The Broker

By D J Presson

The Broker is a provocative look into the boardrooms, bedrooms and blowouts of the people and corporations that power the American insurance industry and tells the story of the deals and the decadence in an industry that reaps unimaginable profits. Dan Morton is the jet-setting President of Morton Insurance Advisors, a broker who will do anything to keep his clients happy, the competition at bay and the money rolling in. John Walter Andrews, the outsider brought in to turn around the money-hemorrhaging giant BFIC Insurance. As he fends off the Wall Street wolves snapping at his heels, he is threatened by an internal coup led by Katy Christopher, the heir apparent whose twenty-five year career at BFIC steamrolled when she was passed up by the board of directors for the top spot. The unfortunate Claire Parker, lured by Dan Morton to leave a successful career at BFIC to join the heady world of the broker business, only to have her high ideals crushed when she encounters a hostile, dysfunctional work environment of burned-out brats. And the young Angela Abbott, a lowly BFIC employee tucked away in the background, whose future is dramatically changed the day Bill Deering walks into the office, and into her life.

Engrossing and important, The Broker is full of characters you will not soon forget, and a must read for every American who wants to understand the power, and the wealth, we have given the insurance industry over our lives, our health and our future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D J Presson
• Release date: Aug 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370961290

D J Presson

D J Presson spent twenty-five pretty successful years with a phone glued to her ear chasing business opportunities (high-end caterer, small restaurant chef, rich man’s muse, Frenchman’s fiancé, public relations grunt, honest real estate salesperson, insurance company go-to person, insurance broker whipping post...) before finally retiring, moving to a house in the woods and chasing her dream of writing novels. She is the author of two books, The Broker and The Outcasts of Eden, and is currently at work on her third, The Heritage.

Book preview

Preface

The fictional events depicted in this story take place prior to the passage of the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, signed into law in March of 2010. While the implementation of the provisions of this act continue to befuddle and confound businesses and consumers alike, and our politicians and policymakers hew their healthcare rhetoric to the puppet masters of their parties, this book deals with the insurance and healthcare landscape that existed before PPACA was passed into law, and revolves around large American companies, many with multi-national locations and globally diverse populations, and the brokers and insurers with whom they place their employee benefits business. After nearly twenty-years in various aspects of this part of the insurance industry, I speak from experience, and for the most part, as it relates to care delivery, transparency of costs, and the consequences to the individual seeking health care depicted in the story, the landscape since PPACA passed has changed little.

PPACA is not a perfect law and is very far from a perfect solution. It only partly resolves one side of the health care crisis in this country, and that is access to private insurance. However, access to insurance is not access to health care, nor is it access to health care that is affordable. The supply side of the equation, the cost of delivering care, is still out of control in America. The stunning technological advances of medical and pharmaceutical science, and the unchecked costs of those advances in the United States, sees us spending more on health care than other industrialized nations and yet we continue to realize below average healthcare outcomes.

We cannot afford to dither with political circus sideshows any longer; we cannot continue to fiddle while Rome burns. We must get our fiscal house in order, and we must address the crisis coming toward us at top speed just over the horizon; the increased demands of an aging population, social insurance entitlements, tax reform and the high-cost of health care. Men and women of good will and reasonable minds must come together in the spirit of collaboration to craft solutions to these pressing issues before the cost of healthcare gobbles up every cent of our GDP.

There are a number of good ideas out there, and some insurance companies and hospital systems are working together to quantify quality of care outcomes in a joint effort to improve care and reduce costs, and as stakeholders and industry leaders, should be part of the solution. Whatever solution we decide upon, whether state-based or federally-based, public or private, or some not-yet-conceived-of combination of all of these options, the United States must, absolutely must, come to the rational conclusion that the only way to gain control of health care costs is to provide basic (preventative, wellness and emergency/catastrophic) affordable, single-payer, health care coverage that sets contracted reimbursement levels for basic services and prescription drugs.

It is ludicrous to expect the consumer to shop for pricing on health care delivery, or worse, to negotiate rates and fees of in-network and out-of-network services while bleeding on a gurney in an emergency room! Healthcare is not a commodity, and one cannot ask the surgeon who will save their life, or look their favorite doctor in the eye, and ask for a discount on their services. Moreover, trying to cover millions of Americans by forcing them to buy individual insurance plans at outrageous prices is a fraud that only benefits the insurers. In order for this to work, we have to price insurance coverage as a group, with millions of participants in either state or national plans, representing the broadest possible risk pool, and the current idea that competition among insurers and health care providers in a free market coupled with transferring more of the costs onto the consumer will ever be enough to control costs and improve care outcomes in this industry is ill conceived. Doesn’t work. Won’t work. Never will. Period.

Finally, I must offer one last insight into the crafting of this book, if you will kindly indulge me a little longer, before I let you get on with, what I hope is, the enjoyable task of reading my story. During the period of time I was writing this book, sad and horrifying news stories were repeated over and over from cities all over this country, about the killing of black citizens by police officers, or by misguided and unhinged racists with access to guns. As one of the thousands of people in this country who openly wept tears of joy and relief on that first, bitterly cold January day that President Barack Obama was sworn into office, with a genuine hope that we had turned a critical page in our racially divided and blood-stained history, the news of these repeated incidences of violence pierced my heart with despair, and I found my story taking on the questions about race relations, the African-American experience, and our cultural differences, that I think all caring and reasonable people in our country, both black and white, were asking. Who is to blame? How do we fix this problem? Why does it keep happening? What is wrong with us?

The reasons are complex and the answers not easily found, (yes, I too, watched every episode of the heartbreakingly brilliant drama, The Wire) and certainly not all are innocent, but for the countless ones that are innocent, there is no way to make amends for the tragedies inflicted on them, especially against the boys, killed or brutally treated simply because they are black. As I pondered these questions, I wanted to find a way to show an alternative vision to those tragic outcomes, that these boys could make it through their angst-filled, testosterone-fueled, temptation-riddled, mistake-prone adolescent and teen years, and successfully come out the other side; wholesome, happy, educated, and fruitful adults, as God intended for them to be.

To that end, and to honor one such boy, Trayvon Benjamin Martin, who dreamed of becoming a pilot, in this book I have given him that dream.

D. J. Presson

September 2015

Part One

1

Daniel Morton gripped the handrail of the escalator with one hand, nervously biting the nails and cuticles of the other as he quickly scanned the cosmetics department on the floor below. Stuffing his fingers in his mouth and biting his nails was a disgusting habit he’d had since childhood, but one he couldn't stop. Most of the time he wasn't even aware he was doing it.

He rapidly scrutinized the chic women as they moved with purpose around the department, flitting from counter to counter like glamorous butterflies. He examined each one quickly with a critical, practiced eye, on the hunt for someone special, a new one he didn't know yet. He reached the bottom and raced around to take the escalator back up, then came down again, continuing his critical inspection.

He continued unconsciously chewing on his nails, riding the escalator down while he examined the women. He focused on their faces, their body language, their left hands, looking for clues that would tell him something about their lives and their inner selves, and quickly rejected one after the other. He preferred blondes, but that was not a rule. He liked girls that were young, naïve, and unchallenging. Smart girls he avoided like the plague. He detested smart girls, and their self-righteous intellectual challenges.

Although he had struck out with Los Angeles girls on more than one occasion, he found them infinitely more tolerable than the women from Manhattan, where his company headquarters was located, and where the world rushed by in a whoosh of endless commerce, his days taken up with nonstop meetings and endless phone calls, and where the women he confronted were hard-edged and savvy.

As a matter of fact, beautiful and competent women had surrounded him all of his life. The only boy in a family of six children, he had five sisters whose high-powered and meaningful careers in government, medicine, academia and law was a constant reminder to his mother of her deep disappointment in him. His career choice had never impressed her, and even though he was CEO of his own highly successful insurance brokerage firm, Morton Insurance Advisors, and he did business with America's largest Fortune-ranked companies, to his mother he was and always would be just a boring insurance peddler.

Despite his mother’s impression, his career was anything but boring, and the go-go pace of chasing business around the country was taking its’ toll on the boyishly handsome face he had always relied upon to pick up girls. Still unmarried and beyond the half-century mark of his life, the pallid visage that looked back at him in the mirrors that lined the escalator walls had bags under the eyes and deep lines at their corners. He averted his gaze from his reflection as he reached the end of the ride, and walked back around to the up escalator to start again.

To compensate for his fading youth he spent hours every day in the gym pumping iron. To show off his cut physique and massive, muscled arms, he casually showed up to business meetings and dinner dates wearing the form-fitting spandex workout shirts he favored, a ring of sweat under the armpits, in the mistaken perception that it made him look hip. His employees snickered behind his back at his wardrobe choice, but dared not tell him how unprofessional the spandex shirts were. They knew he was hypersensitive and vindictive, and he hated being criticized.

The third ride down the escalator was the charm, and he settled on a pretty young girl at the fragrance counter with long, gleaming blonde hair tied in a low ponytail with a black velvet bow. She was slender and attractive, in her early twenties he guessed, and radiated an innocence that he especially liked. Unlike some of the other women in the department, she wore little makeup, and had a garden-fresh quality. As she puttered around the counter, replacing caps, putting out new products, fixing displays and smiling pleasantly at customers trying the fragrances, he knew she was the one. She was as lovely as a sunflower on a summer morning.

He took the stairs down two at a time, making a beeline to the counter and settling in front of her.

Can I help you find something, sir? She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows and gave him a beautiful smile, settling her clear, blue-water eyes on his face. Her look of openness and innocence made his loins tighten, and he suppressed the feelings with an effort.

Uh, yeah, he said, looking at her nametag, Savannah Matthews. I hope you can. I need to pick up some perfumes for my mom, sisters, and a niece. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, drew out a worn piece of paper and held it up. I've got a list.

Oh, perfect! She said, taking the list from his outstretched hand.

Let's see? She read off the names as she perused the list. Jo Malone, Juicy Couture, Hermes, Burberry, Christian Dior, Lauder Youth Dew, Chloe, Victor & Rolf. What a nice list! she exclaimed. Let me guess, the Juicy Couture is for your niece, Estée Lauder is for your mom?

Very astute of you! he laughed surprisingly. How'd you figure that out?

Age and experience, she giggled playfully. Their ages, and my experience! Her eyes twinkled as she laughed at her own joke. She smiled at him and went back to perusing his list. Estee Lauder Youth Dew is a beautiful, classic fragrance, she commented. It’s been around for a very long time.

I think it’s the only perfume my mom has ever worn. I can’t even go near a girl that wears it, or anything like it, he snickered. I actually sent a date home once to take a shower because of it, he said, smiling cheerfully.

She wasn’t sure if sending a date home to shower because of her perfume was funny or weird, but she smiled courteously back at him, and then motioned to him with her hand. Follow me, she instructed.

He watched her walk on the other side of the fragrance counter, noticing the roundness and lift of her buttocks. Her hips were narrow, and she wore form-fitting thick black tights that readily revealed her long, muscled legs as they slid sensuously into high-heeled black boots. She wore a man’s tuxedo-shirt complete with studs and cuff links, under a cropped white Chanel jacket. Several layers of pearls and gold chains finished the ensemble. She stopped at the end of the counter and pulled out testers from the counter top displays.

The parfum, she said, using the French pronunciation, is the purest form of the fragrance. It contains the essential oils distilled from the flowers. I went to France last summer and spent a week in Grasse, where they grow and distill the flowers for perfumes. I learned so much about how fragrances are made and how they work.

What do you mean? asked Dan.

Each fragrance has a top note, a middle note and a bottom note. The different oils used to create the fragrance have different dispersion characteristics, and as each one recedes, starting with the top note, the next comes to the fore, she explained seriously, eager for the chance to share her knowledge with him. As the day or night wears on, the fragrance will change and deepen as it mixes with a woman’s own natural body chemistry, explained Savannah.

Dan watched her closely as she continued to demonstrate the fragrances on his list, using little strips of paper to spray the fragrances onto as she spoke. He found her seriousness delightful, as if what she was telling him was the most important thing in the world. She fanned the little strips of paper into the air around her. I had no idea it was so complicated, said Dan, smiling appreciatively. "Mm, that’s nice. Can I see how it smells on you?

Oh, yes, she said agreeably. She sprayed the inside of her wrist carefully, applying just a drop and waving her arm slowly. She offered him her forearm to smell.

I see what you mean, he said, inhaling the fragrance. He looked up at her pretty face and had to resist the urge to lick her wrist. This one smells different on you than it does on the paper. You’re very knowledgeable about this. He watched her closely as her face revealed that the compliment worked the way he’d hoped, and she was warming to him.

Thank you, she said, smiling in appreciation.

I’ll have to remember what you said about it changing the next time I’m lucky enough to find a woman in my bed in the morning, he said with a hopeful look on his face.

Exactly, she said innocently. She should smell different in the morning than she did when she went to bed.

Well, I certainly hope so! he laughed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

She blushed slightly and giggled as she got his meaning, her eyelashes batting seductively over her big blue eyes.

She piled all of the boxes on the counter as he handed her his platinum charge card and she read his name. ‘Daniel Morton - Morton Insurance Advisors.’

Is this everyone then Mr. Morton? she inquired. No girlfriend or wife to buy for?

There it was, the opening he was hoping for. No,’ he said forlornly. Unfortunately, I have no one in my life at the moment. He gave her his best little boy sad face.

It worked. She reached out and sweetly patted his hand. I’m sure for someone as nice as you that’s just temporary. She beamed a reassuring smile.

As she turned around to ring up his purchases at the register, he quickly checked his phone for email and text messages. He was typing a caustic response as she brought the sales slip back to the counter for his signature. Dumb ass, he said, as he hit send.

Something wrong? she asked.

Idiots, he said tersely, shaking his head. Just dealing with idiots. I’ve got a private jet reserved tonight to take me back to Manhattan where my company headquarters is. I just hope the cretins don’t put me out of business before I get there. He signed the sales slip, watching her reaction to the comment about the private jet as he put his card back into his wallet, hoping it would set the hook. Where’s a good place to grab a bite to eat around here? he asked.

There’s a little French Bistro about a mile from here, Le Valois. It’s very good, she said. Even if you can’t go to France, at least you can experience a little of the food.

That sounds perfect! he agreed. I know this is a long shot, and I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but any chance you’re free for dinner? He shook his head, as if answering his own question. What am I saying? A girl as sweet and pretty as you wouldn’t have a free evening, he said, plying her with more compliments. Never mind, he said. It was probably a stupid question,

No, she offered enthusiastically, her eyes wide with sincerity. As a matter of fact, I am free for dinner.

He gave her his most winning smile, and continued to ply his charm. You are? This must be my lucky day! That’s excellent! You can help me interpret the menu and tell me more about your visit to…where was it? Grasse?

I’d love to! she replied. How about if I meet you there in an hour? she said, looking at her watch.

Perfect! I look forward to it, he smiled graciously.

As he walked away from the counter, Savannah reached into her pocket for her phone and quickly Googled his name, keeping an eye out for her manager while she typed. She scrolled through the hits.

Daniel Morton, Australian Rugby player; No.

Daniel Morton, Real Estate Developer; No, that’s not it.

Daniel Morton, Hybridizing Orchids blog spot; "No, definitely not!"

Daniel Morton, Morton Insurance Advisors; Hah! That’s it!

She clicked the link and the webpage opened, his photo featured prominently at the top of the page. She quickly perused the bullet points.

• CEO of Morton Insurance Advisors

• 25 years in the insurance benefits industry

• Innovative leader in the large and jumbo group benefits market

• Dedicated, top-tier service to an impressive roster of Fortune-ranked clients

• Broad industry insight to help you navigate the world of employee benefits

Hmm? she said under her breath, crinkling her nose as if she had smelled something unpleasant. She was feeling a little reluctant that she had agreed to have dinner with him. I hope he isn’t, like, super boring.

2

Katy Christopher sat at her desk in the plush executive office at BFIC’s Kings River headquarters, going through the sales and pipeline reports from each of her division heads. Things looked good, and despite evidence of rising claim costs reflected in the P&L, it looked like she was going to turn in another great quarter for the giant insurance company.

After twenty-five years at BFIC climbing the corporate ladder, Katy had been the first woman to be appointed to a high level executive position outside of Human Resources, and she was proud that she had broken the glass ceiling at the firm. The industry as a whole still had only a handful of high-level women executives, and she felt a responsibility to hire, sponsor and mentor as many women as she could, and she had appointed more than her fair share to help her manage her operations. As the Executive Vice President of Non-Medical Group Sales and Retirement Products, she had control over the second largest portion of the company’s wealth and earnings, and she had always had her sights clearly fixed on being the first woman CEO of the company. Her division’s continued positive performance each quarter had boosted her esteem within the firm, and helped prop up sagging earnings in other areas of the company suffering from the turbulence in the industry, and the rapidly escalating costs of insuring health care in the U.S.

Katy’s rise in the company had been a combination of brains, luck, timing, and astute maneuvering. Her killer good looks hadn’t hurt either. A fiery Irish beauty with a bawdy sense of humor that somehow always sounded sexier in her lovely Irish lilt, Katy Christopher was no politically correct dame. Her energetic green eyes sparkled with merriment, and always looked as if she had just heard a good joke, but could be brutally menacing when she was angry. She had flawless alabaster skin set off dramatically by a cascade of thick red hair the color of autumn leaves. Her face had the benefit of a perfect, God-given aquiline nose, and her voluptuous curves could both excite and terrify the men around her. She knew her strengths, and her looks were one of them. Being smart and competent wasn’t enough in a man’s world, and she wasn’t above using all her attributes to her advantage. Her career at BFIC had benefited many times over the years from men in positions of power that had fallen under her beguiling spell, and had helped promote her to higher positions in the company.

Katy had been blind-sided two years ago at the meeting of top-level executives, when it was announced that an outsider, John Walter Andrews, would be taking over as President of BFIC. Katy knew it should have been her standing at the podium next to the retiring CEO, Dr. Simon Marcus. She had been one of two executives at the firm being groomed to take the top spot, and she had been the lead candidate before the surprise announcement. Her long career at BFIC included operations management in every division of the company, and the rewards she had expected from a lifetime of hard work and sacrifices had been thwarted that day.

She had confided in private conversations with two of the board’s Directors with whom she was close, and with certain C-suite colleagues, that she had strong suspicions about the reason for Andrews’ selection to head the company. She was convinced that the choice of an African-American to lead the historic, one hundred and eighty year old company was made as a political maneuver, and not for his abilities as a high level administrator. Although his résumé included previous executive management positions at some of BFIC’s biggest competitors, she thought he was a mediocre administrator and had no great accomplishments at those firms to qualify him. BFIC had always promoted executives to the top position from within its own ranks, and Katy felt sure the board had selected him over her to counter the firestorm of bad publicity BFIC had suffered when it had been revealed publicly that they had sold life insurance policies on American slaves.

The news of the slave life insurance policies had been a public relations nightmare for BFIC, and an emotional blow to its thousands of African-American employees and members. Boycotts were threatened and press reports hammered away at the venerable firm’s reputation. Dr. Marcus could do little but ride out the storm, answering journalists’ and employees questions honestly, relegating it to a historical error in judgment that no longer reflected the law of the nation or the culture of the company.

Katy greatly missed Dr. Marcus, whose warm and charismatic personality was the direct opposite of John Walter Andrews, a man of strict moral character, and a devoted husband and father of three sons. Andrews’ persona came across as stiff on television and formal with employees. He weighed every word he uttered with cautious consideration and never let his guard down, even with his top lieutenants. In contrast to Andrews’ cool data-driven efficiency, Dr. Marcus was instantly likable and knew the business from every side: provider, patient, employer and stockholder. Bespectacled and bow-tied, Katy felt that Dr. Marcus had had the temperament and personality that fit the role of insurance CEO like a surgical glove.

Katy was convinced that John Walter Andrews was not competent to run such a diverse company. Having come from a health insurance-only competitor, he focused solely on healthcare at BFIC and she felt that his knowledge of the full range of insurance products that BFIC offered was superficial.

Although health insurance had grown to be the largest piece of its financial pie, BFIC was not just a health insurer. The company administered major group policies with some of America’s largest employers in non-medical insurance products. Life insurance, short and long disability insurance, long-term care insurance, leave management, and large group pensions were all under Katy’s direct control. In addition, BFIC had substantial revenue from individual insurance products and financial services, as well as vast real estate holdings, and a charitable foundation. Andrews’ steadfast financial focus on BFIC’s health insurance business pushed all other divisions to the background, and she knew from their comments to her, that the executives and employees from the other parts of the vast company who toiled each day on the company’s non-medical insurance products felt diminished and unappreciated.

Andrews had consolidated his power rapidly, adding CEO and Chairman of the Board to his titles within two years of ascending to the President’s position, despite protests from many large shareholders that those roles should be split. As he consolidated his power over the company, he demanded unwavering loyalty and unquestioning servitude from his lieutenants. He readily doled out lethal reprimands, even to the extent of calling his direct reports into his office on Sundays and holidays to be upbraided, and sometimes fired, for their, or their underlings, screw-ups. He was intensely private, never taking walks around the corporate campus to meet and greet his employees as his predecessor had enjoyed doing. Instead, each morning he would alight from his company provided limousine, and head directly to his private elevator and up to the executive offices on the top floor, unseen and unapproachable.

From day one, Andrews made it clear to Katy that he did not appreciate her spontaneous style, her off-color sense of humor or her physical attributes, and expected her to perform in the position she had attained with utmost correctness and perfect execution. Whatever guile and subterfuge she may have used in the past to make her way into a top executive position at his company, he informed her, the jig was now up.

Uncomfortable with her flamboyance, Andrews avoided contact with Katy as much as possible, going so far as to instruct his Chief of Staff to invite Bill Deering, Katy’s Head of Sales, rather than Katy, to impromptu meetings, despite the fact that Deering reported to her.

After the fifth time she had been left off a meeting invite of Andrews’ executive inner circle, she marched into his office and confronted him directly. Never one to mince words, she fired off her cannons of saucy expletives in her lovely Irish brogue, her green eyes flashing, and made it clear he needed to get over his aversion to women in the C-suite, or whatever his problem was, and that she would not be left out of meetings that involved her division. She reminded him that she had considerable influence with certain members of the Board of Directors, and would not hesitate to use that leverage. He got the not-so-subtle threat, and she was immediately added to the meeting notifications, but she also knew that because of her in-your-face approach, she had racked up yet another mark against her.

As Katy reviewed the sales and pipeline data, she thought about the presentation she would make. It was clear that her division was responsible for most of the profits the company was generating right now. The problem was that her division’s profits were not reported separately in quarterly earnings or BFIC’s annual report, but was subsumed into the overall medical cost analysis. She knew this was deliberate; to keep Wall Street off its’ back, Andrews needed her division’s profits to help hide the extent of BFIC’s health insurance losses. Each quarter she turned in stellar results, and each quarter those results were hidden in the data. She wanted her division’s results broken out, as it’s own line item. She wanted the recognition for her division’s success. And she wanted the failures in the company, and its’ leader, to be clearly spotlighted as well.

Unlike other division heads whose results were separately reported, her compensation as an executive was not tied to her division’s results, but to the overall company results, which, she had calculated, had cost her hundreds of thousands of dollars in compensation. She also knew that she was earning less in total salary and compensation than some of her male colleagues in similar positions managing less profitable divisions. She had been pushing to have this changed, but had accepted the original marching orders under Dr. Marcus that if she proved herself in the role of Executive Vice President, the last step on the rung to President, he would soon ask the board to change her executive agreement. When Dr. Marcus abruptly retired for health reasons, she had brought it up with Andrews during their first one-on-one meeting, but with his own performance being heavily scrutinized by Wall Street and institutional investors, Andrews was dragging his feet on it, and showed no inclination to change how the numbers were reported.

This time though, she was planning to bring it up publicly at his next quarterly board meeting. She had cunningly laid the groundwork, and had discussed her tactics with two of the board’s members, from whom she had extracted promises that she would have their backing at the meeting. Her executive employment contract with BFIC was evergreen, and would renew automatically as written at the end of the year if she didn’t take action now, and she was damned if she was going to go another year without being recognized for her contributions, and leave money she felt she was due, on the table.

Katy walked over to the low credenza on the far side of her office, and put the electric kettle on for tea. A nice cup of tea always settled her down and helped her to clarify her thoughts. She scooped two spoons full of loose English tea into her Grandmother’s lovely blue and white china teapot, and placed it on the silver tray on the credenza. She had kept the teapot with her throughout her career as a reminder of her roots, and the strong, capable women who had preceded her. She poured in the boiling water and fitted the quilted tea cozy atop the pot. She gently placed two sugar cubes and a splash of milk into the bottom of the matching china teacup, then picked up the tray and walked over to the settee at the far side of her office. She set the tray on the table, and stood at the window gazing at the scene below her as she waited for the tea to steep.

Outside the window, the late afternoon sky was the color of cold steel. Billowing snowflakes blew in gentle arcs to the street below and wet snow clung to trees and rooftops. The people on the street rushed to and fro, caught off guard by the wintery cold come so early in autumn.

Katy sat down with a sigh, sipped her tea and contemplated her next move.

3

Daniel Morton slid his black luxury SUV into the garage of his Hollywood Hills home, the garage door closing smoothly behind him. Opening the rear hatch of the SUV, he took out the shopping bags and his leather briefcase, and headed into the house from the garage. He walked through the door and down the hallway to the modern, luxuriously appointed chef’s kitchen, as new and unused as the day it was installed. The kitchen flowed seamlessly into the grand open floor plan of the main living area where cove lighting gently glowed from the 14’ ceilings. Fifty feet of ivory, raw silk curtains automatically parted as he entered the room, tripped by an electronic eye he passed in the hallway. The curtains silently receded into a panel at either end of the wall of windows, revealing the breathtaking view of the lush tropical landscaping surrounding the mirror flat surface of the infinity pool outside. The twinkling lights of Hollywood and West Los Angeles floated like stars in the distance.

His expansive Los Angeles home, grand in scale compared to the more modest size of his Manhattan apartment, was decorated in the minimalist style he preferred, boasting an eclectic assortment of quirky modern art and sleek European furnishings. He dropped the bags on the white Italian leather sofa in the middle of the room, and crossed the bamboo floor to the credenza he used as his bar. Crystal glasses and a matching decanter sat atop the highly polished blonde wood surface of the credenza. He poured himself a glass of Napoleon brandy from the decanter, picked up the shopping bags and his briefcase, and headed to his office at the other end of the enormous house.

He took a swallow of brandy and then set the glass down on his desk and walked over to the wood paneled walls. He tapped on the wall of wood, and a hidden door panel popped open, revealing floor-to-ceiling glass storage shelves inside, lit from above with bright LED spotlights. Hundreds of perfume and jewelry boxes lined the shelves, and he added his most recent purchases, taking time to neatly arrange them by name.

He then picked out three small, blue Tiffany’s boxes tied with white ribbon, a white and black Chanel perfume box, two bright orange Hermes scarf boxes, a black leather Michael Kors handbag, and an Estee Lauder perfume set, setting each box down on his desk as he retrieved it from the shelves.

He knelt down in front of the shelves and reached back in. He punched in the code on the high-tech safe hidden skillfully out of sight at the bottom of the stacks of shelves. He took out ten bank-wrapped bundles of one hundred dollar bills, each bundle holding ten thousand dollars, throwing them on the top of his desk, then closed the safe, and closed the wall panel. The panel fitted perfectly, and no seam could be seen.

His cell phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket, and read the text message from Anthony Accetta, an acquaintance he was hoping to recruit into a senior position from a rival agency. The text was confirming their dinner meeting scheduled for tomorrow night at 8:30 at Bar Americain in Midtown Manhattan.

Confirmed, he texted back to Anthony. No niceties, no BS. He prided himself in always maintaining the upper hand in negotiations, even with a friend. He would reserve any discussions about what he had in mind for the in-person meeting. So far he had kept his communications brief