Closure
A NovelBy Terry IsaacsoniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Terry Isaacson
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-1899-3Chapter One
Lance Carpenter stood at the window of his office on the thirty-seventh floor of the Prudential Tower in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston. Mid-morning traffic still bustled around Copley Square while pedestrians casually strolled along the sidewalks with their shopping bags already filled.
About a mile to the west near a sweeping bend of the Charles River, he saw Fenway Park, and he savored the second Red Sox championship in the past four World Series. It had been eighty-six years between their triumphs in 1918 and 2004, but the Babe Ruth curse had finally been lifted, and Boston overflowed with believers and loyal Red Sox fans.
He turned from the window and paced deliberatively around his office, surveying the collection of personal items and memorabilia. A gallery of photographs adorned one wall. Each picture had been neatly arranged around an acrylic painting of a fan-filled stadium in Tokyo, Japan. The scoreboard showed 0:00 time remaining, and the final score: Temple - 28; Boston College - 24. That game represented the low point in BC's storied football history, a winless 0-11 season, and the unfortunate, unceremonious end to Lance Carpenter's playing days-December 10, 1978.
From a library table centered below the painting, he picked up a silver-framed photograph of Kimberly and their two daughters taken during a summer visit to his wife's hometown of Camden, Maine. He smiled, placed it back on the table, and walked over to his massive executive desk with a single stack of papers arranged neatly in the center.
Lance picked up the top sheet, studied a colorful graphic for a few seconds, and tossed it back on the desk. With a deeply furrowed brow, he smoothed the slightly-graying hair along his temples with both hands. Then he turned to face the window and stared at the distant horizon that was pleasantly visible on this crisp, fall day. He did not hear the door open.
"Mr. Carpenter?"
Lance bristled, wheeled around and barked, "Arlene, I said no calls this morning."
"I know, sir, but there's someone who insists on talking with you now."
Except for slightly tousled hair and the displeasure of being interrupted clearly showing on his face, Lance Carpenter was a picture of perfection. At just over six feet tall and 185 pounds, he had maintained his playing weight during the years since his graduation from Boston College in 1982. His crisp white shirt was smooth from belt to collar, and the knot of his trademark maroon and gold tie fit snuggly around his athletic, seventeen-inch neck. From all outward appearances, Lance Carpenter looked as if he could still play football for the Eagles. Many alumni and long-time Boston College supporters were still disappointed that he never had that chance.
"All I need is fifteen minutes of quiet time before the board meeting. You know that."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carpenter, but he says you'll want to talk with him."
"Well he's wrong, whoever he is. I don't want to talk with anyone now. Take a number and I'll return the call later today ... maybe." Lance reached for the chart in the middle of the desk, studied it for a few seconds and then tossed it back onto the desk. He planted both hands on his hips to signal that the conversation was over.
"I already asked for his number, and he said he didn't want a return call. He said he wants to talk with you now. He said he's one of your high school classmates."
"For crying out loud, Arlene, am I supposed to drop everything and talk with someone I haven't spoken to for three decades? Who is this person who's screwing up my morning?"
Arlene glanced at her notepad and replied, "It's a Mr. Evans. Dexter Evans. He said you'd know him as Dee."
"Dee Evans?" he asked rhetorically, his eyes softening when he heard the familiar name from the past.
Lance Carpenter walked around the corner of his desk to within a few feet of his executive assistant, a matronly veteran administrator at Diversified Global Investment Bank who had been with him since his promotion to vice president two years ago. He spoke quietly, the irritation and tension in his voice replaced by a calm, confident tone. "Is my presentation all set in the board room, Arlene?"
"Yes, sir, eighteen slides. They're all ready to go. I checked them myself a few minutes ago."
Lance reached out and gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Thanks, Arlene. I know I can always count on you." Together they walked to the door, and with a final pat on the back, he continued, "Mr. Evans and I were best friends in high school. You can tell him I'd be pleased to speak with him for a few minutes."
Arlene smiled and turned to leave, closing the door behind her.
Lance raised the cuff of his shirt and noted the time on his wristwatch. He briskly returned to his desk and sat down. With less than ten minutes to the start of the most important board meeting of his professional career, Lance Carpenter stared at the telephone and waited for Arlene to transfer the call from a high school buddy he had not seen for more than thirty years. "Lance Carpenter," he said after one ring.
"You sure run a tight front office, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well I'll be damned. A voice from the distant past, and I could recognize it anywhere, anytime. It's good to hear from you, Dee. How long's it been?"
"The last time I saw you was during the summer of 1978, the day you left Boulder for Boston. By the way, Arlene was very nice. I badgered her but she stayed calm, very professional. You've got a winner there."
"You got that right. She knows the ropes around here. Keeps me squared away, and that's tough to do these days."
Dexter Eugene Evans propped his well-worn loafers on the coffee table that sat in front of a crumpled sofa and his comfortable leather chair. An empty coffee cup rested on yesterday's edition of the San Jose Times. Wearing loose fitting jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt, he settled his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes while he spoke. "My sources tell me things are going very well for you on the East Coast. You must like New England."
"So far, so good. There are no mountains out here, but life's been good to me. Are you still in Palo Alto?"
"No more. I moved my business to San Jose in 1991. We still have the home in Boulder." Dee leaned forward and plopped an elbow on his knee while continuing to talk on the cell phone. "My sources tell me you married a gal from New England."
"You must have a lot of sources."
"Is that true? You married?"
Lance stood up and said, "Yes, that's true. I've been married for twenty-four years now. We have two daughters-one is twenty-one and the other eighteen. But you know, Dee, I've got a board meeting in a few minutes, so I have to ..."
"You have to what? You have to hang up on your old buddy? Don't you even want to know why I called out of the blue?"
"Of course I do, but I really have to get moving to the board room. They always start precisely on time and I don't want to be late. Can I call you back later today?"
"Oh, you'll be okay. Just walk in and tell them you've been talking with a friend from high school you haven't heard from in thirty years. I'm sure they'll understand."
"To be honest, Dee, there's a lot riding on this board meeting. There are only two major agenda items, and I'm making one of the presentations. If it goes well ..."
"If it goes well, you'll be promoted to managing director," Dee interrupted.
"I want to know who your sources are," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I can't tell you that, but I can tell you why I'm calling today."
Lance reached for the colored chart in the middle of his desk and reviewed it one last time while he impatiently listened to what Dee Evans had to say.
"It's about our thirty-year class reunion, Lance. You haven't been back to Boulder for years, and this reunion should be a good time. Rebecca Carlin has been reaching out to all our classmates and she asked me to give you a call. She said you haven't responded to her email."
"Rebecca Carlin? I don't remember getting any email from her. Maybe it was screened as junk mail."
"Maybe you saw her name and hit delete. As I recall, the two of you weren't on the best of terms when you left Boulder."
"That's putting it nicely, Dee. We weren't even speaking to each other and it got pretty ugly." Lance lowered the chart to his side and slowly turned back to the window, his mind preoccupied with his presentation for the board of directors. "When's the reunion?"
"It's in August."
"I'll have to give it some thought. To tell you the truth, I haven't had much interest in returning to Boulder."
Dee sensed Lance's uncertainty. "While you're thinking about it, let me give you another reason to come back for our thirtieth reunion. I just found out the high school selected me as the Distinguished Citizen of the Year for 2008. Can you imagine that-Dexter Evans a distinguished anything? It would mean a lot to me if Lance Carpenter were there to share the honor. Whether you believe it or not, it would never have been possible without your friendship."
"Wow, distinguished citizen? That's great news, Dee. Congratulations!"
"Thanks, my friend. I hope you'll give some serious thought to coming back for the reunion. And remember, if you're late to the board meeting, just walk in there with full confidence, make your presentation, and be ready for all the predictable questions. Tompkins is on your side."
When the call concluded, Lance straightened his BC tie, slipped on his suit coat and headed for the board room.
As he entered the meeting already in progress, Lance wondered, How in the hell does Dee know Paul Tompkins?
Chapter Two
The quarterly board of directors meeting of the financial conglomerate Diversified Global Investment Bank had begun precisely at 10:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. The regional corporate offices in Chicago, Denver and San Francisco had been connected by video conferencing technology seven minutes prior to the scheduled start time. Some members of the board were seated at their designated places at a huge conference table, and others were engaged in various conversations when the Chairman of the Board, J. Paul Tompkins, called the meeting to order with two taps of a solid mahogany gavel.
At the head of the table, Chairman Tompkins projected an image of authority-dark gray suit, white shirt with deep maroon tie, silver cufflinks visible when he raised an arm to remove his reading glasses. The years had begun to show age on his pleasantly rounded face, but the color of his hair and neatly-trimmed moustache left no doubt. With a goatee, many people thought he would be a spitting image of Colonel Sanders.
Tompkins sat facing an array of four video screens mounted high on the wall so that everyone in the room would have an unobstructed view of each screen. He spoke with the presiding officer at each of the satellite locations and then, for the benefit of first-time attendees, asked each member of the board of directors for a brief, personal introduction. When they finished their comments, a title slide for the first agenda item appeared on the Boston screen. Tompkins scanned the room looking for the person he had tasked to present the corporation's annual budget with projections for each operating division.
"It looks as if we have a notable absentee this morning. Let's go to the next topic on the agenda, and can someone find out what's happened to Mr. Carpenter?"
A young man in the back of the board room leapt up and headed for the door. A board member glared at the chairman, closed the binder in front of her and sat back in her chair with an audible sigh. Another woman walked to the far end of the room to address the board.
As she began an update on national trends in the housing and credit sectors and the impact on projected fourth quarter unemployment, Lance slipped quietly into the room and sat down at the only empty seat at the table, the one nearest the presentation podium. The woman stopped talking momentarily while Lance pulled his chair forward and offered an apologetic glance, which she ignored. Others shifted in their seats during the awkward, unexpected diversion from the board meeting's tightly-scripted agenda.
"Go on," Tompkins ordered. "There should be no more distractions." He looked at Lance Carpenter while he spoke, and most people in the room read the chairman's comment as a rebuke for his tardiness. After all, he was responsible for the featured topic at the most important board meeting of his life-and he had just arrived five minutes late.
The speaker at the podium, Marcella Rhodes, nodded to the chairman and resumed talking about the very real possibility of unemployment in the country reaching five percent, which would be the highest level in the last two years and would be certain to shake Wall Street and the credit markets.
Marcella Rhodes certainly knew her stuff. She had been recruited by a reputable investment banking firm in New York City after completing her baccalaureate and master's programs at Harvard in less than five years, start to finish. Since coming to Diversified Global Investment Bank seven years ago, she had impressed senior management and rocketed to the vice president position well ahead of her contemporaries. Though no one ever talked about it openly, everyone in the Boston office assumed Marcella Rhodes and Lance Carpenter were on a collision course for the next available managing director position.
Marcella was not only intellectually brilliant, but she was also a very attractive woman. With her complete package of beauty, poise and professional expertise, she had garnered significant respect in the financial industry and built the reputation of a woman with potential to reach the top of a major corporation. That is, if her cold-blooded ambition didn't sidetrack her along the way.
When Marcella finished her presentation, she stepped away from the podium and stood at the far end of the table. "Mr. Chairman, members of the board," she said coolly as she smoothed the front of her tailored navy suit, "I'd be happy to respond to any questions you may have."
"Any questions for Ms. Rhodes?" Paul Tompkins let the question hang while he scanned the room for inquiries and reaction to her presentation. Detecting none, he said, "I have one, Marcella. What do you think your friends at the Fed will do if unemployment hits five percent?"
She smiled and spoke confidently. "Of course that's a hypothetical, sir, but we all know the facts. The subprime mortgage crisis is real. People all over the country are feeling the stress of increased debt. Merrill Lynch just took a $7.9 billion write down for subprime mortgages and asset-backed bonds. O'Neill is history. He led Merrill to its biggest loss in ninety-three years. Countrywide is in trouble, too. They posted a $1.2 billion loss in the third quarter, their first quarterly loss in twenty-five years, and I'm hearing Bank of America is pitching an offer to purchase Countrywide in the magnitude of $4 to 5 billion before the end of the year. People whisper the term `R-word' as if actually saying `recession' will trigger the inevitable. Remember, 2008 is an election year-and with economic indicators trending the way they are-if I were queen for a day at the Fed, I'd cut the prime by a quarter in a New York second! That's what I think, sir."
"You've never been afraid to state your case, Marcella. And if I were king for a day at the Fed, I'd cut the key to three point five right now, and then another half at the meeting next week," he said watching for reaction from around the room.
No one dared counter the chairman in this setting.
"Any more questions for Ms. Rhodes?" Tompkins continued to scan the room for additional questions, and seeing none, he said, "Thank you, Marcella." Then, without looking directly at him, he asked dryly, "Are you ready for your presentation, Mr. Carpenter? Or do you need more time?"
Lance slid his chair back, stood up and began talking as he walked a few feet to the podium. "Yes, sir, Mr. Chairman, members of the board, I'm ready. I apologize for being late this morning."
Tompkins grimaced and asked indignantly, "What? Were you giving Coach Jag suggestions on the game plan for Florida State tomorrow? I see you're wearing your trademark BC tie again."
"Only on Fridays and at fundraisers, Mr. Chairman." Lance looked down at the diagonal maroon and gold stripes on his necktie, and with two fingers of his right hand he gently waved it for show.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Closureby Terry Isaacson Copyright © 2010 by Terry Isaacson. Excerpted by permission.
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