Desperate Measures

FIVE
1

They took longer than they had anticipated. Route 2 was under construction. It ended well before Boston, and they were forced to take an indirect route, using 495 south, then 90 east into the city, arriving only in late afternoon. Pittman’s bandaged left hand felt less awkward. He did the driving this time, letting Jill nap in the backseat until he stopped at a rest area just outside the city.

She sat up, stretched, and yawned.

“These are your old stomping grounds,” Pittman said. “Do you think you can find the address?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“You don’t need to look at a map?”

“Derrick Meecham must have a lot of money. This address is in Beacon Hill. It’s a couple of blocks from where my parents live.”

Rush hour slowed their progress even more, but finally, shortly after six, Jill steered from the Massachusetts Turnpike onto Columbus Avenue, from there to Charles Street through Boston Common, and then into the historic, exclusive district of Beacon Hill.

Pittman studied a narrow, tree-lined, cobblestoned street. On one side, a spiked wrought-iron fence enclosed a small park, while on the other side, nineteenth-century brick town houses cast shadows from the lowering sun. Jill turned a corner, and here gated driveways separated some of the mansions. Through the metal bars, Pittman saw courtyards, gardens, and carriage houses converted into garages.

“And this is where you were raised?”

“When I wasn’t at private schools,” Jill said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It can also be a trap. That’s why I moved away to real life.”

“At the moment, I’d prefer to escape from real life.”

Ahead, a Mercedes pulled away from a line of cars parked at the curb, and Jill eased into the space. When she got out, she straightened her tan skirt and put on her green blazer. “Do I look presentable?”

“Lovely.”

“Just remember, when we knock on the door, whoever opens it is going to make an instantaneous judgment about us, based on how neatly and acceptably we dress.”

Pittman reached into the car, took his tie from his gym bag, and put it on. He hoped his shirt wasn’t too wrinkled. His slacks and sport coat were as clean as he could make them.

“If I understand your logic,” Pittman said, “I’d better not identify myself as a reporter.”

Jill nodded. “The kind of wealth we’re dealing with is extremely class-conscious. The press is definitely considered beneath them.”

“Then what angle are we going to use? What I tried at Grollier? That I’m writing a book about the academy?”

“Better yet, you’re a history professor who’s writing a book about the academy. Academics have privilege.”

They went up a half dozen stone steps to a large, polished, weathered oak door.

“It probably dates back to the early 1800s,” Jill said.

Pittman grasped an iron knocker and tapped it against a metal plate secured to the door.

They waited.

Pittman knocked again.

“Maybe no one’s home.”

“I don’t see any lights in the windows,” Jill said.

“Maybe they’ve gone out to dinner.”

Jill shook her head. “Any respectable Boston Brahmin doesn’t go out to dinner this early. Besides, Meecham’s elderly. I doubt he strays far from home.”

Pittman raised his hand to knock on the door again, but he was interrupted as he heard a lock being freed. The knob was twisted. The door came slowly open, revealing a short, frail-looking white-haired woman who wore a tasteful high-collared blue dress that had long sleeves and a hem that almost covered the support hose on her swollen calves and ankles. She had liver spots on her deeply creased skin.

She opened the door only partially, squinting through her thick glasses at Pittman and Jill. “Yes? Do I know you?” Her voice was tremulous.

“No, ma’am,” Pittman said. “My name is Peter Logan. I’m a history professor from across the river.” He referred to Harvard. “I apologize if this is an inconvenient time for me to be calling, but I was wondering if I could speak to your husband about a book that I’m writing.”

“History professor? Book? My husband?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m doing research about some American educational institutions, the classic ones, and I’m hoping that your husband can answer some questions that occurred to me.”

“Questions? My husband?”

Pittman’s stomach sank. She keeps repeating what I say, turning my statements into questions. We’re wasting our time, he thought. She’s senile. She doesn’t have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about.

The woman raised her head. “I don’t know what questions you have in mind, but I’m afraid my husband can’t answer them. He died a year ago.”

The shock of what she said and the lucidity with which she said it made Pittman realize that he’d severely misjudged her.

“Oh.” He was too surprised to know what to say. He knew he should have considered the possibility that Meecham would be dead by now, but the fact that the grand counselors, except for Millgate, were still alive had made Pittman hope that those associated with the counselors would still be alive, as well.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “The alumni association at Yale told me that Derrick Meecham lived here. I assumed that their records were up to date.”

“They are.” The woman’s voice became more tremulous.

“I don’t understand.”

“Derrick Meecham does live here.”

“Forgive us, ma’am,” Jill said. “We still don’t understand.”

“My son.”

“Mother,” a man’s refined voice said from inside the house. “I thought we agreed that you had to save your energy. There’s no need for you to answer the door. That is Frederick’s responsibility. Where is he, by the way?”

The door came all the way open, and Pittman faced a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. The man had a broad forehead, graying hair, steady eyes, and the solid expression of someone used to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed. His three-piece gray pinstriped suit was the most perfectly tailored that Pittman had ever seen.

“Yes, may I help you?” the man asked without enthusiasm.

“This man is a professor,” the elderly woman said.

“Peter Logan,” Pittman added. “I teach history at Harvard. I’ve made a mistake, I’m afraid. I wanted to speak with your father, but as I’ve just learned, he passed on. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Speak to my father? What about?”

“I’m doing research on the history of Grollier Academy.”

The man didn’t react for a moment, didn’t blink, didn’t seem to breathe. “Grollier?”

“It’s had such a major influence on American government, I thought it was time to investigate what makes it unique.”

“Oh, it’s unique all right.”

Cars drove by on the street. The sun dipped lower, casting shadows. The man continued to stare at Pittman.

Then his chest moved. “Come in, Professor.… I’m sorry, could you repeat your name?”

“Logan. Peter Logan. This is my wife, Rebecca. She’s a historian, also.”

“Derrick Meecham.” The man offered his hand, once more saying, without enthusiasm, “Come in.”