Make that two top Anterdec execs.
Declan was gone now.
“Becky?” he heard McCormick say into his phone. “Get me the PR department. I need to schedule a meeting with them to think of ways we can exploit my son’s pending wedding. No, not that son. He’s already married. I’m talking about Andrew. We need a spike like we got from that crazy helicopter escape. Assemble the PR team for a brainstorming session to come up with ideas. What? No! Absolutely not,” he barked into the phone. “Andrew is not to be consulted. It will be presented to him as a fait accompli.”
Click.
McCormick let out a sound of disgust. “Damn kids. They really don’t understand how good they have it.” Gerald swore he heard a touch of South Boston in those words.
“Sir?”
A deep harumph was his only reply.
Gerald smothered a grin. What James McCormick didn’t know was that Andrew McCormick was currently busy making plans with his fiancée, Amanda, that subverted his father. The two had zero interest in turning their wedding into a media spectacle.
Take two giant egos like Andrew and James and put them in conflict.
This would be better than watching Batman vs. Superman.
And Gerald had a front-seat view.
Literally.
McCormick tapped on his phone and began speaking. “You’re lining up all the media coverage, yes? No, the wedding’s not planned until 2018. That’s right. How the hell is it my concern whether we can schedule that far in advance, Brona? Make it happen. Clear Litraeon so we can have an escape hatch if needed. I’ll work on getting Amanda’s mother to do something media-worthy.”
As James McCormick barked out orders, Gerald smothered yet another smile. Pam Warrick, from what little exposure Gerald had to the woman, was about as likely to create a media drama as Marie Jacoby was to fade quietly into the background.
The rest of the drive involved a series of calls to investment bankers. McCormick used every second in the limo to conduct business. Just like Andrew. When did these guys get downtime?
The trip from James McCormick’s Back Bay home to Dana Farber was fairly short, and by the time he pulled the SUV up to the special entrance, it was 8:35 a.m.
“Ten minutes early. Might as well get it over with.” As James McCormick exited the SUV, he gave Gerald a grave look. “Three hours or so, like last time. You’ll escort me home.”
Last time McCormick looked like death warmed over. Gerald had stayed with him until he fell asleep, sworn to secrecy. “Would you like for me to run errands? Do any shopping while I wait?”
“No.”
The guy didn’t even bother to turn around as the clipped syllable floated back to Gerald.
No big deal.
He was used to it.
As Gerald pulled away from the private entrance, he mentally scanned the SUV. Gas tank half full; fill it. Car hadn’t been washed in five days but was clean. He pulled into a commercial car wash where Anterdec had an account, and listened to classic rock for twenty minutes while the car was washed. Interior detailing took place back at the underground garage at headquarters on a rotation schedule, so he didn’t need to worry about that.
McCormick would come out of the appointment asking for a ginger beer (non-alcoholic) and in need of lemon tea. Meeting the creature-comfort needs of billionaires wasn’t particularly difficult, but you needed to be on top of logistics at all times.
Who better than a former Navy SEAL to manage that?
His personal mobile phone buzzed.
Reminder: inheritance meeting 2 p.m.
Right. He hadn’t forgotten. But he still hadn’t actually read the paperwork in his gym bag. Why would Harold Hopewell leave a damn thing to someone like Gerald? The only billionaires he knew were the McCormicks, and he collected a paycheck from them.
Not a trust fund check.
Pulling into the Anterdec underground garage, Gerald waved to Miles, the security guard at the private entrance. Miles was a fellow vet, but thirty years older. Vietnam.
As he set the gas pump on automatic, Gerald let the gallons fly and finally opened the letter Suzanne had given him last night.
The words blurred.
Artifact.
Harold Hopewell.
Precious item saved from the black market.
Integrity.
Bequeathed to you for your service and honor.
As an artist, you understand the deeper value...
Gerald reeled. The words blurred because blood rushed to his temples, the streak of shock riding from ass to earlobes, setting him on guard.
This had to be a joke, right?
And then he saw the name. That damn name.
Harrison Kulli.
His eyes narrowed, the words coming into sharp focus.
He read on, the letter becoming less formal, a personal note from Hopewell himself.
“The same man who tried to steal the artifact and sell it on the black market may return, like a bad penny, to disrupt the transfer of ownership from my estate to you, Gerald. Eleven years ago, your stalwart work in preserving this treasure was critical. I am well aware of the measures you took—legal and illegal—to bring this sacred item to a place of safety, from the scheming hands of those who would desecrate it. Do not be surprised by Harrison Kulli’s reappearance at this juncture. As before, I trust you will thwart his efforts.”
As his teeth shifted suddenly, Gerald realized he was grinding them, jaw tight as an alligator’s with prey in it.
Kulli.
That bastard.
Speed reading through the rest, he heard the click of a gas pump in the distance. Tank full. Real life moved on, second by second, action by action as he took in the future and the past in one single sheaf of pages.
Kulli. Suzanne. The artifact. The mental list of work errands he had to run. All the tiny life issues he juggled in the back of his mind.