Her next call was to Martin Petrie, president of Selections Inc., a head hunter used exclusively by Iacardi for over ten years. She told Petrie she needed a vice president of human resources, a no nonsense individual capable of hiring a lot of good people in a hurry.
“I presume you would like me to move quickly on this,” Petrie said.
“I want to start interviewing yesterday,” Kerri replied.
She moved to her kitchen to prepare a cup of tea, then sat on a stool to wait for the kettle to boil water. She allowed her mind to wander back to a lovely autumn afternoon on the Health Club dock in Muskoka. Her thoughts were of Steve Monteith, that incredibly handsome stranger with intoxicating hazel eyes. Her heart wept for his loss. She wished she could find the time to attend the memorial for his father, to tell him in some way that she understood his pain. There was so much to do, so many demands on her time, yet her heart demanded priority over those concerns.
CHAPTER 10
New York. Tuesday, 9:00 A.M.
Kerri welcomed Peter Tavaris, Walter Deaks, and Billie Dukes to her Tribeca apartment. The atmosphere was tense, as if the four were attending a funeral. Fate had spared the three men, among the most capable in Iacardi’s New York division, and critical to its revival. As she had requested, the dress code was casual. Kerri wore her grey track suit. The men wore sweaters and slacks. She planned not to say anything to provoke an argument with Tavaris. She knew she was not his favorite person, and that he would not be disappointed if she failed. There was no time for arguments. She had an agenda, a mission. If an argument arose over an idea, so be it. That was healthy.
She served coffee, then started the discussion. “From all of the information I’ve been able to gather, gentlemen, it appears certain that the four of us are the only survivors. In other words, we’re all that’s left of Iacardi’s New York division. Everyone else is gone and won’t be back. So from this point forward, we have two choices: one is to quit and go our separate ways, the other is to save the company. If we take the first choice, this meeting is over. If we take the second choice, we’ll have to work harder and smarter than any of us have ever experienced.”
She paused to sip her coffee, then continued. “I’m going to ask each of you what your choice is, but before I do that, I’ll tell you mine. I’ve already made it and acted on it… I chose to fight for survival. I made that choice because I believe in our company. I believe it’s worth saving. Also, I made that choice because a lot of people died for our company, and their families and loved ones are going to need the income our company can provide. I couldn’t live with myself if I made any other choice.”
She turned to Billie Dukes. “Billie, let’s start with you. Before you answer, just know that I won’t disrespect you if you quit. I know it’s a tough decision. There’s no guarantee we’ll make it. We could all end up broke. I’m also aware that you, Walter, and Peter are very experienced, capable, and talented. All of you could find better paying jobs in a heart beat.”
Billie didn’t hesitate. He would follow Kerri to the end of the earth. He couldn’t help himself. From the moment he saw her he wanted her. He tightened his lips and nodded. “I’m in,” he said.
Kerri smiled. “Thanks, Billie. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”
She faced Walter Deaks. “Walter, you’re next.”
He gave her an expressionless stare. “I took the opportunity to review my employment contract last night. My conclusion is that neither I nor my employer have done anything to compromise or breach a single clause of that document. Hence, I am still in the employ of Iacardi and Sons.”
“Thank you, Walter,” she said, then turned to Peter Tavaris. “Peter, the floor is yours.”
Tavaris stroked his stubble and scowled. “You say you’re going to salvage the company. That’s wonderful, but I have some concerns. First of all, I think you’re living in a dream world. What are you going to use for money? Both of the majority shareholders are dead. It was their money that kept the company going. You’re blowin’ smoke if you think their widows are going to pony up any cash. In addition, you’re going to have to deal with the lawyers representing their estates. Those bastards will rip your heart out. Their clients aren’t going to be the slightest bit interested in some etherial promise of a beautiful future, they’re going to want and need cash, as soon as they can get it.”
Kerri resisted an urge to advise Tavaris of the sizable loan she was about to make to the company. She wanted his decision to be made without that knowledge. “So far, you haven’t told me anything I don’t already know. I’m still asking you for a commitment.”
Tavaris realized that Kerri wasn’t about to capitulate. He needed to soften her resolve, so he pressed on. “Almost a week ago, Iacardi & Sons lost three hundred and thirty-eight employees, its office, and all of its New York electronic infrastructure. You and whose army are going to replace that?”
“Peter, I don’t profess to have all of the answers. What I’m asking for is yours.”
“There’s another course of action that you may not have considered,” Tavaris said, convinced it was time to play his ace.
“What’s that?”
“Find a buyer.”
“You’re right. It’s an option. As far as I’m concerned, everything’s on the table. If you, or any of us can find a buyer, or a merger candidate, terrific. We’ll certainly consider it. I should have told you that from this point forward, I want no hard policies, no rules. If any of you have an idea about how to get things done, say it. I don’t care how insane it is, we’ll all consider it. If we all agree with it, we’ll do it… That’s later. This is now. I still don’t have your answer.”
Kerri had opened the door for Tavaris. He had what he needed. “Then let’s get on with this. I’m in,” he said with an evil smile.
Both Tavaris and Deaks left Kerri’s apartment together. Billie stayed. It was a glorious opportunity. Kerri was vulnerable and alone. “You mind if I have another coffee?” he asked. “There’s something I want to say to you.”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
Billie poured himself another coffee, then approached Kerri, his eyes fixed on hers. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m there for you. If there’s anything, I mean anything you want me to do, just name it.”
Kerri smiled. “Thanks, Billie. I really appreciate that.”
“What are your plans for dinner tonight?”
“None. I don’t have any,” Kerri replied, aware that Billie was hitting on her. She had no interest in having dinner with him, but was unwilling to lie to thwart his invitation. She had to admit that his dark brown eyes appealed to her, and that she was lonely, but that was all there was. Anything more than a business relationship with Billie Dukes was out of the question. Even if there was a question, now was the wrong time.
“Then join me. I’ll pick you up here at seven. Please don’t say ‘no.’”
With a lie as her only alternative, she reluctantly agreed. “I can be talked into a pizza, but let’s dress down.”
CHAPTER 11
New York, Tuesday, 7:00 P.M.
Kerri, dressed in jeans and a white turtle-neck sweater, climbed into Billie Dukes’ yellow Porche. They headed for Angelo’s on Mulberry Street.
By mutual agreement, they shared the sixteen inch veggie pizza special. Double cheese. Over Kerri’s mild protest, Billie ordered a liter of the house merlot. The conversation, focused on the company, commodity markets, and memories, continued until the pizza was devoured.
Billie slurped the remains of his third glass of wine, then changed the subject. “Do you trust Peter Tavaris?” he asked.
“He hasn’t given me any reason to mistrust him. Why?”
“Peter, Walter and I were drinking at the Threadneedles Hotel last Tuesday, the big day. Everything got cancelled as soon as the news hit London, so we head
ed over there. Tavaris was really shaken up. The news hit him real hard. I’m not saying that Walter and I weren’t freaked out, because we were, but not even close to Peter… So he starts drinking martinis like they’re water, then he starts bitching and belly-aching about everything. Next he starts talking about you. He says you’re just a kid, and that you don’t know shit about running a company. He keeps on inhaling martinis and pissing and moaning about how his whole career went down with the World Trade Center. Then he says he should be president of Iacardi, not you.”
Kerri had known for some time that Tavaris didn’t like her, but was surprised to learn that he wanted to be president. She was also surprised that Dukes would share this information with her. “I appreciate you telling me that, Billie. Why are you doing it?”
“Because I think he’s giving you a bum rap, and because I think if he has a problem with you, he should tell you to your face… That’s not all he said. Here’s the biggie. He said he hoped everybody except you got out of the South Tower before it collapsed. Then he added that if you did get out, he was going to make sure you wished you didn’t.”
Billie’s revelation unnerved Kerri. In her quest to resuscitate Iacardi, she needed all the help she could get. The last thing she needed was a bad apple like Tavaris. Now she would have to deal with the constant preoccupation of looking over her shoulder. “That’s bad news,” she said. “Did he say anything else?”
Billie nodded. “He said he was going to do whatever it takes to get something on you. I guess he wants to dig up some dirt to use against you.”
“What would you suggest I do about him?”
“Nothing. If you do anything, he’ll know I told you. Then I’ve got big problems.”
“Then do me a favor. Keep your eyes on him and tell me what he’s doing.”
“You’ve got it. I told you I’m there for you.”
The two finished their pizza and wine, then headed for Kerri’s apartment. Billie was happy. In his mind he had maneuvered himself into Kerri’s heart at a time when she was lonely and vulnerable. The time was right to make his move. It was now or never.
He parked as close as possible to her building, then turned to face her. “Thanks for joining me,” he said, displaying his well rehearsed come hither smile. “I just had pizza with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Kerri’s internal defenses flashed a warning. They told her that Billie wanted more than pleasant company. She smiled as warmly as she could. “Thanks, Billie. I enjoyed the evening and your company.”
He leaned to his right, attempting to kiss her, but she turned her head just enough to allow his lips to graze her cheek.
Undaunted, he used both of his arms to grasp her and pull her close to his upper body and force her to accept a very passionate kiss, something she had not had for a very long time. For one brief ecstatic moment she enjoyed what was happening, then everything changed. Summoning all of her strength, she managed to struggle free of his arms. “Please don’t, Billie. I can’t do this,” she said, relieved to be free, but hating herself for rejecting him.
“Come on, Kerri. I know you want me,” he pleaded.
She opened her door, exited quickly, then stooped to face him. “I’m sorry, Billie. I don’t want you, not in that way. Please understand that all we can ever be is friends. Thank you again for a very enjoyable evening.” She closed the door and headed for her building.
Billie jerked his gear shift into Drive, then slammed his foot on the accelerator, causing the rear wheels to screech in agony against the pavement. “Fucking bitch!” he muttered. “I’ll fix her ass!” He lifted his cell phone from his pocket and speed dialed Peter Tavaris. No answer. He left a message. “Hey, Peter. It’s Billie. Just took the bitch out for dinner tonight. She treated me like a piece of shit. If you need any help making her life miserable, let me know.”
CHAPTER 12
Toronto, Wednesday. 3:00 P.M.
The memorial service for Peter Monteith was held at Grace Church on the Hill, a stately old grey stone edifice on Lonsdale Road in the upscale Forest Hills area of the city. Cool damp weather was in sync with the mood of all who attended.
Mike, Karen and Kerri King, all dressed in black and seated on the aisle close to the rear of the congregation, watched in sadness as Peter’s widow, also in black, head down and covered with a black hat and veil, was escorted to the front row by her son Steve. Under the veil and black dress was an extremely attractive woman, Alberta’s candidate for Miss Canada in her early twenties. From the day she agreed to marry him, Peter Monteith had considered himself unworthy.
Thirty-five years of age, born and raised in Thornhill, a Toronto suburb, Steve was the eldest of three sons of Peter and Helen Monteith. Much of his happy life was spent as the son of upper middle class parents. That status changed when his father became president of Seismic Oil, one of the most successful oil and gas exploration companies in the world. Armed with a degree in civil engineering from the university of Toronto and an M.B.A. from The University of Western Ontario, Steve accepted a lucrative job offer as construction manager with Paracon S.A., a very large and well respected international construction company. Following years of interesting, but less than satisfying work in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Brazil, Korea, and Vietnam, he lost interest. It hit him like a thunderbolt. He saw a world going to hell in a hand basket, awash in debt, pollution, and corruption. To the surprise of his employers and everyone who knew him, he resigned, packed his bags, and spent the following two years circling the globe, searching for answers, attempting to understand his disenchantment. Escaping the claws of glitz, hype, dishonesty, and insincerity was only part of the equation, the part he knew. What he didn’t know was where he belonged. The experience was therapeutic, instilling in him a deep and abiding passion for solitude, obscurity and tranquility.
He returned to Canada in 1996, bought a modest lakeside home near Port Carling, Ontario, and started his own construction company: Monteith Homes. He was singularly blessed with striking good looks, intelligence, and the physique of a decathlete. He was everyone’s favorite to make it anywhere he wanted to go. There were girls in his life, but until he met Christine, none had made the cut. Until then, he had been too busy to commit to a deeper relationship. Sure, marriage and kids had always been within his contemplation, but that would be later. Aside from work, his only other passion was coaching. With ruthless precision he carved sufficient time from his business schedule to coach boys baseball, soccer and hockey teams in his beloved Port Carling.
Still holding his mother’s arm, he helped her lower herself into a seat beside Christine Stewart. Thirty-two years of age and very attractive, Christine, a brunette with a smile qualifying for an orthodontist’s dream, personified the cream of Toronto’s elite. Born with a platinum spoon in her mouth, she had been chauffeured to and from Branksome Hall, a Toronto private school for the daughters of wealth, from K to thirteen. Following a full ticket, summer long holiday in Europe, she was flown, first class, to Wellesley for an undergraduate degree. She returned to Toronto in 1995 carrying a law degree from Harvard. A very competitive and ambitious woman, she was now working obscene hours and fighting to become a full partner in Anderson, McPherson and White, one of the city’s most prestigious law firms. To enhance her status, she hurried to join the clubs only wealth could afford, and would accept. She had rejected too many marriage offers to count.
Sitting beside Christine was Jamie Stewart, her father. With mansions in Toronto, Florida, and Muskoka, he came into wealth the old fashioned way: he inherited it. Helen Stewart, her mother and fugitive from Jamie’s outrageous lifestyle, lived in luxurious exile in the south of France with nothing but bad memories and a generous settlement. Christine’s late grandfather, also a Torontonian, had spearheaded the family wealth. He had a very large interest in the Canadian Copper Company when it made a gigantic copper/nickel discovery near Sudbury, On
tario. The company was renamed INCO, or International Nickel Company, in 1903. In 1928 it became a Dow component. He held, and the rest became history. His wife, Jamie’s mother, passed away in 1967, two years after her husband’s death. With the passing of his parents, obscene wealth had accrued to Jamie, their only child.
A dilettante from birth, Jamie still looked and played the part. He was still a very good looking man. His once long wavy black hair had turned grey, but he kept it neat and well groomed. His sharp facial features and large brown eyes were enhanced by a perpetual tan, the result of frequent trips to his Florida home. As with most men in their early sixties, gravity and lack of exercise had taken their toll on his body. Twice divorced, he had given up on any thought of marrying again, but vowed to go to his death with Vicky Anschutz, a former European bar fly, and a woman he affectionately referred to as his ‘squeeze du jour’. He had warned her that his vow was valid for so long as she never, ever asked him to marry.
He had flunked or been kicked out of the best private schools that money could buy. Undaunted, he spent the next segment of his life wasting money, throwing lavish parties, drinking excessively, and traveling in style to almost every country on the planet. For him, work was what other people do. “It takes too much time,” he told his friends. In spite of everything allegedly negative about the man, everyone loved him. He had an enormous sense of humor and a generosity second to none. His outrageous lifestyle was the primary reason he had burned through two wives, yet women were still attracted to him like moths to a flame. To enhance his daughter’s engagement to Steve Monteith, he loaned five million dollars to Monteith Homes Ltd., his future son in law’s company, to assist in the construction of a model cottage on Lake Joseph, one of the three largest lakes in Muskoka. To punctuate the gesture, he told Steve that as a wedding gift he would forgive the loan. With a chuckle, he added that he would call the loan if the marriage, for whatever reason, failed to materialize. The loan was secured by a first collateral mortgage on the cottage and property. The put and call feature was indeed a clause in the mortgage, a blue-cornered copy of which nestled comfortably in Jamie’s wall safe.