Chapter 7Monday, April 67:30a.m.The commute from Ally's West Village place to the CitiSpace office in SoHo was normally a twenty‑minute brisk stroll, and she brought Knickers with her a lot (the boss's prerogative) since her office was arguably homier than her home. (Knickers loved to wander around and—she thought—guard the computers and drafting tables.) This morning, though, Ally had an appointment for her at Pooch Pros, the dog groomers near her office. A wash and a trim and plenty of pampering. Betty and Misha always fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.But now a pounding rain had just come through, which meant no walk for either of them. Knickers would show up looking like a bedraggled mop. Definitely the moment to take the car.Alexa Hampton liked to say that she wasn't really an auto person. Hers was a four‑year‑oldToyota, light blue, and its modesty befitted her needs. InNew York, hopping aroundSoHoand the Village, it made a lot more sense to rely on a bike or on cabs, or just plain walk. Garaging a car inNew Yorkcost the equivalent of a studio apartment rental in most normal places, and the bottom‑line truth was, she resented theToyota's presence in her life. But there were moments when cabs weren't the answer, and this was one of them. Fortunately, the parking garage she used was just around the corner, so she and Knickers got there before being totally soaked. Knickers loved riding in theToyota, and she always seemed to know what was coming the minute they turned the corner for the garage. This morning she gave a gleeful "Woof" and started panting, a sure indicator of joy.As they drove the few blocks downtown, the rain was easing up but the streets were still shiny. Ally reached into her bag and took out the personal card of Winston Bartlett. His private residence was onGramercyPark. The only reason he could possibly want to meet her there was if he did indeed have a job. She decided she would call him from the office and confirm the appointment, assuming he still remembered it. Then she'd get Jennifer to help her assemble a portfolio of their work and make a color copy to leave with him.She leaned over and rubbed Knickers' ears. Her thoughts were drifting back to Karl Van de Vliet. At some level his stem cell technology sounded like the ultimate snake oil. Was she about to take leave of her common sense to go to see him, or even to consider letting him perform some experimental procedure on her mother's mind?On the other hand, what about him? What kind of "procedure" could Van de Vliet have done that would stop his own skin from aging? If Grant had merely told her that Karl Van de Vliet had finally realized the cosmetician's dream and learned how to make human skin youthful and supple again, she would have passed it off as just more Wall Street IPO hyperbole. But seeing was believing, and it also seemed like there was a lot more going on than just a change in his skin. There was something about him, in his eyes, that felt . . . inconsistent.She was still puzzling on that point when Knickers jumped up and barked. They were passing a garbage truck and the guys were banging the cans into the back."Shhh." She reached to quiet her. "We're almost there, baby." Then she tugged at her leash and settled her back into the seat.Since the rain was all but over, she decided to park the car where she dropped Knickers off and then walk over to her office, which was only a couple of blocks east. She found a spot right next to the awning of Pooch Pros, and the minute Knickers was liberated from the car, she bounded to the door dragging her leash through the puddles. Misha was already there to meet her."Come on, mykracevebaby, my beauty." He reached down and gave her a big hug. Misha was a gaunt, balding, blond‑haired Russian who had once been the hero of the Soviet Olympic swim team. Now he looked like he could stand a piroshki or two to plump him up. "You be big fluff of cloud after we finishing."Ally followed them in, and there was Betty. Ally figured "Betty" assumed her made‑up but totally American name was easier than whatever she'd used inRussia, but to Ally it just felt weird Betty had dark hair, a broad smile that wouldn't die, and approximately thirty pounds that would have looked better on Misha. They reminded her of Jack Sprat, et al."Honey, there is problem at your office. Woman name Jennifer call. Say she try reach you at home but you leave already. And you don't answer your cell phone.""Shit, I turned it off. Knickers goes nuts if it rings in the car."Jennifer was only a couple of years older than Ally, but she'd been with the firm back when Ally's father, Arthur, ran it and she was the mother figure of CitiSpace. She was also Ally's best friend and had been even before Ally came back to run the firm. Ally felt like she had known her forever. These days Jen spent a lot of effort trying to create a social life for Ally that would include eligible men. She kept nagging her to join some clubs, anything, just get out there.Ally knew she was right, but she was working too hard to take time out. She had the idea, which she wasn't naive enough to actually believe at a rational level, that sooner or later someone who could replace Steve would come along. Yes, she was lonely a lot, but until this last deterioration of her heart she'd spent a lot of evenings and weekends outside, biking and hiking around town, and she knew plenty of people who were interesting and kind. She sometimes thought her problem was that she liked people, all kinds of people, as long as they were kept slightly away, at a psychic distance. Maybe it was the getting close part that never seemed to work out.It had actually been that way ever since Steve disappeared. She had the premonition that if she got too close to somebody, she was destined to lose them.Now she stood for a second, puzzling. She'd mentioned taking Knickers to Pooch Pros, so that's how Jen knew where she'd be, but what could have gone wrong at7:45in the morning?Jennifer wasn't usually in this early, but she was finishing a rush job for a marble bathroom for a couple on theUpper East Side. On days when Jennifer did get to the office first, she'd have the coffee going and an extra bagel for Knickers, on the chance Ally might bring her, which she often did. But to phone Betty just to tell her to hurry? That was odd."Should I call now?" It seemed pointless. She was no more than ten minutes away. What else could go wrong in ten minutes?"She sound very hurry," Betty declared.Ally took her cell phone out of her bag and switched it on. The office rang only once and then Jennifer was there."Ally, you're not going to believe who called here ten minutes ago, asking for you. Winston Bartlett. My God, it's like Donald Trump called. Well, actually it was some male secretary or something. He said he was calling to confirm yourten o'clockappointment. At an address on Gramercy Park East. What's that about? Jesus, Ally, where are you? I don't know what you're up to, but this could be big. He owns entire buildings, for chrissake.""Did you say I was coming?""I didn't know what to say. He left a number to call if you can't make it. Otherwise, he'll assume you'll be there. It's only two hours from now.""All right, Jen, let's put together a 'folio’ of our biggest jobs. Lead with that gut rehab we did on the building down by the South Street Seaport. And put in those two floor‑through lofts we did on that conversion in TriBeCa. The ones with the slate bathrooms and the stainless‑steel countertops in the kitchen.""I've already started. Do you know specifically what he has in mind?" She paused. "How did he find out about us, anyway?""My creepy kid brother works for him." She sighed. "It’s a long story. Be there in a couple of minutes." She clicked off the phone."Betty, thanks a lot. I've gotta run." She turned and gave Knickers a last rumple of the ears. "Be good, baby. I'll pick you up by six at the latest.""What wrong?" Misha was concerned, twisting a white towel he was holding. "Big problem?""Nothing's wrong. Actually, something probably is wrong. I just don't know what it is yet." She headed out the door.The design firm her father had started and she'd kept going, now with some architecture thrown in, was on the ground floor of an old industrial loft building whose upper floors had been converted into rental apartments in the early 1980s. The owner was an ex‑wrestler named Oskar Jacobi, who had turned Zen master (after a fashion) and had a studio upstairs, on the second floor. He had drifted from wrestling into karate during his thirties and thence into the life of the mind, or rather the life of "no‑mind," in his late forties. Now he taught meditation as well as karate and insisted they be learned in that order. He served as his own superintendent, mopping the halls and setting out the garbage on pickup days.The ground floor was zoned commercial, and CitiSpace had a lease for all of it, which meant she had tons of space. Oskar had given Ally's dad, Arthur, a ten‑year lease, which was now a fraction of the going rate. They both knew that, and she'd more than once offered to renegotiate or move, but he said he didn't need any more income and, besides, he liked having her as a tenant because she reminded him of her father. It was a generosity perfectly in keeping with his philosophy that excess money corrupted the spirit.She'd done the place as a sort of Spanish desert flower, with burnt‑orange tile floors and all the natural materials she could cram in. A lot of her clients wanted the hard‑edge industrial look in their lofts, which was fine by her, but she found it too cold for a daily working environment. The front was unassuming, with small lettering on the window. CitiSpace was not a walk‑in business. And she had no metal gates over the windows. What's to protect?When she marched through the door, everybody looked up from their coffee and computers, and Jennifer led the applause. Winston Bartlett. Had they finally made the A‑list? This could be the start of something big.Chapter 8Monday, April 69:56a.m.Ally stepped out of the cab, holding the large leather‑bound portfolio, and checked the number on the card against the bronze plaque above the door. Winston Bartlett lived like a nineteenth‑century robber baron. The building had five stories and was adorned with Italian marble window lintels that glowed like mother‑of‑pearl.Already she liked his sense of style.Bartlettwas New Money, but this place had the solemn dignity of Old Money. The front door was eight feet tall and solid mahogany. The odd thing was, there were two doorbells. One read w.bartlettand the other reade. bartlett.That was when she remembered she had read somewhere that he had a wife named Eileen. But why did she have a separate doorbell? Winston Bartlett had a tabloid reputation as a womanizer. Perhaps they lived apart. If so, there it was, for all the world to see.She found herself examining the late Greek Revival columns on either side of the door. They were marble and meticulously cleaned of soot, whose ubiquitous presence inNew Yorkmeant that eventually everything not regularly scrubbed turned gray. It told her that Winston Bartlett liked things to be immaculate and that he was a stickler when it came to details.She glanced up and noticed that she was being observed by a security camera. She was reaching out to push the bell for w.bartlettwhen the door magically opened. A tall, trim Japanese man in a crisp black suit was standing in the doorway. But he had a muscular build that would be more appropriate for a bodyguard than a butler."Hello," she said. "I have an appointment with—""Yes." He nodded, appearing to know exactly who she was. "He's upstairs in the library. Please . . ."She'd expected a grand central staircase in the Palladian design, but instead there were elevators off to the left of the entryway. But even without an obvious staircase, the ground floor and its fifteen‑foot ceiling were palatial in every sense of the term. The marble floors were covered with antique, and expensive, Persian rugs, and the light tan wallpaper was flecked with gold leaf, giving the feeling it could have been meticulously stripped from some palazzo in Venice. The lighting fixtures were a row of chandeliers down the middle of the vast room, and at the back was a dining table that appeared to be large enough to seat thirty dinner guests. The architecture was a showpiece for the extravagant taste of some Victorian "enemy of the people."But what really set it apart was that the walls were lined with exquisitely severe antique swords and armor fromJapan. In a way, the room felt like the foyer of a boutique museum, an adjunct of the Asia Society.The Japanese man directed her to one of the elevators, and then got in with her. She still couldn't decide whether he was a butler or a bodyguard. He had the polished demeanor of the first, but the strapping body and deft movements of the latter. Maybe he was both. In any case, he looked like he would be quite at ease brandishing one of those long samurai swords.The elevator had dark paneling and smelled of freshness, partly fresh wood and partly fresh lacquer. It was utterly silent as it glided up to the third floor. When the door opened, she stepped into what appeared to be a large den/library, except that there was a huge four‑poster antique bed at the far corner, with its drapes drawn around the side. It was definitely something out of another placeand time. Was thisBartlett's bedroom? The space was magisterial.In the other corner was a wide mahogany desk covered with phones and papers and two computers. From his photos, she recognized the man rising to greet her as Winston Bartlett. Seeing him in the flesh, she first noticed that there was something in his eyes that in another man might be called ruthless, but in him it merely came off as determined. They were eyes that were accustomed to getting what they wanted—be it a company, a building, a woman."Fine, Ken, and please have them hold my calls,"Bartlettsaid nodding to the Japanese man, who tipped his head in acknowledgment and disappeared back into the elevator. Then he turned to her and extended his hand. "Ms. Hampton, I appreciate your making time for me. I'm possibly your newest fan. After Grant told me about you, I had a couple of my people do some research. You've been responsible for some very interesting, even elegant interiors. Grant may have told you I have a big project down the road that you might wish to bid on. But for now, as a way of getting to know each other, I wanted to talk to you about a more modest undertaking."She thanked him, attempting to take it all in. She was trying not to admit to herself that Winston Bartlett was an attractive man, in the way that power brings charisma. "I'd be happy to hear about what you have in mind. I don't necessarily take every job that comes along. I always look for challenges."She listened to herself and wondered why she was starting off the meeting in such a confrontational manner. Probably, she thought, it was because she didn't want to seem intimidated. Doing high‑end interior design, you come across a lot of wealth and power, but this was a whole new level."Well, I guess I'm the same way." He smiled. "A lot of the things I've done over the years have ended up being a challenge. And a risk. But now and then, something is worth it." He gestured toward a couch. "Please, we have a lot to talk about."He returned to the chair behind his desk and turned off the laptop computer he had been using."I brought a portfolio," she began, "with photos. There's also a DVD with virtual walk‑throughs of some of our projects. I'm not sure what you have in mind, but this should give you some idea of the kind of thing we—""I'll look at it," he said, setting the portfolio aside unopened. "I'm sure you live up to your reputation. Like I said, I have two jobs pending, so first let me outline the smaller one. This building was built just before the prior turn of the century, and it was intended to house a small workforce of cooks and nannies and seamstresses below stairs. The rooms were lit with town gas, and coal was used for heating and cooking. Then in the twenties, everything was gradually switched over to electricity and oil and natural gas. But very little effort was made to accommodate the change aesthetically. It was just retrofitted.""That's typically how it was done.""And I haven't really cared until now," he went on. "But lately I've decided I want to redo this place properly. Starting below stairs and moving up. It's mainly the kitchen down there that concerns me now. I want to remove all the outdated fixtures and go state of the art. There's nothing original there anymore; just somebody's idea of a 'modernization' back in the fifties. So nothing of historic value will be lost. I don't want a restaurant kitchen precisely, but I want a range with enough Btu's that it could be. Granite countertops are all the rage these days. . . ." He paused, then grinned sheepishly. "I promise I won't start telling you how to do your job. Work up some ideas without any interference from me, and then we'll see where we go from there.""Do you have any blueprints of this building? The original plans?"He smiled, as though to say you ask good questions. "As a matter of fact, they were filed downtown, in a little‑known cranny of the Department of Buildings and I had an expediter I know track them down." He paused. "Ms. Hampton, there is one little matter I want to clear with you in advance. I know that the newspapers occasionally print things about me that might be termed unsavory. You came to meet me here, so that tells me something about your feelings toward me. But I have discovered that I am a somewhat controversial figure in certain circles. I'd just like to know if you think of me as controversial."She found this unexpected new tack in the conversation puzzling. Was he trying to get a rise out of her?"I barely know you, Mr. Bartlett," she said. "And, frankly, the private life of a client is none of my business. So that question is entirely unnecessary.""Very well." He smiled. "Like I said, there's a much larger job now in the planning stage. I have a building onPark Avenuein the Seventies that I'm planning to convert into a museum. It would be a private undertaking at first, but in the long run, who knows? The job will require extensive alterations of the building, and I also plan to have a museum cafe in the lower level. Anyway, there's a lot of work ahead, and I thought this would be a good way for us to get acquainted. Redoing the first floor here would give us both some idea of whether we could work together on a larger project."She listened and found herself wondering what he was really up to. This conversation felt like he thought he needed to have plenty of bait on the hook.First Grant and then him, a tycoon who's a perfect stranger. Why?Monday April 610:38a.m.Winston Bartlett was not finding himself entirely satisfied with the way things were going. As he looked her over, he had a lot on his mind. This was the woman who shared his rare blood type and could represent his last hope. So far, she seemed smart and courageous. Given the gravity of what he'd heard about her heart condition from Karl—which you'd never realize by just looking at her—she had to be courageous to continue on with her kind of spirit. But that was not necessarily all to the good. She might not be so easy to manipulate.Inevitably he found himself comparing her to Kristen. For starters, Alexa Hampton seemed to have a lot more self‑ assurance. Kristy liked to appear tough on camera, but she was riddled with an aspiring actress's insecurities. Which had played a large part in the current tragedy. But you could say she brought that on herself. Alexa Hampton was struggling with something she had nothing to do with. And to look at her, you'd never know it. That was spunk.In truth, this was the kind of woman he'd often wished he'd married—someone who shared his own gusto for life. God had dealt her a particularly lousy hand, and yet she still had drive. She had more courage in her little finger than that monster upstairs, Eileen. And the fact was, she was more appealing than Kristen. But don't even think about going there."Coincidentally," he said, beginning a new tack, "there's a totally unrelated matter I wanted to discuss with you. I understand Grant has already told you about the clinical trials currently winding up at the Dorian Institute, which is part of one of my companies. He told me about your heart condition and about your mother's Alzheimer's. We're working on a new procedure that could be very relevant for both of you. The clinical trials are scheduled to conclude in just a few days from now, but I spoke with the lead researcher there, Dr. Van de Vliet, and he said there's still time to get you into the program.""Yes, Grant came to see me and brought me a brochure.""Your brother is very concerned about you and your mother, and he specifically asked me to inquire if you had any questions about the procedure that I might be able to answer for you."He was watching her carefully, all the while trying to keep his tone casual."Well, I think my mother is interested. Quite frankly, she doesn't have much to lose, though she may be in denial about that. In my own case, I'm not so sure. I still don't know anything about Karl Van de Vliet."She's still toying with the bait,Bartlettthought. I can't yank the line just yet, but she’s close. She’s so close."Truly, the best thing you could do would be to talk to him,"Bartlettsaid getting up from his desk and walking over to the window and pulling the curtains aside. The mid‑morning light streamed in, a momentarily blinding presence. I've got to shake this up, he told himself. "As a matter of fact, I'd like for you to meet with Karl before we go any further with this job. We need to get you well first. And your mother. He's had some truly amazing successes with both Alzheimer's and Parkinson's.""It's just that this is all so experimental. Aren't there any side effects? New drugs or new medical procedures always have side effects."Well, he thought, now you've hit on it. But that part is best left to Karl."If you have questions, that's all the more reason to check out the clinic," he declared. Time to close the sale. He came back and sat down behind the mahogany desk. "I've seen a lot of medical innovation over the years, including a good bit in my own companies. But there's never been anything that remotely compares to the promise of stem cell technology. And these stage‑three clinical trials have shown how many miracles are in the realm of the doable.""Grant said Dr. Van de Vliet wanted to include someone with my specific condition in the—""Let me be frank with you." He looked across at her and smiled. "You would be a perfect fit. But the trials are going to be over very, very soon, so he's anxious to get started.""Truthfully, I'm thinking about taking Mom out there," she said. "And since we're all being so frank, let me say I'm getting the impression that my going out to your clinic is really the reason you wanted to see me today. It's—""It's the second reason," he said. "The design job is uppermost in my mind, but I see nothing wrong with having two purposes in seeing you. As someone once said, commerce is the mutually beneficial exchange of worth."Was she agreeing to see Van de Vliet? Playing the mother card may have done the trick."Well, why don't we stick to tangible worth," she said. "Let me take a look at the space downstairs. But you'll have to tell me some more about what you have in mind.""I propose we do it the other way around. You go down and look around, take measurements, make sketches, whatever it is you do, and then get back to me with some ideas. That'll be our starting point." He picked up a walkie‑talkie on his desk and punched a button. "Ken, could you please come up. I'd like you to show Ms. Hampton the service floor." He clicked it off without waiting for a reply. "I'm due down at the office. When I get there, I'll have them cut a check for five thousand dollars as a retainer and messenger it over to your shop."Is this going to work? he wondered. Maybe I should be pushing harder. . . .He examined Alexa Hampton one last time as he rose to leave. Yes, she's a rare woman. Wouldn't it be ironic if Karl actually could do something for her heart?Monday, April 610:49a.m.As Ally watched Winston Bartlett sweep from the room, she was still trying to take measure of the man. What troubled her was why Grant and Bartlett were both so anxious to get her and her mother out to the clinic. But giveBartletthis due. He could charm the birds off the trees.She looked around the room, wondering what the old kitchen and staff quarters would be like. Certainly not like this. The library/bedroom had a rich, over‑the‑top feeling, with a beautifully molded plaster ceiling, a virtual bas‑relief of fruits and birds and clouds all meticulously painted. It wasn't the Sistine Chapel but had some of that feeling. The paneling and wainscot were burnished mahogany, and the floor was a mix of hardwoods worked into an isometric design. She decided it was probably the most luxurious private residence she had ever seen.CitiSpace was mainly known for its creative handling of lofts in the abandoned commercial buildings ofSoHoand TriBeCa. These old mansions of the nineteenth‑century moguls were an entirely different world. It was intimidating, but she was sure she could do something below stairs that would retain the period flavor of the building while creating the kind of semiprofessional space he said he wanted. Still, it was different from anything else CitiSpace had ever done, so he had no way of knowing whether or not she could pull it off. Again that question: why on earth would he hand her this plum job?And where was his wife? Although he liked to be photographed with blond starlets, the tabloids always reminded you that he had a wife someplace. The two doorbells were a tip‑off that that someplace was here. Best guess: she probably had the top floors.My God was Madame Bartlett going to get involved in the renovation? A lot of women with superrich husbands and too much time on their hands come to assume that that happenstance creates in them a natural gift for interior design. Big problem.But whatever happened, this could be a sweetheart job. And maybe she'd get a crack at that museum he'd talked about. That was the kind of thing an architect‑turned‑interior‑ designer dreamed about.She looked up to see the Japanese man—Bartletthad called him Ken—stepping into the room. He was all business.Monday, April 611:08 A.M.Winston Bartlett was on the phone to Van de Vliet the moment he stepped into his limo to head downtown."She said she's thinking about bringing her mother out to the institute, Karl. I believe she's ready to do it. Before she changes her mind, I want you to talk to her and schedule an appointment for tomorrow morning, if you can.""I'll put in a call to her office.""Karl, she's not there now. Try her cell. Grant has the number. We need to get moving on this. I've done about all I can at the moment." He was watching the midmorning traffic that was clogging the avenue. He always felt claustrophobic in a limo, even a stretch. The only time he felt free was when he was in the McDonnell Douglas chopper. When he was flying the chopper, against all the laws of civil aviation."Don't you think that's a little pushy, W.B.? We shouldn't seem too anxious. Believe me, I've had a lot of experience with ambivalent patients.""All right. She should be back at her office sometime after lunch.""I'll wait awhile and put in a call there." He paused. "When was the last time you saw . . . Beta One? The situation atPark Avenue?""I don't want to discuss it over a cell, Karl." This conversation was definitely a bad idea. "She comes and goes. I think it's getting worse.""I'll try to get over there late this afternoon and look in on her," Van de Vliet said. "I want to see her every day.""Karl, we can't give up hope. Never give up hope."He clicked off the phone and thought about his crapshoot with God. Kristen had wanted to play, to experiment with the Beta. But nobody made her undergo the procedure. She should never—His cell phone rang."Yeah.""Mr. Bartlett," came a female voice with aBrooklynaccent, "it's Bernd Allen calling.""Put him on."Shit,Bartlettthought, this is news I don't want to hear.Bernd was a Brit who was in charge of day‑to‑day accounting for Bartlett Medical Devices. He was forty‑seven and not a risk taker and he was always worried about something. That was his job. These days he had plenty to be worried aboutHe had been running a weekly projection of the cash flow at BMD, and the drawdown was now getting perilous.The flagship product of Bartlett Medical Devices had been the "balloons" used in heart angioplasty that inflate and expand clogged arteries. They were marketed together with stents, miniature metal mesh supports that keep coronary arteries open after angioplasty. The problem was that in 27 percent of the cases, the stents manufactured by BMD caused scar tissue to form, a process called restenosis, and re‑block an artery, requiring a repeat of angioplasty or even a bypass operation. Other manufacturers' numbers were not any better. But a few months back, out of the blue, Hemotronics, a competing company nearBoston, had introduced stents coated with drugs that prevented scarring. BMD's piece of the $2.6 billion angioplasty market had plummeted from 13 percent to 4 percent and was still dropping like a stone.Add to that, two titanium joint replacements for arthritis patients that they'd pinned their future on—along with millions in cash—still had at least two years of human trials left beforethey could hope for FDA approval. Long story short, BMD was in a mature product cycle with its most lucrative hospital hardware, with nothing major in the pipeline for at least two years. They had bet the ranch on the stem cell research at Gerex."W.B., I just got last week's numbers back from the green‑ eyeshade chaps downstairs. As you asked, I had them refine all the assumptions. Remember the union contract. There's going to be a three percent wage increase for all hourly personnel at the end of the month. And we didn't hedge our Euro exposure and now it's going against us. That's my own bloody fault. And since we don't have any pricing flexibility in that territory at the moment it's like a four percent haircut right off the bottom line. Remember we ran that in a worst‑case scenario a while back. Well, chances are we're about to see it for real."Bartletthad been watching the rate of cash burn and trying not to let the problem be evident. The logical thing to do, start laying off workers in the fabrication divisions, was out of the question. If you had a make‑or‑break deal cooking, you couldn't afford to look like you were on the ropes."Give me some parameters,"Bartlettsaid."You know we've already hit our credit lines at Chase about as hard as we dare without them calling for a review. So unless we try to refinance some real property, say the flagship building downtown—and in this interest‑rate environment any rational lender would put a gun to our head—we've got to ink this deal with Cambridge Pharmaceuticals in two months max. Right now we're living on borrowed money and it's about to be borrowed time too."You don't know the half of it,Bartlettthought. I'm already living on borrowed time.What's more, if word of the Beta gets out, we can kiss the buyoutadios. The adverse publicity and legal problems ... Nobody's going to buy into that kind of liability. NotCambridge, not anybody. Bernd doesn't know about it yet. If he did, then he'd really be worried."Bernd, take a deep breath. We're on schedule and we've got to make sure we stay that way. Get hold of Grant and tellhim I want him to double‑check the regulatory situation for theCambridgedeal. I know he already has, but I want a memo from our attorneys bynoontomorrow. If there are going to be any roadblocks cropping up, we need to know about them now. We can't afford to be blindsided."He clicked off the phone and tried to think. In the confines of a limousine, it was hard.What's it all for?Unknown to the world—but, unfortunately, known to his wife, Eileen—Winston Bartlett had a natural son. And that son, now in his own career, despisedBartlett. It was one of many sorrows he had long since learned to bear.All the same, he increasingly regretted that he had made such a botch of their relationship. The man who was his natural son had done very well for himself professionally, had plenty of drive. And in factBartlettbelieved he himself deserved some of the credit for that. What he had done was let the boy fend for himself, which was exactly howBartlettwas raised. Make it with your own two hands. How else are you supposed to develop any character?And it had worked. The pity was, he now hated Winston Bartlett's guts.ButBartletthad begun thinking more and more about a legacy. What if he could make peace with that son and bring him into the business? Right now the closest thing he had to a son was Grant Hampton, andHamptonwas a little too slick and expedient.Bartlettknew a gold‑standard hustler when he saw one.The more he thought about it, the more he was convincing himself to make his natural son his sole heir.Assuming there was anything left to pass on.Monday, April 611:20 A.M."Mr. Bartlett asked me to give you this," Kenji Noda said handing her a large manila envelope as they stepped off theelevator. "It's a copy of the original plans. And also, there's a blueprint for the current layout, along with measurements."She took it, looking him over again as she did. There was something very fluid about his motions. He could have been a dancer. There was a softness about him, and yet you got an unmistakable sense of inner strength. She suspected he had something to do withBartlett's incredible collection of Japanesekatana. He looked like he could have a connoisseur's eye.She walked into the below‑stairs service space and looked around. The back part, which was the kitchen, had stone walls that had been whitewashed. There also were two massive fireplaces, which, she assumed, had once housed coal‑burning stoves. Large grease‑and‑soot‑covered gas ranges were there now.But the space was fabulous. Massive load‑bearing columns went down the center, and a partition separated the front half of the space from the back. The front traditionally would have been the nursery and sewing room, in short, the maids' working quarters.She turned to the manBartletthad called Ken."Does Mr. Bartlett have a cook?" she asked. "This kitchen doesn't look used.""No," he said. "Actually, he almost never dines here, and Mrs. Bartlett has her meals delivered from various restaurants. Though she does go out sometimes as well."This was the first time she had heard any mention of Eileen Bartlett."She resides on the top two floors," he went on. "She has her own dining room up there, where she takes her meals, along with an efficiency kitchen."So theBartlettsdid live completely separate lives. That explained a lot."Okay," she said, "I want to look around and get a feeling for the space and start putting together some ideas." She was starting to focus on the job. The ceiling was lower than upstairs, but still the space had enormous possibilities. "Off the top, I'd probably suggest we open this out. Remove that dividing wall and make a great room. With the right kind of kitchen, this could be a marvelous contemporary space for semiformal dining and entertaining." Assuming, she thought, Winston Bartlett actually wanted a renovated space to entertain. She still had the nagging suspicion that he just wanted her. "I'd use materials that have a really warm tone."Mix different materials for the different parts of the kitchen and the room, she thought. The cabinets could be mahogany, to echo the extensive use of that wood upstairs, and the walls around the stove area and the fireplaces could be an earth‑ colored slate. And that look could be accented with polished granite countertops in a slightly darker hue. There would need to be a high‑Btu stove, probably a big Viking, with a slate backsplash all around. A couple of stainless‑steel Sub‑ Zero refrigerators and a large Bosch dishwasher could be spaced along in the slate and granite. And ifBartlettwanted it, there could be a place for a temperature‑controlled wine cellar. High‑end design.There also would need to be a large stone island—say a Brandy Craig—with a couple of sinks and—depending on what he wanted—maybe another high Btu stovetop there.She turned to Ken. "If you have something else to do . . . I just need to walk around and live in this space a little. Then I want to make some notes on the plans. Possibly take a few photos.""Take your time," he said. "I'll be upstairs."He disappeared into the elevator, with his curious catlike gait, and was gone in an instant.As she looked around she realized the thing that was missing was light.Wait a minute, she thought, there must be a garden at the rear of this building. There are windows in the front, so why aren't there any at the back?She turned to examine the back wall. It was, in fact, clearly of recent origin, and there was a door at one side. She walked over to the door, which was locked with a thumb latch, and opened it.And sure enough, behind the building was an unkempt space the width of the building that ran back for a good thirty or thirty‑five feet. When she stepped out into the late‑morning sunshine and looked at the back of the building, she realized there also was a row of windows facing the garden that had been bricked shut. What a travesty.The whole design would depend on whether those windows could be reopened. But ifBartlettwould allow it, then there were tremendous possibilities. With all this light, you could—"Who the hell are you?" came a raspy, oversmoked voice from behind her. "Are you his new tart? We agreed he would never bring his whores here."Ally turned to see a tall, willowy woman, who appeared to be in her mid‑sixties. She had shoulder‑length blond hair, clearly out of a bottle, and a layer of pancake makeup that looked as though it had been applied by a mortician."Perhaps it would be helpful if I introduced myself." She squeezed past the woman in the doorway and walked over to the counter, where she had left her bag. She extracted a business card and presented it.The woman squinted at it, obviously having trouble making out the print."I work with the design firm CitiSpace, and I was asked by Mr. Bartlett to give him an estimate for some renovations." She had quickly acquired the sense that the less said to this woman, the better."I'm his wife and I still don't know who the hell you are." She squinted at Ally a moment, then glanced back at the card. "What is . . . CitiSpace?""It's an interior‑design firm.""What are you, then? Some kind of decorator?" She grasped the door to steady herself and Ally suddenly wondered if she was slightly tipsy."Actually, what we do is probably closer to architecture."Ally was collecting her belongings, hoping to get out before Eileen Bartlett decided to do something crazy."This is the first I've heard about all this." She turned and slammed the rear door."Mind if I ask you a question?" Ally said. "Do you have any idea why those back windows were bricked over?""It's for security," she said. "No one is ever down here."That's obvious, Ally thought, which is why this job is so odd. This space clearly isn't being used now, and the social dynamic here doesn't bode well for a lot of cozy entertaining and dinner parties in the foreseeable future. So why is he spending money to renovate? And in this big hurry? And he just happened to pick me to do this as an audition for designing an entire museum. No, this whole thing definitely does not compute.But of course it does. The job is a blatant bribe. To butter me up for something."Look, Miss Whoever‑you‑are, I want you to leave. I don't appreciate strange women walking around unescorted in my house.""I'm going right now. Perhaps you should speak to Mr. Bartlett and decide together what you want to do about this space.""I'll tell you right now what I want to do. Nothing. For all I know, he's fixingthisup so he can move in some tart. We've lived here for twenty‑eight years and he's never done anything down here. So why is that tightfisted SOB suddenly deciding to renovate?"
Chapter 7
Monday, April 6
7:30a.m.
The commute from Ally's West Village place to the CitiSpace office in SoHo was normally a twenty‑minute brisk stroll, and she brought Knickers with her a lot (the boss's prerogative) since her office was arguably homier than her home. (Knickers loved to wander around and—she thought—guard the computers and drafting tables.) This morning, though, Ally had an appointment for her at Pooch Pros, the dog groomers near her office. A wash and a trim and plenty of pampering. Betty and Misha always fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.
But now a pounding rain had just come through, which meant no walk for either of them. Knickers would show up looking like a bedraggled mop. Definitely the moment to take the car.
Alexa Hampton liked to say that she wasn't really an auto person. Hers was a four‑year‑oldToyota, light blue, and its modesty befitted her needs. InNew York, hopping aroundSoHoand the Village, it made a lot more sense to rely on a bike or on cabs, or just plain walk. Garaging a car inNew Yorkcost the equivalent of a studio apartment rental in most normal places, and the bottom‑line truth was, she resented theToyota's presence in her life. But there were moments when cabs weren't the answer, and this was one of them. Fortunately, the parking garage she used was just around the corner, so she and Knickers got there before being totally soaked. Knickers loved riding in theToyota, and she always seemed to know what was coming the minute they turned the corner for the garage. This morning she gave a gleeful "Woof" and started panting, a sure indicator of joy.
As they drove the few blocks downtown, the rain was easing up but the streets were still shiny. Ally reached into her bag and took out the personal card of Winston Bartlett. His private residence was onGramercyPark. The only reason he could possibly want to meet her there was if he did indeed have a job. She decided she would call him from the office and confirm the appointment, assuming he still remembered it. Then she'd get Jennifer to help her assemble a portfolio of their work and make a color copy to leave with him.
She leaned over and rubbed Knickers' ears. Her thoughts were drifting back to Karl Van de Vliet. At some level his stem cell technology sounded like the ultimate snake oil. Was she about to take leave of her common sense to go to see him, or even to consider letting him perform some experimental procedure on her mother's mind?
On the other hand, what about him? What kind of "procedure" could Van de Vliet have done that would stop his own skin from aging? If Grant had merely told her that Karl Van de Vliet had finally realized the cosmetician's dream and learned how to make human skin youthful and supple again, she would have passed it off as just more Wall Street IPO hyperbole. But seeing was believing, and it also seemed like there was a lot more going on than just a change in his skin. There was something about him, in his eyes, that felt . . . inconsistent.
She was still puzzling on that point when Knickers jumped up and barked. They were passing a garbage truck and the guys were banging the cans into the back.
"Shhh." She reached to quiet her. "We're almost there, baby." Then she tugged at her leash and settled her back into the seat.
Since the rain was all but over, she decided to park the car where she dropped Knickers off and then walk over to her office, which was only a couple of blocks east. She found a spot right next to the awning of Pooch Pros, and the minute Knickers was liberated from the car, she bounded to the door dragging her leash through the puddles. Misha was already there to meet her.
"Come on, mykracevebaby, my beauty." He reached down and gave her a big hug. Misha was a gaunt, balding, blond‑haired Russian who had once been the hero of the Soviet Olympic swim team. Now he looked like he could stand a piroshki or two to plump him up. "You be big fluff of cloud after we finishing."
Ally followed them in, and there was Betty. Ally figured "Betty" assumed her made‑up but totally American name was easier than whatever she'd used inRussia, but to Ally it just felt weird Betty had dark hair, a broad smile that wouldn't die, and approximately thirty pounds that would have looked better on Misha. They reminded her of Jack Sprat, et al.
"Honey, there is problem at your office. Woman name Jennifer call. Say she try reach you at home but you leave already. And you don't answer your cell phone."
"Shit, I turned it off. Knickers goes nuts if it rings in the car."
Jennifer was only a couple of years older than Ally, but she'd been with the firm back when Ally's father, Arthur, ran it and she was the mother figure of CitiSpace. She was also Ally's best friend and had been even before Ally came back to run the firm. Ally felt like she had known her forever. These days Jen spent a lot of effort trying to create a social life for Ally that would include eligible men. She kept nagging her to join some clubs, anything, just get out there.
Ally knew she was right, but she was working too hard to take time out. She had the idea, which she wasn't naive enough to actually believe at a rational level, that sooner or later someone who could replace Steve would come along. Yes, she was lonely a lot, but until this last deterioration of her heart she'd spent a lot of evenings and weekends outside, biking and hiking around town, and she knew plenty of people who were interesting and kind. She sometimes thought her problem was that she liked people, all kinds of people, as long as they were kept slightly away, at a psychic distance. Maybe it was the getting close part that never seemed to work out.
It had actually been that way ever since Steve disappeared. She had the premonition that if she got too close to somebody, she was destined to lose them.
Now she stood for a second, puzzling. She'd mentioned taking Knickers to Pooch Pros, so that's how Jen knew where she'd be, but what could have gone wrong at7:45in the morning?
Jennifer wasn't usually in this early, but she was finishing a rush job for a marble bathroom for a couple on theUpper East Side. On days when Jennifer did get to the office first, she'd have the coffee going and an extra bagel for Knickers, on the chance Ally might bring her, which she often did. But to phone Betty just to tell her to hurry? That was odd.
"Should I call now?" It seemed pointless. She was no more than ten minutes away. What else could go wrong in ten minutes?
"She sound very hurry," Betty declared.
Ally took her cell phone out of her bag and switched it on. The office rang only once and then Jennifer was there.
"Ally, you're not going to believe who called here ten minutes ago, asking for you. Winston Bartlett. My God, it's like Donald Trump called. Well, actually it was some male secretary or something. He said he was calling to confirm yourten o'clockappointment. At an address on Gramercy Park East. What's that about? Jesus, Ally, where are you? I don't know what you're up to, but this could be big. He owns entire buildings, for chrissake."
"Did you say I was coming?"
"I didn't know what to say. He left a number to call if you can't make it. Otherwise, he'll assume you'll be there. It's only two hours from now."
"All right, Jen, let's put together a 'folio’ of our biggest jobs. Lead with that gut rehab we did on the building down by the South Street Seaport. And put in those two floor‑through lofts we did on that conversion in TriBeCa. The ones with the slate bathrooms and the stainless‑steel countertops in the kitchen."
"I've already started. Do you know specifically what he has in mind?" She paused. "How did he find out about us, anyway?"
"My creepy kid brother works for him." She sighed. "It’s a long story. Be there in a couple of minutes." She clicked off the phone.
"Betty, thanks a lot. I've gotta run." She turned and gave Knickers a last rumple of the ears. "Be good, baby. I'll pick you up by six at the latest."
"What wrong?" Misha was concerned, twisting a white towel he was holding. "Big problem?"
"Nothing's wrong. Actually, something probably is wrong. I just don't know what it is yet." She headed out the door.
The design firm her father had started and she'd kept going, now with some architecture thrown in, was on the ground floor of an old industrial loft building whose upper floors had been converted into rental apartments in the early 1980s. The owner was an ex‑wrestler named Oskar Jacobi, who had turned Zen master (after a fashion) and had a studio upstairs, on the second floor. He had drifted from wrestling into karate during his thirties and thence into the life of the mind, or rather the life of "no‑mind," in his late forties. Now he taught meditation as well as karate and insisted they be learned in that order. He served as his own superintendent, mopping the halls and setting out the garbage on pickup days.
The ground floor was zoned commercial, and CitiSpace had a lease for all of it, which meant she had tons of space. Oskar had given Ally's dad, Arthur, a ten‑year lease, which was now a fraction of the going rate. They both knew that, and she'd more than once offered to renegotiate or move, but he said he didn't need any more income and, besides, he liked having her as a tenant because she reminded him of her father. It was a generosity perfectly in keeping with his philosophy that excess money corrupted the spirit.
She'd done the place as a sort of Spanish desert flower, with burnt‑orange tile floors and all the natural materials she could cram in. A lot of her clients wanted the hard‑edge industrial look in their lofts, which was fine by her, but she found it too cold for a daily working environment. The front was unassuming, with small lettering on the window. CitiSpace was not a walk‑in business. And she had no metal gates over the windows. What's to protect?
When she marched through the door, everybody looked up from their coffee and computers, and Jennifer led the applause. Winston Bartlett. Had they finally made the A‑list? This could be the start of something big.
Chapter 8
Monday, April 6
9:56a.m.
Ally stepped out of the cab, holding the large leather‑bound portfolio, and checked the number on the card against the bronze plaque above the door. Winston Bartlett lived like a nineteenth‑century robber baron. The building had five stories and was adorned with Italian marble window lintels that glowed like mother‑of‑pearl.
Already she liked his sense of style.Bartlettwas New Money, but this place had the solemn dignity of Old Money. The front door was eight feet tall and solid mahogany. The odd thing was, there were two doorbells. One read w.bartlettand the other reade. bartlett.
That was when she remembered she had read somewhere that he had a wife named Eileen. But why did she have a separate doorbell? Winston Bartlett had a tabloid reputation as a womanizer. Perhaps they lived apart. If so, there it was, for all the world to see.
She found herself examining the late Greek Revival columns on either side of the door. They were marble and meticulously cleaned of soot, whose ubiquitous presence inNew Yorkmeant that eventually everything not regularly scrubbed turned gray. It told her that Winston Bartlett liked things to be immaculate and that he was a stickler when it came to details.
She glanced up and noticed that she was being observed by a security camera. She was reaching out to push the bell for w.bartlettwhen the door magically opened. A tall, trim Japanese man in a crisp black suit was standing in the doorway. But he had a muscular build that would be more appropriate for a bodyguard than a butler.
"Hello," she said. "I have an appointment with—"
"Yes." He nodded, appearing to know exactly who she was. "He's upstairs in the library. Please . . ."
She'd expected a grand central staircase in the Palladian design, but instead there were elevators off to the left of the entryway. But even without an obvious staircase, the ground floor and its fifteen‑foot ceiling were palatial in every sense of the term. The marble floors were covered with antique, and expensive, Persian rugs, and the light tan wallpaper was flecked with gold leaf, giving the feeling it could have been meticulously stripped from some palazzo in Venice. The lighting fixtures were a row of chandeliers down the middle of the vast room, and at the back was a dining table that appeared to be large enough to seat thirty dinner guests. The architecture was a showpiece for the extravagant taste of some Victorian "enemy of the people."
But what really set it apart was that the walls were lined with exquisitely severe antique swords and armor fromJapan. In a way, the room felt like the foyer of a boutique museum, an adjunct of the Asia Society.
The Japanese man directed her to one of the elevators, and then got in with her. She still couldn't decide whether he was a butler or a bodyguard. He had the polished demeanor of the first, but the strapping body and deft movements of the latter. Maybe he was both. In any case, he looked like he would be quite at ease brandishing one of those long samurai swords.
The elevator had dark paneling and smelled of freshness, partly fresh wood and partly fresh lacquer. It was utterly silent as it glided up to the third floor. When the door opened, she stepped into what appeared to be a large den/library, except that there was a huge four‑poster antique bed at the far corner, with its drapes drawn around the side. It was definitely something out of another placeand time. Was thisBartlett's bedroom? The space was magisterial.
In the other corner was a wide mahogany desk covered with phones and papers and two computers. From his photos, she recognized the man rising to greet her as Winston Bartlett. Seeing him in the flesh, she first noticed that there was something in his eyes that in another man might be called ruthless, but in him it merely came off as determined. They were eyes that were accustomed to getting what they wanted—be it a company, a building, a woman.
"Fine, Ken, and please have them hold my calls,"Bartlettsaid nodding to the Japanese man, who tipped his head in acknowledgment and disappeared back into the elevator. Then he turned to her and extended his hand. "Ms. Hampton, I appreciate your making time for me. I'm possibly your newest fan. After Grant told me about you, I had a couple of my people do some research. You've been responsible for some very interesting, even elegant interiors. Grant may have told you I have a big project down the road that you might wish to bid on. But for now, as a way of getting to know each other, I wanted to talk to you about a more modest undertaking."
She thanked him, attempting to take it all in. She was trying not to admit to herself that Winston Bartlett was an attractive man, in the way that power brings charisma. "I'd be happy to hear about what you have in mind. I don't necessarily take every job that comes along. I always look for challenges."
She listened to herself and wondered why she was starting off the meeting in such a confrontational manner. Probably, she thought, it was because she didn't want to seem intimidated. Doing high‑end interior design, you come across a lot of wealth and power, but this was a whole new level.
"Well, I guess I'm the same way." He smiled. "A lot of the things I've done over the years have ended up being a challenge. And a risk. But now and then, something is worth it." He gestured toward a couch. "Please, we have a lot to talk about."
He returned to the chair behind his desk and turned off the laptop computer he had been using.
"I brought a portfolio," she began, "with photos. There's also a DVD with virtual walk‑throughs of some of our projects. I'm not sure what you have in mind, but this should give you some idea of the kind of thing we—"
"I'll look at it," he said, setting the portfolio aside unopened. "I'm sure you live up to your reputation. Like I said, I have two jobs pending, so first let me outline the smaller one. This building was built just before the prior turn of the century, and it was intended to house a small workforce of cooks and nannies and seamstresses below stairs. The rooms were lit with town gas, and coal was used for heating and cooking. Then in the twenties, everything was gradually switched over to electricity and oil and natural gas. But very little effort was made to accommodate the change aesthetically. It was just retrofitted."
"That's typically how it was done."
"And I haven't really cared until now," he went on. "But lately I've decided I want to redo this place properly. Starting below stairs and moving up. It's mainly the kitchen down there that concerns me now. I want to remove all the outdated fixtures and go state of the art. There's nothing original there anymore; just somebody's idea of a 'modernization' back in the fifties. So nothing of historic value will be lost. I don't want a restaurant kitchen precisely, but I want a range with enough Btu's that it could be. Granite countertops are all the rage these days. . . ." He paused, then grinned sheepishly. "I promise I won't start telling you how to do your job. Work up some ideas without any interference from me, and then we'll see where we go from there."
"Do you have any blueprints of this building? The original plans?"
He smiled, as though to say you ask good questions. "As a matter of fact, they were filed downtown, in a little‑known cranny of the Department of Buildings and I had an expediter I know track them down." He paused. "Ms. Hampton, there is one little matter I want to clear with you in advance. I know that the newspapers occasionally print things about me that might be termed unsavory. You came to meet me here, so that tells me something about your feelings toward me. But I have discovered that I am a somewhat controversial figure in certain circles. I'd just like to know if you think of me as controversial."
She found this unexpected new tack in the conversation puzzling. Was he trying to get a rise out of her?
"I barely know you, Mr. Bartlett," she said. "And, frankly, the private life of a client is none of my business. So that question is entirely unnecessary."
"Very well." He smiled. "Like I said, there's a much larger job now in the planning stage. I have a building onPark Avenuein the Seventies that I'm planning to convert into a museum. It would be a private undertaking at first, but in the long run, who knows? The job will require extensive alterations of the building, and I also plan to have a museum cafe in the lower level. Anyway, there's a lot of work ahead, and I thought this would be a good way for us to get acquainted. Redoing the first floor here would give us both some idea of whether we could work together on a larger project."
She listened and found herself wondering what he was really up to. This conversation felt like he thought he needed to have plenty of bait on the hook.
First Grant and then him, a tycoon who's a perfect stranger. Why?
Monday April 6
10:38a.m.
Winston Bartlett was not finding himself entirely satisfied with the way things were going. As he looked her over, he had a lot on his mind. This was the woman who shared his rare blood type and could represent his last hope. So far, she seemed smart and courageous. Given the gravity of what he'd heard about her heart condition from Karl—which you'd never realize by just looking at her—she had to be courageous to continue on with her kind of spirit. But that was not necessarily all to the good. She might not be so easy to manipulate.
Inevitably he found himself comparing her to Kristen. For starters, Alexa Hampton seemed to have a lot more self‑ assurance. Kristy liked to appear tough on camera, but she was riddled with an aspiring actress's insecurities. Which had played a large part in the current tragedy. But you could say she brought that on herself. Alexa Hampton was struggling with something she had nothing to do with. And to look at her, you'd never know it. That was spunk.
In truth, this was the kind of woman he'd often wished he'd married—someone who shared his own gusto for life. God had dealt her a particularly lousy hand, and yet she still had drive. She had more courage in her little finger than that monster upstairs, Eileen. And the fact was, she was more appealing than Kristen. But don't even think about going there.
"Coincidentally," he said, beginning a new tack, "there's a totally unrelated matter I wanted to discuss with you. I understand Grant has already told you about the clinical trials currently winding up at the Dorian Institute, which is part of one of my companies. He told me about your heart condition and about your mother's Alzheimer's. We're working on a new procedure that could be very relevant for both of you. The clinical trials are scheduled to conclude in just a few days from now, but I spoke with the lead researcher there, Dr. Van de Vliet, and he said there's still time to get you into the program."
"Yes, Grant came to see me and brought me a brochure."
"Your brother is very concerned about you and your mother, and he specifically asked me to inquire if you had any questions about the procedure that I might be able to answer for you."
He was watching her carefully, all the while trying to keep his tone casual.
"Well, I think my mother is interested. Quite frankly, she doesn't have much to lose, though she may be in denial about that. In my own case, I'm not so sure. I still don't know anything about Karl Van de Vliet."
She's still toying with the bait,Bartlettthought. I can't yank the line just yet, but she’s close. She’s so close.
"Truly, the best thing you could do would be to talk to him,"Bartlettsaid getting up from his desk and walking over to the window and pulling the curtains aside. The mid‑morning light streamed in, a momentarily blinding presence. I've got to shake this up, he told himself. "As a matter of fact, I'd like for you to meet with Karl before we go any further with this job. We need to get you well first. And your mother. He's had some truly amazing successes with both Alzheimer's and Parkinson's."
"It's just that this is all so experimental. Aren't there any side effects? New drugs or new medical procedures always have side effects."
Well, he thought, now you've hit on it. But that part is best left to Karl.
"If you have questions, that's all the more reason to check out the clinic," he declared. Time to close the sale. He came back and sat down behind the mahogany desk. "I've seen a lot of medical innovation over the years, including a good bit in my own companies. But there's never been anything that remotely compares to the promise of stem cell technology. And these stage‑three clinical trials have shown how many miracles are in the realm of the doable."
"Grant said Dr. Van de Vliet wanted to include someone with my specific condition in the—"
"Let me be frank with you." He looked across at her and smiled. "You would be a perfect fit. But the trials are going to be over very, very soon, so he's anxious to get started."
"Truthfully, I'm thinking about taking Mom out there," she said. "And since we're all being so frank, let me say I'm getting the impression that my going out to your clinic is really the reason you wanted to see me today. It's—"
"It's the second reason," he said. "The design job is uppermost in my mind, but I see nothing wrong with having two purposes in seeing you. As someone once said, commerce is the mutually beneficial exchange of worth."
Was she agreeing to see Van de Vliet? Playing the mother card may have done the trick.
"Well, why don't we stick to tangible worth," she said. "Let me take a look at the space downstairs. But you'll have to tell me some more about what you have in mind."
"I propose we do it the other way around. You go down and look around, take measurements, make sketches, whatever it is you do, and then get back to me with some ideas. That'll be our starting point." He picked up a walkie‑talkie on his desk and punched a button. "Ken, could you please come up. I'd like you to show Ms. Hampton the service floor." He clicked it off without waiting for a reply. "I'm due down at the office. When I get there, I'll have them cut a check for five thousand dollars as a retainer and messenger it over to your shop."
Is this going to work? he wondered. Maybe I should be pushing harder. . . .
He examined Alexa Hampton one last time as he rose to leave. Yes, she's a rare woman. Wouldn't it be ironic if Karl actually could do something for her heart?
Monday, April 6
10:49a.m.
As Ally watched Winston Bartlett sweep from the room, she was still trying to take measure of the man. What troubled her was why Grant and Bartlett were both so anxious to get her and her mother out to the clinic. But giveBartletthis due. He could charm the birds off the trees.
She looked around the room, wondering what the old kitchen and staff quarters would be like. Certainly not like this. The library/bedroom had a rich, over‑the‑top feeling, with a beautifully molded plaster ceiling, a virtual bas‑relief of fruits and birds and clouds all meticulously painted. It wasn't the Sistine Chapel but had some of that feeling. The paneling and wainscot were burnished mahogany, and the floor was a mix of hardwoods worked into an isometric design. She decided it was probably the most luxurious private residence she had ever seen.
CitiSpace was mainly known for its creative handling of lofts in the abandoned commercial buildings ofSoHoand TriBeCa. These old mansions of the nineteenth‑century moguls were an entirely different world. It was intimidating, but she was sure she could do something below stairs that would retain the period flavor of the building while creating the kind of semiprofessional space he said he wanted. Still, it was different from anything else CitiSpace had ever done, so he had no way of knowing whether or not she could pull it off. Again that question: why on earth would he hand her this plum job?
And where was his wife? Although he liked to be photographed with blond starlets, the tabloids always reminded you that he had a wife someplace. The two doorbells were a tip‑off that that someplace was here. Best guess: she probably had the top floors.
My God was Madame Bartlett going to get involved in the renovation? A lot of women with superrich husbands and too much time on their hands come to assume that that happenstance creates in them a natural gift for interior design. Big problem.
But whatever happened, this could be a sweetheart job. And maybe she'd get a crack at that museum he'd talked about. That was the kind of thing an architect‑turned‑interior‑ designer dreamed about.
She looked up to see the Japanese man—Bartletthad called him Ken—stepping into the room. He was all business.
Monday, April 6
11:08 A.M.
Winston Bartlett was on the phone to Van de Vliet the moment he stepped into his limo to head downtown.
"She said she's thinking about bringing her mother out to the institute, Karl. I believe she's ready to do it. Before she changes her mind, I want you to talk to her and schedule an appointment for tomorrow morning, if you can."
"I'll put in a call to her office."
"Karl, she's not there now. Try her cell. Grant has the number. We need to get moving on this. I've done about all I can at the moment." He was watching the midmorning traffic that was clogging the avenue. He always felt claustrophobic in a limo, even a stretch. The only time he felt free was when he was in the McDonnell Douglas chopper. When he was flying the chopper, against all the laws of civil aviation.
"Don't you think that's a little pushy, W.B.? We shouldn't seem too anxious. Believe me, I've had a lot of experience with ambivalent patients."
"All right. She should be back at her office sometime after lunch."
"I'll wait awhile and put in a call there." He paused. "When was the last time you saw . . . Beta One? The situation atPark Avenue?"
"I don't want to discuss it over a cell, Karl." This conversation was definitely a bad idea. "She comes and goes. I think it's getting worse."
"I'll try to get over there late this afternoon and look in on her," Van de Vliet said. "I want to see her every day."
"Karl, we can't give up hope. Never give up hope."
He clicked off the phone and thought about his crapshoot with God. Kristen had wanted to play, to experiment with the Beta. But nobody made her undergo the procedure. She should never—
His cell phone rang.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Bartlett," came a female voice with aBrooklynaccent, "it's Bernd Allen calling."
"Put him on."
Shit,Bartlettthought, this is news I don't want to hear.
Bernd was a Brit who was in charge of day‑to‑day accounting for Bartlett Medical Devices. He was forty‑seven and not a risk taker and he was always worried about something. That was his job. These days he had plenty to be worried about
He had been running a weekly projection of the cash flow at BMD, and the drawdown was now getting perilous.
The flagship product of Bartlett Medical Devices had been the "balloons" used in heart angioplasty that inflate and expand clogged arteries. They were marketed together with stents, miniature metal mesh supports that keep coronary arteries open after angioplasty. The problem was that in 27 percent of the cases, the stents manufactured by BMD caused scar tissue to form, a process called restenosis, and re‑block an artery, requiring a repeat of angioplasty or even a bypass operation. Other manufacturers' numbers were not any better. But a few months back, out of the blue, Hemotronics, a competing company nearBoston, had introduced stents coated with drugs that prevented scarring. BMD's piece of the $2.6 billion angioplasty market had plummeted from 13 percent to 4 percent and was still dropping like a stone.
Add to that, two titanium joint replacements for arthritis patients that they'd pinned their future on—along with millions in cash—still had at least two years of human trials left before
they could hope for FDA approval. Long story short, BMD was in a mature product cycle with its most lucrative hospital hardware, with nothing major in the pipeline for at least two years. They had bet the ranch on the stem cell research at Gerex.
"W.B., I just got last week's numbers back from the green‑ eyeshade chaps downstairs. As you asked, I had them refine all the assumptions. Remember the union contract. There's going to be a three percent wage increase for all hourly personnel at the end of the month. And we didn't hedge our Euro exposure and now it's going against us. That's my own bloody fault. And since we don't have any pricing flexibility in that territory at the moment it's like a four percent haircut right off the bottom line. Remember we ran that in a worst‑case scenario a while back. Well, chances are we're about to see it for real."
Bartletthad been watching the rate of cash burn and trying not to let the problem be evident. The logical thing to do, start laying off workers in the fabrication divisions, was out of the question. If you had a make‑or‑break deal cooking, you couldn't afford to look like you were on the ropes.
"Give me some parameters,"Bartlettsaid.
"You know we've already hit our credit lines at Chase about as hard as we dare without them calling for a review. So unless we try to refinance some real property, say the flagship building downtown—and in this interest‑rate environment any rational lender would put a gun to our head—we've got to ink this deal with Cambridge Pharmaceuticals in two months max. Right now we're living on borrowed money and it's about to be borrowed time too."
You don't know the half of it,Bartlettthought. I'm already living on borrowed time.
What's more, if word of the Beta gets out, we can kiss the buyoutadios. The adverse publicity and legal problems ... Nobody's going to buy into that kind of liability. NotCambridge, not anybody. Bernd doesn't know about it yet. If he did, then he'd really be worried.
"Bernd, take a deep breath. We're on schedule and we've got to make sure we stay that way. Get hold of Grant and tell
him I want him to double‑check the regulatory situation for theCambridgedeal. I know he already has, but I want a memo from our attorneys bynoontomorrow. If there are going to be any roadblocks cropping up, we need to know about them now. We can't afford to be blindsided."
He clicked off the phone and tried to think. In the confines of a limousine, it was hard.
What's it all for?
Unknown to the world—but, unfortunately, known to his wife, Eileen—Winston Bartlett had a natural son. And that son, now in his own career, despisedBartlett. It was one of many sorrows he had long since learned to bear.
All the same, he increasingly regretted that he had made such a botch of their relationship. The man who was his natural son had done very well for himself professionally, had plenty of drive. And in factBartlettbelieved he himself deserved some of the credit for that. What he had done was let the boy fend for himself, which was exactly howBartlettwas raised. Make it with your own two hands. How else are you supposed to develop any character?
And it had worked. The pity was, he now hated Winston Bartlett's guts.
ButBartletthad begun thinking more and more about a legacy. What if he could make peace with that son and bring him into the business? Right now the closest thing he had to a son was Grant Hampton, andHamptonwas a little too slick and expedient.Bartlettknew a gold‑standard hustler when he saw one.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convincing himself to make his natural son his sole heir.
Assuming there was anything left to pass on.
Monday, April 6
11:20 A.M.
"Mr. Bartlett asked me to give you this," Kenji Noda said handing her a large manila envelope as they stepped off the
elevator. "It's a copy of the original plans. And also, there's a blueprint for the current layout, along with measurements."
She took it, looking him over again as she did. There was something very fluid about his motions. He could have been a dancer. There was a softness about him, and yet you got an unmistakable sense of inner strength. She suspected he had something to do withBartlett's incredible collection of Japanesekatana. He looked like he could have a connoisseur's eye.
She walked into the below‑stairs service space and looked around. The back part, which was the kitchen, had stone walls that had been whitewashed. There also were two massive fireplaces, which, she assumed, had once housed coal‑burning stoves. Large grease‑and‑soot‑covered gas ranges were there now.
But the space was fabulous. Massive load‑bearing columns went down the center, and a partition separated the front half of the space from the back. The front traditionally would have been the nursery and sewing room, in short, the maids' working quarters.
She turned to the manBartletthad called Ken.
"Does Mr. Bartlett have a cook?" she asked. "This kitchen doesn't look used."
"No," he said. "Actually, he almost never dines here, and Mrs. Bartlett has her meals delivered from various restaurants. Though she does go out sometimes as well."
This was the first time she had heard any mention of Eileen Bartlett.
"She resides on the top two floors," he went on. "She has her own dining room up there, where she takes her meals, along with an efficiency kitchen."
So theBartlettsdid live completely separate lives. That explained a lot.
"Okay," she said, "I want to look around and get a feeling for the space and start putting together some ideas." She was starting to focus on the job. The ceiling was lower than upstairs, but still the space had enormous possibilities. "Off the top, I'd probably suggest we open this out. Remove that dividing wall and make a great room. With the right kind of kitchen, this could be a marvelous contemporary space for semiformal dining and entertaining." Assuming, she thought, Winston Bartlett actually wanted a renovated space to entertain. She still had the nagging suspicion that he just wanted her. "I'd use materials that have a really warm tone."
Mix different materials for the different parts of the kitchen and the room, she thought. The cabinets could be mahogany, to echo the extensive use of that wood upstairs, and the walls around the stove area and the fireplaces could be an earth‑ colored slate. And that look could be accented with polished granite countertops in a slightly darker hue. There would need to be a high‑Btu stove, probably a big Viking, with a slate backsplash all around. A couple of stainless‑steel Sub‑ Zero refrigerators and a large Bosch dishwasher could be spaced along in the slate and granite. And ifBartlettwanted it, there could be a place for a temperature‑controlled wine cellar. High‑end design.
There also would need to be a large stone island—say a Brandy Craig—with a couple of sinks and—depending on what he wanted—maybe another high Btu stovetop there.
She turned to Ken. "If you have something else to do . . . I just need to walk around and live in this space a little. Then I want to make some notes on the plans. Possibly take a few photos."
"Take your time," he said. "I'll be upstairs."
He disappeared into the elevator, with his curious catlike gait, and was gone in an instant.
As she looked around she realized the thing that was missing was light.
Wait a minute, she thought, there must be a garden at the rear of this building. There are windows in the front, so why aren't there any at the back?
She turned to examine the back wall. It was, in fact, clearly of recent origin, and there was a door at one side. She walked over to the door, which was locked with a thumb latch, and opened it.
And sure enough, behind the building was an unkempt space the width of the building that ran back for a good thirty or thirty‑five feet. When she stepped out into the late‑morning sunshine and looked at the back of the building, she realized there also was a row of windows facing the garden that had been bricked shut. What a travesty.
The whole design would depend on whether those windows could be reopened. But ifBartlettwould allow it, then there were tremendous possibilities. With all this light, you could—
"Who the hell are you?" came a raspy, oversmoked voice from behind her. "Are you his new tart? We agreed he would never bring his whores here."
Ally turned to see a tall, willowy woman, who appeared to be in her mid‑sixties. She had shoulder‑length blond hair, clearly out of a bottle, and a layer of pancake makeup that looked as though it had been applied by a mortician.
"Perhaps it would be helpful if I introduced myself." She squeezed past the woman in the doorway and walked over to the counter, where she had left her bag. She extracted a business card and presented it.
The woman squinted at it, obviously having trouble making out the print.
"I work with the design firm CitiSpace, and I was asked by Mr. Bartlett to give him an estimate for some renovations." She had quickly acquired the sense that the less said to this woman, the better.
"I'm his wife and I still don't know who the hell you are." She squinted at Ally a moment, then glanced back at the card. "What is . . . CitiSpace?"
"It's an interior‑design firm."
"What are you, then? Some kind of decorator?" She grasped the door to steady herself and Ally suddenly wondered if she was slightly tipsy.
"Actually, what we do is probably closer to architecture."
Ally was collecting her belongings, hoping to get out before Eileen Bartlett decided to do something crazy.
"This is the first I've heard about all this." She turned and slammed the rear door.
"Mind if I ask you a question?" Ally said. "Do you have any idea why those back windows were bricked over?"
"It's for security," she said. "No one is ever down here."
That's obvious, Ally thought, which is why this job is so odd. This space clearly isn't being used now, and the social dynamic here doesn't bode well for a lot of cozy entertaining and dinner parties in the foreseeable future. So why is he spending money to renovate? And in this big hurry? And he just happened to pick me to do this as an audition for designing an entire museum. No, this whole thing definitely does not compute.
But of course it does. The job is a blatant bribe. To butter me up for something.
"Look, Miss Whoever‑you‑are, I want you to leave. I don't appreciate strange women walking around unescorted in my house."
"I'm going right now. Perhaps you should speak to Mr. Bartlett and decide together what you want to do about this space."
"I'll tell you right now what I want to do. Nothing. For all I know, he's fixingthisup so he can move in some tart. We've lived here for twenty‑eight years and he's never done anything down here. So why is that tightfisted SOB suddenly deciding to renovate?"