The Fixer

37

Leaving Charlestown, Rick had the uneasy sense he was being followed.

It wasn’t a certainty. A vehicle had been behind him all the way from the hospital parking garage to Storrow Drive. Not a black Escalade or Suburban but a gray GMC Yukon. Was it a tail, or just a coincidence, someone else traveling from Mass General to Boston?

Maybe it was nothing, but he had to be careful. Where he was going, it was crucial he not be followed.

He saw the exit for Copley Place and decided at the last minute to take the exit. When he turned off Storrow and the Yukon followed, he realized he wasn’t imagining things.

A quick left and straight down Arlington Street and a few blocks later he came to the Park Plaza Hotel. He remembered there was a gala being held there, the one Darren from the magazine wanted him to attend. It had probably started already. He’d had no intention of going, but his name was on the guest list. Which gave him an idea.

He pulled up to the valet and the Yukon double-parked across the street. He wondered whether they wanted him to notice the tail, as if that was part of a strategy to unnerve him, cause him to do something stupid.

Well, they could follow him into the hotel, but not into the gala.

He got out of the car, handed his keys to the valet, and entered the hotel without looking back.

It was easy to find the banquet room where the event was taking place. The usual crowd was gathering, bunched at the entrance by a sign for the SCULLEY FOUNDATION LITERACY INITIATIVE, as attractive young women in headsets, holding iPads, checked off names.

He was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover and was seriously underdressed for the occasion. But they weren’t going to kick him out for not wearing a jacket and tie. All he needed to do was spend thirty, forty-five minutes here, long enough for his watchers to give up and leave. He’d pretend to be on assignment from Back Bay. Which shouldn’t be difficult, since he actually was.

Someone grabbed hold of his elbow. It was Mort Ostrow. “I like your idea of cocktail attire,” he said. “Didn’t I just see you at Marco?”

Rick shrugged. “Hello, Mort.”

“Sculley’s right over there. Isn’t he on your dance card this week?”

“That’s right.”

“Listen, Rick, I want you to give him the real Rick Hoffman treatment.”

He winced. “Sure.” The truth was, Rick could write the lede to the Q &A in his sleep: He may own several of the most iconic buildings in the Boston skyline, but when you talk to the billionaire builder Thomas Sculley, he’ll tell you it’s people, not buildings, that he’s built his fortune on.

“Let me introduce you,” Ostrow said.

“Mort, how about we do this another time, I’m-”

“Two minutes.” Ostrow sidled in close and confided: “Sculley and I are in talks. I think he’s about to buy the magazine. Though I’m calling it a vertically integrated media company. I want him to experience the full Rick Hoffman treatment. There he is.”

Thomas Sculley was talking to an elegant fortyish blonde, but when he saw Ostrow, he turned. He had craggy, rough-hewn features and looked to be in his seventies.

“Thomas, I wanted you to meet one of our ace reporters, Rick Hoffman.”

Sculley gave him the big-man handshake-and-biceps grip-and-grin. “Oh, yes, Mr. Hoffman, why don’t we have our little talk right now?”

“I’d love that, but I don’t think these folks would forgive me if I took you away.” Rick gestured vaguely toward the throng. “Maybe you can find a few minutes next week?”

“Certainly,” the man said, crinkling his eyes.

A few minutes later Rick managed to escape Ostrow’s clutches. He walked around the perimeter of the ballroom, which was crowded with tables set for dinner, and exited via one of the doors at the far end. He emerged from the hotel at the cabstand and got into one of the waiting taxis. “Government Center, please,” he said.