Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 26

When Sandy woke the following morning, he found that a fax had been slid under his door; he opened it and read the message from Sam Warren, that he and Mike Bernini's lawyer had concluded negotiations on a contract and that Larsen had come down to nine million even on his selling price for the vineyard. He telephoned Warren.

"Hello, Sandy," the lawyer said. "I trust you got my fax."

"I did, Sam, and I'm delighted," Sandy replied. "I know you recommended eight million eight as a maximum price, but I'm inclined to give Larsen the nine million. What do you think?"

"I think you're right; it's not worth quibbling about such a small percentage of the purchase price. What I'll do is agree to the price, but insist on a purchase of assets, instead of the corporate stock. They've been resisting that, but I think we're buying that sort of freedom from previous liability with the extra two hundred thousand."

"Sounds good. When do you think we can close?"

"It'll take a few weeks; we have to do our own inventory of the stock and take a few other precautions, but we'll get a sales agreement signed almost immediately, I should think. Are you happy with the deal I worked out with Bernini's lawyer?"

"Extremely. I think he'll be worth every penny. I thought I might take him to lunch today and celebrate."

"Let me call Larsen's lawyer and get the final agreement first," Sam said. "He should be in his office in another half hour."

"Call me back, then," Sandy said. He hung up and ordered breakfast, but when it came, he wasn't as hungry as he had thought. His elation over being so near agreement with Larsen was mixed with a deep dread of what the day held, and he left half the ham and eggs on the plate.

Warren called back inside an hour. "They've agreed," he crowed. "The deal's done. I'm faxing him documents, and Larsen will sign today and fax them back, then they'll FedEx the originals, and we'll have them by Monday. I'll have copies hand delivered to your lawyer."

"Thank you so much, Sam, for handling all this so expeditiously," Sandy said.

"It's what we do," Warren replied, then said good-bye and hung up.

Sandy called his office in New York and got his secretary on the line. "There's a case of Lafite Rothschild nineteen forty-five in the number one cellar," he said. "Please send a stockman down for it, then put a big red ribbon on it and send it directly over to Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust."

"Did we get the vineyard?" she asked*

"We did."

"I'm so happy for you, Sandy," she said. "I'll get the wine right over to Mr. Warren."

Sandy thanked her, then hung up and called Mike Bernini and invited him to lunch in the Ritz-Carlton's restaurant. He made the table reservation, then showered, shaved, and got dressed. He had some shopping to do before lunch. He left the hotel and, visiting several inexpensive shops, bought pretty much the same items he had thrown away not long before-a reversible raincoat, a tweed hat, and thin leather driving gloves. He left them in his hotel room and was in the restaurant in time to meet Mike Bernini.

He had a convivial lunch with Bernini, and they split a bottle of good champagne. Sandy tried to stop glancing at his watch, but he was unable to, nor was he able to hide his nervousness.

"Sandy," Bernini said, "are you feeling well? Is it too hot in here for you?" Sandy dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. "I think I may be getting some sort of bug," he said. "Maybe I'll take a little nap after lunch." 't

"Good idea; take care of yourself," Bernini said.

At two o'clock Sandy shook Bernini's hand and said his good-byes. He went to his room, retrieved his clothing purchases and got the pistol from the safe in the closet.

At 2:45 Sandy arrived at the office building, wearing the raincoat, plaid side out, the cap and sunglasses. The pistol banged against his thigh as he walked down the ramp into the garage. He avoided the elevators and continued down one level, following the route of the day before.

He stooped to pass under the barrier and, as he walked into the law firm's private parking area, he saw the red Mercedes 500SL with its distinctive license plate, DEALER. He went straight to the telephone booth and sat down, leaving the door ajar. He found he was sweating profusely.

He sat sideways in the booth, watching the lights above the elevator doors. He was too far away to read the numbers, so he walked quickly to the elevators and saw where the forty-first number was, then he returned to the booth and sat, waiting.

It will all be over soon, he kept telling himself, trying not to think about what he was about to do. He unwrapped the pistol and put it back into his raincoat pocket, making sure he could extract it quickly when needed.

I am not this kind of man, he kept telling himself, then he would think about his son and his business and his new vineyard, all of which he might lose if he didn't do this. His mind raced from one thing to another; he saw Cara's beautiful face, felt her auburn head on his shoulder, kissed her lips. Then he was firing the silenced pistol through the glass of the Mercedes, and blood was everywhere. He was covered in blood and glass, and there was blonde hair all over the front seat of the car.

He jerked back to reality. He saw the elevator door close and watched as the lights above it illuminated, one by one. He saw the forty-first light go on and stay on for a few seconds, then the order of the lights reversed. The car was coming down.

He hoped it would stop for other passengers, that other people would be present, preventing him from doing this awful thing, but the car ran smoothly, and nothing stopped it before its garage destination. He held his breath as the doors opened; maybe it would be somebody else. But a blonde woman in a red dress stepped from the car and walked purposefully toward the law firm's private parking area. She was attractive, he thought, though she wore more makeup than he liked on a woman. She walked toward the red Mercedes, stopped behind it, and opened the trunk.

Sandy opened the door of the telephone booth as quietly as he could and stepped out, pulling the pistol from his raincoat pocket and holding it slightly behind him, so that if she turned she would not see it. He walked quietly to within a few steps of her. This time there must be no mistake about who she was. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, nearly choking.

She spun around, startled. "Yes?" she said. Then she looked at him, seeming confused. "Sandy?" she asked.

He knew her? Oh, God, he thought. Can I do this? He thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

"Sandy?" she repeated. "What on earth are you doing here?"

He narrowed his eyes. She was familiar, but he couldn't place her. New York, he thought, but where? Some cocktail party? Was she a friend of Joan's?

"Sandy, say something," she said. "What's wrong? You're frightening me."

The voice conflicted with the face, but suddenly, he knew.

"Cara?" he asked, struggling to maintain his composure. Then he looked down and saw a small pistol in her hand, and it was pointed at his chest.