“Some,” she said, pulling a pad from her purse. “I dug around while I was online at the office. There’s nothing criminal about the family that we know-I guess that’s John Samuel’s specialty-but I wouldn’t swear they’re all squeaky-clean, either. In any case, the old man is Edward Cummins Gregory III, if you please. He’s listed as a venture capitalist and philanthropist. Also a major patron of the arts and a collector of Hispano-Americana, whatever that is. He makes all the shows, sits on all the boards, backs all the right causes, and is calculated to be worth about a hundred million bucks. He’s married to Jennifer Whitcomb Gregory, of Chicago, and together they’re the parents of three children, of whom John is the youngest and clearly a mistake, since at twenty-six, he’s twelve years younger than the next one in line.”
“What do the other two kids do?” Joe asked.
“Sister Susan is a thoracic surgeon, working in San Francisco; brother Frederick-five years older than Susan-heads up the family foundation and works with Dad in the venture capital business.”
Joe liked that-the eldest, the closest to the father, knowledgeable of the business, and, he hoped, less than impressed with his little brother. “Where’s he hang out?”
Farber referred back to her notes. “Lives a few streets away; works ten minutes from here, in West Caldwell.”
“You have anything else?”
She shuffled through a few more pages. “Not much. The society pages approve of the senior Gregorys-Jennifer’s kept in shape and wears a size four, Edward floats around in a yacht-they dance, they party, they pose well for photographs, but I got the impression that that’s where it stops. Phrases like ‘the very private couple’ and ‘the charming but tight-lipped Gregorys’ made me think they draw the line.”
Willy snorted from the back seat of the car. “Makes me think little Johnny was banished to Siberia with a bankroll and a Porsche and told to keep his nose clean.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Joe agreed, and asked Lil, “Did you see anything about Frederick’s social life?”
Farber pushed her lips out thoughtfully. “I didn’t check specifically, but when I ran the name Gregory, all I got was the parents.”
“Sounds like he lets Mom and Dad have the limelight,” commented Willy.
Lil glanced over at Joe. “Off to meet Prince Fred, the heir apparent?”
“Yeah.”
The office building Frederick Gregory worked in was a low-key, elegant, modern structure bordered by enough trees, reflecting pools, and stylish brick retaining walls to shield it entirely from the bustle of nearby Central Avenue. Once past the self-effacing entrance gate, all three of them felt like they’d been transported to some Connecticut estate. Perhaps typical of such places, there was only a number on the street announcing its existence, no corporate or business logo. Presumably, if you needed the services of the Gregory Foundation, you called ahead and were given directions.
They parked in a well-appointed lot peppered with a few elegant and expensive cars and walked into a lobby under the supervision of an attractive young woman with very cool eyes sitting at an imposing curving desk.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Joe took the lead, Farber having made it clear that she was there solely as a local presence.
“Yes. We were wondering if we could see Frederick Gregory. I’m afraid we don’t have an appointment.”
She gazed at him as if he’d just asked her to leap from the building’s roof. With polite incredulity, she asked, “You’re asking to make an appointment, is that correct?”
Instinctively, without Willy having made a sound or a gesture, Joe reached back a couple of inches and grabbed his colleague’s wrist, keeping his smile on the girl. “Actually, I’m hoping he might be able to see us now. It’s a matter of some importance to him-something fairly delicate, I’m afraid.”
He heard Willy sigh.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Nobody he’d recognize,” Joe answered. He’d encountered this situation before and hoped a time-honored approach might do the trick. He reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, adding, “I don’t wish you any disrespect, but maybe this will help us all out. Can I borrow a pen?”
Clearly mystified, she complied. He scribbled a note on the back of one of his business cards, which he shielded from her, and then asked for an envelope. He slipped the card into the envelope, addressed it, and handed it to her.
“I think if you give Mr. Gregory this, he’ll make time to see us. He is in the building?”
Still holding the envelope, she studied him for a few seconds, as if running through a mental inventory of scams she’d been warned against. Finally, she picked up the phone, spoke a few quiet words, and, with a very thin smile, motioned to a couch by the window. “Have a seat, sir. This should only take a few minutes.”
They retired to their designated perch and watched as a second elegant, well-dressed woman appeared from a side door and picked up Joe’s note.
Farber leaned in close to him. “What did you write?”
“‘John may be misbehaving again,’” he told her quietly. “‘We need to talk now, if you can.’”
Farber chuckled. “‘If you can.’ Very accommodating.”
Joe smiled in response. “Don’t want to seem pushy.”
“You’re really counting on John being the black sheep, aren’t you?”
“That I am.”
Three minutes later, Joe nodded toward the side door. The same young woman as before was gesturing to them to follow her.
“Showtime,” he murmured, and nodded, smiling, at the receptionist, who merely stared at them as they crossed the lobby.
Without comment, they walked single file down a muted hallway appointed with oversize Ansel Adams prints glowing under museum lighting, until they reached an unmarked pair of double doors. These their escort opened and stood back to let them pass.
It was a boardroom, very rich, very quiet, with a very expensive mahogany table in its center and a man sitting at its far end. The doors closed behind them.
“Mr. Gregory?” Joe asked.
“Not to be rude,” the man answered, “but I’d like to see your credentials-all of you.”
They filed down the length of the table, and Lil and Joe laid their IDs before him. Willy dropped his in the man’s lap, where it pointedly lay ignored.
“Special Agent Joseph Gunther of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation and Lieutenant Lillian Farber of our own Essex County prosecutor’s office,” the man read aloud. “Sounds high-profile.” He looked at Farber. “I take it you’re the official liaison, or is there some local interest here?”
“We have an interest. Could I see your identification, too, please?” Farber said. “Can’t be too careful.”
“I hope not,” he agreed, removing a slim wallet and displaying his driver’s license. He then retrieved Willy’s battered leather badge case and slid it across the table to him, unopened. “Have a seat.”
Clearly considering some sort of response, Willy hesitated as the other two pulled out leather chairs. To Joe’s relief, he ended up simply sitting. Not that Joe took too much comfort from that. No matter how short this meeting might be, he was betting it wouldn’t conclude without Willy expressing himself somehow.
“You’re here about John Samuel?” Gregory inquired of Joe.
“We are,” Joe admitted, pursuing the thin line that had gotten them this far. “It’s kind of a courtesy call, really, not that we aren’t interested in what you can tell us about him. But he has gotten himself into some trouble, which we thought you’d like to know about before it hits the papers.”
Frederick’s expression hardened slightly-the disapproving older sibling. “What kind of trouble?”
Joe pretended to look uncomfortable, skirting the fact that he had no hard evidence yet. “Ah. That’s a little awkward. My prosecutor would have my head if I said too much. We are talking felony crimes, though. Several of them.”
Frederick’s voice was flat. “Is he under arrest?”