“How can I help you, Mr. Keating?” Stone asked.
“It’s Warren,” the man said. “I …”
“Do you mind if I sum this up for you, Warren?” Eggers said, interrupting again.
Stone reflected that Eggers did not interrupt clients without a good reason.
“All right, Bill,” Keating said wearily.
“Warren runs a multigenerational family business,” Eggers began.
“Elijah Keating’s Sons,” Keating said. “My
great-grandfather
started it when he got home from the Civil War.”
Stone nodded, but he had never heard of it. 3
S t u a r t W o o d s
“This is not what you would call a mom-and-pop business,” Eggers continued. “The company manufactures industrial equipment and tooling; they operate nineteen factories around the world.”
“We’ve run out of Elijah Keating’s sons,” Keating said. “My only son is the most recent generation, and he … has no interest in coming into the business. I’m getting on, and I’m weary of the travel involved in running a worldwide operation.”
“Warren has accepted an offer from a multinational company—a very, very substantial offer.”
“Congratulations, Warren,” Stone said.
“Not yet,” Keating replied. “I need my son’s consent.”
“Warren’s great-grandfather’s will was very specifi c,” Eggers said. “Each living heir must agree to a sale of the business.”
“My father has already signed off on the sale,” Keating said. “He’s old, and he was initially against it, but he’s finally seen the wisdom of the sale.”
“I see,” Stone replied. “And your son hasn’t consented?”
“He doesn’t know about it,” Keating replied. “At least not to my knowledge.”
“Warren and his son have not been in touch in recent days,” Eggers said. Stone figured he was being diplomatic. “I see,” he replied, though he didn’t.
Warren Keating reached into an inside pocket, produced a postcard and handed it to Stone. “This is Evan’s most recent communication,” he said. Stone perused the card. On one side was a photograph of a bar, labeled “Sloppy Joe’s, Key West.” Stone turned it over and read the message, which was written in block capitals.
“DEAR OLD DAD,” it read, “HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME, GLAD YOU’RE NOT HERE. GO FUCK YOURSELF.” It was signed with a fl ourish, “Evan.”
Stone returned the card, and Keating handed him a photograph. 4
L o i t e r i n g w i t h I n t e n t
It was black-and-white, like something from a college yearbook, and featured a slim, handsome young man in a blue blazer, with close cropped hair.
“How old was he then, and how old is he now?” Stone asked.
“He was nineteen or twenty then, and he’s twenty-six now,”
Keating replied.
“And how long is it since you’ve seen him?”