Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [24]
“She’s smart,” Kaplan said, watching her, “touching base with all the division heads—especially since she didn’t name them in her speech.”
Sanders frowned. “You think that’s significant?”
“Only if she’s planning to make changes.”
“Phil said she wasn’t going to.”
“But you never know, do you?” Kaplan said, standing up, dropping her napkin on the table. “I’ve got to go— and it looks like you’re next on her list.”
Kaplan moved discreetly away as Meredith came up to Sanders. She was smiling. “I wanted to apologize, Tom,” Meredith said, “for not mentioning your name and the names of the other division heads in my presentation. I don’t want anybody to get the wrong idea. It’s just that Bob asked me to keep it short.”
“Well,” Sanders said, “it looks like you won everybody over. The reaction was very favorable.”
“I hope so. Listen,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “we’ve got a slew of due diligence sessions tomorrow. I’ve been asking all the heads to meet with me today, if they can. I wonder if you’re free to come to my office at the end of the day for a drink. We can go over things, and maybe catch up on old times, too.”
“Sure,” he said. He felt the warmth of her hand on his arm. She didn’t take it away.
“They’ve given me an office on the fifth floor, and with any luck there should be furniture in by later today. Six o’clock work for you?”
“Fine,” he said.
She smiled. “You still partial to dry chardonnay?”
Despite himself, he was flattered that she remembered. He smiled, “Yes, I still am.”
“I’ll see if I can get one. And we’ll go over some of the immediate problems, like that hundred-millisecond drive.”
“Okay, fine. About that drive—”
“I know,” she said, her voice lower. “We’ll deal with it.” Behind her, the Conley-White executives were coming up. “Let’s talk tonight.”
“Good.”
“See you then, Tom.”
“See you then.”
As the meeting broke up, Mark Lewyn drifted over to him. “So, let’s hear it: what’d she say to you?”
“Meredith?”
“No, the Stealthy One. Kaplan was bending your ear all during lunch. What’s up?”
Sanders shrugged. “Oh, you know. Just small talk.”
“Come on. Stephanie doesn’t do small talk. She doesn’t know how. And Stephanie talked more to you than I’ve seen her talk in years.”
Sanders was surprised to see how anxious Lewyn was. “Actually,” he said, “we talked mostly about her son. He’s a freshman at the university.”
But Lewyn wasn’t buying it. He frowned and said, “She’s up to something, isn’t she. She never talks without a reason. Is it about me? I know she’s critical of the design team. She thinks we’re wasteful. I’ve told her many times that it’s not true—”
“Mark,” Sanders said. “Your name didn’t even come up. Honest.”
To change the subject, Sanders asked, “What’d you think of Johnson? Pretty strong presentation, I thought.”
“Yes. She’s impressive. There was only one thing that bothered me,” Lewyn said. He was still frowning, still uneasy. “Isn’t she supposed to be a late-breaking curve, forced on us by management at Conley?”
“That’s what I heard. Why?”
“Her presentation. To put together a graphic presentation like that takes two weeks, at a minimum,” Lewyn said. “In my design group, I get the designers on it a month in advance, then we run it through for timing, then say a week for revisions and redo’s, then another week while they transfer to a drive. And that’s my own in-house group, working fast. For an executive, it’d take longer. They pawn it off on some assistant, who tries to make it for them. Then the executive looks at it, wants it all done over again. And it takes more time. So if this was her presentation, I’d say she’s known about her new job for a while. Months.”
Sanders frowned.
“As usual,” Lewyn said, “the poor bastards in the trenches are the last to know. I just wonder what else we don’t know.”
Sanders was back at his office by 2:15. He called his wife to tell her he would be home late, that he had a meeting at six.
“What’s happening over there?” Susan said. “I got a call from Adele Lewyn. She says Garvin’s screwing