Page 1 of The October Arrangement

Chapter One

Simon

I was halfway through an email when my office door opened without a knock. I didn’t bother looking up because only one person at Montclair Development Group walked into my office as if he owned it. Which, technically, he did.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m working too much, save it,” I said, finishing my email.

My father walked over and dropped a folder onto my desk. “Los Angeles.”

I hit send and looked at him.

“What about it?”

“It’s a fucking disaster,” he said.

I picked up the folder and leaned back in my chair. Montclair Residence, Los Angeles. Fifty-eight stories of glass, steel, and obscene amounts of money on Wilshire Boulevard. We’d purchased the property three years ago, demolished the building that was there, and broke ground eighteen months later. The residences were already sixty percent sold.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Pick something. Anything,” my father said. “Construction is twelve weeks behind.”

“What? How?”

“Oh, it gets better. That’s only the current estimate,” he said.

“Wait a second.” I shook my head. “The report I read last week said twelve days, not twelve weeks.”

I flipped through the pages and studied the revised construction schedules, costs, inspection notices, and enough red numbers to piss me off before I’d gotten through the first ten pages.

“We’re eleven million over budget?” I asked.

“Fourteen million,” my father said.

“This says eleven.” I pointed.

“That’s because that report is three days old.”

“What the fuck is Reynolds doing out there?” I shouted.

“Apparently, he’s lying to us. I spoke to Cambridge, and he told me that Reynolds has a drug problem and he hasn’t been around. The construction crew has questions that only he can answer. Three inspection deadlines were missed, and the electrical subcontractor walked off the job three weeks ago over a payment dispute.”

“And why the hell am I just hearing about this now?” I asked.

“Because Reynolds was trying to hide everything. And another problem. Half the materials haven’t shown up, and Reynolds was too busy getting high to find out why. I fired his ass last night when I found out that the penthouse buyers are threatening to walk because their completion dates have been pushed back twice now.”

“How many penthouse buyers do we have?” My brows furrowed.

“Three of them, which equals just under thirty-two million in contracts.”

“Jesus Christ.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Now what? You fired my development director?” I stared at my father.

“Our development director.” He pointed at me.

“How bad is it over at the site?” I asked.

“Bad enough that someone needs to be there to babysit those motherfuckers,” he said. “You need to go to Los Angeles.”

“Me?” I pointed. “No way.” I shook my head. “I’m buried in work here. Send Carson.”