The Insiders (3 page)
After sitting down in the bedroom’s black leather lounge chair and placing his feet on the matching ottoman, Tate was ready to turn his attention to David Quinn. J. B. Musselman was a twenty-five billion dollar wholesale distribution conglomerate headquartered in Chicago and Tate sat on its board. He picked up the phone.
“David. Sorry I missed your earlier calls.”
“I need your help to get Kresge & Company off my back, permanently,” Quinn said, noticeably irritated.
“Weren’t they your idea in the first place?” Tate’s response was glib, deliberately provocative.
“You know the board forced me into this. It was their idea from the beginning. I simply recommended which firm, but that was before the bastards started analyzing ways to break up the company. I need your help to get rid of them before they convince the board.”
“I hate to say I told you so, David, but Fielder & Company would have been a smarter choice than Kresge & Company. You would have had more control,” Tate kept the smile that played across his features out of his voice.
“It’s Fielder’s kid who wants to breakup the company into regional businesses to exploit what he calls ‘the growing niche-oriented needs of local customers’ and give employees more opportunity for ownership,” Quinn was seething with anger and defensiveness. “He told MacMillan I was the single biggest obstacle to Musselman’s future growth and profitability.”
“Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Wilson Fielder for a while. He’s got his hands full with other things right now.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I would never wish what happened with his father on anyone, but I’m glad to get that arrogant little prick out of my life. Now, I want him and his firm to stay out.”
Tate remained silent and smiling.
“You went to school with his father didn’t you?” Quinn asked.
“I did. We were close friends,” Tate said, remembering the poetry readings at the SoHo bar where he first met Charles Fielder. He could still hear the message of Charles’ revolutionary verse:
generations of concealed corruption enslave us in a system of coerced consent.
He would miss his old friend.
“Do you believe he killed those women?”
“I don’t want to believe it, David,” Tate said. “But people change.”
After a pause, Quinn returned to his original agenda. “How do we make Kresge & Company go away for good?”
“My guess is that Wilson will take a leave of absence, which should slow things down long enough for us to launch the new advertising campaign. Musselman will reposition itself as ‘The Next Generation in Mass Merchandising.’ Kresge & Company becomes old news. I’m already working with Boggs & Saggett on a presentation for MacMillan and the rest of the board.”
“You know I’m not ready to leave this place.”
“Stop worrying, David. No one is going to remove you from the helm. The advertising campaign alone will send Musselman stock soaring. The board will think they’re in heaven. Trust me.”
It had taken Tate three years to get to this point with David Quinn. He’d spent the first year landing the J. B. Musselman account. The next two years were devoted to getting appointed to the company’s board of directors, which meant letting go of the advertising relationship, at least on the surface of public disclosure. Four months ago, after a heated board meeting that had resulted in the hiring of Kresge & Company to assist in reorganizing Musselman’s operations, Tate asked Quinn for a private meeting. During dinner at Everest, one of Chicago’s more private and exclusive restaurants, Tate presented a plan for turning J. B. Musselman into the most visible discount merchandiser in North America, branding his vision as
America’s Warehouse
.
Quinn eventually bought the idea, mostly because it gave him another way out of his current difficulties, which was precisely what Tate had anticipated. As Kresge & Company began its analysis of Musselman’s operations, Quinn engaged Boggs & Saggett, an advertising firm with hidden ties to Tate Waterhouse, to develop a marketing campaign for America’s Warehouse. Initially, Quinn had hoped the two efforts would prove to be synergistic. But when Kresge & Company expressed doubts about a mass discounting strategy and began pushing for the breakup of Musselman, Quinn decided to bet the company’s future on Tate’s America’s Warehouse strategy.
“There’s another thing I want to talk about,” Quinn was saying. “I’ve decided not to use Morgan on our next stock offering. You recommended someone at KaneWeller at our last board meeting.”
“Jules Kamin.”
“Right. Do you have his contact information?”
“Sure,” Tate said, grinning broadly. “What are you doing for the next few days?”
“Warehouse visits in North and South Carolina, Georgia, and then Florida.”
“Can someone else handle them?”
“Depends on what you have in mind.”
“St. Moritz,” Tate said, as he reflected on how much easier it was to manipulate people when they were separated from their familiar surroundings and placed in the lap of luxury with limitless opportunities for pampering, pleasure, and moneymaking. But further manipulation of David Quinn would not be easy, even in St. Moritz, Tate mulled. Quinn was a no-nonsense individualist, a man of principle and integrity who prided himself on being able to come up with a quick solution to any problem 99 percent of the time. It was an acquired malady among CEOs. The trick, as always, would be to discover what Quinn wanted badly enough in order to abandon his usual high road. Getting rid of Kresge & Company would be a good start.
“One of those client retreats you’re always raving about?” Quinn asked.
“Jules Kamin will be there.”
There was silence on the line as Quinn considered Tate’s invitation. He needed Tate’s help and he wanted to meet Jules Kamin. A few days in St. Moritz would also give him some long-overdue downtime. “Let me see what I can do,” Quinn finally said.
“One of our chartered jets will be leaving Chicago O’Hare at eight tomorrow night.”
“I’ll let you know if I can’t make it,” Quinn said. “Otherwise, plan on me.”
“See you in St. Moritz. We’ll have lunch when you arrive,” Tate said.
After hanging up, Tate called his vice president of client relations. She was a beautiful Japanese-American woman blessed with cherubic grace, but it was her flair for orchestrating events and arranging entertainment to the sheer delight of Tate’s clients that made her invaluable. “One of the planes needs to pick up Mr. Quinn at O’Hare tomorrow night. Aren’t we picking up someone else in Chicago?”
“Yes. Mr. Toffler and Mr. Anderson,” she said with characteristic acuity.
“Good. Make sure Quinn receives the full treatment. I don’t want to lose him. Let’s assign Vargas.”
“We’ll take care of everything.”
“What would I do without you?” Tate said, not expecting a response. “Has there been any change in Charles’ condition?” Tate asked.
“No change,” she responded. “We now have someone on site monitoring everything.”
“Perfect,” Tate said before hanging up the phone. Walking back to resume his conversation with the client still waiting in his office, he paused briefly to muse on the colorful chaos of Kandinsky’s
Composition VII
, an apocalyptic hurricane of swirling masses and colors. It had been Charles Fielder who taught Tate how to use the world’s colorful chaos to exploit his love of manipulation. The rewards had proved to be beyond his wildest imagination. Control, or be controlled, Tate summed up his mantra. Charles taught me well.
After passing strict scrutiny from two uniformed police officers and ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, Wilson defiantly trod through the snow to the covered entryway of his family’s chalet. Throughout his childhood, Wilson’s family had spent half of every summer and three weeks during the ski season at the twenty-room residence. It was one of thirty-two luxury chalets at the White Horse Resort, a complex that also comprised fifty condominiums, a world-class spa, two outdoor swimming pools, three restaurants, and a large conference and entertainment center. Before crossing the threshold to face what lay inside, he took a moment to reminisce about his great-grandfather Harry Wilson Fielder, the resort’s founder. It was his great-grandfather who, in the 1930s, had catapulted the Fielder family into the ranks of the super-rich. Construction of the White Horse Resort at the base of Baldy Mountain had begun in 1946 and the Fielder family had been a vital contributor to the cities of Sun Valley and Ketchum ever since.
Wilson opened the front door and entered the large foyer with its huge stone fireplace. His body tensed at the smell of death that lingered in the air. Still struggling with the reality of what had happened here, he walked slowly through the foyer and into the breakfast nook between the kitchen and the family room. White tape marked the floor and the wing chairs, where the bodies had been found. There were bloodstains on the chairs, the Persian rug, and the hardwood floor. Seeing the outline of where his father had been found, he was overwhelmed by memories of the long conversations they’d had here at White Horse—conversations that had shaped his life.
From the time he was a small child, he had experienced profound feelings of guilt for having more than others—very much his father’s son on this score. It wasn’t that Wilson didn’t take great pleasure in the opportunities and advantages his family’s wealth provided. Still he despised the clichéd, yet overwhelming, sense of injustice and inequity that came with these privileges. Ridding himself of the nagging contradiction would, he bluntly acknowledged, require more than philanthropy and patronage.
The sound of Daniel coming through the front door brought Wilson back to the present and what had happened in the chalet less than thirty-six hours earlier. Daniel walked into the large family room where Wilson was standing. Physically striking in a manly sort of way, though not particularly attractive, the lawyer’s deep-set eyes gave nothing away. Wilson knew only a few things about Daniel: he favored formality, was ten years younger than his father, had a reputation for thoroughness, and acted serious about everything, especially his clients. But if he’d been able to accomplish what he promised, Wilson thought, it would go a long way toward solidifying their relationship. No words were spoken until Daniel was standing next to Wilson and both of them were looking down at the white-taped floor. “What happened here, Daniel?”
Daniel looked directly at Wilson, shaking his head. “I wish I knew, Wilson. How is he?”
“His vital signs have improved, but there are still no signs of consciousness,” Wilson said, before asking the obvious. “Are we free to fly?”
“Yes. Whatever you said to the neurosurgeon made him very responsive. The judge signed the medical travel release thirty minutes ago. We didn’t have to involve the FBI. But Detective Zemke’s not happy. What did you say to him when you met?”
Wilson went over the details of his meeting with Zemke, but Daniel seemed distracted, as if anxious about something Wilson had said. “What is it?” Wilson asked.
“It would be best if the Sun Valley police put their investigation on the back burner. There are better ways to find out what happened here. Your father’s estate doesn’t need unnecessary scrutiny if it can be avoided, especially with the impending KaneWeller merger.”
“What do you mean?” Wilson’s eyes had narrowed to slits.
“That’s one of reasons we needed to meet. Your father took great precautions to keep the merger talks out of the press, but I thought maybe you knew.”
Wilson shook his head but remained silent.
“He struck a final deal to merge Fielder & Company with KaneWeller last week. KaneWeller wants to close by the end of this week. There are papers you’ll need to sign.”
“Why do I need to sign? It should be my mother’s decision.”
“There was a change in your father’s will, specifying that you become Chairman of the Board of Fielder & Company and assume full control of his shares, in the event of his death or incapacitation.”
Wilson closed his eyes, suddenly feeling more burdened. “When did all of this happen?” he asked, beginning to pace.
“A few weeks ago. You and your sister each own fifty percent of his eighty-two percent ownership of Fielder & Company; however, Rachel’s shares are non-voting shares. Your father wanted to respect your sister’s disinterest in the company. The remaining eighteen percent is owned by a handful of investors, mostly Fielder & Company executives. He also gave you control of the rest of his investments. Your mother was removed from all rights to ownership. Of course, the will provides for a generous monthly stipend for as long as she lives.”
“Does my mother know about all of this?”
“Yes,” Daniel said as he set his briefcase on the breakfast table and retrieved an envelope. He handed it to Wilson. “Your father’s instructions were very precise. He wanted you to read this if anything happened to him.”
Without responding, Wilson looked at the large tan envelope in his hands. Feeling exposed, he muttered, “Give me a few minutes,” and walked toward the den off the foyer. Opening the metal clasp on the unsealed envelope and pulling out the hand-written letter, he stepped inside the den, closed the double doors behind him and sat down in his father’s favorite overstuffed chair near the fireplace.
Dear Wilson,
If you’re reading this without me, it means you’re in serious danger. There are people who may try to kill you, especially if they think you know about the full extent of my activities at Fielder & Company. Trust me when I tell you that you’re safer not knowing the details. You must convince the people who will be watching that you’re not involved and have no desire to be involved. Complete the merger with KaneWeller and then liquidate all my other business assets as quickly as possible. Daniel Redd will help you. If you need additional help, go to Carter Emerson. Trust no one else.
The only explanation I dare give you is that several years ago I embarked upon a path that I believed would make the world a better place. Remember our conversations about humanizing capitalism? Now I’m not so sure that what I did was right. Only time will tell. Sadly, my mistakes have now become your burden and enemy. I know this seems cryptic and enigmatic, but giving you more information will only make you a bigger threat to the people responsible for my demise. That’s why you must distance yourself from my business interests as soon as possible. I removed your mother and sister from participation in the business to protect them, but that makes you even more vulnerable.
Eventually, you’ll put the pieces of the puzzle together. When you do, I hope you’ll understand why I did it and why I didn’t tell you everything beforehand. You’ve been placed in control of the estate because I trust you’ll know what to do with its resources, especially if things become more difficult and dangerous than I have anticipated. Trust your intuition and judgment. You’re better than I ever dreamed of being. Forgive me, if you can.
All my love,
Dad