by Pierre Anton Taylor

Harold had called an emergency board meeting, It almost turned into an intervention with Wayne as the focus. Present were his mother, Trish, and Dr. Linus Pall. Two other members of the board were out of reach and two others were connected via conference call. Harold had returned from DC and the news was not positive. The contract was officially under review. He assured them that it was just a technicality but Wallace Bruce’s sudden death had sent up flags and because the agency was itself under congressional review, they were going to proceed according to the letter of the law and order a full audit of Bruce Enterprise. An outside accounting firm would have to be engaged and it would be costly. “The PR office will be on the alert for any adverse publicity that could affect the company’s place in the standings and putting a positive spin on anything that might reflect badly on the brand.

“Wall had been pushing hard on expansion and acquisitions and took some risks. But he fought hard to be in the running with fierce competition from companies with offshore manufacturing in Indonesia. He was very proud that he could stamp American Made on our products.”

Harold went on to explain that negotiations were ongoing so no need to panic although Wallace’s death could not have come at a more critical time. And that, more than ever, the company’s future depended on research and development represented by the work being done at Bruce Advanced Technical Solutions.

Eyes rested briefly on Wayne. He set his jaw and met their gazes. He had been briefed on most of what Harold was saying when his uncle had returned from DC. The mention of BATS replayed a conversation he’d had with the lab supervisor regarding the sample taken from the carpeting in the penthouse where old dad had died. The high concentration of acetate was still unexplainable and inconclusive.

It had occurred to Wayne during the repeated viewings of the footage of the elevator to the penthouse and his father entering it alone the night of his death, that if there was any foul play it would have occurred in that box. But how? Unless the elevator was the killer.

He steeled a glare at Dr. Pall. He may have been the last one to see his father alive if what Charlotte had said was true. His attempts to meet with the good doctor face to face had been canceled or rescheduled as if he were being avoided. He was sure it had to do with his breaking off the engagement with Charlotte. Pall had been outraged by it.

“I’ve put on retainer a security consultant, Smith Brothers Security, to investigate the circumstances surrounding the designation of the old battery works as a toxic site and look for signs of impropriety. Any hint of culpability must be minimized to zero. If you understand what I mean. That we are taking the initiative on this matter will be further evidence that there was no attempt or intent to defraud the Toxic Cleanup Fund.” Harold paused to look at the notes in front of him.

“They were represented to me as an entirely reputable and reliable investment in the specialty toxic cleanup business.” Linus Pall adjusted the water glass in front of him to line up with the top right corner of the blank notepad in front of him at a forty-five degree angle. “I tendered my resignation as soon as I learned of the allegations. I’m on a number of boards, charitable organizations as well, and for the most part I’m just another hand at the table.” He smiled as if to himself secretly. “I’m in the business of business. That’s what I do. I’m a physician, and attorney, and I’m also the director of a world renowned rehabilitation clinic catering to an exclusive international clientele. Membership on various boards allows me access to potential clients that we can best serve.”

Pall lifted his gaze from his hands folded in front of him and addressed Wayne. “I was your father’s physician so you can imagine my shock at his heart attack. I knew him to be in good health for a man of his age although he did disregard my advice on his eating and drinking habits, not enough of the former and too much of the latter. And as his personal attorney I was his close confidant and advisor. I am positive that Wallace Bruce had no foreknowledge that there might be anything improper about the toxic site designation at the abandoned battery factory. He was in fact appalled by the report of toxic chemicals after all this time. He was diligent about ensuring a safe environment for his workers and abiding by the disposal regulations. He did admit that some contamination could have occurred and might have been missed when they closed the old plant down. ‘There’s no clean way to make a battery’ I’ve no doubt you’ve heard him say many times before. Yet he believed that the future was in portable energy, that it would power the technology of the future. He was nostalgic about the old battery factory even as it became a liability. Again, being an astute businessman, he resigned himself to having the cleanup done, razing the old brickworks, and selling the land to developers to recoup the cost.

“Walace is the reason Bruce Enterprise exists today. It is his legacy and that is what is at stake, as is the fate of the company. We must move on and not waste any more time or resources on the trivial matter of the Battery Works. It may have been his humble beginnings but it is dwarfed by the stellar accomplishments of his later years. He was a force of nature, but his wind has died down.” Pall wet his lips with the water in the glass and returned it to the exact same spot.

“Fortunately Harold is at the helm now. This has always been a family enterprise. Your mother understands the need for a united front if the BE brand is to have a future and continue as an innovator in portable energy devices. You have an opportunity to contribute by presenting yourself as a corporate leader, a responsible businessman following in your father’s footsteps, not a mountain climbing sky diving martial arts playboy with nothing better to do than dabble in philanthropy with a valuable piece of property in a misguided attempt to appease his guilt. Going through with the marriage to Charlotte Taste would have been more of a level headed decision for a captain of industry and an indication that you voted for the future of Bruce Enterprise. Yet you insist on wallowing in the past. Tell me what will this memorial do other than inflate your ego. What good will your defiance of common sense do? Forget this obsession and get your life back on track! Otherwise, it is madness!”

“And why does it have to be in the most crime infested part of the city?” Trish added. “Drive by shootings, muggings, drug dealing. I can’t imagine a more unsavory location. And the police still haven’t caught that vigilante terrorizing innocent people.”

Wayne had heard his mother’s complaint before. And his argument was that the kind of crime that was committed in East Central was due to poverty. And he’d wanted to add that it was the kind of crime that occurred in corporate boardrooms that was responsible for that poverty and was rarely if ever prosecuted.

Celia Grove, one of the longest serving board members and someone he had grown up knowing as Aunt Celia, chimed in. “You speak of legacy, Linus, and your focus is strictly business, but Wallace Bruce’s legacy also includes charitable work, philanthropy, the repaying the service and work of his employees. That legacy of giving back to the community makes him an honorable man. And what Wayne proposes honors his father and does it by bringing jobs back to the depressed area. And I might add that as his father’s heir he has the latitude to pursue that aspect of the corporation’s mission.”

Dr. Pall fidgeted, staring at the black box in the center of the table from which the voice emanated. “We already know that, Celia!” Linus and Celia were rivals, hardly friends, perhaps because it was believed that at one time Celia had been old dad’s paramour and that both she and Linus could claim exclusive rights to a certain intimacy with the deceased.

Trish spoke up. She disliked Celia for obvious reasons as well as what she deemed was the woman’s holier than thou attitude. “Celia has a point. Wallace particularly enjoyed that aspect of his wealth. He reveled in the ritual of giving his money away not so much for the good that it might do but because it made him feel god-like, that his generosity could affect so many people and that they would see him as a benefactor in their lives, name their children after him. It solidified his moral ground. He was on his way to being a bronze statue of himself, anyway. That said, I agree with Linus. The renovations at the old battery factory is a distraction. Wayne, dear, you must understand that our focus must be solely on weathering this awful audit.”

“That brings up another issue,” Celia interrupted from the box at the center of the conference table. “We just did a full audit not more than two years ago, I believe. Couldn’t we just amend that audit, bring it up to date?”

There was a pause as Harold took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it would get it done quicker,” Celia added, “and it wouldn’t be as costly.”

Harold nodded his head impatiently as if she could see him. As he was about to answer, the low whistle of snoring was audible as the remaining board member indicated his presence.

“Celia, yes, we’ve already said that. I don’t know why you brought it up again when we had already discussed it earlier and I explained to you why what you suggested will not satisfy the review committee.” Harold signaled to his secretary who was hovering outside the glass door to the conference room. She opened the door partway to announce, “The Smith Brothers are here.”

Wayne had known the Smith Brothers, Trey and Mark, when they attended the same elite prep school. Back then they were known to everyone as “Rosy” and “Goldy.” Trey’s ruddy complexion resulted in that moniker. Mark’s almost platinum locks named him. Wayne had run into them socially a few times since their school days. Trey, William Smith III, was still ruddy complected but had lost the baby fat and had acquired the broad shoulders of an athlete. Mark sported a buzz cut, gone was the disco look of an earlier time. That they had matured might have been an overstatement. They had certainly settled into adulthood, hardened by a cynicism that comes from dealing with others they considered inferior to them. The schools they attended had made clear the dividing line between them and the others. And Smith Brothers had made it a business in keeping the others at a distance from those like them who could afford their security services.

Smith Brothers Security had been founded by their father, a former police detective with ambition, and his brother, a well-known defense attorney. In that way Wayne and the Smith Brothers were alike—they both toiled in their fathers’ figurative vineyard. Otherwise, he  had nothing in common with them.

After they had been introduced to the board and pleasantries exchanged, Harold had adjourned the meeting. He was confident that Wayne would brief the brothers on the details of the matter. Trish and Linus left deep in conversation, with Linus offering a parting shot, “Keep in mind what I said, Wayne.”

There was an espresso bar in the anteroom of the executive office which the executive secretary had served them in the inner sanctum. The brothers and Wayne sipped from their demitasses, Wayne seated in the large leather armchair usually occupied by his father and opposite the glass topped low table where Trey sat in the adequate leather couch. Mark leaned against the edge of the large desk commanding easily a quarter of the space.

Trey set his demitasse on the table and made a show of taking in the grandeur of the large windowed office. “Nice digs, Way. Is this where you hang out?” “Way” was a nickname he had acquired in prep school where it was usually paired with “out” or “no.” And as a privileged class no one used the word “work.” In their world one created a presence, like the gods of myth, by hanging out and making things happen.

“No, this is the old man’s. I have an office at the BATS Lab. And I’m renovating the old office at the Battery Works so I can hang out there while I supervise the conversion of the property into a showplace for my antique car collection.”

Mark had wandered over to the wide windows overlooking the surrounding high-rises and rooftops of the downtown business district. “Nice view,” he remarked, mostly to himself. Then turning to them, “Hard to believe you’d trade this in for that rundown ghetto around the old factory.”

“Was that when you discovered the toxic waste problem? What led to your suspicion that the report was falsified?” Trey asked after glaring at his brother for being so undiplomatic.

Wayne considered his answer. He didn’t trust the Smith Brothers. He wondered how much Harold had told them. He understood that they were merely window dressing, a cover designed to give the impression that the company was being proactive. He was certain nothing would come of it.

“Two things. One was that I was surprised that there was any toxic material at the site. My father prided himself on a clean operation. One of the reasons he shut down manufacturing at the old plant was that he could no longer guarantee that the safety guidelines were met. The other reason is that the old battery works has an historical value in the growth of this city and the neighborhood it supported.”

“Ah, nostalgia,” Trey nodded, “Nice when you can afford it.”

Mark had wandered over to stand in front of the wide set of bookshelves and their leather bound volumes, nodding in appreciation. “Your old man had good taste in literature. This is quite an investment in intellectual capital. All the great minds gathered in one place. Right at your fingertips.” He turned and smiled at Wayne and his brother. “And it looks like he invested in a state of the art surveillance system as well.”

To Wayne’s surprise Mark ran a hand along one edge of the bookshelves until he found what he wanted. With a faint hum a panel of books slid forward and dropped down to reveal electronics, a flat narrow box with a tiny green light glimmering in one corner.

“There’s a camera there,” Mark said pointing to a spot in the ceiling overlooking the desk. “I’ll bet I can find a mic in the desk. And probably one in the light fixture where you’re sitting. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a camera too.” He laughed. “Your old man had this place bugged!”

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Next Time: What The Discs Reveal