Secret Prey by John Sandford Page B

‘‘McDonald can’t get more than six. He’s the obvious first thought, because of his family, but twelve members would be dead set against him. When that becomes obvious, things will start to move. I can see myself with eight votes; and I can see eight for Bone, but only a couple are solid for each of us. Everything is very fluid . . . So I think we’re gonna have to start maneuvering here.’’
    ‘‘How about Robles?’’ Wyte asked.
    ‘‘No chance,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘It’s gonna be Bone or me.’’
    ‘‘Bone is good,’’ Wyte said. ‘‘His division makes the big bucks.’’
    ‘‘Most of it by me,’’ Kent said.
    O’Dell looked at Kent: ‘‘But it’s his division, not yours. He gets the credit.’’
    Kent said, ‘‘Before we get any further in this, let me ask . . . What do we get out of it? Carla and Louise and me? We know what you get.’’
    O’Dell said, ‘‘You get Bone’s job. He won’t stay around long if I’m picked for the top spot. And Carla’s eventually going to move into Robles’s slot. But right away—and I mean right away—she gets money.’’
    ‘‘How much?’’ Wyte’s eyebrows went up.
    ‘‘Fifty more. Fifty is the number I had in mind.’’
    ‘‘Fifty is a nice number,’’ Wyte said.
    ‘‘And it’ll be twice that when Robles leaves.’’
    Compton said, ‘‘How about me?’’
    ‘‘You’re gonna be my executive assistant. You’re gonna be my ears. My intelligence department. You’ll do real well—in terms of clout, if not in title, you’ll be number two in the bank.’’
    ‘‘So how do we do this?’’ Wyte asked. ‘‘What do we do . . . assuming we’re all in.’’
    O’Dell looked around the room. After a second, Kent said, ‘‘I’m in,’’ and Compton said, ‘‘Yeah.’’ Wyte nodded.
    ‘‘So . . .’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘I’m going to start putting together a pitch for the board. It’s got to be good, and it’ll take time. And I’ll start working the board: that’s something I have to do personally.’’
    ‘‘To some extent, it’s gonna be like a political campaign, but with fewer voters,’’ Compton said. She’d come to the bank from the state capitol. ‘‘One thing we can do is, we can make the point with the newspapers that you’d be the first woman ever to run a major bank in Minnesota. Or anywhere, as far as I know. Any other major bank CEOs are women?’’ She looked around, then answered herself. ‘‘No. Okay. I’ll check that out, but I can also start working the papers.’’
    ‘‘That’s good,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘But we’ve got to get it going. How long before we could see it on the news?’’
    Compton looked at her watch: ‘‘I’ve got time today. I’ll have to talk to a couple of people, but we should see some action by tomorrow morning. When they call, you’ve got to be modest and all that . . . you know, the board has to make a decision.’’
    ‘‘I know,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘I can do that.’’
    Kent leaned forward, took a cinnamon candy out of a bowl on the coffee table, peeled off the crinkly cellophane wrapper, and popped the candy into his mouth: ‘‘Speaking of negative campaigning . . .’’
    ‘‘Were we speaking of that?’’ Compton asked, with a quick, cynical smile. They would have come to it sooner or later.
    ‘‘We are now,’’ he said. ‘‘We all know Bone’s weakness.’’
    ‘‘Women.’’
    O’Dell shook her head. ‘‘That won’t help. We just don’t have the time—even if we could find somebody willing to dig into it, it’d take weeks.’’
    Kent was shaking his head. ‘‘Not really. Not if the cops look into it and if somebody tips the papers that the cops are looking into it.’’
    ‘‘Why would they?’’ Wyte asked.
    ‘‘ ’Cause of the woman,’’ Kent said, sitting back, savoring his little nugget.
    ‘‘Marcus . . .’’ O’Dell said.
    ‘‘James T. Bone is fucking Marcia Kresge. And has