“Has your father shown any signs of regaining consciousness?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry. Let us know if his condition changes.”
“Sure,” Wilson said, knowing that Zemke had his own channels of information. At least he’s expressing some level of concern, Wilson thought. “One more thing detective, I want access to the family chalet.”
“Can’t do that. It’s a crime scene,” Zemke said, his hard-bitten demeanor returning.
Wilson wheeled around. In a deceptively mild tone he asked, “You know what my father’s done for this community. Who would you like me to call?”
Zemke’s eyes were suddenly on fire again, but he knew Wilson would eventually get what he wanted. Besides, everything had been gone over multiple times. “Fine,” he conceded, “but we’ll be watching.”
Wilson left the detective’s office and returned to the hospital and his father’s ICU room, where he joined his mother and sister. They looked so much alike—the expressive eyes, elegant noses, and slender frames—it was not uncommon for them to be mistaken for sisters. Seeing the pain on their twin faces made his father’s comatose state even more agonizing. They seem so helpless… we all are… but not for long if I can help it, Wilson said to himself. He told his mother and sister about his meeting with Detective Zemke. They both seemed relieved that Wilson was taking care of such matters but expressed new concerns about keeping his father in Sun Valley. Wilson had already come to the same conclusion. His father needed better care than the Wood River Medical Center staff could provide.
When the neurosurgeon who’d operated on his father returned to the room, Wilson asked him to step into the corridor for a private word. “I want my father prepared for an immediate airlift to Massachusetts General in Boston.”
“The risks of transferring him in his current condition are very high, unless you have medical personnel…”
“That’s why I’d like you to go with him. I’ll make sure you have a flying ICU by this evening.”
“I can’t just…”
“You’ll have the opportunity to personally turn him over to a group of highly respected neurologists and neurosurgeons at Mass General. I think you know Dr. Joseph Malek. One of your mentors, I believe. He’s also a personal friend of my father’s. He will be looking forward to reconnecting with you when you arrive. I don’t think I need to tell you that every step of how you handle this is going to be scrutinized by the press.”
“You’re right, I have worked with Dr. Joseph Malek,” the neurosurgeon rejoined, his voice rising. “And we both know he would never condone such coercion.”
“He would if he thought one of his dearest friends was in harm’s way and being framed for murder,” Wilson said sternly.
“I can’t promise anything until I have arranged for my other patients. What are you going to do about the police?”
“I’ll handle them; just get my father ready to fly. I want to leave tonight.”
After the neurosurgeon left to make his preparations, Wilson remained in the corridor pacing back and forth while talking on his phone and sending emails to arrange for his father’s flight to Boston.
Forty-five minutes later, his father’s attorney, Daniel Redd, called to announce that he’d just arrived in Sun Valley. The timing couldn’t have been better for what Wilson needed next.
“There’s been a change of plans. We’re moving my father to Mass General tonight,” Wilson said over the phone.
Daniel immediately concurred with the decision, just as Wilson expected he would. He’d known Daniel for several years but had never really dealt with him one-on-one. What Daniel said next both surprised and pleased Wilson: “I’ll take care of the legalities,” Daniel said. “The Sun Valley Police won’t want your father to leave their jurisdiction, but we won’t give them a choice. Just make sure his doctor supports your decision and is willing to make the trip with your father.”
“Already arranged. Do you anticipate anything we can’t overcome?”
“Not if we can demonstrate medical need. I’m licensed to practice law in Idaho and my firm knows a few judges in town. If we run into serious problems, we’ll have the FBI claim jurisdiction; they owe us a few favors. But that’s a last resort. Don’t worry, Wilson. One way or another, I’ll make sure your father can leave Idaho. Need any help arranging for a medical airlift?”
“Air Ambulance is a client. The CEO promised me that he’d have one of their jets at the Sun Valley airport by eight tonight,” Wilson said.
“I’ll have all the legal issues relating to medical transport resolved by five o’clock. Can we find somewhere to meet privately after that? There are a few things I need to discuss with you face-to-face.”
Wilson hesitated a moment, wondering why Daniel needed private face time before leaving Sun Valley. Then he dismissed it as nothing more than overly cautious, analretentive behavior from a first-rate attorney in difficult circumstances. “I want to spend some time at the chalet before we leave. Why don’t we meet there?”
“See you there,” Daniel said.
2
Tate – New York City, NY
Wayland Tate simmered with boredom as he listened to his client ramble on about a recent Business Week article that had criticized his company’s management practices. Clients who’d become overly dependent upon him were the only aspect Tate despised about his chosen place in the world. His pale blue eyes roamed restlessly across the wall of plasma screens at the back of his office, where the news channels showed clips of Charles Fielder every half hour. The pictures make Charles look older than he is, he thought.
Tate stood up, walked to the closet behind his desk, and retrieved a bottle of moisturizing lotion from the top shelf. “I know what you mean, Jim,” he said absentmindedly, reassuring his client that he was still listening even though his thoughts were focused on more pressing matters: if Charles regains consciousness, we’ll have to extract him from the hospital immediately. But there was nothing to worry about; preparations had already been made. He removed his gold cuff links and carefully rolled up the starched sleeves of his monogrammed shirt. While interjecting an occasional “uh-huh” into his client’s soporific litany of woes, Tate rubbed the lotion into his tanned arms and elbows in slow rhythmic motions.
Caring for his physical appearance and personal magnetism had always been a priority for Wayland Tate, making him one of corporate America’s more interviewed and photographed executives. GQ magazine had recently included him in its 100 Most Influential People in the World issue, touting “his gorgeous, gray head of hair … an intensity behind the eyes that makes you wonder what he’s going to do next,” and the fact that he was “sporting a six-pack at age fifty-six.” But those closest to Tate knew that his high visibility had more to do with shrewd publicity management than with good looks or charisma. Almost half of the firms on Fortune’s 500 were either current or former clients of Tate Waterhouse, one of the fastest-growing international advertising agencies in the world, and he made sure everyone knew about it. The only criticism his new European and Asian investors had expressed pertained to his prominent presence in the media. Fortunately, their criticism came at a time when Tate no longer craved attention like he had in his younger days. Promising to tone things down was a fair quid pro quo for access to their limitless resources.
Tate’s boredom was beginning to burn calories when one of his administrative assistants interrupted with an urgent message that David Quinn, CEO of the J. B. Musselman Company, was on the phone—for the fourth time that day. Excusing himself from his client, Tate disappeared into a narrow corridor that ran along a wall of windows overlooking the East River and the South Street Seaport near Wall Street. He unlocked the door to his private quarters and took his time walking through the luxurious space, which looked more like an exclusive bar than an apartment. Picasso, Pollock, and Kandinsky originals filled the walls. The two de Koonings, one above each fireplace, were Tate’s favorites.
After sitting down in the bedroom’s black leather lounge chair and placing his feet on the matching ottoman, Tate was ready to turn his attention to David Quinn. J. B. Musselman was a twenty-five billion dollar wholesale distribution conglomerate headquartered in Chicago and Tate sat on its board. He picked up the phone.
“David. Sorry I missed your earlier calls.”
“I need your help to get Kresge & Company off my back, permanently,” Quinn said, noticeably irritated.
“Weren’t they your idea in the first place?” Tate’s response was glib, deliberately provocative.
“You know the board forced me into this. It was their idea from the beginning. I simply recommended which firm, but that was before the bastards started analyzing ways to break up the company. I need your help to get rid of them before they convince the board.”
“I hate to say I told you so, David, but Fielder & Company would have been a smarter choice than Kresge & Company. You would have had more control,” Tate kept the smile that played across his features out of his voice.
“It’s Fielder’s kid who wants to breakup the company into regional businesses to exploit what he calls ‘the growing niche-oriented needs of local customers’ and give employees more opportunity for ownership,” Quinn was seething with anger and defensiveness. “He told MacMillan I was the single biggest obstacle to Musselman’s future growth and profitability.”
“Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Wilson Fielder for a while. He’s got his hands full with other things right now.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I would never wish what happened with his father on anyone, but I’m glad to get that arrogant little prick out of my life. Now, I want him and his firm to stay out.”
Tate remained silent and smiling.
“You went to school with his father didn’t you?” Quinn asked.
“I did. We were close friends,” Tate said, remembering the poetry readings at the SoHo bar where he first met Charles Fielder. He could still hear the message of Charles’ revolutionary verse: generations of concealed corruption enslave us in a system of coerced consent. He would miss his old friend.
“Do you believe he killed those women?”
“I don’t want to believe it, David,” Tate said. “But people change.”
After a pause, Quinn returned to his original agenda. “How do we make Kresge & Company go away for good?”
“My guess is that Wilson will take a leave of absence, which should slow things down long enough for us to launch the new advertising campaign. Musselman will reposition itself as ‘The Next Generation in Mass Merchandising.’ Kresge & Company becomes old news. I’m already working with Boggs & Saggett on a presentation for MacMillan and the rest of the board.”
“You know I’m not ready to leave this place.”
“Stop worrying, David. No one is going to remove you from the helm. The advertising campaign alone will send Musselman stock soaring. The board will think they’re in heaven. Trust me.”
It had taken Tate three years to get to this point with David Quinn. He’d spent the first year landing the J. B. Musselman account. The next two years were devoted to getting appointed to the company’s board of directors, which meant letting go of the advertising relationship, at least on the surface of public disclosure. Four months ago, after a heated board meeting that had resulted in the hiring of Kresge & Company to assist in reorganizing Musselman’s operations, Tate asked Quinn for a private meeting. During dinner at Everest, one of Chicago’s more private and exclusive restaurants, Tate presented a plan for turning J. B. Musselman into the most visible discount merchandiser in North America, branding his vision as America’s Warehouse.
Quinn eventually bought the idea, mostly because it gave him another way out of his current difficulties, which was precisely what Tate had anticipated. As Kresge & Company began its analysis of Musselman’s operations, Quinn engaged Boggs & Saggett, an advertising firm with hidden ties to Tate Waterhouse, to develop a marketing campaign for America’s Warehouse. Initially, Quinn had hoped the two efforts would prove to be synergistic. But when Kresge & Company expressed doubts about a mass discounting strategy and began pushing for the breakup of Musselman, Quinn decided to bet the company’s future on Tate’s America’s Warehouse strategy.
“There’s another thing I want to talk about,” Quinn was saying. “I’ve decided not to use Morgan on our next stock offering. You recommended someone at KaneWeller at our last board meeting.”
“Jules Kamin.”
“Right. Do you have his contact information?”
“Sure,” Tate said, grinning broadly. “What are you doing for the next few days?”
“Warehouse visits in North and South Carolina, Georgia, and then Florida.”
“Can someone else handle them?”
“Depends on what you have in mind.”
“St. Moritz,” Tate said, as he reflected on how much easier it was to manipulate people when they were separated from their familiar surroundings and placed in the lap of luxury with limitless opportunities for pampering, pleasure, and moneymaking. But further manipulation of David Quinn would not be easy, even in St. Moritz, Tate mulled. Quinn was a no-nonsense individualist, a man of principle and integrity who prided himself on being able to come up with a quick solution to any problem 99 percent of the time. It was an acquired malady among CEOs. The trick, as always, would be to discover what Quinn wanted badly enough in order to abandon his usual high road. Getting rid of Kresge & Company would be a good start.
“One of those client retreats you’re always raving about?” Quinn asked.
“Jules Kamin will be there.”
There was silence on the line as Quinn considered Tate’s invitation. He needed Tate’s help and he wanted to meet Jules Kamin. A few days in St. Moritz would also give him some long-overdue downtime. “Let me see what I can do,” Quinn finally said.
“One of our chartered jets will be leaving Chicago O’Hare at eight tomorrow night.”
“I’ll let you know if I can’t make it,” Quinn said. “Otherwise, plan on me.”
“See you in St. Moritz. We’ll have lunch when you arrive,” Tate said.
After hanging up, Tate called his vice president of client relations. She was a beautiful Japanese-American woman blessed with cherubic grace, but it was her flair for orchestrating events and arranging entertainment to the sheer delight of Tate’s clients that made her invaluable. “One of the planes needs to pick up Mr. Quinn at O’Hare tomorrow night. Aren’t we picking up someone else in Chicago?”
“Yes. Mr. Toffler and Mr. Anderson,” she said with characteristic acuity.
“Good. Make sure Quinn receives the full treatment. I don’t want to lose him. Let’s assign Vargas.”
“We’ll take care of everything.”
“What would I do without you?” Tate said, not expecting a response. “Has there been any change in Charles’ condition?” Tate asked.
“No change,” she responded. “We now have someone on site monitoring everything.”
“Perfect,” Tate said before hanging up the phone. Walking back to resume his conversation with the client still waiting in his office, he paused briefly to muse on the colorful chaos of Kandinsky’s Composition VII, an apocalyptic hurricane of swirling masses and colors. It had been Charles Fielder who taught Tate how to use the world’s colorful chaos to exploit his love of manipulation. The rewards had proved to be beyond his wildest imagination.
Control, or be controlled, Tate summed up his mantra. Charles taught me well.
3
Wilson – Sun Valley, ID
After passing strict scrutiny from two uniformed police officers and ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, Wilson defiantly trod through the snow to the covered entryway of his family’s chalet. Throughout his childhood, Wilson’s family had spent half of every summer and three weeks during the ski season at the twenty-room residence. It was one of thirty-two luxury chalets at the White Horse Resort, a complex that also comprised fifty condominiums, a world-class spa, two outdoor swimming pools, three restaurants, and a large conference and entertainment center. Before crossing the threshold to face what lay inside, he took a moment to reminisce about his great-grandfather Harry Wilson Fielder, the resort’s founder. It was his great-grandfather who, in the 1930s, had catapulted the Fielder family into the ranks of the super-rich. Construction of the White Horse Resort at the base of Baldy Mountain had begun in 1946 and the Fielder family had been a vital contributor to the cities of Sun Valley and Ketchum ever since.
Wilson opened the front door and entered the large foyer with its huge stone fireplace. His body tensed at the smell of death that lingered in the air. Still struggling with the reality of what had happened here, he walked slowly through the foyer and into the breakfast nook between the kitchen and the family room. White tape marked the floor and the wing chairs, where the bodies had been found. There were bloodstains on the chairs, the Persian rug, and the hardwood floor. Seeing the outline of where his father had been found, he was overwhelmed by memories of the long conversations they’d had here at White Horse—conversations that had shaped his life.
From the time he was a small child, he had experienced profound feelings of guilt for having more than others—very much his father’s son on this score. It wasn’t that Wilson didn’t take great pleasure in the opportunities and advantages his family’s wealth provided. Still he despised the clichéd, yet overwhelming, sense of injustice and inequity that came with these privileges. Ridding himself of the nagging contradiction would, he bluntly acknowledged, require more than philanthropy and patronage.
The Insiders Page 2
