Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry Read online

  Matthews looked up expectantly.

  “Don’t make our job any harder than it has to be. No more victims please.”

  Matthews nodded.

  “Okay, we’re finished,” Sherman said. The three men left the room, went outside, and waited for the valet to bring their cars without exchanging a single word.

  40

  Ed Myers balanced two coffees in his hand as he knocked on the half-open door. Frederick “Fred” Carlyle, Jr. was famous for the long hours he kept. He was often the first executive to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. He was at his desk reading a newspaper.

  “Ed, come in,” he said, surprised by the early morning intrusion.

  “Thanks, Fred,” he replied. “I was hoping to catch you before the secretaries and admins get in. I took a chance that you might be in the mood for a coffee,” he said, handing him a cup.

  “I already had one, but I’m ready for another,” Carlyle responded while accepting the cup. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing at one of the leather chairs facing his large mahogany desk.

  “Junior,” as he was known throughout the company, had taken over his father’s large corner office when the company founder had stopped coming to the office on a regular basis a year earlier. The move had been a surprise to many. Dick Sherman had been open about his plans to take over this office after “the old man” retired. But the CEO had shown an uncharacteristic level of restraint in not picking a fight with Junior.

  The rumors about “the old man” had begun to circulate almost immediately. In the beginning Myers and everyone else had dismissed it as fatigue or being distracted. He remembered one incident in particular. In a financial meeting Carlyle Sr. had asked a marginally relevant question about the revenue generated by the cable affiliates in the Los Angeles area. Sherman had answered it and continued with his presentation. Fifteen minutes later, the founder had interrupted him midsentence and asked the exact same question. Standing in the front of the room, Myers could see the look of concern on the faces of the executives in the room.

  A few weeks later Myers had been in Sherman’s office when REL’s head of public relations knocked on the door. John Shea explained that earlier that morning he had been prepping the Founder for an upcoming meeting with industry analysts. Carlyle Sr. twice misidentified the anchors of REL’s leading news programs and insisted automobile advertising was the company’s largest growth area in the current year. As they all knew, the credit belonged to pharmaceutical advertising.

  The company had been unsure about what it should do. Whose job is it to tell the boss he can no longer do his job? The fact that Carlyle Sr. was a widower further complicated matters. The Founder lived alone in a stately mansion in Scarsdale. A longtime housekeeper/cook was his only companion.

  It was Junior who had helped resolve the quandary. He had hand-delivered a letter to the REL board announcing his father’s retirement. The retirement solved one problem but gave birth to another. Because he owned a majority of the shares, Carlyle Sr. controlled the company. Was control now in the hands of the board or Junior?

  As Myers looked around, it occurred to him how infrequently he had been in this office since the Founder’s retirement. Carlyle Sr. had enjoyed impromptu meetings. He would often call a group of executives to “come by for lunch.” Invariably there would be a sushi spread or baby lamb chops and other hors d’oeuvres. Sr. enjoyed telling war stories about the early days of REL News and how often the company had gone to the brink financially. At the same time Sr. was a good listener. If he heard about a spouse being sick, he always followed up. If any member of the team experienced the arrival of a new child or grandchild, a handwritten, congratulatory note from the Founder along with a gift would be sent shortly thereafter.

  Junior in many ways was the opposite of his father. The Founder was a born salesman. Sr. rarely took a group of advertisers to a “smokes and drinks” lunch without securing their commitment to devote an extra chunk of their budget to REL. His desk was always piled high with papers. It was nothing short of miraculous that he would somehow manage to find the document he was looking for. Dress for him was an afterthought. He often had to be reminded by his secretary to close his top button or straighten his mismatched tie before rushing to his next meeting.

  While affable in his own way, Junior was far more formal. He had gone to prep school at Exeter. Sr. had been so proud that his son had graduated from an Ivy League school, Cornell, a far cry from his father, who had finished just two years at SUNY, Binghamton. Junior was liked by many but loved by none. He was meticulous about his appearance. Shirts and ties were carefully chosen to bring out the best in his Paul Stuart suits. Even on the windiest of days it was rare to see him with a hair out of place.

  Sr. would have insisted that they sit at the conference table in the corner, Myers thought. Junior remained seated behind his desk, happy to gaze down on the CFO.

  “So, Ed, what’s so important you felt you had to get me a cup of coffee before telling me about it?” he asked with a forced smile.

  “Fred, if I were more articulate, I’d do a better job explaining the circumstances that brought me here today. I’m not, so I’m just going to say it straight. I screwed up.”

  For the next ten minutes, Myers recounted the meeting in Sherman’s office, the wiring of the money, and the potentially fraudulent tax filings. As he spoke the CFO tried to gauge Carlyle’s reaction. It was pointless. Junior remained poker-faced throughout. He interrupted only once. “This Carter & Associates who received the money, do you have any idea who they are?”

  “None.”

  “Have you made an effort to find out?”

  Myers sighed, not liking how the questioning was going. “No, I haven’t. I thought about it, but I was concerned that knowing more would only get me in deeper. Whatever I learned about Carter, how would I use it, would it be actionable?”

  Junior sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his desk. For the second time in not even a month Myers thought he was about to lose his job. A frightening thought flickered in his mind: If he fires me and I get in trouble for what I did, will REL pay my legal bills, or will I be on the hook for them?

  When Junior spoke, his voice was methodical, almost devoid of emotion. “Ed, you did the right thing by coming to me. I probably shouldn’t share this with you, but you have a right to know. For several years I’ve suspected that Dick Sherman has been enriching himself at company expense. This latest incident confirms my suspicions.”

  Myers was dumbfounded. “Oh God, Mr. Carlyle, it’s my job to watch the company’s money. If I’ve missed something, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Junior waved him off. “It’s nothing you could have known about. As you’re aware, in addition to being the anchor of the REL evening news program, Brad Matthews is editor in chief. He has the final say on what stories are covered and the tone of the broadcast. Companies’ stocks have been known to rise and fall the day after receiving coverage on his program.

  “Sherman spotted an opportunity and recruited Matthews. Through a dummy company they established, the two of them have been purchasing shares of companies in advance of REL News doing favorable stories about those companies. They’ve even made money from companies in exchange for favorable coverage. I’m surprised the SEC hasn’t caught on yet.”

  “If I may ask, Fred, how do you know about this?”

  Junior looked around, as if uncertain about how to continue. “I’m not sure I should tell you more, but it’s hard to carry this alone. One of the companies must have assumed my father was in on the scheme. Their CEO called my father at home and complained to him that they had paid the money but REL News had not kept its end of the bargain.”

  “Your father told you this?”

  “No, he wouldn’t have wanted me to get involved. I believe my father knew that toward the end of his working days his memory was slipping. He began recording his calls so that he could refresh himself on what
was discussed. I’ve got the CEO of Statewide Oil on tape.”

  “Wow! I don’t know what to say,” Myers exclaimed.

  “Ed, I’ve taken you into my confidence. Don’t say anything to anyone. I’m quietly conducting an investigation. The only thing I need you to do is to let me know immediately if Sherman demands more money for Carter or for any reason that doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “And Ed, sending money to Carter & Associates was a lapse in judgment on your part. But it’s understandable under the circumstances and can be put right.”

  “Thanks, Fred,” he said, a huge feeling of relief washing over him.

  As Myers got up to leave, he realized he had not taken a single sip of his coffee.

  41

  Over his second cup of coffee, brewed in the new Keurig machine he had purchased for his office, Michael Carter finished scanning the New York Times Real Estate section. He had circled several possibilities on the Upper East Side. Far beyond his financial reach only a month ago, under his new arrangement he felt confident he could make them work. All of these buildings, whether they were condominiums or cooperatives, had boards that heavily scrutinized would-be purchasers. They had their eye out for tenants they felt might be disruptive or, even worse, fail to pay their monthly fees on time. With New York City’s notoriously tenant-friendly laws, it was time-consuming and expensive to dislodge deadbeats.

  He smiled as he envisioned himself appearing in front of the board. Let’s begin, Mr. Carter, with your telling us what you do for a living.

  Dressed in his latest Paul Stuart suit, he would reply, I like to view myself as working in the service of the public. I make it possible for Americans to enjoy their favorite TV news anchor, when in reality he should be in prison.

  Forcing himself to get serious, he recognized that it would be a challenge to come up with a satisfactory description of his occupation. But he had time to mull it over. Time, as it turned out, was something he had in abundance.

  A potential new source of income had presented itself the previous day. One of his old army buddies had called his cell. Roy had been fired unfairly from his director of security job, and his employer was trying to stiff him out of eleven weeks of accrued vacation. Roy had said, “I know you’re not in private practice. Can you recommend a labor lawyer?”

  Carter had made the decision immediately. “I’ve got just the guy for you, Roy, me!”

  Why not? he had asked himself. There was nothing in his agreement with REL about not having outside clients. The extra money would be nice, and it would provide a condo board a better answer regarding how he supported himself. Sherman didn’t have to know, or if he did, it was none of his business.

  He felt the anger burn inside him when he recalled the meeting with Sherman where he told the CEO about how he persuaded a reluctant Lauren Pomerantz to settle in one meeting. Instead of appreciation for a job very well done, he got the clear impression that the CEO felt he was overpaying him for an easy job. Carter was careful to not make that mistake a second time.

  Pomerantz had admitted to Carter that Meg Williamson was the one who had advised her to be careful around Matthews. Williamson had been easy to find; her cell number had not changed after she left REL. She had resigned from the company before she had found another job. That always makes things more difficult. The potential new employer typically suspects you got fired or were forced to leave.

  Carter had tried a different tack in persuading Williamson to meet with him. He had told her that REL had miscalculated on her withholding and the company owed her back pay. Holding the hand of a four-year-old, she had come to his office the next day.

  The presence of the beautiful little girl who sat quietly on her mother’s lap during the early part of the meeting had worked to Carter’s advantage. Meg looked on approvingly as he made a fuss over her child, who answered his questions with a wide smile. Meg told him that any extra money headed her way would be a godsend. She had just finalized a divorce and her ex could not be counted on for anything.

  “Meg, I apologize for misrepresenting the reason for today’s meeting, but I’m sure you’ll be interested in what I have to say,” he had begun. A protracted legal battle against Brad Matthews, he assured her, would be tremendously stressful for her and, he added, looking at her young daughter, for Jillian.

  At Carter’s suggestion, Beatrice came in and took Jillian to her desk outside. Now he and Meg could talk candidly.

  He had feigned interest as a tearful Meg unburdened herself describing Matthews’s advances and her current, difficult circumstances. Fifteen minutes later Beatrice was applying her notary seal to the signed settlement agreements. A more composed Meg had Jillian on her lap. Overcoming her initial reluctance, Meg had admitted that she was aware of two other victims. Carter did not let on that he knew about Pomerantz or that he was hearing the name Cathy Ryan for the first time.

  Completing a settlement with Williamson had been just that easy, but that was not the story he told Sherman. At their most recent Greenwich train station meeting, he had added a few elements. “Puffery,” as his friend in the advertising business liked to call it, harmless, exaggerated claims about a product or service.

  “It’s been a knock-down-drag-out with Meg Williamson. It took multiple calls to get her to agree to meet with me. She had just made an appointment to see a therapist about what happened with Matthews. It took a lot of persuading to get her to cancel. Similar to Pomerantz, she initially insisted on bringing a friend to the meeting for moral support. I had to talk her out of that. After she said she was staying with a friend in Hackensack, New Jersey, I schlepped out there to meet her, only to be stood up. Her kid was sick, and she couldn’t get hold of a sitter. I told her if she didn’t sign now, she risked having the settlement be considered community property. If her ex found out about it, in theory he would be entitled to half of it. I made another trip to lovely Hackensack and got her to sign.”

  “Keep it up” had been Sherman’s grudging compliment.

  42

  Jacob Wilder and Junior had become acquainted on the squash courts at the New York Athletic Club. Both in their mid-forties and both high-level players, for several years they had competed together in doubles tournaments. When Junior needed an REL lawyer to perform a discreet inquiry, the decision was easy.

  “Whenever a business entity incorporates,” Wilder began, “it has to register with the New York Department of State Division of Corporations, State Records, and Uniform Commercial Code.”

  “I assume it has to include an address.”

  “It does, but Carter & Associates used a PO box.”

  “Does the post office keep the address of box holders confidential?”

  “In theory, yes. For fifty bucks, no,” he said while handing a piece of paper across the desk.

  “Nicely done, Jacob. Make sure you expense the fifty bucks,” Junior said, smiling.

  “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll figure something out. And one more thing. Up until a couple months ago, we had a lawyer working here in Human Resources with the same last name, Carter. Just for kicks, I checked his file.”

  “And?”

  “The address of the PO box holder matches the Upper East Side address where Carter lived when he was with REL.”

  “Excellent. Can you get me a copy—”

  “I had a feeling you’d want to see Carter’s file,” he said, handing a manila folder across the desk. “Happy reading!”

  43

  Paula Stephenson didn’t know what to do. She looked at the bills on her kitchen table. She was four months behind on the condo association dues and her mortgage was three months in arrears. To make matters worse, the condo had gone down in value since she purchased it. There was a letter threatening to repossess her car. Her health insurance provider had dumped her for lack of payment. Her checking account was down to a few thousand dollars.

  How did I go through two million dollars? sh
e raged at herself.

  It started with the drinking, she thought as she glanced at the bottle of vodka and the glass, which were her constant—almost her only—companions. She had become the one thing she had promised herself she would avoid. Both of her parents had been alcoholics. She hated drinking, but had always wanted to fit in. When other people are drinking and you’re not, you make them uncomfortable, she thought. They think you’re judging them.

  Not wanting to feel like an outsider, she had arrived at a solution. She would have a drink, usually wine or occasionally a beer, but never more than one. That one drink would be in her hand all evening and would still have some wine in it when the party was over.

  She grimaced while taking another long sip of vodka and savoring the burning sensation as the liquid went down her throat. She felt herself starting to relax.

  Everything changed after what happened with Matthews, she thought while taking a long drag on her cigarette.

  She had been the weather girl at a small cable station in Cincinnati. After it was purchased by REL News, she had been invited to come to New York. The hours were terrible. Weekends and overnight shifts, but she was living her dream. She was an on-air broadcaster, twenty-five years old, and loving life in New York City.

  One year of a dream. Six months of a nightmare. It was at a Christmas party that he took notice of her. She had been thrilled when the great Brad Matthews called her by name. He knows who I am!

  There was much to celebrate. REL News was finishing the year with yet another impressive gain in the ratings. Polls revealed that TV viewers regarded their middle-of-the-road coverage as more fair and balanced by a significant margin than both CNN and Fox. When the waitress came over offering champagne, Matthews took one for himself and handed her one. Touching his glass to hers, he said, “We all need to continue what we’ve been doing to win America’s trust.”