Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(88)

Many industry analysts over the years gave credit to Myers’s deft handling of REL’s finances, particularly in the early years, as having laid the groundwork for the company’s meteoric rise. REL is currently in the final stage of going public. It is not clear what, if any effect, Myers’s death will have on the IPO process or the value that institutional investors will ultimately assign to its shares.

In addition to his wife, Myers leaves behind a college-age daughter.

A media relations spokesperson at REL indicated the company will issue a statement later today.



Carter got up, walked over to the window, and stared down at the vehicles and pedestrians sixteen floors below. When my time comes, he asked himself, will it be an accident or a suicide? A vision of himself splattered on the pavement below filled his mind. He turned away from the window, fighting off a sensation of vertigo and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Why Myers? he asked himself, but then it all made frightening sense. A CEO, even one as powerful as Sherman, couldn’t just wave his hand and have over $12 million of REL’s money sent to an entity such as Carter & Associates. Checks and balances were in place to prevent that from happening. Sherman needed Myers to sign off on sending the money. Who knew what Sherman had told him, or maybe he didn’t tell him anything and just bullied him into doing it.

How convenient for Sherman, Carter thought. Sherman would have been careful to ensure there was no paper trail linking him to the money. A waterlogged Myers was not going to shed any light on the subject. As far as Carter knew, Sherman was not aware that Junior was privy to what was going on. If all this became public, investigators would track down the money Carter had disbursed from Carter & Associates. No trace of Sherman there. So who was left as the only living, breathing person who could tell of Sherman’s involvement? “Moi,” he said, unconsciously putting a finger to his chest.

For the second time he thought seriously about calling a criminal lawyer. He was confident that he could explain—and a jury would believe him—that when he sent emails to Sherman about Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson, it was to report his progress toward settlements, not to give Sherman their locations so he could get rid of them. And that was the truth, if that mattered.

Could he somehow assure Sherman that he’d always keep his mouth shut, that he wouldn’t turn on him? The folly of that idea became clear to him as he tried to imagine the conversation. Hey Dick, don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re considering ways to arrange my death, it’s really not necessary. You can trust me to be a good soldier.

He thought of the old Arab words of wisdom: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He fished through his notes until he found the phone number Meg had provided for the nosy reporter, Gina Kane.





96





Brad Matthews was in his office sipping his third Scotch watching himself on that evening’s broadcast. It was almost midnight. He wasn’t happy. Far from it. Whoever set the lighting had made his high forehead absolutely glisten. I look like Joe Biden, he lamented. Page Six of the New York Post was already making fun of him, referring to him as “Botox Brad.” This will only give them more ammunition, he feared.

He also didn’t like what they had persuaded him to do with his hair. For years he had parted it on the left side and combed it across his head, the long strands covering much of his increasingly bald scalp. This new comb-it-straight-back look was “more distinguished,” they said. As far as he was concerned, it just made him look older.

He was having that feeling again. In recent months he’d been able to avoid it either by heading home early, going to the gym, or making a date to meet a friend at a restaurant. But for whatever reason tonight the urge was really strong. He could usually count on the Scotch to dampen it, to put out the fire; this time it had made it stronger.

He opened the door of his office and looked around. His secretary had long since gone home. The other offices near his were empty. He could see down the hall to the makeup area. The artist on duty, Rosalee, was reading a magazine. At the moment none of the on-air people required her services. Matthews closed the door and went back to his desk.

He had first noticed her a few weeks ago. She had been promoted from desk assistant in syndication to associate producer on his evening newscast. Opening his top drawer, he pulled out her employment file: from Athens, Georgia, a Journalism major at Vanderbilt. Sally Naylor was petite, with long, dark auburn hair, full lips, and bright white teeth accentuated by a slightly olive complexion.

He picked up the phone and paused a moment, cataloguing in his brain the myriad reasons why this was a bad idea. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” he said to himself as he dialed her extension.

“Hi, Sally, this is Brad Matthews. I’m glad you’re still here. I need some fact-checking to be done on one of the stories we ran tonight. Can you come to my office for a few minutes?”

“Of course, I’ll be right over.”

Matthews smiled and drained the last of the Scotch in his glass. There’s something about a good-looking girl with a Southern accent that really sends me.

A minute later he heard three soft knocks on his door.





97





Rosalee heard the sound of footsteps moving quickly on the tile hallway, followed by an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a sob.