Hal Baker said fervently, “Oh, I am, Your Honor! I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Perhaps you can prove it to me in the future. I may be calling on you to do some little errands for me.”
“Anything!”
“Good. I’m placing you on probation, and if I should find anything in your behavior that displeases me…”
“You just tell me what you want,” Baker begged.
“I’ll let you know when the time comes. Meanwhile, this will be strictly confidential between the two of us.”
Hal Baker put his hand over his heart. “I would die before I’d tell anyone.”
“You’re right,” Tyler assured him.
It was a short time after that when Tyler received the phone call from Dmitri Kaminsky. “Your father just called his attorney. He’s meeting him in Boston on Monday to change his will.”
Tyler knew that he had to see that will. It was time to call Hal Baker.
“…the name of the firm is Renquist, Renquist, and Fitzgerald. Make a copy of the will and bring it to me.”
“No problem. I’ll take care of it, Your Honor.”
Twelve hours later, Tyler had a copy of the will in his hands. He read it and was filled with a sense of elation. He and Woody and Kendall were the sole heirs. And on Monday Father is planning to change the will. The bastard is going to take it away from us! Tyler thought bitterly. After all we’ve gone through…those billions belong to us. He’s made us earn them! There was only one way to stop him.
When Dmitri’s second telephone call came, Tyler said, “I want you to kill him. Tonight.”
There was a long silence. “But if I’m caught—”
“Don’t get caught. You’ll be at sea. A lot of things can happen there.”
“All right. When it’s over…?”
“The money and a plane ticket to Australia will be waiting for you.”
And then later, the last wonderful phone call.
“I did it. It was easy.”
“No! No! No! I want to hear the details. Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out…”
And as Tyler listened, he could visualize the scene unfolding before his eyes.
“We were in a bad storm on our way to Corsica. He called and asked me to come to his cabin and give him a massage.”
Tyler found himself gripping the phone. “Yes. Go on…”
Dmitri had fought to keep his balance against the wild pitching of the yacht as he headed for Harry Stanford’s stateroom. He knocked at the cabin door and, after a moment, he heard Stanford’s voice.
“Come in!” Stanford yelled. He was stretched out on the massage table. “It’s my lower back.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just relax, Mr. Stanford.”
Dmitri went over to the massage table and spread oil on Stanford’s back. His strong fingers went to work, skillfully kneading the tight muscles. He could feel Stanford begin to relax.
“That feels good.” Stanford sighed.
“Thank you.”
The massage lasted an hour, and when Dmitri was through, Stanford was almost asleep.
“I’m going to run a warm bath for you,” Dmitri said. He went into the bathroom, stumbling with the motion of the ship. He turned on the warm seawater tap in the black onyx tub and returned to the bedroom. Stanford was still lying on the table, his eyes closed.
“Mr. Stanford…”
Stanford opened his eyes.
“Your bath is ready.”
“I don’t think I need…”
“It will really make sure you get a good night’s sleep.” He helped Stanford off the table and steered him toward the bathroom.
Dmitri watched Harry Stanford lower himself into the tub.
Stanford looked up into Dmitri’s cold eyes, and in that instant, his instinct told him what was about to happen. “No!” he cried. He started to get up.
Dmitri put his huge hands on top of Harry Stanford’s head and pushed him under the water. Stanford struggled violently, trying to come up for air, but he was no match for the giant. Dmitri held him under while the seawater got into his victim’s lungs, and finally all movement stopped. He stood there, breathing hard, then staggered into the other room.
Dmitri went over to the desk, fighting the rolling motion of the ship, picked up some papers, and slid open the glass door to the outside veranda, letting in the howling wind. He scattered some of the papers on the veranda and threw some overboard.
Satisfied, he returned to the bathroom once more and pulled Stanford’s body out of the tub. He dressed him in his pajamas, robe, and slippers, and carried the body out onto the veranda. Dmitri stood at the railing a moment, then heaved the body overboard. He counted to five seconds, then picked up the intercom and shouted, “Man overboard!”
Listening to Dmitri recount the story of the murder, Tyler felt a sexual thrill. He could taste the seawater filling his father’s lungs and feel the gasping for breath, the terror. And then nothingness.
It’s over, Tyler thought. Then he corrected himself. No. The game is just beginning. It’s time to play the queen.
Chapter Seventeen
The last chess piece fell into place by accident.
Tyler had been thinking about his father’s will, and he felt outraged that Woody and Kendall were getting an equal share of the estate with him. They don’t deserve it. If it had not been for me, they both would have been cut out of the will completely. They would have had nothing. It’s not fair, but what can I do about it?
He had the one share of stock that his mother had given him long ago, and he remembered his father’s words: “What the hell do you think he’s going to do with that one share? Take over the company?”
Together, Tyler thought, Woody and Kendall have two thirds of Father’s Stanford Enterprises stock. How can I get control with only my one extra share? And then the answer came to him, and it was so ingenious that it stunned him.
“I should inform you that there is a possibility of another heir being involved…Your father’s will specifically provides that the estate is to be divided equally among his issue…Your father sired a child by a governess who worked here…”
If Julia showed up, there would be four of us, Tyler thought. And if I could control her share, I would then have fifty percent of Father’s stock plus the one percent I already own. I could take over Stanford Enterprises. I could sit in my father’s chair. His next thought was, Rosemary is dead, and she probably never told her daughter who her father was. Why does it have to be the real Julia Stanford?
The answer was Margo Posner.
He had first encountered her two months earlier, as court was called into session. The bailiff had turned to the spectators in the courtroom. “Oyez, oyez. The Circuit Court of Cook County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Tyler Stanford presiding. All rise.”
Tyler walked in from his chambers and sat down at the bench. He looked down at the docket. The first case was State of Illinois v. Margo Posner. The charges were assault and attempted murder.
The prosecuting attorney rose. “Your Honor, the defendant is a dangerous person who should be kept off the streets of Chicago. The State will prove that the defendant has a long criminal history. She has been convicted of shoplifting, larceny, and is a known prostitute. She was one of a stable of women working for a notorious pimp named Rafael. In January of this year, they got into an altercation and the defendant willfully and cold-bloodedly shot him and his companion.”
“Did either victim die?” Tyler asked.
“No, Your Honor. They were hospitalized with serious injuries. The gun in Margo Posner’s possession was an illegal weapon.”
Tyler turned to look at the defendant, and he felt a sense of surprise. She did not fit the image of what he had just heard about her. She was a well-dressed, attractive young woman in her late twenties, and there was a quiet elegance about her that completely belied the charges against her. That just goes to prove, Tyler thought wryly, y
ou never know.
He listened to the arguments from both sides, but his eyes were drawn to the defendant. There was something about her that reminded him of his sister.
When the summations were finished, the case went to the jury, and in less than four hours they returned with a verdict of guilty on all counts.
Tyler looked down at the defendant and said, “The court cannot find any extenuating circumstances in this case. You are herewith sentenced to five years at Dwight Correctional Center…Next case.”
And it was not until Margo Posner was being led away that Tyler realized what it was about her that reminded him so much of Kendall. She had the same dark gray eyes. The Stanford eyes.
Tyler did not think about Margo Posner again until the telephone call from Dmitri.
The beginning chess game had been successfully completed. Tyler had planned each move carefully in his mind. He used the classical queen’s gambit: Decline opening, moving the queen pawn two squares. It was time to move into the middle game.
Tyler went to visit Margo Posner at the women’s prison.
“Do you remember me?” Tyler asked.
She stared at him. “How could I forget you? You’re the one who sent me to this place.”
“How are you getting along?” Tyler asked.
She grimaced. “You must be kidding! It’s a hellhole here.”
“How would you like to get out?”
“How would I…? Are you serious?”
“I’m very serious. I can arrange it.”
“Well, that…that’s great! Thanks. But what do I have to do for it?”
“Well, there is something I want you to do for me.”
She looked at him, flirtatiously. “Sure. That’s no problem.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
She said, warily, “What did you have in mind, Judge?”
“I want you to help me play a little joke on someone.”
“What kind of joke?”
“I want you to impersonate someone.”
“Impersonate someone? I wouldn’t know how to—”
“There’s twenty-five thousand dollars in it for you.”
Her expression changed. “Sure,” she said quickly. “I can impersonate anyone. Who did you have in mind?”
Tyler leaned forward and began to talk.
Tyler had Margo Posner released into his custody.
As he explained to Keith Percy, the chief judge, “I learned that she’s a very talented artist, and she’s eager to live a normal, decent life. I think it’s important that we rehabilitate that type of person whenever we can, don’t you?”
Keith was impressed and surprised. “Absolutely, Tyler. That’s a wonderful thing you’re doing.”
Tyler moved Margo into his home and spent five full days briefing her on the Stanford family.
“What are the names of your brothers?”
“Tyler and Woodruff.”
“Woodrow.”
“That’s right—Woodrow.”
“What do we call him?”
“Woody.”
“Do you have a sister?”
“Yes. Kendall. She’s a designer.”
“Is she married?”
“She’s married to a Frenchman. His name is…Marc Renoir.”
“Renaud.”
“Renaud.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
“Rosemary Nelson. She was a governess to the Stanford children.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She got knocked up by…”
“Margo!” Tyler admonished her.
“I mean, she became pregnant by Harry Stanford.”
“What happened to Mrs. Stanford?”
“She committed suicide.”
“What did your mother tell you about the Stanford children?”
Margo stopped to think for a minute.
“Well?”
“There was the time you fell out of the swan boat.”
“I didn’t fall out!” Tyler said. “I almost fell out.”
“Right. Woody almost got arrested for picking flowers in the Public Garden.”
“That was Kendall…”
He was ruthless. They went over the scenario again and again, late into the nights, until Margo was exhausted.
“Kendall was bitten by a dog.”
“I was bitten by the dog.”
She rubbed her eyes. “I can’t think straight anymore. I’m so tired. I need some sleep.”
“You can sleep later!”
“How long is this going to go on?” she asked defiantly.
“Until I think you’re ready. Now let’s go through it again.”
And on it went, over and over, until Margo became letter perfect. When the day finally arrived that she knew the answer to every question Tyler asked, he was satisfied.
“You’re ready,” he said. He handed her some legal documents.
“What’s this?”
“It’s just a technicality,” Tyler said casually.
What he had her sign was a paper giving her share of the Stanford estate to a corporation controlled by a second corporation, which in turn was controlled by an offshore subsidiary of which Tyler Stanford was the sole owner. There was no way they could trace the transaction back to Tyler.
Tyler handed Margo five thousand dollars in cash. “You’ll get the balance when the job is done,” he told her. “If you convince them that you’re Julia Stanford.”
From the moment Margo had appeared at Rose Hill, Tyler had played the devil’s advocate. It was the classic antipositional chess move.
“I’m sure you can understand our position, Miss…er…Without some positive proof, there’s no way…
“…I think the lady is a fraud….
“…How many servants worked in this house when we were children?…Dozens, right? And some of them would have known everything this young lady told us…Any one of them could have given her that photograph…Let’s not forget that there’s an enormous amount of money involved.”
His crowning move had been when he had demanded a DNA test. He had called Hal Baker and given him his new instructions: “Dig up Harry Stanford’s body and dispose of it.”
And then his inspiration of calling in a private detective. With the family present, he had telephoned the district attorney’s office in Chicago.
“This is Judge Tyler Stanford. I understand that your office retains a private detective from time to time who does excellent work for you. His name is something like Simmons or—”
“Oh, you must mean Frank Timmons.”
“Timmons! Yes, that’s it. I wonder if you could give me his telephone number so I can contact him directly?”
Instead, he had summoned Hal Baker and introduced him as Frank Timmons.
At first Tyler had planned for Hal Baker merely to pretend to go through the motions of checking on Julia Stanford, but then he decided it would make a more impressive report if Baker really pursued it. The family had accepted Baker’s findings without question.
Tyler’s plan had gone off without a hitch. Margo Posner had played her part perfectly, and the fingerprints had been the crowning touch. Everyone was convinced that she was the real Julia Stanford.
“I, for one, am glad it’s finally settled. Let me go up and see if she needs any help.”
He went upstairs and walked along the corridor to her room. He knocked at her door and called loudly, “Julia?”
“It’s open. Come in.”
He stood in the doorway, and they stared silently at each other. And then Tyler carefully closed the door, held out his hands, and broke into a slow grin.
When he spoke, he said, “We did it, Margo! We did it!”
Chapter Eighteen
In the offices of Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald, Steve Sloane and Simon Fitzgerald were having coffee.
“As the great bard once said, ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’”
“What’s bother
ing you?” Fitzgerald asked.
Steve sighed. “I’m not sure. It’s the Stanford family. They puzzle me.”
Simon Fitzgerald snorted. “Join the club.”
“I keep coming back to the same question, Simon, but I can’t find the answer to it.”
“What’s the question?”
“The family was anxious to exhume Harry Stanford’s body so they could check his DNA against the woman’s. So I think we have to assume that the only possible motive for getting rid of the body would be to ensure that the woman’s DNA could not be checked against Harry Stanford’s. The only one who could have anything to gain from that would be the woman herself, if she were a fraud.”
“Yes.”
“And yet this private detective, Frank Timmons—I checked with the district attorney’s office in Chicago, and he has a great reputation—came up with fingerprints that prove she is the real Julia Stanford. My question is, Who the hell dug up Harry Stanford’s body and why?”
“That’s a billion-dollar question. If…”
The intercom buzzed. A secretary’s voice came over the box. “Mr. Sloane, there’s a call for you on two.”
Steve Sloane picked up the telephone on the desk. “Hello…”
The voice on the other end of the line said, “Mr. Sloane, this is Judge Stanford. I would appreciate it if you could drop by Rose Hill this morning.”
Steve Sloane glanced at Fitzgerald. “Right. In about an hour?”
“That will be fine. Thank you.”
Steve replaced the receiver. “My presence is requested at the Stanford house.”
“I wonder what they want.”
“Ten to one, they want to speed up the probate so they can get their hands on all that beautiful money.”
“Lee? It’s Tyler. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I really miss you.”
There was a slight pause. “I miss you, too, Tyler.”
The words thrilled him. “Lee, I have some really exciting news. I can’t discuss it over the phone, but it’s something that’s going to make you very happy. When you and I—”
“Tyler, I have to go. Someone’s waiting for me.”
Morning, Noon & Night Page 14
