The Melody Lingers On

  “I can’t give you her exact words but it was something like this: ‘Eric, I know your father is alive and you know it too. Tell him to call me. Tell him I don’t care what he’s done. Tell him to call me.’ ”

  Marge took a long breath. “But remember, I think Mrs. Bennett may be going into dementia and maybe that’s something she just got into her head.”

  “It may have been,” Schell said soothingly, “but it was right for you to share it with me. Now I must ask that if you speak to either of the Bennetts you will not tell them that we have had this meeting.”

  When the door closed behind Marge O’Brian’s departing figure, Rudy leaned back in his chair. I always thought that guy was involved, he thought. Even his mother thinks he is.

  Now, how do we prove it?

  13

  Anne Bennett slept late the first night she stayed in her new home. When she woke her head felt clearer than it had in months. Or maybe even since that terrible day that Parker had disappeared from the sailboat.

  He had gone for the weekend to St. John, where he kept his sailboat. Eric was supposed to fly down with him on the plane but was delayed at his office and didn’t arrive until the next day.

  I begged Parker to wait until Eric could sail with him but he got angry, Anne thought. He asked me if I thought he was incompetent. I knew enough not to say another word. He went out that morning alone. The sea was choppy. He never came back. They found the sailboat smashed against the rocks in Tortola.

  She blinked back tears, which so often spilled over when she thought of Parker. It was nine o’clock and time to get up. She threw back the comforter, reached for her robe, eased her feet into her slippers, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She turned on the Keurig coffeemaker and waited until the “ready to brew” indicator went on. Less than a minute later she was carrying the cup to the table. I don’t feel like eating anything now, she thought.

  Then she glanced out the side window that looked over the driveway. Sitting at his kitchen table was that nice man, Tony Russo, who had come over and introduced himself when Eric drove her here yesterday a few minutes after the moving van arrived.

  He had said that he had just moved in as well and that he was opening a restaurant on Valley Road. Then he said that he wouldn’t delay us but he wanted me to know that he’d be back and forth every day and that I should please call on him if I ever needed assistance of any kind.

  Lane had told her that there was a privacy shade being made and would be installed next week when the spread and draperies arrived.

  Russo had his computer on the kitchen table. Anne quickly changed seats to avoid catching his eye. I won’t have to pull the shade down if I sit in this seat, she thought. I’ll just pull it down at night.

  She finished the coffee and brewed another cup. While she was waiting she thought again about what she had screamed at Eric last week, that she knew Parker was alive and so did he.

  I had too much wine at dinner, she reminded herself again. The idea that Parker was still alive was probably wishful thinking. She still could feel the thrill of the moment all those years ago when Parker had called her from his office and asked her to have dinner with him. She was so scared that it had been obvious from that day on the subway steps that she had a terrible crush on him.

  He was so handsome and so smart. It got around the office that he had received a huge year-end bonus. That night after work I went straight to the delicatessen to tell Mom and Daddy that I was going out with him.

  Mom was delighted. Daddy was dismissive. “Why wouldn’t he ask you out? You must be the prettiest girl in that company. If he acts like one of those playboy big shots and tries to make a pass at you, you’ve got to promise me that you’ll march out of that restaurant and take a cab home.”

  Daddy got even more upset when he heard that Parker was picking me up in a car.

  “You could have met him at the restaurant and taken a cab home.”

  By the time Parker and I were married six months later Daddy still didn’t trust him, she mused. He didn’t like it that Parker insisted we get married at that ritzy St. Ignatius Loyola Church in Manhattan. Parker said that he didn’t want his friends trekking out to our parish church in Brooklyn. It was a big wedding and the reception was at The Plaza. Daddy was angry that Parker insisted on paying for everything, even my wedding dress. Parker said that he didn’t want me to buy something off the rack in Macy’s.

  Daddy was never impressed by him . . . He said, “Anne, what scares me is that I feel it in my veins that that guy is a phony. He may make a lot of money but only a phony would change a good name like Joseph to one that he thinks is high-class.”

  Anne smiled. When Dad wanted to get Parker’s goat, he called him Joey.

  We were so happy together all those years. Every morning when he left for the office he would always tell me how much he would miss me all day. And I would say that I’d miss him too. It was our little joke. Even that last day when he was getting on the plane to St. John he said to me, “I’ll always miss you so much.”

  Parker wasn’t religious. What did he mean when he said, “I’ll always miss you so much”? Even though he went to church with me now and then, he certainly didn’t believe in the hereafter. He believed that when we die, it’s all over. Then what did he mean?

  And why did I scream at poor Eric that he knew his father was alive? Was it only because I had had too much wine that night?

  Anne finished her second cup of coffee and pushed back the terrible and unwelcome thought that she might have inherited her father’s intuition.

  14

  On Monday morning Eric Bennett entered the office of Patrick Adams, founder of the security firm that bore his name.

  A former New York State senator, Adams, during his ten-year tenure, had been outraged by the constant evidence of graft he witnessed at sessions of the Albany legislature. Deciding to retire and do something about it, he had opened the security agency. Within two years he had earned the reputation of successfully unearthing fraud, not only in government-related crimes but also insider trading.

  He was astonished to learn that Eric Bennett, son of the notorious swindler Parker Bennett, had made an appointment to see him.

  Like the vast majority of the public, he believed that Eric had worked hand in glove with his father to steal the money from the Bennett Fund.

  Fifty-two years old, wide-bodied but in shape, with a full head of mostly gray hair and an aura of confidence about himself, Adams was a formidable man.

  The fact that Bennett arrived precisely at ten impressed him favorably. He had no use for people who were chronically late. But he was equally dismissive of people who arrived much too early. It was a sign of insecurity, which made him suspicious.

  His secretary escorted Eric Bennett in. Adams’s first impression of him was favorable. Bennett was dressed in a well-cut gray suit. The sleeves of his shirt had cuffs. The cuff links were unobtrusive, small black stones. His polite reserve as he greeted Adams was a surprise. Adams had expected him to appear nervous.

  Invited to be seated, Bennett took the chair directly in front of Adams’s desk.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” he said calmly. “Unless you are blind, deaf, and dumb, which I certainly know you’re not, I don’t have to explain anything about my father, Parker Bennett, and what he is accused of doing.”

  “Accused,” Adams thought. How about, I know what your father did?

  His answer to Bennett was given in the same direct tone. “Yes, I am aware of the circumstances surrounding your father.”

  “Well then, you are also aware of the circumstances surrounding me,” Eric said quietly. “The belief that I was involved in the theft is almost universal. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you must understand where I’m coming from. I am absolutely innocent of any involvement in the theft. My computer has been pulled apart. Every investigative agency known to man has worked me over. None
of them has been able to tie me to the fraud.

  “I love my father dearly. He was a wonderful husband to my mother and a wonderful father to me. I can only conclude that in some way he was mentally ill when he committed these crimes.”

  “That means he may have been mentally ill when he started the Bennett Fund fifteen years ago,” Adams reminded him. “It’s obvious that from the beginning it was a well-planned pyramid scheme.”

  “I am aware of that,” Eric said, a trace of defensiveness in his tone. “But the FBI has had no success in finding any evidence that my father is alive or where that money disappeared to. Now I want to retain your firm to investigate the case.”

  “Do you realize that if we do an investigation it could possibly result in your father spending the rest of his life in prison?”

  “I do,” Eric said as his eyes moistened and his voice wavered. Then, composing himself, he continued. “If my father is alive, he must be found, and of course the money he stole must be returned to the investors he cheated.”

  “Or what’s left of it,” Adams said dryly. “I warn you that if we do agree to take on this case it will be very expensive.”

  “I know that. I am a successful trader and the market has been good. In the two years since my father’s disappearance I have lived very frugally. I will continue to do so, but I can put down a retainer of fifty thousand dollars. By the time you use that up, I should be able to give you more. If I can’t continue to pay you, you can suspend your investigation until I can accumulate more money.”

  Adams felt a twinge of sympathy for the man sitting opposite him. But the practical side of his nature overrode that feeling immediately.

  “What if we take on the investigation and find that you are involved?”

  “Then I would expect you to turn me in to the federal prosecutor,” Eric said promptly. “But I won’t lose any sleep over that possibility.”

  Adams wondered if he knew what he was getting into as he reached his hand across the desk and said, “We’ll take the case, Mr. Bennett. And we will use every resource possible to find your father alive or prove his death, and to locate the missing money.”

  As he spoke Adams realized that he was thoroughly intrigued by the idea of being paid to search for the missing Parker Bennett.

  As for Eric Bennett, he decided there were two possibilities: that he was totally innocent, as he claimed, and wanted to change the public perception of him, or that he was guilty, and also arrogant enough to think that he and his father had planned so carefully that they were beyond the reach of the law.

  Adams realized that insider trading cases had begun to seem mundane.

  The search for Parker Bennett will be infinitely more challenging, he thought with satisfaction.

  15

  He had known that they were closing in on him. He was so frantic to get away that he moved most of the money from one Swiss account to the other. He had taped the new account number on the inside of the music box he had given Anne years ago. But when he successfully made his escape, he realized that incredibly, the number he had jotted down was not the new one but the old one.

  Now he was living comfortably on St. Thomas in a small villa on the Caribbean. He had a new sailboat, not nearly as large or expensive as the one he had set adrift. But it was perfectly satisfactory. He was successfully established in the identity he had long ago created for himself for when the time came to escape. But the money in the old account would soon run out. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink, he thought bitterly.

  In St. Thomas he was known as George Hawkins, a retired engineer who had moved here from England fifteen years ago.

  The brown wig he always wore changed his appearance. So did the dark glasses and the putty he expertly applied to change the shape of his nose.

  His British passport assured him that if he ever needed to he could relocate, and do it immediately.

  The disposable cell phone in his pocket rang. Almost afraid to answer, he picked it up.

  “Parker, dear,” a woman’s voice said, her tone matter-of-fact, “I’m afraid I will need more money soon.”

  “But I sent an extra million dollars to your account three months ago,” he protested. As always, his anger was replaced by fear.

  “That was three months ago. I’m redecorating the apartment and I will need more immediately. I’ll give you the exact amount when I get it from the decorator.”

  She had been blackmailing him for two years. There was no way he could refuse her.

  “I will wire you the money,” he said coldly.

  “I knew you would, and I want you to know my lips are sealed. Bye, sweetheart, I miss you.”

  He did not reply. Instead he broke the connection and for a long time sat at his desk looking at the Caribbean.

  It was a beautiful, sun-filled day. The ocean was blue-green. Faint ripples tossed a spray of reflective color on the beach outside his villa. He loved it here. Over the years he had firmly established his identity. On his frequent trips, when he was supposed to be sailing, he came here. He had rigorously cultivated a British accent and it was now second nature. The friends he had carefully chosen years ago completely accepted him for what they thought he was, a rather shy man, a widower who loved sailing. He had told them he was an engineer from England. It was a smooth transition when he came here two years ago and announced that he was retired now and would live on St. Thomas permanently.

  He had also taken up golf, and was surprisingly good at it. He only went to public courses. The confines of a private club might have invited intimacy with other members. Familiarity breeds contempt, and in my case possible suspicion, he thought. There was one man he had hooked up with on a foursome on a public course, a self-proclaimed Anglophile, who wanted to discuss with him the many engineers he knew in the London area. He had not gone back to that course again.

  She knew he was here. She thought he had access to all the money. She would bleed him forever. She liked to drink. He had seen her get blotto. Not often, but the tendency was there. It was absolutely possible that while drunk she might inadvertently give him away.

  He could not let the situation go on. As long as he still lived here, he was in danger from her. He had never thought that he would contemplate the taking of another person’s life, but desperate times require desperate measures, he reminded himself coldly.

  It was a terrible risk, but he had to go back, get the number from the music box and, to be absolutely sure he was safe, he would put his backup plan into action and move to Switzerland.

  He hadn’t planned to go sailing today, but when anything troubled him, it became a necessity to be on the boat and feel himself one with the sea and the sky. After all, he had earned that pleasure.

  16

  Eleanor Becker had been Parker Bennett’s secretary for all thirteen years the Bennett investment firm had existed.

  Then fifty years old, childless, she had been approached by Parker at the brokerage firm where they both worked. He had told her he was going to form his own company and wanted her to go with him.

  It had been an easy decision for her to make. Parker was a charismatic man, and always so courteous to her. The broker she was working for had been volatile; he was perfectly pleasant in the morning, but when the closing bell rang at four thirty, he was a different person if his trading had been on a downward spiral.

  Jekyll and Hyde, she used to think when he came charging to her desk. “Did you do this yet? Why not? Did you follow up on that one? Can’t you do anything right?”

  She used to be tempted to ask him why he didn’t save his ill temper for his wife. But of course, that would never have happened. His second wife, twenty-five years younger, wouldn’t have taken it.

  And so it had been with unmitigated pleasure that she tendered her resignation and went to work for Parker. The salary was much better. The Christmas bonus refurnished the living room of their modest home in Yonkers. When her husband, Frank, became ill with diabetes
, Parker had made her promise that any bills not covered by her insurance be sent to him.

  I never was involved with the firm’s finances, believe it or not, she thought defensively. The two years Parker Bennett had been missing had been a constant nightmare. She knew the FBI believed that she was involved in the scheme. They had questioned her for hours on end. And last week she had testified for several hours before the grand jury. She had been informed by the federal prosecutor that she was a target of the grand jury investigation. The prosecutor had invited her to testify if she wished. She had spent hours with her attorney, Grover Johnson, going over the pros and cons of appearing. He had warned her that he would not be permitted to be with her inside the grand jury room as she was being questioned. He was also very concerned that anything she said could be used against her later on if she was indicted.

  Eleanor had asked Grover what her chances were of not being indicted if she didn’t appear. He had been candid that she would almost certainly be indicted. “Then Grover, I really have nothing to lose. I’m going to tell the truth and maybe they will realize that I am innocent. I am going to testify.”

  The prosecutor had quizzed her relentlessly. In her mind she reviewed his questions and her answers.

  “Mrs. Becker, isn’t it a fact that you helped to convince people to invest in the Parker Bennett Fund?”

  “It’s not that I convinced them, it’s that Mr. Bennett would have me send out letters inviting people to come in for a visit and learn about the fund.”

  “How did he select the names of those people?”

  “Part of my job was to read a lot of newspapers and create a list of people with small businesses, or people who might have had some recognition from their community.”

  “Exactly what kind of recognition?”

  “Well, the story might be about a small business celebrating its fiftieth anniversary. I’d get the person’s name and background for Mr. Bennett.”