The Melody Lingers On (29 page)

He hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to the Miami Amtrak station. He had known he was in plenty of time for the afternoon train to Newark, but he still couldn’t stand the
thought that he might be caught in some unexpected traffic jam. And he hated the idea of the twenty-six-and-a-half-hour trip.

On the way, he reviewed everything that had happened these last few weeks. He hadn’t been answering Sylvie’s calls, but she had left a message, “Parker, you have five billion
dollars. You’ve given me nice gifts over these two years, but they’re a drop in the bucket compared to what you’re sitting on. I have to finish paying the decorator
now.”

The last sentence had clearly been an outright threat.

In the hope of buying time, he had sent her the two million dollars she demanded, but he knew that would not buy her silence if she thought he was about to be caught. He hadn’t dared to
refuse her, but after he bought the villa in Switzerland he only had five thousand dollars left. And he still had to buy his airline ticket to Switzerland.

After two weeks at the Night and Day Motel, he tried to take comfort in the fact that he was unrecognizable as either Parker Bennett or George Hawkins.

Posing as an actor, he had gone to a theatrical supply house. Terrified that the clerk would recognize him when he took off the brown wig, he had quickly bought two others, one gray with a
ponytail and one salt and pepper, long enough to cover his ears.

His beard had come in. As he’d expected, it was gray with a sprinkling of white. He had put on ten pounds and they emphasized the jowls on his chin, but he was desperate. He was almost out
of money.

He had to hope that even if that loudmouth Len decided to turn him in, he hadn’t done it yet.

“Hey, mister, do you want to get out?”

Startled, Parker looked up and then realized the taxi had arrived at the Miami Amtrak station. “Oh, of course, daydreaming I guess.”

After paying the fare he got out of the cab. Dragging his suitcases, he went up to the ticket counter. “One way on the four o’clock train to Newark, a sleeper car, please.”

“Yes, sir. That will get into Newark at six-thirty
P.M.
tomorrow. How would you like to pay for that?”

“With cash.”

“Please let me see your ID.”

He knew she was scrutinizing him carefully. “As you can see, I’ve gotten honest with my hair. I stopped dyeing it,” he said, trying to laugh.

She smiled and said, “That will be nine hundred seventy-five dollars.”

So far, so good, he thought, as he headed toward his gate. She did not react to the George Hawkins ID. And taking Amtrak solved another problem. He knew he would have been taking a huge chance
if he had tried to bring the handgun he had purchased on a plane. But Amtrak does not screen luggage and carry-ons.

I only have to use the George Hawkins ID twice more, he thought, for the rental car and the flight to Geneva. His Swiss contact, Adolph, had assured him that when he got to Switzerland, in
exchange for an enormous fee, a new identity would be awaiting him.

Three hours before reaching Newark he phoned Swissair and asked if there were seats available on that evening’s Geneva flight. “It’s wide open, sir. Can I make a reservation
for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll buy my ticket tonight.”

On his iPhone he found an Enterprise rental near the Newark train station. He phoned and reserved a car. He would pick it up at seven thirty
P.M.
That would get him to Anne’s town house at
about eight
P.M.
He had gone online and done a virtual tour of the street where her town house was located. Cars were parked on it but it was never filled.

It was Anne’s birthday. That meant she would be in her town house. In her peculiarly stubborn way she just wouldn’t go out on birthdays or holidays.

He was counting on the fact that she would still have the music box. If for any reason the music box was gone, it was all over. But she had told him that of all the many gifts he had given her,
this was her favorite. He was counting on the fact that she would never dispose of it.

Suppose Eric happened to be with her? It was an eventuality he had to face; somehow, he would have to deal with it.

The eleven
P.M.
flight from Newark to Geneva. He had to be on it.

After he got the number from the music box, he would make an excuse to leave Anne for a few hours, drive to Newark airport, and buy the ticket to Geneva. He’d pay for it in cash.

He had renewed the George Hawkins British passport once in the last thirteen years. Surely no security screener would pay much notice if his hair was no longer brown but gray, and worn a little
longer.

The danger was that if either Sylvie or Len had turned him in, they would definitely be watching for Parker Bennett/George Hawkins at the airports.

O
n Thursday afternoon a bored Len Stacey stared out the window of his home in St. Thomas. It was raining again, which meant there would be no golf
today, and possibly tomorrow.

Never interested in reading and having nothing to do, he once again began to think of his friend George Hawkins, who so resembled the pictures in the newspapers of Parker Bennett, the Wall
Streeter who took off with all that money. “And when I yelled, ‘Parker,’ he spun around,” he told his wife for the tenth or twentieth time.

Finally, her patience snapped. “Len, this is eating you up. I’m tired of telling you to call the FBI in New York. You can tell them that you’re probably way off base but you
think that what’s his name, George Hawkins, may be that crook. There’s a reward out for anyone who finds him, isn’t there?”

“A two-million-dollar reward, but suppose I’m wrong and George ever heard about it? I’d feel bad.”

Not for the first time since her husband of forty years had tried her patience to the snapping point, Barbara wanted to scream “Shut up” at him. Now, gritting her teeth, she said,
“Len, I want you to call the FBI. And then no matter if you get a reward or they tell you to go fly a kite, I do not want to hear the name George Hawkins again so long as I live!”

Her voice escalating, she stared at him. “Do you get that, Len? Do you
get
it?”

Len Stacey escaped her withering glance, mumbling, “Maybe I will call. Let me think about it.”

O
n Thursday afternoon Sylvie and Barclay Cameron were led to a quiet room in Cartier and seated at a mahogany table.

Barclay told her he had selected three different engagement rings and three different wedding bands for her to choose from.

Sylvie could see that he was the picture of happiness. And to think I got involved with Parker instead of hanging on to him, she thought. What was the matter with me?

Her satisfaction from her meeting with the de la Marco lawyers was beginning to dissipate. What good would all of this do if Parker was found and turned her in?

The manager returned with a black velvet tray. The rings Barclay had selected were on it. One of the engagement rings was a large square diamond surrounded by emeralds. The second one was an
equally large oval diamond edged by sapphires.

Two of the engagement rings were brilliant diamonds. The third was a breathtakingly large yellow diamond that had not as yet been set.

The Cartier manager pointed out how flawless all the diamonds were and that the yellow diamond was very rare, large, and unblemished.

The wedding rings were diamond bands in three different widths.

Sylvie knew that the yellow diamond was by far the most valuable.

“Now perhaps all of these are too showy. Perhaps you would enjoy smaller stones,” Barclay said.

Sylvie heard the teasing note in his voice. “Guess which one I want?” she challenged him.

“The yellow diamond and the widest wedding band,” Barclay said promptly. “So be it.”

“An excellent choice,” the manager at Cartier said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Later, in her apartment, Sylvie’s emotions swung between exultation and terror. Suppose the FBI didn’t accept her offer?

Suppose they caught Parker and he told them about sending her money? Nervous and upset, she called Derek Landry.

“I want to change my offer to the FBI,” she said. “I will not accept the reward if my information leads to Parker Bennett. If they find him and I know I’m safe from him,
I will pay back every nickel he forced me to accept. I only want and demand anonymity and immunity from prosecution.”

“That may change the picture,” was Landry’s suave response. “I will call you back, Countess.”

A
t four o’clock Thursday afternoon Eleanor and Frank went to see Dr. Papetti again. Rudy Schell and Sean Cunningham were there already when
they arrived. Both greeted them warmly.

As always, Sean was reassuring. “Now, Eleanor, what did I tell you?”

“That I shouldn’t be nervous, that I shouldn’t feel as though I’m letting you down if I don’t remember George somebody’s last name.” She managed to
smile even while she clutched Frank’s hand.

Dr. Papetti was waiting for her when they were escorted into his office. “I’m glad you’ve come back, Eleanor,” he said. “I understand it’s been a hard
decision for you to make.”

“It was, but just in case I may be able to help by doing it, I’ll take my ride in the elevator again.”

Without waiting for an answer she walked over to the La-Z-Boy, sat down, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

Dr. Papetti pulled up a chair beside her. “Eleanor, you are beginning a voyage you will enjoy. You are going up in an elevator. It is going to stop at every floor . . .”

Observing from across the room, Rudy Schell knew that his usual steely calm was deserting him.

If Eleanor Becker did not come up with the last name of Parker Bennett’s alias, they were at a dead end; two years of fruitless investigating and still no promising leads.

And even if Eleanor remembered the last name Bennett was using, how far would it take them? They would have the assumed name and know that he has or had a British driver’s license. It
would be a start but there was always the chance that Bennett had other identities.

Rudy felt his cell phone vibrate and stepped out of Dr. Papetti’s office and into the corridor.

It was Attorney Derek Landry. Rudy’s greeting to him was curt. “Mr. Landry, we are considering your offer but—”

Landry cut him off and began speaking. As Rudy listened, he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Trying to sound impersonal, he asked, “Let me be clear. Your client is ready to
offer us Parker Bennett’s alias, his current address, and phone number. And your client will forgo reward money and will pay back the value of any gifts Bennett forced upon him or her. In
return we grant your client immunity from prosecution and anonymity.”

“This is exactly what I am offering,” Landry said.

“And I assume your client is Countess de la Marco.”

“As you have already figured out, yes, she is.”

“Mr. Landry, I have your number. I’ll call you right back.”

From the Contacts list on his phone, Rudy pressed the number of Milton Harsh, the assistant United States attorney handling the case.