The Melody Lingers On (15 page)

“Judy,” he said aloud. “I know you won’t want me to do it but I have to. Please understand.”

He watched the E-Z Pass register as he entered the tunnel.

Lots of people think that crook Parker Bennett isn’t dead. They think he let that fancy sailboat of his get washed up on shore to make people think he had killed himself.

But maybe he didn’t. What would it be like for Bennett to read somewhere that his wife and son had been killed?

Ranger remembered the pretty woman Eric Bennett had been kissing. If she’s around when it happens, so much the better. He’s probably spending our money on her too. If she happens to
be there when I shoot Anne Bennett and her son, it’ll be just her hard luck.

He had to buy a gun. He didn’t think it would be hard to get his hands on one. He was always reading in the newspapers about that section of the Bronx where gang members sold them.

There was no rush. Just planning what he would do felt good. It almost felt like walking into the apartment when it was warm and he was smelling something good cooking on the stove.

What was it Judy used to say? Oh yes. “Oh, Ranger, I’m looking forward to the move to Florida so much. They say that anticipation may be more enjoyable than when something actually
happens. Do you think that could be true?”

I’ll find out, Ranger thought as he reached his street and began the usual search for a parking spot.

P
atrick Adams headed a team of four investigators, men who, as he put it, could track down a leaf in a windstorm. On Monday morning he called them
to a meeting in his office.

“I see why Eric Bennett is so anxious to clear his name,” he said. “There’s a picture of him in the
Post
holding hands with Lane Harmon. She’s the daughter
of the late Congressman Gregory Harmon and the widow of Kenneth Kurner, the designer. She’s also the stepdaughter of Dwight Crowley, the columnist who happens to think that Eric Bennett is
involved with his father in the fraud and says so in every other column.”

“That should make for a nice family Thanksgiving,” Joel Weber, one of the investigators, drawled. Joel, the most recently hired of the investigators, was a former FBI agent who had
gotten bored in retirement and then connected with the firm. At fifty-six, the same age as Pat Adams, and a former supervisor in the FBI, he had become a valued addition to the firm. What Pat
especially liked was that Joel never for a moment tried to use his former position to throw his weight around in the office.

Pat Adams was behind his desk, the other four in a semicircle in front of it. Pat fixed his eyes on Joel, taking in with approval the fact that Joel’s wry comments usually were the basis
for an interesting suggestion about how to move the investigation forward.

“What are you thinking, Joel?” he asked.

“I’m wondering if Dwight Crowley has an ax to grind that he hasn’t written about in public. I’d like to pursue that. I mean, the guy has an almost unreasonable hatred of
Eric Bennett. The FBI, the Attorney General’s office, and the Federal Investigative Regional Authority can’t find one scrap of evidence against Eric Bennett, yet Crowley has said in his
columns that the word ‘alleged’ doesn’t pertain to Eric Bennett. Bennett could sue him for that. Now, maybe he hasn’t because he doesn’t want any more publicity. Or
maybe Crowley has something on him that hasn’t been disclosed so far.”

Pat Adams was about to say that Joel should ferret out more information on that possibility but before he could speak, Joel said, “And one more thing,” as he took off his round
horn-rimmed glasses, blew on them, wiped them dry, and replaced them.

“I said a few words to Eric Bennett in the reception room the other morning,” he continued. “You know what I thought when I met him?”

Pat Adams and the other three investigators knew it was a rhetorical question.

“My mother was paranoid about anything she bought in the fish store,” Joel told them, his voice conversational. “No matter how nice a piece of fish looked, she brought it up to
her nose and gave it the sniff test. She could tell in a heartbeat if it was starting to turn.”

He concluded, “I have my mother’s acute sense of smell. When I was talking to Eric Bennett here the other day I gave him the sniff test and he failed it. I’d like to have the
okay to find out why Dwight Crowley is so vehement about him. I also want to dig deep into Eric Bennett’s background and see if I can find out anything about him that hasn’t been dug up
so far.”

“
L
ie down with the dogs and get up with the fleas,” was Glady’s tart greeting to Lane on Monday morning.

Taken aback, Lane asked, “Glady, what in the name of God are you talking about?”

Glady grabbed the newspaper on her desk and shoved it across the table. “I’m talking about you being all lovey-dovey with Eric Bennett. I know you read the
Post
every day,
I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”

“Yes, I do, but certainly not in the morning when I have to get Katie and myself out,” Lane said heatedly as she reached for the paper. It was turned to the gossip page. Dismayed,
she saw a good-sized picture of herself with Eric Bennett. Whoever the photographer was, he or she had caught the moment when Eric’s hand was covering hers and they were smiling at each
other.

Her cheeks burning, Lane laid the paper back on Glady’s desk. “That was the single moment when Eric happened to touch my hand,” she said defensively.

“I believe you,” Glady said. “In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if Bennett paid someone to take that shot. Maybe it’s even his version of a thumb in the eye to your
stepfather.”

“Glady, don’t you see that this is exactly what Eric has been living under for two years now? No one can find a shred of evidence to tie him to that fraud, but everyone has decided
that he was part of it. Don’t you see how unfair that is? And I don’t care what Dwight Crowley thinks. He’s my mother’s husband, but he’s not my father. I was starting
college the month my mother married him. I try to stay away from him. I time my visits to my mother when I know he’s out giving speeches about how to run the world.”

Even as she spoke Lane realized that Glady had brought up something that she never liked to admit even to herself. It was not just that she was uncomfortable around Dwight. She actively disliked
him and knew that was the reason why she went to Washington so seldom, and why her relationship with her mother was so strained.

“Lane, it’s none of my business if you are seeing Eric Bennett. I think you’re making a big mistake to let yourself get involved with him, but that’s the end of my
talking about it. I will tell you that I hate to think that the money Countess La-di-dah is paying me is coming from the money Parker Bennett stole. But you yourself saw the way the minute I told
her how much my bill would be, she had to make an important phone call.”

Without answering, Lane went to her own office, sat at the desk, and pressed her fingers against her temples. I’m not thinking straight, she acknowledged to herself. I
did
enjoy
going to dinner with him.

We got back at ten thirty but Katie was still wide awake. The minute she heard our voices, she came rushing out to make sure Eric didn’t forget the cookies she baked for him.

She wants to be like the other kids. She wants to have a father. Oh sure, many of them have divorced parents, but it’s not the same as having to look at Daddy’s picture and only
hearing about him.

How long will it be before Dwight and my mother see the photo of me with Eric Bennett? Dwight glances through a heap of newspapers every day from all over the country as well as the London
Times.
He’s not going to miss seeing that picture, and if he does someone will surely bring it to his attention.

What should I do? Either I believe Eric is innocent or I do not.

And I do.

But if I have dinner with Eric from time to time, how do I protect Katie? She thought of the moment Eric’s hand had touched hers, of the fleeting good-night kiss on her lips that she could
still feel. Let’s face it, she thought, if that spark between us develops,
really
develops, would I want Eric’s reputation, as the public sees it, to touch my life and
Katie’s?

But if I believe that Eric is innocent, as I wholeheartedly do, am I a coward for wondering if I would want to live with that situation?

Maybe I’ll figure out an answer soon, she thought, but I don’t have it now. But there was one thing she had to do. She dialed her mother at the antique shop.

Her mother’s subdued, “Hello, Lane,” told her that she and Dwight had seen the photo. “Look, Mom,” Lane began, but her mother interrupted her.

“Lane, you don’t have to convince me. I hope that if you learned one thing from me or about your father, it’s that we both believe in ‘innocent until proven
guilty.’ If Eric Bennett had nothing to do with his father’s crime, he’s as innocent a victim as those poor people who lost so much money.”

“Thanks, Mom. I didn’t know what you’d say. Now, how about Dwight, or should I dare ask?”

“Lane, my husband has never tried to influence me in any way regarding his belief that Eric Bennett was involved in his father’s treachery.”

“What did he say about the picture?” Lane demanded.

“He said he is aware that you have always been hostile to him, which makes him sad. He said, and I’ll give you his exact words: ‘Lane’s father must be turning over in his
grave at the thought that his daughter is dating that lowlife swine.’ ”

E
leanor Becker tried desperately to follow Dr. Sean Cunningham’s advice and recall any incident in Parker Bennett’s office that struck
her as unusual.

Nothing, she thought, absolutely nothing. She knew she had a fairly good memory and asked Frank to talk to her about what they had discussed over the years. Of course at night she had chatted
with him about the people who came and went. Maybe there was something that she could put her finger on?

Long ago something
did
happen that struck her as odd, but why couldn’t she remember it?

Frank’s diabetes was getting worse. His sugar level often reached alarming numbers. He’s going to kill himself worrying about me, she thought. But what can I do about it?

It had been fifteen years now since Parker Bennett, one of the top fund managers in the firm where they both worked, had told her that he wanted to take her out for a quiet lunch. “Not one
of my usual places,” he’d said with a “just between us” nod. “I have a business proposition for you.”

She had known immediately what he meant. There had been speculation in the office that Bennett was probably going into business for himself at some point. Most of the smartest investment
managers did that. Some of them made a lot of money and some of them opened their own hedge funds, made the wrong bet, and lost their shirt.

She remembered one of the managers who left them and made piles of money, then lost most of it because of the position he had taken trading oil. The joke around the stock market was that his
wife was furious. He had promised her that he would put one hundred million dollars aside, just in case there was a sudden drastic change in the market. He hadn’t done that, and now they only
had their ten-million-dollar house to fall back on.