I find Simmons in his office, tapping away on his laptop, and Parker in the men’s room. Don’t worry, I didn’t go in there to retrieve him. I just knocked on the door and told him to shake a leg, or whatever body part was applicable, and hightail it into Josh’s office. Our team strategy session goes smoothly, and I feel well-prepared and rarin’ to go when the four of us file into the conference room an hour later.
We’re joined by our client, J.B. Stanfield, the CEO of Stanfield Hotel Group, a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man with a headful of salt-and-pepper hair who exudes power and confidence just as a person who runs a billion-dollar international corporation should. His Chief Counsel, CFO, and a trio of assistants encircle him like pilot fish swimming alongside a massive shark, except that Mr. Stanfield is about as unsharklike as any executive I’ve ever met. I’ve had dealings with him several times over the past year, and he’s always been very affable. Even now, as he takes his seat on the other side of the conference table, he gives me a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and says, “I hope you enjoyed your trip down to Barbados, Sloane.”
“It was very illuminating.”
“You refer to your investigation, not the tropical sun,” he surmises.
With a smirk, I hold up my hands, which are still as white as a baby’s behind despite their recent stay in the Lesser Antilles. “Clearly, I wasn’t lying on the beach, working on my tan, this trip.” My Casper-like glow actually compelled Josh to tease me about being too dedicated to my job. He threatened to start sending me to places like Fargo and Little Rock because he said I wouldn’t notice the difference between those and a Caribbean island. He’s probably right.
“It’s time for us to video conference with Harry and Michael Falgate,” Josh announces, and he signals his assistant who’s in charge of working the equipment.
The Falgate brothers are the co-owners of Ginger Lily Resort and Spa, a beautiful property with eighty-four rooms, suites, and cottages located on eleven acres of verdant land on the west coast of Barbados that Mr. Stanfield’s company is interested in acquiring. Four faces pop up on the hi-def widescreen; the brothers are in the center and I assume the men on either side of them are their attorneys. My assumption is proven correct when introductions are made.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Jonas Gilchrist, the lawyer with the receding hairline, says. Actually, all four of the men onscreen have receding hairlines; it’s just that Mr. Gilchrist’s is the most obvious because his never-ending forehead is beaded with droplets of sweat, which seem to be reflecting off the lens of the video camera. Hi-def really is unforgiving. I bet I look like I have crazy bug eyes on their end. I think about taking off my glasses, but then I wouldn’t be able to read anything, and that would hamper my performance at this meeting. So, I decide to sacrifice vanity for expediency.
“The offer on the table from Stanfield Hotel Group is $23.6 million,” Mr. Gilchrist states. “The Falgate brothers are prepared to accept this offer if we can finalize the deal before close of business here in Barbados today.”
“Why the rush?” Mr. Stanfield asks, eying the video screen with curiosity.
Mr. Gilchrist starts to reply, but Michael Falgate interrupts. “We’ve been twiddling our thumbs for a fortnight while you’ve had your ledger luvvies reviewing the resort’s financials,” he says, in a clipped British accent. I make a mental note of the term ‘ledger luvvy.’ I rather like it. Maybe I’ll form an all-accountant girl group and use that name for the band.
“We’re sick of being stuck in this limbo,” Michael continues. “We want to move forward with the sale of the Ginger Lily.”
“That’s right,” his brother chimes in, sounding just as snooty and annoyed. “And there are other interested parties, you know. Our resort is a very hot property. You’ll regret it if you miss out on this incredible business opportunity.”
“Gentlemen, I have no intention of missing out on this deal, and my offer will stand as long as I like what I hear from my forensic accounting team.” Stanfield gestures across the table at Josh, who’s sitting next to me, and the video camera pans toward us. I sit up straighter in my chair and push my glasses up my nose, signaling that I’m very serious about the task at hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanfield.” Josh dips his head ever-so-slightly in deference to our client. “As per your request, my team has conducted a thorough investigation into the financial operations of Ginger Lily Resort and Spa. We collected and analyzed all the pertinent data and have identified a few key issues–”
“Key issues?” Michael Falgate snaps irritably. “What soddin’–”
“Mr. Falgate, please.” His attorney gives him a quelling look. “This is all part of the process. Let Mr. Finley continue.”
The younger Falgate glowers, but keeps his mouth shut.
“As I was saying,” Josh speaks in a stern tone usually reserved for parents reprimanding a naughty child, “although everything seemed to be in order with the documentation provided to us by the sellers of the property. There was something that caught the eye of one of our Senior Associates. I’ll hand off the ball to Ms. Tobin so that she can explain.” Josh cedes the floor to me while discreetly sliding a blue post-it in my direction. I accept the note in an equally inconspicuous manner, being sure to cover the scrap of paper with my palm as I bring it close enough to read. Looking down, I see three words scribbled on the post-it: “Sic ‘em, Tiger”
A surge of adrenaline shoots through my body, and my heart starts to thump excitedly. Words cannot accurately describe how much I enjoy this part of my job. Laying the smack down on some corporate slimeball, or slimeballs plural in this case, who thinks he’s pulled a fast one and is going to get away with it makes me very, very happy. Like beating out mean girl Amanda Perkins for class valedictorian by just one-tenth of a percentage point happy. Suck it, Mandy!
“In my review of the records relating to the recent construction of the Ginger Lily’s luxury spa–,” I begin.
“That spa has doubled the worth of the property,” interjects Harry Falgate. “It’s state-of-the-art with a hydro-pool, oxygen inhalation lounge, and rainfall showers. We’re the only spa on the island that has an aromatherapy crystal steam chamber.”
“I’m well aware of the features of your spa, Mr. Falgate, and I can attest to the, uh, unique nature of the Ginger Lily’s steam chamber, having experienced it firsthand.” And thirty minutes of sitting in a black room, watching fiber-optic lights on the ceiling change color while choking on eucalyptus fumes, is not an experience I care to repeat any time soon. It felt like I was in the programming room of some cult that worshipped the white quartz crystal sitting atop a glowing pedestal in the middle of the space. Embrace the crystal, love the crystal, let it bathe you with its positive, healing energy. The only thing that had been bathing me in that room of weirdness was my own sweat.
“You were here?” Harry’s voice squeaks with surprise on the last word, and he exchanges a worried look with his brother.
That’s right, boys. Time to panic, because I’m about to expose your duplicity to everyone in this conference room. Well, everyone who doesn’t already know about it anyway, so basically Mr. Stanfield and his entourage. I wonder if the Falgates’ lawyers are in on this?
“Yes, I spent three days at the Ginger Lily last week. I thought I needed to do a little on-site investigation after I found an anomaly in your documentation of the spa project.”
“What anomaly? There was no anomaly!” Michael Falgate insists. “We gave you all of our records, and those numbers add up. Also, our projections for how much money the spa will earn in the coming quarter were conservative.”
“I have no quarrel with your projections, Mr. Falgate, but I do challenge your assertion that you shared all your spa-related financial records with us. In fact, I can prove that you didn’t. When I was reviewing the invoices submitted to you by L and L Construction, the contractor responsible for the spa project, I noticed tha
t the final one was stamped ‘PAID IN FULL’ on February 7th of this year.”
“Yeah, so?” Michael queries belligerently. “That’s when the project was completed.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then why did you push the spa’s Grand Opening from February 12th to March 20th? That’s a significant amount of lag time between the completion of construction and the spa being put to use. By my calculations, almost a million dollars in revenue was lost over a five-week period while your state-of-the-art spa just sat there, empty.”
“It sat there because . . . because . . .,” Michael Falgate sputters, his face turning an indignant shade of red. He’s on the ropes now and he knows it.
“Those extra weeks were needed in order for us to put some finishing touches on the spa,” Harry steps in to try and salvage things. “My brother and I are perfectionists, you see. We wanted everything to be just right when we opened the doors to the Ginger Lily Spa, so that our reviews would be stellar and they have been. We received the highest possible rating from Condé Nast Traveler, Frommers, and Spa Magazine.”
“Which is very nice, but beside the point, Mr. Falgate.” I have to give him credit for trying, though. He’s clearly the brains of this family operation. I have no idea what Michael is; certainly not the personality. Ironic that a man as wholly unpleasant as he is would end up in the hospitality industry.
“Our client needs to be in possession of all the facts before he makes a final offer on your property, and since neither you, nor your brother, have been forthcoming in regard to the difficulties you ran into and the debt you incurred during the construction phase of the spa, it behooves me to clarify things.”
Shifting my eyes from the video screen to the client on the other side of the table, I say, “Mr. Stanfield, the reason why the Ginger Lily Spa did not open on schedule was because it was under a foot of water. The piping for the rainfall showers was defective and the first time the showers were turned on, several pipes burst and there was massive flooding that damaged most of the spa equipment, furniture, and flooring.”
“Bloody hell!” Michael Falgate explodes. “How did you know that?”
“It’s amazing how chatty facialists and masseuses can be when they’re giving treatments,” I enlighten him. “Your staff was a veritable font of information. When I was told that you and your brother fired L and L Construction and brought in a second contractor to install new piping and repair all the water damage, I did some research and found that Windward Builders did that work for you, and they are owed a substantial amount of money.”
I pass one of my folders across the conference room table to Mr. Stanfield. “You’ll find invoices for labor, materials, and equipment, totaling $463,472.14, in there. The Falgate brothers agreed to pay all those bills in ninety days, but have yet to remit a single payment. That term ends two days from now, after which time the Ginger Lily will be in default and that unpaid balance will be subject to penalties. Should Stanfield Hotel Group assume ownership of the resort, this debt will then become your company’s responsibility.”
Mr. Stanfield takes a cursory look at the paperwork I gave him, then hands it to his Chief Counsel. “Gentleman,” he addresses the Falgate brothers who have both gone uncharacteristically quiet, probably because they’ve exhausted their supply of fraud-concealing excuses, “it seems you didn’t quite grasp the concept of transparency. I am willing to overlook your lapse in judgment in the interest of keeping this deal alive. However, please make note that my offer for the Ginger Lily has now dropped . . . to $22 million.”
I hear a sharp intake of breath coming from Harry Falgate. I’m not sure if he’s shocked at the loss of $1.6 million dollars or that Mr. Stanfield still wants to buy the property after all of his and his brother’s machinations.
“This is bollocks!” Michael curses. “We owe Windward less than 500K, so why the devil would you knock a million-and-a-half off your offer?”
Stanfield smiles. “I place a high value on honesty and ethical business practices, Mr. Falgate. Your lies cost you that extra million. Be grateful I didn’t retract my offer altogether. We all know that your ‘other interested parties’ are entirely fictional.”
Having one more bombshell to drop, I announce, “Before you finalize this deal, Mr. Stanfield, there is another issue you should be aware of. While I was in Barbados, I heard several of the spa’s employees complain that their paychecks had bounced. I rechecked the Ginger Lily’s bank records and discovered that several large cash withdrawals were made by Michael Falgate last week.”
“For what purpose?” Mr. Stanfield wonders.
“That remains a mystery as I was unable to tie the withdrawals to any hotel expenditures. Perhaps Mr. Falgate kept receipts of his losses at the racetrack last week. Those might shed some light on the matter. I can place him at The Garrison Savannah on each of the days he made a withdrawal from the company account.”
“Now she’s sticking her nose in my personal business along with the hotel’s? Would somebody shut this bitch up already?” Michael rages.
Mr. Stanfield narrows his eyes and purses his lips, a clear sign that his patience with the Falgate brothers is running out. “Your offensive language and disrespectful treatment of a person who’s doing her job as directed by me just cost you another million, Mr. Falgate. Keep spewing your venom, and I’ll reduce my offer to an even twenty.”
Although I appreciate Mr. Stanfield rushing to my defense, it’s really not necessary. I always consider it to be a good day at work when someone calls me a “bitch.” It’s not like I got into forensic accounting to make friends, just to uncover the truth and make sure my clients aren’t being taken advantage of. Mission accomplished this morning.
“No, no, he’s not going to say another word,” Harry Falgate assures Mr. Stanfield while glaring at his hotheaded brother. “We accept your very generous offer of $21 million. Our lawyers will get the contract to your team later today. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” The video screen abruptly goes black, signaling the termination of the transmission.
Everyone at the conference table rises from their seats and prepares to take their leave. As I’m moving toward the door, I feel a hand on my elbow and gaze up to see Mr. Stanfield. “You just saved me $2.6 million dollars, Sloane. I continue to be impressed by your shrewdness and attention to detail. If you ever want to apply your talents to a position over at SHG, there’s always a spot for you.”
A job offer from the CEO of a Fortune 500 company? Nice, and I’m truly flattered that Mr. Stanfield thinks enough of my work to ask me to join his team. But starting at the bottom of another company’s pecking order at this stage of my career? Eh, not really interested. I’ve invested four years in ATM, and I’m on track to being partner one day. My superiors love me, and I get assigned some of the most challenging, high profile cases at the firm. What I enjoy most about my current position is the variety, getting to work with new clients and tackle new projects every few weeks. There is never a dull moment at ATM! I’m afraid I wouldn’t get that sort of intellectual stimulation over at Stanfield Hotel Group; it would just be the same old, same old every day.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Stanfield, but I’m happy here at Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister . . . for now.” With a smile, I offer him my hand, and he gives it a hearty shake.
“Until the next time we work together.”
“I look forward to it,” I say and I’m not just feeding him a line. I wish all my clients were as easy to deal with as Mr. Stanfield. He gives me a parting smile before leaving the conference room with his staff, and I take a moment to savor the feeling of having my professional skills appreciated.
“Stanfield’s not trying to steal you away from us, is he?” I hear Josh’s voice coming from behind me.
Turning to face him, I say with mock seriousness, “Oh, that was just one of many fabulous job opportunities that have already been offered to me today. I’m in great demand, you know.”
“I see
.” Josh taps his index finger against his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe we should discuss incentives for you to stay at ATM over lunch. Are you free at twelve-thirty?”
“Works for me.”
“Me, too!” says Parker who pops up out of nowhere, like one of those obnoxious internet ads that encourages me to get a free colonic or enroll in clown college when all I want to do is buy a six-month supply of toothpaste and tampons.
“I love team lunches. Where are we going? The Italian place down the street, I hope. Their manicotti is the best!”
Josh frowns at Parker. “If you’re planning on leaving the office for lunch, I assume you’ve completed that analysis on Kemp and Company’s deposit and credit card spreads for me?” Ha! Not likely. Parker is probably still trying to figure out how to do a spread.
My junior colleague smacks his lips a few times as if his mouth has suddenly gone dry. “Uh, no, I’m still double-checking the figures and I wanted to– Maybe I should just eat at my desk today.”
“Good idea. Love the commitment!” Josh gives him an approving clap on the shoulder. “Sloane, see you at twelve-thirty. Bring your appetite.”
Chapter 4
(Sloane)
“You were amazing in that meeting this morning. So focused, so composed, so dominating.”
“Mmmm, go on,” I encourage Josh, wrapping my long legs around his waist as he continues to thrust into me. I’m not sure what I’m enjoying more – the sex or the rave review of my work performance.
“I loved the way . . . you dragged out . . . the big reveal,” he pants, his lips poised right above mine, “letting the Falgates dig themselves in deeper and deeper.” Capturing my mouth with his, he plunges his tongue inside, instigating a lively round of tonsil hockey.
Twin Piques Page 3
