Heads You Win Read online

  As ever,

  Lawrence

  Alex looked across the table at the lawyer and said, “Has anyone else seen this letter, Mr. Harbottle?”

  “I haven’t even read it myself, sir.”

  * * *

  Once Alex had left Mr. Harbottle’s office, he went straight back to his hotel, and told the receptionist that he would be checking out in the morning. But first he needed to make some phone calls before he even thought about visiting the bank. The first was to Anna, to tell her he wouldn’t be returning to New York for some time. He then briefed her on the details of Lawrence’s will, before asking, “Do you think you and Mr. Rosenthal could come up to Boston as soon as possible and value the Lowell Collection?”

  “I’ll see if he’s free, and then call you back. Are you camping in the Mayflower for the next few days?”

  “No, Mr. Harbottle has advised me to move into Beacon Hill as quickly as possible to make sure Evelyn doesn’t take up residence and claim the property as next of kin.”

  “How generous of Lawrence to leave you his fifty percent of Elena’s, especially as he didn’t know if you’d agree to become chairman.”

  “And he’s made my task of attempting to keep the bank afloat a little easier by also leaving me his fifty percent shareholding if I agreed to be chairman. That means no one can overrule me other than Evelyn, who owns the other fifty percent.”

  “Evelyn? Won’t that make your job even more difficult?”

  “Certainly if I’d been advising Lawrence’s father, I would have told him that the law courts are full of warring siblings who each own fifty percent of their father’s estate. But Harbottle’s convinced that as long as the shares are worthless, she’s unlikely to cause any trouble. I’m missing you,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “When do you think you’ll be able to join me?”

  “It’s you who was meant to be coming back to New York, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll fly up on Friday morning so we can spend the weekend together. I’ll need to catalog the collection before Mr. Rosenthal joins us.”

  “You have a way of making a man feel wanted,” said Alex laughing.

  His second call was to a local real estate agent with instructions to value Lawrence’s properties in Boston, Southampton, and the south of France.

  The third call was to Paolo to warn him he’d be running the company for a little longer than he’d originally anticipated.

  * * *

  “Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, and hash browns,” said Alex as the waitress poured him a steaming coffee. He was glad that his mother was a couple of hundred miles away in Brooklyn, and couldn’t see him.

  He took a sip of coffee before turning to the financial supplement of the Globe. On the front page was a photograph of Douglas Ackroyd, above a self-serving statement he’d released the previous day.

  I feel the time has come for me to retire as chief executive of the Lowell Bank and Trust Company, which I have served for the past twenty years. Following the tragic death of our distinguished chairman, Lawrence Lowell, I believe the bank should look to new leadership as we move toward the twenty-first century. I will happily remain on the board and serve the new chairman in any capacity he sees fit.

  I bet you will, thought Alex. But why did Ackroyd even want to remain on the board? Perhaps because he needed to make sure that it was Lawrence who would shoulder the blame when the bank went under, allowing him to come out of the debacle with his reputation untarnished. Alex was beginning to feel he knew the man, even though he’d never met him.

  As soon as he’d had time to study the books, Alex intended to issue his own press statement, so that no one would be in any doubt where the blame really lay. He folded his newspaper, and stared admiringly at the magnificent Georgian building that dominated the far side of State Street, wondering if the bank could still be sold as a going concern. After all, it had been trading for over a hundred years, with an impeccable reputation. But questions like that couldn’t be answered until he’d studied the books, and that might take days.

  Alex checked his watch as the waitress returned with his order: 8:24 a.m. He planned to enter the building for the first time at 8:55. He looked around the diner and wondered how many of the other customers worked at the bank, and were aware that their new chairman was sitting in one of the booths.

  Among the options he’d already considered was to invite one of the larger Boston banks to participate in a merger, with the explanation that as Lawrence didn’t have an heir, there was no natural successor. But if the bank’s financial plight made that impossible, he would be left with no choice other than to resort to plan B, a fire sale. In which case he’d be back in New York serving pizzas by the end of the month.

  At 8:30 he looked across the street to see a smartly dressed man in a long green topcoat and peaked cap emerge from the bank and take his place by the front door. Staff were beginning to trickle into the building: young women in sensible white blouses and dark skirts that fell below the knee, young men in gray suits, white shirts, and somber ties, followed a little later by older men in well-tailored, double-breasted suits and club ties, with an air of confidence and belonging. How long would that confidence last when they discovered the truth? Would he know the answer to that question by the time the bank closed this evening? And would those same doors even open for business tomorrow morning?

  At 8:50, Alex paid his bill, left the warmth of the diner, and walked slowly across the square. As he approached the front entrance, the doorman touched the peak of his cap and said, “Good morning, sir. I’m afraid the bank won’t be open for a few more minutes.”

  “I’m the new chairman,” said Alex, thrusting out his hand. The doorman hesitated before returning the compliment, and saying, “I’m Errol, sir.”

  “And how long have you been working for the bank, Errol?”

  “Six years, sir. Mr. Lawrence got me the job.”

  “Did he?” said Alex. He left the doorman with an anxious look on his face, stepped inside, and crossed the lobby to the front desk.

  “How can I help you, sir?” asked a smartly dressed young woman.

  “I’m the new chairman of the bank,” said Alex. “Could you tell me where my office is?”

  “Yes, Mr. Karpenko, you’re on the top floor. Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “No, please don’t bother. I’ll find my own way.”

  He walked across to the elevators and joined some staff who were chatting among themselves about everything from the Boston Red Sox’ third defeat in a row, to the appointment of their new chairman. Both losers in their opinion.

  “I’m told Karpenko’s never run anything except a pizza joint,” said one of them, “and has absolutely no experience of banking.”

  “Mark my words, Ackroyd will be back as chairman by the end of the week,” said another.

  “I’m going to open a book on how long he’ll last,” said a third.

  “You might be wise to wait and see how he actually performs before you set the odds,” suggested a lone voice. Alex smiled to himself, but didn’t comment.

  The elevator stopped several times to disgorge its passengers on different floors. By the time its doors finally opened on the twenty-fourth floor, Alex was alone. He stepped out into a deserted corridor and opened the first door he came across, to discover that it was a cupboard. The second was the restroom, and the third a secretary’s office, but with no sign of a secretary. At the far end of the corridor he found a door that had CHAIRMAN painted on it in faded gold letters. He walked in, and it took only one glance to know that the room had once been occupied by Lawrence. But not that often. The office was well furnished and comfortable, with a fine display of paintings, including portraits of Lawrence’s father and grandfather, but it didn’t feel lived in. Alex closed the door, walked across to the window, and looked out onto a magnificent view of the bay.

  He sank down into the comfortable red leather chair behind a teak desk, on which rested a b