Free Montaro Caine by Sidney Poitier

they do for a living, and who they work for. Get me a business and a financial sheet and anything else you can come up with.”
    “How fast do you need it?”
    “This afternoon.”
    “I’ll do my best. Just hold on for a second.”
    Aikens finished scribbling on his memo pad, then looked up at Curly Bennett, who was waiting to resume his report. Aikens had chosen Curly as his personal assistant over several other candidates, all with more experience, because he recognized Bennett’s instincts as those of a born investigator. In less than two years at his post, the young man had exceeded all of Aikens’s expectations.
    “Curly,” he said, “Sorry about this. But everything else will have to wait. There’s an emergency situation and I need you to get on it right away.” Aikens ripped the top sheet from his pad and handed over the information. “The CEO needs this info in a hurry. Put as much manpower on it as you think necessary and get back to me—yesterday.”
    Curly stood quietly studying what his boss had written.
    “Get to it, kid,” Aikens said.
    “Yes, sir,” the young man replied with a smile as he dashed out of Aikens’s office.
    “I need it in hand by this afternoon,” Aikens called after him. When Curly was gone, Aikens returned to Caine, who was still waiting on the other end of the phone. “I’ll have something for you in a couple of hours, chief,” he said.

7
    A LAN R OTHMAN , F ITZER C ORPORATION ’ S FINANCE MANAGER , drove across town in his black, S-class hybrid Mercedes sedan until he reached the garage of The Brougham Arms Apartments, an impressive upscale rental complex in the mid-Seventies overlooking the East River. The Brougham Arms represented an ideal location, providing both the privacy and convenience Rothman required whenever he made his ever-more-frequent visits to a certain penthouse apartment on the building’s twenty-ninth floor. Rothman left his car with the garage attendant, handed the man a crisp twenty, then walked to the self-service elevator. He moved through the garage almost as smoothly and as silently as his Mercedes.
    All in all, Rothman thought as he stood alone in semidarkness waiting for the elevator doors to open, he had had an eventful and productive day. First, his CEO, Montaro Caine, had abruptly postponed two critical meetings regarding the continuing fallout from the Utah mining disaster and the persistent bad press and takeover rumors in order to have a confidential meeting with Michen Borceau at the Fitzer Lab. Then, there had been a rushed, rescheduled board meeting in which Caine had defended his increasingly rash decision-making process but refused to reveal what he had been doing at the lab or why it had necessitated postponing the meeting. Both Rothmanand operations manager Carlos Wallace had argued heatedly with Caine, demanding to know what he was up to. Afterward, the two men had circulated a memo expressing outrage at Caine’s behavior. “His shooting from the hip at such a delicate time for the company is disruptive and can’t help but be damaging to all concerned,” they had written. But Wallace’s and Rothman’s anger was mostly for show; they felt that Caine was proving their point that he was no longer up to his job. Now, Rothman had to meet with his associates to reassure them that his instincts were correct.
    The elevator doors opened, and Rothman stepped in. He fingered the button for his destination and rode the elevator upward. Eyes alert, he stepped out onto the twenty-seventh floor, and, making sure that he had not been observed, he opened the door to an exit stairwell. He jogged up two additional flights to the twenty-ninth floor. Perhaps this was an unnecessary precaution, a bit more James Bond than the situation warranted, but he took it nonetheless, finding his way to apartment 2901 where Verna Fontaine, a stylish, well-built blond woman in her late forties, greeted him warmly. Verna was a senior vice president at