“Can we figure what he made on the sale?”
“We can take a run at it,” Ridley said.
They found that on the day Marshall filed Schedule 13D with the SEC, Converse stock closed at fifty-nine dollars a share after hovering right around that figure for the entire week, a pretty reliable barometer that the price Marshall paid was in that ballpark. The purchase price would have been $2.95 million. On April 17th, it opened at seventy-nine and a quarter. If all 50,000 shares sold for two and a quarter points under the opening, at seventy-seven dollars, Marshall would have reaped $3.85 million—a $900,000 profit.
“Less broker commissions on the buy and sell,” Ridley cautioned.
“It was still a handsome profit, George,” Pace said. “And he’d been collecting dividends all those years, probably more than enough to offset broker charges.”
What Pace didn’t add was the thought that $3.85 million would finance a dandy cover-up.
45
In his office, alone by his own order, Harold Marshall rubbed his temples. The dizziness returned in waves.
He knew the Democratic members of the Ethics Committee had voted to hold formal hearings on his conduct and thought they could get at least one Republican to go along. If that weren’t the case last night, it surely would be this morning after everyone in Washington read the Chronicle story detailing the enormity of his holdings in Converse and his profits from the stock sale on the day of the ConPac accident. How Steve Pace had pieced together the details was beyond him. Although the reporter’s figures weren’t exactly correct; they erred on the conservative side.
Well, fuck Pace. Fuck ’em all. They didn’t know what he used the money for, and they’d never find out.
If only the dizzy spells would go away, and he could concentrate…
In the Chronicle newsroom, Pace was accepting congratulations.
“Yowser. I’d probably kill a few people for somebody who handed me nearly four million dollars,” Glenn Brennan said. “Far be it from me to suggest how a superstar should pursue this story, but I wonder where a hick lawyer like Marshall got the millions it cost him to invest in Converse in the first place. He inherit money?”
“I don’t think so,” Pace said with a frown. “That’s a pivotal question.” Brennan leaned in close to Pace in a conspiratorial way. “What if Converse paid him off for arranging those tax concessions on the move to Ohio? They lay a cool three mil in his hands. He is overcome with gratitude and turns around and invests the whole wad in the company.”
Pace picked up the thread of the thought. “And when the company needed somebody to finance a cover-up, he cashed in the stock and had nearly four mil at his disposal.” Brennan was nodding. “Actually, that occurred to me yesterday,” Pace said. “Suspecting it and proving it are vastly different things.”
“I’d give a week’s pay to be a fly on the wall in Hugh Green’s private office today,” Brennan said. “I bet he’s got some interesting ideas where to take this. And speaking of Green, here comes Jill. What’s the poop from the ethics front, kiddo?”
“I haven’t talked to anybody yet,” Hughes said. “Uh, Steve, you suppose you could give me a little help with this thing?”
“Sure, if I can. What do you need?”
“There’s a report around, unsubstantiated, that committee Democrats met yesterday and voted to proceed with the Marshall investigation, assuming, of course, they can get a Republican to go along. Given today’s story, I think they’ve probably got a shot. Could you, uh, you know, call Hugh Green and ask him about it?” Hughes continued. “He’d talk to you. You’ve got kind of a special relationship.”
Pace was annoyed that Hughes would ask. “Hugh and I don’t have a special relationship,” he said, keeping his voice unemotional. “Hugh’s administrative assistant and I have a special relationship. That’s different. And I won’t trade on it.”
“Don’t you think he’d understand, given the circumstances and all?”
“He might understand it, but I’m not sure Kathy would. Aren’t there any options?”
”I’ve got calls in to the other Democrats, but they’re not returning them.”
“How about the Republicans? They’ll know if an investigation’s in the works. Green’s probably talked to them by now.”
“I know. I’ll try. I thought Hugh Green would be a shortcut.”
“Maybe, but the cost would be too high,” Pace said. “I can’t risk it. Besides, I’m not sure about the ethics of it.”
“Okay, I understand. I’ll keep after it the old-fashioned way.”
“Thanks for understanding, Jill.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“No reason to be. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“So am I. This could be a problem for us down the road.”
“I hope not,” Pace said. And he meant it.
Pace intended to talk to Kathy about the incident with Jill Hughes. He wanted her to know it happened and how he reacted. He wanted her to believe that he wouldn’t let a big story—he wouldn’t let anything ever again—jeopardize their relationship.
But he didn’t quite get around to mentioning it.
When Kathy knocked on the apartment door shortly after seven, he had been waiting and on edge for nearly an hour. When he heard her, his heart skipped.
“Why didn’t you use your key?” was all he could think to ask her. It was a dopey question from a man who felt dopey and dizzy and very much in love.
“I didn’t think it would be appropriate, at least not this time,” she answered.
“You look wonderful,” he said, feeling like a schoolboy seeing his first prom date.
“So do you,” she replied. “It feels like it’s been a long time.”
“It has.”
“Are you going to ask me in?”
“Is begging okay?”
“Begging is good.”
They embraced as though they wanted to meld their bodies, which, if the truth be known, was exactly what they intended to do. But they progressed as tentatively as two kids on a first date. He asked her about her family. She asked him about his job. It was stiff. But halfway through the first glass of wine, they made eye contact and began to laugh.
“Why don’t we have dessert?” Pace suggested.
“Just what I’m hungry for,” Kathy agreed.
Had they been younger, they might have ripped each other’s clothes off there in the quiet familiarity of his bedroom. But as adults, they relished the preparations. She took off her blouse. He helped her take off her bra and bent to caress her breasts with his mouth. She nuzzled his neck and undid his belt and his pants. She slid her hands beneath his briefs and teased him there, and he lifted her skirt and did the same for her.
“Oh, God, Steve, let’s go to bed,” she said.
The first time, it was quick for both of them. The second time, they made a project of it, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands and their mouths, relishing the renewal of desire. The second time, it was long, and it was loving, and when it was over, Pace laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
He caught his breath. “When I won the Pulitzer Prize, I remember I told somebody it was better than an orgasm. But now I think I overstated it.”