which meant letting go of the advertising relationship, at least on the surface of public disclosure. Four months ago, after a heated board meeting that had resulted in the hiring of Kresge amp; Company to assist in reorganizing Musselman’s operations, Tate asked Quinn for a private meeting. During dinner at Everest, one of Chicago’s more private and exclusive restaurants, Tate presented a plan for turning J. B. Musselman into the most visible discount merchandiser in North America, branding his vision as
Quinn eventually bought the idea, mostly because it gave him another way out of his current difficulties, which was precisely what Tate had anticipated. As Kresge amp; Company began its analysis of Musselman’s operations, Quinn engaged Boggs amp; Saggett, an advertising firm with hidden ties to Tate Waterhouse, to develop a marketing campaign for America’s Warehouse. Initially, Quinn had hoped the two efforts would prove to be synergistic. But when Kresge amp; Company expressed doubts about a mass discounting strategy and began pushing for the breakup of Musselman, Quinn decided to bet the company’s future on Tate’s America’s Warehouse strategy.
“There’s another thing I want to talk about,” Quinn was saying. “I’ve decided not to use Morgan on our next stock offering. You recommended someone at KaneWeller at our last board meeting.”
“Jules Kamin.”
“Right. Do you have his contact information?”
“Sure,” Tate said, grinning broadly. “What are you doing for the next few days?”
“Warehouse visits in North and South Carolina, Georgia, and then Florida.”
“Can someone else handle them?”
“Depends on what you have in mind.”
“St. Moritz,” Tate said, as he reflected on how much easier it was to manipulate people when they were separated from their familiar surroundings and placed in the lap of luxury with limitless opportunities for pampering, pleasure, and moneymaking. But further manipulation of David Quinn would not be easy, even in St. Moritz, Tate mulled. Quinn was a no-nonsense individualist, a man of principle and integrity who prided himself on being able to come up with a quick solution to any problem 99 percent of the time. It was an acquired malady among CEOs. The trick, as always, would be to discover what Quinn wanted badly enough in order to abandon his usual high road. Getting rid of Kresge amp; Company would be a good start.
“One of those client retreats you’re always raving about?” Quinn asked.
“Jules Kamin will be there.”
There was silence on the line as Quinn considered Tate’s invitation. He needed Tate’s help and he wanted to meet Jules Kamin. A few days in St. Moritz would also give him some long-overdue downtime. “Let me see what I can do,” Quinn finally said.
“One of our chartered jets will be leaving Chicago O’Hare at eight tomorrow night.”
“I’ll let you know if I can’t make it,” Quinn said. “Otherwise, plan on me.”
“See you in St. Moritz. We’ll have lunch when you arrive,” Tate said.
After hanging up, Tate called his vice president of client relations. She was a beautiful Japanese-American woman blessed with cherubic grace, but it was her flair for orchestrating events and arranging entertainment to the sheer delight of Tate’s clients that made her invaluable. “One of the planes needs to pick up Mr. Quinn at O’Hare tomorrow night. Aren’t we picking up someone else in Chicago?”
“Yes. Mr. Toffler and Mr. Anderson,” she said with characteristic acuity.
“Good. Make sure Quinn receives the full treatment. I don’t want to lose him. Let’s assign Vargas.”
“We’ll take care of everything.”
“What would I do without you?” Tate said, not expecting a response. “Has there been any change in Charles’ condition?” Tate asked.
“No change,” she responded. “We now have someone on site monitoring everything.”
“Perfect,” Tate said before hanging up the phone. Walking back to resume his conversation with the client still waiting in his office, he paused briefly to muse on the colorful chaos of Kandinsky’s
3
Wilson — Sun Valley, ID
After passing strict scrutiny from two uniformed police officers and ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, Wilson defiantly trod through the snow to the covered entryway of his family’s chalet. Throughout his childhood, Wilson’s family had spent half of every summer and three weeks during the ski season at the twenty- room residence. It was one of thirty-two luxury chalets at the White Horse Resort, a complex that also comprised fifty condominiums, a world-class spa, two outdoor swimming pools, three restaurants, and a large conference and entertainment center. Before crossing the threshold to face what lay inside, he took a moment to reminisce about his great-grandfather Harry Wilson Fielder, the resort’s founder. It was his great-grandfather who, in the 1930s, had catapulted the Fielder family into the ranks of the super-rich. Construction of the White Horse Resort at the base of Baldy Mountain had begun in 1946 and the Fielder family had been a vital contributor to the cities of Sun Valley and Ketchum ever since.
Wilson opened the front door and entered the large foyer with its huge stone fireplace. His body tensed at the smell of death that lingered in the air. Still struggling with the reality of what had happened here, he walked slowly through the foyer and into the breakfast nook between the kitchen and the family room. White tape marked the floor and the wing chairs, where the bodies had been found. There were bloodstains on the chairs, the Persian rug, and the hardwood floor. Seeing the outline of where his father had been found, he was overwhelmed by memories of the long conversations they’d had here at White Horse-conversations that had shaped his life.
From the time he was a small child, he had experienced profound feelings of guilt for having more than others-very much his father’s son on this score. It wasn’t that Wilson didn’t take great pleasure in the opportunities and advantages his family’s wealth provided. Still he despised the cliched, yet overwhelming, sense of injustice and inequity that came with these privileges. Ridding himself of the nagging contradiction would, he bluntly acknowledged, require more than philanthropy and patronage.
The sound of Daniel coming through the front door brought Wilson back to the present and what had happened in the chalet less than thirty-six hours earlier. Daniel walked into the large family room where Wilson was standing. Physically striking in a manly sort of way, though not particularly attractive, the lawyer’s deep-set eyes gave nothing away. Wilson knew only a few things about Daniel: he favored formality, was ten years younger than his father, had a reputation for thoroughness, and acted serious about everything, especially his clients. But if he’d been able to accomplish what he promised, Wilson thought, it would go a long way toward solidifying their relationship. No words were spoken until Daniel was standing next to Wilson and both of them were looking down at the white-taped floor. “What happened here, Daniel?”
Daniel looked directly at Wilson, shaking his head. “I wish I knew, Wilson. How is he?”
“His vital signs have improved, but there are still no signs of consciousness,” Wilson said, before asking the obvious. “Are we free to fly?”
“Yes. Whatever you said to the neurosurgeon made him very responsive. The judge signed the medical travel release thirty minutes ago. We didn’t have to involve the FBI. But Detective Zemke’s not happy. What did you say to him when you met?”
Wilson went over the details of his meeting with Zemke, but Daniel seemed distracted, as if anxious about something Wilson had said. “What is it?” Wilson asked.
“It would be best if the Sun Valley police put their investigation on the back burner. There are better ways to find out what happened here. Your father’s estate doesn’t need unnecessary scrutiny if it can be avoided, especially with the impending KaneWeller merger.”
“What do you mean?” Wilson’s eyes had narrowed to slits.
“That’s one of reasons we needed to meet. Your father took great precautions to keep the merger talks out of the press, but I thought maybe you knew.”
