Crisis (24 page)

Jack took out the three-by-five index card that Harold Langley had given him with Harold's cell phone number and Jordan Stanhope's address. Balancing it on the steering wheel, he picked up the trusty Hertz map and tried to find the street. It took a bit of patience, but he located it near both Chandler Pond and Chestnut Hill Country Club. Assuming that the court would have recessed somewhere in the three thirty to four o'clock range, he thought now would be as appropriate a time as any to drop in for a visit. Whether he'd get into the man's house or not he had no idea, but it wasn't going to be for lack of trying.

It took him a half-hour of navigating a maddening maze of twisty streets to find the Stanhope house. The fact that Jordan Stanhope was a wealthy man was immediately apparent. The house was huge, with spacious, immaculate grounds, carefully pruned trees and shrubs, and flowering gardens. A shiny, new, dark blue Bentley two-door coupe was parked in the circular drive that fronted the house. A separate three-car garage with a carriage house above was just visible through the trees to the right of the main building.

Jack pulled his Hyundai Accent up alongside its obscenely expensive counterpart. The juxtaposition was a study in contrasts. He got out of his car and approached the other. He had to look inside the extravagant machine, humorously attributing his unexpected interest to a heretofore unexpressed gene on his Y chromosome. The windows were down, so the aroma of the luxurious leather bathed the whole area. The car was obviously brand-spanking-new. After making sure he wasn't being observed, Jack stuck his head through the driver's-side window. The control panel had a simple, rich elegance. Then he noticed something else: The keys were in the ignition. Jack stepped back. Although he thought it was the height of ridiculousness to spend the kind of money he imagined the car cost, the fact that the keys were available unleashed a pleasant fleeting fantasy of breezing down a scenic road in the Bentley with Laurie at his side. It was a reverie that reminded him of a recurrent dream of flying he'd had in his youth. But the daydream quickly dissolved to be replaced by a mild embarrassment of coveting another man's car, even if just for an imagined joyride.

Jack skirted the Bentley and approached the front door. His reaction to the car had surprised him on several levels, most important of which concerned the idea of unabashedly enjoying himself. For many years after the fateful plane crash, he'd been unable to do so, since it aroused his guilt of being the only one in the family still alive. The fact that he could entertain the idea now was the best suggestion yet that he'd made significant progress toward recovery.

After ringing the doorbell, Jack turned back to the gleaming Bentley. He'd thought about what the car meant to him, but now he pondered what it said about Jordan Stanhope, aka Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski. It suggested that the man was seriously indulging himself with his new wealth.

Hearing the door open brought Jack's attention around and to the issue at hand. In his inside jacket pocket was the signatureless exhumation permit, and it crinkled as he brought his hand up to shield his eyes. The late afternoon sun was reflecting off the polished brass door knocker and momentarily blinded him.

"Yes?" Jordan questioned. Despite the glare, Jack could tell he was being eyed suspiciously. Jack was wearing his usual jeans, blue chambray shirt, knitted tie, and summer-weight blazer that hadn't been cleaned or pressed for longer than he cared to admit. In contrast, Jordan had on a plaid smoking jacket with a cravat. From around his silhouette wafted cool, dry air, suggesting the home's airconditioning was on despite the mild outdoor temperature.

"I'm Dr. Stapleton," Jack began. With a sudden decision to suggest a quasi-official explanation for his visit, Jack fumbled to extract his wallet with his medical examiner badge. He held it up for moment. "I'm a medical examiner, and I'd like a moment of your time."

"Let me see!" Jordan said as Jack tried to quickly return the wallet and badge to its normal location.

Jack was surprised. Rarely did people actually examine his official credentials.

"New York?" Jordan questioned, glancing back up into Jack's face. "Aren't you rather far afield?" To Jack's ear, Jordan spoke with a mock-melodiousness and a hint of an English accent that Jack associated with elite New England boarding schools. To Jack's double surprise, Jordan had reached out to grasp Jack's hand to steady it while he'd studied the badge. His precisely manicured fingers were cool to the touch.

"I take my job seriously," Jack said, defensively reverting to sarcasm.

"And what is your job that brings you from New York all the way to our humble home?"

Jack couldn't suppress a smile. The man's comment suggested he had an ironic sense of humor similar to Jack's. The home was anything but humble.

"Who is it, Jordie?" a crystalline voice called from the cool depths of the home's interior.

"I don't precisely know yet, dearest," Jordan affectionately called back over his shoulder. "It's a doctor from New York."

"I've been asked to help with the legal case you are currently involved in," Jack said.

"Really!" Jordan said with a hint of amazement. "And exactly how are you intending to help?"

Before Jack could answer, an attractive, doe-eyed young woman half Jordan's age appeared from around Jordan and stared at Jack. She had slipped an arm around Jordan's neck and the other around his middle. She smiled pleasantly, revealing startlingly white, perfect teeth. "Why are you standing here? Invite the doctor in! He can join us for tea."

Following the woman's suggestion, Jordan stepped to the side, motioned for Jack to come into the house, and then led him on a lengthy journey through a central hall, an expansive living room, and out into a conservatory built off the building's rear. Surrounded on three sides and roofed with glass, the room gave Jack the feeling he was back outdoors in the garden. Although Jack initially had thought "tea" was to be a euphemism for cocktails, he was wrong.

Ensconced in an oversized white wicker chair with pastel chintz cushions, Jack was served tea, whipped cream, and biscuits by a reserved woman in a French maid's uniform who quickly disappeared. Jordan and his girlfriend, Charlene McKenna, were seated opposite on a matching wicker sofa. Between Jack and his hosts was a low glass table supporting a silver service with additional sweets. Charlene could not keep her hands off Jordan, who acted as if he were unaware of her overt affection. The conversation initially ranged freely before centering on their plans for the summer, which were to include a cruise along the Dalmatian coast.

It was amazing to Jack that the couple were willing to do all the talking. He sensed that they were starved for entertainment, since he didn't have to say much beyond where he was from and that he was currently a houseguest at his sister's in Newton. After that, all he had to go was give an occasional "un-huh" to indicate he was paying attention. This gave Jack lots of opportunity to merely observe, and he was fascinated. Jack had heard that Jordan was enjoying himself, and apparently had been enjoying himself practically from the day Patience Stanhope had died. There had been little time for mourning since Charlene had moved in with him several weeks after the funeral. The Bentley in the driveway was only a month old, and the couple had spent a portion of the winter in St. Bart's.

Thanks to a melding of this new information with his cynical nature, the possibility in Jack's mind of foul play being involved in Patience's death became more than a passing thought and made the idea of doing an autopsy even more appropriate and necessary. He thought about going back to the Boston medical examiner's office with his suspicions, even if entirely circumstantial, to see if they would be willing to approach the district attorney about going to a judge to order the exhumation, because surely Jordan would never agree to one if he'd been in any way responsible for Patience's death. But the longer Jordan talked and the more apparent it was that he was playing the role of an ersatz, cultured, aristocratic gentleman, the less sure Jack was of Jordan's response to an autopsy. There had been criminal cases where the perpetrators thought themselves so intelligent that they actively helped law enforcement just to prove how smart they were. The pretender Jordan seemed to be might fall into that category and agree to an autopsy to make the game that much more exciting.

Jack shook his head. His rationality suddenly kicked in, and he knew without a shadow of doubt that he was letting his imagination run wild.

"You don't agree?" Jordan asked. He'd seen Jack's head motion.

"No, I mean yes," Jack said as he verbally stumbled, trying to cover his blunder. The truth was he'd not been following the conversation at that point.

"I'm saying the best time to go to the Dalmatian coast is during the fall and not the summer. You don't agree?"

"I agree," Jack insisted. "There's no doubt whatsoever."

Mollified, Jordan returned to what he'd been saying. Charlene nodded appreciatively.

Jack went back to his musing and admitted to himself that the chance of foul play being involved with Patience's death was infinitesimally small. The main reason was that Patience had had a heart attack and that there'd been too many accomplished physicians involved, including Craig. Craig wasn't Jack's favorite person, particularly to be married to his sister, but he was one of the sharpest, most knowledgeable physicians that Jack had ever known. There was no way Jordan could have fooled such a collection of professionals by somehow causing his wife to have a heart attack.

Such a realization yanked Jack back to square one. The medical examiner's office could not get him an exhumation and autopsy. If it were to happen, he had to do it himself. In that regard, Jordan's masquerading as the Boston Brahmin might help. Jack could appeal to him as a gentleman, since true gentlemen have a duty to set the example in ethical behavior by making sure justice prevails. It was a long shot, but it was all he could come up with.

While Jordan and Charlene debated the best time of year to go to Venice, Jack put down his cup and saucer and reached into his side pocket to pull out one of his business cards. When a break occurred in the conversation, he leaned forward and with his thumb snapped the card down onto the glass tabletop.

"I say! What do we have here?" Jordan questioned, immediately taking the bait. Bending forward, he glanced at the card be-fore picking it up to examine it more closely. Charlene took it from him and looked at it as well.

"What's a medical examiner?" Charlene asked.

"It's the same thing as a coroner," Jordan explained.

"Not quite," Jack said. "A coroner historically is an appointed or elected official tasked to look into causes of death, who may or may not have any specific training. A medical examiner is a medical doctor who's had graduate training in forensic pathology."

"I stand corrected," Jordan said. "You were about to tell me how you intend to help with my suit, which I have to say I'm finding rather a bore."

"And why is that?"

"I thought it would be exciting, like watching a boxing match. Instead, it is tedious, like watching two people arguing."

"I'm certain I could make it more interesting," Jack said, snatching the opportunity Jordan's unexpected opinion about the trial afforded him.

"Please be more specific."

"I like your simile comparing the trial to boxing, but the reason the match is uninteresting is because the two boxers are blindfolded."

"That's a droll image. Two fighters unable to see each other and just flailing away."

"Precisely! And they are blinded because they don't have all the information they need."

"What do they need?"

"They are arguing about the care of Patience Stanhope without Patience being able to tell her side of the story."

"And what story would she tell if she could tell it?"

"We won't know unless I can ask her."

"I don't understand what you two are talking about," Charlene complained. "Patience Stanhope is dead and buried."

"I believe he's talking about doing an autopsy."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"You mean dig her up?" Charlene questioned with consternation. "Yuck!"

"It's not all that uncommon," Jack said. "It's been less than a year. I guarantee something will be learned by doing it, and the boxing match, as you call it, will be in broad daylight and far more engaging."

"Like what?" Jordan questioned. He'd gone quiet, pensive.

"Like what portion of her heart was involved with the heart attack, how it progressed, whether there was any preexisting condition. Only when these issues are known can the question of her care be addressed."

Jordan chewed his lower lip while he considered what Jack had said.

Jack was encouraged. He knew what he was trying to do was still an uphill struggle, but Jordan had not dismissed the idea outright. Of course, he might not realize that permission to do the exhumation rested with him.

"Why are you offering to do this?" Jordan asked. "Who's paying you?"

"No one is paying me. I can honestly say that I'm motivated to see that justice prevails. At the same time, I have a conflict of interest. My sister is married to the defendant, Dr. Craig Bowman."

Jack carefully watched Jordan's face for signs of anger or irritation and saw neither. To the man's credit, he seemed to be rationally mulling over Jack's comments without emotion.