Outside, the west wing guard thought he saw that deeper darkness again but when he looked at his post's scanner, a new IDC invention for the armed forces, he saw nothing. He would have to get his eyes checked in the morning.
The first person to discover Broon was his valet. He gasped and fainted. The second was the upstairs maid. She shrieked. When his daughter, the chestnut-haired Holly Broon, heard the screaming, she threw a bathrobe over her nude body and ran to her father's room. The valet was ashen-faced, getting to his knees, the maid was shrieking, and no one was attending to her father.
She saw the open mouth, the stilllness of his chest. She felt his forehead. Like a slab of liver, she thought.
"He must have had a heart attack," said the valet.
"A heart attack with his temple crushed," said Holly Broon.
"We've already called a doctor," said the valet "At least someone has."
Holly Broon, who of all the Broons had old Josiah's fierce eyes, ignored the valet's remark. It didn't matter who called the doctors. She phoned the family and corporate lawyers. She had one question.
"Who's next in line at IDC?"
"The picture isn't quite clear on that, Miss Broon. There's got to be a state of mourning first and I'm sure all of us grieve…"
"Bullshit. Who's senior vice president for policy planning?'
"Young man, Corbish. Fine outstanding work, a superior…"
"Never heard of him. How long's he been senior v.p.?"
"Just a few days, maybe a week, but…"
"Give me his telephone number."
The lawyer had it written down somewhere. Holly told a maid to get her something from her wardrobe, in black.
"Something with an open neck. I've got boobs, you know." When she heard the telephone number, she hung up and dialed again.
"Hello, Mr, Corbish. I'm sorry to waken you," said Holly whose voice now floated like doves upon a silken lake. "I have bad news. T. L. Broon passed away last night and while I know you, like all of us, wish a suitable waiting period, the affairs of IDC must continue. I'm Holly Broon and I'd like to meet you as soon as possible. I think you are the kind of man who can carry on his work."
"Yes, Miss Broon. Of course. Certainly."
"Where can we meet?"
"I have an office just about thirty minutes from you in Rye, New York, on Long Island Sound. It's at Folcroft Sanitarium."
"That's strange," said Holly.
"Well, corporate business. It's a little bit complicated."
"I'm sure you're handling it very well," said Holly and she took directions to Folcroft from her Darien estate.
When her black dress was brought to her, she had one comment "More cleavage."
"I don't think you have more cleavage in black, Miss Broon."
"Then fucking make it," said Holly, her voice slate hard. "Use scissors."
"On a St. Laurent dress, Miss Broon?"
"No, on your asshole. Of course, on the dress, knuckle-head."
The estate guards, Holly found out just before she left, had seen nothing the night before, She ran her check on Corbish from the back seat of her limousine. He was a Williams graduate and a special forces captain. He had joined IDC where he had worked steadily, rising rapidly to vice president, and then jumping to senior vice president almost overnight.
"We have more vice presidents than we have computers," Holly said into the telephone in the back of her car. "How did he become someone?"
"Your father appointed him, Miss Broon."
"Is he married?"
"Nine years, Miss Broon."
"The wife attractive?"
"It doesn't say in his personnel record."
"Try the blue file."
"Oh, you know about that."
"Since I could walk."
"Well, I hate to give blue file information over the phone, but I imagine it's important, Miss Broon. Yes, his wife is attractive, but she is a very heavy drinker, takes depressants from time to time, and has had, perhaps, one extramarital affair. She graduated from a somewhat second-rate school in Ohio, her father…"
"Has Corbish had any extramarital affairs?"
"No, Miss Broon."
"I see. Keep this conversation to yourself."
"Certainly, Miss Broon."
As she hung up she noticed the chauffeur stealing looks at her bosom. He became embarrassed when he saw that he'd been observed. Good, thought Holly Broon. If you've got it, use it. This Corbish son of a bitch I'm going to fold, spindle and mutilate.
"Did you say something, Miss Broon?" asked the chauffeur.
"I said it's a great tragedy I know you must share with us."
"Yes, Miss Broon."
CHAPTER NINE
When he was informed about T. L. Broon's death, Blake Corbish did not give vent to the shriek of joy that was in his heart. It is the mark of a man who engages in massive spying on other people that even in his own home he behaves as if people were watching him.
With great self-control, Corbish let the receiver sit on the phone cradle a moment, then he nudged his wife, Teri, who had gone to sleep in her sweater and skirt. She had been dozing off like that lately. At first it was a joke, but it had become a habit.
"Dear," said Corbish. "I have good news for you."
"Hmmmmm," said Teri Corbish.
"Open your eyes. I have fantastic news. Good news."
Teri Corbish turned over in bed to face her husband. She felt chilly shakes in her arms and she noticed she had once again succumbed to her habit of sleeping in her clothes.
"You know I waited so long for you to come up that I must have fallen asleep in my clothes again."
"Darling," said Corbish. "T. L. Broon is dead. Just found out. Say hello to the new president of IDC."
"That's fantastic, dear."
"Home free," said Corbish.
"Home free," said his wife. "Let's drink to that. I don't ordinarily drink in the morning but for this, I'm going to."
"President and maybe chairman of the board."
"A double," said Teri.
She stumbled out of bed, then she realized it was not that her feet were unsteady but that a briefcase was in her way on the floor.
"You left your briefcase right in my way."
"It's the martinis, Teri."
"It's the briefcase. Look."
Corbish blinked. Teri was holding T.L.'s briefcase. Was it possible? Yes, it was possible. Williams just might be a fantastic corporate resource. Yet now that he had done his job, he represented a link to tie Corbish to murder.
Corbish steadied himself as he had every morning since taking over the Folcroft operation. Wait. You must have more sock with the courts than the supreme court has, he told himself. You're outside the law. The whole system at Folcroft was set up that way.
Every morning he had constantly had to remind himself of that. In his office at Folcroft, he found himself insulated, strangely free from those worries and this made him wonder why old Dr. Smith had failed to make himself a very, very rich man.
"How did this get in here?" asked Teri.
"Oh, uh, nothing. Just a night delivery, dear."
"The deliveryman could have seen something."
"Between us, Teri?"
"We didn't do it last night?"
"Look at your clothes."
"People do it with their clothes on," she said, then added glumly, "but not us. We don't even do it with our clothes off."
"You've been a fine corporate wife."
"I mean, I'd settle for you right now, instead of the martini."
"Have your martini, dear," said Corbish.
Meanwhile, in a Minneapolis bank, a man who walked with a cane and had portions of his face bandaged, asked to see one of the vice presidents, anyone.
He waited patiently. His clothes hung loosely, like throwaways. His blue shirt had a frayed collar; his shoes, while they had soles and were free of holes, were cracked to submission at the instep. Dr. Harold Smith had picked them up at a Salvation Army chapel on Mission Street in San Francisco. He had hitchhiked across the Rockies, across the Plains states and then north to Minneapolis, where he walked from the small suburb where his ride had let him off to this small bank. Now his right leg throbbed in agony.