Robert Kennedy told his mother. Later, Abby was called to her side. Rose Kennedy took great comfort in her religion, and those people, from humble priest to lofty Cardinal, who were significant in it did all they could for her. Had she not forbidden him, Bobby would have flown to England that very day and killed Lacey with his bare hands. His mother insisted he put all thought of that out of his mind. Instead, she called Lacey herself. Abby was with her when she spoke to him. Abby told Walter how shaken she was at the civil nature of the conversation between Rose Kennedy and Lord Frederick Lacey. They had known each other for forty years, Abby said. At one point Rose said, “Frederick, you know why I’ve called.” She stood a few feet away from Mrs. Kennedy, but Abby could not hear Lacey’s voice. “Jack,” Rose said, in a voice cracking like broken glass, a voice fighting a losing battle with itself. Abby saw Rose Kennedy’s eyes tearing. “What . . .” she uttered. “What . . . what are you . . . ?” And then, in a helpless wail, she cried out, “My boys, Frederick! What about my boys!” This time Abby could hear Lacey. He screamed, “What about my Audrey!”
It wasn’t until two days later that Rose told Abby that it had been Lacey who was responsible for the death of Joe Jr. “A mistake,” she said with the most sorrowful laugh Abby ever heard. Abby could hardly believe the viciousness of it. The face of evil had shown itself. Joe Jr., too? It was a little after four in the morning, the next day, when Bobby called. He had just arrived from London. He needed to talk with Abby, immediately. Not later in the day. Not tomorrow. Right then. She was waiting outside her door when his limousine pulled up. They drove through the morning darkness, past daybreak, moving about the city with no purpose other than to stay in motion. Bobby told her how he had confronted Lacey, man-to-man, how the Englishman had told him about his oldest brother, twenty years ago, and Jack on November 22, 1963. “He killed them both,” Bobby said to Abby. “That sonofabitch! I told him I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do.” She believed him. That meant Lacey had too.
Frederick Lacey was not a man to be lightly threatened. Men far more capable than Robert Kennedy had said much the same thing to him. He had endured tribal curses in savage parts of the world other Westerners had only read about. He had survived the armies of Germany, the emissaries of Russian revolutionaries, angry Turks and other assorted Middle Eastern potentates. His life had been threatened by the best. For fifty years, powerful men had boasted they would do away with Frederick Lacey. Robert Kennedy should not have concerned him.
That was when Lacey revealed the existence of his private journal, the Lacey Confession. He told Bobby Kennedy he had it all written down and hidden safely away. With cold efficiency, Lacey instructed Kennedy, lectured him, scolded him like a child. If anything happened to him, he told Kennedy, the document would be released and the legend of Camelot would come crashing to the ground in a heap of wreckage. “Hypocrisy humbles the highest,” he said. Kennedy reacted badly. He threatened Lacey again. Lacey had disdain for irrational behavior. He rejected Robert Kennedy as unworthy. He also recognized a level of instability in the younger Kennedy, a lack of self-control on his part, a wildness that Lacey felt he had no alternative but to deal with. Who could be certain what such a man as President Kennedy’s brother might do? Bobby needed to be escorted out of Lord Lacey’s presence.
“I suppose the last thing Lacey heard Bobby say was, ‘I’ll kill you!’ He must have believed him,” Abby said to Walter. “Less than a month later, Bobby lay dead on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.”
“What is it you want from me?” Walter asked. It was a friendly question with no hint of hostility in his tone or manner. Abby felt comfortable in his company and he sensed it. She was glad he asked so directly.
“The document,” she replied. He nodded in understanding. He had asked a question that needed to be asked and she had answered it by saying what they both already knew. This was part of a dance, a necessary part. His next question was also expected.
“Why should Mr. Levine give it to you?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“If he felt as you do, don’t you think he would already have given it to you?”
“I am prepared to offer Mr. Levine an amount of money he’s only dreamed of.”
“That’s why he should give it to you? That’s why?”
“That is a great deal of why.”
“I know you—perhaps not personally—but as a Kennedy, you are guided by money, the power of money. I’m not sure Mr. Levine is motivated by money,” Walter said. “I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m only telling you I am not sure.”
“I’ve seen men quake in their boots, Walter, when the sort of money we are talking about is actually spoken out loud.”
“What sort of money are you talking about?” he asked.
“Am I bidding now? Is this money for Harry Levine or for you? Or for both of you?”
“I didn’t bring it up. You did.” Walter’s mood had changed visibly and for the worse. This kind of talk violated his sense of duty, his concept of himself, and it did so in more ways than one. He was not a negotiator. He did not strike deals. He located. He found. And then he walked away. Not this time. Chita Crystal had convinced him otherwise. Had she tricked him? He didn’t like it. And, more important, he wasn’t for sale, except by his own choosing. This woman, Abby O’Malley, was not his client. All discussion of a price—for him—was objectionable.
“I apologize, Walter.” She knew she had made a mistake and she sought to make amends, quickly. “I know you have no personal agenda here. I’m sorry. But tell me what Harry Levine wants,” Abby said. “I’m confident it will not be too much. And we will pay cash at the exchange or wire the money into any bank, anywhere in the world, any bank of Mr. Levine’s choosing.”
“What if Harry believes this is a document of historical significance and delivers it to the President of the United States?”
“That would not make us happy,” said Abby.
“Have you thought about the possibility that others want this document for reasons that must be obviously different than yours?”
“I’ll worry about them when I have the document.”
“If there are others, who knows why they want the document so badly they would kill for it. The intensity of their need might dwarf yours. They might think your concerns are meaningless—to them, anyway. Others might get the document and simply disregard the revelations about Lacey’s relations with the Kennedy family. Others might pay more than you.” Abby offered no response. She sipped her beer, popped the last bite of the fried grouper in her mouth and looked at Walter out of the corner of her eye, like a schoolteacher might stare down a smart-ass student. “If there are men or forces willing to kill Harry Levine to get their hands on Lacey’s confession—and if Harry gave the document to you—don’t you think, in order to get it for themselves, they might be willing to kill you too?”
“Well, anything is possible. True,” she finally concurred, still chewing. “This is good,” she added, pointing at her empty plate. “You ought to try it.”
“Do you know a man named Louis Devereaux?” Walter asked.
“Who?” she answered. But it was too late. Walter caught the surprise. Abby was not schooled at this kind of thing. She was unable to hide her lie.
“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t know what Harry Levine will do, Abby. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I’ll take your offer to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“As soon as possible, I hope,” she said. She badly wanted to say, “No! I can’t wait. Give me that document now, or else!” Louis was right, again. Walter Sherman knew perfectly well she was harmless. Threats would be useless. She would look foolish, or worse. Reason probably would not work either. Walter had to know the effect Lacey’s confession would have if it was ever made public. She was left only with the underlying strength of the Kennedy family, the foundation of its power. She prayed money would come through as
it almost always did.
On her way out, Abby stopped to thank Ike. She said she would love to have a drink with him next time. Ike watched her walk across the square. A car he did not recognize pulled up to the curb. She got in the back seat and it drove off.
“Walter,” said Ike, ten minutes later. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Seems to me there’s been more than a few people come to see you here in Billy’s. Over time, I mean. More than a few I’ve seen with my own eyes. Now, I know you keep things close, but it appears to me that when these people come to talk business, you pick yourself up and leave—with them or without them.” The old man awaited confirmation from his friend.
“Okay,” said Walter.
“But this woman—and I like her, like her just fine—you must have talked for half an hour, maybe more. I wasn’t watching all the time. Right?”
“Okay.”
“Well, here’s what I want to know. Why? What’s different about this one? Why here? You know what I mean?”
“I do,” Walter said.
“And?”
“And, what?”
“So you ain’t talking, is that it?” said Ike. “You ain’t talking. I’m asking you and you ain’t talking?”
“I can’t help this one,” Walter said. “I can’t help her.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . . I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay, Ike.”
There’s a bend in the road approaching Walter’s house. It’s where the two-lane asphalt takes a steep turn up toward the crest of the mountain. It’s where the newest of many potholes sits, outlined in bright orange paint. Just ahead, there’s a single-lane, heavily wooded driveway that leads from the road, down the hill, to a gravel parking area in front of Walter’s house. A wrought iron gate guards the entrance. A button, on top of a short pole on the driver’s side, must be pushed to open the gate so a car can drive in. Someone once asked Walter if the gate was for security. “Goats,” he replied. St. John is overrun with livestock, goats, cattle even a few sheep. They roam at will. The goats used to run down Walter’s driveway and eat the flowers in the small, Asian-flavored garden next to his front door. Plus, they shit in the gravel and it was damn near impossible to clean. One day Walter got so pissed he ordered the gate. That’s what he said. Some people on the island doubted that story. Walter was a subject of continuing mystery to many.
Tucker Poesy chose a spot just around the bend, near enough to Walter’s gate, to have her car break down. She did this a little after three in the afternoon. Walter’s usual schedule took him home from Billy’s about that time. As he approached, some ten minutes later, Tucker Poesy stood in the road, looking frustrated with just the right touch of anger. Next to her was a rented Jeep Wrangler. Walter pulled over to the side of the road in front of her, stopped and got out.
“Need help?” he asked.
“Oh, you’ve saved my life!” she gushed. “I’m so . . . so furious. This damn car just quit on me. What am I going to do?” Her shoulder-length, brown hair was pulled back, tucked under a baseball cap with a St. John logo. Walter recognized it as a cap from the Caneel Bay Resort. She wore running shoes without socks, loose, light blue shorts and a black halter-top showing off plenty of what cleavage she had to show. She was not beautiful, but she was an attractive woman. Walter noticed the VI Rent-a-Car sticker on her rear bumper. The vehicle belonged to Virgin Islands Rent-a-Car, a company operated by Ike’s son Roosevelt.
“Do you have a phone?” he asked. “A cell phone?” She shook her head no. “You can make a call from my house, if you like. I live right over there.” He pointed to the big iron gate only ten or fifteen yards ahead. “I know the rent-a-car company. I’m sure they’ll send someone to help you in no time at all.”
“Thank you, Mr . . . ?”
“Walter Sherman,” he said, extending his hand. She came closer to shake it and Walter noticed the sweat on the rim of her cap. She had been in the sun for some time. “How long have you been stranded here?”
“It just happened,” said Tucker Poesy. “A minute before you drove up. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. My name is Caroline Henley.” She smiled at Walter and he smiled back. She acted as any reasonable tourist would. She made friends with him and now it was safe for her to allow him to help her.
“Hop in,” he said. “It’s a short trip. My housekeeper can give you a cold drink or something to eat, if you need it.” Tucker Poesy, posing as Caroline Henley, was effusive in her thanks. She reached into her stalled vehicle, pulled out a colorful, canvas handbag, big enough to carry beach clothes and other tourist essentials. She jumped into Walter’s car and they were off, past the gate, down the driveway, into his home.
“You have a beautiful house,” Walter’s visitor said. “May I?” she asked, indicating she wanted to open the glass sliding doors to the deck. No one seemed able to resist the view, the blue sea, the lush green, hilly islands to the north, and St. Thomas in the distance. “Wow!” she said.
“Please, sit down,” Walter said. “I’ll call Roosevelt and he’ll send someone out with a new car for you.” He called for Denise, who was downstairs in the laundry room. When she came up, he asked her to “bring something cold, for Miss Henley to drink.” Walter sat in the chair next to the small table with the telephone. His back was to the deck and he faced the kitchen. His guest sat across from him. Still unable to resist the incredible view over his shoulder, she quite purposely sat facing the deck. A few puffy, white clouds drifted their way from the west. The mid-afternoon sun was high in an otherwise clear blue sky. It shone behind Walter and directly in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. Denise brought out fruit punch over ice for the girl, “Miss Henley,” and the usual for Walter. He watched closely as the girl’s expression changed from stranded tourist to determined actor. “I don’t really have to call Roosevelt, do I?” he said.
“No,” she said. “All you need to do is give me the document.” As she said that, Tucker Poesy’s right hand came out of her bag holding a pistol she pointed at Walter. “You’re good,” she said. “You figured it out pretty quickly. Couldn’t surprise you for long, could I?”
“You didn’t surprise me at all,” Walter said, taking a sip from his small bottle of Diet Coke. “I recognized you immediately. Made you before I stopped the car.”
“Really. How so?” She hadn’t figured him for a braggart.
“You were waiting for me—long enough to work up a nice sweat under that little baseball cap. I saw that, but that wasn’t the main thing. As I said, I spotted you before I got out of my car. I already knew who you were. I’ve seen you before. You have less clothes on now. Lovely breasts. I’m sure many men have regretted looking at those.” He pointed to her chest, and to his satisfaction, her eyes went with his finger just long enough to tell him what he needed to know. “You look a little different, but not that much.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Amsterdam Central Station. And, of course, you were standing on the other side of the canal, the Heerensgracht. You saw me. And I saw you.”
“If that’s true, why am I the one sitting here with a gun on you? How did you let this happen?” She looked very serious. Walter, on the other hand, smiled warmly and chuckled a little as he might have had she instead been Ike and the subject, well almost anything with that old man. He crossed his legs and took another, longer drink.
“Denise is in the kitchen, right behind you,” he said. “She is, at this moment, aiming a Glock nine millimeter at your skull. She’s a crack shot. If I raise my left hand off the armrest of this chair, she will pull the trigger and blow your head off. Most likely, the bullet will exit right where the last remnants of your high school acne are still visible.” He saw the movement in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. It wasn’t much. Few people would have seen anything. It took only an instant, but it was there. She couldn’t help herself. Instinctively, she looked down toward an area of her face j
ust below her nose on the right cheek, then to the side where Denise should be. She had to look—she had to try to look—to see if Walter’s housekeeper really was behind her, really was ready to kill her. Her rational mind, of course, said no. Don’t look. It wasn’t possible. Surely no one was behind her. That was the oldest trick in the book. School children used it. Grade B Westerns and detective movies used it. Her rational mind was sure she had not only the upper hand, the only hand. But her rational mind had to wait until her instincts played themselves out. When her eyes darted, Walter’s right fist smashed flush into Tucker Poesy’s jaw. She tumbled over, dropped the pistol and lay unconscious on the floor. When she came to, she was sitting at a marble table, under a covered roof on Walter’s deck. Her hands rested on the arms of a wicker chair, held there by duct tape. Her legs were pulled apart and back slightly, taped securely, with the same metallic duct tape, to the legs of the chair. To her great discomfort, she was totally naked. Denise was pressing an icepack, wrapped in a towel, to the side of her face. She hurt too much to talk. Walter could see she was still woozy.
The Lacey Confession Page 27
