to running a company than electing the board,” she said with a small shrug. “And it’s not always the CEO who’s the problem.”
“In any case, this CEO’s not going to be around forever.”
“My sister would run the company, meaning the primary WMI assets.”
“Your sister?” Then he nodded. “She made quite an impression on Dr. Brickey.”
“Kamilla has an M.D. in pediatrics and a Ph.D. in biochemistry.”
“Impressive. But that’s not all the company does.”
“I’ve looked over the numbers. For a mortuary business of its size, you should be netting a good fifty percent more.”
“There’s no easier way to make good money in a bad way than with a funeral home, guilting people with a lot of grief in their hearts into burying a goodly part of their inheritance six feet under.”
“I can respect that. Frankly, I have no plans of interfering with the operations of Wylde Funeral Homes as long as it earns its keep. I’m more interested in the potential of your genealogical database technology. The problem is, you’re undercapitalized. The informatics business pays its own way, but there isn’t enough left over to fund R&D without leveraging the mortuary business. You push one at the expense of the rest.”
“I’m not arguing with you about that,” said Wylde.
“So this is what I propose. We split off a tracking stock, call it Daranyi Medical Informatics.”
“Like selling off the division.”
“Yes, but not quite. It will still fall under our corporate umbrella. The Daranyi name will give you considerable leverage in the financial markets when it comes to raising new financing.”
Wylde sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. He nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would work.” He leaned forward. “You realize that what makes the data so valuable is its home-grown roots. Public domain genealogical records aren’t enough. Getting the rights to the gene surveys requires a delicate touch and a lot of personal trust, the kind of thing easily lost in a business acquisition. Turning the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to their fathers, that’s the way people around here see their genealogy.”
“That’s from Malachi, isn’t it?”
Wylde smiled and nodded. “Every good Mormon knows it by heart.”
Milada smiled as well. She’d made exactly the impression she’d intended. “I don’t see a problem with that.”
“Then I think we have something to negotiate about.”
Chapter 40
Everything has its price
It was past three when Steven picked her up. She and Darren Wylde had spent most of the afternoon discussing this child they had given birth to: Daranyi Medical Informatics. He felt enough enthusiasm that she thought it might warrant incorporating as a separate entity. It was something to think about, the sight of this old man, at three-score and seven, so invigorated at the prospect of initiating a radical change in his life. Michael would do himself some good to spend time around a man like Darren Wylde.
“Miss Daranyi.”
She opened her eyes. They were back in Sandy, on Larkspur Lane, in front of her house. She’d fallen asleep.
“Thank you, Steven.” She got out on her own accord and stopped at the driver’s side window. “I’ll not be coming into work on Monday. So I shall see you on Tuesday.”
The sun was well gone, hidden behind the roiling charcoal sky. A hot sirocco coursed along the Salt Lake Valley, churning up a dirty yellow curtain of dust. Virga fell like veils across the horizon. In the house, Milada turned on the swamp cooler. But the wind whipped at the curtains, and she tasted the grit in the air. So she turned off the cooler and closed the windows.
She took two hundred milligrams of fexofenadine to retard the histaminic reaction to the sun, then stripped off her clothing and took a long, cold shower. Besides washing off the dust and sweat and oil, the water fixed the reaction in the skin, kept the burn from spreading. In a few hours any pressure on her skin would become unbearable.
Milada examined herself in the mirror. What a mess. Darren Wylde was right about the incidental ultraviolet. And her shoulders—she should have kept on the jacket—were just as bad. It would look like hell soon enough, and her skin would hurt even worse until the damaged flesh scabbed over. And then another twenty-four to thirty-six hours until it shed.
She showered, toweled off, and tied her yukata loosely around her waist. She gathered up her collection of drugs—antihistamines, codeine, ibuprofen, cortisone cream—that she always kept handy just in