Page 32 of The Fourth Option
“Leigh Ann, your husband was the best I ever worked with.”
She considered him intently, choosing her words.
“Chris, New Orleans is not like anywhere else, which I think is how they got away with this. Connor uncovered corruption in the department, and they killed him for it. I know that with every fiber of my being. When you start asking questions they are going to react. They will come after you, hard.”
“Well then,” he said, voice low but steady, “I’ll just have to go at them harder.”
CHAPTER TEN
“WHERE HOPE MEETShealing,” Derek Matheson read aloud, squinting at the banner strung across the barricade as the black Suburban crept past a traffic cop. “Who came up with that?”
In the front seat, Carolyn Boyle, his executive vice president of marketing, half turned. He could see her blond hair against her dark pantsuit. In her mid-thirties, she had been on board for five years. With the pace he set and demanded from those around him, Matheson thought she would have burned out by this point. He often wondered when she found time to keep so fit and toned.
Her mouth curved into something between a cautious smile and a bracing wince. “I did.”
The founder and CEO of Genyra Pharmaceuticals didn’t nod. Didn’t thank her. Instead, he glanced down at the sleek white dial of his Breitling Navitimer Chronograph, its 18-karat red gold case and bracelet catching a glint of sunlight through the tinted glass. Matheson wasn’t a pilot, but he owned a jet.
“And the logo,” he said. “Green and gold? Why not red? Genyra’s branding is red.”
Carolyn held her reply for a moment, eyes forward as she considered her answer. “It’s Tulane’s palette,” she said. “And the city favors gold: saints, the Joan of Arc statue, the old flags—”
“We’ll fix it,” interrupted Genyra’s chief commercial officer from the opposite leather captain’s chair. Walt Kimbel’s tone was smooth, automatic. Before jumping into the more profitable world of pharmaceuticals, he’d been a public defender with a law degree from LSU. “Carolyn, put it on the docket for Tuesday’s marketing huddle.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
Matheson’s eyes cut toward the window. He scratched at the stubbleon his chin, carefully maintained at a millimeter or two for just the right look.
“It’s nearly five. Why the hell aren’t we there yet?”
He knew why. His jet had been an hour late taking off out of Atlanta thanks to a detour to drop his most recent girlfriend off before heading to New Orleans after their extended weekend in Turks and Caicos. The two-hour meet-and-greet with hospital staff had been scratched entirely.
“Cops are rerouting everyone. VIP parking’s in the back,” the driver said, eyes hidden behind mirrored wraparounds that looked too small for his face. Dale Harris’s frame was linebacker-solid, his neck like a fire hydrant. He was an ex-cop from Baton Rouge, sidelined into the personal protection game after an excessive force charge caught on a body cam had bounced him from the department.
Matheson didn’t respond. He was still hung up on the color scheme. The heat. The rush.
He turned sharply back toward Carolyn.
“Who’s confirmed for media coverage?” he asked.
She perked up. “Actually, good news. Pushing the ceremony to five helps us. Local affiliates will catch the story right before prime time.”
Matheson’s jaw flexed. “Local. Not national.”
“There’s syndicated coverage, freelancers filing pool copy. Might get picked up wider.”
“Might,” he repeated, turning back to the window.
Silence mounted. Dale adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. Walt turned his head and feigned interest in a hot dog vendor on the sidewalk.
“No CNN, no Fox, no MSNBC?” Matheson asked.
“I haven’t…”
“What about at the gala tonight? Any coverage?”
Carolyn’s lips parted. “They… haven’t confirmed.”
“But you called them. We sent the press kits. You followed up.”
