“Yes,” he said. “I understand.”
She saw the fear leave his eyes, but she no longer cared. “You know, Rowe, you’re the one who should be tried for murder. You killed Elizabeth Xavier Carleton. She no longer exists. She wasn’t all that bad, just a lonely, very insecure woman who’d just gone through the most awful experience a person could have. What you did to her! She was clay in your hands, so malleable, so very trusting. I do wonder if it’s true that most women will do whatever a man wants, if, of course, they believe they’re in love with him. It’s amazing, truly amazing. Another thing, Rowe, you will never, never try to cross me in the future. Make up whatever story you like to feed to Laurette and Michael, I really could care less how you extricate yourself from their net. Just always remember that my net is larger and more deadly. Now, you look quite foolish lying there sweating like a pig.”
She moved off the bed very quickly and strode toward the bedroom door. She whirled about, wondering if he were enraged, if he would come after her. But he was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her, not moving.
“I want you out of my house in ten minutes,” she said, and closed the bedroom door behind her.
She was on the point of having the piano removed. She wanted no reminders of that other Elizabeth. But there was Christian, and he delighted in hearing her play, and he had saved her life.
Kogi faithfully dusted the piano, though the lid was closed most of the time.
She didn’t bother with any Armani suits. She went to Bergdorf’s and bought six suits off the rack. They were all severely tailored, expensive, but not, of course, designer. She liked the look. The new Elizabeth Carleton.
She told Adrian two days later, on a Wednesday morning, without preamble, “I know you know I’ve been learning things about business. However, now I fully intend to take over. You can either help me to the fullest extent of your power, or I will find someone else. I won’t tell you why I’ve made this decision. Suffice it to say that the decision is made and is irrevocable. There is a power now, and it is Elizabeth Carleton, not Timothy Carleton or any power-hungry minions: I’d like to meet with the rest of our group. There’s a project that I wish to begin immediately. You will please inform our team that my first priority is to get rid of Brad Carleton. I want a meeting in my office at three o’clock this afternoon, and I want suggestions on how to accomplish this goal. Do you have any questions, Adrian?”
He stared at her. She said nothing more, just looked at him patiently. Suddenly he smiled. “I have a couple of excellent books for you to read, Elizabeth. Why don’t you look them over while I inform the others of the meeting and the agenda.”
“Thank you, Adman,” she said. “Get me the books.”
“That’s just the beginning, Elizabeth.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth looked around the table at the five men. They were still in shock, she thought, and suppressed a grim smile. She’d seated herself at the head of the table, the power seat, and said, “Since Rod brought you in, each of you has come to exercise tremendous power in your specific area. You’ve done quite well. Each of you is used to dealing with change, indeed, you’re masters at initiating changes that benefit both you and ACI. Now it is I who am doing the initiating. I’m taking over and I wanted you to hear it from me. If any of you have a problem with working for me, you may leave now.”
Coy Siverston said slowly, “Adrian said you wanted to learn enough to step in.”
“Yes.”
“I should like to know why, Elizabeth. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. For example, are you displeased with our running of things?”
“I have already said that each of you has done well. Now, as to why, that is none of your business. I’m quite serious, don’t think I’m being a frivolous woman. I will no longer be a figurehead. You will work for me, not around me or over me. Is that clear to everyone?”
Silence.
“I see,” Elizabeth said. “I suggest we take a poll. Let’s begin with you, Adrian.”
“I want to head up the strategic planning of ACI. Of course I’m behind you.”
“Coy.”
“You have no experience, Elizabeth, you are a musician.”
“All true. Your point?”
“It will be difficult, not only for you but for all of us. I’ll agree if you agree to listen to us, really listen to us.”
“I agree. I’m not stupid.”
“Very well,” said Coy.
The three other men each agreed, as she’d known they would. Edgar Derby, her very overweight computer genius, was sweating as if he’d soon be out of a job. Had the Carletons gotten to him? She shook her head, remaining silent. No, she didn’t think so.
“Now,” she said. “Let’s move on to my priority project. Adrian, do you have suggestions on how to get Brad Carleton out?”
Before he could reply, Rod Samuels came into the office. “Sorry I’m late, Elizabeth. Gentlemen.”
“Sit down, Rod. We’ve actually just begun. From now on, this project will be known as OBC. Oust Brad Carleton. You see, I’m already learning how letters stand for things. Rod is here because he’s our expert on the legal end of things. Now, Adrian, please continue.”
“. . . his books checked out clean as a whistle, as you know.”
“Yes, I know. The reason they did was that there was a leak. That leak no longer exists. I can assure all of you of that.”
“How can you be so certain, Elizabeth?” Rod asked. “Who was the leak?”
“I am certain and I won’t tell you who the leak was. I will assure you that it was not poor Avery. Coy, let’s have another surprise audit of Brad’s books.” She watched Coy write something in his ubiquitous notebook.
“Edgar, what do you think?”
Edgar Derby had little to say. He popped down one of his high-blood-pressure pills. Benjamin Hallimer scratched his bald head and mumbled inanities. He desperately wanted to get off by himself and do some thinking. It was his way. Oran Wicks looked interested, but uncertain, faced with this new Elizabeth.
Elizabeth turned finally to Rod Samuels. “Rod?”
“Forget the legalities, forget the deals made with the estate. Go for his balls.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Elizabeth. At the blank looks around the table, she explained, “Brad is reputed to be gay. He is also thinking of marrying a senator’s daughter. Now, does this give you any ideas?”
Adrian said very softly, “A private detective, photos perhaps, leverage.”
“This is hardball,” said Coy.
“The very hardest,” agreed Elizabeth. “Let’s get under way without delay. Now, let’s go to the next item. I want to know, I mean really know, all our major companies and their top management. I’ve given myself six months. Adrian will make up an agenda. I’ll spend three days studying each company, then we’ll pay the management an on-site surprise visit.” She paused a moment, then looked around the table at each man in turn. “If,” she said very quietly, “anything discussed among us goes outside this room or if any of the management turn out not to be surprised by my visit, I will fire every one of you. No exceptions.”
Adrian and Rod remained after the other men had filed out, each with his assignment.
“There’s one other thing,” Elizabeth said. “Adrian, remember that awful scene with Catherine Carleton that evening at the restaurant?”
“Too well,” he said on a grimace.
“Do you remember the man she was with?”
“Vaguely. Why?”
“His name is . . . was, Chad Walters. He was murdered. He was a drug dealer and the police have in essence closed the book. Gang-related and all that. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I don’t think it was.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Rod said, looking at her closely.
“I think one of the Carletons, Laurette probably, had him killed. You see, Catherine was on the verge of making a pretty nasty scandal. Walters probably had her h
ooked on coke. I want to hire another private detective to check into it for us. Can you handle that, Rod?”
“My God, Elizabeth. The Carletons are a lot of unpleasant things, but murderers?”
“You forget that someone killed Timothy,” she said very quietly. “I didn’t. Who else comes to mind?”
“For God’s sake, not one of his family.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know. But if they were responsible for Walters’ death, that information would give us more leverage, more power.” She paused a moment, her hand now a fist. “I’ve got to know.”
Two days later, on the second page of the New York Post, it was reported that the police had arrested a small-time cocaine supplier, Juan Ramirez, for the murder of Chad Walters. The man’s motive was that Walters was trying to take over his operation in Atlantic City. The evidence cited seemed conclusive.
“Damn,” Elizabeth said. “I really thought that you’d stop at nothing, Laurette.” She paused a moment, then continued aloud to her empty bedroom, “Laurette, you and Michael are either the luckiest people alive, or you’re smarter than I thought.”
Probably the latter, she thought.
11
“I’m proud of you, Elizabeth. You are in control of your life. To you, my dear.”
Elizabeth smiled at Christian Hunter and clicked her wineglass to his. “Thank you, Christian. It’s been a wild three months. I have no problem at all sleeping now. The minute my head hits the pillow, I’m out like the proverbial light.”
Christian glanced at the newspaper on the coffee table. “The Boston Globe?”
“Yes,” she said, and picked it up. “It contains the engagement announcement of Mr. Rowen Chalmers and Miss Amanda Montgomery. His second marriage and her third. I was wondering if I should send a gift or perhaps a letter of condolence to Miss Montgomery. Although,” she continued, looking away from him, “she should have enough experience now to know when she’s being duped.”
Christian heard only the mocking amusement in her voice, and relaxed. “You were well rid of him,” he said.
She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the table and leaned her head back against the sofa cushion. “You know something, Christian?”
“Not yet, but I’m patient.”
She laughed a little. “I’m at last feeling worthy to be a member of the human race. I’m still scared that I’m going to do something or say something very stupid, but I get less scared every day.”
“Just make sure you don’t lose your humanity along the way, Elizabeth.”
“As in ceasing to trust people?” Her voice was light, but his sensitive ears picked up her cold determination.
“As in there are people that can and should be trusted. As in me, Elizabeth.”
“I do trust you, Christian. After all, you saved my life. Why would you want to destroy it?” He said nothing to that, and she continued after a moment, “I’ve simply learned to keep business and personal matters completely separate. It keeps things simpler.”
She didn’t see the pained look on his face. He began to fill his pipe.
“I’m proud of you,” she said after a moment, her voice teasing. “You aren’t playing shrink with me.”
“The last thing you need is a shrink, my dear. However . . .”
“Yes?”
He was sucking ferociously on his pipe. “You need to spend more time with me.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Christian, we are together at least twice a week.” She sighed, turning her head to face him. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you? You don’t care if I’m rich or poor. You just care about me. A friend like you must be unique.”
A friend. Nothing more, at least not yet.
“Play for me, Elizabeth.”
She wiggled her toes. “Just so long as you don’t expect me to put my shoes back on.”
He wanted Chopin, and that’s what she played. For him. She never played for herself anymore. When she looked up finally, she saw that his eyes were closed. “Are you asleep, Christian?”
He didn’t move a muscle. “No. More, if you please.”
Because she hadn’t practiced in a long time, she was aware of a slight burning in her forearms. No more Chopin etudes. She skipped to her favorite theme song from James Bond, “Nobody Does It Better.”
“Is that supposed to tell me something?” he asked lazily when she finished.
“You got it. Now it’s late and I have an eight-o’clock meeting tomorrow morning. Friday night, Christian?”
“Yes,” he said, rising. “I’ve got a new place to take you. The star is a black jazz pianist, and he improvises so well he should be recorded while he’s doing it.”
She watched him shrug into his tweed jacket. He was becoming so dear to her. Solid, that was Christian. And he never pushed her. She raised her face for his parting kiss.
It was light, barely brushing her lips. “Good night, Elizabeth.”
Christian took the elevator downstairs, bade good night to Gallagher, knowing that after his departure Gallagher would lock up the building tighter than a tick. He took a cab to Susan’s apartment on Fiftieth near Madison. She was waiting for him, just as he knew she would be, just as she was supposed to be.
He was hard, trembling with desire. “Now,” he said. “Now.”
Why don’t you get her to do this? But Susan didn’t say it aloud. She led him into her bedroom and unzipped his pants. He never took long, not after spending the evening with her.
Then he lay on the bed on his back, saying nothing.
Susan had long ago learned to keep her thoughts to herself and her mouth closed. She brought him a glass of brandy.
What, she wondered, did this Elizabeth Carleton have that she didn’t have? Money, that was all. But money couldn’t matter to Christian. He was so rich, she bet he didn’t even remember where all his assets were. No, there was something else that woman had, a very big something.
Finally she said, her voice tentative, “I’m taking piano lessons.”
That got his attention. He reached for his pipe.
“What do you think, Christian?”
“I think you should do as you please, Susan. It’s late. Thank you. I’ll see you on . . . Friday—late, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, Christian. All right.”
She watched him dress and shove his pipe into his coat pocket, and wanted to cry.
Senator Charles Henkle took the sealed envelope handed to him by his housekeeper with an impatient nod. He was late for a meeting, but the letter was unusual. It had been hand-delivered, and “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” was written in big block letters at the bottom. Perhaps, he thought, ever cynical, it was another contribution from an unknown person or persons, who would more than likely let his identity be known soon enough if he, Charles, accepted the contribution. He wandered to his desk and sat down. He picked up his antique letter opener and carefully slit open the envelope.
It contained a half-dozen eight-by-ten photos. Nothing more. He picked one up and turned it over, and froze. It was in glittering color. Brad Carleton was naked on his hands and knees. Another man, younger, was pumping into him, the look on his face sheer ecstasy.
Slowly, one at a time, Charles Henkle looked at each of the photos. They were excellent photography, he thought vaguely. So much detail, so many close-ups. The one that made him truly ill was of Brad kissing his partner, his tongue deep in the man’s mouth, his hand on his cock.
He carefully put the photos back in the envelope and locked it in a drawer. He walked from his study to the bathroom and vomited. His first thought after he’d rinsed out his mouth was: Has Jenny slept with him? My God, what if he has AIDS? Then he wanted to kill Brad Carleton. It was a simple, clean desire.
He left his home in Georgetown, not wanting to see either his wife or his daughter. He thought about showing the photos to Jenny, then dismissed the idea.
He returned home at midnight, went into his study, firmly closin
g the door behind him. He reached for the phone. All right, you little bastard, he thought, let’s see if you’re home, and if you are, you damned son of a bitch, another man better not answer the phone.
He was gritting his teeth on the third ring.
“Hello? Brad Carleton here.”
He got a grip on himself. “This is Charles Henkle,” he said. “I want to see you, Brad. I want you to fly to Washington tomorrow. I’ll meet you at La Fourchette at precisely noon.”
“But . . . what’s the matter, sir? Jenny’s all right, isn’t she?” Brad ran his hand through his hair, trying to get his wits together. He’d been deeply asleep, and it was late, very late. He heard his soon-to-be-father-in-law’s deep breathing on the other end of the line. What the hell was going on? He said again, more sharply, “Sir, is Jenny all right?”
“Yes. Just be here, Brad.”
Jonathan Harley walked out of the First People’s Bank of Philadelphia at precisely ten o’clock in the morning. He was wearing a smile that made people he passed start, then smile back at him involuntarily.
“Ten million dollars,” he said aloud. “Out of the woods. I’m safe.” The loan had a thirty-day call-in after three months. It was plenty of time, and the interest rate wasn’t all that exorbitant. Too, those were only paper terms. He knew his banker well, and if he needed it, he could get as long an extension as he wanted. He’d buy up another hunk of Rose’s stock—through a go-between, since she’d probably spit in his face if she knew he was the buyer. Then he’d expand as he’d wanted to do.
“Went well, I see,” said Midge, reacting to the beautiful smile on her boss’s face.
“You got it,” Jonathan said.
“Congratulations.”
He nodded, and strode into his office like a man who knew he was now in control.
“You deserve it,” Midge said under her breath. “You’re rid of that bitch of a wife and now you’ve got enough money to make a real go of it.” She grinned down at her computer. If she were ten years younger and not in love with her husband, well, just maybe . . .
FALSE PRETENSES Page 13
