Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  He wondered why Cunningham would maintain his offices here rather than in midtown. Most of the firm’s business would be done by telephone and fax; physical proximity to the stock exchange was unnecessary. Certainly a Park Avenue location would be more to Cunningham’s liking. The restaurants were better, the shops and clubs handier, the streets wider and less congested. And it would be closer to his apartment, which was about ten blocks to the north of the Waldorf.

  The brokerage occupied several floors of a building clad in polished dark gray granite. Tolliver arrived at twelve on the dot. He found the reception area tastefully decorated with contemporary furniture, the floor covered in deep sound-absorbing carpeting. There were fresh flowers on the receptionist’s desk and a bright smile on her face. Ben told her he was there to see Mr. Cunningham and she telephoned inside. A moment later, a secretary appeared and led him through a door into the operations area.

  This was where the trading took place, and it was the opposite in character from the room he’d just left. Tiny desks were jammed together across the huge space, and at each one a man or woman sat jabbering on the telephone while staring at the screen of a Quotron and punching the keys. The noise level and the confusion reminded him of the Chinese laundry where he took his shirts. How anybody could make sense of what they were doing in this atmosphere was a mystery, and maybe they couldn’t.

  Cunningham’s office was another reversal. Ben was shown into a room that was spacious and eerily quiet, situated on the southwest corner of the floor. Sofas and chairs were upholstered in a soothing shade of gray and at various points in the room stood pieces of ancient statuary. Windows covered two of the walls. Through them, he could see across other business towers to the harbor. The Statue of Liberty was visible, and a ferry was slowly making its way toward Staten Island.

  Cunningham himself was ensconsed behind a wide desk with stainless-steel legs and a surface of black granite. He was in shirt sleeves, wearing gold cuff links and red suspenders, a figured tie. He got up when Ben entered and extended his hand. “Greetings, Lieutenant.”

  Ben shook the hand. “Hello, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “Take your coat?”

  “I’ll keep it on, as long as we’ll be leaving soon.”

  “As you wish. Please sit down,” the broker said. “And call me Clay. Everyone does.”

  Tolliver sank into the depths of a sofa and Cunningham sat facing him in a nearby chair.

  “Nice office,” Ben said. “Interesting statues.”

  Cunningham smiled. “I’m an incurable collector. Although getting pieces like these out of Italy has been a bit more difficult lately. The Italian government frowns on it.”

  “That so?”

  “Oh yes. They consider Roman relics to be national treasures, and so on. But the statues come in handy, for reminding me of what a brief time we have on earth. Some of them are two thousand years old. Thinking about that makes trading stocks seem a little less important than it might otherwise.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Been a strange day so far,” Cunningham said. “The market’s been bobbing up and down, doesn’t seem to know where it wants to go. I don’t think the President’s economic policies are helping very much. That’s just one factor, of course.”

  Ben wasn’t here to chitchat about vagaries in the securities business. “I noted in the files that two people who worked for your company were questioned about leaking inside information.”

  The broker waved a hand dismissively. “Lieutenant, you must know they don’t work for us any longer. As soon as that suspicion arose, we asked both of them to leave. I’d be as happy as anyone to see them prosecuted if the facts warrant it.”

  “If you didn’t think there was evidence, why did you fire them?”

  “It’s like Caesar’s wife. A brokerage has to be above reproach—or suspicion. I wouldn’t welcome the publicity, of course, but if those guys did what your office apparently thought they did, they both ought to be sent to jail. How’s that going, by the way?”

  “It’s moving along,” Ben said.

  “Frankly, I don’t see how. The SEC has dropped their investigation, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Yes, I know they have. But we won’t drop ours. Not until we’re completely satisfied.” If Shackley could hear what I’m saying, he’d go up the wall, Ben thought.

  “That’s good to hear,” Cunningham said. “I believe there’s no substitute for thoroughness. Although I must say I have no illusions as to why it’s dragged on the way it has. My father had many political enemies, and they thought that attacking our family businesses was a way to get at him. Terrible, but that’s the way things are done sometimes. Perhaps now that he’s dead, they’ll go on to more important matters and leave us alone.”

  “You’re also on the board of the Cunningham Foundation, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I spoke again with the administrator, Ardis Merritt.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t think she told the truth about what happened the night your father died.”

  Cunningham’s eyebrows rose. “Ardis? Impossible. She’s one of the most honest people I’ve ever known.”

  “And loyal?”

  “Of course.”

  “To the extent she’d be willing to cover up a few facts so as not to cause trouble for the family?”

  “That’s absurd. Ardis wouldn’t lie, I assure you. And anyway, there was nothing to lie about. Whatever gave you such an idea?”

  “I also spoke with Jessica Silk before she died. Her version didn’t square with Miss Merritt’s.”

  “Is that so surprising? People often get confused in stressful situations. You of all people would know that.”

  “Nevertheless, I believe your father and the Silk woman were having an affair. And that Ardis Merritt knew about it and was trying to cover it up. Did you discuss that with her? Maybe suggest it would be better for everybody if it never got out?”

  “Certainly not. What you’re implying is preposterous. And as far as Jessica Silk is concerned, I was desperately sorry for her. Poor miserable creature—she must have been terribly distresed. I, don’t think suicide is ever justifiable, yet I can imagine how she felt.”

  “Can you?”

  “Good Lord, yes. Working so closely with my father and then having him die while she was with him. And after that, being pilloried by the media. Ghastly.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Personally, you mean?”

  “Yes. Did you?”

  “I met her a few times, yes.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “I was with my father one evening when she came to his office to work on the article she was writing. And she also came out to the estate for the same purpose.”

  “That the family place on Long Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was taking her quite some time to get the piece written, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose. But maybe she was hoping to turn it into a book. We were all saddened when she died.”

  “Your sister knew her, as well?”

  “Yes. At least Ingrid was acquainted with her, just as I was.”

  “You must see a lot of your sister. You two work on a number of deals together?”

  “Sometimes. She runs our commercial real estate operation. And I’m sorry to say she doesn’t run it very well. I’m quite disappointed with what’s been going on there. Ingrid doesn’t have much business sense.”

  “Doesn’t she sit on several of your boards?”

  “Yes, at the moment. But that may change, in time. I’ll be taking over as chairman and CEO of our holding company, Cunningham Mining. Replacing my father.”

  Just as Ben had suspected, a struggle was taking place inside the family. Instead of the united front the Cunninghams were always believed to form, it seemed Clay was preparing to shove his sister aside. And then there was what the senator’s widow had said about
the pair attempting to screw her out of her share of the estate.

  Cunningham got to his feet. “Well, let’s get some lunch, shall we? Don’t know about you, but by the time midday rolls around, I’m usually starved.”

  “Sure,” Ben said, “let’s go.”

  The broker went to a closet, getting out his suit jacket and putting it on. “We’ll go to my club, if that’s agreeable. The car will be waiting out front.”

  35

  On the drive uptown, Cunningham chatted amiably. But each time Ben asked a question about the brokerage’s operations, Cunningham offhandedly deflected it, as if they were discussing nothing more important than ball scores or the weather.

  When they arrived at their destination, the broker asked if he’d been here before.

  From his seat in the limousine, Ben looked up at the building housing the Metropolitan Club, an ornate structure at 1 East Sixtieth Street. “No. Not inside, anyway.”

  The chauffeur ran around to the curb and opened the door for them. They got out, and as he stepped onto the sidewalk, Cunningham said, “Interesting old place. Stanford White designed it. A little extravagant for my taste, but it’s a good example of what New York thought was elegant around the turn of the century.”

  Ben wasn’t taken in by the remark. Cunningham might have thought he sounded humble, but in fact he came off as smug. This was one of the most exclusive private clubs in the city.

  The broker led the way past the elaborate gates and the colonnaded carriage entrance. “J. P. Morgan founded it,” he went on. “Wanted to have a quiet spot where he and his friends could get together. One of them was my great-grandfather, Colonel Clayton Cunningham. They used to meet here regularly, and a lot of ambitious plans were hatched in the dining room. Some of them in the bar, too, I imagine. Political as well as financial. It’s all been well preserved, so that its furnishings are just as they were at that time.”

  Tolliver had to admit the interior was splendid. Soaring ceilings, intricately carved mahogany paneling, dark paintings in gilded frames. He could imagine a number of the city’s former leaders strutting around in here, potbellied and mustachioed. Today’s members seemed to take themselves just as seriously.

  The dining room was no less grand. The tables were set far apart, with snowy napery and gleaming silver, waiters in black uniforms serving the lunch crowd. With so much space, the conversations produced only a gentle murmur—nothing like the restaurants in the neighborhood, where the sound was a constant roar.

  Surprisingly, most of the diners were male. After all the screaming and bitching women had done to force clubs in the city to open membership to them, you had to look hard to find a female in the room. Must have been only the principle that was important to them, Ben thought. Having won that battle, they apparently had taken up the next.

  “Care for a drink?” Cunningham asked.

  They were sitting beside one of the tall windows, filtered sunlight casting a pale glow across the table. Tolliver was about to say no; he usually avoided booze at lunch. But today was different. “Sounds fine. Bourbon on the rocks.”

  Cunningham ordered Scotch. The waiter moved off, and Ben said, “Nice place.”

  “Yes, it is. And not really as fancy as it looks. Nothing stuffy. Everyone is quite congenial.”

  Could have fooled me, Ben thought. Aloud he said, “Little different from what I’m used to.”

  Cunningham was watching him with interest. “How long have you been with the police department?”

  “Almost twenty years.”

  “Ever think about leaving, doing something else?”

  “Sure, now and then. But this is all I’ve ever done—except for a hitch in the Marine Corps.”

  The waiter returned with their drinks. When he’d moved off again, Cunningham raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Ben said, The bourbon was aged and very smooth, and he was glad he’d decided to have it. “You come here often?”

  “Oh, once or twice a week, I guess.”

  “Probably belong to other clubs, as well, right?”

  “A few. The Union, the New York Yacht Club. And the Dartmouth Club, of course. Dartmouth is a family tradition.”

  “How about a country club—you must play golf, don’t you?”

  “No, I prefer tennis.”

  “Where do you play?”

  “At our place on Long Island. The estate’s another legacy from my great-grandfather. And then my father expanded it. He liked to have the family around, you see, so it’s sort of a self-contained compound. There’s a stable and riding trails, and tennis courts and a pool, of course. Also a cottage at the beach. We spend most of our weekends there.”

  “All of you?”

  “Except Ingrid.” Clay’s nose wrinkled. “She’d rather stay with her horses.”

  “I gather the two of you don’t get along too well.”

  “My sister is a very headstrong person. She’s also too ambitious for her own good.”

  “Ambitious to do what?”

  “Let’s just say she has an inflated opinion of her abilities, and a way of setting goals that are beyond them. What would you like for lunch?”

  “Haven’t looked at the menu,” Ben said. He picked up the printed card.

  “Changes every day, but I’d recommend the roast beef.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  “I’ll order for us,” Cunningham said. “And I’ll also get us another drink. Can’t fly on one wing, you know.” He wrote their food order on a chit and handed it to a waiter, telling the man to bring them another round, as well.

  “Tell me more about the estate,” Ben said when the waiter had gone.

  “It’s always been kind of a home base for us,” Cunningham said. “Much more than my father’s house here in the city. Of course, we often got together there, too, as we did on the night he died. But usually we went out to the Island.”

  “You live on Park, don’t you?”

  “Yes, just above Sixtieth Street. I like living in town—during the week, anyway.”

  “And I believe you and your sister both have children.”

  “Two each. All the kids are from previous marriages, and all of them are in boarding school. We don’t see much of them except on holidays, thank God. That’s where the British always had the right idea. Keep the little beasts tucked away in school during their early years, teach them some manners. Then when they’re grown up, they can become useful members of society.” He smiled. “Same idea as the prison system, isn’t it?”

  “You might say so,” Ben said. The more he saw of the Cunninghams, the more he realized how different they considered themselves from the great unwashed masses.

  He and Clay had another drink and then their food arrived. It was perfectly prepared, thick slices of juicy meat accompanied by Yorkshire pudding.

  As they ate, Ben encouraged the broker to continue talking about the Cunningham lifestyle, pretending to be dazzled by what he was hearing. Cunningham grew increasingly voluble, going on about the family’s possessions, their travels, and their interest in sports.

  “What about winters?” Ben asked. “You have a house in Palm Beach, don’t you? I heard some of the family talking about it the morning I came to your father’s house.”

  “Oh yes. It’s up in the north end, near the Kennedy place. Do you know Palm Beach?”

  “I’ve been there,” Ben said. At the time, he’d gone to pick up a suspect who’d waived extradition. The guy was being held by the local police department for return to New York, where he was wanted in connection with a jewel robbery.

  “We always spend the season there,” Cunningham went on. “Go down for Christmas and stay at least a month, sometimes longer. And then we’re all there at Easter. Even Ingrid likes Palm Beach, which is understandable. It’s a beautiful place, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Cunningham continued to study his guest. “Coming back to what we were talking abo
ut earlier, about your doing something different. You think you might consider it if the right opportunity came along?”

  “Sure, I might.”

  “Interesting that you feel that way. Hope you don’t mind, Lieutenant, but I’ve been making some inquiries about you.”

  Ben recalled what Brennan had mentioned to him, about certain people asking questions.

  “And then when you called today, I made a few more. Frankly, Hiked what I heard.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I’m told you’re an outstanding officer with a superb record.”

  “I’ve had some good luck.”

  “Come on, Lieutenant. As my father used to say, good luck is what you make; bad luck is what you cope with.”

  “That could be.”

  “Of course it is. What I’m getting at is that if you were to consider leaving the police department, we’d like to have you join us.”

  Ben made an effort to seem surprised.

  “Let me explain,” Cunningham said. “You see, with my father gone, there’ll be a good many changes made in our various organizations—which is only to be expected.”

  “Sure, I can understand that.”

  “And as I’m sure you can also understand, we have quite a need for security. Some of it on a personal basis, some of it for the purpose of protecting the family’s possessions and our other interests. At the moment, our security forces are headed by a man named Evan Montrock.”

  “I’ve met him,” Ben said. “When I went to the foundation.”

  “Yes, of course. Evan’s been with us for years. The senator hired him. Good man, but he can’t go on forever.”

  “You thinking about retiring him?”

  “Not immediately. What I have in mind is bringing in a number two, who’ll take over when the time comes.”

  “I see.”

  “I think you’d be an ideal choice for the position.”