Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(35)
Michael Carter was annoyed as he found himself heading for Greenwich, Connecticut, for the second day in a row, this time on a Sunday. Sherman had called him during the week and demanded a “same time, same place” meeting. He had met Sherman the previous day at the Greenwich train station. Frankly, he thought Sherman could have shown a little more gratitude for the great job he had done convincing a reluctant Lauren Pomerantz to agree to a settlement. He replayed the meeting in his mind as he drove. The CEO didn’t comment on the clever ways he had delved into the young woman’s personal life. Handing him a copy of Pomerantz’s résumé, Carter reminded him of the commitment that was made to find her a job. “She chose Dallas,” he said.
“I’m paying you a lot of money. What are you doing next?”
“I’ve been looking into Meg Williamson’s background. I’ll start the process with her over the next few days.”
Sherman stared straight ahead. Carter sensed that he was trying to resolve something in his mind and chose against interrupting the CEO’s thoughts.
“Matthews has to be spoken to. He’s got to keep it zipped and tell us if there are any other women.”
“I agree,” Carter said quietly.
“I’m thinking I should speak to him alone.”
“That’s your decision, but I disagree.”
“Why?” Sherman snarled.
“I did these kinds of inquiries in the army. When people are confronted about serious wrongdoing, they do two things. Deny and lie. When you catch them in their lies, they feel humiliated, then very angry. It’s as if the meeting is not about what he did to the women; it’s about what you’re doing to him. He’s going to leave the meeting hating how he was treated. You have to work with him afterwards. Do you want those feelings directed at you or at me?”
“You’re right,” Sherman said.
Carter got the impression those were two words Sherman rarely said. It was an act of will to conceal his delight. The CEO of REL News was going to use him to take one of the most trusted men in America behind the woodshed.
“The meeting can’t be at the office. I don’t like hotels for this kind of thing. It would be weird to have three of us sitting in a car. Where do we go?”
“Does Mr. Matthews live in this area?”
“Stamford. One town north of here.”
“Do you two belong to any of the same clubs?”
“I know what we could do.” Sherman opened his phone, went to the directory, and pushed a button. “Brad, Dick Sherman here. Something’s come up related to the IPO. I’d like to talk to you about it, but not over the phone.” There was a pause. “No, don’t worry. All good. Let’s have breakfast at the club at nine o’clock tomorrow. See you there.”
Sherman turned to Carter. “We’re all set. Greenwich Country Club tomorrow. Come at ten.”
It wasn’t lost on Carter that Sherman had not asked if tomorrow was convenient for him. “I thought you told him nine o’clock.”
“I did. I’ll eat with him first. You come at ten. Ask somebody to point you to the Members Grill. We’ll grab coffees and go into one of the private meeting rooms where you can do your part.” He looked disdainfully at Carter’s blue jeans. “Do you belong to a country club?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Go to the club website and look under ‘Guests.’ Make sure you’re dressed properly.” He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “We’re finished. I’m late for my trainer.”
39
Carter turned off Doubling Road between the stone pillars that framed the entranceway to Greenwich Country Club. Majestic oaks, now mostly bare of their leaves, lined the driveway. It had cost considerably more to rent a large BMW sedan. But if Sherman asked, assuming the CEO noticed, he would have an explanation ready. “I’m not going to blend in at Greenwich Country Club if I arrive in a Honda Accord.”
What had been a cold mist progressed to a steady drizzle. The temperature on this early November Sunday morning was just below forty degrees. He pulled in front of the clubhouse and was met by a bored-looking parking valet who was struggling to stay warm. “I’m a guest of Dick Sherman, meeting him in the Members Grill.”
Carter descended a flight of stairs. Remembering what he had read on the website, he silenced his cell phone. He entered a near-empty room with about twenty tables. Two walls of the room were glass, allowing panoramic views of the course. Painted in gold leaf along one wall were winners of past tournaments back to 1909. A polished mahogany bar with no one behind it was to his left.
Four men who appeared to be in their late seventies and eighties were playing gin at a round table in the corner. One of the men wrote on a pad as another shuffled cards. Apparently it was considered crass to have real money on the table. Settling up would come later. On the other side, by the windows, Sherman and Matthews were seated. The egg-stained plates and juice glasses in front of them were empty. Carter glanced at his watch. Nine-fifty-nine. Here we go, he said to himself, trying to look confident as he casually walked across the room.
Sherman was the first to make eye contact. He waved him over. “Brad, say hello to Michael Carton. Michael’s the one I told you about. He wants to go over a few items related to the IPO.”