Syndrome by Thomas Hoover (read along books txt) 📖

the door magically opened. A tall, trim Japanese man in a crisp black suit was standing in the doorway. But he had a muscular build that would be more appropriate for a bodyguard than a butler.

“Hello,” she said. “I have an appointment with—”

“Yes.” He nodded, appearing to know exactly who she was. “He’s upstairs in the library. Please…”

She’d expected a grand central staircase in the Palladian design, but instead there were elevators off to the left of the entryway. But even without an obvious staircase, the ground floor and its fifteen-foot ceiling were palatial in every sense of the term. The marble floors were covered with antique, and expensive, Persian rugs, and the light tan wallpaper was flecked with gold leaf, giving the feeling it could have been meticulously stripped from some palazzo in Venice. The lighting fixtures were a row of chandeliers down the middle of the vast room, and at the back was a dining table that appeared to be large enough to seat thirty dinner guests. The architecture was a showpiece for the extravagant taste of some Victorian “enemy of the people.”

But what really set it apart was that the walls were lined with exquisitely severe antique swords and armor from Japan. In a way, the room felt like the foyer of a boutique museum, an adjunct of the Asia Society.

The Japanese man directed her to one of the elevators, and then got in with her. She still couldn’t decide whether he was a butler or a bodyguard. He had the polished demeanor of the first, but the strapping body and deft movements of the latter. Maybe he was both. In any case, he looked like he would be quite at ease brandishing one of those long samurai swords.

The elevator had dark paneling and smelled of freshness, partly fresh wood and partly fresh lacquer. It was utterly silent as it glided up to the third floor. When the door opened, she stepped into what appeared to be a large den/library, except that there was a huge four-poster antique bed at the far corner, with its drapes drawn around the side. It was definitely something out of another place and time. Was this Bartlett’s bedroom? The space was magisterial.

In the other corner was a wide mahogany desk covered with phones and papers and two computers. From his photos, she recognized the man rising to greet her as Winston Bartlett. Seeing him in the flesh, she first noticed that there was something in his eyes that in another man might be called ruthless, but in him it merely came off as determined. They were eyes that were accustomed to getting what they wanted-be it a company, a building, a woman.

“Fine, Ken, and please have them hold my calls,” Bartlett said nodding to the Japanese man, who tipped his head in acknowledgment and disappeared back into the elevator. Then he turned to her and extended his hand. “Ms. Hampton, I appreciate your making time for me. I’m possibly your newest fan. After Grant told me about you, I had a couple of my people do some research. You’ve been responsible for some very interesting, even elegant interiors. Grant may have told you I have a big project down the road that you might wish to bid on. But for now, as a way of getting to know each other, I wanted to talk to you about a more modest undertaking.”

She thanked him, attempting to take it all in. She was trying not to admit to herself that Winston Bartlett was an attractive man, in the way that power brings charisma. “I’d be happy to hear about what you have in mind. I don’t necessarily take every job that comes along. I always look for challenges.”

She listened to herself and wondered why she was starting off the meeting in such a confrontational manner. Probably, she thought, it was because she didn’t want to seem intimidated. Doing high-end interior design, you come across a lot of wealth and power, but this was a whole new level.

“Well, I guess I’m the same way.” He smiled. “A lot of the things I’ve done over the years have ended up being a challenge. And a risk. But now and then, something is worth it.” He gestured toward a couch. “Please, we have a lot to talk about.”

He returned to the chair behind his desk and turned off the laptop computer he had been using.

“I brought a portfolio,” she began, “with photos. There’s also a DVD with virtual walk-throughs of some of our projects. I’m not sure what you have in mind, but this should give you some idea of the kind of thing we—”

“I’ll look at it,” he said, setting the portfolio aside unopened. “I’m sure you live up to your reputation. Like I said, I have two jobs pending, so first let me outline the smaller one. This building was built just before the prior turn of the century, and it was intended to house a small workforce of cooks and nannies and seamstresses below stairs. The rooms were lit with town gas, and coal was used for heating and cooking. Then in the twenties, everything was gradually switched over to electricity and oil and natural gas. But very little effort was made to accommodate the change aesthetically. It was just retrofitted.”

“That’s typically how it was done.”

“And I haven’t really cared until now,” he went on. “But lately I’ve decided I want to redo this place properly. Starting below stairs and moving up. It’s mainly the kitchen down there that concerns me now. I want to remove all the outdated fixtures and go state of the art. There’s nothing original there anymore; just somebody’s idea of a ‘modernization’ back in the fifties. So nothing of historic value will be lost. I don’t want a restaurant kitchen precisely, but I want a range with enough Btu’s that it could be. Granite countertops are all the rage these days….” He paused, then grinned sheepishly. “I promise I won’t start telling you how to do your job. Work up some ideas without any interference from me, and then we’ll see where we go from there.”

“Do you have any blueprints of this building? The original plans?”

He smiled, as though to say you ask good questions. “As a matter of fact, they were filed downtown, in a little-known cranny of the Department of Buildings and I had an expediter I know track them down.” He paused. “Ms. Hampton, there is one little matter I want to clear with you in advance. I know that the newspapers occasionally print things about me that might be termed unsavory. You came to meet me here, so that tells me something about your feelings toward me. But I have discovered that I am a somewhat controversial figure in certain circles. I’d just like to know if you think of me as controversial.”

She found this unexpected new tack in the conversation puzzling. Was he trying to get a rise out of her?

“I barely know you, Mr. Bartlett,” she said. “And, frankly, the private life of a client is none of my business. So that question is entirely unnecessary.”

“Very well.” He smiled. “Like I said, there’s a much larger job now in the planning stage. I have a building on Park Avenue in the Seventies that I’m planning to convert into a museum. It would be a private undertaking at first, but in the long run, who knows? The job will require extensive alterations of the building, and I also plan to have a museum cafe in the lower level. Anyway, there’s a lot of work ahead, and I thought this would be a good way for us to get acquainted. Redoing the first floor here would give us both some idea of whether we could work together on a larger project.”

She listened and found herself wondering what he was really up to. This conversation felt like he thought he needed to have plenty of bait on the hook.

First Grant and then him, a tycoon who’s a perfect stranger. Why?

Monday April 6

10:38 A.M.

Winston Bartlett was not finding himself entirely satisfied with the way things were going. As he looked her over, he had a lot on his mind. This was the woman who shared his rare blood type and could represent his last hope. So far, she seemed smart and courageous. Given the gravity of what he’d heard about her heart condition from Karl-which you’d never realize by just looking at her-she had to be courageous to continue on with her kind of spirit. But that was not necessarily all to the good. She might not be so easy to manipulate.

Inevitably he found himself comparing her to Kristen. For starters, Alexa Hampton seemed to have a lot more self-assurance. Kristy liked to appear tough on camera, but she was riddled with an aspiring actress’s insecurities. Which had played a large part in the current tragedy. But you could say she brought that on herself. Alexa Hampton was struggling with something she had nothing to do with. And to look at her, you’d never know it. That was spunk.

In truth, this was the kind of woman he’d often wished he’d married-someone who shared his own gusto for life. God had dealt her a particularly lousy hand, and yet she still had drive. She had more courage in her little finger than that monster upstairs, Eileen. And the fact was, she was more appealing than Kristen. But don’t even think about going there.

“Coincidentally,” he said, beginning a new tack, “there’s a totally unrelated matter I wanted to discuss with you. I understand Grant has already told you about the clinical trials currently winding up at the Dorian Institute, which is part of one of my companies. He told me about your heart condition and about your mother’s Alzheimer’s. We’re working on a new procedure that could be very relevant for both of you. The clinical trials are scheduled to conclude in just a few days from now, but I spoke with the lead researcher there, Dr. Van de Vliet, and he said there’s still time to get you into the program.”

“Yes, Grant came to see me and brought me a brochure.”

“Your brother is very concerned about you and your mother, and he specifically asked me to inquire if you had any questions about the procedure that I might be able to answer for you.”

He was watching her carefully, all the while trying to keep his tone casual.

“Well, I think my mother is interested. Quite frankly, she doesn’t have much to lose, though she may be in denial about that. In my own case, I’m not so sure. I still don’t know anything about Karl Van de Vliet.”

She’s still toying with the bait, Bartlett thought. I can’t yank the line just yet, but she’s close. She’s so close.

“Truly, the best thing you could do would be to talk to him,” Bartlett said getting up from his desk and walking over to the window and pulling the curtains aside. The midmorning light streamed in, a momentarily blinding presence. I’ve got to shake this up, he told himself. “As a matter of fact, I’d like for you to meet with Karl before we go any further with this job. We need to get you well first. And your mother. He’s had some truly amazing successes with both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.”

“It’s just that this is all so experimental. Aren’t there any side effects? New drugs or new medical procedures always have side effects.”

Well, he thought, now you’ve hit on it. But that part is best left to Karl.

“If you have questions, that’s all the more reason to check out the clinic,” he declared. Time to close the sale. He came back and sat