The Melody Lingers On (21 page)

A
fter discovering that Parker Bennett had made a ten-million-dollar donation to Magna Carta College at exactly the same time that Eric abruptly
withdrew and transferred to Trinity College in Ireland, Joel Weber thought about what to do next. He looked up the students in the yearbook from the class that Eric would have graduated with had he
stayed at Magna Carta. He wrote down the names of the students who had come from local areas and looked up their families’ phone numbers. The first ten names yielded nothing. The numbers were
either disconnected or had “leave a message” recordings. Probably half the parents, if they’re still around, are in Florida, Joel thought, as he watched the snow falling outside
his window.

On the tenth call Joel lucked out. A pleasant voice answered the call at the home of Carl Frazier.

Carefully, Joel explained his mission, skirting the truth without lying outright.

“I am with the Magna Carta College Library doing research. My name is Joel Weber. I am interested in speaking to students who went to Magna Carta at the time you were there.”

“Then you want to be talking to my son. I am Carl Frazier Senior.”

“Yes, I guess I do, sir,” Joel said. “Can you tell me where to reach him?”

“He’s a professor at Dartmouth College,” his father responded.

“Can you give me his phone number?” Joel asked.

“Of course, just give me a moment.”

A minute later Carl Frazier Sr. was back on the line.

“I have five kids,” he explained. “They all have cell phones. I can’t keep all their numbers straight. Here’s Carl Jr.’s number. I know he will enjoy hearing
from you. He loved his years at Magna Carta. It was a great experience for him.”

It certainly wasn’t a great experience for Eric Bennett, Joel thought as he wrote down the number.

When he dialed it, he listened to the usual annoying recording asking the caller to leave a message. What’s so bad about putting your name on an answering device, he thought? At least that
way you would be sure you had reached the right person.

Dartmouth College was only one hour away. He hoped that Professor Frazier wasn’t away for the week. He decided to take a walk around the Magna Carta campus and look for the Bennett
building. A student directed him to it. “Oh, they took the name off when it came out what a crook he was,” the student explained. The building was in a row of student housing. Joel
noticed with amusement that what must have been the Bennett name chiseled over the door was now covered in plaster, just as the student had said. Why did he give so much money when his son was on
the way out the door? he wondered.

He remembered the fact that a college he had read about had received donations from three different high-powered executives, all of whom had gone to prison. The nickname of that lane on the
college grounds was now “Felony Row.” Not one of them was as bad as Bennett is, he thought. They did insider trading to enrich themselves, but they didn’t steal the life savings
of hundreds of people.

Restless, Joel decided to drive to Dartmouth’s campus, rather than wait for Frazier’s call.

I don’t want to interview him by phone just to ask him about Eric Bennett. It might make him suspicious. I want to talk with him face-to-face, he thought as he got into his car and turned
on the ignition.

It was an hour from Montpelier, Vermont, to Hanover, New Hampshire. The tranquil countryside was snow covered.

I went to a state college and got a good education but I wouldn’t have minded being part of the Ivy League scene, Joel thought as he exited Route 89 and turned onto Route 91 North.

Dismissing that kind of foolishness, he was entering Hanover proper when his cell phone rang. He pressed the speaker button and said crisply, “Joel Weber.”

It was Carl Frazier Jr.

Joel explained his reason for calling and requested a meeting.

“I would like to ask you to give an impression of some of your classmates. Perhaps I can explain it better when I meet with you,” Joel said.

“Sounds somewhat mysterious,” was Carl Frazier’s response. “Can you explain a little further now?”

“I will when we meet. I am only asking for half an hour of your time.”

His voice somewhat cool, Frazier asked, “How close are you?”

“I just got off the highway and I’m crossing the river.”

“Then let’s meet at the Hanover Inn. I was about to drop in there for a cup of coffee.”

Ten minutes later Joel was parking the car outside of the inn. It was not crowded and it was easy to pick out the man in his late thirties having coffee by the window.

Joel went over, greeted him, and without being invited, sat down.

When the waitress approached, he said, “Just coffee, please,” and focused on the man across the table.

Frazier would be about Eric Bennett’s age, he thought, thirty-seven. He looks a little older, but that’s just because of his receding hairline. He wore rimless glasses and had a
scholarly look about him. Even if he did not already know it, Joel would have guessed him to be an academic.

He decided to get right to the point. “When I called your father’s home and got your number, I did not tell him that I’m with an investigative agency and I’m retired
FBI.”

Frazier raised his eyebrows. “I can’t imagine what you would want with me,” he said quietly.

“I simply want your impressions of a classmate,” Joel answered.

“And who would that be? No, let me guess, Eric Bennett?”

“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Joel replied.

“It wasn’t hard to guess,” Frazier explained to him. “Of course Eric was only at Magna Carta for one year, so none of us could say we even knew him well, but from what I
remember, he was a nice enough guy.”

“Why did he transfer so abruptly, at the beginning of his sophomore year?”

“Well, he got mugged pretty badly at that time. He was in the hospital for three days.”

“Was it a random attack?” As Joel asked the question, he could sense that it had not been a random attack, not at all.

“Well, that was the strange part,” Carl said. “As far as we all knew he never went to the police. He shrugged it off, even though he had a broken arm. Then his father made the
donation, and he was off to Ireland.”

“Do you think he left because he was afraid of being attacked again?” Joel persisted.

“Nobody really knows, although sometimes I wonder if someone on the faculty had an idea of what was up. The rumor was that Eric was asked to leave.”

“Can you tell me the name of any student he was close to? Maybe a girlfriend?” Joel asked.

“There was one very pretty girl. She was in the local public high school. Eric brought her to the games. They seemed to spend a lot of time together,” Carl said.

“She was in
high
school? How old would you think she was?”

“Sixteen,” Carl responded.

Joel considered that a moment, then asked, “Was Eric ever into gambling as far as you know?”

“Well, he wasn’t old enough to go to a casino, but he was very good at cards, and sometimes, for some of the guys with money, the stakes could get pretty high.”

“Did anyone ever think that he was cheating?”

“I was in some of those games myself,” Carl offered, “especially poker. Eric never had to cheat. He was a real card counter. He could make it in Vegas.”

Nothing much here, Joel thought, except for the mugging, and for his getting out of town so fast. And then an idle question came to his head.

“Do you remember the high school girl’s name?”

“Yes I do,” Carl answered. “Regina Crowley. Her uncle is the political columnist Dwight Crowley.”

After Frazier left, Joel used his iPhone to find the number of Montpelier High School. Google Maps showed that it was adjacent to the Magna Carta campus. The school secretary confirmed that the
principal would be in all afternoon and would be available to meet with him. Fifteen minutes later Joel was back on the highway heading toward Montpelier.

P
arker Bennett/George Hawkins was now counting the days until he could leave St. Thomas without appearing to be in any kind of rush. He had told
whatever friends he had the story about going back to England at the end of the month. There was no way he wanted to change his plans so that there might be any suspicion about him. The seed had
already been planted by Len Stacey’s drawing attention to how much he looked like Parker Bennett. The brown wig and glasses were not a sufficient disguise if someone carefully studied his
face. His only hope was that Len was too stupid to follow through and do any serious reflection on the similarity. He had had to stall on the last two million that Sylvie had demanded. When he sent
that and the money for the villa in Switzerland, he would be down to his last five thousand dollars. And out of that money he would need to buy his plane ticket and pay to stay in Miami for at
least three weeks until he could grow a beard, get a different wig, and go out to New Jersey and get into Anne’s apartment.

Anne and Eric had always been close and Eric was certainly furious at him. Parker didn’t know yet what he was going to do. Could he trust Anne not to turn him in? Would she, out of pity
for the people who had lost their investments, be tempted to go the noble route? It had been easy to keep track of her these two years. Googling her had provided him with all the information he
needed. And of course it was entirely possible she was still under surveillance. It certainly would be risky for him to just walk up to her door and ring the bell, but he may have no other choice.
There were considerations that had to be planned for very, very carefully. He knew he was getting desperately nervous and that could be the source of his own undoing.

And of course there was Sylvie, always there was Sylvie. What would I do if I were in her boots? he wondered. I can only stall her for so long for the last two million. If she thinks I’m
broke, I’m no good to her. More than that, she might try to make a deal with the FBI. They might give her a pass to get at me. He knew he had to get out of St. Thomas fast with the danger of
Len’s shooting off his mouth comparing George Hawkins with Parker Bennett. But in the meantime, he must not do anything unusual. He would golf a little and play at different public courses,
go out on the boat every day, and hold his breath hoping that he wouldn’t keep running into Len.

He made a list of the clothes he would buy for New Jersey—jeans, a heavy jacket, a hat with earmuffs, gloves, flannel shirts. All in dark colors of course. Nothing that would make anyone
think about him twice. The fact that New Jersey was having a cold early winter would serve him well.

He would have to take several winter suits so that if he needed business attire, he would have it with him. He would not register anywhere as George Hawkins.

What would happen if Sylvie turned him in? If she did, George Hawkins was the man they would be looking for. It was not safe to use that name again. When he got to Miami, he would try to find
out where fake ID’s were sold. And then there was the matter of a passport. Could he get a new passport using his birth name Joseph Bennett while everyone was looking for Parker Bennett?

Thanksgiving day came and went. He had a number of invitations and knew he could not use illness as an excuse again. Instead he said he already had plans. His housekeeper had cooked a small
turkey for him. He thought of the Thanksgiving dinners in Greenwich with Anne and Eric. They seldom had guests for holiday dinners.

He knew that Anne was an uncomfortable and unwilling hostess, although she’d tried valiantly to appear at ease when he had had dinner parties with high-powered executives.

On Thanksgiving day she’d always insisted that it be just the three of them. Of course, that was after her parents died. Before that he had endured their presence regularly. He had been
irritated that her father saw through his elaborate remake of himself. Every so often Anne’s father would slip and call him Joey—a deliberate slip, of course. He always thought of
Anne’s father’s hands as smelling slightly of liverwurst and bologna, a memory that amused him.

Anne’s mother was exactly like Anne, ill at ease in the presence of anyone she considered her superior. Totally unlike Sylvie, who had vaulted herself out of her Italian
grandmother’s kitchen and its elaborate Sunday afternoon pasta meals attended by an obnoxious number of cousins and aunts and uncles. The minute she finished high school at age eighteen, she
had put the whole bunch of them behind her for good.

All this Parker was thinking as he ate his solitary dinner, thoroughly contented with his own company.

The next day he began packing his suitcase. A few days more, he thought, and then I’m out of here. It was Friday. He managed to avoid Len for the next twenty-four hours, but then received
a phone call on Saturday that dismayed him. The minute he heard, “Hi George,” in that booming voice, he felt his palms begin to sweat and a knot form in the pit of his stomach.

“George, where have you been?” Len continued. “The guys were hoping to catch you this morning.”

“Oh, I’m just enjoying the last few days on the boat. You know how I love to sail.” He hoped his tone was sufficiently casual.