“Mr Christopoulos—”
“I have a very extensive legal team. So experienced. They will take care of me. And, dear Emma, make sure your name is never brought up. Never.” His strained speech broke my heart. “Two hundred thousand dollars wired to your payroll account. It is done so no argument. I want for you, time away.” He voice broke. “You understand, dear Emma? I want for you, out of town.”
I understood. Darlene Duke understood. She wanted me out of the country. Ethan had to be told. Since sex was the one thing we never struggled with, it preceded my full confession. That night he hit the roof and it has nothing to do with our talent in bed.
Cash in backpacks? Wired? FBI sting? I hadn’t trusted him to keep quiet? Why didn’t I walk the minute I suspected? He paced to from the bed to the dressing room, to bed. “This could ruin you! Ruin me by association. As in never being able to work in schools. Emma, what the fuck were you thinking?”
“We’ll make sense of it in Cannes. The FBI and Mr C want us out of town. Darlene says out of the country.”
“Holy crap.”
Only Ethan Paige would agree to a month on the French Riviera because it didn’t interfere with his baseball coaching. We told no one and my attorney remained our go-between. We took refuge in The Carlton International like distinguished off-season exiles. The moment the FBI shackled the doors on the twenty seventh floor of the Empire State Building, Ciao!Beauty was over.
We settled in. Darlene reported that Jennifer and Dustin received two months’ severance pay and were in no jeopardy. They agreed to sit tight until my return. She next emailed that the FBI kept their agreement. Enough evidence existed to act on multiple charges. I had nothing to worry about. No doubt the case would languish in the justice system for years.
Carmine counterfeited products through shell companies, then mingled his China knockoffs with legitimate perfume. The FBI confiscated sixty thousand bogus bottles at Port Newark with Street value over three million dollars. They scored the largest seizure of counterfeit fragrance in North America.
Updates confirmed my snoop session only nicked the surface. Cash-stuffed duffels insulated space behind Carmine’s new sheetrock walls in his company offices, warehouses and distribution locations. The Feds found four million Ciao!Beauty dollars due to be laundered through New York, New Jersey, Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles banks. It left Ethan and me breathless.
It also seems Carmine had priors. He and his original six Cabinet Guys faced the brunt of charges which meant massive legal costs, hefty fines, and federal prison terms. As I feared, Mr Christopoulos was also held accountable. It was his company, his name on bank accounts and checks. Considering his health, leniency was expected. I hoped so even though I’d probably never know how complicit he’d been.
Disappearing for the first volatile weeks ensured avoiding industry chatter as the press laid it wide open. Women’s Wear Daily’s legal reporter scooped The Wall Street Journal. From Page Six to The Times’ for weeks financial pages rattled the beauty industry. Darlene upped her game. Emma Paige was never mentioned. Ethan and I avoided our cell phones. Darlene intercepted our apartment landline voicemails and, in an emergency, the few colleagues who knew where we were could reach us through the hotel concierge. Gradually emotional and physical distance replaced shock and fear with something close to enchantment. We never forgot why we were there, but walking the chilly beach, romantic dinners, and the casinos had no more sense of reality than the chaos at home. As equilibrium returned, Ethan and I rediscovered ourselves and who we were as a couple. Of course the earth kept turning. Mr Christopoulos’s deposit cushioned my unemployment but Ethan’s New Jersey programs needed scheduling. And then Major League Baseball bigwigs wanted to meet with him at their Manhattan headquarters to discuss coaching California rookie teams.
“California,” I whined the next day, bundled beneath a beach cabana. Travel, major time away. Same old, same old. Ethan put down his week-old New York Times. “I’m happy with my kids but you know Major league ball’s my brass ring. I need to hear them out. It’s my career, Emma. Yours always comes first. It’s always been about you.”
“It’s about me because it supports us. No one else me like you do. You’re my lifeline. I can endure beauty industry insanity when you’re with me. My career’s never more important than you. Year after year I pray baseball won’t chew you up and spit you out. I’m tired of watching it break your heart.”
“Don’t go there.”
He was right. We’d been down the baseball path so often it was nothing but dirt and gravel.
We returned to mail, messages, New York and reality in late March. Our first morning back, while Adam Donavan showed Ethan his kitchen faucet repair, my cell phone rang, country code forty-one, a repeat of a handful I’d had in France. For the first time, I answered.
“Emma Paige? Julian Petrenko. You are one hard women to reach.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t take unsolicited—”
“—You may regret ringing off.”
“Do I know you?”
“I’m in international business with several companies.”
I listened, thumbing my mail, trying to decide if his broad Oxford English was authentic.
“…Including majority owner of The Texas Bulls, NBA Basketball and some minor league baseball dabbling.”
A Brit owner of an NBA team? “I’m sorry, I know very little about sports. Maybe you’re looking for my husband?”
“Most certainly not. I mention them for the American connection. I’ve been calling for weeks as I’ve tracked you down for good reason. I’ve an opportunity. It’s true we’ve not met but I’m told you’re the best of the best in the beauty industry. My bit of a dilemma requires someone fearless.”
“I’m flattered but I’m not looking for a new position.”
Now the pause was his. “Ms Paige, due to the unsettling circumstances with Kinetic and Ciao!Beauty, I thought you’d certainly consider the offer.”
Here we go, I thought as memories of El Paso, multiple Motel Sixes, and pot-on-the-bus flashed. “Mr Petrenko, I don’t see myself in a position with anything sports related.”
“Certainly not. My inquiry is for something far more suited to your skills. I suggest we meet in person. I’ll explain in detail, and how we can help one another. If you’ll give me a fax number, you’ll have pertinent details within the hour. Peruse them and I’ll ring you tomorrow at four p.m. your time.”
I looked at my phone. “Mr Petrenko—”
“Ms. Paige, Were it not worth your time, I would not have placed these calls.”
“All right. I’ll take a look.” I gave him my fax number. “I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow.”
“Indeed.”
“Cripes,” I muttered twenty-five minutes later as fifteen emails flooded my computer while my fax machine spit out press reports, articles, even biographical information within publications from Bloomberg to The New York Times and Forbes. Julian Petrenko, mid-forties, British-born of Russian and German immigrant parents. Based in Zurich; financial dealings in Switzerland, Germany, the UK, and the United States. From what I gleaned, his net worth hovered close to three billion Swiss francs, with business interests in specialty medical products, endoscopic surgery systems, even telecommunications.
Why me? Okay, why not me? I wandered back to the living room, reading as I went while Ethan said goodbye to Adam. I explained and held out the sheaf of papers.
“Seriously? Julian Petrenko?”
“Wait. You know who this guy is?”
“Emma, Petrenko is huge fucking deal in NBA circles. I had no idea about baseball. Holy shit. Say yes!”
“To be honest I was annoyed with his approach.”
