friends who lived in big houses filled with lots of grown-up toys.
Though Augie pretended otherwise, he knew damn well where the Palumbos lived. Mr. Palumbo usually dropped their Lexus off at the station, taking the car key from his key ring and leaving it in the ignition. After the work was done, Augie had returned the vehicle himself, having one of the boys follow behind to drive him back to the garage.
The Palumbos had a seriously nice spread.
Now, if only Mrs. Palumbo would leave her entire key ring in the car.
It was surprising how many people did that.
Chapter 24
Paige recognized the callerâs last name immediately.
âThis is Samuel Morton. My daughter Sarah has been corresponding with Ms. Blake.â
âYes, Mr. Morton, of course. This is Paige Tintle, Ms. Blakeâs assistant. How can I help you?â Paige asked, picking up her pencil to jot down the message.
âWell, Sarah and I were supposed to come into the news studio tomorrow and meet Ms. Blake.â Paige thought the manâs voice sounded stressed and it crossed her mind that he might just be nervous about calling the prestigious news organizationâs anchorwoman. She knew she would have been, had she been making the call as an outsider.
âYes. Weâre all set up for eleven-thirty tomorrow,â she answered brightly, trying to put him at ease. âAnd Ms. Blake has made lunch reservations for after your tour if you and Sarah are available.â
A loud sob burst through the receiver Paige held to her ear. As the man wept, Paige took down his message.
Sarah had died at Sloan-Kettering the night before.
Chapter 25
Larson Richards pulled his big black late-model Mercedes sedan into the driveway of the home where he had grown up. As he opened the car door, a blast of hot, sticky air met him. He pulled off his soft beige, elegantly cut suit jacket and hung it on the hook in the back seat.
Rolling back the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, he loosened his Hermes tie and wished he had realized that he would be coming to do this today when he dressed this morning. But after the meeting with his investors in his office this afternoon, it was clear that, if he wanted to go through the house one more time before the closing on Friday, today was going to be his last opportunity.
Richards took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the film of perspiration that covered his brow. Things were not going well with this deal. He had organized a syndicate of investors contributing millions of dollars to back him as he attempted to buy and consolidate the individual, small, mom-and-pop owned pizzerias that operated in just about every town in the northern half of New Jersey. Richards had seen an opportunity. If he could buy up all the little pizza parlors and consolidate them under one umbrella, he could turn around and sell the whole package toa national company, trading as âJersey Pizza,â making a huge profit for his investors and himself in the process.
Approximately three billion pizzas were sold in the United States each year, but the tomato and cheese pies sold in New Jersey were in a class of their own. Residents who moved away from the Garden State claimed that pizza made in other parts of the country was not nearly as good. Since
The Sopranos,
with its northern New Jersey locale, had become such a cultural phenomenon, Larson was even more convinced his âJersey Pizzaâ idea would work. But he had to find a buyer with deep pockets and he needed money to keep his business afloat until he could get to that finish line.
The investors, confident because of their fantastically good luck in the booming stock market, piled on board happily at first. The double-digit profits on Wall Street had made them very wealthy in a relatively short period of time. What Larson Richards outlined for them promised to double or even triple their investments. Who could say no to a business opportunity like that?
But as
Though Augie pretended otherwise, he knew damn well where the Palumbos lived. Mr. Palumbo usually dropped their Lexus off at the station, taking the car key from his key ring and leaving it in the ignition. After the work was done, Augie had returned the vehicle himself, having one of the boys follow behind to drive him back to the garage.
The Palumbos had a seriously nice spread.
Now, if only Mrs. Palumbo would leave her entire key ring in the car.
It was surprising how many people did that.
Chapter 24
Paige recognized the callerâs last name immediately.
âThis is Samuel Morton. My daughter Sarah has been corresponding with Ms. Blake.â
âYes, Mr. Morton, of course. This is Paige Tintle, Ms. Blakeâs assistant. How can I help you?â Paige asked, picking up her pencil to jot down the message.
âWell, Sarah and I were supposed to come into the news studio tomorrow and meet Ms. Blake.â Paige thought the manâs voice sounded stressed and it crossed her mind that he might just be nervous about calling the prestigious news organizationâs anchorwoman. She knew she would have been, had she been making the call as an outsider.
âYes. Weâre all set up for eleven-thirty tomorrow,â she answered brightly, trying to put him at ease. âAnd Ms. Blake has made lunch reservations for after your tour if you and Sarah are available.â
A loud sob burst through the receiver Paige held to her ear. As the man wept, Paige took down his message.
Sarah had died at Sloan-Kettering the night before.
Chapter 25
Larson Richards pulled his big black late-model Mercedes sedan into the driveway of the home where he had grown up. As he opened the car door, a blast of hot, sticky air met him. He pulled off his soft beige, elegantly cut suit jacket and hung it on the hook in the back seat.
Rolling back the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, he loosened his Hermes tie and wished he had realized that he would be coming to do this today when he dressed this morning. But after the meeting with his investors in his office this afternoon, it was clear that, if he wanted to go through the house one more time before the closing on Friday, today was going to be his last opportunity.
Richards took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the film of perspiration that covered his brow. Things were not going well with this deal. He had organized a syndicate of investors contributing millions of dollars to back him as he attempted to buy and consolidate the individual, small, mom-and-pop owned pizzerias that operated in just about every town in the northern half of New Jersey. Richards had seen an opportunity. If he could buy up all the little pizza parlors and consolidate them under one umbrella, he could turn around and sell the whole package toa national company, trading as âJersey Pizza,â making a huge profit for his investors and himself in the process.
Approximately three billion pizzas were sold in the United States each year, but the tomato and cheese pies sold in New Jersey were in a class of their own. Residents who moved away from the Garden State claimed that pizza made in other parts of the country was not nearly as good. Since
The Sopranos,
with its northern New Jersey locale, had become such a cultural phenomenon, Larson was even more convinced his âJersey Pizzaâ idea would work. But he had to find a buyer with deep pockets and he needed money to keep his business afloat until he could get to that finish line.
The investors, confident because of their fantastically good luck in the booming stock market, piled on board happily at first. The double-digit profits on Wall Street had made them very wealthy in a relatively short period of time. What Larson Richards outlined for them promised to double or even triple their investments. Who could say no to a business opportunity like that?
But as
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