Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money by Linda L. Richards Page A

now. So who do you suggest I talk for answers?”
    “I really couldn’t say, Miss...”
    “Carter.”
    “Miss Carter. But we currently feel
confident that the matter will resolve itself prior to the end of
trading today. By tomorrow morning, at the latest.”
    “Mr. Hewitt,” my voice was honey sweet.
Innocent. “Is it true that Mr. Billings Carmichael is missing?”
    There was a longish pause before he
answered. I presumed he was collecting himself while wishing that
it wasn’t so darn easy for shareholders to get his name and number.
“I can’t comment on that,” he said carefully when he answered.
Another pause, and then. “Where did you hear that?”
    “It’s true then?”
    “I didn’t say that.” But there was the
teensiest note of wheedling in his voice.
    “But you’re obviously concerned that...”
    He cut me off. “As I said, we are confident
that the matter of the trading halt will be resolved shortly. Have
a nice day,” he said as he hung up.
    Have a nice day.
    After I got off the phone, I sat and
pondered for a bit. I felt as if I’d discovered something, I just
wasn’t sure what it was. Sal had said Ernie was missing, and Hewitt
hadn’t denied it, but missing could mean a lot of things. He could
be missing work. He could have missed his off-ramp on the freeway.
He might have dumped LRG at the last minute — before he even
started — for a better job offer. Somehow I doubted all of these
things and the doubt — combined with my continued
self-recriminations, my sudden questioning of my own abilities, the
very real fear of losing all of my working capital and the thought
of my mother’s face — made me, to put it mildly, a little
squirrely. It’s not a feeling I can take sitting down, especially
with the knowledge that the company in question was headquartered
less than an hour down the road from me.
    I looked back over that morning’s first LRG
news release and the name “Ernest Carmichael Billings” jumped out
at me again. A little, half-baked plan was starting to form and I
contemplated the intelligence of what I was thinking. But then,
what the hell? What are ex-lovers for if not to answer questions?
And, anyway, I did have a valid reason to call him. More or
less. There had been that less than idyllic year back at school and
the drink last week and his “good tip.” Besides, if my information
from Sal and my gut reaction about what Hewitt had said were true,
it wasn’t likely I’d get Ernie on the telephone anyway. But how
would I feel about myself if I didn’t even try? My mom’s face
floated in front of my eyes again. I punched the redial button on
my phone before I could stop myself.
    “Langton Regional, how can I direct your
call?” It sounded like a recording of the voice I’d heard when I
called the PR guy, Hewitt.
    “Ernest Carmichael Billings, please.”
    Was I getting paranoid? Jumping at shadows?
But it seemed to me that the receptionist’s voice got a little more
distant, if that were possible. Sort of evasive, without
evasiveness being required. “I’m sorry, Mr. Billings isn't in the
office at the moment. Can I have him return your call?”
    Not in the office? I wanted to shout
it. How could he not be in the office? They’d just made an
announcement. It was his first official day on the job. Not exactly
the right day for a three martini lunch or a nooner, was it? I, of
course, said none of this. Here is what I did say: “When do you
expect him?”
    And, here again, I imagined I heard a hedge.
“I’m not precisely certain.”
    “He didn’t leave word?”
    “No. Sorry. But I can take a message
and...”
    “Wait though: it’s his first day on the job
and you’re telling me you don’t know where he is?” I said it calm,
but there was a cut to it.
    “No, but a message...”
    “I’m an old friend. From Boston. Is he
reachable by cell phone?” Did I even have the teensiest idea that
this line — true though it may be — would work? No. I did