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  “Good for him,” said Simpson with a smile. “And good for you too.”

  The three young men laughed before heading down toward the lake where one of the gazebos had been turned into a make-shift café serving fresh teas and espressos in Deane-logoed white china cups.

  “All right, enough messing around,” said Westinghouse at last. “Did you bone Barbie or not?”

  James Matheson knew this was coming. The last time he saw his two college buddies he was on the receiving end of some pretty serious attention from Barbara Rousseau—one of the most beautiful, and up until the end of last semester, untouchable girls at Deane.

  Barbara was a third-year sociology major, a French exchange student whose perfect long legs were right now on their way back to Paris—or more specifically, the Sorbonne, where they would no doubt tread the historic halls of the famous French university sending shivers down the spine of every red-blooded French boy within eyeshot. She had been at Deane for two years—her dad being some big French American diplomat, and her mom an ex-supermodel who still looked hot enough to be Barbara’s older sister.

  At the end of last semester, word got around that blond-haired Barbara, better known as “Marseille Barbie” thanks to her likeness to the plastic princess, had broken up with longtime boyfriend and college jock, Jason Speed. Needless to say, the male population of Deane celebrated, but then commiserated given it was the beginning of summer, which gave them little time and zero campus accessibility to capitalize on Barbie’s newly realized emancipation.

  All seemed lost, until last night at the Lincoln Club, when on the very eve of her flight back to Paris, she started coming on to one James Matheson, giving every other male in the room that contradictory sensation of elation and regret—elation that Barbie had given another one of their local boys a chance before saying “au revoir,” and regret that the boy she picked had not been them.

  “You banged Barbie?” asked H. Edgar, who, James thought, had probably been too drunk to even notice last night’s potential hookup.

  James looked at his friend, and for a brief moment felt a strange sensation of irritation as it registered how out of place this lowbrow colloquialism sounded coming from the mouth of his normally cerebral, calculating, highly opinionated friend. There was also something about the way he had asked the question—with the emphasis on you—as if there was no way Barbara Rousseau would go for a guy like . . .

  “None of your business,” said James, maintaining the smile he knew he should in response to such testosterone-driven inquiries.

  “Come on, Matheson,” said Heath, his own good looks and recent tan from a summer in the Cape making him, from the female students’ perspectives, the male version of Marseilles Barbie. “Did you sleep with her or not?”

  James rolled his eyes. “What does it matter? By now Barbara is half a world away.”

  “You did, didn’t you?” said Heath, slapping his friend on the back. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

  “Let’s just say I gave her a going-away present,” said James, telling them exactly what they wanted to hear. “A sort of thanks for coming from all her American admirers.”

  “And did she?” asked Heath.

  “Did she what?”

  “Say thanks for coming?”

  “Jesus, man, you are sick.”

  “Are your parents around?” asked James of H. Edgar then, in an attempt to change the subject.

  “No, they left for Europe on Wednesday.” Simpson’s father was an ex-multinational CEO who now made a substantial post-retirement income by lecturing other prominent businessmen around the world in corporate management and international business relations. “Mother had some philosophy conference in London and Dad had some dinner with Lloyds so . . .”

  “How are you feeling by the way?” asked Westinghouse. “The last time I saw you you were staggering up your ridiculously long circular drive. I waited outside until you made it to the door, figuring you might have kept going around and around, not knowing where to get off.”

  “Very funny,” said H. Edgar, who resided in his parents’ expansive Chestnut Hill estate. “And since you are asking, I feel like crap. Mitchell Ward wants some sort of favor from my father, so he kept serving me doubles,” he said of the Lincoln Club bartender, who was also a scholarship student at Deane.

  “Didn’t your dad get him the job at the Lincoln in the first place?” asked Matheson.

  “He did,” replied Simpson.

  “Ungrateful SOB.” Heath grinned. “He should have been serving you triples.”

  The three of them laughed again as they grabbed another coffee and headed back outside toward the lake.

  It had been like this ever since the day they had met at Deane’s School of Law Main Admissions Hall just over two years ago. They had found themselves lining up to enroll in exactly the same classes and hit it off instantly as only three ambitious, commercially driven, privileged young men seem to do.

  They had become instant friends, sharing similar upbring ings with the same intellectual talents and corresponding lofty goals. They were trust fund babies of the highest order, never having any doubt where they belonged—at top private schools, in prestigious colleges and law schools, and eventually walking the hallowed halls of blue-chip law firms, influential merchant banks or multimillion dollar corporations. Their Ivy League banter had taken on a life of its own—a sort of cerebral dialect that was shaped by their surroundings but contained words, phrases and self-assured opinions that set them apart from the less fortunate of the fortunate. When first overheard, it might have come across as some overt attempt to consolidate their superiority, but, in fact, it was the opposite—more an appropriate way for three similar young men to communicate in a world where privilege had set them apart through no fault of their own.

  James contemplated this thought as he followed his two caffeine drinking pals across the freshly mown lawns and wondered, in that second, just how “real” their bond actually was. Did they click because they were similar people who were destined to be friends for life, or because their “mirrored existence” had created a false common ground that, if removed, would shatter their camaraderie in seconds.

  They are my best friends, he thought, but I lied to them about Barbie. More to the point, he knew, he had not told them about her—but that was understandable, given her requests to the contrary and the fact she was . . .

  But James’ thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a young girl, prompting him and his two friends to look farther down the gentle sloping levee toward a nearby footbridge where a second year by the name of Meredith Wentworth was now hugging two other girls who seemed to be just as distressed.

  “What the hell is that all about?” asked Westinghouse.

  “Who knows?” said James. They walked over to find out.

  “Hey, Meredith,” called James, who had last seen the underage strawberry blond knocking back wine coolers at the Lincoln. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, James,” said Meredith, turning toward the three boys. “It’s Jess, she . . .”

  “Jess Nagoshi? What about her?” said James, immediately feeling the involuntary gush of air abandoning his lungs in one almighty gasp.

  “She’s dead—murdered!” cried Meredith. A mascara-stained tear landed squarely on her crisp white collar. “Jennifer Baker lives down the block from the Nagoshis and she said the place was crawling with police. Apparently they found her this morning—at home, in her garden or something. I can’t believe this.” The girl sobbed some more. “This is a living nightmare, James. Like . . . last night she was so happy. You guys saw her. She was so sweet, so smart, so . . .”

  “No,” said James.

  “Shit,” said Westinghouse.

  “Her father is going to have a fucking fit,” said Simpson, and in that instant, James felt the bile rise in his throat, like a flare setting a torch to his dreams and obliterating them into one huge cloud of nothing.

  7


  Six weeks later—Monday, October 26

  New York

  “I am sorry, Mr. Crookshank,” said twenty-six-year-old Peter Nagoshi. “But it really is not good enough.”

  Nagoshi America Incorporated President Bob Crookshank sat back in his ergonomically designed swivel chair—his large profile framed by a window taking in the expanse of the Manhattan skyline and Central Park below—and shook his head in the hope that what he had just heard was not, well . . . what he had just heard.

  Just moments ago he had embraced these two men, held them tight, close, in a gesture of empathy. He had seen Mr. Nagoshi and his son—who had followed him to corporate functions like an obedient puppy ever since he graduated law/master in business administration earlier in the year—several times over the past few weeks, but always in the less intimate settings of boardroom meetings or corporate presentations. So this was the first time he had had a real opportunity to express his personal condolences to the two men, and given that he was born and bred in Texas, he did it the only way he knew how.

  So much for compassion. Now they were booting his ass.

  “What exactly are you saying, Peter?” asked Crookshank.

  “That your productivity is down four percent Bob, your sales down seven and your overall profit margin shrinking by the minute. Need I remind you, Bob, that Nagoshi America Inc. is a publicly listed company and as of this morning the NYSE listed its shares at forty-one dollars. That is an all-time low for the past twelve months, Bob, and a long journey from the company’s high of fifty-seven dollars just two years ago.”

  Shit, thought Crookshank. That goddamned fifty-seven high had been plaguing him ever since he took over the American division of Nagoshi Inc. just eighteen months ago. It was an impossible figure to maintain and was only reached due to the collapse of a major competitor.

  Still, he had to admit, his division of the international conglomerate was not exactly reaping harvests of gold. Peter Nagoshi’s figures were correct, but every president had his down times and this just happened to be one of . . .

  “John,” he began, making the decision to bypass the smart-ass son and appeal to the reason of experience. “It’s a blip in the graph, that’s all. Our new head of sales is a real go-getter. I poached him from Sony so he knows his shit. We’re just about to initiate a new marketing campaign for the Notebook 3000 and, with all due respect, the share price was up to forty-eight a little over a month ago, just prior to the death of . . .”

  Fuck! He stopped himself right there. What a fucking stupid thing to say.

  “You’re right, Bob,” said John Nagoshi, sitting firm in one of the two large leather sofa chairs in Bob Crookshank’s forty-fifth floor Madison Avenue office. “My daughter’s passing did result in, ah—what did you call it, Bob? A blip in the graph. And that blip was felt internationally. But I find it hard to understand why all other divisions recovered instantaneously, while the US continued to, shall we say, blip on?

  “No, Bob.” Nagoshi fixed a smile on his face. “I am sorry, but my son is right. In fact, I am here to inform you that I will be taking over the presidency of Nagoshi America immediately, and working closely with my son until he is ready to . . .”

  “What?” asked Crookshank, incredulous, his normally hearty skin blanching an even deeper shade of crimson. “Forgive me, Mr. Nagoshi, sir, but the suggestion that your son is in the position to assume such an important role is nothing short of ridiculous.”

  Crookshank was a physical being who, to be honest, right now felt like beating the shit out of his average-heighted boss and similarly lightweight offspring. But he took a moment, calmed himself and did his best to limit his bodily response by rising from the matching two-seater across from his two visitors and pacing the room.

  “Mr. Nagoshi,” he said after a breath, “Peter is barely out of diapers. I mean . . . law school. He is young and inexperienced.

  “I made a commitment to you people,” he said, immediately realizing this last comment may seem offensive. But he’d spent the past eighteen months dealing with the daily frustrations of US-Japanese cultural differences so, if it came out that way, then . . .

  “I have worked damned hard under the circumstances,” he went on. “And, I must say, have found your disinterest in discussing my range of progressive recommendations to be nothing short of insulting. I have expanded our household products division, consolidated our growth into telecommunications and . . .”

  But when he picked up his pace to turn back across what the company interior decorator had referred to as his “inspirational but functional minimalist workplace,” he saw that Nagoshi and his equally stealthy spawn were already on their feet and halfway across the coffee-colored carpet to the frosted-glass door. He still had no idea how they did that—moved like fucking cats without making a goddamned sound. It just wasn’t normal.

  “Thank you for your kind wishes of sympathy, Bob,” said Nagoshi as he turned to bow before opening the door.

  And with that, they left, leaving Bob to his million-dollar view and his ridiculously uncomfortable furniture, shutting the door behind them slowly, softly and without a trace of any audible click.

  “You did well, segare,” John Nagoshi said to his son as soon as they were safely inside the private confines of their car moving south along Madison Avenue. John Nagoshi motioned for his driver to pull out into the thick Manhattan traffic and make their way back to their two-story apartment on Central Park West.

  “Thank you, Father,” said Peter. “We are well placed.”

  “Yes. Regardless of Crookshank’s incompetence, the forecast for the future is bright.”

  And it was.

  Despite the death of his daughter, as Mr. Crookshank so inappropriately pointed out, Nagoshi Inc. was just last week named in the Forbes 500 comprehensive ranking of the world’s biggest companies, at number 138—up twenty-seven places from the year before.

  The list, which spanned fifty-one countries and twenty-seven industries and was measured by a composite of sales, profits, assets and market value, named Nagoshi Inc. the seventh most successful company in Japan—behind Toyota, Nippon, Honda, Nissan, Tokyo Electric and Sony. Its nearest market competitor was way back at number 205, just where it belonged.

  Annual sales of their myriad of products, including everything from refrigerators and washing machines to DVD cameras and multimedia systems, computers and printers, cell phones and fax machines, were now at about eighty-five billion, with assets of over seventy-seven billion. They currently employed some 350,000 people worldwide with the company having 985 sub sidiaries, including 486 overseas companies.

  If there was one thing John Nagoshi had learned from his grandfather Nagoshi Isako who, together with his younger brother, Yoji, had founded Nagoshi Inc. over eighty years ago when they opened a small electrical repairs shop in a Tokyo marketplace, was that expansion was key to success. But his wise elder also taught him that sensing his surroundings, feeling when it was time for growth and time for stillness, was the only way to prevent the disappointment of failure.

  “The animals observe their environment,” his grandfather used to say. “They sense the ups and downs of the seasons. They feel the changes in the weather—the hot, the cold, the wet, the dry. They store food in times of plenty so that they can feed their young in times of famine. They know their enemies and assess their power and so learn when it is time to attack and time to walk away. Know this, magomusuko, respect all beings around you, and you shall be rewarded.”

  And his grandfather had been right. Observing, respecting and most importantly timing the push for growth was paramount to achieving your goals.

  And that was why the next few months were so important.

  While Nagoshi Inc. had established itself as a world leader in the area of household appliances, home entertainment products, technology software and hardware, and more recently telecommunications, it did not go unnoticed that Japan’s most successful manufacturers were in
the business of making cars. John Nagoshi had done what his grandfather had advised—stopped, listened, felt, observed, and now he knew in his heart that this was the time to push forward into the multibillion-dollar world of automobile production. The company was strong, the overheads down, the market ripe for a new alternative—and John Nagoshi, who had spent the past four years waiting for this moment, was on the verge of announcing to the world Nagoshi Inc.’s far-reaching expansion plans.

  He wanted his grandfather’s name emblazoned on the finest automobiles Japan, or indeed the world, had ever produced. He wanted to hand his children—his child—an empire born out of devotion but run with intelligence and sensitivity to both the strengths of capitalism and the basics of solidarity. He also felt it was time he gave the Toyotas, Hondas and Nissans a run for their yen. And so . . .

  If they were to launch their new initiative at the beginning of the year, less than three months from now, they needed to rid themselves of burdens and consolidate their strengths—in matters of business, in matters of life and, in their case, in matters of death. This last thought crossed John Nagoshi’s mind and with it came a wave of disappointment. Jessica’s life had not gone as he planned. The Japanese had always seen mourning as an integral part of life, but he had not had time to grieve his daughter’s passing, and now this acknowledgment of incomple tion sat inside him like a boulder in the middle of a stream. He knew he must allow his spirit to recognize her death, but this was difficult given the demands of his work and the inability of the authorities to identify her killer. His grandfather had taught him patience, but his soul was demanding answers with an ever-increasing fervor.

  “Crookshank was a mistake,” said Peter, refocusing his father’s thoughts on the situation at hand. And in that moment Nagoshi wondered if Peter had not just postponed his own process of grief, but forgotten the obligation to do so.

  “Yes,” said his father, perhaps sensing that applying himself to work was the only way Peter knew of mourning his sister. When his mother passed away, Peter responded by achieving the highest marks possible in his university entrance exams—marks high enough to gain him entry to the highly respected Todai or Tokyo University—an institution he attended briefly before transferring to Deane.