Chapter Eleven
DEAN AVERY’S INTRODUCTION was measured, if a bit long for the heat, but flattering in the right places. Standing off to the side of the stage, Derek Matheson listened and approved.
Carolyn had written the intro. Maybe she earned a half point for that.
The dean highlighted Matheson’s dual degrees from Tulane, his early vaccine research, the fifteen-year arc that led to Genyra’s founding.
He referenced “The Cancer Answer,” the TED talk that had rocketed Matheson into the technocratic elite, where he played in the brighter lights among the tech bros.
The crowd laughed where they were supposed to. Applauded on cue. When Matheson finally took the microphone, tanned from the Caribbean, smiling, dressed to kill in tailored Tom Ford, he spoke with humble warmth.
He opened with a joke, Carolyn’s. It landed. Light laughter. Just enough.
By the end, the standing ovation didn’t surprise him. He nodded once, briefly, a man allergic to humble brags but addicted to applause. He stepped off the stage before the audience sat back down. Always leave them wanting more.
Matheson exited behind the stage, where Carolyn and Kimbel were waiting to shower him in compliments.
“Thank you. Let’s go before I get caught up in a conversation that I don’t have time for.”
Their next stop was the gala at the Four Seasons.
He had been invited to speak there too, but declined because his ex would be on the dais and he didn’t like the optics.
Better to be in the audience, comfortably disdaining that limelight because it shot below his orbit.
Still, he wanted to look rested and at his best to impress her, which meant getting out of here now so he could change into a tux.
“One thing,” Kimbel added smoothly, lightly touching his elbow. “Mr. Vargas watched the livestream. He wants a word.”
“Now?”
“Upstairs. Carolyn got us permanent office space in the new wing. Fourteen stories up. The least Tulane could do for our sixty-three million. There’s a video-call ready for you.”
Matheson sighed.
“We’ll keep it quick, sir. I promise.”
From the top floor looking south, the haze that hung over the city resembled breath on a mirror, blurring the jagged towers of the Central Business District into the leafy sprawl beyond. Farther still, the Mississippi cut a rust-colored path past cranes and drifting freighters.
Matheson stood with his shirtsleeves rolled. The room was cold at sixty-six degrees, just how he liked it. Still, beads of sweat lingered along the bridge of his nose. He checked the Breitling, wiped his brow, and stared through the tinted panes at the Big Easy.
“Feed is up,” Kimbel said, already seated. “He’ll join in a moment.”
Matheson turned and took his seat. No prep notes. No talking points. Just a businessman waiting to speak with someone who could have him flayed alive.
The screen flickered and the voice came through.
“Hello?” The deep voice was heavily accented Spanish.
“Hello. Can you hear us?” Matheson asked, his tone polished and clipped.
“Ah. There you are,” the voice replied. “I can see you now.”
Fulgencio Vargas was known to those who dealt with him on the shadier side of the ledger as Cuchillo, “Knife.” His heavily pockmarked face appeared on the screen.
It was lit from one side, shadows clinging to the crags.
Behind him, the rolling green hills met the cobalt blue of El Salvador’s Pacific coast.
“You look well,” Matheson said.
A pause.
“It’s bright behind you,” Cuchillo responded with a squint. “Are you still in my new center?”
Matheson twirled a cuff link engraved with his company’s logo.
“Yes. Top floor,” he replied. “They’ve dedicated an office to Genyra.”
“I’ll bet that makes you feel important,” Cuchillo said. “Did you get one too, Kimbel? Going to run your empire from a glass fishbowl now?”
Kimbel chuckled with performative warmth that was a bit too loud and eager. It translated as nervousness.
“No, sir,” Kimbel said, in response to Matheson’s death stare. “Business as usual.”
Vargas shifted in his leather chair. “I had eyes on your little show today, Derek. The one with the flag waving and the white coats clapping. You’ve gotten better at pretending to be charming. Oscar-worthy performance.”
“Thank you,” Matheson replied. “But it was the FDA approval they cared about, the improvements in patient survival rates, the lengthening of lives.”
“Oh, yes. And also the building they have no idea came from me.”
Matheson’s jaw clenched. “The building is a starting line,” he said mildly. “The research that comes next, that’s the real investment.”
Vargas stared into the camera. “Don’t forget that it was my intervention, my investment, that saved Genyra from bankruptcy and kept you afloat through the FDA approval process.” He paused. “Your stock closed down point-three today. Wall Street doesn’t love you as much as Tulane does.”
“It was up five points last week,” Matheson shot back. “We crossed five billion in market cap. That’s very good for all of us.”
Vargas’s lips curled. “Kimbel, tell me, are we going to blow out the quarter? Or are company earnings meetings in New York next week going to involve apologies?”
Kimbel hesitated. “Sir, it’s probably best if Dr. Matheson steps out for this part. He’s the face of the company. Better to have him prepped with just the right information for the earnings call.”
Vargas laughed softly, eyes glinting coolly. “Ah, yes.” He leaned closer to the screen. “We can’t have the doctor’s hands getting dirty, now, can we?”
“None of us wants that,” Kimbel said, desperate to extract Matheson from further haranguing. “We also have the gala tonight. It’s important to get Mr. Matheson there on time. There’ll be civic leaders and press. Good optics.”
Matheson rose slightly in his chair, smoothing his expression into a mask of tired diplomacy. He felt it was time to reclaim his dignity. Kimbel was right. They had a schedule to keep.
“Wait.” Vargas’s order sounded like a gunshot on a crisp fall morning. “I’ll have someone there tonight. Watching.”
Kimbel offered a reassuring nod.
“I have many investments in this hemisphere. I look after them.” Vargas straightened, casting a long shadow across the screen.
“Of course,” Matheson replied.
Vargas tilted his head. “My people are nervous. They think the woman may not play ball and that the cops might double-cross us.”
Matheson and Kimbel traded a glance.
“I want to assure you,” Kimbel said, leaning forward in his chair. “We will deal with her.”
“Oh, yes we will,” Vargas responded. “Get a handle on this. That woman better not get all high and mighty on us.”
“She won’t, she’s…” Kimbel didn’t finish the rest of his point. The screen had gone dark.
Matheson exhaled through his nose and stared a moment longer at the blank screen. It was always easier when the devil wore horns. Harder when he wore a linen shirt. He turned toward Kimbel.
“Take me home,” he said quietly. “I need a minute to think before the gala.”