Misfortune (13 page)

He had been home at ten-thirty, and eleven, and eleven-thirty, all day, in fact, waiting for Clio, and then all evening on the off chance she might still call. He should have known then to get out. He should have realized that he would be subject to her whim, her unchecked veto, if he stayed on at Pratt Capital, but instead he convinced himself that she had more pressing things to attend to. Her husband’s health was deteriorating rapidly. He could understand her distraction. Or maybe in the shock of the news, he had misunderstood the message, and it was his fault.

Miles missed the writing on the wall.

Now, the noose of his lousy 43 percent equity strangled him, prevented him from leaving, but also from exercising independence. He needed a controlling interest or nothing at all. Miles sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. No one missed Richard more than he.

His office door was closed, and Miles sat in peace. He liked the deliberate quiet of this place. The walls were double insulated, improving the acoustics for the operas that Richard listened to—
La Traviata
was his favorite—as he mulled over proposals and studied business plans. He was the only person Miles had ever met who never raised his voice. “If you have to yell to get what you want, it’s not worth getting,” Richard always said. Richard’s legacy saturated Miles’s pores.

How had Clio and Richard found each other?
Despite his fondness for Richard, and considerable length of time in his employ, Miles knew virtually nothing about his wife or their only child, Justin Henshaw Pratt. Miles had never met Justin, but he had seen the eight-by-ten photograph in the silver frame on Richard’s desk of a smiling boy with sandy hair and red cheeks at the tiller of his sailboat, “Lake Agawan, 1988” engraved underneath, an image taken shortly before Justin’s accidental death. The Adlers had sent a significant contribution to the foundation established in Justin’s memory, but Penny Adler, not Miles, wrote the note of condolence. He convinced himself that she was better at social protocol, but in retrospect, he recognized that his inability to convey sympathy stemmed from an irrational hatred of Justin. Justin was the blood son. Despite Richard’s interest in Miles’s professional development, their relationship could never be familial.

Clio remained an enigma to Miles. Even after Justin’s death eliminated the threat of a true heir, Miles never made any real effort to get to know her and paid her scant attention when she passed by the office to have lunch with Richard. The Adlers saw the Pratts at certain charitable affairs for YOUTHCORE, the American Cancer Society, the Botanical Society, underprivileged children, diseases and plants being causes to which virtually everyone who was anyone in the city donated. Less frequently, they socialized at cultural events, a Museum of Modern Art opening or the Metropolitan Opera, but most affluent New Yorkers attended these as well, and, at best, small pleasantries were exchanged as the Adlers and Pratts mingled in the crowds.

Clio Pratt had been on the board of the Guggenheim Museum, that Miles knew, and had been involved with YOUTHCORE, maybe still was. Richard had been president of that organization. Together they raised money to help sponsor activities for inner-city boys and girls, met with city officials to promote its programs in Harlem, Alphabet City, and parts of Brooklyn, Staten Island, and the Bronx. Richard had pictures of Clio with Mayors Koch, Dinkins, and Giuliani framed on the wall in his office. YOUTHCORE was the kind of group that politicians loved, and posing with the socialite wife of financial magnate Richard Pratt suited the public office holders just fine.

Miles realized that Clio had made up her mind on the ProChem matter. Convincing her to change it would be difficult, perhaps impossible. Besides, Pro-Chem wasn’t really the issue. No single deal was. The issue, if one could euphemistically call it that, was that Miles remained a minority shareholder, a useless position when it came to making decisions about investments. Miles needed leverage, real leverage, something that would give Richard and her no choice but to sell him an additional 8 percent in Pratt Capital, to give him back the autonomy he wanted and deserved. But money wouldn’t work. He had tried that several times before, offering substantially more than any reasonable calculation of per share value. Although Richard may have been content to hand the company over, Clio was nobody’s fool. She wanted control as badly as Miles did, and she wasn’t going to part with it lightly.

Besides cash, cold hard American currency, what could possibly make her change her mind? This Miles contemplated as he gazed out over the lush greenness of Central Park.

Doesn’t everyone have a secret, he mused, something deep in their past or their present that makes them vulnerable, an experience that is too painful to be exposed? What was it about Clio that could be exploited, not with an outright threat—he wouldn’t resort to blackmail—but something that he could use in a more subtle manner, something that he could hint at, or gently suggest, that might prod her to part with enough stock to give him control? Certainly there were things in his own background that he wanted to protect, some more, some less, important, but all worthy of keeping concealed, even at a price. He had cheated on an Economics 102 exam his sophomore year at Brown University. He had insisted that his then girlfriend, a devout Catholic, abort her accidental pregnancy, although in retrospect he felt certain that she had gotten pregnant to force a marriage proposal anyway. Then there was his baby sister, Rebecca. He couldn’t have known what would happen to her, but it still made him feel guilty.

Clio had to have something.

Miles pressed the intercom on his desk. “Belle, can you come in here?”

“Certainly, Mr. Adler.”

After fourteen years, couldn’t she call him Miles? While he respected the civility upon which Richard had insisted, the old-guard customs in the office increasingly annoyed him. Miles resisted the urge to push the button once again and explain that he didn’t insist on such formalities, but the conversation was futile. She would thank him for his consideration and ignore his instructions. He didn’t need to repeat that exercise.

Moments later his door opened and in stepped Annabelle Cabot, a well-preserved woman in her late fifties wearing a fitted brown tweed skirt, high-necked cream blouse with a gold daisy pinned above her left breast, matching earrings, and suede loafers. Meticulous in her appearance, Belle was a handsome woman. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adler?” Her diction was excellent.

“Belle, does Richard have any information on Clio in his office?”

She looked perplexed. “What kind of information?”

Miles coughed to collect himself. “For Clio’s birthday, Penny and I thought we would throw Clio a surprise party. Lord knows she has had a tough time, especially recently. She could use a good celebration. Anyway, I realized that I don’t know very much about her, her childhood, her background, information that might be helpful to the party planner in developing a theme. I could ask Richard, but as you know, it’s difficult to speak to him on the telephone, and I can hardly ask Clio.”

“Her birthday is not until October.”

“I know,” Miles lied. He should have remembered that Belle had a calendar imprinted on her brain with important dates concerning people relevant to her employers. Clio Pratt’s birthday was one of these. “But we’ve got to get organized now. I had no idea of the preparation involved.”

“I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

“Well, I thought she might be more pleased if we could really make it personal, not just another affair, a stuffy black-tie dance in the ballroom at the Waldorf. So I wanted to see if Richard had any materials I could use.”

Belle wrinkled her forehead, a sign Miles couldn’t read. “Certainly Mr. Pratt has some personal files in his office, but nothing of the sort that might help with your party.”

“I think I should be the judge of that.” Miles regretted the words even as they slipped out. He knew Belle was territorial, a lion protecting her boss-cub from outside interference, but he didn’t like to be second-guessed. He was her senior, in case she had forgotten. “Where are these files?”

“Sir, with all due respect, they are Mr. Pratt’s personal files. I just don’t see how I can give them to you without his permission.”

Miles could practically see her hackles showing through her well-coiffed, professional demeanor. The last thing he meant to do was raise her suspicions. “You know, you’re right. I guess I’ll just have to use my imagination.”

“A good idea.”

Miles put his head down and appeared to study the notepaper in front of him. He hoped Belle could not make out from where she stood the circular scribbles all over it.

“Will that be all?”

“Actually, you could do me one more favor. I need to pick up a little something for Penny. It’s kind of a special day today,” he said, hoping that she would not ask the occasion. “I’m swamped with calls this afternoon. Could you get something for me?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know, something from Tiffany’s. She always likes the blue box.”

“How much would you care to spend?”

“Whatever. Just get something nice.”

Belle nodded. “That’s quite an open-ended instruction.”

“Within reason, then.”

Belle smiled. Miles felt relieved.

“I won’t be needing anything for the immediate future if you care to go now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She turned to leave.

“Belle. Thank you.”

Miles watched her shut the door behind her. He paced the length of his office in slow, deliberate strides as he listened for sounds of her activities. He heard nothing through the bunker-thick walls. He imagined that she was gathering her things, a purse from her desk drawer, a lightweight trench coat from the foyer closet, all the articles that she would need to venture forth on an errand. Perhaps she needed to use the rest room. He calculated the minutes, then carefully opened his office door. Belle had left.

Miles had little time to spare.

He removed the key to Richard’s office from where Belle kept it in the top drawer of her desk. He fitted it into the lock, heard the bolt give, turned the heavy brass knob, and opened the eight-foot mahogany doors into an expanse of space even more magnificent than his own. Situated on the southwest corner of the turn-of-the-century building, it had a panoramic view north of Central Park, west along Central Park South, and south down Fifth Avenue. Richard’s rosewood desk had to be nine feet long, the wood polished to a shiny glow. His chocolate leather chair was worn and crackled on the back, armrests, and seat, the mark of his ghost. Behind the desk was a leather-covered credenza with brass drawer pulls. Silver frames cluttered the top, the picture of Justin on Lake Agawam, a formal portrait of one daughter, it must be Blair, in what looked like a debutante dress with layers and layers of white tulle, another of Frances kneeling beside two dogs, and several of Clio, including a large wedding picture of Richard and his young bride. God, Clio really was beautiful. Her thick black hair cascaded over her smooth shoulders.

To the left of the desk, against the far wall, two club chairs with ottomans and a butler’s table between them settled atop a plush Oriental carpet. The table held a silver monogrammed tray with a cut-crystal decanter partly filled with a light brown liquid and two matching glasses. This corner of the room was where the real work occurred, Richard Pratt at his best selling a deal. Men with small companies or brilliant but unfunded inventions had sat in these chairs, facing Richard, desperate for his money and willing to settle on any terms he pleased. Here was where Richard extracted what Pratt Capital needed, a controlling interest, the right to select the chief executive officer, indemnities and releases that would minimize risk. Then a celebratory drink was offered, a toast to the finalized terms, and a handshake given to the exhausted but relieved pigeon.

Miles scanned the cozy opulence. Where would Richard keep his personal files? The only obvious place was the credenza, kept locked, but Miles easily found the key tucked away behind the wedding picture of Clio. How quaint, Miles let himself think for a moment. The wife holds the key.

The lock popped, exposing drawers filled with files on Aba-core, Blast Off, CranWorks, Dectron, DxPlan, the alphabet of projects that had consumed the last year of Richard’s active working life. Stuffed inside were pages of financials, handwritten edits on legal documents, brochures, notes, insurance policies, lists of key players. Miles flipped faster, snapping at each of the plastic-covered typed labels. Nothing but work, work, and more work, the evidence of Richard’s detail-oriented brain lined up in alphabetical order.

Given more time, Miles might well have perused the contents of these business folders. They interested him, as did the notes and types of information that apparently Richard found relevant enough to keep. Miles could always learn more from the Pratt master, could pick up tips from watching him operate. He made a mental note to do just that at a later date, when each minute was not so precious. Right now Miles feared discovery by Annabelle Cabot.

Moments later he found what he was looking for. Three folders, each slightly more worn than the next, marked “re: Clio Henshaw.” Richard apparently used his wife’s maiden name. Miles noticed with some alarm that his fingers shook ever so slightly as he opened the first folder. Bank statements. Receipts. The financial file. Nothing out of the ordinary for an affluent man on his second wife. A similarly quick glance of the second folder revealed apparent medical information, doctors’ names, insurance receipts. It was the most well-worn folder, the only one in the whole drawer with a handwritten label, that caught Miles’s attention. He tucked it under his jacket, relocked the credenza, and replaced the key behind Clio’s photograph. He pulled the doors shut behind him, returned the office key to Belle’s desk, and retreated into his own sanctuary.

Miles jumped when the telephone rang, the distinct trill of his private line. Only a handful of people knew the number, and of those who did, few used it, preferring instead to leave messages with the efficient and charming Belle, who, Miles now noticed, had still not returned.