The Melody Lingers On (27 page)

P
arker Bennett got off the plane in Miami and dragged his two suitcases outside the terminal. On the Internet he had found a Night and Day Motel
that was near the airport. It was located in a part of town that he knew was sleazy and where no questions would be asked. He would register under a different name and by paying cash in advance
would be safe from detection.

In the bathroom of the airport he had changed from his customary trench coat into a lightweight polyester zip-up jacket. He had also bought a cap, one size larger than he needed, which came down
over his eyes and sat low on his forehead. Hailing a cab, he gave the address of the motel.

When he first arrived at the registration desk, he put a one-hundred- dollar-bill on the counter. “For you,” he said to the desk clerk. The clerk, a sallow bald guy who looked as
though he had seen everything, slid the bill into his pocket and said, “The room is fifty dollars a night, pay in advance.”

The bedroom was exactly what he’d expected. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The bedspread was grimy and stained. He shuddered to think what had caused those stains. Disgusted, he
reminded himself that he would not be here for too long.

He took the threadbare towel from the bathroom, moistened it with tap water, and wiped down the surfaces of the dresser and nightstands. The towel came up black with grit. He had a flashback to
the mansion in Greenwich, where in his bedroom the stately mahogany furniture was always glistening, kept immaculately clean by the weekly maid service and the housekeeper.

It will be easy to keep out of sight in a place like this, Parker thought bitterly. Then he reminded himself that once he had gotten the number of that Swiss account and had access to the money,
the rest of his life would be smooth sailing, literally!

He threw the dirty towel in the wastebasket and sat down on what passed for the desk chair. He realized that getting up so early to finish his packing and the anxiety of being stopped at any
time were contributing to his feelings of exhaustion. He ate dinner that night at a nearby diner, came back to the room at the motel, and slept for ten hours.

The following morning, feeling refreshed, he looked up the number of a nearby passport office and cabbed there. His birth certificate in the name of Joseph Bennett was in his pocket.
They’re looking for Parker Bennett, not Joseph Bennett. But the moment he spoke to a clerk at the office he realized there was no way he would get a passport. Even with his birth certificate,
the clerk informed him he would need three other different forms of identification, including his driver’s license, if he had one, and social security card. He took the passport forms,
ostensibly to finish the application at home. At the nearest litter basket, he angrily tore them up and threw them in it. At that moment he didn’t know what his next move would be.

If Sylvie had turned him in, it would soon be over. Every cop at every airport would be on the lookout for George Hawkins. And then, suddenly, he began to laugh, an almost hysterical laugh.
Sylvie had only seen the boat receipt. She didn’t know he had a British passport. The Feds would be looking for an American passport—an American passport registered in the name of
George Hawkins.

So now I have to hang out here for a while, he thought. I’ll buy a gray or white wig, or maybe both. He had always battled with his weight. He had struggled to keep himself at an even two
hundred pounds by watching his diet and exercising regularly. Over these next few weeks he would indulge himself. He would welcome some of those pounds he had spent forty years fighting and pack
them on while enjoying high-fat, delicious foods.

Waffles and crisp bacon for breakfast, he thought. Thick cheeseburgers and French fries for lunch. Every fattening food I can think of, I will thoroughly enjoy.

Pleased by the thought of the wonderful meals that awaited him, Parker tipped the cabby, who dropped him off in front of the motel.

Home sweet home, he thought, smiling to himself. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks to grow a beard, gain weight, and complete the makeover I need. It will all work out. It has
to.

There was one more item on his list. He needed a gun. Not that he intended to use it. He certainly did not plan to kill anyone, but when he did reach Anne’s town house, he had to be
prepared. If she showed any sign of turning him in, he knew the sight of a gun would terrify her and guarantee her silence.

Sylvie de la Marco—Sally Chico, he thought contemptuously. She had sucked him dry financially these last two years and she was going to get away with it.

Of course, if he was caught, he’d have one consolation. She too would land in prison and he wouldn’t be paying millions of dollars to decorate her cell.

E
leanor Becker was not surprised to receive a call from Sean Cunningham. He asked her if he could take her and Frank out to lunch.

“I suspect you are not getting out too often these days, Eleanor,” he said.

“No, not much,” Eleanor had admitted.

Even though it had been less than two weeks, the warmth she had felt at Thanksgiving dinner with her cousins was just that, a memory, and it seemed a distant one. Every morning she awakened with
a sense of great weariness. Her dreams were troubled and even frightening. She was being shoved into a dark room, then she realized it was a prison cell. She could see only bars all around her. She
began to pound on them. She started crying and shouting, “No, please, let me out of here, please let me out of here. I didn’t do it, I swear to you, I didn’t do it!!!”

Those nightmares, combined with her ceaseless worry about Frank’s diabetes, made her feel as though she was completely hollow inside. When she did leave the house it was only on Sunday
morning to go to Mass. As she sat in church she would glance surreptitiously from side to side to see if anyone was staring at her. Even in church, peace escaped her.

Her response to Sean’s luncheon invitation was a simple, “I don’t think so.”

“Well I do,” Sean said firmly. “Eleanor, you’ve got to get out. We’ll go to Xaviars. It looks out over the Hudson. The food is delicious. It will do you a world of
good. I’ll pick you and Frank up at twelve thirty tomorrow.”

When Eleanor hung up the phone, she turned to Frank. “It seems as if we’ve got a lunch date with Sean Cunningham,” she said nervously.

“I like him,” Frank said decisively. “Maybe he’ll convince you to go back to the hypnotist. I certainly hope he can.”

The next morning, Eleanor went to the beauty salon. Since all the trouble had started, she had been doing her hair at home except when it absolutely needed to be cut. After she shampooed, she
would let it air-dry and then push the naturally wavy tresses around her face, framing her forehead. But it still never looked quite right.

Now, sitting in the beautician’s chair, she felt more like herself. She felt more like the secretary who brought coffee and doughnuts for the victims who were unknowingly handing their
life savings to Parker Bennett, she thought sadly.

Sean had gotten a table by the window. As he had promised, they could gaze out over the Hudson, which looked cold with whitecaps, in stark contrast to the same river that filled in the summer
with private boats.

Sean greeted them and pointed to the river.

A harbinger of things to come,” he said. “It’s predicted to be a cold, snowy winter and it looks as though it’s starting early.”

Eleanor seldom had a drink at lunch but with Sean’s encouragement, she had a glass of wine and so did Frank. As they ordered, she began to feel her spirits lift just as she had at
Thanksgiving. It was good to get out; Sean and Frank had been right.

Over pasta Sean asked her, “Eleanor, I’m sure you remember Ranger Cole. You saw him at the funeral service.”

“I remember him, poor man,” Eleanor answered. “He looked as though he was totally out of it. I felt sorry for him.”

“I’m afraid he is still out of it,” Sean said. “He tried to put on a good front at the meeting last week but I could see through it.”

Over coffee, Sean broached the subject of the psychiatrist/hypnotist.

“Eleanor, I know how reluctant you are to go back to him. Believe me, I do understand. But you have given the only clue we have to capturing Parker Bennett and that is that he has or had a
British driver’s license. The FBI has told me how very important it is to have that information and they have it because of you. If you can remember his full name under hypnosis, the FBI has
a great chance of closing in on him. That could mean that all of those people whose lives have been so harmed may end up recovering a good portion of the monies they lost. Eleanor, you have got to
reconsider.” Sean’s tone was pleading. “And it will surely help you with your own case.”

“I know all that,” Eleanor replied. “It’s just . . .” She stopped, took a deep breath, and began again.

“I could see how disappointed everyone was when I was there the last time. Then I started to think. Maybe I made it all up. Maybe I didn’t see a British license at all and my mind is
playing tricks on me. Sean, what if I’m wrong?” Eleanor’s voice started to quiver.

“Let the FBI worry about that,” Sean responded firmly. “It’s up to them to substantiate whether your memory is accurate and it’s far better they track down a false
lead than if they have nothing at all to work with.”

“Eleanor, you know what I’ve been telling you all along,” Frank interjected. “Sean’s right. Let the FBI decide what is and is not accurate. Go ahead and do it,
honey.”

Eleanor smiled, a tentative smile.

“And they won’t think I’m making fools of them if I say things that turn out not to be true?” she asked.

“Eleanor, oftentimes under hypnosis, people are able to complete a partial memory. People can recall part of a license plate number when they have witnessed a crime and seen a getaway car.
They can’t remember the full plate but they did see it, which is why they remember part of it. Hypnosis helps them see the rest of the number. You have a partial memory. If you are hypnotized
again, your mind may let you complete the memory of that name you saw. If you can, it’s a huge chunk of the puzzle in trying to apprehend Parker Bennett,” Sean said persuasively.

“Go ahead, honey,” Frank encouraged. “Go ahead.”

“Please, Eleanor,” Sean said. “Dr. Papetti is away for the next ten days at a medical convention. Let me make an appointment for you for a week from Thursday.
Please.”

Eleanor turned and stared out at the icy waters of the Hudson River.

She looked back to Sean. “Make the appointment,” she said quietly.

L
ike his boss Rudy Schell, Jonathan Pierce was passionate about finding any evidence that would lead to Parker Bennett and tie Eric Bennett to his
father’s crime. As an FBI agent, like Schell, Jonathan had learned to be a patient observer when he was on a surveillance job.

Like Schell, he was tall, a little over six feet. Unlike Schell, Jonathan had a full head of dark brown hair and effortlessly kept in good physical shape. He had been a champion runner at
Villanova University, which meant he could move faster than the vast majority of his fellow agents. Raised in Oyster Bay, Long Island, now a resident of Manhattan, he had an apartment in Greenwich
Village and was watching with alarm as the Village lost the quaintness that had made it so special. We don’t need all those celebrities gobbling up the real estate, he reminded himself from
time to time.

Jonathan realized that living in the town house adjacent to the one where Anne Bennett resided was enjoyable. He liked Montclair and the people he had met there because of his supposed ownership
of the new restaurant on Main Street.

However, he was watching and listening with increased alarm as Eric Bennett, on his visits every other night, told his mother that he was seeing Lane Harmon more regularly and was going to ask
her to marry him.

Jonathan had Googled everything he could about Lane. He had seen the house in Georgetown where she grew up. He had found pictures of her as a little girl at the funeral of her father,
Congressman Gregory Harmon. He had seen with pity the images of her with her hand on his coffin, her eyes flooded with tears, standing on the sidewalk outside the church.