“He was one of them, one of the thieves.”
There was only one possibility. “Hugo Farr?”
“That’s not the name he goes by now. I thought I was helping a young man traverse the difficult road of life. He was handsome enough and young enough and, like a fool, I believed there was a chance for something new in my life. But instead of a lover, I was bringing into the trust a spy whose purpose, I soon learned, was to keep me quiet and under his thumb.”
“Who?” I said.
“Oh, Victor, don’t be so slow.”
“Be quick, is that it?”
“I think my job here is done. Thank you for coming. I’ve so enjoyed our chat. Time to start packing, I believe.”
“Taking another trip?”
“I’ve waited long enough. If ever you make it to the other side of the world, please don’t look me up.”
“What was he going to do with the money?”
“What everybody wants to do with their money out there. It was what the whole thing was really about. He was going to make a movie.”
It went off in my head like a camera shutter. Click, click, Sammy Glick.
48
I drove right back to the city, parked on the street by my office, and without stopping in to check my mail, I headed for One Liberty Place. I took the elevator to the fifty-fourth floor. The doors opened onto a huge lobby with shiny wood floors and antique furniture. Talbott, Kittredge and Chase. Oh, my.
“I’m here to see Mr. Quick,” I said to the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“No, but he’ll see me,” I said. “Tell him Victor Carl is here.”
A few minutes later, a slim young woman in a blue suit appeared in the lobby looking very grim. I was thinking that whoever she was coming for was in for a nasty surprise, when I realized she was coming for me.
“Mr. Carl?” she said.
I abruptly stood. “Yes?”
“You’re here to see Mr. Quick?”
“That’s right.” I recognized her suddenly, the paralegal from my earlier visit. Jennifer.
Jennifer gestured me to a spot away from the center of the lobby, beside the great wall of windows gazing down over the eastern edge of the city. Her hair was pulled back primly, and her lips were only discreetly painted, but even so her raw, youthful beauty shone through. As we stood there, she moved in close and lowered her voice.
“What did you wish to see Mr. Quick about?”
“We have an ongoing matter involving the Randolph Trust,” I said. “Why, is there a problem?”
“Did that matter involve any emergency travel?”
“Not that I know of.”
A swift glance away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carl, but Mr. Quick isn’t in today.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. That’s the thing. He didn’t call in and he always calls in.” A nervous laugh. “Every ten minutes if he’s away from the office. He can’t stand to be out of touch. We are in constant contact.” Hands playing one with the other. “But I haven’t heard from him in two days.”
“Maybe he’s at home?”
“He’s not answering his cell phone, and his wife said he wasn’t there, but I’m not sure if I believe her. She’s not the most reliable source.” Lips pressed together. “What with the drinking. Frankly, I’m worried.”
“Maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t want the office to know where he is. Maybe he’s sick or out playing golf. Does he belong to a club?”
“Philadelphia Country Club.”
“Of course he does. If you give me his home address, I could run over and check if he’s at the house for you.”
“I’m not supposed to give that out.”
“Stanford and I are old friends, Jennifer. And I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to worry like this.” She nodded in agreement. “And as soon as I find out something I’ll give you a call.”
“Would you, Mr. Carl?” Her hand on my forearm. “I really am desperate to know he’s okay, and I’m afraid, for some reason, Mrs. Quick isn’t so cordial to me.”
Funny how that works, I thought as she leaned forward and gave me her cell phone number and Stanford Quick’s address.
“Can I ask a question, Jennifer?” I said.
“Sure.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” Her shoulders squared. “I just graduated from Penn.”
“Let me say Stanford’s very lucky to have you.”
DRIVING BACK into the suburbs, I had the wheel in my left hand and the cell phone in my right.
“Philadelphia Country Club,” came the voice over the phone.
“Can I talk to the starter, please?”
“Hold on one moment?”
Merion might have the highest-rated golf course in the city and its suburbs, but Philadelphia Country Club’s is rated almost as highly, and it has the distinction of being an even snootier place. You want to play golf, you join Merion; you want to hob with the nobs and flaunt your social connections, you join the Philadelphia Country Club. But despite their differences, there is one towering concept on which all the members of both clubs violently agree: They would never have me as a member. Truth be told, I couldn’t get into either joint as a caddy.
“Starter shed, here. Chris speaking.”
“Hello, Chris. I was tentatively scheduled to play with Mr. Quick this afternoon, but I haven’t heard from him, and I wondered if he was already on the course.”
“Nah, Mr. Quick hasn’t been in all day.”
“Has he called in to set up a tee time for us?”
“You must have gotten the days mixed up. We have a ladies’ shotgun going out in forty-five minutes. The course won’t open up until something like five.”
“It must be my mistake, then. Thanks.”
“If I see him, do you have a message?”
“Sure. Tell him to call Carl if he can to reschedule, because I am aching to get out there and punish those links.”
I HAD ALWAYS imagined myself in a massive stone Tudor with a wide front lawn and a willow tree in front. There would be a pale dog sleeping in the shade of that willow tree, just beside the hammock swaying gently in the wind. A basketball hoop would be attached to the detached stone garage at the end of the long, looping driveway and a pitch-back would stand beside the tall hedges so my kids could throw high pops to themselves. The lawn would be mowed, the trees trimmed, the sun shining. And parked right beneath that basketball hoop would be some behemoth of an SUV, and beside it, neat and black, a BMW, nothing too grand, let’s not be too ostentatious, maybe something out of the 5 series.
The good news was that if ever I came into a boatload of cash, I now knew where to find it.
The dog woke up as I pulled into the driveway. When I slipped out of my car, it jumped to its feet beneath the tall willow and scampered over. I reached out my hand, palm up. It sniffed and licked and let me rub the folds at the bottom of its neck.
“How you doing, fella?” I said.
It stepped back and barked loudly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
The door to the massive stone Tudor was red, the same red as the door at the Randolph Trust. Fitting, no? I dropped the heavy knocker once and then again. The dog barked. I held myself back from yelling out, “Honey, I’m home.”
The door swung wide, a woman stood in the opening, the dog slid past me and rubbed its side against her leg. Lucky dog.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mrs. Quick?”
“Yes.” She was tall and lovely and about thirty years younger than her husband. I wondered if her name was Jennifer, too. She wore jeans, a white oxford shirt, her hair was blond and cut short. She smiled nervously as she took hold of the dog’s collar. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I think you can. My name is Victor Carl. I’m a lawyer, and I’m looking for your husband.”
She tilted her head and stared at me with unfocused eyes, as if I were a puzzle which she really didn’t care to solve. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why do you need to see my husband at his residence?”