The Fives Run North-South (3 page)

I looked at Suze again and thought that perhaps I could go in there and put my hand or arm on her, like some people do when they try to lend a measure of comfort. But I knew my wife and she knew me. I recognized that she would know that isn’t how we were supposed to be. And that would compound the hollow.

I returned to my home office. We’d be fine tomorrow.

I had dug deeper into my
e
-
mail
inbox, lying on the small couch with the laptop. At some point, I’d put the computer on the floor and shut my eyes.

Bam!

My eyes flew open to complete darkness. The first thing I noticed was a small ache in my back and a tingling in my foot.

I moaned.

I’d fallen asleep on the couch again. Aided by the wine, I’d slept like a rock for…how long? Slowly I sat up, then reclined again as I waited for my head to stabilize. I reached down and rubbed my foot, which had been folded up beneath the other leg. My heart was racing. Must have been a dream…

Or had it been?

My head collected around a noise that had brought me awake. A crash?

“Adam?” from somewhere inside the house.

Suzanne!

I jumped off the couch, and started out of my office to the main house. I stopped at the doorway, holding it with my hand as I tried again to regain my balance and gain full control of my body.

I used to be athletic. Faster. Thinner.
I hated how weak I’d become.

“Suze?” I called out.

“Adam? In here!”

In here. Typical.
Suze seemed to think I had some magical powers that allowed me to discern which of the “here’s” she meant. There were a shitload of “here’s” in that oversized house of ours.

Then for some reason I just knew. My mind flashed an image of taillights a few streets away. Taillights from a red SUV. I walked into the front dining room. Suze was standing there, her hair
off
-
kilter
from the pillow, creases on her face, bloodshot eyes. Bloodshot eyes that were wide with shock and fear.

“Jesus, Adam,” she said.

I looked down at her feet and saw the glass.

“I think I stepped on some,” she said.

I looked up and saw the window, smashed in. On the floor amid the glass, tilted on its side was a brick.

“What the hell?” I asked.

3

I
rubbed my forehead, trying to squeeze out the dull ache. I knew the pain would only get worse as my day progressed. It was already five o’clock in the morning. My wife sat slumped in one of the dining room chairs. Her foot was bandaged, and she looked as if she wanted to go back to bed soon. I’d not have that luxury. Big meeting with a potential new board member today. It was nearing time to get ready.

“Are we nearly done?” I asked.

In front of me, one of the police
officers
—
I
thought the name was Johnson, but I’d forgotten it shortly after our
introduction
—
was
writing something on his small clipboard. I was becoming convinced that Officer Johnson (or whatever) hated it when people looked at his eyebrows. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep from sneaking a peek.

Lots of waiting when dealing with the law
,
I thought.
They don’t seem to have to move as quickly as those of us in the real world.

It had taken nearly an hour for the officers to show up after our 911 call. I had considered not involving the police, but made the call mostly for Suze’s benefit. I regretted it now. The policemen’s lack of concern or urgency was about what I had expected. Their
questioning
—
mostly
about our son or their
friends
—
seemed
to give away their primary theory: the brick through the window was a gag gone bad committed by a friend, acquaintance, or family member. Now it was simply a matter of getting the paperwork right; paperwork that would get stuffed in some file back at their office, never to be reviewed or considered again. But I knew I’d get my copy, something I could submit to his insurance adjuster if I decided to go that route. Nice and tidy.

Except that I felt anything but tidy about the whole thing. I came close to divulging my theory about the road rage
red
-
SUV
guy when the other officer
(Thompson? Thomas? These names should be easier to remember)
asked me:

“So is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?”

I started to say something but held back. As I ran the scenario through my head, listening to how it might sound, even I had a difficult time grasping the possibility that a road rage incident could lead to this. I wasn’t even completely sure that the vehicle I’d seen in our subdivision was a red SUV. Or, if so, the same red SUV. I also reasoned that in giving them that theory, they’d immediately question my own actions in traffic that brought about this response.
Surely
—
they’
d
believe
—
this
retaliation might be at least somewhat deserved. And, finally, even if I did give them this piece of meat, they’d be back in the same spot: no real suspect. I had never really seen the driver, neither did I get any license plate number.

“Sir?” the officer asked me again. “You were about to say?”

I realized my mental calculus was evident. I was usually much better with my poker face.

“Nothing,” I said, looking over at my wife before examining the floor for dirt.

Then, when I looked back at the officer, I thought I saw an expression.
Damn
,
I thought.
These cops are a suspicious lot.
I looked to the ground again (there,
that
piece of dirt), and then back to the face of the policeman. Yup. I was being studied.

“You sure?” the officer asked again.

I nodded.

Shortly, they were wrapping up. Officer Eyebrow/Johnson/whatever handed me a slip of paper.

“This is for your records, sir,” he said.

I thanked his forehead.

“You have someone lined up to fix that?” he asked, pointing to the window. “Best to get your home secure as soon as possible,” he advised.

“Got it handled,” I said.

The cop reached out his hand; I took it and we shook. I glanced at the other policeman and thought I caught a suspicious narrowing of his eyes (much more expressive with normal eyebrows, unfortunately). But it could have simply been the dim light spinning shadows. Without another word they turned, got in their cruiser, and drove away. Across the street I saw Bitsy Bates in her jogging gear, her stride a bit narrower than usual as she rubbernecked the crime scene. I just smiled and waved.

Like it was any other day.

After a quick shower and a stop at Starbucks for a double, I made my way to the office. As I pulled into my parking space (made extra wide so no one would ding my doors…good to be the boss), I was already starting to feel the events of the last eighteen hours start to evaporate. For better or for worse, I never had a problem with the clutter of outside events while on the clock. It was that ability to focus that had paved my path from route salesman to CEO in record time. Sure, it was a small company and I was in the minor leagues where Wall Street would be concerned, but the card said “CEO” and with it came…well, stuff.

“Good morning, Mr. Mann,” said Krista, the receptionist. The new one. The pretty one. I returned her smile (and what a
smile
—
she
lit up like her long lost love just walked in the room), letting her know I was glad she was part of the team.

I saw the elevator door starting to close. “Hold the door,” I said as I quickened my pace.

A hand stuck out from inside the elevator, nudging back the door. As the elevator fully opened, I saw Rich Burns. He saw me too, and I recognized the flicker of nervous fear dance across his eyes. Rich was a good kid; I mostly liked him. He had potential. He also nearly pissed his pants every time he was in my presence. I had once overheard Rich speaking with other executives from the company, and had been a bit surprised by the confidence and speed with which he’d spoken. It was not what I was used to hearing from him.

“How are you today, Mr. Burns?” I said as the elevator door closed and the car grew quiet in its climb to the eleventh floor. I thought I heard a low, nervous grumble from Rich’s stomach. I held back a smile.

“Pretty good, Mr. Mann.”

“Just pretty good?”

“No, sir. Really pretty good.”

“Really pretty good?”

“I mean, really good.”

I nodded. Both of us were staring at the readout above the door, indicating which floor we were passing as we made our way up.

“What you been working on?” I asked.

My mind faded out as Rich tried to vomit up more information than was appropriate. It reminded me why I was often tough on Rich. Smart enough, but missing street sense. I saw part of my job as CEO to either toughen up or frighten off the mild and meek.

“And the thing that’s really got the best, real…um…solid chance of a very favorable ROI,” Rich continued.

The elevator door opened.

“Can’t wait to see it,” I said, interrupting him.

“Oh…yes, sir,” Rich said to the back of my head, moving quickly toward his office. I smiled. It was good to be in the offices of Fulton Marine Properties, or FMP. Everything fit here.

“So what do you do?”

The
all
-
American
conversation starter among the social set Suze and I favored. The royal caste of my generation, where replying “CEO” created perhaps the best facial reaction. In the eight years since being named CEO of FMP, I’d grown accustomed to the side effects, all good. My side of any conversation would be more interesting, my jokes a whole lot funnier.

“What’s FMP into?” The
follow
-
up
question.

Just five years since the initial public offering, having performed
okay
—
not
above, and certainly not below analysts’
expectations
—
FMP
was growing slowly but steadily under my watch.

When I start to answer the “What does FMP do?” question, I try my best to simplify and unweave the
day
-
to
-
day
.

“We don’t make stuff,” I’d sometimes say to those I sensed less able to grasp the intricacies of my operation. “We connect money with overseas, multifamily residential investment opportunities…primarily. At least that’s how we started. Since then we’ve branched off into…”

By then, for most people, the eyes have grown less eager, the nods a bit faster with diminishing enthusiasm. For the brave, there is the
watch
-
glancing
(from “I’m just stretching my arm” to “slowly lift the drink and glance”). Even Suze, after all this time, would be at a loss to describe the primary activities of FMP. “They’re like a bank for rich, bored people,” she’d once said, and later that night I’d had to admit she had probably given the best
one
-
sentence
pitch describing my company that I’d ever heard. Though I would never tell her that.

As I sat down at my desk, I quickly scanned my inbox for any critical,
time
-
sensitive
material. Pulling my nail file from the top drawer, I worked on an uneven leftover from yesterday’s manicure, checked my tie for lint, hair, or crumbs, and then straightened my shirt cuffs. My meeting was scheduled for five minutes from now, and this was the first
one
-
on
-
one
meeting with the newest potential board member: Kyle Thomas. Kyle would be put in place by Six Nine Seven Venture Capital, a substantial minority stockholder in FMP. I was prepared for the
run
-
of
-
the
-
mill
get
-
to
-
know
-
you
meeting routine. Compare alma maters, favorite sports teams, light business chatter.

The minute Kyle walked into the room, I knew it was not going to be routine.

My career advancement had been aided by my ability to read people through their language, body movement, and other subtle signs. I prided myself on my power of imagination, my ability to see others from inside. I could predict reactions and manipulate negotiations. And what I
read
—
way
too
clearly
—
in
Kyle’s manner was this: he didn’t like me. I knew it within seconds of our handshake.

“Have a seat,” I offered. “Can I have a coffee brought in for you?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” said Kyle, as he casually let his eyes wander around the office, looking at it as if he were trying to quickly memorize it.

The game began. This wouldn’t be about alma maters.

“So what brings you out today?” I asked. Throw the shovel in the dirt, start digging.

I’d hoped for a slight reaction, a quick glance at me, an acknowledgement that I’d grasped the reins of the upcoming conversation. Instead, he continued the arc of his visual sweep before slowly focusing on me and smiling. Our eyes locked then he pulled away and checked something on his finger as he said: “Couple things.” Eyes up. Smiled back. “First, of course, have the chance to meet you. Put a face on the reputation.”

“Reputation?”

“The man who built FMP. The first CEO.”

Did I detect a slight emphasis on “first”?

“CEO’s only as good as his team.” I shrugged. “I’m blessed with a good one. And of course a few lucky breaks here and there, of course.”

“So I’ve heard. Particularly in the early years.”

“Lucky breaks tend to rise and float with the tide of the economy,” I said. “Lots of things do, I’ve found.”

“With some exceptions.”

I nodded. “There are always exceptions.”

“And,” he said, wearing a concessional expression on his face, “you’re to be commended for keeping the company on stable footing at a time when the world seems to be pretty turbulent.”