The Guest Room(69)

“It’s a steakhouse,” he said, not looking up from the manila folder in front of him that he had just opened. His hair was the color of cinnamon, and his eyeglasses were wire rims, rectangular and severe. Inside the folder, in addition to Richard Chapman’s personnel file, she could see tear sheets from some of the recent newspaper stories about the debacle in her client’s home.

“It’s an angioplasty waiting to happen,” she said.

“So, Richard Chapman,” he began, clearly disdaining any interest in irrelevant conversation. “Frankly, I think the man should be seriously grateful. He’s still getting a paycheck from us.”

“I disagree. This leave is punitive and there’s no cause. He violated no company policy. He hasn’t been charged with a crime—and won’t be.”

“If it were punitive, it would be a disciplinary leave of absence without pay. This is merely an administrative leave.”

“Forced.”

“It is mandatory, yes. And I would say there is cause. His presence here—and with our clients—is a public relations problem. We really don’t want to be associated with him right now. Would you? We feel the need to make a statement as a company—to distance ourselves from behavior we don’t condone.”

“He’s a victim, too.”

“Yeah, right.”

“He allowed his brother’s friends to have a bachelor party for his brother at his house. That’s what he did—and that’s all he did.”

“And two people were murdered.”

“Precisely! Two people were murdered. Your employee was doing his brother a favor and wound up a witness to a horrible crime. But he did absolutely nothing wrong.”

“We both know that’s not true. He had prostitutes and mobsters in his home. The media has suggested it was an orgy.”

She noticed a couple of pigeons on the window ledge, one with a boxer’s broad chest. “The media is sensationalizing the sex,” she answered carefully, because she knew that pig Spencer Doherty had some sort of video. “It was a bachelor party. I am going to go way out on a limb and guess that every male managing director at Franklin McCoy has been to a bachelor party. We all know what goes on at them.”

“I promise you, I have never been to a bachelor party where the men were engaging in intercourse with prostitutes.”

“And no one has accused Richard Chapman of doing that.”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“It’s a murder investigation. No one is going to charge your employee with having sex with a prostitute,” she assured him.

“I hope not—for his sake and this company’s.”

“When can he come back?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Every day you bar him from the office you are defaming his character.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit. We haven’t said or written anything about him that’s public.”

“Are you sure? Are you that confident that there isn’t a single e-mail between anyone at Franklin McCoy and any of your M and A clients that would make you…uncomfortable in that regard?”

He tilted back his chair and folded his arms. “Are you really going to play that card?”

“Look, the entire idea that you have put him on leave is, arguably, defamatory.”

“So, he’s going to sue us? Really? And then expect us to take him back with open arms?”

“No one wants to sue you. For reasons that I can’t fathom, he actually likes all of you. He misses you,” she said, hoping sarcasm hadn’t leached into her voice. She reached into her Bottega and held up her own copy of his personnel file. “And he is, from what I understand, rather good at what he does. There’s only love and more love in his performance reviews. It’s just one big happy bromance.”

“Having him here doesn’t look good.”

“Get over it. I promise you, your clients already have. You’re an investment bank. God, if the world can get over Eliot Spitzer and Hugh Grant, it can get over Richard Chapman.”

He rolled those magnificent blue eyes up at the tiles on the ceiling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his vexation. “Tell me: What do you know? Do you have any sense of what’s coming in the newspapers tomorrow? Or what will be online tonight?”

“The Middle East. Nude reality TV shows. Black boxes from aviation disasters. Taylor Swift. The usual.”

“But nothing about our employee.”

“Nothing about one of your managing directors—at least as far as I know.”

“At least as far as you know,” he repeated.

“That’s right.”

“Let’s talk more on Monday.”

“Let’s talk more tomorrow.”

“You really are working those billable hours, aren’t you?”

“I’m looking out for Richard Chapman. The billable hours are just a bonus,” she said, careful to smile in a manner that wasn’t in the slightest way disingenuous. She made a mental note that when she filled in her client on her meeting with Kirn, she would see if he had paid off Spencer Doherty.

…

Alone in his house, his wife and his daughter both down the hill at the Bronxville School, Richard made sure that there were no vultures—his new pet name for the news vans—and went outside. He popped the trunk to his Audi and stared at the wannabe Bierstadt, which was still streaked with the blood from a dead Russian pimp. He really did have to deal with it. Here he had nothing but time on his hands, and still he hadn’t called that detective’s cousin at NYU. Wasn’t there some expression about finding a busy person if you wanted to get something done? Maybe if he could just get the blood off the painting…