have a lot in common. We both lost our mothers too young. We both love too fiercely. We’re both a little lost without each other. I’ve got to stop letting insecurities get in the way of our relationship.
“So did you confront Cam?”
“I did one better. I re-recorded his voicemail to say ‘You’ve reached Cameron aka Cheating Bastard O’Toole. I like to cheat and have sex without a condom. You may want to get a checkup to be sure I haven’t passed around an STD. Leave a message.’”
/> “You didn’t.” I’m laughing so hard I have to press my napkin up to my mouth so I don’t spray pizza all over the table.
“Scout’s honor, I did. He deserved it. He’s a technological idiot, so I went ahead and changed his passcode so he wasn’t able to fix it. I think it was at least a week before he got some help and the message was changed. I heard through the grapevine that all his friends mercilessly mocked him about it, and that no one wanted to go out with him after that.”
“That was genius.”
“I know. It still makes me smile, even though it happened three years ago.”
“I’d like to do something like that to a guy I know,” I admit. “Embarrass him so much he’s shunned by his friends.”
“Public humiliation is hard. What’d this guy do to you?”
“Enough.” I don’t want to reveal that it’s Ian who has a vendetta against Richard Howe. He wouldn’t want me spreading his private business, and besides, what hurts Ian hurts me.
She looks thoughtfully at me but doesn’t ask me to elaborate on what “enough” means. “Who is it?”
Looking around to see who is next to me, I lean in and gesture for Sarah to come close so I can avoid other people hearing. “Richard Howe.”
“Ed Howe’s son?” she hisses. “Ed Howe, the family-first mayoral candidate?”
“Yes,” I hiss back.
“Come on. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” She stands abruptly. The waiter comes over immediately. Sarah and I fight for the bill, but I tell her Ian is paying and she gives in. We walk a little ways down West Sixty-Ninth Street toward Amsterdam. I reveal a small portion of Howe’s dislike for Ian and his desire to see Ian fail.
“Are you afraid that he’s trying to break you and Ian up?” she asks finally.
I choose my words carefully, because I don’t want to lie. “I think that he’d do anything to hurt us, Ian particularly. He’s really jealous of Ian’s success.”
“I can see that. Who wouldn’t be jealous of Ian? Rich, good-looking, has a hot girlfriend.” She winks at me and I give her a weak smile. “Did he hurt you?”
“He’s trying to,” I say. It’s as much as I feel comfortable saying, but it’s the truth.
“What you really need is dirt on him. Like I got on Cam.”
“I know,” I say glumly.
“Look, I’ve got to go back to the office,” she says when we reach Broadway. “The best thing I can say is to follow him around. Get on your bike and shadow him for a few days. See if there’s anything you can find that would embarrass him. Once you find it, go to him and say that you’ll release that information if he doesn’t leave the two of you alone.”
“But what kind of information?” When Ian and I first met, his goal was to use me to get information to blackmail Howe. I can’t really tell Sarah that, and I know Ian would be furious if I engaged in any kind of flirtation with Howe. But following him around? Maybe there’s something to Sarah’s idea.
“You won’t know until you follow him. Might be fun.” A cab finally stops, and Sarah climbs in. “Let me know if you want help.”
With that, she waves good-bye. Seconds after the cab pulls away, Steve pulls up.
“Does Ian know you’re following me?” I ask. I get in because if I don’t, he’ll just follow me up the street.
Steve grunts once, which I take as a yes. On the ride back to Jake’s office, my lunch conversation swirls around in my head. Sarah reminding me how Ian and I do fit together. Her suggestion that I follow Howe. Then there’s Jake’s idea that maybe I could do fieldwork. Again, it’s a lot to take in but all in a good way.
IAN
When I arrive at my office building downtown, Malcolm Hedder is waiting for me. He pushes away from the granite wall as I climb out of the car.
“You’re a long way from Queens.” He looks out of place down here in his dark wash jeans and white T-shirt, a modern day James Dean.
“Throw her back,” he says without preamble.
“So she’s a fish?”
“She doesn’t belong with you.”
“If you cared so much, you should have taken better care of her when you had the opportunity. She’s mine now.” Steve’s turned off the vehicle and has stepped out of the car, his hand on the roof.
I shake my head in warning. I can handle this. “I’m fine,” I tell Steve. “And you have better things to do.”
He squints at me, making up his own mind. Having decided that I don’t need him, he leaves. He needs to get up to Jake Tanner’s office so that he can watch Tiny. Now more than any other time, we need to be vigilant about her safety: Malcolm is lurking outside my office, insisting on her return as if I’m holding her hostage; Howe still breathes; and now her long-lost stepfather is demanding a meeting.
“You don’t know my circumstances,” Malcolm protests.
He’s pathetic. I advance on him. “I’d have abandoned my own mother if I had to choose between her and Tiny. But you know what? Tiny never would have made you choose. She would have helped you find a solution that worked for both of you. But you’re either too stupid or selfish to realize that.”
Malcolm scowls at me. “Here’s what we both know: You’ll get tired of her. And then where will she be?”
“Don’t pretend like you know me, Hedder. I’m a choir boy compared to you.” I look at my watch. “I’ve got other unhappy children to deal with today. Are we done here?”
“You’re placing her in danger,” he blurts out as I brush by him. This stops me, as he knew it would.
“From you or your father?”
“Your life is dangerous,” he shoots back with narrowed eyes.
“Really? Because I’m not the one engaged in criminal activity. I believe it was the job you asked Tiny to do that got her beat up by a drugged-out, paranoid customer.”
He has the grace to flush but persists. “She’s an ordinary girl and won’t have the first clue how to deal with your business dinners. How are you going to feel when she unintentionally insults someone or can’t keep up with current events because she doesn’t even fucking read? You’ll ruin her.”
“This is why you lost her, Hedder. You’ve never valued her highly enough. You cared more for your own problems than you cared about her. I don’t care what anyone else thinks of Tiny because she’s a goddamn revelation and anyone who doesn’t recognize that can go fuck themselves. Have a good day,” I say pleasantly and walk through the revolving doors.
CHAPTER 4
As predicted, Louis Durand is standing at my office door when I arrive. After dealing with Malcolm, my patience is in short supply. From the look of annoyance on my admin Rose’s face, he’s been there long enough to keep her from getting her own job done.
“Ian,” Louis cries in greeting. He’s trying to hide his impatience, but the rhythmic tapping of the prospectus in his hand gives his true feelings away.
“Good morning, Rose. Louis.” I take the printout from Rose containing the meetings and phone conferences set for today along with any important messages. I flip through each of the pages quickly. “Tell the Times and Wall Street Journal ‘no’ and schedule a meeting for Friday with Keller. It can be a lunch meeting. Make it for Megu at the UN Plaza. He likes that place. Also, have we arranged everything with the Frick?”
She nods. “The tickets will be delivered to your home this week. The first gift amount has been sent, and there’s a draft of the commemorative announcement in your inbox. I’ve marked it as important.”
“Good.”
“You haven’t read your emails yet?” Louis yelps in dismay. “I’ve sent four this morning and seven last night. All of them are urgent!”
“All of your messages can’t be urgent.” I don’t feel guilty about not looking at my inbox after leaving work early yesterday. Jake had called at five to tell me he was sending Tiny home, and I
wanted to be there when she arrived. Reading Louis’s emails was the furthest thing from my mind last night, and I told him so. “I had better things to do last night than read business emails. And, frankly, you should have too. All work, Louis.”
He scoffs. “That’s not the maxim you lived by three months ago. Ever since—” He stops, perhaps recognizing that I’ll not tolerate any negativity about Tiny. “Look, since you’re finally here, we can get started.”
I’m halfway into my office when Louis finishes his sentence.
“I didn’t realize I was on the clock,” I said mildly. “Or that I answered to you.”
He stammers out a response. “Of course not. I meant I was just eager to go over the reports with you. These deals aren’t going to be around for long.”
Quickly, I calculate the pros and cons of firing him on the spot for clear insubordination. I hired him because he was bright and hungry. His great weakness is his tendency to make emotion-based decisions. Investments should be done without sentiment. I’ve been trying to train that out of him. He needs to lead with his head more and not his hurt feelings.
Two years ago, he’d wanted to scuttle a deal with a small transport company. The owners were a few guys from the Midwest who liked to order their steaks well done. They were rough around the edges, and Louis had been affronted by nearly everything—from how they held their forks to the condition of the home office, which was really nothing more than a shed. He’d claimed that it was a sign of the immaturity of the company, but I’d invested over his objections. Since then it’s been over-performing the paper estimates. They were more interested in pouring money back into the fleet and their employees than making sure the home office looked good. I approved. Louis did not.
That might have been the start of the growing rift between us, but the last three months spent with Tiny have driven a sharp wedge into the fissure.
Last year was the best year Kerr Inc. had seen in the decade of its existence. Before Tiny, my sole focus had been ensuring my place at the top of the heap of snarling animals that comprises the financial world.
Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2) Page 4