The Heir

11

I hadn’t heard from Fred by Friday morning. If Stan’s lackey had not yet penetrated to Clinton Grainger, he surely would before the sun set.

I kissed Katie as she rushed out the door, made three business-related calls, and packed and carried my suitcase out to my car.

But the drive to the airport was interrupted. I pulled off the road as my phone rang, as it would be a distracting call.

“Come into town at once,” Fred ordered. Stan’s lackey had been successful. If only I could get my own lackey to be as subservient.

“I’m on my way out of town.”

“Grainger is sitting in front of me.” In my chair, probably. Now what to do? This was more of a reaction than we’d expected.

Fred had said it himself-don’t talk with the man unless I was ready to deal. Well, I might as well talk to him.

“Okay, Fred. It’ll take me a half hour. Keep him happy.”

“Neither of us is happy.”

That Fred, such a clown. As I turned the car and headed back, I thought about the jovial Uncle Fred of my youth. One week had erased that fraud quite thoroughly. I called the charter office at the airport and told them I’d be late.

Thirty-seven minutes later I stepped out of the elevator onto the thirtieth floor. Fred’s office door was at the end of the hall. I decided they hadn’t waited long enough.

If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get on with my trip, I would have waited longer than five minutes. But finally their impatience was rewarded and I made my entrance into their gloomy den.

No pleasantries were exchanged.

“Mr. Grainger has been asking me about a newspaper reporter,” Fred announced, pretending ignorance. Grainger just turned to stare at me.

I sat on the sofa. “What’s your question?” I asked the watery eyes.

“Are you threatening the governor?” they asked back.

“It seemed the governor was threatening me.”

Pause. Hard thinking. “This is dangerous,” Grainger answered.

“I didn’t start it.”

“Your father did.”

“Not this round.”

Pause again. More hard thinking, this time with wrinkled brow. “Are you serious?”

It was time for sentences with more than five words. “It’s been two weeks since Melvin died. I’ve only been on this job for five days. I think the governor needs to back off until I’ve had time to make some rational plans. Otherwise I’ll do something irrational. A friend told me I was a bull in a china shop, and I’d consider the governor a big Ming vase right in the middle of the aisle.”

“I can’t call off a murder investigation,” Grainger said.

Good, we were communicating. “Do you have any real evidence that Melvin was murdered? Or have you fabricated it all?”

“Do you have any evidence that the governor is corrupt?”

“Boxes of it.”

Spit it out, Clinton. Was the old man really murdered?

“I believe the evidence was not conclusive,” he said.

“Give me a straight answer.”

“I don’t know.” A little frustration, perhaps? “A routine investigation had already been started. Detective Wilcox was directed to make sure something was found. I don’t know whether the evidence was fabricated or not.”

“Then un-fabricate it.”

“I can’t interfere with the state police.”

“Then I’ll give my boxes to the FBI, and I know you can’t interfere with them.”

“I’ll discuss this with the governor.”

I’d been in the room less than four minutes before he left. I like efficient people.

Fred glared at the door as it closed behind his guest. Then he glared at me. But not as angrily.

“You told me you wouldn’t negotiate.”

“I’m not. I’m dictating.”

“It seems to come to you quite naturally.”

“It’s in my blood.”

He shrugged. “The risk of real conflict is now very high, and it is your fault. You handled the conversation reasonably well, though.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

He nodded. “Yes. You are hotheaded and impatient, but I can see the same instincts your father had.”

“I take back the thank-you.”

He only smiled. “You are leaving town?”

“I’ll call you Sunday night, when I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Washington. I’m taking a vacation.”

Fred was suspicious. “What is in Washington?”

“There are museums.”

He didn’t buy it. “Why are you going to Washington?” He was asking a lot of questions.

“Melvin lived there twelve years. I want to see the townhouse. It was a second home when I was in college.”

He was still not satisfied. “I don’t believe you are going for sentimental reasons.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“Are you meeting with anyone?”

I was choosing to not be annoyed by the interrogation. “I’m not planning to. I just want to get away. I haven’t had time to think this week.”

Fred’s gears were cranking. “Meet with Forrester.”

Yuck. “Senator Forrester? I don’t want to.”

“You need to. It’s time.” He picked up his phone. “Get me Bob Forrester.”

I chose to be annoyed. “Wait a minute.”

“He can help you against the governor.”

A powwow with Senator Forrester was not something I’d really been anxious to schedule. All us rich and powerful types, even marginal ones such as I had once used to be, had passed beneath the shadow of his loftiness. Not that most of us would ever be accepted socially.

“If I want help, I’ll ask.”

“Governor Bright may ask him first.”

My growing impression was that Bright headed the sleaze faction of state politics and Forrester headed the snob faction. “Would they work together?”

“They never have. Your father prevented it.”

Melvin had been able to move back and forth between the two factions so easily.

The phone buzzed. “Yes?” Fred said to it. Then, “I’ll hold.”

“I have a question,” I said. “I met Big Bob at Melvin’s townhouse in Washington about ten years ago. He wouldn’t shake my hand. He obviously despised me, and Melvin, and everything to do with us. Was it personal or was it just general contempt?”

“Both.” Fred chortled a bit. “He doesn’t care much for anyone beneath him, which would be everyone. Newly rich upstart industrialists are especially painful to him.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good personality trait for a political career.”

“Yes, most patricians don’t dirty their hands with politics.”

I could see the vague outline of something. “So Bob Forrester is ambitious?”

“Extremely. There is a driving force in certain people.” Fred was philosophizing. It was soothing to him, after the seismic tremors I was causing to his world, to contemplate the unalterable nature of humans. “And anyone who is driven can be manipulated.”

Yes, the outline was becoming clearer. It was Melvin’s hand. “So there was a deal.”

Fred smiled. His pupil was learning quickly. “Of course there was.”

“Melvin sold him the Senate seat. What was the price?”

“It was more a rental than a sale. The rules are that the Boyer machine will get him elected, and he is not to build his own organization. He is to do as he is told. Outside of that he is free to preen and strut as he wishes.”

“That sounds like Melvin might have wanted the seat back.”

“Possibly.” Fred stretched out the last syllable like a piece of taffy. “Mainly, it was to keep Forrester from becoming too powerful. But he may have wanted to keep the seat under his control for other reasons.”

“He would have gone back to Washington?”

“No. He wouldn’t have. But he could have been saving the seat for someone else.”

As if it were a bus seat instead of a seat in the United States Senate. Why was Fred looking at me that way?

“You don’t think…”

“I have no idea. But you will be thirty before the next election.” A light was going on in his head. “Your father might have changed his will in your favor as part of a larger plan.”

My head was going dark. “No. He changed his will because Nathan Kern asked him to.”

“Your father never did anything at someone else’s request. Perhaps Nathan did request the change. But Melvin wouldn’t have made you his principal heir unless he chose to himself.”

“Fred. The man hadn’t spoken to me in three months. First he leaves me a billion dollars. Now you’re adding a seat in the Senate. Don’t you think he would have clued me in?” What am I doing here? Melvin’s scorn for me was one of the great constants in my life, something I could always count on. Fred must be on drugs.

“Calm down, Jason.”

“I am calm. You’re the one who’s raving.”

“He would have discussed it with you. He did things in his own time.”

“Except when he didn’t, like getting himself killed.”

“A rare exception.”

“Right. And I bet he won’t let it happen again. I don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”

“I knew him much better than you.”

“Yes. Exactly. Exactly. He and I didn’t know each other at all. He had no plans for me.”

“Then I won’t argue. But why does it upset you?”

“I am not upset.” Why was I so upset?

“Then when you are, it must be quite a sight.”

“It is, believe me.”

Fred’s attention shifted to the phone. “Yes, this is Fred Spellman. I’m still here.” Pause. Then the final connection. “Bob. Thank you for taking my call.”

And here was another Fred. Yes, it was still the same large object, no mistaking it, but the voice was respectful, deferential, submissive. In other words, completely fake.

“Yes, I’m here with Jason Boyer… That’s right. He’ll be in Washington this afternoon and tomorrow, and he asked me to schedule a short meeting, if there is a convenient time… Yes, just to introduce himself to the important people in state politics, the people his father knew… All right, yes, that would be fine. I’ll tell him. I appreciate it very much, Bob. Thank you… Thank you. Yes.”

He set the phone down and stared at it with pursed lips.

“Disagreeable.” He looked up at me. “You may have your secretary call his to arrange a time.”

I had taken a deep breath. I was no longer upset, not that I had been anyway. “Is he seeing me because I’m rich and powerful or does he want to renew the deal?”

“The former. If you mention the deal, he will be offended and say he never heard of such a thing. But he knows he has to meet you, and he is wondering what you will do. He may feel that, at this point, the seat is his by right of his social position and tenure, and that you have no choice but to support him. I expect he will treat you as an important constituent and nothing more.”

“But I can toss him.”

“You could choose to not support him, which would make it very difficult for him to run again.”

“Whatever. Do the voters get a say in any of this?”

“No. They are only allowed to choose between the party nominees, and the nomination processes are completely controlled.”

“There are two parties.”

“Each party has been allowed one Senate seat, and the candidates were approved by your father. He also chose every governor and representative in the last twenty years. No election has been close.”

“I guess it’s what I expected. Just like the state contract deals. Does it matter that it’s rotten?”

“It is at least consistent. And it has been completely legal. The nominating process is straightforward: the biggest organization wins.”

“I believe it stinks.”

“I don’t care what you believe. Look at the fools who get elected when no one is in charge.”

I shrugged. “Okay. Never mind. What should I say to Forrester?”

He took his deep breath. “He can be as irrational as Harry Bright, but he is much smarter. He will be receiving information from his allies in the state senate, and he likely has indications about what is happening between you and the governor. You should talk about foreign affairs, talk about the economy, talk about the weather, and not use this as an opportunity to discuss political deals.

But include one sentence about Harry Bright using the word ineffective, and he will know why you came. At this point, your main interest is to discourage any alliance between them. After your conversation, Senator Forrester will understand that he would be doing so against your wishes.”

“Will he follow my wishes?”

“In this case, you both realize no precedent is being set. If you were giving him specific instructions, you would be much more forthright.”

“Does he have anyone else to turn to?” I asked.

“He has lots of rich friends.”

“Friends?”

“Acquaintances. He’s the chairman of the board of the opera.”

“The poor man.”

“On the contrary, I believe he enjoys it.”

Who needs a political machine when they have Felicity Nottingham Cavalieri Gildanov?

I called Pamela.

“I thought you were leaving town,” she said.

“Almost. But I have a task for you. Call Senator Forrester’s office to schedule a meeting between himself and myself. Your call is expected.”

“When will you be available?”

“I’ll get to Washington in a few hours and be there until Sunday afternoon.”

“All right… How much time do you want?”

“I don’t know. It’s all Fred’s idea, not mine. Twenty minutes would be enough for me.”

“Now, don’t whine, Jason. It’s part of the job.”

“Don’t you get on me, too,” I whined.

It was late enough that I had lunch at the airport. I called Katie to check on her.

She was sounding worn out. “Angela called. She wanted to have lunch, but I just can’t. I said you were gone, and I could do dinner tonight.”

“You could try to make her not hate me,” I said.

“I’ll get it down to strong dislike. But it isn’t personal, you know.”

“No. She’d feel the same way toward anyone who was her husband’s son.”

I made one more call before I climbed into the airplane. Well, a couple, to get the right number. Then I waited ten minutes on hold, but finally I heard his voice.

“This is Wilcox.”

“Detective Wilcox. This is Jason Boyer.”

“Mr. Boyer. Yes, sir.” The connection on my cell phone was tenuous, but I could still hear the tone in his words that I wanted to hear. “How can I help you?”

“I was just wondering how your investigation was going. It’s been several days now.”

“Well, Mr. Boyer, actually we’ve just had a meeting about it. We’re giving the investigation a lower priority.”

“Oh. Why is that?”

“We’ve had some questions about the evidence. The forensics lab is trying to be very careful, and they’re not sure there’s really enough to go on.”

“I see. What does it mean to have a lower priority?”

“We’ll keep the file open, but we won’t commit any resources to it unless something new comes up.”

“Well,” I said, “I just wanted to know. Thank you.”

“Yes, Mr. Boyer. Glad to help.”

I could picture his mustache quivering as I took to the wind.

I have a fake driver’s license and a credit card with the same name. Melvin had them created for me so that I could travel without being a Boyer. I might be ashamed of my real name, but I’d seldom used the fake.

For this trip, though, I decided Jeff Benson of Worcester, Massachusetts, would rent cars and manage any other transactions. I was becoming shy of publicity.

I let myself in to the Boyer Embassy in Georgetown. It was two side-by-side three-story townhouses, small by Boyer standards but large enough to entertain in intimate senatorial style.

I’d been there a dozen times during the twelve-year Washington residency. As a younger child, I’d not been welcome. I only visited Melvin and Angela when they were back home. In high school and college, when there was less chance of my breaking something valuable, I came for weekends two or three times a year. It had been empty, except for short visits, for the eight years that he’d loaned his Senate seat to Forrester.

This habitation was even more hostile in my memory than the big house, and now it was mine. I would stay in it and do as I wished. Maybe I’d shatter a Limoges plate on the Dutch-tile floor.

After I let myself in, though, I tiptoed up the stairs and set my suitcase quietly on the guestroom bed. But then, standing on the balcony over the living room, I got hold of myself and spoke to the ghosts.

“You’re dead, Melvin.”

There were even echoes.

“It’s my house now.”

And that was all I needed.

I walked through every floor, sweeping the memories away like cobwebs. Not that there were cobwebs. The place was still cleaned weekly and kept ready in wistful hope of being used.

There was no pink in the house anywhere. Angela had taken her things when they moved out, and she didn’t travel with him when he came for business. Nothing there looked like she had touched it, or like anyone had touched it. Even the bedrooms were professionally furnished and barren of soul.

I found the Matisse. It didn’t look very significant.

I read for a while that evening, but I soon found my eyes straying from the pages. I finally started walking the house again, looking through the rooms more carefully than I had before.

Yes, Melvin had been a senator. I was eight when he was first elected, three years after my mother died, and Eric and I had already been banished to the boarding schools that were our childhood. He’d married Angela a year later, here in Washington. She was twenty-eight, he was forty-three. We did not attend the wedding; at our young age, we could not be trusted to act with the proper decorum.

Our teachers and classmates all knew that Melvin was a senator. Of course, everyone at the school was cut from our same cloth, but even among the wealthy families and social elites, a senator would stand out. And if Eric and I had no real father, a senator would do.

Eventually the schools had rendered me presentable enough to be shown. I don’t know whose hands I shook. There may have been cabinet secretaries and ambassadors. I know there were other senators. Those were the years the questions had started, the first Why am I here? It might have been from meeting so many important people and wondering what my value was.

The monthly checks started when I was in college. There was to be no making a living or working to put food on the table for me. No job to take my mind off the questions.

And now what? This was where Melvin had lived for twelve years. Maybe I’d find something here for myself.