Usually, burying myself in work was a sure way to make me feel as if I were in control of my life. I was good at what I did, even if I wasn’t much good at anything else. Dissecting tangled financial statements, crafting intricate negotiating strategies, structuring complex mergers—all these activities usually gave me a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. Today, however, I merely felt like a gerbil caught in a Habitrail, scampering through a maze of tunnels and treadmills that I’d traveled before and would travel again and again, with nothing exciting or unexpected to look forward to.
I desperately needed a pep talk, but my well of pep, never the deepest of inner resources, was entirely depleted. Instead, I forced myself to call into the office and clear the voice mails that had accumulated since I’d last checked in. As expected, there were several from Stan, detailing how he thought we should handle our meeting with Smitty Hamilton the next day, along with assorted pithy thoughts on other deals we had underway. I took careful notes before deleting the messages.
The takeover of a privately held company was a far easier task than the takeover of a public company. We wouldn’t have to worry about tender offers or proxy fights. And a hostile acquisition of Peter’s company looked indeed to be a piece of cake, much as Stan had claimed. Once Peter defaulted on the loan his company had outstanding, all Hamilton Tech had to do was purchase the note to gain control. Given that Smitty Hamilton had already initiated discussions with the bank in question, and given that the bank would be relieved to sell the note rather than trying to liquidate the company to recover its loss, all that was left for Winslow, Brown to do was facilitate the negotiations and help Hamilton Tech secure the best possible price on the deal. That the CEO of the target company was a felon was unlikely to complicate the situation significantly; if anything, it would make our job a lot easier.
I quickly drafted some documents for the meeting, writing in longhand on a legal pad. First, I created an agenda listing the topics we needed to cover. For our own background, we would require a thorough record of the discussions Hamilton Tech had already had. Then we would need to craft a negotiating strategy and a plan for how the acquired company would be integrated into Hamilton Tech’s existing corporate structure. We would also have to develop a list of questions to probe in the due diligence phase and set up the actual due diligence process. Next, I took a copy of the template for an engagement letter, the document by which a client officially retained Winslow, Brown and agreed to pay for services rendered. I tailored the wording as appropriate for the transaction, being sure to specify a hefty fee and trying not to think too hard about the fact that I actually had a client, a grown man nonetheless, named Smitty.
I called OS to let Cora know that I’d be faxing the pages in to be typed up by the word processing department, asking her to fax back the finished product so I could check for any mistakes. She assured me that she’d take care of everything right away. I loaded the pages onto the machine and sent them through, remembering as I did that I still hadn’t recovered my locket. I resolved to go back to the beach and find it as soon as I received the faxed pages back from Cora.
I had some more busywork to occupy myself—there were other deals underway that I had to review, a performance evaluation that needed to be written for an associate on one of my teams, a presentation that I was expected to put together regarding the department’s plan for recruiting new MBAs for the upcoming year—but I didn’t have the heart or the concentration for any of those tasks. After several minutes of staring blankly into space, I turned my attention to the bookshelves, looking for something to distract myself while I waited for Cora to fax back the typed-up documents.
None of the titles seemed to be calling out my name, so I found myself returning to the retrospective of Jacob’s work that I’d looked at the previous day. I’d curled up on the sofa and was idly turning the shiny pages with their vivid illustrations when I heard the fax hum into motion. I was pleased; I guessed that Cora had kicked my work to the front of the queue. Even so, the speed with which it had been completed was unprecedented. I crossed over to the fax machine and took the pages from the output tray. I grabbed a pen and sat back down on the sofa to read everything over, using the book I’d been leafing through as a hard surface on which to write.
But it was with an eerie sense of déjà vu that I realized that the fax wasn’t for me.
I did have a brief pang of guilt; after all, it was reading other people’s faxes that had only so recently made such a jumble of my love life. However, another part of me pointed out, it was a blessing I had snooped before—otherwise I’d probably still be snuggling up to a criminal. I was in for a penny already—I might as well be in for a pound, I reasoned. So, with some trepidation, I read on.
The cover sheet was addressed to Peter and on the stationery of a hotel in Katmandu. This had to be a joke, was my first thought. Did they even have hotels in Katmandu? Much less fax machines? Where was Katmandu, anyhow? It seemed like it should be near Timbuktu, or Kalamazoo. According to the address, however, it was in Nepal. Was Peter doing business with the Nepalese Mafia? I wouldn’t put it past him, assuming there was such a thing.
I was flipping to the next page when I did a double take. I rubbed my eyes to make sure that my vision was clear. Just in case Katmandu seemed too far-fetched, in the space for the sender’s name were two words: Sam Slattery.
Sam Slattery? I nearly said the name aloud in a combination of awe and disbelief. Could it be the Sam Slattery? The man who was to technology what Warren Buffett was to investing? The savvy entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and mysterious recluse who made Bill Gates look like a pathetic also-ran? Sam Slattery was a legend, a pillar, a god. Companies he had funded from mere seedlings now made up half the value of the NASDAQ, practically. His touch was better than that of Midas when it came to startups. Whereas most venture capitalists were like lemmings, jumping onto whichever bandwagon was most trendy at any given moment—e-commerce, optical networking or biotech—Slattery was known for ferreting out revolutionary technology companies that delivered real value.
My trembling hands caused the fax to shake as I turned to the second, and only other, page. It was a handwritten note, printed in bold, block letters.
PETER [it read]: SORRY AGAIN THAT YOU HAD SUCH A DEVIL OF A TIME TRACKING ME DOWN. SOMETIMES MY SECRETARY TAKES ME A BIT TOO LITERALLY WHEN I TELL HER THAT I DON’T WANT TO BE DISTURBED. PLUS, I HAVEN’T BEEN EASY TO REACH OF LATE. REMIND ME TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THE DALAI LAMA WHEN I GET BACK TO THE STATES.
PER OUR DISCUSSION ON FRIDAY, I’VE MADE ARRANGEMENTS FOR THE FUNDS TO BE WIRED DIRECTLY TO THE BANK, FIRST THING MONDAY. THAT SHOULD KEEP THE WOLVES FROM THE DOOR FOR A WHILE—AT LEAST UNTIL YOU’RE READY TO IPO.
LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING ELSE. I’M A BIG FAN, AND A BELIEVER, AND I’M HAPPY TO HELP OUT HOWEVER I CAN.
REGARDS,
SAM
I read it over again. And again. But the words stayed the same, and their implication was only too clear. Peter hadn’t been counting on Richard’s money to keep his company afloat. He had someone much better lined up, and he’d known that on Friday, way before Richard had been murdered. I let the pages fall to the floor and buried my head in my hands.
A mean little voice inside my head was singing a jubilant chorus of I-told-you-sos. Another voice was singing with joy that Peter was innocent. Yet another was moaning in pain. The three-part medley was a discordant cacophony.
Could Peter ever forgive me? There was no reason he should. What a complete and utter fool I’d been. And what a mess I’d created, the mean little voice chimed in.
Poor Peter had been dragged out of his bed and hauled off to the police station, all because I’d leaped to conclusions. I’d roused O’Donnell and Paterson in the middle of the night to send them chasing after a false lead. I’d told my friends that Peter had attacked me and left me for dead, something he clearly had no reason to do. And the worst of it was that I’d definitely ruined any chanc
e of a successful relationship. He’d hardly be feeling too affectionate toward me when the police brought him back, as they undoubtedly would once they’d heard his explanation. Unless the fax I held was a clever forgery of some sort, which seemed unlikely.
I lifted my head from my hands and groaned aloud. “Good Lord,” I cried. “Rachel, you are a moron. A dense, brainless, imbecilic, irrational moron.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you’re cute.”
This time I couldn’t help it. I shrieked, a pathetic, girly shriek. As if I’d seen a mouse, or been pinched in an unseemly place on the crowded Lexington Avenue subway.
I vaulted up from the sofa and whirled around to face Peter. All my embarrassment and self-recriminations were temporarily forgotten. Anybody would be justified in suspecting that a man who insisted on sneaking up on people like this could be a murderer. Self-righteous indignation coursed through my veins.
“Why—why,” I spluttered. “Why is it that you can’t enter a room like a normal person? Have you ever considered knocking? Or perhaps clearing your throat to announce your presence? I’ve had it with you! You should be belled! Belled like a cat, so that you can’t sneak up on unsuspecting birds!”
Peter didn’t even have the grace to look abashed. Instead, he just grinned. “Let me get this straight. I’m a cat and you’re a bird? Now, were you thinking Sylvester and Tweety? Because, I certainly have the wrong coloring, and Tweety most definitely was not a redhead.”
“You planned this!” I accused him. “You plan it every time. What’s with all of your sneaking around? Is it some sort of West Coast mating ritual? Instead of flowers and chocolates, you creep up on unsuspecting females, trying to startle their wits out of them so you can see how they look when panicked?”
“You’re very attractive when panicked,” he assured me, seating himself on the edge of the desk. “But what’s with the paranoia?” Typical male. He looked so confident, so entirely charming, that I wasn’t sure if, when I lunged toward him, I wanted to kiss him or slap him.
Fortunately, he answered that question for me. He kissed even better in the morning than he did at night. I was glad I’d taken the time to brush my teeth.
“You’re a bit edgy sometimes, aren’t you?” he asked, some moments later.
“Only when caught unawares,” I replied with what little dignity I could muster, detaching his hands from around my waist.
“So, even though you’re not apologizing profusely, I guess I’ll forgive you,” said Peter. “I’m sure you’ll get around to saying you’re sorry at some point.”
A hot blush spread across every inch of exposed skin. “Oh, dear,” I said.
“It’s okay. I know you saw the fax, and I assume that you read it. It’s the only explanation as to why you went from hot to cold on me in the space of a couple of hours last night and then called the police. You saw the fax, and you thought I’d killed Richard for his money. If I were you, I would have come to the same conclusion. It would have been nice if you’d given me a chance to explain, or at least waited a few more hours to call the police, of course, so that we could have all gotten a bit more sleep.”
I sank down onto the sofa. “Peter—” I began, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. It’s just that I didn’t know what to think. And, I’ve made so many mistakes before when it came to men. Even though my gut was telling me that you couldn’t be guilty—”
He interrupted me. “It’s all right. I completely understand. Besides—won’t this make a great story for the grandkids? How grandma thought grandpa was a murderer when they first met?” He sat down beside me and touched my cheek lightly with his hand.
“Let’s not worry about the grandkids just yet,” I said, as he leaned in to kiss me.
“So,” he asked when we came up for air, “even though I’ve explained everything to the police, why are you so suddenly convinced of my innocence? At least, I’m assuming you’re convinced since you’re willing to let me touch you.”
“Very willing,” I confessed, shamefaced.
“But I haven’t explained a thing to you. I tried to come tell you everything last night, but your door was locked.”
I remembered with a pang the terror I’d felt when I saw the doorknob turning. “Is that what you were doing? I—I thought you were coming to…” I was too embarrassed to complete my sentence.
He chuckled. “You thought I was coming to do you in? This really will make a great story for the grandkids. So, what’s made you decide that I’m in the clear?”
“Oh, dear,” I said again. “I don’t think I should tell you.” I was reluctant to own up to reading yet more of his correspondence.
“Hmmm. Let me guess. Are you psychic?” he asked.
“If only,” I sighed. “It would sure save everyone a lot of trouble if I were.” I felt the blush that had begun to recede renew itself with vigor.
“Come on, Rachel. You can tell me. Maybe we should establish a no secrets policy of some sort.”
“But if we do that, we’ll miss out on all of the exciting intrigue and passive-aggressive harboring of suspicious thoughts.”
“True,” he mused. “But we’ll have more time to make out if we abandon the exciting intrigue and passive-aggressive harboring of suspicious thoughts. Plus, we won’t have to worry about how you’re going to sneak me files in cakes when I’m in jail. Which, given what I’ve heard about your talents in the kitchen, sounds like it would pose a real challenge.”
“Good point. If I tell you, do you promise you won’t hate me?” I asked.
“How could I hate you?” His voice was incredulous. “I’m falling in love with you.”
“Still? Even after everything I did?” He really was too good to be true.
By way of an answer, he kissed me again. A very reassuring kiss that sent my insecurities packing, at least for a little while. They were too firmly instilled in my psyche to go away for good, regardless of how persuasive this particular kiss was.
“Okay, then,” I said when he relinquished his grasp. “Here goes.” I leaned down and picked up the pages of the fax from Sam Slattery that I’d let drop to the floor. “I read this,” I admitted. “I really did think it was something for me at first. Although I did keep reading after I realized it wasn’t.”
Peter took the pages from my hand and quickly perused them. “Good old Sam,” he said with satisfaction. He folded the fax and put it in his pocket. “I’ll need to show this to the police, and maybe even get him on the phone with them. They were willing to release me once I’d explained where I planned to get the money to save the company, but they’re going to need some proof. And this shows that I’d squared away the matter well in advance of Richard being killed.”
“It certainly does,” I said. “And Sam Slattery of all people. I’m impressed.”
“I’m just relieved he came through. He spends most of the year hiking in exotic places where it’s hard to reach him. When our financial situation became dire last month, I tried to get in touch with him to see if he’d put up more money, but he was trekking in Nepal, and I couldn’t track him down. He just got back from the wilderness, got all my messages, and volunteered to keep us solvent for the foreseeable future. His pockets are pretty deep, and I was fairly confident he’d give us the money, but it was a relief to actually get him to commit to writing another check. I spent the entire train ride up here from Albany on Friday night negotiating the details.”
“I like the sound of this guy,” I said. “Deep pockets and globe-trotting are very desirable qualities in a man. Is he single?”
“Yes, but he’s also seventy-two and has eight grandchildren. I think you’d be better off sticking with me.”
I giggled. “Well, if you insist.” We kissed some more. But a lingering thought kept me from being able to concentrate. There was one other thing I had to tell Peter, but I was pretty sure that to tell him went against some sort of professional code I’d sworn to uphold.
&nb
sp; “Okay,” he said, detaching his lips from mine with jarring suddenness. He hoisted us both up into a sitting position. “What is it?”
“What is what?”
“Suddenly I feel like I’m kissing a blow-up doll. Your body’s in the right place, but I don’t get the sense that your mind’s here at all.”
“Do you have a lot of experience kissing blow-up dolls?”
“Something tells me that there’s no right answer to that question.”
“Okay,” I said, throwing professional ethics to the wind. “There’s just one other thing I should probably tell you. Especially in light of the no secrets policy.”
“Yes?” His expression was both patient and amused.
“Well, did you know that Hamilton Tech is trying to take over your company?”
He was revving up for another kiss, but he froze at my words. “What? How do you know? Was there an article in the Journal or something? I thought it was all a big, stealthy, insidious secret?”
The way his eyes had opened wide was adorable, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Remember the fax I was reading last night? The one that was actually for me? It was about a new deal that a partner at Winslow, Brown just snagged. Guess who Smitty Hamilton has engaged to advise him on the acquisition?”
“You’re kidding.” He looked at me in disbelief. Disbelief was equally adorable.
“I wish. I’m in no mood to launch a takeover.”
“Well, that’s a coincidence. I’m in no mood to be taken over.” He was practically growling. The dangerous current in his voice was nothing short of thrilling.
“So, it looks like our interests are aligned.”
“Even if they weren’t, I’ve managed to fix things so that we’re safe from the Hamilton Techs of the world for a while. Nor are we in danger of being savaged by the likes of you and your colleagues at Winslow, Brown.”
“Savaged, no. Ravaged, however, is still an option.”
The Pact Page 23