DANIEL BURST THROUGH the double doors of the Westin Nova Scotian and marched past the elevator, slinging his bag over his shoulder while holding the latest Report on Business magazine. An earnest face with glowing white teeth smiled from the magazine’s cover along with the person’s name printed in huge type: Patrick Forrestal. No identification was really needed, though. Everyone in the business world knew him as the multi-millionaire saviour of a dozen wildly successful companies, former Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year, and a much-sought-after company board member.
Daniel couldn’t believe his luck in getting a meeting with him.
Forrestal was a national business celebrity. Daniel was a middle-aged assistant professor, essentially a junior professor-in-training at a small university at the far edge of the country. A call from Forrestal would make any faculty member jump. He could call any of the big-league schools — Harvard, Chicago, the London School of Economics — and they would drool at the chance to be close to his magic touch.
But Forrestal wanted to speak with him.
In a daze of incredulity, Daniel had only grasped snippets during the phone call the day before: “I need your help, professor … I’ve heard much about you … You come highly recommended.” Then a pause. “I need your expertise in a venture I’m considering.”
“What sort of venture?” Daniel had asked.
“I prefer talking face-to-face. I’ll be in town tomorrow. Would you be able to meet me at ten at the Westin? Room 1415. We can talk then.”
Following the call, Daniel replaced the telephone handset, stood, walked to his door, and stuck his head into the hallway. A slab of light leaked from Lloyd’s office two doors down. Lloyd was the senior professor in the department and had hardly spoken to Daniel since he joined two months ago. Daniel took the few steps down the hall to peer into the office. The bald but still handsome sixty-year-old was reading something on his computer screen. His smile dissolved when he saw Daniel.
“Next time, answer your own damn phone.” He didn’t beckon Daniel to sit in one of the two empty chairs in his office.
Daniel said nothing and remained standing in the hallway.
Lloyd clicked and closed the mail window on his screen. “Why the fuck would Patrick Forrestal call you?”
Daniel visibly jumped at the open hostility in the voice. “I don’t know.”
“Was this arranged by the dean, too?”
Daniel’s appointment to the department was unorthodox. Instead of going through the usual process, he was hired directly by the university president and the business school dean. Daniel would never tell Lloyd why this happened, but the timing was right, and the dean had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. His marriage was over. It was time to leave Montreal. And the more distance he put between himself and his former professions, the better.
In many ways, Daniel didn’t fit the typical junior professor profile: he was a decade and a half older than a newly minted Ph.D. graduate; he had at least a decade of international business experience; had lived in three countries and worked in a dozen others. Not the staid and stable background of a typical academic. Daniel’s top-down appointment and odd background irked many, but it bothered none more than Professor Lloyd Fanshawe, the éminence grise of the department. Daniel wondered if Lloyd interpreted Daniel’s hiring as a sign of his own impending decline, a direct threat to his alpha male status. Getting a call from Forrestal would thrust Daniel’s reputation in the department into the stratosphere. Forrestal’s rock-star status might brush off on him. Lloyd would not be pleased.
“Of course not,” Daniel said.
“What did he want?”
Daniel paused. “I don’t really know. He wants to talk about some sort of venture.”
“Here?”
“He didn’t say. He wants to meet me tomorrow.”
Lloyd returned his gaze to his computer screen. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Asshole.
Daniel had spent the night assembling a profile. Who was Patrick Forrestal, The Legend? Founder of the Fireweed Corporation, based in Toronto. The website was slick, with a logo of a purple flower that he didn’t recognize. He read a short quote in italics in the lower right corner: Like the hardy plant that sprouts after a forest fire, Fireweed Corporation helps carefully selected companies prosper in the face of adversity. He was worth at least half a billion dollars according to Business Week. Investors loved and hated him. They loved his unbroken string of guaranteed dividends over a decade; they hated his unavailability for meetings. He never met face-to-face. Until now.
After three hours of shallow sleep, Daniel had darted to the hotel. Now, he paced in front of the elevator, taking a few moments to gather his thoughts and concentrate on the questions he would ask the shining star of modern Canadian business. A new beginning for Daniel was at stake. A clean break from his shame.
The door dinged and opened, and a sharply dressed woman, wavy blond hair, late twenties with a deep brown tan, darted away, keen to avoid eye contact, perhaps worried about unwanted male attention in a confined space, or because she was focused on a meeting that she had clearly dressed for. He couldn’t tell.
He stepped into the empty elevator and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. The door closed, enveloping him in an old Arcade Fire hit whining from the tinny speakers. He turned, adjusted his tie, and was surprised by what he saw in the wall mirror. Yes, the lines on his face had etched away some of his youth. But the mirror still reflected an image — somewhat attenuated perhaps — of what he had once been. He had most of his blond hair, and he could see only the faintest beginning of a middle-aged paunch. The glasses still looked good, though. And he still had what Vanessa called “that jazz crooner look” in his dark suit and thin black tie. In spite of trying to pulverize any last aftershock of the old life, maybe it was still there — lurking, waiting.
The doors spread open to reveal a busy corridor. Daniel was surprised, not expecting to see anyone. He hugged the wall as he passed other guests. Two Asian couples searched for their rooms, keys in hand, one man fumbling with two enormous pink bags. He thought he heard a crisp Beijing accent in their muted conversation. He could hear children talking in 1404 and a television blaring in the room next to it. An older man in a hotel uniform emerged from 1410, pleading with someone unseen in the room. Yes, on behalf of the hotel management, he would personally resolve their complaint.
Daniel refocused his thoughts and continued walking until he stood in front of room 1415, where a “Do Not Disturb” sign dangled from the door handle. Another adjustment of his tie. Watch beeped exactly ten o’clock. Breath check. He slid his right palm along his trousers to remove the accumulated sweat.
Two quick, polite knocks. That should be enough.
He heard only the muffled drone of music from within the room.
Whoom. Whoom. This time he hit the door with the side of his fist. The sound echoed along the now empty corridor.
He waited for the door to open.
“Mr. Forrestal?”
His previous careers had forced him to develop a Teutonic punctuality and attention to detail when necessary. He was at the right place at the right time. He was sure. He fished out his cellphone. The hotel receptionist he called had no response from within the room. The phone inside squawked at least ten times.
Maybe Forrestal had forgotten about the meeting.
And left the radio on?
He returned to the lobby, which buzzed with the random sounds of a dozen conversations. The attendant at hotel reception suggested looking for Forrestal in the lobby or bar. That fruitless search took less than two minutes. Another five passed before the hotel manager appeared from a door behind the reception desk with a professional smile glued to his face and the crossed keys of Les Clefs d’Or glittering on his lapels. Daniel recognized him as the man in uniform he had seen earlier.
He tried to look panic-stricken. “Mr. Forrestal. In 1415. He’s not answering.”
The manager kept his gaze on his computer screen. “Did you knock on his door?”
“He didn’t answer.”
“You can leave a message.”
“He might be passed out. Or worse.”
The manager flicked a glance at Daniel. “What do you mean?”
“His heart pills. He forgot them. He’s not young anymore.”
Two minutes later, he stood in the elevator with the manager on his way back to the fourteenth floor.
The door opened. They stepped out as a thirty-something man approached from the far end of the corridor. Daniel noted that the man was wearing a sharp black suit, a turtleneck, and a black toque, and he was holding a silver briefcase in his right hand. Odd attire, Daniel thought, but then refocused his mind on his present task. The man brushed past, seemingly lost in a song that played only in his head. He hummed a tune that Daniel thought he recognized but couldn’t quite place. He walked into the open elevator and stared at the mirrored wall before pressing a button with his free hand. The door hissed closed.
Less than a minute later, Daniel stood in front of the door to room 1415 as the manager inserted his master key, opened the door, and froze.
Daniel scowled as he inhaled a familiar odour, saw the mess around the body on the floor, and heard George Harrison singing about floors that needed sweeping from the bedside iPod dock.