Sylvie smiled, “Oh, I would say so. For me, it was very pleasant.”
60
After the meeting at Rudy Schell’s office Lane and Glady were frosty to each other for two days. Then Glady said, “Lane, I’m going to do something I hate to do, and that is to apologize. We don’t have to discuss what we don’t agree about, but I promise I will not make a negative remark in your presence about Eric Bennett. Is it a deal?”
“Yes, Glady, thank you.”
But even though she had made peace with Glady, Lane was not at peace with herself. She realized how confused she was about Eric. It’s not so much about his guilt or innocence, she admitted to herself. I know he’s innocent. It’s about my feelings toward him.
As she had expected, Eric was no longer satisfied with seeing her once a week. “Lane, we can go out to dinner in the city after Katie’s asleep,” he pointed out. “Wouldn’t your babysitter be happy to make a few extra dollars? She lives right in your building, doesn’t she? If we had dinner at nine o’clock, you’d be home by eleven o’clock.”
He’d asked to see Katie again. “I’d like to spend a Saturday or Sunday with the two of you,” he said. “The Christmas show at Radio City is opening. You tell me that Katie is a good skater. Have you ever taken her to the rink in Rockefeller Plaza?”
In one of their conversations she had told him that when she was a child, she used to go skating with her father. “My dad was a natural and so is Katie.”
Eric told her that his mother would like her to visit. “Maybe on Saturday, instead of meeting me at the restaurant, you could come a little earlier and spend some time with her?”
Eric was persuasive and charming. He was starting to bring her little gifts—not too expensive, but thoughtful, caring, well chosen.
The last one was a Montblanc pen with her initials engraved on it. When he gave it to her he said, “I can’t believe that I saw you take out that cheap throwaway when you rummaged in your purse for your cell phone.”
“I had a good one, but I lost it somewhere and never got around to replacing it,” she told him. “That’s so sweet of you to notice.”
But the question that persistently hammered at her was, why did Dwight hate him so much? She knew her feelings about Dwight had changed during Thanksgiving weekend, but why did Dwight hate him so much?
There had been another item, this time in Cindy Adams’s column in the Post, about Eric and her enjoying a tête-à-tête at Primola on Second Avenue in Manhattan.
But at least the Fifth Avenue apartment of Countess Sylvie de la Marco was almost complete now except for a few throw pillows, some semivaluable bric-a-brac, deliveries of end tables, and new bedspreads in the guest bedrooms. Glady had told her this morning that the two million from the countess finally arrived.
Though Glady and she never talked about it, Lane was uncomfortable to know that there were listening devices in de la Marco’s home.
She had come to like the countess. It was amusing to watch the way she went from the veneer of nobility to her roots in a lower-middle-class family.
When Glady was around the countess stayed in the library, but when Lane was there alone she often stopped in to chat with her. When she commented on some of the artwork Glady had ordered, she said, “Lane, if this stuff is going to be worth ten times what I paid for it, the world is going nuts. It looks like finger painting to me.”
Lane thought it better to not tell the countess that she agreed with her.
That evening she met Eric for one of their Tuesday night dinners in Manhattan. He said, “Lane, my mother’s birthday is Thursday. She refuses to go out for dinner, but she would love it if you would come see her again. We’ll toast her over a glass of wine, then go out to dinner ourselves.”
Lane had visited Anne the last two Saturdays. She truly liked her, but Anne too had been pressing her to bring Katie out for a visit. Tuesday and Saturday for dinner and now Thursday? It’s too much, she thought. It’s way too much.
But because it was Anne’s birthday, she reluctantly agreed. When she accepted the offer, she knew there was something she had to do. She was going to call Dwight and plead with him to tell her why he despised Eric Bennett.
61
On Wednesday afternoon, carrying his bags, Parker Bennett left the Day and Night Motel for the last time.
He hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to the Miami Amtrak station. He had known he was in plenty of time for the afternoon train to Newark, but he still couldn’t stand the thought that he might be caught in some unexpected traffic jam. And he hated the idea of the twenty-six-and-a-half-hour trip.
On the way, he reviewed everything that had happened these last few weeks. He hadn’t been answering Sylvie’s calls, but she had left a message, “Parker, you have five billion dollars. You’ve given me nice gifts over these two years, but they’re a drop in the bucket compared to what you’re sitting on. I have to finish paying the decorator now.”
The last sentence had clearly been an outright threat.
In the hope of buying time, he had sent her the two million dollars she demanded, but he knew that would not buy her silence if she thought he was about to be caught. He hadn’t dared to refuse her, but after he bought the villa in Switzerland he only had five thousand dollars left. And he still had to buy his airline ticket to Switzerland.
After two weeks at the Night and Day Motel, he tried to take comfort in the fact that he was unrecognizable as either Parker Bennett or George Hawkins.
Posing as an actor, he had gone to a theatrical supply house. Terrified that the clerk would recognize him when he took off the brown wig, he had quickly bought two others, one gray with a ponytail and one salt and pepper, long enough to cover his ears.
His beard had come in. As he’d expected, it was gray with a sprinkling of white. He had put on ten pounds and they emphasized the jowls on his chin, but he was desperate. He was almost out of money.
He had to hope that even if that loudmouth Len decided to turn him in, he hadn’t done it yet.
“Hey, mister, do you want to get out?”
Startled, Parker looked up and then realized the taxi had arrived at the Miami Amtrak station. “Oh, of course, daydreaming I guess.”
After paying the fare he got out of the cab. Dragging his suitcases, he went up to the ticket counter. “One way on the four o’clock train to Newark, a sleeper car, please.”
“Yes, sir. That will get into Newark at six-thirty P.M. tomorrow. How would you like to pay for that?”
“With cash.”
“Please let me see your ID.”
He knew she was scrutinizing him carefully. “As you can see, I’ve gotten honest with my hair. I stopped dyeing it,” he said, trying to laugh.
She smiled and said, “That will be nine hundred seventy-five dollars.”
So far, so good, he thought, as he headed toward his gate. She did not react to the George Hawkins ID. And taking Amtrak solved another problem. He knew he would have been taking a huge chance if he had tried to bring the handgun he had purchased on a plane. But Amtrak does not screen luggage and carry-ons.
I only have to use the George Hawkins ID twice more, he thought, for the rental car and the flight to Geneva. His Swiss contact, Adolph, had assured him that when he got to Switzerland, in exchange for an enormous fee, a new identity would be awaiting him.
Three hours before reaching Newark he phoned Swissair and asked if there were seats available on that evening’s Geneva flight. “It’s wide open, sir. Can I make a reservation for you?”
“No, thanks. I’ll buy my ticket tonight.”
On his iPhone he found an Enterprise rental near the Newark train station. He phoned and reserved a car. He would pick it up at seven thirty P.M. That would get him to Anne’s town house at about eight P.M. He had gone online and done a virtual tour of the street where her town house was located. Cars were parked on it but it was never filled.
It was Anne’s birthday. That meant
she would be in her town house. In her peculiarly stubborn way she just wouldn’t go out on birthdays or holidays.
He was counting on the fact that she would still have the music box. If for any reason the music box was gone, it was all over. But she had told him that of all the many gifts he had given her, this was her favorite. He was counting on the fact that she would never dispose of it.
Suppose Eric happened to be with her? It was an eventuality he had to face; somehow, he would have to deal with it.
The eleven P.M. flight from Newark to Geneva. He had to be on it.
After he got the number from the music box, he would make an excuse to leave Anne for a few hours, drive to Newark airport, and buy the ticket to Geneva. He’d pay for it in cash.
He had renewed the George Hawkins British passport once in the last thirteen years. Surely no security screener would pay much notice if his hair was no longer brown but gray, and worn a little longer.
The danger was that if either Sylvie or Len had turned him in, they would definitely be watching for Parker Bennett/George Hawkins at the airports.
62
On Thursday afternoon a bored Len Stacey stared out the window of his home in St. Thomas. It was raining again, which meant there would be no golf today, and possibly tomorrow.
Never interested in reading and having nothing to do, he once again began to think of his friend George Hawkins, who so resembled the pictures in the newspapers of Parker Bennett, the Wall Streeter who took off with all that money. “And when I yelled, ‘Parker,’ he spun around,” he told his wife for the tenth or twentieth time.
Finally, her patience snapped. “Len, this is eating you up. I’m tired of telling you to call the FBI in New York. You can tell them that you’re probably way off base but you think that what’s his name, George Hawkins, may be that crook. There’s a reward out for anyone who finds him, isn’t there?”
“A two-million-dollar reward, but suppose I’m wrong and George ever heard about it? I’d feel bad.”
Not for the first time since her husband of forty years had tried her patience to the snapping point, Barbara wanted to scream “Shut up” at him. Now, gritting her teeth, she said, “Len, I want you to call the FBI. And then no matter if you get a reward or they tell you to go fly a kite, I do not want to hear the name George Hawkins again so long as I live!”
Her voice escalating, she stared at him. “Do you get that, Len? Do you get it?”
Len Stacey escaped her withering glance, mumbling, “Maybe I will call. Let me think about it.”
63
On Thursday afternoon Sylvie and Barclay Cameron were led to a quiet room in Cartier and seated at a mahogany table.
Barclay told her he had selected three different engagement rings and three different wedding bands for her to choose from.
Sylvie could see that he was the picture of happiness. And to think I got involved with Parker instead of hanging on to him, she thought. What was the matter with me?
Her satisfaction from her meeting with the de la Marco lawyers was beginning to dissipate. What good would all of this do if Parker was found and turned her in?
The manager returned with a black velvet tray. The rings Barclay had selected were on it. One of the engagement rings was a large square diamond surrounded by emeralds. The second one was an equally large oval diamond edged by sapphires.
Two of the engagement rings were brilliant diamonds. The third was a breathtakingly large yellow diamond that had not as yet been set.
The Cartier manager pointed out how flawless all the diamonds were and that the yellow diamond was very rare, large, and unblemished.
The wedding rings were diamond bands in three different widths.
Sylvie knew that the yellow diamond was by far the most valuable.
“Now perhaps all of these are too showy. Perhaps you would enjoy smaller stones,” Barclay said.
Sylvie heard the teasing note in his voice. “Guess which one I want?” she challenged him.
“The yellow diamond and the widest wedding band,” Barclay said promptly. “So be it.”
“An excellent choice,” the manager at Cartier said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Later, in her apartment, Sylvie’s emotions swung between exultation and terror. Suppose the FBI didn’t accept her offer?
Suppose they caught Parker and he told them about sending her money? Nervous and upset, she called Derek Landry.
“I want to change my offer to the FBI,” she said. “I will not accept the reward if my information leads to Parker Bennett. If they find him and I know I’m safe from him, I will pay back every nickel he forced me to accept. I only want and demand anonymity and immunity from prosecution.”
“That may change the picture,” was Landry’s suave response. “I will call you back, Countess.”
64
At four o’clock Thursday afternoon Eleanor and Frank went to see Dr. Papetti again. Rudy Schell and Sean Cunningham were there already when they arrived. Both greeted them warmly.
As always, Sean was reassuring. “Now, Eleanor, what did I tell you?”
“That I shouldn’t be nervous, that I shouldn’t feel as though I’m letting you down if I don’t remember George somebody’s last name.” She managed to smile even while she clutched Frank’s hand.
Dr. Papetti was waiting for her when they were escorted into his office. “I’m glad you’ve come back, Eleanor,” he said. “I understand it’s been a hard decision for you to make.”
“It was, but just in case I may be able to help by doing it, I’ll take my ride in the elevator again.”
Without waiting for an answer she walked over to the La-Z-Boy, sat down, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
Dr. Papetti pulled up a chair beside her. “Eleanor, you are beginning a voyage you will enjoy. You are going up in an elevator. It is going to stop at every floor . . .”
Observing from across the room, Rudy Schell knew that his usual steely calm was deserting him.
If Eleanor Becker did not come up with the last name of Parker Bennett’s alias, they were at a dead end; two years of fruitless investigating and still no promising leads.
And even if Eleanor remembered the last name Bennett was using, how far would it take them? They would have the assumed name and know that he has or had a British driver’s license. It would be a start but there was always the chance that Bennett had other identities.
Rudy felt his cell phone vibrate and stepped out of Dr. Papetti’s office and into the corridor.
It was Attorney Derek Landry. Rudy’s greeting to him was curt. “Mr. Landry, we are considering your offer but—”
Landry cut him off and began speaking. As Rudy listened, he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Trying to sound impersonal, he asked, “Let me be clear. Your client is ready to offer us Parker Bennett’s alias, his current address, and phone number. And your client will forgo reward money and will pay back the value of any gifts Bennett forced upon him or her. In return we grant your client immunity from prosecution and anonymity.”
“This is exactly what I am offering,” Landry said.
“And I assume your client is Countess de la Marco.”
“As you have already figured out, yes, she is.”
“Mr. Landry, I have your number. I’ll call you right back.”
From the Contacts list on his phone, Rudy pressed the number of Milton Harsh, the assistant United States attorney handling the case.
Less than one minute later Harsh said, “Rudy, take the deal!”
Rudy called Landry, who answered on the first ring. “Mr. Landry, we agree to your client’s terms.”
“Excellent,” Landry exclaimed. “When will you be back in your office, Mr. Schell?”
“In half an hour.”
Rudy went back into Dr. Papetti’s office in time to hear Eleanor say, “His name is George Hawkins.”
65
Thirty minutes later, Rudy Schell was in the office
. Derek Landry arrived close behind him.
“I have a legal agreement outlining the terms we discussed for you to sign, and I have the information you need on Parker Bennett,” Landry said smiling. “My client is so happy to be of assistance to you. As I have explained, Countess Sylvie de la Marco can give you Parker Bennett’s alias, address, and phone number.”
Landry continued. “My client will return the value of any gifts that were forced upon her and—”
Rudy interrupted. “Mr. Landry, give me the information on Parker Bennett.”
He almost grabbed the sheet from Landry’s hand, perused it, and returned his gaze to Landry.
“And there is the matter of our legal agreement,” Landry said, as he pushed it across the table.
Rudy quickly reviewed it and then scrawled his signature on it. As he handed it back he thought about how much he hated doing this, that the countess should go to prison, but reminded himself that he had no choice but to sign it.
Thanks to Eleanor they believed they knew Bennett’s other identity and that he most likely had a British passport, but that was all. George Hawkins was a common name in Britain. Now we’re getting close to the whole picture, Rudy thought.
66
As soon as Derek Landry was escorted to the door, the immense capacity of the FBI to take instant action was set in motion. When Rudy Schell provided the cell phone number of Parker Bennett, alias George Hawkins, in approximately thirty minutes the agents were able to pinpoint his exact location on the Amtrak train. They listened as he made a phone call to reserve a White Honda Accord at Newark Penn Station. Two hours later, when Bennett got off the train, a swarm of agents was watching him as the Honda was delivered.
The Melody Lingers On Page 19
