Chapter Fifteen
Restful Nights Don’t Help Much Either
Charlotte awoke at the click of the door. Confused for a moment, she quickly remembered where she was. The sofa bed was empty; the sound that woke her must have been Jordan leaving.
Well, if he left alone, she couldn’t be blamed, right? He knew where she was. She rolled over to steal another hour or two of sleep.
Twenty minutes later, she gave up. She was just tossing and turning, worrying about how to get into the office and the party Sunday night and how to keep herself from telling George Lovett what an obnoxiously, horrid, old man he was. She checked her burner phone for any messages. Nothing. Jordan seemed less nervous about being here since he announced their engagement. She shook her head and threw on the simplest outfit of the set she’d bought for the weekend. One thing she hadn’t counted on was how complicated everything was to put on. Maybe rich women all had maids. Or just a man to help them get in and out of their expensive outfits. That would be nice. It was the least a woman should expect for giving up her entire life.
Still grumpy about it all, she made her way to the kitchen. There was a large bowl of oranges on the counter; surely no one would mind if she made juice. She found a chopping board and a knife and an electric juicer. Life was complete. Maybe there was something to this being rich thing after all.
A voice sounded from behind her. “We have people for that.”
“Of course you do.” She turned towards Lauren and forced a friendly smile onto her face. “I’m capable of juicing my own oranges, thank you though.” She took her glass and pushed past the woman. She’d had enough for the Lovetts and soon-to-be Lovetts for one day. She stalked into the library. No one here seemed to read; she should be safe enough for the time being. She sent a text message on the burner phone to Jordan to let him know, having learned from yesterday, and he messaged back to say he was out on a run and would be back in an hour.
Which meant she had some time to herself. She gulped her orange juice and took the glass into the kitchen to see if she could work out where Lauren was. How did anyone ever find anyone in this house?
The cutting board and juicer were already cleaned. Maria greeted her, firmly taking the empty glass away from her. “Would you like me to make you breakfast?”
“Good morning, Maria. No, thank you.” She smiled at the woman, probably the only sane person in this household. “Do you know where Lauren is?”
“Downstairs, in the pool. Do you want me to get her?”
“No, it’s fine. I just wondered.” They had an indoor pool. Of course they did. Charlotte repressed a wave of jealousy. But if Jordan was out running and Lauren was in the pool, did that mean the coast was clear? “And Mr. Lovett? Will he be having breakfast? I could join him.”
“He had breakfast already,” said Maria. “Before his golf.”
“Great! I mean, thank you. I’ll just amuse myself then.” She returned to the library and then, with a quick look to make sure Maria hadn’t followed her, she tiptoed to the next door along and let herself into George Lovett’s office. It was elaborate, all wood panels and red leather insets. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood for a moment, breathing slowly and carefully. The house creaked, as if letting her know it knew where she was. And then there was silence.
She padded across the thick rich carpet in her bare feet. She had at least half an hour clear before anyone might come looking for her, plenty of time to get an idea of where things were. She needed to stay calm and search, slowly and deliberately.
A twinge of guilt was quickly pushed down. George had stolen the company from her father, why should she feel guilty? She knew why. Jordan didn’t do it, he was still just a kid at the time. He might not even know anything about it.
She needed to stop making excuses for him. Lovett Industries was his company now; he must know. He probably just thought it was good business. Who cared about the fallout?
The wall was covered with carved wooden plates with brass handles: four by four filing cabinets. She pulled open the top left drawer and peeked in. It was all very carefully organized by decade, which each decade holding a set of files sorted alphabetically. She pulled out 2001 and began to rifle through. Most of the files were people’s names and contained receipts and notes about them. It seemed like Jordan’s father kept everything. The file folders were each marked as client, contact or supplier and each one held at least a page or two of personal notes. She read one: John Aberney worked for Tertia Property. His wife’s name was June and they had two children, Gwendolyn and Sebastian.
Charlotte snorted. Those poor kids. At least poor people didn’t give their kids names they wouldn’t be able to spell until high school. Apparently, John and his family went on holiday in Spain in July 1996 and to Costa Rica in 1997. She couldn’t believe the amount of detail George kept on this guy, who seemed to be a not-very-important supplier to the company. He must have taken notes of every conversation they ever had.
She replaced the folder and pulled out another. Todd Kramer, born in 1965, working for In Depth Marketing. Wife named Amy, no children. He liked Johnny Black and jazz. Favorites at the Kitty Cat Club: Brandi and Jazmin. Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. Did George really take men to strip clubs and make notes of what they did there? Wow. Was that even legal? She shook her head and put the file away. She didn’t want to see any more.
The next four drawers were full of records and notes about various people. Then there was a file of meeting minutes stretching back to 1994. She knew the important dates. It was May 2003 when George Lovett bought the valueless brownfield land from the company as a cash infusion. Dad told her George paid twice its value, $50,000, which they hoped was enough to keep the company afloat for the next six months. Her father put in all of the family savings and worked day and night to make it happen. And it was November 2003 when George Lovett sold the land for a cool seven million in profit.
That was when he made the board a deal they couldn’t refuse: if they voted Charlotte’s father out of the company, he would invest the seven million into the company.
She quickly found the board minutes from the meeting in May. In it she found the details of the brownfield land, picked up as a part of acquisition. The plot was in a prime location on the edge of downtown but had been used for railway repairs in the 1930’s and they dumped all the oil on the site. The contaminated land was unusable.
George volunteered to buy the land as a favor to the company to help keep it afloat. The land was worthless, blah, blah, the EPA wouldn’t even consider appropriating funds for the cleanup for fifty years.
Somehow, he must have known what the land was worth. No one could possibly be so lucky. What she needed to know was who he was meeting before May and before November, to see if she could piece together how he knew the land was going to get cleaned up.
She rifled through the rest of the drawers until she found one stacked with notebooks: his desk calendars. Now that was more like it. She glanced at her phone. She’d been there twenty minutes already! She rifled through the pages, wondering how she was going to know if she found something. What was it going to say? “Illegal meeting with government officials to confirm the Lovett-Nichols brownfield cleanup” would be useful.
There was nothing quite so obvious in May. She was running out of time. But then in November 2003 he had a dozen meetings with references to the EPA. Then there was a single meeting with the development company who bought the site from him. The appointments before him must be the important ones. She took photographs of the pages with her iPhone to send them to Dad and see if he recognised any of the names. She thought about sending them directly to him now, but then, she probably shouldn’t do it from the house. Who knew what security George might have installed on his network. She didn’t want someone spotting large files being emailed out.
The front door slammed. That was that: she needed to get out of here now. She threw everything back into the drawers, hoping that no one would pay much attention to the order.
She cracked the door open and listened to make sure no one was in the hallway. She opened the door and stepped out, quickly closing it behind her. If anyone saw her, she would claim that she was just bored and wandering around and got lost. It sure was a house big enough to get lost in. No one could tell she’d looked through the old files, who would?
She padded down the hallway towards the stairs, hoping she could make it to the room without seeing anyone. No such luck.
Lauren was waiting at the stairwell, lounging on a long piece of cushioned furniture with no back. She smiled her viper’s smile. “I was wondering where you’d wandered off to. It’s so quiet without your clomping around all over the house. What were you up to?”
“Just reading,” said Charlotte, sure her face was covered with guilt. She ran up the stairs, trying to hide the iPhone in her hand. Somehow, she had to get these photographs out of the house before she got caught.