Restless, he got up and walked across the room. His apartment was in lower Manhattan. From his window he had a clear view of the Statue of Liberty, a sight that never failed to lift his spirits. He knew that he was deeply troubled today, and with good reason. In the last two years Ranger Cole and Eleanor Becker had become his friends. And both had a rocky road ahead.
Sean stretched and returned to his desk. At one o’clock he went into the kitchen and heated the beef vegetable soup his housekeeper had prepared for his lunch. He brought it back to his desk and as he sipped it, he acknowledged that the writing was not going well. He could not concentrate on the cases he had selected to write about today. He felt every one of his seventy years. It was a relief at two thirty to put his pen down, go to the closet, and get out his coat, scarf, and gloves. Five minutes later, his steps brisk, he was walking to the subway. It was two express stops to Forty-Second Street, where Ranger lived in a converted tenement on Eighth Avenue.
• • •
Ranger Cole regretted the fact that he’d agreed to see Dr. Cunningham. He didn’t need to hear again that the doctor’s wife was dead and how well he was doing. Ranger knew that he would never feel better. He had taken a spoonful of Judy’s ashes and put them in a small medicine vial. It was the one where Judy had kept her pain pills. He had tied the vial with a cord and hung it around his neck. It made him feel close to her. That was what he needed.
The doorbell rang. I’m not going to answer it, he thought. But Cunningham was persistent. He kept pushing and pushing the bell. Then he shouted, “Ranger, I know you’re in there. Open the door. We need to talk.”
Ranger wrapped his hand around the vial. “Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Go away! I want to be alone with Judy.”
20
The accessories for Anne Bennett’s bedroom will be installed on Wednesday,” was Glady’s greeting to Lane on Monday morning. “You’d better go over there and make sure they did everything the way I ordered.”
Her voice was peevish, but Lane thought she knew why.
They weren’t getting paid for this job. Even though Glady planned to tack the expense onto the countess’s bill, Lane would need to be there to supervise the installation of the window hangings and be sure that no mistake had been made in the execution of the color scheme. Glady had turned over the details of jobs for more of their smaller clients to Lane to follow through on. Now she was impatient because Lane would be wasting time at Anne Bennett’s home.
Lane had mixed feelings about going there. She liked Anne Bennett and would enjoy seeing her. On the other hand, Eric Bennett had not called her again. Almost certainly he would not be at his mother’s home on a weekday morning, but even so, the possibility was disturbing.
It would be awkward to run into him. That’s the problem with any kind of business-related friendships, she thought. Better to stay away from them.
“Shall I repeat what you obviously didn’t hear me say?” Glady asked sarcastically.
Startled, Lane said, “Oh, Glady. I’m sorry.”
“What I said to you was they’ll be there at eleven to install everything. When they’re finished, don’t let Anne Bennett persuade you to stay for lunch.”
I’ll balk if she tells me to go to a McDonald’s drive-through, Lane thought.
Every once in a while it was obvious that Glady realized she had gone too far.
“What I mean is, have lunch somewhere after you leave her. All you’ll hear from her will be her breast-beating about her innocent husband.”
Then her expression became serious. “Lane, we know the countess did not get that much after the count died. If she has a billionaire boyfriend, no one knows who he is.
“And that leaves her sugar daddy, Parker Bennett,” Glady snarled. “If he’s alive and she’s bleeding him for money, my guess is he could be ruthless. And don’t forget he has a son who might be ruthless about preserving the stolen money too.”
That night Lane did not sleep well. As usual she went to bed at ten o’clock, fell asleep, then awakened at midnight, her eyes wide open, her body taut.
At three A.M., still awake, she was startled to see the door of her room pushed open.
It was Katie. “I had a bad dream,” she said quietly as she climbed into bed and snuggled against Lane.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was that I was looking for you and you weren’t anywhere I looked. I was scared.”
“Oh, sweetie, no matter where you are, I promise you I’ll be there too.”
But even as she made the promise and felt Katie’s body relax, she remembered that as a child she had had a similar dream.
She had been running through the house looking for her father. That was after he died in the plane crash in California.
If something happened to me, there was no one who could give Katie the emotional support she would need.
Her mother, of course, would welcome Katie. But Lane knew that her stepfather, Dwight, would resent the intrusion of a young child into his home.
So the answer is that nothing had better happen to me for the next twenty or so years, Lane decided.
And, dear God, don’t let anything happen to Katie.
Her grip tightened around her child as she drifted off to sleep.
21
On Tuesday morning Parker Bennett poured himself a second cup of coffee as he reviewed his plan.
Nothing should be done in haste. That was how he had jotted down the wrong account number when he was getting out of the country.
With all the years he had managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, he had made that terrible mistake because he was panicking at the imminence of discovery. He could not make any mistake again.
He would tell his friends in St. Thomas that he had been called back to England for a special project for the government. He had signed a confidentiality agreement and could not discuss details with them.
He would arrange for the housekeeper to come in every other week so that there would be no hint that he was going away permanently. He would arrange for the bank to pay her and the utilities and the taxes on a monthly basis.
He would leave the sailboat tied to his dock and covered.
On his laptop, he researched real estate for sale in Switzerland.
One villa caught his eye. It was near Geneva, which meant that he would have access to both the airport and the railroad station.
He had no intention of staying in Switzerland during the entire winter. But once he had established a presence there, he could certainly take frequent vacations in France. How he would miss his sailboat. Never mind, he told himself. You can always get one on the Riviera.
Of course there is always the danger of running into one of his Wall Street friends. But so far his disguise had held despite the fact that his picture ran in the newspapers and magazines with some frequency.
He went to the front door and retrieved the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, the New York Post, and the Virgin Island Daily News from the steps of the villa.
Back at the table, he unfolded the Times first. Then with dismay he read the headline on the right-hand side of the page. “Parker Bennett’s Secretary Indicted as Co-conspirator.”
Eleanor didn’t have a thing to do with it, he thought; not one single thing. Of course he could do nothing to help her but he was genuinely sorry for her. She had made it easy for him to rope in his early clients. He knew that she must have been questioned relentlessly by the FBI and SEC. Maybe with luck, if she took a lie detector test and passed, it would help her at her trial.
There had been only one instance in the thirteen years she had worked for him when he could have given himself away. It was when he dropped the cards out of his wallet and the British driver’s license with the name “George Hawkins” was clearly visible. He didn’t think that Eleanor had looked at the name and would remember it. But if she remembered the name and had recognized that it was not a US driver’s license, it might help investig
ators narrow the search for him.
And if Sylvie was throwing around money at the rate she was demanding it of him, it would be a red flag for the Feds. He knew it had gotten around that he and Sylvie were involved romantically.
“Romantically.” He spat out her name derisively. Stupidly, he was carrying the receipt for the dinghy and outboard motor he had bought to make his escape after ditching the sailboat. It listed his George Hawkins name, address in St. Thomas, and phone number. When he had stayed over at her apartment that last night, she must have gone through his wallet. He had been in St. Thomas only a few days when she called him on his cell and greeted him by saying, “Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. George Hawkins?”
That had been the beginning of the blackmail.
Because she knew his new identity and where he was, he was not able to say no to what he knew would be a steady stream of requests for money. He had had to be very careful and do it in a way that would make the transfers appear legitimate if they were discovered by the FBI.
He had phoned his Swiss banker contact, the one who had helped him with so many delicate tasks. As usual, Adolph had come through.
Adolph had created a holding company in the name of Eduardo de la Marco, Sylvie’s late husband. Each time he sent her money, Adolph first transferred it into the holding company, and then the holding company wired the payment to Countess de la Marco. If the payments to her were discovered, his hope was that investigators would mistakenly believe they were part of her settlement.
Parker unfolded the Post reluctantly, knowing that Eleanor’s arrest would be headline news. It was worse than he expected. Pictures of him and Eleanor were side by side on the front page. The headline was “Parker Bennett Secretary Indicted.”
The picture of Eleanor had been taken after she posted bond. Tears were running down her cheeks. She was clutching her husband Frank’s hand as if she was afraid of falling.
She looks terrible, Parker thought with a twinge of sympathy. Then he studied his own picture.
It had been taken at a charity dinner where he was being honored. It had been enlarged, and as he studied it, Parker realized how thin his disguise really was. Seized with fear, he walked to the mirror hanging over the fireplace in the living room and held the paper near his face. He had the brown wig on. It was now a reflex for him to put it on after he showered, and of course, it did change his appearance, but not enough if anyone really studied him. He had already applied the putty on the sides of his nose. He was not wearing the sunglasses that he habitually wore outside the house, but with or without them, an acute observer might recognize him. He went back to the table. His second cup of coffee was no longer warm but he hardly noticed it.
Today the water was choppy and the weatherman on the radio had warned of a late-afternoon storm. It would be a good day for golfing. The Shallow Reef course he went to had become his favorite. Possibly because I get my lowest scores there, he acknowledged. I’ll go there this morning, he decided. The thought of staying in the house and worrying all day was unacceptable.
When he arrived at the course at eleven o’clock, he was dismayed to see that Len Stacey, the acquaintance who had pestered him with questions about engineers in England whom he might have known, was there.
To his dismay, Stacey greeted him as though they were old friends. “George, just in time. We need you to complete a foursome. It will be you and me and the two guys we played with last time.”
Four hours of him asking questions, Parker thought. “Oh, I’m only going to hit some practice balls today,” he said, hoping his voice sounded disappointed.
“Oh, too bad,” Stacey said. “How about we firm up a date later in the week?”
Parker knew he had been backed into a corner. There was no way he could refuse to set a date without displaying open rudeness that could draw attention to himself.
“Friday would be fine.” I’ll have to tell this guy that I’ll be leaving, he thought, and how many questions will he ask about that? Then he realized that there was a copy of the New York Post on the counter next to where Stacey was standing. He noticed that after Stacey turned from him with a friendly wave, he picked up the paper, glanced at the front page, and then turned to look at him again.
22
On Wednesday morning, Lane reluctantly drove to meet the installation crew at Anne Bennett’s town house. It was a gloomy day, overcast but not raining, not cold but with a chill in the air.
She had left in enough time to be sure to be there when the crew arrived at eleven. But when she rang the bell and Anne Bennett answered the door, Lane was surprised to see that she was still in pajamas.
“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, is this an inconvenient time for you to have the accessories installed in your bedroom?” she asked.
“No, of course not. Come in, Lane.”
As Lane stepped into the foyer, Anne closed the door behind her quickly.
“I get cold so easily,” she murmured. “I’ll run upstairs and get dressed before the others get here. The coffeepot is on, so pour yourself a cup if you want it.”
As Lane began to reply, Mrs. Bennett turned and went up the stairs.
That poor woman is so distracted, Lane thought. I wonder if Parker’s secretary being indicted is the cause, although Eric didn’t even mention her when we had dinner. But of course her arrest is starting a new surge of publicity about the case. It has to be hurtful to see your husband’s picture on the front page of newspapers and have him referred to as a crook.
Ten minutes later Alan Greene and two of his assistants arrived. Alan was the owner of the company that had made the bedspread, vanity skirt, and draperies and reupholstered the chaise and headboard. Usually he did not come himself for a job like this, but when Glady was involved, he always made it his business to oversee everything.
He greeted Lane with easy familiarity. “Hi, Lane. How’s Her Imperial Majesty?”
“Doing fine, Alan.”
“I’m so glad. This is the biggest rush job she ever handed us. Do you get to sign off on it?”
“Yes I do, so it had better be perfect.”
They both laughed.
Lane remembered there had been a few occasions when Glady had vented her wrath on Alan. “Those are not the tassels I ordered for the pillows, Alan. Can’t you get anything straight?”
“Glady,” Alan had said patiently, “you were between two samples and you chose this one. See where you signed for it?”
One of the things Lane loved about Alan was that he bested Glady at her own game. He made her sign a card for everything she ordered and would attach it to the swatch or sample tassel she chose.
With his helpers he started upstairs, but Lane stopped him.
“You’d better let me see if Mrs. Bennett is dressed,” Lane said. “I’ll check on her.”
The bedroom door was open. Lane was shocked to see Anne Bennett lying on the unmade bed with her eyes closed.
“Mrs. Bennett, do you feel ill?” Lane asked, alarmed at the ghostly white pallor of the other woman’s face.
Mrs. Bennett opened her eyes. “Oh, I’m all right. I’ll go into one of the other bedrooms and rest there. Can you handle everything for me? I mean, if I have to sign an approval for the job, just do it for me.”
“Of course.”
Lane watched with concern as the older woman pulled herself up and slowly got to her feet. Impulsively she offered her arm and seemingly without noticing, Bennett took it. “I’ll get dressed later,” she said as she slowly walked down the hall.
“Of course,” Lane answered soothingly. “I saw that you didn’t drink your coffee. May I bring you up a fresh cup?”
“No, not now. Thank you.” In the guest bedroom, she immediately lay down on the bed and sighed. “Please close the door, Lane,” she said, her voice low and strained.
“Try to rest.” Lane left the room quietly. She doesn’t look well, she thought, alarmed. Maybe I should call Eric. She’d decide that later. She couldn’t ho
ld up Alan and his crew now.
An hour later the master bedroom had been transformed. The intense blue of the walls, broken by the white wainscoting, made a striking background for the white coverlet and blue bed skirt, which was the same color as the wall.
The draperies, valances, vanity skirt, and chaise complemented the blue and white theme with a colorful flower pattern.
The bedroom had become an inviting and charming chamber.
“Absolutely great,” Lane enthused.
Alan smiled. “Tell Glady not to hit us with any more ‘I want it yesterday’ calls.”
“I’ll do that,” she promised.
“On the other hand, don’t tell her. I hear she’s got Countess Sylvie de la Marco as a new client. I want to be part of that scene, so tell Glady it’s always a pleasure to work on a tight schedule when it’s for her.”
“Is that the final message?”
“Sure, only you can throw in that she’s the best interior designer I know and I’m proud to work for her.” He paused. “That should do it.”
It was nearly noon when Alan and his crew left. Lane was not sure what she should do. If Anne Bennett was sleeping, she did not want to disturb her. On the other hand, if she was as ill as she looked, it wouldn’t be right to leave her alone.
She had to risk checking on her. With one last admiring glance at the transformed room, she walked down the hallway and knocked on the door of the other bedroom.
When she heard a weak, “Come in,” Lane opened the door. Mrs. Bennett was fully dressed. She had obviously put on some makeup because the ghostly pallor was partially concealed. But Lane could see that her eyes seemed sunken and weary.
“I’d better get downstairs. If Eric can get away early from a meeting, he will come for lunch,” Anne said, a little animation in her tone.
“How nice for you,” Lane said sincerely. But there was one thing she knew for sure. She did not want to run into Eric Bennett. “And I’ve got to be on my way,” she added. “Glady is expecting me back in the office by one o’clock.”