CHAPTER TWO

Taylor caught a glimpse of her husband as she walked past the door to their home gym. He was on the treadmill and running hard. Probably still in shock, as she was. The Monday afternoon meeting with Earl Hinks, only three days ago, seemed surreal. A tasteless joke with no redeeming value. But she knew in her heart it was no joke. The paperwork on Hinks’s desk had detailed the bank’s position in black and white, no gray area.

The loan was due. Now.

Thirteen million dollars. Money they did not have.

She felt her knees buckling and ducked into the office, sitting on a stool before she collapsed. Everything she and Alan had worked for was gone. The business would have to go on the block. Finding a buyer to purchase the company she had worked twelve years to build would not be difficult. Letting it go would be next to impossible. She had put her heart and soul and an interminable amount of hours into the business, and her employees were like family. What was happening was impossible.

She glanced about the room, quiet elegance with dark, teak furniture and wall units. The brick fireplace was clean and ready to be lit. One wall was covered with plaques, framed accolades and awards her company had won over the years for its savvy in the highly competitive advertising world. Her eyes came to rest on Alan’s degree from Stanford, set in a simple black frame against the taupe wall. No matting, nothing fancy—it was so Alan. When they had met three years ago, it had been packed in a box and stuck in his bedroom closet. They were learning about each other, talking to all hours of the night, when the subject of education had come up. He had never mentioned his Master’s degree in Electrical Engineering. Nor did he wear the ring. It took him almost a week to find the box where the degree was tucked between a Sports Illustrated and a handful of National Geographic magazines. He didn’t hang it on the wall until after they were married, almost seven months later. He did wear the ring, though. But only at her insistence.

That was a real difference between her and her husband. Alan didn’t care about the house or what car he drove, and he certainly didn’t care if anyone knew he was a Stanford graduate. What he did care about was doing things right. It wasn’t the degree that mattered; it was putting the knowledge into action. He worked for one of San Francisco’s most forward-thinking corporate security companies, and when he designed a new system for his clients, it was perfect in theory and in implementation. They had talked about it and planned it since they were married, and he was only a year or so from starting his own company. Silicon Valley was a veritable gold mine for companies that could provide secure environments for the software and hardware designers. Price was not an issue when it came to protecting a billion-dollar idea. But what had been a dream within their grasp was now a fleeting thought. The start-up costs were high and the carrying costs for the first year staggering. There was no chance Alan Bestwick would be controlling his own destiny for some time.

And Taylor’s tangible dream was in tatters. G-cubed would have to be sold. Twelve years of novel ideas that grew to become national icons for some of corporate America’s most innovative clients were history. And the six- and seven-figure billings that accompanied the print and television ads were gone. The good news was that the company carried no debt. And the net worth of G-cubed was at least thirteen million, which covered the loan Taylor and Alan had taken out to purchase a chunk of NewPro. That left them broke, except for the equity in their house.

It was a nightmare.

But to Taylor, the nightmare went far beyond the financial. She had invested heavily in her company not only financially, but emotionally. She couldn’t count the number of times she had sat alone in her corner office with red eyes and a half-empty box of tissues. She remembered the day Amy Reid, one of her copy editors, had phoned in on a regular Monday morning. She could barely speak. Her baby had died of SIDS over the weekend. She wouldn’t be in to work for a while. Taylor had met the baby three weeks before at a company picnic. Charles Reid. A perfect little boy, wide eyed at the newness of the world that surrounded him. Now deceased.

Taylor had called a meeting of all the staff. They were to contact the clients who knew Amy and let them know what had happened. She wanted a trust fund in Charles’s name established immediately, the proceeds to go toward university education for Amy’s other two children. She had gathered the women separately, setting a firm timetable for them to be at the Reid house, helping with dinner and the grind of daily chores. And just being there for the grieving family. They had set a minimum of three months. In the end, the women kept up the vigil for almost seven months. They cooked and cleaned, but more importantly, they gave Amy and her husband a new lease on life. Taylor spent more time at Amy’s house than any other woman.

There was a low sound, and Taylor turned toward the door. Alan stood in the doorway, sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt soaked. He wiped his brow with a towel and walked over to where she sat on the stool. He knelt on the floor in front of her.

“We’ll survive this,” he said, touching her lightly on her knee. “We’ve got the house, I’m working, and you’re about the most employable person on the planet.”

The tears started. Again. She wiped at them, but they streamed down her face. Alan dabbed them with his towel. “How could this have happened?” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

“The police have a forensics crew looking into it,” Alan said. “Maybe they’ll come up with something.”

“Your money,” she said. “My business. They took everything we had.”

Now it was Alan’s turn to choke back the tears. “It’s just money,” he said after a few moments. “Feeling guilty isn’t going to change anything.”

“Only money,” she said. She took his hand and squeezed. “You worked your entire life to save that money. And it’s my fault it’s gone.”

“No,” Alan said, taking her by the shoulders and locking eyes. “You can’t think that way, Taylor. We both agreed that NewPro was a good investment. Either one of us taking the blame and feeling guilty about what happened isn’t healthy. We’ve got to focus on where we are right now and hope the police can catch these guys.”

The doorbell rang, and Alan asked, “The real estate agent?”

She nodded. “He wanted to see the house before he did the market analysis.”

Alan gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll show him around.”

“Thanks,” she said.

She heard the front door open and muffled voices in the hall. Footsteps echoed off the hardwood as her husband and the Realtor moved through the main floor of the two-story Victorian. She stood and walked to the window, looking out over Octavia Street. They had purchased the house two and a half years ago when they got married. The San Francisco real estate market had been increasing steadily since then, and their location in Pacific Heights was ideal. Taylor figured the house would fetch about one-point-four. After expenses and the mortgage, that would net them about nine hundred thousand. How much of that would have to go toward paying off the bank was the only real variable. And that depended on what they could net from the sale of G-cubed. The word was already on the street that they needed to sell, and she knew there would be low-ball offers from competitors looking to capitalize on their misfortune. She turned from the window as Alan and the Realtor entered the office.

“Honey, this is Dave Bryant,” Alan said.

She walked across the room and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said.

“Not a problem. Referrals are important. I jump when someone puts their name on the line for me.” Bryant’s name had been passed along to Taylor through one of her office staff who had used him to sell their house in San Mateo and find them a condo in the city. He glanced about the room, then followed Alan back into the hall. Their voices diminished as they moved to the back of the house.

Taylor checked her watch. Almost three o’clock. On any normal day she would be at the office working on an ad campaign or at a client’s office making a presentation. Not so now. In two hours someone from the corporate fraud division of the San Francisco police would be paying them a visit.

Corporate fraud.

Why didn’t they see it? How could they have fallen so hard for the scam? Why did they invest so heavily? Questions, so many questions. And right now, no answers.

She closed her eyes and wondered if there would ever be any answers.