A dam left the boardroom and headed down the hallway, leaving me alone in the conference room.
The ornery mood I’d been in when I’d arrived at the meeting had devolved yet further. I was way past ornery. Cantankerous was a distant memory. I’d reached belligerent, and it wasn’t pretty.
My cell phone rang, a jarring angry noise, perfectly in keeping with my mood. I dug it out of my bag. “What?” I barked.
“Hi, Rachel. Stan Winslow, here.”
I took a deep breath and counted backward from ten.
“Rachel? You still there, old gal?”
My voice, when I found it, managed to convey just the tone of sunny warmth I was aiming for, even when speaking through gritted teeth. “Hello, Stan. How are you? Are you having a nice weekend?”
“Just wanted to check in with you. I guess you’ve found out about what my old friend Whitaker Jamieson’s been up to. I hope you don’t mind my putting Scott on this, but I knew you’d probably have a conflict.” He chuckled. Actually, it sounded more like a cackle.
“It makes perfect sense,” I answered in the same sunny tone while inwardly I began chanting one of my most oft-used mantras. Must not yell at boss. Must not yell at boss.
“I’m sure you’ll both do a great job,” Stan continued. “You know, this is the sort of situation that really separates the partner material from the, er, from the-well, from the non-partner material.” This was Stan’s idea of an inspirational pep talk. I wondered if he was planning a similar conversation with Scott Epson. Or if he’d already had one.
“I hope so,” I agreed.
“Well, good luck. Keep me posted.”
“I’ll do that. And thanks for your advice, Stan.” Not that he’d given me any, but he liked to feel needed.
“No problem, old gal.” He hung up, and I threw the phone across the room with a muffled shriek.
It turned out that the Blackberry didn’t really appreciate being thrown across the room. It had hit the wall with a loud thwack, but the wall didn’t look so hard, and the carpet it landed on was relatively plush. Still, it made a whiny noise when I picked it up, and I had to turn it off and then on again before the annoying sound stopped.
I stowed the device back in my purse and headed upstairs to the executive offices, repeating another oft-used mantra to myself. Bonus. Bonus. Bonus.
But it was January, and I’d just received my bonus for the previous calendar year. It would be eleven and a half months before I received my next bonus. As incentive pay went, it would be a significant chunk of change, but its motivational powers had a direct correlation with its proximity.
I amended the mantra. Rachel Benjamin, Partner, Winslow, Brown. Rachel Benjamin, Partner, Winslow, Brown. But who knew when that would happen?
I stopped in at Brian Mulcahey’s office to offer some reassuring words and to scramble up Grenthaler’s head of corporate communications. She didn’t seem too happy to hear from her boss on a Saturday, but we gave her the instructions she needed to start working on press releases and she promised to get on it. By the time I got outside I was fresh out of mantras, which was just as well, because I required all of my concentration to figure out my next move. I’d lost track of the Porters, so I’d missed out on that potential source of transit. And even if any members of the Barnett contingent had lingered, I could hardly beg a ride from them.
I probably should have called a cab from the lobby, but the freezing air was strangely bracing, so I started walking, thinking I’d find a cab soon enough. I’d forgotten my gloves and scarf, of course, so I turned up the collar of my coat and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, pausing to get my bearings. I was only a few blocks from Mass. Ave., Cambridge’s main drag. I’d promised to meet my old roommates at Copley Place in Boston for brunch and shopping, although given everything that was going on, I was probably going to have to skip the shopping part. Sustenance, however, was very much in order.
I trudged along, trying to figure out my plan of attack while keeping my eyes peeled for a cab. I’d only worked on one takeover defense before, in my first year at Winslow, Brown, and that had been on a much larger scale-one corporate behemoth seeking to swallow another that was nearly as large in a deal valued at more than twenty billion dollars. A team of six from Winslow, Brown had been dispatched to thwart the takeover. We solicited competing bids that drove up the price significantly, although ultimately our client was indeed taken over. Its shareholders, however, were pleased enough with the higher value paid for their shares, and everyone went home happy, including the bankers from Winslow, Brown, who had collected several million in fees for a few weeks’ work.
In comparison, this potential takeover was a blip on the radar screen of high finance. And I doubted that Stan would authorize a team of any size from the firm to help me out. I was on my own.
The obvious course was to divide and conquer in some way. As far as I could tell, the weakest link was probably the Caped Avenger. A quick call to the weekend staff in my office yielded his number from my Rolodex, and, swallowing my pride, I left him a message asking him to call me as soon as possible.
That done, I considered the other links in the chain. Appealing to Scott Epson wasn’t going to work, even if I could stomach it. He undoubtedly saw this deal as a way to solidify his position with Stan while also making me look bad-definitely a win/win in his book. Adam Barnett had seemed perfectly happy to let his mother secure him his key to the executive washroom, and Barbara clearly saw the takeover as the fulfillment of her most cherished fantasies for her son. Everything about her screamed stage mother-it was highly unlikely that she was going to do anything that would pull Adam out of the spotlight.
Which made me wonder whether or not I should discuss my suspicions with Detective O’Connell. Surely he’d want to know about the most recent developments? Although, perhaps I was overreacting, jumping to conclusions. The last time I’d done something like that, Peter had been arrested for a murder he didn’t commit. Adam had appeared calm when I mentioned my suspicions, but perhaps his nervous swallow was a tell, an indication that he, too, had his concerns about what his mother might have been up to. Still, it wasn’t like I had proof of any sort. And only last night I’d called O’Connell to point my finger at Grant Crocker. But the level of coincidence here seemed too much to ignore. O’Connell could laugh at me if he wanted, but it was probably better to tell him than not to tell him.
I consulted the call history on my Blackberry for his number, but the device seemed to have decided to punish me for its mistreatment by eating its phone log. Fortunately, I still had O’Connell’s card in my wallet. But no sooner had I retrieved the card than an enormous gust of wind ripped it from my hand.
I let loose with a vulgarity of which Helene Porter most certainly would not have approved, and ran after the card as it skittered along the icy sidewalk. It was nearly in my grasp, and I leaped to catch it, promptly losing my balance and pitching headfirst into the filthy snowbank that lined the street.
“Need some help?” said a voice beside me, proffering a hand in a shearling glove. The voice was familiar, and somehow I wasn’t surprised when, after wiping the dirty slush from my face, I found myself looking up into Jonathan Beasley’s blue, blue eyes.
“You’re-you’re ubiquitous,” I sputtered.
He laughed and pulled me up to a standing position. “Among other things. Are you all right, though? That was a nasty spill you just took.”
My coat was covered with blackened snow, and I was pretty confident I’d ripped my stockings and that my hair had returned to mop mode. A quick inventory, however, let me know that I didn’t seem to have injured myself.
“I’m fine,” I said. “But what are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied. He pointed over his shoulder. “My condo’s right over there.” We were outside a generic but pleasant-looking brick building. “But what brings you to my neighborhood?”
“A board meeting for Grenthaler Media.” It occurred to me that running into Jonathan just now was fortuitous. I could bounce my suspicions about Barbara Barnett off him before potentially embarrassing myself with the police.
“Oh, that’s right. Their headquarters are around the corner. Listen, do you need a ride somewhere? I was about to head to the Square. There are a couple of things I need to do in my office. My car’s right over there. I was loading it up when I saw you.”
I followed his outstretched arm with my gaze. His Saab was parked across the street.
I hesitated. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’m actually going in the opposite direction. I’m meeting some friends at Copley Place. But it would be great if you could drop me somewhere where I’m more likely to find a cab.”
“No problem. I’d be happy even to drive you over to Copley, if you’d like. It won’t take long.” He took my elbow and began guiding me toward the car.
“No, that’s all right. But I am glad I ran into you. I’d love to get your opinion on something.”
“Sure. Anything.” He looked down at me and grinned, and my heart did the proverbial flip accompanied by the familiar tingle. No man who wasn’t a movie star or a male model had the right to look this good, especially when I looked as bad as I probably did. “Here, why don’t you get in out of the cold while I finish putting my gear in the trunk.” He unlocked the passenger-side door for me and swung it open. I slid in and he shut it after me.
I watched while he went around the back of the car and opened the trunk. Then I watched through the driver’s-side window as he came around the other side. His crimson-and-white-striped scarf had come loose, and he knotted it around his neck firmly before stooping to pick up a large duffel bag that he’d left on the curb. The duffel was clearly an antique-it bore the logo of the Harvard Men’s Ice Hockey Team, and was probably left over from when Jonathan played Varsity and used the oversize bag to carry his pads, stick, helmet and skates. It looked unwieldy, too; he hefted it awkwardly.
It wasn’t even eleven in the morning yet, but it had already been a long day. And I’d recently had a faceful of dirty snow, so maybe my vision was clouded.
But I could have sworn that I saw a woman’s foot poking out from one end of the duffel.