Critical (3 page)
The marina was dark and deserted. Franco drove directly to the base of the main pier, and all three got out. Since it was off-season, most of the boats were out of the water, standing on blocks, and covered with white, shroud-like vinyl covers.
There was no conversation as the group walked down the pier. The cold air revived Paul to a degree. He took in the nighttime beauty of the New York City skyline, marred by the fact that in the foreground, the Hudson River looked more like crude oil than water. The gentle waves made soft, lapping sounds against the pilings and the refuse-strewn shoreline. A slight odor of dead fish wafted in the breeze. Paul questioned the rationality of what he was doing but felt it was too late to change his mind.
Halfway out the pier they stopped at the mahogany stern of an impressive yacht with the name
Full Speed Ahead
stenciled in gold letters across it. The lights were ablaze in the main saloon, but no one could be seen. A row of fishing rods stuck out of cylindrical holders along the afterdeck's gunwales like bristles on the back of a giant insect.
Franco boarded and immediately scampered up a starboard ship's ladder and disappeared from view.
"Where's Mr. Dominick?" Paul asked Angelo. Paul's unease ticked upward without seeing the investor.
"You'll be chatting with him in two minutes," Angelo reassured him while gesturing for Paul to follow Franco across the narrow gangplank. With resignation, Paul did as he was told. Once on board, Paul had to steady himself as the large craft moved up and down with the gentle swells.
The next surprise was that Franco started the engines, which let out a deep, powerful, throaty roar. At the same time, Angelo quickly dealt with the mooring lines and pulled in the gangway. It was obvious that the two men were accustomed to running the craft.
Paul's unease again ratcheted upward. He had assumed his supposedly short meeting with Mr. Dominick would take place while the boat was moored. As the craft eased out of its slip, Paul briefly contemplated leaping off the moving boat onto the dock, but his natural indecision allowed the opportunity to pass. After four martinis, he doubted he could have managed it even if he had decided to try, especially clutching his laptop case.
Paul peered through the windows into the main saloon in hopes of seeing his missing host. He made his way over to the door and turned the handle. It opened. He glanced back at Angelo, who was busy coiling the heavy mooring lines next to several stacked cinder blocks. Angelo gestured for him to go inside. The gradually increasing roar of the diesels made conversation difficult.
Once the door was closed behind him, Paul was relieved that most of the engine noise vanished, although not the vibration. The decor of the yacht was tastelessly glitzy. There was a large, flat-screen TV with La-Z-Boy recliners grouped in front, a gaming table with chairs, a large L-shaped couch, and an impressively stocked bar. He walked across the room and glanced down a few steps into the galley area, beyond which was a passageway with several closed doors. Paul presumed they were staterooms.
"Mr. Dominick," Paul called out. There was no answer.
Paul steadied himself as he felt the engines accelerate and the boat's angle of elevation increase before quickly flattening out. He glanced out the window. The boat had picked up speed. A sudden roar turned Paul's attention back to the door leading to the after-deck. Angelo had come inside, and he approached Paul after pulling the door closed behind him. In full light, Paul was taken aback by the extent of the man's facial scarring. Not only didn't he have eyebrows, he didn't even have eyelashes. Even more startling, his abnormally thin lips were retracted back to the extent that they gave the impression they could not completely close over his yellowed teeth.
"Mr. Dominick," Angelo announced, extending Paul a cell phone flipped open.
Suppressing a sudden flash of resentment with the absurdity of the situation, Paul snatched the phone from Angelo. He plopped his laptop case onto the game table, sat down, and put the phone to his ear while watching Angelo drape himself sideways across the arms of one of the La-Z-Boys.
"Mr. Dominick," Paul snapped with the intention of expressing his irritation and frustration of having been tricked into talking on a cell phone, something that could have been done just as well from the backseat of the car. He also intended to say that he wasn't happy about having a confidential conversation within earshot of Angelo, who made no motion to leave.
"Listen, my good friend," Vinnie interrupted. "Why don't you call me Vinnie, seeing as though you and me might have to work together to straighten things out at Angels Healthcare. And before I say anything else about that, I want to apologize for not being there in person. That had been the plan, but I had an urgent business problem that needed my immediate attention. I hope you will forgive me."
"I suppose ..." Paul began, but Vinnie again interrupted.
"I trust that Franco and Angelo have been treating you with appropriate hospitality, since I'm not there to do it myself. The plan was for them to pick me up at the pier at the Jacob Javits Center, but I'm stuck here in Queens. Tell me! Have they offered you a drink?"
"No, but I don't need a drink," Paul lied. He was dying for a stiff drink. "What I would like is to be brought back to the marina. You and I can talk on the way."
"I've already told Franco and Angelo to bring you back," Vinnie said. "Meantime, let's you and I get down to business. I trust that you are now aware of the extent of my interest in Angels Healthcare."
"I am indeed, and thank you. Angels Healthcare wouldn't be where it is without your generosity."
"Generosity has nothing to do with my involvement. It is strictly business -- serious business, I might add."
"Of course," Paul said quickly.
"As a director through a proxy, I've heard rumors there is a serious problem with short-term cash flow. Is there truth to these rumors?"
"Before I answer," Paul said, looking over at Angelo as he nonchalantly picked at his fingernails, "one of your men is sitting here within earshot. Is that appropriate?"
"Absolutely," Vinnie said without hesitation. "Franco and Angelo are like family."
"In that case, I have to admit the rumors are true. There is a very serious cash-flow problem." Paul's voice had an uncharacteristic lisp, as if his tongue was swollen.
"And I've also been told that SEC rules require that such a material change in the company's fiscal situation must be reported within a stipulated time frame."
"That is also true," Paul admitted guiltily. "The required form is called an eight-K, and should be filed within four days."
"And I've been further informed that this required form has not been filed."
"Once again, you are correct," Paul confessed. "The form has been composed but not filed. I was told not to file it by my boss, the CFO."
"How is it normally filed?"
"Electronically, online," Paul said. He glanced out the window, wondering why they had not changed course. He felt slightly dizzy, and his stomach was doing flip-flops.
"Just so I understand: Since this report has not been filed, we are in violation of SEC rules."
"Yes," Paul said reluctantly. The fact that he had been told not to file it did not resolve him of responsibility. The new Sarbanes-Oxley rules made that very clear. He glanced at Angelo, whose presence still bothered him, considering the nature of the conversation and despite Mr. Dominick's assurances.
"It has also been pointed out to me that not filing in a timely fashion could be considered a felony, which leads me to ask if you plan to file so that neither of us are considered accessories."
"I'm going to have one more talk with my boss tomorrow. No matter what, I'm going to take it upon myself to file. So the answer is yes."
"Well, that's a relief," Vinnie said. "Where exactly is the file?"
"It's here, in my laptop."
"Anyplace else?"
"It's on a USB drive. My secretary has it," Paul said. He felt the engine vibrations slacken. Looking back out the window, he could see they had slowed down.
"Is there some particular reason for her having it?"
"Just for a backup. Obviously, my boss and I have not seen eye to eye on this issue, and the laptop actually belongs to the company."
"I'm certainly glad we had this talk," Vinnie said, "because it appears that you and me see eye to eye. I want to thank you for having a moral compass. We got to do the right thing, even if it means temporarily delaying the IPO. By the way, what's your secretary's name?"
"Amy Lucas."
"Is she loyal?"
"Absolutely"
"Where does Amy live?"
"Someplace in New Jersey."
"What does she look like?"
Paul rolled his eyes. He had to think. "She's very petite, with pixie-like features. She looks much younger than she is. I suppose the most notable thing about her is her hair. Right now it is blond with lime-green highlights."
"I'd say that is unique. Does she know what is on the digital storage device?"
"She does," Paul said, aware the engines had come to a near stop. Through the window, he could see from the distant lights along the shore that they had essentially come to a stop. Looking out the other direction, he could see the illuminated Statue of Liberty.
"Was there anyone else involved in either preparing the eight-K or just knowledge of its existence? I don't want to worry about some would-be whistle-blower who might be in the process of filing the damn thing before you do in order to get a few bucks, claiming it wasn't going to be filed."
"No one that I know," Paul said. "The CFO could have told somebody, but I doubt it. He was very clear he didn't want the information to get out."
"Terrific," Vinnie said.
"Mr. Dominick," Paul said, "I think you will have to talk to your men again about getting me back to the marina."
"What?" Vinnie questioned with exaggerated disbelief. "Let me talk to one of those lumpheads."
Paul was about to call out to Angelo and give him the phone when Franco noisily descended, as if on cue, from the bridge deck and approached Paul with his hand outstretched. Paul was surprised at the timing. It seemed that Franco might have been listening in on the conversation.
While Franco stepped away to talk, Angelo stood up. He couldn't have been happier about the prospect of heading back to the marina. Even though he had to make frequent trips on the
Full Speed Ahead,
he had never become accustomed to being on the boat. It was always at night and usually to pick up drugs from ships coming from Mexico or South America. The problem was that he couldn't swim, and being out on the water, particularly in the darkness, made him more than uneasy. What he needed at the moment was a stiff drink.
At the bar, Angelo took out an old-fashioned glass and poured himself a knuckle of scotch. In the background, he could hear Franco on the phone repeating over and over "yeah" and "okay" and "sure," as though he was talking to his mother. Angelo tossed down the drink and faced back around into the room at the moment Franco said, "Consider it done," and flipped the cell phone closed.
"Time to get you home," Franco said to Paul.
"It's about time," Paul grumbled.
"Finally" Angelo silently mouthed as he slipped his hand under his jacket's lapel and allowed his fingers to close around the butt of his shoulder-holstered Walther TPH .22 semiautomatic.
1
APRIL 2, 2007 7:20 P.M.
At age thirty-seven, Angela Dawson was no stranger to adversity and anguish, despite having grown up in an upper-middle-class family in the affluent suburb of Englewood, New Jersey, where she had enjoyed all the associated material advantages, including the benefit of an extensive Ivy League education. Armed with both M.D. and MBA degrees as well as excellent health, her life on this early April night in the middle of New York City should have been relatively carefree, especially considering that she had every advantage of a wealthy lifestyle at her fingertips, including a fabulous city apartment and a stunning seaside house on Martha's Vineyard. But such was not the case. Instead, Angela was facing the biggest challenge of her life and suffering significant anxiety and distress in the process. Angels Healthcare LLC, which she had founded and nurtured during the previous five years, was teetering on the edge of either mind-numbing success or utter failure, and its outcome was to be decided in the next few weeks. The outcome rested squarely on her shoulders.
As if such an enormous challenge was not enough, Angela's ten-year-old daughter, Michelle Calabrese, was having a crisis of her own. And while Angela's CFO and COO, the presidents of Angels Healthcare's three hospitals, and the recently hired infection-control specialist waited impatiently in the boardroom down the hall, Angela had to deal with Michelle, with whom she'd been talking on the phone for more than fifteen minutes.
"I'm sorry, honey," Angela said, struggling to keep her voice calm yet firm. "The answer is no! We have discussed it, I've thought about it, but the answer is no. That's spelled n-o."