Company Man (50 page)

The first couple of days, Nick did little besides sleep. He went to bed early, got up late, took naps on the beach.

Their “villa,” as the resort called it, was right on Ka'anapali Beach. You stepped out the door and onto the sand. At night you could hear the lulling sound of the waves lapping against the shore. Lucas, normally the late sleeper, got up early with Julia to swim or snorkel. He even taught her to surf. By the time the kids returned to the bungalow in the late morning, Nick would just be getting up, drinking his coffee on the lanai. They'd all share a meal, a late breakfast or early lunch, and then the kids would go snorkeling at Pu'u Keka'a, a volcanic reef that the ancient Hawaiians revered as a sacred place where the spirits of the dead leaped from this world to the next.

He and the kids talked some, but rarely about anything serious. They'd lost just about all of their earthly possessions, which seemed not to have sunk in yet. It was funny how they never mentioned it.

Several times he tried to bring himself to talk with them about the legal nightmare he'd face when he got home: the likelihood of a trial and the near-certainty of his going to prison. But he couldn't do it, maybe for the same reason nobody wanted to talk about the day the house burned down. He didn't want to spoil what was sure to be their last vacation together for many years.

It was as if they were all surfing, riding the perfect wave, and for the moment it didn't matter that deep in the water beneath them were big, scary creatures with big, sharp teeth. Because the Conovers were up here, in the sun, and they all seemed to know without articulating it that the key to staying afloat was not thinking about what might lurk down below.

So they swam and snorkeled, surfed and ate. Nick fell asleep on the beach too long on the second day and got a painful sunburn on his ears and forehead.

Nick brought no work—he had no work—and he left his cell phone on his bedside table, switched off. He lay on the beach reading and thinking and dozing, wriggling his toes in the powdery gray sand and watching the sun shimmer over the water.

On the third day, he finally turned his cell phone back on, only to find dozens of messages from friends and Stratton colleagues who'd heard or read about what had happened to their house and wanted to make sure Nick and the kids were okay. Nick listened but answered none of them.

One was from his former assistant, Marge Dykstra, who reported that the Fenwick newspaper had run several front-page stories about how Fairfield Equity Partners had been on the verge of selling the Stratton Corporation to China, shutting down all U.S. operations, and laying off all employees—until the deal had been blocked by “ex-CEO Nicholas Conover,” who'd just announced his resignation “in order to spend more time with his family.”

It was the first good press he, and Stratton, had gotten in a long time. Marge pointed out that it was the first time in almost three years that his name had appeared in a headline without the word “slash” next to it.

On the fourth day, Nick was lying on a lounge chair on the lanai, reading a book about D-Day that he'd been trying to read for months and was determined to finish now, when he heard the distant ring tone of his cell phone. He didn't get up.

A minute later, Lucas came out from the bungalow holding the phone and brought it over to him. “It's for you, Dad.”

Nick looked up, marked a place in his book with his forefinger, reluctantly took the phone.

“Mr. Conover?”

He recognized the voice immediately, and he felt the old tension clutch his abdomen again. “Detective Rhimes,” he said.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your family vacation.”

“That's quite all right.”

“Mr. Conover, this call is completely off the record, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think you should have your attorney contact the district attorney's office and arrange a plea bargain.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you're willing to plead guilty to criminally negligent homicide—or maybe even just attempted tampering with evidence—the DA's willing to recommend probation with no time served.”

“
What?
I don't get it.”

“I don't imagine you've been reading the
Fenwick Free Press
.”

“Delivery out here's kind of spotty.”

“Well, Mr. Conover, we both know that the DA is a very political animal—again, this is purely between you and me, you understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And it seems the climate around here has changed. The news about what you did for your company—well, the DA's just not optimistic that a jury will convict. Then there's the death of one of our chief suspects, Mr. Rinaldi. The district attorney's reluctant to go to trial.” She paused. “Hello? Hello?”

“I'm here.”

“And—well, there was another article in the paper, this morning. Raising questions about how the police handled the Andrew Stadler case.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I'm sure you know some of it. How nothing was
done to stop the stalker at your house or follow up on…her. I think it's become obvious that if the police hadn't been so negligent, the situation wouldn't have escalated the way it did. I had to let the DA know that my testimony would inevitably make even more of this negligence public. Which no one in this department wants.”

For a long time, Nick was unable to speak. Finally, he said: “I—and how do
you
feel about this?”

“That's not for me to say. You mean, do I feel justice is being served?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“I think we both recognize that the DA's decision to drop most of the charges is motivated by political expedience. But as for justice?” Audrey Rhimes sighed. “I don't know that there's any justice to be done here, Mr. Conover. I certainly don't think it would serve justice to cause your children to suffer anymore. But that's just my personal opinion.”

“Am I allowed to thank you?”

“There's nothing to thank me for, Mr. Conover. I'm just trying to do the right thing.” She was silent for a moment. “But maybe there
is
no right thing to do here. Maybe it's not so much a matter of doing the right thing as trying not to do the wrong thing.”

Nick set down the cell phone and for a long while watched the sunlight dance on the blue water.

He watched the seagulls caw and swoop, the waves surge and recede, the froth dissolve into the sand.

A few minutes later, Lucas and Julia emerged from the bungalow together and announced that they wanted to go for a hike, explore the nearby tropical forest and waterfalls.

“All right,” Nick said, “but listen, Luke—I want you to keep a close watch on your sister.”

“Dad, she's almost eleven,” Lucas said. His voice seemed to be getting even deeper.

“Dad, I'm not a baby,” said Julia.

“I don't want you doing anything crazy like jumping off the waterfalls,” Nick said.

“Don't give me any ideas,” Lucas said.

“And stay on the trail. It's supposed to be muddy and slippery in some places, so be careful.”

“Dad.” Lucas rolled his eyes as the two of them started down the palm-lined path. A few seconds later he turned around. “Hey, can you give me twenty bucks?”

“What for?”

“In case we stop to get something to eat on the way.”

“All right.” Nick pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and handed them to Lucas.

He watched them walking away. They were both bronzed already. Julia's curly hair was flying wildly in the breeze. Her legs were lanky, coltish; she was neither a girl nor a woman. Lucas, taller and broader all the time, wore long surfer shorts and a white T-shirt, dazzling in the sun, that was still creased from the suitcase.

As Nick stared after his kids, Lucas suddenly turned around. “Dad?”

“What?”

A gull cawed as it spotted a fish, then dove to the water.

Lucas looked at him for a moment. “You come too.”

No, the Stratton Corporation is
not
a thinly disguised fictional version of Steelcase or Herman Miller—as anyone who works there knows. But I'm grateful to several key people at those great companies who understood the difference between fiction and reality and were willing to let me poke around, tour their offices and factories, and ask rude, provocative, and irrelevant-seeming questions. At Steelcase, Inc., in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I was helped immeasurably by Debra Bailey, director of corporate communications, and Jeanine Hill, public relations manager. I've visited a lot of corporations by now, but I've never encountered a PR staff as open and honest and welcoming and just damned
friendly
. Deb Bailey also gave me the consummate insider's tour of Grand Rapids that made me want to move there…almost. I was particularly impressed by the president and CEO of Steelcase, Jim Hackett, who was generous with his time and insights into the challenges (personal and professional) of running a major corporation, modernizing it, and getting it through some really tough times. Frank Merlotti Jr., president of Steelcase North America, told me about being a hometown kid who makes it to the top of the biggest company in town. At Herman Miller in Zeeland, Michigan, Bruce Buursma gave me a fascinating introduction to that company's very cool headquarters. Rob Kirkbride of
The
Grand Rapids Press
gave me an interesting journalistic perspective on those companies. Unfortunately, in neither place did I meet anyone who remotely resembled Scott McNally.

Most of the CEOs and CFOs I talked to during the research for
Company Man
prefer to remain anonymous. They know who they are, and I thank them for setting aside precious time for this fictional enterprise. My friend Bill Teuber, chief financial officer of the EMC Corporation, contributed in innumerable ways, including explaining what the hell a CFO does. My Yale classmate Scott Schoen, senior managing director of Thomas H. Lee Partners in Boston, kindly took time away from some very high-powered deal-making to help me flesh out the fictional Fairfield Partners and its machinations. No Todd Muldaurs there either, by the way.

Once again, my old buddy Giles McNamee, managing director of McNamee Lawrence & Co., was a key unindicted coconspirator in devising creatively evil financial plots; I appreciate his complicity and generosity. Mike Bingle of Silver Lake Partners was an immense help in solving all sorts of tricky plot problems. (Thanks to Roger McNamee of Elevation Partners for introducing us.) Nell Minow, founder of the Corporate Library, clarified how corporate boards of directors work (or don't).

Many thanks to my corporate security experts, none of whom bore any resemblance to Eddie Rinaldi, including George Campbell, former chief security officer at Fidelity Investments; and the brilliant Jon Chorey, chief engineer, Fidelity Security Services, Inc. Bob McCarthy of Dedicated Micros illuminated the intricacies of digital video surveillance systems, as did Jason Lefort of Skyway Security, and particularly Tom Brigham of Brigham Scully. Thanks, too, to Rick Boucher of Seaside Alarms in South Yarmouth, Massachusetts. Skip Brandon, formerly deputy assistant director of the FBI and founding partner of the international security consulting firm Smith Brandon—a valued source, and friend, since
The Zero Hour
—provided some intriguing background on money laundering and shell corporations.
And again, the attorney Jay Shapiro, of Katten Muchin Zavis Rosenman, was my main man on criminal law. If I got in trouble like Nick, I'd hire Jay in a second.

Even an ordinary homicide investigation can be complicated, but in trying to make Audrey Rhimes's job as hard as possible, I surely drove my two homicide experts half-crazy. My deepest thanks to Dean Garrison of the Grand Rapids Police Department's Forensic Services Unit—writer, firearms specialist, and mordantly funny observer of the foibles of police work—and Detective Kenneth Kooistra, legendary homicide investigator recently retired from the GRPD Major Case Unit, whose war stories are spellbinding and whose generosity was boundless. Trooper Ryan Larrison, firearms examiner with the Michigan State Police, patiently took me through the intricacies of the Integrated Bullet Identification System. I thank, also, Gene Gietzen of Forensic Consulting in Springfield, Missouri; George Schiro of Acadiana Criminalistics Laboratory in New Iberia, Louisiana; Sergeant Kathy Murphy of the Cambridge Police Department; and Detective Lisa Holmes of the Boston Police Department. Stanton Kessler, M.D., was again my chief source on autopsy procedures and pathology. Mike Hanzlick was quite instructive on the perils of natural gas.

It's been a while since I've been a sixteen-year-old—I seem to have repressed all memories—so when it came to Lucas, I was fortunate to draw upon the trenchant observations of Eric Beam and Stefan Pappius-Lefebvre, who are both charismatic and articulate (though, alas, nowhere
near
as angry and alienated as I wanted them to be, for my purposes). Nick's family life, and particularly his relationship with Luke, owes much to Michael Gurian, therapist and bestselling author of
The Wonder of Boys
.

On the esoterica of fly-fishing, my friend Allen Smith was a great source; on hockey, I'm indebted to Steve Counihan, tennis pro and hockey star. Thanks again to my gifted researcher on this and several other of my books, Kevin Biehl, and to my wonderful former assistant, Rachel Pomerantz. And to a few good friends for chipping in, too: Joe Teig
and Rick Weissbourd. My brother Dr. Jonathan Finder, contributed medical advice; my younger sister, Lisa Finder, a research librarian at Hunter College, assisted with research; and my older sister, Susan Finder, an attorney in Hong Kong, fact-checked the China stuff. I'm grateful, as always, to my terrific agent, Molly Friedrich, and her assistant, Paul Cirone, of the Aaron Priest Agency for their constant support as well as some very useful editorial contributions.

Now, as to my publisher, St. Martin's Press—man, am I lucky to have joined such an excellent and enthusiastic publishing team, and I thank them all, particularly CEO John Sargent, publisher Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, John Cunningham, George Witte, Matt Baldacci, Christina Harcar, Nancy Trypuc, Jim DiMiero, Alison Lazarus, Jeff Capshew, Brian Heller, Ken Holland, Andy LeCount, Tom Siino, Rob Renzler, John Murphy, Gregg Sullivan, Peter Nasaw, Steve Eichinger, and at Audio Renaissance, Mary Beth Roche, Joe McNeely, and Laura Wilson.

And to my amazing editor, Keith Kahla—well, you're the best.

My daughter, Emma, was my chief source on the lives of ten-year-old girls, from baseball to The Sims. In the frenzied last months of my work on
Company Man,
she had to suffer my long absences; but she cheerfully brought lemonade down the hill to my writing studio in Truro and always kept my spirits up. She and my wife, Michele Souda, were my great sources of support during the writing of this book.

And once again I thank, above all, my brother Henry Finder, editorial director at
The New Yorker
: perpetual-motion idea generator, tireless brainstormer, peerless editor of first and last resort. I could not have done it without you.