Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry Read online

  A potentially even bigger problem was Myers. At the first sign of trouble, that Boy Scout is going to break and start singing about the wires to Carter & Associates, he thought. Even with a board that was so favorably disposed to him, if Myers and Carter started telling the same story, his support would erode very quickly.

  Shoving aside the computer he used only to communicate with Carter, he opened his other laptop and clicked on the email from Junior that had turned his life upside down. He reread it for what had to be the twenty-fifth time.

  Dick, A young associate producer spoke to me today. She claims she had a me-too encounter with Brad Matthews in his office. Her description was graphic. I told her I’d look into it. How do you want to handle? Fred

  Sherman got up and paced around his office. Junior has as much on the line as I do, he thought. It was an open secret that Junior was hoping to succeed his father as chairman of the board. Even after the IPO, enough shares would be in the hands of the Carlyle family to make that happen unless—

  “Unless he realizes this could bring him down, too,” Sherman said aloud. After Pomerantz talked to Junior, he sent Sherman the email. When she approached Junior a second time, he basically told her to go back to work. If that’s all that happened, Junior might be able to wiggle off the hook. But if she played that tape for him and he let it drop after sending a note to Sherman, he was in big trouble. Women, who comprised 57.3 percent of REL’s viewership, would scream bloody murder.

  Sitting back down, Sherman typed a quick email to Frederick Carlyle, Jr. Would he be free tomorrow to discuss a private matter?

  51

  Frederick Vincent Carlyle, Jr., eased into the plush leather chair behind the mahogany desk and looked around. The corner office looked the same as when his father was the occupant. The walls included photographs of his father with the previous six US presidents, heads of state of foreign governments, and Hollywood royalty. A map of the world encased in glass showed the locations of REL bureaus and affiliates around the globe. Fourteen honorary doctorates adorned the walls. Centered among them was a “Time Magazine Person of the Year” cover.

  “Junior,” as he knew most employees referred to him behind his back but never to his face, was a realist. His father would always be the Horatio Alger, rags-to-riches success story, the entrepreneur whose accomplishments reminded people that America remained the land of opportunity. Junior realized and accepted that no matter what he did, he would always be viewed differently. Taking something big and making it much larger is not nearly as sexy a story as starting from nothing and making something big. He thought, as he often did, of the zinger lobbed at President George W. Bush: “He was born on third base, but he thinks he hit a triple.” One industry analyst had written that Junior’s sole accomplishment was being named to New York City’s list of most eligible bachelors.

  But the accolades would come, he promised himself. Seven years earlier, he had begun talking to his father about the advantages of transitioning the privately owned REL to a publicly traded company. “Why?” had been his father’s first question. “What’s wrong with the way we’re doing things now?”

  “Because we no longer have the luxury of slowly building our brand around the world” had been Junior’s response. Using the wall map of REL’s affiliates and bureaus, he had pointed to Europe and a few other locations. “Here’s where we are,” Junior had said. But pointing to wide swaths of Asia, the Arab world, and Africa, he said, “Look at all this area where we have zero or minimal presence. CNN is there, Fox and several European news organizations are trying to get there, and we’re resting on our laurels as we focus on our business in the United States. We can borrow a ton of money to build an international presence, assuming our banks will work with us, or we can raise the capital we need by going public.”

  The execution to date had been flawless. Every indication from the investment bank hired to do the road show was that interest from institutional investors was very strong. Several directors had discussed with him the possibility of his succeeding Sherman as CEO or his father as chairman of the board. Avoid any missteps over the next few weeks and the idea Junior had put in motion seven years ago would come to fruition. A beep from his desktop phone interrupted his thoughts. “Mr. Carlyle, Mr. Sherman is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Junior walked around his desk and shook hands with Sherman, who declined his offer of coffee. He pointed Sherman to the conference table and took a seat opposite him. Sherman, who was never good at small talk, gave it a try.

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  “Good days and bad. He barely recognizes me, but his aide takes very good care of him. He can speak with some clarity about his early years. Any mention of the IPO gets a blank stare.”

  “Well, tell him I was asking about him.”

  Both men immediately recognized the folly of the request. Carlyle Sr. would probably have no idea who Sherman was.

  “I will, Dick. Thanks.”

  “Fred, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you what a great job you did, you’re doing, in shepherding this IPO process.”

  “I don’t think you did. That’s nice to hear. I appreciate it.”

  “The company and each of us personally have a lot to gain if this IPO is successful and a lot to lose if it isn’t.”

  “I couldn’t agree more on both counts.”

  Sherman thought hard, trying to find the right words to introduce the subject. “Fred, do you remember the name Lauren Pomerantz?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you remember her coming to your office and talking about something that happened between her and Matthews?”

  “I do.”

  “Did she do anything besides talk to you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “Did she show you any evidence to back up what she said Matthews did?”

  “Nothing that I can recall. Why do you ask?”

  “This Pomerantz situation could be a huge problem for both of us.”

  “What do you mean by ‘both of us’?”

  “You and I each were made aware of a bad situation, and we failed to act.”

  “That’s not how I see it, Dick. As soon as I heard about it, I sent an email to the CEO of the corporation. If there’s any failure here, it’s yours.”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  “Yes, it is that simple. The REL Employee Handbook clearly states that on becoming aware of an accusation of this nature, the employee should immediately bring it to the attention of the employee’s supervisor. That’s exactly what I did. You’re my boss. I sent the email to you.”

  “You never followed up.”

  “I don’t have to defend myself in front of you, but right after sending that email I left for a four-week trip to Asia to meet with potential new affiliates. I had faith in you to handle the situation. Was that faith misplaced?”

  “No, it wasn’t. The situation has been handled, but in a somewhat unconventional manner.”

  For the next twenty minutes Sherman recounted his first meeting with Carter and the agreement to go along with Carter’s plan to contain the situation. When he spoke about the audiotape of Matthews’s assault on Pomerantz, Sherman watched for a flicker of recognition on Junior’s face. There was none.

  Junior asked few questions, his face impassive. Since his meeting with Carter, none of this was new to him. He reacted sharply, however, when Sherman brought up Stephenson’s death.

  “Has it occurred to you, Dick, that that’s one hell of a coincidence? A woman who’s threatening to go public with her story conveniently commits suicide? Paying victims to keep quiet is bad enough, but at least we’re in good company. Plenty of other major corporations have done the same. But if this Stephenson didn’t commit—” He paused and then resumed. “How well do you know this Carter fellow?”

  “He’s about forty. A lawyer. Worked for us in Human Resources.”

  Junior got up and
walked to the window. For the first time, he sounded truly agitated. “I’m not interested in his résumé. I’m asking, do you really know him?”

  “I know he was in the military,” Sherman answered, trying to sound confident.

  “That’s hardly reassuring. So was Hitler. Do you mean to say you wired this guy millions of dollars of REL’s money and you don’t know the first thing about him?”

  “The company does thorough vetting before they hire anybody,” Sherman said weakly. Junior paced around the office without responding.

  “Dick, if Matthews’s abuse and how it was handled, or not handled, comes to light, we’re in a ‘real’ mess.” Both men recognized the unintended pun but did not comment. “But if your guy Carter has gone rogue, do you understand you could be looking at accessory to murder?”

  “Leave Carter to me,” Sherman said, his confidence returning. “I’ve already hired an agency to dig into his background and to keep an eye on our deal maker.” Sherman knew he had done no such thing, but he didn’t want to give Junior any credit for inspiring the idea.

  “And—” Sherman caught himself as he was about to say Junior, “And Fred, don’t be so cocksure that sending one email to me will be your get-out-of-jail-free card. A little free advice. If the you-know-what hits the fan, you’re going to look more than a little foolish defending yourself by citing the REL Handbook.”

  “What are you looking for, Sherman?”

  “I started and I’m going to finish a plan to put this behind us.” Sherman stood up. “If anybody comes to you asking questions about wires to Carter & Associates, your answer is that you approved them. Got that, Junior?”

  The two men glared at each other before Sherman turned and headed for the door.

  52

  Michael Carter got up and walked around his office. The Wall Street Journal he had just read was open on his desk. Another article about REL News was above the fold, adding to the buzz surrounding the IPO and the predicting offering price of the shares.

  Carter was not happy about his progress with Cathy Ryan. More importantly, neither were Sherman and Junior.

  He sat back down and glanced at his computer screen. The email was addressed to Sherman. The blind copy would go to Junior.

  Had another phone conversation with Cathy Ryan. Pressed hard but she declined to set meet date. Said she’s not ready to talk about what happened. Said she was leaving for vacation and wouldn’t be back for six days.

  First thought was she’s lying. One of my sources has access to credit card records. She has a round trip reservation to Aruba departing on October 3rd and returning on the 9th. Booked at the Americana Hotel. A plus that she’s being honest.

  Checked out her family. Parents retired in Palm Beach. Deep pockets. One other sibling in Boston.

  Ryan has apartment in Atlanta and working for magazine publisher. Her trust fund in excess of three million dollars. Doesn’t need our money. That makes her more dangerous. Will continue to update.

  Satisfied with what he had written, if not with his progress, he pushed SEND.

  53

  Carter had just finished an early dinner with his wife and son. It felt good to be home, he thought to himself. Beatrice was getting to be more trouble than she was worth. A nice dinner and a hotel were no longer enough for her. Every time they got together of late she wanted him to schlep all the way to Brooklyn and be out until midnight at one of the several dance clubs she frequented. The people there were idiots, and the music was so loud that he was beginning to worry about hearing loss. Beatrice had done the impossible: she had made him miss being with his wife.

  He had even volunteered to do the dishes. His son went to his room to start his homework while his wife settled in front of the TV in the living room to watch REL’s evening news. He declined her offer to come and watch with her. He had seen enough of Brad Matthews to last a lifetime.

  Carter went to the kitchen table, pulled his laptop out of his bag, and turned it on. The apprehension he had experienced following Paula Stephenson’s death had finally begun to fade. There had been no inquiries from the Durham police, no raps on his door in the early morning hours. He had convinced himself that he had let his imagination run wild. For whatever reason, Stephenson had committed suicide. End of story.

  The beat goes on, he sang to himself remembering the Sonny and Cher tune. How will she react if I just show up? he asked himself. The she he was referring to was Cathy Ryan. She was in Aruba now and he knew where she was staying. Before she said anything, she would probably demand to know how he found her down there. The truth, that he was monitoring her credit cards, would not do. Was there a plausible reason for him to be in Aruba, aside from, of course, the sun and the sand?

  A search for Aruba’s daily newspaper brought up Aruba Today. He scanned several articles about flower festivals and social gatherings. He hit the icon to take him to the Local section. There he came across the headline, “JET SKI TOURIST DIES IN ACCIDENT.” Curious, he clicked on the link.

  Twenty-six-year-old Catherine Ryan died when the Jet Ski she was operating plowed into a boat off the Arenas Blancas Harbor. Ryan, from the United States, was part of a tour group that had just finished lunch. Police would not confirm whether or not alcohol played a role in the tragedy.

  Carter leaned back, his head spinning. He went over to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of vodka, poured a generous shot, and returned to the table. He felt himself calming down as the alcohol burned in his throat and down to his stomach.

  I did it again, he said to himself. I set them up. He’d given Sherman all the information he needed to go down, or send somebody down, to Durham to get rid of Paula Stephenson. And he did exactly the same thing with Cathy Ryan, right down to the hotel where she was staying.

  He wondered why he hadn’t learned about this sooner, why it hadn’t been reported in the media. Then he quickly realized why. North Korea was back to test-firing missiles, Saudi Arabia and Iran were one step short of a shooting war, the trade war with China was accelerating, and another Boeing plane had crashed. The news of an American tourist dying overseas had been lost in the shuffle.

  It might be time to talk to a criminal lawyer, he thought to himself. The irony was not lost on him. He had spent the better part of the past two years convincing women that they did not need to consult a lawyer. Now, at the first sign of real trouble, he wanted a lawyer, another lawyer besides himself, in his corner.

  Have I broken any laws? he asked himself. Using settlements to silence women who had been victimized by Matthews might have allowed Matthews to keep going. But was that a crime? He didn’t think so.

  He hadn’t always been truthful with the women as he strong-armed them into settlements. Was that a crime? No. It was hardball negotiating.

  But the police would want to know how he learned where Cathy Ryan was staying in Aruba. They’d delve into every dollar that flowed into and out of Carter & Associates. How many times had he paid his buddy at the credit rating agency to get him somebody’s credit card records? Eight, maybe ten times? And paying to get the phone records of several of the victims? Those were crimes.

  A close examination would reveal that he had charged a long list of personal expenses to REL. There would be little sympathy for REL, but in using the company’s money to pay his personal expenses, he was guilty of tax fraud.

  And what about the bags of cash Junior had him delivering to anonymous sources? I was only the delivery boy, might work as a defense for a bicycle messenger. He knew, as a lawyer, he would be held to a higher standard.

  And if he got disbarred, obviously that would be the end of his sideline practice helping wrongful termination clients. What would he do to support himself and his family?

  Clearly, he had to keep going, but he had to do it in a way that was no longer empowering Sherman.

  54

  Meg Williamson sat on the couch with her feet up on the coffee hassock. It was nine o’clock. The TV was now off. A few minutes e
arlier she had been channel surfing and landed on REL News. And him. His easy smile. His signature blue blazer, white shirt, and red-and-blue tie.

  A feeling of revulsion had swept over Meg. The thought of that pig’s hands on her. She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Chardonnay, and returned to the couch. “Mother’s milk,” her grandmother used to call the two glasses of wine she would have every evening.

  Meg took a long sip and allowed herself to calm down. An hour earlier she had finished what for years had been the highlight of her day. She had curled up with Jillian on her bed and announced “time to pick out a book.” Jillian would scamper over to the bookshelf pretending to consider all the choices. She would then choose one of her favorite titles night after night, taking comfort and pleasure in knowing what would happen on the next page. Like mother, like daughter, Meg thought. Neither of us likes surprises.

  In the six weeks since Jillian had started first grade their evening ritual had evolved. Now it was Jillian attempting most of the reading while Meg, helping when necessary, stroked her daughter’s honey-blond hair. There were three classes of first graders at Ponterio Ridge Street School. While the other two teachers were good, fifty-eight-year-old Mrs. Silverman was a legend. She had taught at the school for thirty-three years. Her early students, now parents themselves, gave the school board fits with their insistence that their son or daughter be taught by Mrs. Silverman. I didn’t have any clout, Meg thought to herself. This was the one time I just got lucky.

  Her cell phone rang. It was beside her on the couch. The caller ID showed “Unavailable.” Please be a dumb credit card solicitation, she prayed as she answered. But it was him.