relationship you don’t know about.”
Montaro seemed to take this information in stride, but Cecilia tensed. She waited, listening to the lawyer’s asthmatic breathing until she heard her husband’s question.
“Personal as in sexual?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Whitcombe.
“Who is he?”
“A student.”
“Is she pregnant? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I strongly recommend you check that out.”
“What’s this kid’s name?”
“Nick Corcell.”
“What’s he like?”
“Bad news,” said Whitcombe. “He’s the root of the problem; but she’s holding the bag, if you know what I mean. He’s smart, cunning, manipulative, and apparently cold-blooded. I strongly recommend we come down on him hard and quick. It’s the only thing that can save her, as I see it.”
Cecilia poured the hot milk from the pot into a pitcher, and placed it on a tray along with an empty cup and the dish of cookies. Then, tray in hand, she walked briskly from the kitchen. As Caine followed her with his eyes, the phones stopped ringing, leaving the two men in heavy silence.
Caine took a breath, turned to Whitcombe, and gave voice to the pragmatic philosophy that ruled his personal and professional lives, both of which seemed to be on the verge of collapse. “We will do what we have to,” he said, thus releasing Whitcombe to plan the downfall of Nick Corcell.
5
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , M ONTARO ARRIVED WELL IN ADVANCE of his scheduled meeting with Herman Freich and Colette Beekman at the Fitzer Lab, proceeding directly to the office of his research director, Michen Borceau. The lab was located where it had been since the company’s founding, in lower Manhattan, despite the long-standing advice of Montaro’s colleagues, particularly Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace, to move it out of the city to a location—perhaps Stamford, Connecticut—where space was cheaper. Montaro knew that his attachment to the Manhattan location had provided much fodder for Rothman and Wallace, both of whom had accused Montaro of intransigence and foolhardy sentimentality. But Montaro still loved the lab’s connection to Fitzer’s nearly century-old history; the place reminded him of the laboratories at M.I.T. where he had trained, and more so than even his office, his Westport home, or his apartment in The Carlyle, the Fitzer Lab provided him with a sense of comfort, optimism, and satisfaction with his life’s work. And the truth was, as he had explained countless times to any person who felt the need to question him, the science his business required had not changed so significantly over the past fifty years as to warrant a move to larger or more purportedly modern quarters.
Shortly after entering Michen Borceau’s office, where his researchdirector was awaiting him, Montaro announced that no member of the laboratory staff, not even Borceau himself, would be allowed to take part in the analysis he had scheduled to begin shortly after his guests arrived. The portly, Lyon-born chemist was instantly miffed; his brooding eyes glared from under bushy eyebrows and his smooth, ruddy cheeks blushed redder than usual, but he knew that Montaro must have had a good reason for the unusual protocol. Never once, in all their years of association, had Caine slighted him in any way. Never had Caine questioned any of Borceau’s or his staff’s procedures. Further, Borceau was sensitive and savvy enough to understand that delicate political concerns shrouded all human relationships in the world of big business. He was careful to display no sign of his annoyance, yet both his professional and personal curiosity were further piqued when his secretary, Gina Lao, led Colette Beekman and Herman Freich into his office.
“Welcome,” Borceau said directly to Colette. “I am Michen Borceau, Director of Research.” He looked from Freich to Colette. Though he was aware that Caine was waiting for him to depart, he was a man who had difficulty containing
Montaro seemed to take this information in stride, but Cecilia tensed. She waited, listening to the lawyer’s asthmatic breathing until she heard her husband’s question.
“Personal as in sexual?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Whitcombe.
“Who is he?”
“A student.”
“Is she pregnant? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I strongly recommend you check that out.”
“What’s this kid’s name?”
“Nick Corcell.”
“What’s he like?”
“Bad news,” said Whitcombe. “He’s the root of the problem; but she’s holding the bag, if you know what I mean. He’s smart, cunning, manipulative, and apparently cold-blooded. I strongly recommend we come down on him hard and quick. It’s the only thing that can save her, as I see it.”
Cecilia poured the hot milk from the pot into a pitcher, and placed it on a tray along with an empty cup and the dish of cookies. Then, tray in hand, she walked briskly from the kitchen. As Caine followed her with his eyes, the phones stopped ringing, leaving the two men in heavy silence.
Caine took a breath, turned to Whitcombe, and gave voice to the pragmatic philosophy that ruled his personal and professional lives, both of which seemed to be on the verge of collapse. “We will do what we have to,” he said, thus releasing Whitcombe to plan the downfall of Nick Corcell.
5
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , M ONTARO ARRIVED WELL IN ADVANCE of his scheduled meeting with Herman Freich and Colette Beekman at the Fitzer Lab, proceeding directly to the office of his research director, Michen Borceau. The lab was located where it had been since the company’s founding, in lower Manhattan, despite the long-standing advice of Montaro’s colleagues, particularly Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace, to move it out of the city to a location—perhaps Stamford, Connecticut—where space was cheaper. Montaro knew that his attachment to the Manhattan location had provided much fodder for Rothman and Wallace, both of whom had accused Montaro of intransigence and foolhardy sentimentality. But Montaro still loved the lab’s connection to Fitzer’s nearly century-old history; the place reminded him of the laboratories at M.I.T. where he had trained, and more so than even his office, his Westport home, or his apartment in The Carlyle, the Fitzer Lab provided him with a sense of comfort, optimism, and satisfaction with his life’s work. And the truth was, as he had explained countless times to any person who felt the need to question him, the science his business required had not changed so significantly over the past fifty years as to warrant a move to larger or more purportedly modern quarters.
Shortly after entering Michen Borceau’s office, where his researchdirector was awaiting him, Montaro announced that no member of the laboratory staff, not even Borceau himself, would be allowed to take part in the analysis he had scheduled to begin shortly after his guests arrived. The portly, Lyon-born chemist was instantly miffed; his brooding eyes glared from under bushy eyebrows and his smooth, ruddy cheeks blushed redder than usual, but he knew that Montaro must have had a good reason for the unusual protocol. Never once, in all their years of association, had Caine slighted him in any way. Never had Caine questioned any of Borceau’s or his staff’s procedures. Further, Borceau was sensitive and savvy enough to understand that delicate political concerns shrouded all human relationships in the world of big business. He was careful to display no sign of his annoyance, yet both his professional and personal curiosity were further piqued when his secretary, Gina Lao, led Colette Beekman and Herman Freich into his office.
“Welcome,” Borceau said directly to Colette. “I am Michen Borceau, Director of Research.” He looked from Freich to Colette. Though he was aware that Caine was waiting for him to depart, he was a man who had difficulty containing
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