When Friday arrived, Reid continued to work at undoing the damage done to his accounts by Vince while he was gone. Calls followed calls, lunch appointments on top of each other. But slowly he could see a pending reversal. Sounded like most of his clients were committed to him. Some expressed relief to have him back; it seemed Vince had indicated he’d be gone much longer than a week.
He’d stolen the Mavericks, though, a key piece of Reid’s investment strategy. They provided the bulk of the funds and had the most to gain or lose. Vince had played on that too successfully. As a result, the Mavericks weren’t interested in what they called a “quick fix.” They were going to let Vince prove himself, as they’d done with Reid.
It made no sense. Maybe Reid could find someone else. Someone with equal financial backing. But he’d lost too much in the last two weeks. He had to get them back.
“Mr. Fletcher wants to see you. Five minutes.” Priscilla disappeared as quietly as she had arrived.
Reid stared after her. Why would she come to his office rather than page him or send an e-mail? A moment later Simone wandered in with a tall coffee, black the way he liked. She set it in front of him, her tablet in her other hand.
“What’s the priority for today, boss?”
“Do you know why Fletcher wants to see me?”
“Rumor is he’s got a new client coming on board. Big enough to replace the Mavericks, maybe more. He’s going to set up a competition for who manages it.”
“Great.” Fletcher liked to make his associates prove they were hungry. Good thing Reid was. Especially if he wanted to add caring for his niece and her unknown needs to his plate. “That must be what the meeting is about.”
“I think so.” Simone studied him. “You still aren’t sleeping.” It was a statement, and one that didn’t require a response. “I’ll have Fletcher’s assistant let me know when the meeting ends, and I’ll be here when you come out.”
“Thanks.” Reid sat back as she left. What kind of contest would Fletcher have up his sleeve this time? Whatever it was, it would force Vincent and Reid onto opposite sides, with a little healthy competition from the newer associates. The last time the boss had concocted such a scheme, it had sucked up every moment of Reid’s time for two weeks. At the end of it he’d had a stable of committed clients—committed until he had to leave for a family crisis.
Time to find out. He grabbed his iPad and the cup of coffee and headed to the conference room attached to Fletcher’s office. Another Remington statue sat in the middle of a battered table made from old railroad ties. The table was an intriguing blend of rustic and sophistication; the worn sides of the rails were polished to a high sheen and shellacked to a rich beauty. The carpenter had actually built the table in the room, and a hole would have to be punched around the door to make space to haul it out someday. An assortment of antique chairs resided around the table. One had to arrive early to snag a well-padded one.
Fortunately, Reid had timed it right.
He sank onto the extra padding of a Queen Anne chair, one of the few with arms. The others straggled in, and Reid saw Vince frown. He liked to think the Queen Anne was his personal chair. Last time Reid had checked his name wasn’t emblazoned on it.
Fletcher came in with a strut of ego. The short man had a Napoleon complex; Reid had noticed that some of his shoes could almost be called platforms. He was always in a three-piece suit, buttoned even on the hottest, most humid days. Today it was blue seersucker. He looked like he’d stepped out of a photo from the thirties. He settled into the chair at the head of the table and slowly surveyed everyone.
“I’ve got an interesting challenge for you.” His words were slow, distinct, precise. Nothing wasted. “Over the last month I have developed a new stable of prospective clients. They are prepared to sign, but want to know the next generation that will actively manage their money. I’ve told them about each of you. They want more, so I created this test. If you pass, you’ll add them to your list and be set up for a lucrative future. Fail, and I’ll wonder whether you belong here.”
Priscilla stepped up and passed out a folder to each person.
“Inside that folder is your group of prospects. There is overlap among some. Others are uniquely yours to gain or lose.” Fletcher steepled his fingers in front of him. “You may want to work together, but it is your choice. Good luck.”
He stood and left the room. Vince waited long enough to not run over the man, then bolted from the room, his purple tie flapping. Reid opened his folder and saw dossiers on four people. He glanced around the table and saw his remaining colleagues surveying theirs.
One looked at him. “What’s our strategy?”
“If you want to work together, then we need to share who we have.” The others nodded, and he felt the weight of their trust. “If there’s overlap, that will help shape our steps.”
Slowly the folders slid toward him. As he fanned out the dossiers, careful to keep each in its home folder, he noted a few duplicates. Some were trust fund kids. Others old money, made and managed the hard way, over time. Most were from Virginia and the surrounding area. Strategies formed even as he felt the gaze of those at the table.
This was when he loved his job. When the pressure coincided with the knowledge it would take a bit of work and he’d have the prospect of real success . . . perfection.
He looked up to gauge the people sitting at the table. Simone had slipped in at some point, as if she’d received a text he hadn’t sent. Next to her sat Luke Langford, a second-year guy out of Virginia, every bit as smart as Reid, if a little awkward. Across from Luke sat Annabelle Lotus, who had the mind of Scarlett O’Hara and the style of a Southern belle. She constantly saw angles and possibilities others didn’t, but Fletcher and Vince didn’t see that secret strength in her. She was living with Matt Arch, who’d joined the firm the same year as Reid but didn’t have the drive to make it to the top rung. In fact, he seemed quite content managing a small book of clients, a task he did very well.
If they acted like a team, Reid felt certain they’d succeed. They’d just need to dig.
“All right.” Reid handed the folders to Simone, who quickly pulled out her phone and took photos of the dossiers. “Let’s get started.”
His computer continued to ding, alerting him to e-mails from the team. Annabelle’s had details about the prospects’ backgrounds that suggested she had sources who knew them personally. Not for the first time he wondered how she’d landed at the firm. After speed-reading her e-mail, he forwarded it to Simone, who would compile the information in a book they would use as they met the different individuals.
Then he turned to the e-mails from Matt. He’d given Matt the task of determining the best strategy for investing the infusion of assets. Part of that would be affected by the clients’ desires and interests, but for the team to succeed they needed the outlines of a plan they could sell. Matt could synthesize vast amounts of data, and Annabelle would funnel information to him as quickly as she uncovered it.
So far there was nothing from Luke, and they needed his best guesses on who Vince might have in his dossier. Since Vince had shown a willingness to go after clients that weren’t his, Reid was determined to stay ahead of him on this project. As far as he could tell, Vince would work alone. That would make the task more daunting and increase the chances the man couldn’t get everything done in a timely fashion.
At noon Fletcher had sent an e-mail with more details. They had one week to develop and submit a strategy to the boss. At the same time, they must compile a thorough dossier on each prospect, expanding the information they had received with significant details. He wanted a strategy that would be unique to the interests of each while addressing the weaknesses in their current portfolios.
While that task seemed impossible, it meant the information was available somewhere in the public realm. Reid’s team simply had to access it. Annabelle’s list of boards and work histories for each was a start, but there were gaps. Those gaps could contain key information that would affect their success.
He pushed back in his chair, considering the next steps. How to find the missing information?
Simone.
He needed her brainstorming with him. Together they’d see more than either would separately.
He buzzed her desk, and a minute later she walked in with a mug of tea and her faithful tablet. After she settled in a chair and set her mug on the stone coaster he pushed toward her, he leaned forward. “What do you think?”
She clicked her stylus on her tablet and then turned it to him. She’d already created a spreadsheet with graphs. “Here are my initial thoughts.”
He scanned it. “You’ve got some good work here. Walk me through it.”
She spent the next fifteen minutes giving her synthesis of what they’d learned during the day, then she clicked another series of buttons. “Here’s a punch list of what we’re missing. It’ll keep the three musketeers busy over the weekend.”
He scanned the list. It was thorough and contained almost everything he’d thought to include. “I have a couple things to add, but this is good work, Simone.”
She studied him as if waiting.
“There’s no but. Good job.” His desk phone rang, and she stood.
“I’ll wait for your additions and then get the gang back to work.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed the receiver as she exited his office and closed the door behind her. “Billings here.”
“So I’ve got a friend here who tells me you’ve asked about Kinley.”
Reid sank against the back of his chair as he took in Robert Adams’s dull voice. “I’m concerned about her, and you told me I could ask.”
“Then call me.”
“You made it clear that wasn’t a good idea.”
“Keep harassing the hospital, and you’ll never see her again.” His brother-in-law’s voice was as cold as it was firm. There was no heightened emotion, just a hard certainty.
“I care about Kinley.”
“I’m her father. You’re only her uncle, who came around once a year. Guess who will win.”
Reid pushed back the guilt Robert’s words resurrected. “This isn’t about winning or losing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s always about winning. I will always win with my daughter. It’s what fathers do.”
Reid wished he’d recorded the conversation. Anything to capture the man’s flat words and hard edges. The ones he carefully hid in public where others would notice. “All right. When can I come see her?”
“She’s still unconscious.”
“Then it’s a perfect time. She won’t know I’m there, but I can be assured she’s getting good care.”
“Maybe. I’ll call you.” Then the man hung up.
Had he been played or was Robert serious about letting him see his niece? Could he have figured out that Reid was exploring more permanent options?