“Pleasure to meet you, Cassie,” Scott said. “And this is Randall Enright.” He paused. “Randall’s just helping me understand some of the legal aspects of financial restructuring. Boring technical stuff. Unless you’re me, of course, in which case it’s like Conan the Barbarian with spreadsheets.”
“Nice to meet you, Randall,” said Nick.
“Pleased to meet you,” the tall man said pleasantly. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, and he put his glasses in his breast pocket before shaking hands.
“We get that contract with the Fisher Group analyzed?” Nick said.
“Not sure that’s something we want to rush into, actually,” said Scott.
“Sooner the better, I’d say.”
“Well,” said Scott, fidgeting with a lock of hair above his left ear, glancing away. “You’re the boss.”
“Enjoy Fenwick,” Cassie said to the lawyer. “When are you heading back to Chicago?”
The tall man exchanged a glance with Scott. “Not until tomorrow,” he said.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Nick said, with a hint of dismissal.
Soon, heavy white plates arrived with their steaks, each accompanied by a scoop of pureed spinach and a potato. Nick looked at Cassie. “How did you know he was heading back to Chicago?”
“The Hart Schaffner and Marx label inside his jacket. The obvious fact that he’s got to be some sort of hot-shot lawyer if he’s having a working dinner with your CFO.” She saw the question in his eyes and said, “He put his glasses away because they were reading glasses. And they hadn’t been given their menus yet. We’re definitely looking at a working dinner.”
“I see.”
“And Scott wasn’t happy about introducing him. He did it strategically, but the fact is, he chose to have dinner here for the same reason you did. Because it’s a perfectly okay place where you don’t expect to see anyone you know.”
Nick grinned, unable to deny it.
“And then there’s the ‘You’re the boss’ stuff. Resent-o-rama. A line like that always comes with an asterisk. ‘You’re the boss.’ Asterisk says, ‘For now.’”
“You’re being a little melodramatic. Don’t you think you might be over-interpreting?”
“Don’t you think you might not be seeing what’s right in front of your face?”
“You may have a point,” Nick admitted. He told her about Scott’s secret trip to China, the way he tried to cover it up with a lie about going to a dude ranch in Arizona.
“There you go,” she said with a shrug. “He’s fucking with you.”
“Sure seems that way.”
“But you like him, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, I did. He’s funny, he’s a whiz with numbers. We’re friends.”
“That’s your problem-it’s blinding you. Your alleged ‘friendship’ with Scott didn’t exactly keep him from stabbing you in the back, did it?”
“True.”
“He’s not scared of you.”
“Should he be?”
“Most definitely. Scared of you, not of what’s-his-name, the Yale guy from Boston.”
“Todd Muldaur. Todd’s really calling the shots, and Scott knows it. Truth is, I’m surprised by him. I brought him in here, I would have expected a modicum of loyalty.”
“You’re a problem for Scott. A speed bump. An impediment. He’s decided you’re part of the problem, not part of the solution. His deal is all about Scott Incorporated.”
“I’m not sure you’re right, there-there’s actually nothing greedy or materialistic about him.”
“People like Scott McNally-it’s not about making a life, or attaining a certain level of comfort. You told me he wears the same shirts he’s probably worn since he was a student, right?”
“So whatever he’s about, it’s not exactly money. I get it.”
“Wrong. You don’t get it. He’s a type. People like him don’t care about enjoying the things money can buy. They’re not into rare Bordeaux or Lamborghini muscle cars. At the same time, they’re incredibly competitive. And here’s the thing. Money is how they keep score.”
Nick thought about Michael Milken, Sam Walton, those other billionaire-next-door types. They lived in little split-level ranch houses and were completely fixated on adding to their Scrooge McDuck vaults, day after day. He remembered hearing about how Warren Buffett lived like a miser in the same little suburban house in Omaha he bought for thirty thousand bucks in 1958. He thought about Scott’s nothing-special house and how much money he had. Maybe she was right.
“Scott McNally has his mind on winning this round, so he can play in the big-stakes games,” Cassie went on.
“They teach this after the lotus position or before?”
“Okay, then let me just ask you this. What do you think Scott McNally wants to be when he grows up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he want to be selling chairs and filing cabinets, or does he want to be a financial engineer at Fairfield Partners? Which is more his style?”
“Point taken.”
“In which case, it’s fair to ask yourself, who’s he really working for?”
Nick gave a crooked smile.
She stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
Nick watched as she made her way to the ladies’ room, admiring the curve of her butt. She wasn’t there long. On her way back, she walked past Scott’s table, and stopped there briefly. She said something to the lawyer, then sat down next to him for a moment. She was laughing, as if he’d said something witty. A few moments later, he saw the lawyer hand her something. Cassie was laughing again as she stood up and returned to her seat.
“What was that about?” Nick asked.
Cassie handed him the lawyer’s business card. “Just check him out, okay?”
“That was quick work.” Nick glanced at the card and read, “Abbotsford Gruendig.”
“Just being neighborly,” Cassie said.
“By the way, I can see what’s in front of my face,” Nick said. “You’re in front of my face. I see you quite well, and I like what I see.”
“But as I said, we don’t see things as they are. We see things as we are.”
“Does the same go for you?”
“Goes for all of us. We lie to ourselves because it’s the only way we can get through the day. Time comes, though, when the lies get tired and quit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cassie looked at him steadily, searchingly. “Tell me the truth, Nick. What’s the real reason the police were at your house?”
76
For a moment, he was at a loss for words.
He hadn’t told her about the police searching the house and yard, which was a pretty damn huge thing not to have told her about. Especially given the connection to her father. Both Lucas and Julia knew the police had been searching for traces of Andrew Stadler. They just didn’t know the real reason.
“Lucas told you,” Nick said neutrally. He tried to keep his pulse steady, his breathing regular. He took a forkful of steak for which he had no appetite.
“It freaked him out.”
“Yeah, well, he seemed to think it was a hoot. Cassie, I should have said something to you about it, but I knew how it would upset you. I didn’t want to bring up your dad-”
“I understand,” she said. “I understand. And I appreciate it.” She was toying with a spoon. “They actually think my father was the stalker?”
“It’s just one possibility,” Nick said. “I think they’re really groping.” He swallowed hard. “Hell, they probably even wonder if I had something to do with it.” The last words came out in a rush, not the way he had heard himself say it in his mind.
“With his death,” Cassie said carefully.
Nick grunted.
“And is it possible that you did?”
Nick couldn’t speak right away. He didn’t look at her, couldn’t. “What do you mean?”