by Dana Killion
“Got it. I’ll write that up,” Martinez said, apparently believing that’s what he was being asked to do. Don’t you even want to check the source? I thought to myself.
“You know what, on second thought, don’t worry about the story.” I tore his notes off of his pad and left him at his desk, a confused look on his face.
I made a beeline for Brynn’s desk. Borkowski wanted Martinez on this story, I assumed out of some misdirected loyalty, either that or he was afraid of firing people, which was a problem for another day. But as far as I was concerned, the man was a doofus perhaps qualified to write classified ads, but even that jury was still out. I agreed that Borkowski needed to have full responsibility for staffing, but I hadn’t agreed that I would work with fools. I’d deal with the business implications later; right now I needed a pro.
“What’s this?” Brynn asked as I placed the notes in front of her. She picked up the pages and scanned. “These are VTF notes but it’s not your hand writing. And what’s this about poison?” She looked up at me briefly, then went back to the pages, her mouth dropping open as she read.
“It appears that the drinks, at least some batches, have been contaminated with a botanical toxin called belladonna. It isn’t clear how the contamination occurred or when. But I suspect we’ve got a big story on our hands.”
“Kelly Cavanaugh and Jeremy Wolanski?” I nodded. “And your friend owns the company. Have you spoken to him?” She looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“Not since I learned about this. But you’re going to.”
“What? Me?”
“The story’s suspect if it’s me alone. My reporting will appear as either too soft or out to get him depending on who’s interpreting. That’s why you and I will work on it together; we’ll share the byline, and mitigate any of the favoritism issues.”
She pursed her lips, then brought her coffee cup up to her mouth. I could see her mind pinball from excitement to fear. I knew which would win out.
“Borkowski?” she asked.
“He’s partially on board, just thinks I’m working with Martinez.”
Brynn broke into a chuckle.
“That’s not helpful.” I smiled and laughed myself. “See what you can do about getting this mess organized.” I tapped on the notes. “I’ll email you the lab test and we can talk later.”
“Andrea, thanks for doing the this.” Her smile was broad and sincere.
“Thank me after,” I laughed. “You might want to go back to covering the dog shows by the time we’re done with this.”
As I returned to my office, I saw Olivia standing in the reception area, tentatively scoping out the space. She seemed to relax when she saw me. I walked over.
“I hope it’s okay that I came here. I’m just so freaked out by the cops that I need someone to talk to.”
Her eyes darted around the room as if afraid she’d see someone she knew. Her head was bare and loose pieces of windblown hair had come loose from her ponytail and brushed against cheeks pink from the cold. A thick hand-knitted scarf was wrapped multiple times around her neck and glistened with snowflakes that had melted.
“Of course it’s okay. Let’s go to my office.”
“Is there someplace else?” She paused. “Someplace without so many reporters?”
“There’s a coffee shop nearby. Give me a second to get my coat.”
She waited in the hall while I grabbed my things and we rode down the elevator in silence. The coffee shop was three doors down on the corner. I paid for our drinks while Olivia grabbed a table.
I set cups in front of us and tossed my coat on the chair. Olivia didn’t seem ready to unwrap her neck. Instead, she twirled her hair and stirred her coffee for what seemed like an eternity. At least twenty questions jumped around in my brain, but she hadn’t come here to be grilled. She came because she was scared. So, I sipped my tea and waited for her to talk.
“They want our computers. All of our records, production records, batch numbers, dates. Martin wasn’t going to give them anything without Mr. Bowman saying it was okay, but they started taking stuff, anyway.”
“And did Seth, Mr. Bowman, show up?”
“Yeah, and boy was he mad. He stormed in while the cops were unplugging our computers. Started yelling about his rights and about calling his attorney. The cops said something about having a subpoena. I didn’t understand what that was all about, but it just made Mr. Bowman even madder. Then he started yelling at Martin as if it were his fault for letting the cops in the building. They’re cops. What did he think Martin was going to do?” She shook her head. “The whole thing was out of control.”
“What happened from there?”
“This attorney showed up. At least everyone was saying she was Mr. Bowman’s attorney. The two of them went into the supply room to talk. I didn’t see them again. That’s when Martin told everybody to go home. He shut down the plant. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I lose this job. Everybody’s scared, including me.”
I was imagining the employees frozen by the chaos and fear, uncertain what to do as their boss lost it. I was also wondering about Seth. He was barely a week past his gunshot wound, likely still on pain meds and antibiotics, and I was uncertain if he, too, had ingested the belladonna. I had the urge to tell him, but that was in Michael’s lap.
“Did he say anything about why the plant was being shut down?” I asked.
“Martin, you mean?” I nodded. “To the crew, he said it was so they could clear up the confusion. But to me, he said it was so no one could mess with anything.”
“Company records?”
“I guess. He told me he didn’t want the cops saying we’d messed with anything later. You know, changed records or something, deleted files. Said that he would talk with Mr. Bowman and sort everything out so we could be back to normal tomorrow morning.”
I doubted everything would be sorted out by tomorrow morning, but hopefully the staff would have some guidance on business operations. I had no doubt that the attorney Olivia referenced was Cai. And that right about now she was giving him referrals to other attorneys more appropriate for this new development. What a time to not be able to talk to her.
But I could talk to Olivia.
“Why do you think Martin would worry about files being changed or deleted?”
I laid the question out as simply as I could, following her lead, curious about whether she’d speculate. It wasn’t an unusual first reaction for someone who’d had a previous legal encounter, but seemed odd coming from a plant manager. Was he particularly cautious or had there been a previous incident?
“Um,” she paused, taking another break by swallowing some coffee. “He’s probably thinking about our backer. They’ve had some fights.”
“What do you mean?”
She fidgeted in her seat like a 5-year-old who had to pee and played with the fringe on her scarf as she decided how to answer. “The money guy. Sometimes he complains, well, more than complains from what Martin tells me. He’s cheap, I guess he’s supposed to be. Thinks we spend too much. Anyway, they’ve had a couple knockdown drag-outs when the guy tried to do our work for us. Martin doesn’t trust him. Apparently, he caught him a couple times coming in after hours and going through our records. Martin says he even cancelled an order once.”
29
I stepped off the elevator on the 32nd floor of a Loop high-rise having decided a conversation with Aaron Nadell was appropriate, although he didn’t know it yet.
Olivia’s comments about “the money guy” had sparked my interest big time. Particularly if Martin was worried the guy, whom I knew to be Aaron Nadell, might mess with records. Did that mean Martin was worried there was something worth deleting? Or just that he didn’t want himself or his crew to be blamed for anything? Hard to tell, but if Nadell was showing up at night unannounced and poking around on their computers, he not only had a key, he operated as if he was far more than just a banker.
My research into his fir
m told me it was on the smaller side as far as venture capital went, five employees, focusing on seed to early-growth stage, up to series A investments. That meant they were into their deals for between one to five million dollars per investment. But the real money was made later in the IPO. Unlike most VC’s, Nadell Capital didn’t seem enamored with the latest greatest tech companies that their peers found sexy, instead they put their money into stable, boring stuff, like small manufacturing. According to their website, they were invested seven companies right now. Strangely, VTF Industries wasn’t listed in their portfolio.
I pulled open a door and found myself in a small reception area that hadn’t been decorated in easily twenty years. Patterned carpet, dark wood reception desk, paintings produced a hundred at a time in a printing factory. It was tasteful but conservative and completely in line with the impression I’d gotten of their investment strategy. More banker than Silicon Valley chic.
I announced myself to the receptionist and asked to see her boss not certain Nadell was even in the office.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He doesn’t normally take unannounced meetings.” She looked at me as if to say “honey, you know better.”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, I understand. Mr. Nadell and I met recently at the Drea Foundation gala. I was in the building and thought I’d stop in and say hello. You don’t mind just checking with him do you. I promise I’ll only take a moment.”
“Oh yes, the gala. Mr. and Mrs. Nadell are huge supporters of Drea.” She smiled and punched in a key, getting someone on the phone. It was amazing how often one little fact allowed people to fill in connections for themselves even if they weren’t real. She probably assumed I was one of the big donors. She relayed the information to whoever was on the other end of the phone and a second later said, “He’ll be up shortly Ms. Kellner.”
I settled into one of the stiff chairs flanking a coffee table loaded with the obligatory financial papers. Unlike the younger VC’s, the office held no trophy wall of video footage or company logos screaming their coolness. All Gold Coast instead of West Loop. Must have been Candiss’s influence.
The door behind the desk opened and Aaron Nadell stepped out.
“Oh yes, Andrea, how nice to see you again.” He extended a hand. “What an evening?” he said conspiratorially, referring, of course, to the shooting.
Gold cufflinks and a wrist chain adorned his bankers uniform of a white dress shirt, gray slacks, and a neutral tie. The highly starched shirt strained to fit his bulging mid-section as if he were in denial about his increased girth.
“I hope you were unscathed by our little incident. Candiss is mortified by the whole thing. Me, I thought it added a little spice.” He laughed. “Please, come back to my office.”
Nadell’s voice was deep and theatrical, calling to mind a prosecutor I’d worked with, who seemed to enjoy playing a trumped-up TV version of the role. I thought he was more sizzle than skill and wondered if Nadell was the same?
He escorted me down a long hallway to a corner office. As opposed to the reception area, someone had made an effort to decorate. Framed prints, silk plants on top of a stand. A large walnut desk was carefully placed in the corner, in front of floor-to-ceiling windows where I could glimpse gray white caps on the lake. Two computer monitors set side-by-side on the desk. They were some of the largest monitors I’d ever seen. Probably close to thirty-two inches each which didn’t leave much room for anything else. But if your job was managing money, what else did you need? He directed me to a brown leather club chair in front of the desk, and then joined me.
“So, Ms. Kellner, what brings you down here? I hope you’re not here to complain about my wife hounding you for money?”
He chuckled. I got the sense that this was a well-used joke. The one he pulled out at every opportunity, thinking he was being cute.
“Please, call me Andrea. I understand we have a mutual friend, Seth Bowman.”
“Yes, Seth’s a great guy. Candiss has known him for years. Boy, did he dodge a close one the other night. It’s been a singular topic of conversation at our home while Candiss dealt with the aftermath. Donors have been calling nonstop, the girls families, the media. This type of thing just doesn’t happen in our crowd.” He shook his head. “I doubt I’ll ever get Candiss back into the Peninsula, she’s so annoyed with them. Which means I’ll have to sneak into Shanghai Terrace alone.”
The situation seemed to amuse him as if it were all a game of who’s-to-blame instead of someone’s life having been hanging in the balance.
“How long have you known Seth?” I asked, smiling as if there was nothing but polite curiosity behind the question.
I wasn’t clear on the timeline or the depth of Nadell’s investment in VTF. And the big question in my mind was why wasn’t it front and center on their portfolio page? VCs loved the world to know where they’d taken a position. It was a show of confidence, a look-how-smart-we-are marketing move for both the VC and the firm they were investing in. When a big name VC put his money behind you, it was like having Harvard Law on your resume. Doors opened, vendors extended credit, and the business world watched, waiting for the anticipated IPO that usually was the end-game prize.
“Let’s see, at least a couple of years. My wife introduced us somewhere along the way at one of her social engagements. Hard to keep track of all that. She’s quite active in her charities.”
He pulled himself up in his chair, then tugged on his cufflinks. Already I had the impression of a man who defined himself by his career and his connections. I didn’t know if it was the affected posturing or the slightly dismissive tone when he spoke of his wife’s pursuits. But I distrusted him immediately.
“I understand that you are an investor in Seth’s business, VTF industries. The shooting must be quite a blow to the company.”
He paused, clearly taken aback by the comment.
“That is correct, isn’t it? Nadell Capital has a stake in the business?”
Again he hesitated for a fraction of a second.
“I gave them a little seed money in their early stages,” he said, as if it were the equivalent of buying a friend lunch.
“Interesting. I hear it’s more than a little.” I kept my tone light and my smile soft. One of the many reporter faces in my bag of tricks.
I saw a flash of something in his face that disappeared just as quickly. Surprise? Irritation? Fear? Had Seth called him yet about CPD’s interest in the plant? If he didn’t know, he would before the day was out.
“I’m not sure where you’re getting your information. As I said, we gave them some seed money because I thought it was a good investment. It’s what we do around here.” He held up his hands and smiled, trying to make a joke of it.
“Are you saying you have no involvement in business decisions?” I flipped open a notepad. Nadell narrowed his eyes and stared at me. “Because I’ve been told that you receive monthly reporting directly from personnel at the plant.”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Ms. Keller? I think I’ve been quite clear. And I certainly don’t need to defend my investment choices to you.”
He’d taken on an indignant tone but it felt forced, as if that was the emotion he thought he was supposed to portray. The bombastic TV prosecutor image came back into my mind. So did the phrase, “false outrage.” What was that all about? Why was he minimizing his involvement? It seemed out of character.
“No, of course you don’t,” I said. “As you know, Seth is a friend of mine as well and I understand that there may be some, shall we say, tough business issues coming up. I thought you might want to clear the air on your role in the company before people asking tougher questions are at your door.”
This time I could see the confusion in his face or was it fear? It didn’t appear that he knew VTF had been served a subpoena.
“As I’ve said, I was an early investor in VTF. I gave them money to get things off the ground and that investment has rewarded me. Now, you’ll need to e
xcuse me. I have an appointment.”
He stood, adjusted his French cuffs again, and puffed up his chest before walking over to the door. A power move. We’re done. His tone had changed and the actors smile was back. But I could still see the flash of anger in his eyes. His so-called appointment was most likely a panicked phone call to his partner asking what the hell was going on.
“Then I won’t keep you. Nice to see you again and my best to Candiss.”
I left the office feeling like I’d scored a win for getting the admission of seed money. But I was no closer to understanding why Nadell was being secretive.
30
I was on the phone as soon as I hit the lobby. First a check-in with Brynn where I clarified a couple of details, then a call to Candiss Nadell. She’d been asking me for a meeting to discuss my involvement in the Drea Foundation. Now seemed like the perfect moment to chat. Candiss had been involved in her husband’s company a few years back and likely knew a lot more about the inner workings than my research could reveal. If I was lucky that would include information about the VTF investment.
Candiss suggested we meet at the Waldorf again. I agreed, assuming it was her version of a neighborhood haunt. She arrived before me and I was escorted to the same booth we’d shared at our last meeting. Compared to the other day, the crowd had shifted from morning power brokers to ladies-who-lunch-then-pop-over-to-Barney’s-for-a-$1000-pair-of-shoes. Pots of tea or white wine were the drinks of choice, with a salad as an accompaniment. The occasional whiff of poached fish with herbs and butter sauce floated past me.
She was scrolling her phone as I approached and as usual, she looked perfectly coifed. I couldn’t imagine what it took to maintain such precise polish. I was no schlump in the grooming department, but my world didn’t end if I chipped a nail. This woman must have standing appointments at the salon for hair, nails, and makeup. Even in this weather, she looked unruffled. Although I didn’t imagine she’d walked the ten blocks from her Gold Coast greystone to the hotel. Like any proper fashion gal, I was also lusting after her ivory Chanel jacket.