Part 34 (1/2)

Alicia has a file for me, my latest target.

They sell biscuits. Actually, powder that comes in boxes that mixes with milk and eggs to make biscuits. That's the flags.h.i.+p product. Thorpe Biscuit has expanded over the last twenty years into a food and food services empire. Ninety-five percent of the biscuits served in restaurants and eaten in homes are Thorpe and they have a good chunk of the food service industry and manufactured food markets under their control. Walk into a grocery store and something like ninety percent of the goods are produced by one of three companies, if you follow the owners.h.i.+p back up the chain. Thorpe is one of those, with the smallest market share of the big three. They do six billion dollars a year in revenue.

Yes, I yawn while I'm reading it.

They're screwed. The company is going under, due to total mismanagement. Thorpe is run by old money, Jim Thorpe III, great-grandson of the founder. I know more about him than he does. The dossier open on my desk reads like something an a.s.sa.s.sin would use to study a target. I know all of his habits, his movements. I know what he had for breakfast three weeks ago, what he gave his wife for Mother's Day and his mistress for Secretary's Day, which Ninja Turtle each of his children prefer (the youngest favors Donatello), the names of his boats. I even know about the funds he has squirreled away in Switzerland for when it all goes belly up under him.

I am not without mercy. I will allow him to remain on in some capacity at the company. He will continue to own stock. Today he will agree to a merger or I will launch my hostile takeover campaign. One word to Alicia and one of the six Amsel conglomerates will put in the maximum allowed bid on the open market for shares of Thorpe stock, as permitted by the Williams Act. At the same time, I will contact the large shareholders I've been meeting with for what's known as a proxy fight. They will vote for me. I don't even need them all. I already indirectly own twenty percent of the common stock through a pension fund group under Amsel control. Jim Thorpe is, to put it colloquially, screwed. I scratch at the papers with my close-cut fingernails. It feels like sharpening my claws. Once the company is mine the challenge of fixing it might at least make me feel something.

Six years. That's the last time I felt something, I think.

The morning's work is boring, mostly answering emails, correcting other people's mistakes, gathering intelligence, arranging for the sell off of an underperforming holding and sending orders to my other a.s.sistants to bring me information on new acquisitions. The lawyer will be joining me in New York to meet with Thorpe.

Once everything is arranged, it's time to go.

When I step out of the office, the head of security is waiting for me.

His name is Harrison Carlisle and he's one of the biggest men I've ever seen. Almost seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of muscle. He comes from some little town up the Susquehanna river. I think his cousin or his uncle or some such thing is a police officer up there. Harrison was a Marine and then a private military contractor. I remember the name of the town, now. Paradise Falls. One of my college roommates was from up there. Jennifer, her name was. There must be something in the water in that town; she towered over me. When I lived with her I always felt like I was in her shadow. She was stunning, with a gymnast's slender build, a models' grace, and she was absolutely gorgeous, but she was dating some local boy that went to the same school as us and never talked to anyone else. She rarely talked to me, for that matter. I haven't thought about her in a long time.

Something in the air this morning brings nostalgia.

”Ma'am,” Harrison grunts, knocking me out of my reverie.

Good. I don't want to think about college. I don't want to think about Victor. Not that it ever stops me. Every day for five years, I- ”One of the cars was stolen this morning.”

I blink a few times. I glance at Alicia. I look at Harrison again.

”What?”

”Somebody broke into the garage and took it.”

”Yes,” I sigh, ”That's what stolen means. Which one?”

”The Pontiac.”

An ice cube slides down my back and I go rigid. There's one Pontiac in the Amsel collection. A packard, a Rolls Royce, a 1958 Plymouth Fury, half a dozen less valuable cars and Victor's mother's Hyundai, and one Pontiac, that ludicrous beast Victor's father pa.s.sed down to him.

”I a.s.sume you've contacted the police.”

Harrison nods.

”Deal with it. Call my father, get more men, double the details. I want foot patrols again. Those d.a.m.ned dogs aren't doing their job.”

”Yes, ma'am.”

My security chief leaves and I let out a slow breath. I should tell him. Victor loved that car, he'd be crushed to hear it's been stolen. I can't imagine why someone would break into the grounds and steal that car. It's one of the least valuable in the collection. Victor once explained it to me; the numbers don't match, whatever that means, because of his father's modifications. The Rolls Royce, a Phantom II, is worth a small fortune on its own. Why would someone steal the Firebird and leave the others undisturbed?

I suppose I should feel violated. I've been robbed. My home has been defiled.

Except it's not my car and it's not my house, and it's not my car, it belongs to Victor. I don't care about his d.a.m.ned car. If I never saw it again I would not mind in the least.

Promise!

”Ma'am?”

Alicia stares at me. I realize I've been standing around for a good minute staring into s.p.a.ce. I shake my head.

”We're on a timetable. Have the car brought up.”

I don't drive very often. Father pays drivers for that. The BMW sedan out front is my birthday present from last year, not that I care all that much. As long as they run, one car is the same as another to me.

I slip into the back seat and stare out the window as Alicia works, answering emails and contacts that are not sufficiently important for my extremely valuable time. I spend a good hour of that time brooding in the car, saying nothing, trying to think of anything but Victor.

My louse of a stepbrother. Even thinking about him makes me furious. I loathe him, after what he did to me.

That was another life, that happened to another person. She's dead.

Long live the ice queen.

The ride to the airport is about an hour. I'm not flying by airline, 'with the rabble' as my father would say. We have a private jet, a sleek black Gulfstream. My seat inside is enormous and plush, and once my seatbelt is on and the plane is in the air, I feel comfortable catching an hour or so of sleep. It's a short hop from Philadelphia International to LaGuardia, and it feels like no time has pa.s.sed at all when Alicia wakes me with a gentle, but insistent, ”Ma'am.”

I don't suffer anyone to touch me. One of my a.s.sistants once presumed to shake me by the shoulder in a situation like this. I don't know what she does for a living now. I don't much care.

I snap awake, glad I didn't dream. After landing I take a minute to sip a cup of black coffee and exit the plane, to a waiting town car. Alicia knows better than to chatter. The driver does not. I silence him with a curt look and watch mostly identical buildings glide by my window. New York traffic is annoying but I am never late. Late implies there will be some consequence for my failure to arrive on time. They will wait for me. My lips curl in a hint of a smile.

I keep trying to feel something. It's not working.

After perhaps forty-five minutes for a few miles of driving, the town car pulls into the garage. Thorpe has sent some chattery underling to meet me. He extends a hand, I walk past him, Alicia in tow. One of the lawyers follows. Sline, I think his name is. Something like that. The others shy away from me in the elevator, even the underling charged with turning the key to take me to the private upper floors for the meeting. I don't look at any of them. The ride up is quick, the doors open, and I walk through the executive offices. The doors are open, the occupants all look up as I pa.s.s, s.h.i.+vering as I walk by. The boardroom is at the far end. I suppose I should be impressed. The view is magnificent, a panoramic, one hundred eighty degree expanse of city skyline and Hudson river. I'm not impressed. I've seen it.

Thorpe is waiting for me.

I size him up. I've seen pictures. This is the first time we've met in person.

Jim Thorpe is about five eight, soft and round but not fat, and looks like old money. They all look the same.

Except Victor. Victor looks like a model.

Be quiet, little voice.

He offers me a soft hand. I deign to shake it, and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jacket. Alicia discretely hands me an antibacterial wipe as she spreads out our materials at the head of the long conference table.

I'm good at reading people. Thorpe is scared. He knows why I'm here, he knows he needs me, and he wants to sleep with me. I try to ignore the last part. It's not me, it's a power thing. Two-thirds of the executives I meet are obviously picturing me naked. It's a defense mechanism. They can't be afraid of a woman, so that's what they make themselves see. It's hard to feel predatory and afraid at the same time.

”Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ross,” he says in a voice that holds no hint of pleasure. ”Glad you could be here.”

”Quite. The others?”