The Second Time Around
By Mary Higgins ClarkSimon & Schuster Audio
Copyright © 2003 Mary Higgins Clark
All right reserved.ISBN: 9780743528450Chapter One
The stockholders' meeting, or maybe the stockholders'
uprisingis a better way to describe the event, took place on April 21at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in Manhattan. It was an unseasonablycold and wintry day, but suitably bleak considering thecircumstances. The headline two weeks earlier that NicholasSpencer, president and chief operating officer of Gen-stonehad been killed in the crash of his private plane while flyingto San Juan had been greeted with genuine and heartfelt grief.His company expected to receive the blessing of the Food andDrug Administration for a vaccine that would both eliminatethe possibility of the growth of cancer cells and bring to ahalt the progression of the disease in those already afflicted- a preventive and a cure that he alone was responsible forbringing to the world. He named the company "Gen-stone," areference to the Rosetta stone that had unveiled the languageof ancient Egypt and allowed the appreciation of itsremarkable culture.
The headline proclaiming Spencer's disappearance was followedin short order by the announcement from the chairman of theboard of Gen-stone that there had been numerous setbacks inthe experiments with the vaccine and that it could not besubmitted to the FDA for approval in the foreseeable future.The announcement further said that tens of millions of dollarshad been looted from the company, apparently by NicholasSpencer.
I'm Marcia DeCarlo, better known as Carley, and even as I satin the roped-off media section at the stockholders' meeting,observing the furious or stunned or tearful faces around me, Istill had a sense of disbelief in what I was hearing.Apparently Nicholas Spencer, Nick, was a thief and a fraud.The miracle vaccine was nothing more than the offspring of hisgreedy imagination and consummate salesmanship. He had cheatedall these people who had invested so much money in hiscompany, often their life savings or total assets. Of coursethey hoped to make money, but many believed as well that theirinvestment would help make the vaccine a reality. And not onlyhad investors been hurt, but the theft had made worthless theretirement funds of Gen-stone's employees, over a thousandpeople. It simply didn't seem possible.
Since Nicholas Spencer's body had not washed ashore along withcharred pieces of his doomed plane, half the people in theauditorium didn't believe he was dead. The other half wouldwillingly have driven a stake through his heart if his remainshad been discovered.
Charles Wallingford, the chairman of the board of Gen-stone,ashen-faced but with the natural elegance that is achieved bygenerations of breeding and privilege, struggled to bring themeeting to order. Other members of the board, theirexpressions somber, sat on the dais with him. To a man theywere prominent figures in business and society. In the secondrow were people I recognized as executives from Gen-stone'saccounting firm. Some of them had been interviewed from timeto time in Weekly Browser, the syndicated Sunday supplementfor which I write a financial column.
Sitting to the right of Wallingford, her face alabaster pale,her blond hair twisted into a French knot, and dressed in ablack suit that I'm sure cost a fortune, was Lynn HamiltonSpencer. She is Nick's wife - or widow - and, coincidentallymy stepsister whom I've met exactly three times and whom Iconfess I dislike. Let me explain. Two years ago my widowedmother married Lynn's widowed father, having met him in BocaRaton where they lived in neighboring condominiums.
At the dinner the evening before the wedding, I was as annoyedby Lynn Spencer's condescending attitude as I was charmed byNicholas Spencer. I knew who he was, of course. The storiesabout him in Time and Newsweek had been detailed. He was theson of a Connecticut family doctor, a general practitionerwhose avocation was research biology. His father had alaboratory in his home, and from the time that Nick was achild, he spent most of his free time there, helping his dadwith experiments. "Other kids had dogs," he had explained tointerviewers. "I had pet mice. I didn't know it, but I wasbeing tutored in microbiology by a genius." He had gone thebusiness route, getting an MBA in business management with theplan of owning a medical supply operation someday. He startedwork at a small supply business and quickly rose to the topand became a partner. Then, as microbiology became the wave ofthe future, he began to realize that was the field he wantedto pursue. He began to reconstruct his father's notes anddiscovered that shortly before his sudden death his father hadbeen on the verge of making a major breakthrough in cancerresearch. Using his medical supply company as a base, he setout to create a major research division.
Venture capital had helped him launch Gen-stone, and word ofthe cancer-inhibiting vaccine had made the company the hotteststock on Wall Street. Initially offered at $3 a share, thestock had risen as high as $160, and conditional on FDAapproval, Garner Pharmaceutical contracted to pay $1 billionfor the rights to distribute the new vaccine.
I knew that Nick Spencer's wife had died of cancer five yearsago, that he had a ten-year-old son, and that he'd beenmarried to Lynn, his second wife, for four years. But all thetime I spent boning up on his background didn't help when Imet him at that "family" dinner. I simply was not prepared forthe absolutely magnetic quality of Nick Spencer's personality.He was one of those people who are gifted with both inherentpersonal charm and a genuinely brilliant mind. A little oversix feet tall, with dark blond hair, intensely blue eyes, anda trim athletic body, he was physically very attractive. Itwas his ability to interact with people, however, that camethrough as his greatest asset. As my mother attempted to keepthe conversational ball going with Lynn, I found myselftelling Nick more about myself than I had ever revealed toanyone at a first meeting.
Within five minutes he knew my age, where I lived, my job, andwhere I grew up.
"Thirty-two," he said, smiling. "Eight years younger than Iam."
Then I not only told him that I had been divorced after abrief marriage to a fellow MBA student at NYU, but even talkedabout the baby who lived only a few days because the hole inhis heart was too big to close. This was so not like me. Inever talk about the baby. It hurts too much. And yet it waseasy to tell Nicholas Spencer about him.
"That's the sort of tragedy our research will preventsomeday," he had said gently. "That's why I'll move heaven andearth to save people from the kind of heartbreak you'veexperienced, Carley."
My thoughts were quickly brought back to the present realityas Charles Wallingford hammered the gavel until there wassilence - an angry, sullen silence. "I am CharlesWallingford, the chairman of the board of Gen-stone," he said.
He was greeted with a deafening chorus of boos and catcalls.
I knew Wallingford was forty-eight or forty-nine years old,and I had seen him on the news the day after Spencer's planecrashed. He looked much older than that now. The strain of thelast few weeks had added years to his appearance. No one coulddoubt that the man was suffering.
"I worked with Nicholas Spencer for the past eight years," hesaid. "I had just sold our family retail business, of which Iwas chairman, and I was looking for a chance to invest in apromising company. I met Nick Spencer, and he convinced methat the company he had just started would make startlingbreakthroughs in the development of new drugs. At his urging Iinvested almost all the proceeds from the sale of our familybusiness and joined Gen-stone. So I am as devastated as youare by the fact that the vaccine is not ready to be submittedto the FDA for approval, but that does not mean if more fundsbecome available, further research will not solve the problem - "
Dozens of shouted questions interrupted him: "What about themoney he stole?" "Why not admit that you and that whole bunchup there cheated us?"
Abruptly Lynn stood up and in a surprise gesture pulled themicrophone from in front of Wallingford. "My husband died onhis way to a business meeting to get more funding to keep theresearch alive. I am sure that the missing money can beexplained - "
One man came running up the aisle waving pages that looked asthough they had been torn from magazines and newspapers. "TheSpencers on their estate in Bedford," he shouted. "TheSpencers hosting a charity ball. Nicholas Spencer smiling ashe writes a check for 'New York's Neediest.'"
Security guards grabbed the man's arms as he reached the dais."Where did you think that money was coming from, lady? I'lltell you where. It came from our pockets! I put a secondmortgage on my house to invest in your lousy company. Youwanna know why? Because my kid has cancer, and I believed yourhusband's promise about his vaccine."
The media section was in the first few rows. I was in an endseat and could have reached out and touched the man. He was aburly-looking guy of about thirty, dressed in a sweater andjeans. I watched as his face suddenly crumpled and he began tocry. "I won't even be able to keep my little girl in ourhouse," he said. "I'll have to sell it now."
I looked up at Lynn and our eyes met. I knew it was impossiblefor her to see the contempt in my eyes, but all I could thinkwas that the diamond on her finger was probably worth enoughto pay off the second mortgage that was going to cost a dyingchild her home.
The meeting didn't last more than forty minutes, and most ofit consisted of a series of agonized recitals from people whohad lost everything by investing in Gen-stone. Many of themsaid they had been persuaded to buy the stock because a childor other family member had a disease that the vaccine mightreverse.
As people streamed out, I took names, addresses, and phonenumbers. Thanks to my column, a lot of them knew my name andwere eager to talk to me about their financial loss as well.They asked whether or not I thought there was any chance ofrecouping some or all of their investment.
Lynn had left the meeting by a side door. I was glad. I hadwritten her a note after Nick's plane crashed, letting herknow I would attend a memorial service. There hadn't been oneyet; they were waiting to see if his body would be recovered.Now, like almost everyone else, I wondered if Nick hadactually been in the plane when it crashed or if he had riggedhis disappearance.
I felt a hand on my arm. It was Sam Michaelson, a veteranreporter for Wall Street Weekly magazine. "Buy you a drink,Carley," he offered.
"Good God, I can use one."
We went down to the bar on the lobby floor and were directedto a table. It was four-thirty.
"I have a firm rule not to have vodka straight up before fiveo'clock," Sam told me, "but, as you're aware, somewhere in theworld it is five o'clock."
I ordered a glass of Chianti. Usually by late April I'd haveswitched to chardonnay, my warm weather choice of vino, butfeeling as emotionally chilled as I did after that meeting, Iwanted something that would warm me up.
Sam gave the order, then abruptly asked, "So what do youthink, Carley? Is that crook sunning himself in Brazil as wespeak?"
I gave the only honest answer I could offer: "I don't know."
"I met Spencer once," Sam said. "I swear if he'd offered tosell me the Brooklyn Bridge, I'd have fallen for it. What asnake oil salesman. Did you ever meet him in the flesh?"
I pondered Sam's question for a moment, trying to decide whatto say. The fact that Lynn Hamilton Spencer was my stepsister,making Nick Spencer my stepbrother-in-law, was something Inever talked about. However, that fact did keep me from evercommenting publicly or privately on Gen-stone as an investmentbecause I felt that might be considered a conflict ofinterest. Unfortunately, it did not keep me from buying$25,000 worth of Gen-stone stock because, as Nicholas Spencerhad put it that evening at dinner, after this vaccineeliminated the possibility of cancer, there would someday beanother to eliminate all genetic abnormalities.
My baby had been baptized the day he was born. I'd called himPatrick, giving him my maternal grandfather's name. I boughtthat stock as kind of a tribute to my son's memory. That nighttwo years ago Nick had said that the more money they couldraise, the faster they would have the tests on the vaccinecompleted and be able to make it available. "And, of course,eventually your twenty-five thousand dollars will be worth agreat deal more," he had added.
That money had represented my savings toward a down payment onan apartment.
I looked at Sam and smiled, still debating my answer. Sam'shair is a kind of grizzled gray. His one vanity is to comblong strands of it over his balding dome. I've noticed thatthese strands often are somewhat askew, as they were now, andas an old pal I've had to resist saying, "Surrender. You'velost the hair battle."
Sam is pushing seventy, but his baby blue eyes are bright andalert. There's nothing babyish behind that pucklike face,however. He's smart and shrewd. I realized it wouldn't be fairnot to tell him of my somewhat tenuous connection to theSpencers, but I would make it clear that I'd actually met Nickonly once and Lynn three times.
I watched his eyebrows raise as I filled him in on therelationship.
"She comes through as a pretty cool customer to me," he said."What about Spencer?"
"I would have bought the Brooklyn Bridge from him, too. Ithought he was a terrific guy."
"What do you think now?"
"You mean, whether he's dead or somehow arranged the crash? Idon't know."
"What about the wife, your stepsister?"
I know I winced. "Sam, my mother is genuinely happy withLynn's father, or else she's putting on one hell of aperformance. God help us, the two of them are even takingpiano lessons together. You should have heard the concert Igot treated to when I went down to Boca for a weekend lastmonth. I admit I didn't like Lynn when I met her. I think shekisses the mirror every morning. But then, I only saw her thenight before the wedding, at the wedding, and one other timewhen I arrived in Boca last year just as she was leaving. Sodo me a favor and don't refer to her as my stepsister."
"Noted."
The waitress came with our drinks. Sam sipped appreciativelyand then cleared his throat. "Carley, I just heard that youapplied for the job that's opening up at the magazine."
"Yes."
"How come?"
"I want to write for a serious financial magazine, not justhave a column that is essentially a financial filler in ageneral interest Sunday supplement. Reporting for Wall StreetWeekly is my goal. How do you know I applied?"
"The big boss, Will Kirby, asked about you."
Continues...
Excerpted from The Second Time Aroundby Mary Higgins Clark Copyright © 2003 by Mary Higgins Clark. Excerpted by permission.
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