Линвуд Баркли - Find You First

If word got out that he was interested in selling, he’d have every tech company in the world, at least those with deep pockets, beating down his door in minutes.

It wasn’t something he had to make his mind up about right now, but it was worth thinking about. Maybe it was time for a change. Write a book. Get involved in the movement to find a cure for Huntington’s. Give them a whack of money, and set out to raise more.

Or, maybe, go to Hawaii and get stoned.

So many choices. And who was to say he couldn’t do all of them?

But while he considered his options, Cookson Tech had to continue to move forward, develop new and innovative products in a highly competitive market. If he didn’t sell out, there needed to be a succession plan. Who would run the joint when he handed over the reins?

In his heart, he would have liked to hand it all over to Gilbert. But as long as Caroline was in the picture, that was off the table.

At some point soon, Miles would have to assemble the board of directors and inform them of his diagnosis. His occasional uncontrolled movements were going to become more pronounced over time. People would suspect something was wrong. A whispering campaign would begin. Miles would have to bring the public relations department into the loop so they could start formulating a strategy for when his condition became public. They might recommend getting ahead of it, maybe call a news conference, arrange a 60 Minutes interview, do a spot on one of the morning shows. Tell his tale to Gayle King or Wolf Blitzer. He’d met both of them over the years.

But it was probably best to put all those things on hold until he had connected with his biological children, the Nine, as he had come to think of them. He was still trying to figure out the best way to approach them. A few days earlier he had called Dorian into his office.

“With Heather’s help, you’re going to need to pull together—”

“Profiles on the Nine, yeah. She’s already on it.”

“Okay, good,” Miles said. “But we’re going to need more than just basic information on these individuals. We’ll need—”

“Family and educational background.”

“Yes,” Miles said. “But the important thing is, these inquiries need to be—”

“Discreet. Under the radar. Figured that.”

Miles sat back in his chair and grinned. “Where would I be without you?”

“Nowhere,” Dorian said.

He nodded with bemused resignation. “Okay, well, when this information starts to actually come in—”

“We have it,” Dorian said.

Miles threw his hands in the air. “I’m gonna shut up now. Just hit me with it.”

Dorian, who had walked in carrying an iPad, raised it in her hands and started tapping and scrolling on the screen.

“Okay, so, not surprisingly, they’re scattered all over the place. One’s up in Massachusetts, we’ve got one going to college in Maine, another on an extended vacation in Paris. One’s in Fort Wayne, another in Scottsdale. Closest one is in Providence.”

Miles felt a kind of excitement surging through him.

“What... do they do?” He’d been thinking, if there was anything to inherited talent, maybe one of them was a software developer or something else in the tech world.

“We’ve got an art gallery employee, a waitress who’s an aspiring documentarian — she’s the one in Providence — a guy who works part-time in a computer store.”

Miles said, “Hmm.”

“That’s just three. I can send this to you. It’s reasonably comprehensive. It’s not all that hard to find out things about people. Like I need to tell you that. So many people putting their lives out there on social media. And Heather’s got a hundred tricks up her sleeve to go beyond the easy stuff. Oh, and this is cool. Every one of them has one or more Cookson apps on their phones.”

That prompted a chuckle from Miles, but his expression quickly turned anxious.

“Now it’s all about the approach.”

Dorian, deadpan, said, “Maybe one of those emails that says they’ve got a few million dollars coming their way and all they have to do is provide their bank details so that the transfer can be made.”

Miles smiled. “I’d have to get a fake email address.”

“We could figure that out.”

“Okay, so email is out. Maybe the old-fashioned way. A personal letter? Registered?”

Dorian quickly shook her head. “Suppose it goes to the wrong person, or gets to the right house but is opened by the wrong person? Say you think you’re some kid’s dad and this letter comes along saying it’s someone else. Your wife never told you. It’s freak-out time.”

Dorian put the iPad aside, sat down, put one leg over the other and leaned forward.

“You know what you have to do,” she said.

“Have someone approach them in person, on my behalf?”

“You’re close,” she said.

Miles furrowed his brow. “What?”

She sighed. “It should be you.”

“Me?”

“I know you’re used to delegating pretty much everything, but there are some things you can’t fob off on someone else. If someone’s going to come out of the blue to tell me who my real father is, well, I think maybe it ought to be my real fucking father.”

Miles appeared thoughtful. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re right. I can’t ask someone else to do this.”

Dorian nodded. “Good. Because if you were going to ask me, I’d have said no.”

“I guess to do that you’d need to be in a higher pay grade,” Miles said, and let loose a short laugh.

Dorian said nothing.

“Anyway,” Miles said, “if I’m going to go face-to-face with them, I’m not sure approaching them on their home turf is best. There might be other family there. Away from home would be better. Maybe at work, or catch them on a lunch break?”

“I think you’ll have to play each one by ear. And there’s going to be some travel involved. There’s that one woman in Paris. I can charter a private jet for those.”

“Sure.”

“And the closer ones, I can get Charise, seeing as how you handed the Porsche off to Gilbert.”

“He told you?”

“I saw him come to work in it. If you’ve got any other Porsches you’re giving away, I’d be willing to help you with that.”

“Okay, get in touch with Charise. And of course you’ve got pictures of them all?”

Dorian gave him a duh look.

“If it was me,” she said, “I’d start with Chloe Swanson, the one in Providence. She’s the closest. Good way to get your feet wet. If the personal approach goes south, you fine-tune your approach before you go on to the next one.”

“Chloe Swanson,” Miles said, more to himself than Dorian. “Have I got a surprise for you.”

New Haven, CT

The funny thing was, Caroline had actually run into that alleged hit man one day, several months after the trial where he was found not guilty, and a few weeks before she learned about Miles’s diagnosis.

She was at a Starbucks, paying for her caramel latte, when she turned around and bumped into a man waiting for his hot chocolate. He was tall with short brown hair, high cheekbones, a strong jaw. He was wearing a long cashmere coat and a pair of dark brown leather gloves. He looked, at a glance, like someone out of a Hugo Boss ad.

“Sorry,” she said. “God, I nearly got some foam on you.”

“It’s okay,” he said, rearing back, looking down at his coat. “No harm done.” He reached around her for his hot chocolate. Caroline noticed the name PETE written on the side of the paper cup.

Pete was about to turn and head for the door when he stopped and gave Caroline another look.