“I made you two oatmeal cookies. One of them has raisins in it and the other one has nuts. I didn’t know which one you liked best,” Katie said happily.
“I like them just the same.”
Lane was halfway across the living room. “Please come in, Eric. And may I say that you certainly are a diplomat.” She was smiling, but her glance at Katie’s face had been disquieting. Katie looked absolutely radiant.
The other day over dinner she had said, “Grace told me that I must have done something bad because my father doesn’t come to see me.”
“Katie, you know that your daddy and I were in a very bad accident. He was hurt so badly that he died. Now he’s with my daddy in heaven.”
It was the story she had always told Katie, but the other night had been different. Katie had started to cry.
“I don’t want my daddy to be in heaven. I want him to be here with me just like the other kids.”
The psychologist she talked with occasionally had warned her that that could happen. But he hadn’t needed to warn her. Her own heart had ached for a father she adored. Katie had never known a father’s embrace.
There was a void, and Katie was trying to fill it because Eric Bennett had been nice to her.
I have to be careful, Lane thought. Katie sensed that when I told her Eric was coming I was happy. She’s playing “follow the leader.”
“Hello, Eric,” she said as she struggled to sound friendly but not too much so.
There was an amused look in his eyes, as though he could read her thoughts. “Good to be with you two beautiful ladies,” he said, and then looked across the room at Wilma Potters, who was sitting on the couch in the living room. “Three beautiful ladies,” he corrected himself.
Katie was tugging at his hand. “I’ll show you the cookies but Mommy said you don’t have to eat one until after dinner.”
“That’s what I’ll do then.”
Five minutes later she and Eric were downstairs on the sidewalk and Eric was signaling for a cab. When one pulled up, he said, “There’s a great new steakhouse in the Village. Sound all right to you?”
Lane hesitated. Was this one of those hot places where the paparazzi might be lurking? Eric had warned her that he was becoming a target for them. But if she asked him that, it would only sound as though she didn’t want to be photographed with him.
“Sounds great,” she said.
To her relief, no photographers were hanging around outside of the restaurant. Inside, the maître d’ led them to a quiet table. Lane began to relax.
Over a cocktail Eric kept the conversation safe. He told her how much his mother enjoyed her company and how delighted she was with the way her bedroom now looked.
“You know,” he said, “I honestly think she’s going to be really happy in the town house. I don’t believe she was ever really comfortable in Greenwich in that over-the-top mansion. My father took to the lifestyle like a duck to water but my mother was always somewhat insecure.”
Lane had hoped that Eric would steer clear of the subject of his father, but maybe that was impossible. She saw Eric suddenly tense and she was sure that he’d had the same thought.
His voice sounded rueful when he said, “All roads lead to Rome, it seems. I’m sorry I brought up my father’s name. I want to say something more on the subject and then get off it. Last Friday I went to visit Patrick Adams. He runs a firm very much like the one Mayor Giuliani created. It’s about top-drawer security and investigating to find out everything about someone’s background. Adams is known as someone who can ferret out the truth, whatever it is.”
“Why did you go to see him?” Lane asked.
“Because if there is any conceivable way to clear my name, I want to do it. He warned me that if he found out that I had been involved in the theft, he would turn me over to the FBI. Quite frankly it will cost me every nickel that I don’t need for living expenses, but it will be worth it.”
Eric hesitated, then reached over the table and placed his hand over hers. “Lane, I want my future. As far as I am able I want to be exonerated by public opinion in that terrible theft. Frankly if my father is still alive, I hope he’s caught. If he is, I know that he will tell the world that I had nothing to do with the disappearance of that money.”
His hand was still on hers. Lane liked the feel of it there. Ken used to touch her hand like that as they toasted each other—a ritual for them when they went to a restaurant and even at home.
Ken, she thought longingly.
But it was not Ken who was looking at her lovingly.
What is happening to me? Am I like Katie, so eager to fill a void in my life that the first time I feel myself responding to an attractive man I throw aside discretion?
Be careful, she warned herself as she reluctantly withdrew her hand from his firm grasp.
27
On Sunday morning Anne Bennett went to the ten o’clock Mass at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, then stopped at the drugstore to pick up some Tylenol. It was just a precaution. She no longer had the blinding migraine headaches that used to paralyze her regularly.
She was also trying to stop taking the antidepressant pills that the doctor had prescribed to her.
The last few days had been terrible, she admitted to herself. Eric had told her not to read the newspapers, but how could she try to ignore them since they carried the story of Eleanor’s indictment?
That poor woman, Anne thought for the hundredth time as she paid for the Tylenol and left the pharmacy. Should I call her? Would she even want to hear from me? I simply don’t know. On the way home, out of curiosity, she drove past the restaurant that her neighbor, Tony Russo, was in the process of building. It was going to be large, she thought. He must be investing a great deal of money in it.
Money. The word—an automatic segue to Parker. As she drove home, the brightness of the sun caused her to lower the visor, and that caused her to glance into the rearview mirror.
Was she wrong or was that old black Ford the same car that had been parked next to hers at the drugstore?
Not that again, she thought with a sinking heart. For a long time after Parker’s disappearance, she knew she had been followed around not only by government agents but also by some attention-seeking nobodies who would then post her picture on the Internet.
Was that starting again?
She deliberately steered the car on an indirect route to the town house but could see that she was still being followed.
Suddenly nervous, she drove more quickly until she turned into her driveway, and then braked sharply because Tony Russo was walking up it. She waited to let him pass but he tapped on her window. She opened it, suddenly grateful for his presence.
“I was just going to say good morning,” Russo said, then looked at her closely. “Are you okay, Mrs. Bennett? You came in so fast, I wondered if you were upset.”
Anne liked her new neighbor. Eric had warned her to watch every word she uttered but she could not resist saying, “I am a bit flustered. I think I was followed home just now.”
Instantly aware, Tony asked, “What kind of car was following you?”
His eyes looked past her at the street as she said, “A really old black Ford.”
As she spoke, Tony could see a tired-looking black Ford drive past the town house.
Anne decided to be frank with him. “Tony, if you don’t already know, Parker Bennett is my husband and I’ve been followed around several times since his disappearance. I had hoped it was over but I guess it isn’t.” She closed the window without waiting for him to answer and pulled forward into her garage.
Jon went straight into his own town house. He immediately made a call and asked a question. “Are you guys putting a tail on Anne Bennett?” As he had expected, the answer was no.
He broke the connection and immediately punched in another number.
28
On Saturday morning, Parker Bennett decided that he absolutely could not put up with more of Len Stacey’s inane
chatter on the golf course today.
It was perfect sailing weather, sunny, a slight breeze, the kind of day that was made for him to go out on his boat. Especially since it had been raining for the last three days.
Trying to sound hoarse and forcing a cough, he phoned his unwanted golfing partner. “Len, this is a real disappointment. I was looking forward to taking your money today. But I feel really lousy. I’m going back to bed. Didn’t sleep last night so I’m turning off the phone.”
“Ah, come on, George. I’ve been looking forward to our rematch,” Len replied.
His grating laugh put Parker’s teeth on edge. Before he could respond Len added, “And you know what? I planned to run a contest in the locker room today. I was going to ask the guys in our foursome, ‘Who looks like Parker Bennett?’ I bet at least one of them votes that you look like him.”
“Like who?” Parker said as the fingers holding his cell phone went numb.
“Oh come on. Parker Bennett, the big crook. He’s been all over the papers this last week.”
“Oh sure, I know who he is,” Bennett answered. “But you think I look like him?” As he spoke he realized that he had dropped the low, cough-enhanced tone in his voice.
“Hey, don’t be touchy,” Len said. “I’m just kidding. Forget it. It was a lousy idea.”
“Yes it was.” Bennett coughed, a raspy sound. “If you want to say I look like Donald Trump that’s okay.” He attempted a laugh. “All right, sorry to miss you today. Play well.”
When he disconnected, Bennett realized that his palms were so damp that the phone almost slipped out of his grasp. He had been right. That idiot had been comparing him with the pictures on the front page of the Post.
Wait a minute, he warned himself. Don’t panic again. That would destroy you. You’ve been known around here for fifteen years. You have an impeccable British accent. Even if he sees a resemblance, he’s not smart enough to think there is any chance that I am Parker Bennett. Taking some consolation in that probability, Parker went down to the dock and got into the boat. Five minutes later, the sails unfurled, he was out on the water.
Over the past two years he had sometimes wondered what would happen if he got caught. But of course he knew what would happen. He would go to prison for the rest of his life. He was seventy-two years old now, but his family was long-lived. Although his father had smoked himself to death at a young age, his grandfather and his uncles had lived until their early nineties. At least twenty years in prison, he thought. No way.
And it didn’t have to happen. Once he got the number of the Swiss account, he’d be home free. He had put in a bid on the villa outside Geneva he had seen on the Internet. It was the right size for him and newly refurbished.
He had begun to miss Anne. Funny that for the past two years he’d hardly thought of her. But the other night he had dreamed of her. It had been a vivid dream. She was holding the music box and dancing. She always had a fixation about that music box. It was probably the cheapest gift he ever gave her. And of course now it was worth five billion dollars, less about fifteen million.
Deep in reverie, Parker had not noticed that the wind had become brisk and one of the sudden Caribbean storms was imminent. He turned the boat to head back to shore, but in minutes the sea was turbulent and the rain blinding. At one point the boat heeled so much to one side that his hand touched the water. If he hadn’t let out the mainsail the boat would have turned over. Experienced though he was, when he finally got to shore and raced through pelting rain to the house Parker was gasping for breath, and keenly aware that he had been lucky to make it back safely.
The phone rang. The caller ID showed it was that miserable pest Len. On the other hand, he was lucky that he was here to answer it. After all his show of having a heavy cold, he lowered his voice, trying to give it a raspy sound.
“Hello, George. Just wanted to see how you’re doing, old buddy.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you.” Parker forced a pleasant tone into his voice. “I’m over the worst of it.”
“That’s good. I have to apologize about saying you look like Parker Bennett. No one in our foursome agreed with me.”
“Oh, then you did have your guess-who game?”
“Just between the four of us. No one guessed who. In fact Dewayne thought you look like Mayor de Blasio of New York.” Once again Len’s grating laugh pounded like drums in Parker’s ears. He could feel a net closing around him. It was happening suddenly, just as the storm had come up so suddenly.
What should he do?
29
As Ranger drove past Anne Bennett’s, he decided that he had to be careful. He didn’t want anyone to notice his car. But of course it would be noticeable. It was twelve years old now and had been secondhand when Judy and he bought it. Someone had dented the front fender in the parking lot of the supermarket a few months ago. No question, if you saw it, you’d remember it.
This was the second time he had driven past the town house where Parker Bennett’s wife lived. Pretty nice, he thought. A lot nicer than any place he and Judy had ever lived. Oh, maybe it wasn’t good enough for Bennett’s wife. She was used to that fancy place in Connecticut. He’d seen pictures of it.
The first time he went by Anne Bennett’s place in New Jersey had been a couple of days ago. He had parked down the street. Parker Bennett’s son, Eric, had been there in the driveway. There was a good-looking woman, young, maybe late twenties, with him. Eric put something in her car and then leaned into the driver’s window. Ranger was sure that he was kissing the woman.
Today he had followed Anne Bennett to church. He’d even gone into the Mass and sat in the last row. He knew he didn’t look out of place. His jeans weren’t worn out and Judy had bought his jacket for him at a secondhand store two years ago, just before Bennett disappeared. She had been passing the store and saw it in the window. He remembered how hard she had laughed when she told him about the lettering “TP” on the breast pocket. “Oh, Ranger, I asked the clerk if those letters stood for ‘Turnpike Authority.’ That guy put on a real snooty look and said it stood for ‘Trinity-Pawling.’ He said that it was a really classy boarding school for boys.”
We drove an old car. Sometimes I wore secondhand clothes so that we could save to buy the condo in Florida—all cash, he thought. Probably everyone at Mass from around here would know this was a jacket that meant he had gone to a high-class school.
He had followed Anne Bennett into the drugstore and down the aisle, where he watched as she bought Tylenol. He hoped she had a headache. He hoped that she and her son and her son’s girlfriend all had the worst headaches that anyone in the world had ever had.
There wasn’t much traffic, and before he knew it he was almost at the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel. He could be home in half an hour. But what good would that do him? Home was that three-room apartment that Judy had always kept so nice. She liked to keep it no higher than sixty-eight degrees but always turned the thermostat up when he was due home. She understood that after being out in the cold all day, it was so good to feel the warmth the minute he opened the door.
She knew that he was always hungry when he got home, so dinner was always ready for him. The warmth and the good smells coming from the kitchen—Ranger remembered them so keenly that as he drove through the Lincoln Tunnel he felt that he was experiencing them again.
Parker Bennett’s wife was living in a nice house in a nice town. Eric Bennett was kissing his pretty girlfriend. And he was going home to an empty apartment. Ranger clasped his hand around the vial of Judy’s ashes that he wore around his neck.
“Judy,” he said aloud. “I know you won’t want me to do it but I have to. Please understand.”
He watched the E-Z Pass register as he entered the tunnel.
Lots of people think that crook Parker Bennett isn’t dead. They think he let that fancy sailboat of his get washed up on shore to make people think he had killed himself.
But maybe he didn’t. What woul
d it be like for Bennett to read somewhere that his wife and son had been killed?
Ranger remembered the pretty woman Eric Bennett had been kissing. If she’s around when it happens, so much the better. He’s probably spending our money on her too. If she happens to be there when I shoot Anne Bennett and her son, it’ll be just her hard luck.
He had to buy a gun. He didn’t think it would be hard to get his hands on one. He was always reading in the newspapers about that section of the Bronx where gang members sold them.
There was no rush. Just planning what he would do felt good. It almost felt like walking into the apartment when it was warm and he was smelling something good cooking on the stove.
What was it Judy used to say? Oh yes. “Oh, Ranger, I’m looking forward to the move to Florida so much. They say that anticipation may be more enjoyable than when something actually happens. Do you think that could be true?”
I’ll find out, Ranger thought as he reached his street and began the usual search for a parking spot.
30
Patrick Adams headed a team of four investigators, men who, as he put it, could track down a leaf in a windstorm. On Monday morning he called them to a meeting in his office.
“I see why Eric Bennett is so anxious to clear his name,” he said. “There’s a picture of him in the Post holding hands with Lane Harmon. She’s the daughter of the late Congressman Gregory Harmon and the widow of Kenneth Kurner, the designer. She’s also the stepdaughter of Dwight Crowley, the columnist who happens to think that Eric Bennett is involved with his father in the fraud and says so in every other column.”
“That should make for a nice family Thanksgiving,” Joel Weber, one of the investigators, drawled. Joel, the most recently hired of the investigators, was a former FBI agent who had gotten bored in retirement and then connected with the firm. At fifty-six, the same age as Pat Adams, and a former supervisor in the FBI, he had become a valued addition to the firm. What Pat especially liked was that Joel never for a moment tried to use his former position to throw his weight around in the office.