Fall from Grace (9 page)

Quiet, Hanley watched the passing parade of Vineyarders and tourists. At length, he said, “We’re not going to play this game, young Mr. Blaine. You could say the same about your mother and Teddy, who got written out of the will—after all, no murderer with a motive would confess to having one. Or Jack, who everyone knows disliked Ben intensely. And if you’re looking for people who gained from Ben’s death, you could throw in Jenny Leigh.” He turned to Adam. “I’m not saying who I think it is, if anyone. I’m merely following your logic to its insubstantial conclusion.”

“So Pacelli has no alibi.”

Hanley’s eyes glinted. “You can think that if you like. So tell me why your father left you a hundred thousand and made you his executor.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Adam said in a throwaway tone. “He wanted to compete with me from beyond the grave.”

Hanley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he laughed aloud. “You plan to break the will, don’t you.”

“It’s crossed my mind. Maybe it crossed his. He always liked games.”

Hanley’s smile faded. “Hard to believe he’s dead,” he mused. “I still remember him in high school. I wanted to be quarterback in the worst way. But there was Ben, always Ben. He wouldn’t let me beat him out.”

“He couldn’t, George. That would have killed him for sure.”

Hanley appraised him. After a moment, he said, “I think I’ve said all I care to, and you’ve ferreted out what you can. Any time you want to say what else is on your mind, feel free.”

“I will,” Adam said easily. “At the moment, all that’s on my mind is using the restroom.”

Briskly, Hanley shook his hand. “First floor, if you don’t mind passing through security to take a piss. Too many nuts with guns, I guess.”

Turning, he shuffled up the steps, his shoulders slumped, unhappy to retreat inside.

Once more Adam gave up his keys and wallet to pass through the magnetometer, then spent an obligatory minute in the men’s room parsing his troubled thoughts. As he left, he glanced into the room containing the TV monitor and committed the name and make of the security system to memory.

On the courthouse steps, Adam saw a sturdy figure in the uniform of a police officer. His instant impression was of a body bound to thicken, already straining the blue shirt, its torso almost as broad as the man’s thick shoulders. Then he saw the man’s features—blue eyes, caramel-colored hair, a round, amiable face that hinted at perpetual puzzlement, as though something were about to surprise him. Smiling with his own surprise, Adam experienced in miniature what a high school reunion must feel like.

“Bobby?”

Bobby Towle stopped abruptly, gazing at Adam until an answering grin spread across the broad planes of his face. “Adam Blaine,” he said, and gave Adam an awkward hug. “My God, how long has it been?”

“A while,” Adam replied. “I think the last time was at a beach party. But you may not remember.”

Bobby’s grin was rueful. “I was with Barbara, right?”

“The beautiful Barbara,” Adam amended. “What happened with that?”

The smile diminished. “We’re still together. Married, in fact.”

“Can’t blame you a bit. It’s Barbara I wonder about.”

Bobby shifted his weight. “What about you?”

“Single. I’ve become a world traveler, which gets in the way.”

“Not a lawyer?”

“No.”

Bobby appraised him. “At least you look the same,” he said, patting his stomach. “No fat on you. Maybe a little older, and a little meaner.”

Beneath his guilelessness, Adam remembered, Bobby had an instinctive gift for grasping essential truths. “Not you, Bobby. Not even in uniform. You’re a cop, looks like.”

“Chilmark Police.” Bobby grimaced a little. “Sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks.” Adam paused for an appropriate moment, then rested a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Why don’t we meet for a drink somewhere. Or don’t you do that anymore?”

A faint look of hurt surfaced in Bobby’s eyes. “Not as much, nowadays. But, sure, I’ll tip a couple of beers to keep you company.”

“Great. The Kelley House still open?”

“Definitely.”

“Check with Barbara, then, and give me a call.”

Bobby hunched his shoulders. “Tomorrow night’s fine. Say eight o’clock?”

Something was wrong at home, Adam felt sure. “You’re on, Bobby. We can replay the last touchdown in the Nantucket game. You really crushed that guy.”

Driving home, Adam wondered about Bobby Towle, and felt a twinge of conscience for his intentions. Sometimes that still happened, even in Afghanistan.

Ten

Promptly at six, the time once mandated by his father, Adam had dinner with his mother, Jack, and Teddy. At first he did not say much, nor did anyone mention that Clarice had prepared Benjamin Blaine’s favorite dinner—lobster and Caesar salad, with a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet.

Facing Adam across the table, Jack said, “I sense you have something to tell us.”

“Several things. I read the will this afternoon. It’s been a while since I studied estates and trusts law, so I’m no expert. But I think Mom can attack it.”

Teddy glanced at Clarice, then told Adam dryly, “Then you’ll be glad to know we’re seeing a real lawyer.”

“Good. So let me suggest what he might look at.”

“Please,” his mother interposed with a trace of humor. “I’d like to think that year at NYU wasn’t completely wasted.”

This touched a sore point, Adam knew—for his mother, the pain of his abrupt departure was deepened by his failure to pursue a career for which he seemed well suited. Facing her, he said, “First there’s his behavior—whether caused by brain cancer or something else. That calls into question his mental capacity to execute a valid will.” Adam looked at the others. “Before Mom sees this lawyer, all of you should write down anything he said or did that seemed peculiar—”

“Can we make things up?” Teddy interjected wryly.

Adam shrugged. “Our father did. Just remember that you lack his gift for make-believe.” He faced his mother again. “Then there’s Carla Pacelli. If Dad wasn’t right in the head, she could have pressured him to make changes he otherwise wouldn’t have.”

“Maybe she did,” Jack said. “But what interest would Carla have in Ben leaving Jenny a million dollars?”

Adam had pondered this himself. “None, on the surface. Probably it was his idea. But a truly clever woman might have obscured her role by suggesting Dad leave money to someone else outside the family. Anyhow, it’s worth a shot. At least maybe Mom can force a settlement that gives her back the house and enough to live on.

“There also may be a problem with how Dad passed on his money. He created a trust in favor of Pacelli, taking the proceeds outside his estate and, as a result, outside the property Mom can claim a share in. Under the law, that may not hold up.” Adam turned to his mother again. “Finally, there’s the postnuptial agreement. Are you absolutely certain, Mom, that he gave you nothing for signing it?” He paused, concluding quietly, “Or, at least, that no one can prove he did?”

His mother flushed, then nodded stubbornly. “I’m sure.”

“Then the law may protect you from yourself.” Adam glanced around the table. “Then there’s George Hanley. George is a smart man, and he’s playing this close to the vest. But I’m pretty sure he thinks that one of you pushed my father off that cliff.”

His mother’s face became expressionless. “Why would he think that?” Jack demanded. “Hasn’t Clarice been through enough?”

His uncle wore an expression Adam had seldom seen, angry and defensive. “It’s not personal,” he answered calmly. “As to the why, my guess is that George believes that one or more of you knew about this will.”

“Then we’d be fools,” Teddy cut in. “Unless we can break the will, his death locked in our disinheritance.”

Adam stared at his brother. Since Ben’s death, it was clear, the members of his family had considered their positions more deeply than they acknowledged. “A good point,” Adam responded. “Assuming that murder is a rational act. But our father had a way of provoking hatred, didn’t he.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Studying their expressions, now quite composed, Adam felt a frisson—at the least, he sensed, someone at this table knew more than they wished to tell him. “In any event,” he said, “Dad named me executor of his will. That means I’m staying for a while.” His voice chilled. “He wanted to drag me into this. So now I’m in.”

Clarice gave him a complex look of worry and relief. After a moment, she reached across the table, touching Adam’s hand. “Whatever the reason,” she said in a husky voice, “I’m glad you’re not disappearing. The last time was hard enough.”

After dinner, Jack sat with Adam on the porch. It felt familiar and companionable, reminding Adam of the evenings they had spent a decade ago or more, when Ben was off-island and his uncle would come for dinner. Adam always cherished them, not least for the release of tension from his father’s oversized presence, the pleasant contrast of Jack’s solicitude and calm. Sometimes they would talk for hours.

But this evening Jack was quiet, the coffee cup untouched beside him. Finally, he asked, “You’re very worried about the police, aren’t you?”

Adam weighed his answer. “I don’t care if he was murdered, Jack. I just don’t want anyone in this family to pay for it. He did enough harm when he was alive.”

Jack studied him. “Teddy’s on to something, you know. Why would anyone kill a man whose death would ruin them?”

A shadow of memory crossed Adam’s mind. “Because sometimes hatred is enough. But you’re right, of course—motive is important. And there are people outside this family who stand to profit from his death. Mom certainly hasn’t.” Adam paused to sip his coffee, eyeing Jack over the rim. “Do you know why she signed that postnup?”

For a moment, Jack’s thoughts seemed to turn inward, and then he looked at Adam intently. “I know what your mother says. I think you should accept that. The shame she feels whenever you bring it up is painful to watch—”

“Not as painful as its consequences.”

“I can see that.” Jack paused. “I also understand why you’d want to help her. But will your firm allow you to stick around that long?”

“I’m not giving them a choice.”

The worry in Jack’s eyes deepened the gravity of his expression. “As your uncle, let me speak my piece. No matter what you say about it, I’m not happy with you going back to Afghanistan. But all of us except you got sucked into Ben’s orbit. At least you escaped—”

“This is different, Jack.”

“So it is. But I don’t think you can change what happens here. Maybe you should go back to the life you’ve created for yourself. Or better, start a new one.”

Adam contemplated the coffee cup, cool now in his hands. “I can’t,” he answered simply. “I need to bury him for good.”

Before sunset, Adam climbed down the wooden stairway from the promontory to the beach. Gazing up at the cliff, he imagined the trajectory of his father’s fall. Beneath it he found a rock with a faint rust-colored stain that, a week before, must have been a pool of his father’s blood.

Adam closed his eyes. If someone had pushed him, they could be certain that he could not live to say who, or why. Perhaps no one but the murderer would ever know.

He sat down on a rock, contemplating a vivid sunset Ben would have loved, which now began to cast a shimmering orange glow on the darkening waters. Seeing his mother, uncle, and brother had reminded Adam, if he needed this, how deeply he loved them. But that did not mean he believed everything they said, any more than he would tell them the entire truth about himself and what he meant to do here. The last ten years had created a duality in his nature—he had learned the uses of dissembling, and how to wall off his emotions to survive. He could feel love and practice deceit in the same moment.

Glancing around him, he took out the untraceable cell phone he had not used since coming back. He punched in the number, imagining the man at his desk noting which telephone he had called on. When his superior picked up, he said, “It’s Blaine.”

“Where are you?”

“Still on the island. I have to stay here for a while. My father seems to have disinherited my mother.”

A moment’s pause. “Isn’t it a little late to change his mind?”

“There’s something off here, Frank. Several things. Don’t tell me a man of your broad interests doesn’t read the National Enquirer.”

Svitek laughed. “I have, actually. Sounds like your father’s interests were very broad indeed. But we need you back there, my son.”

The orange disk, Adam noticed, was swiftly vanishing. “They need me here much more,” he replied. “While I’m gone, you’ve got other people to do the work.”

“Starting from scratch? Come off it, Adam. We can’t just clone an operative with your exceptional skills—”

“Which are?”

“Deception. Manipulation. Withholding information. Knowing whom not to trust. Getting those who trust you to take risks on your behalf. And, of course, pretending to be someone you’re not.” His superior’s tone changed from ironic to practical. “The Afghans like you. You have a knack for inspiring confidence while telling your prey only what they need to know.”

Adam’s laugh was hollow. “As I consider it, Frank, those are the attributes of a sociopath.”

“In our line of work we call them ‘survival skills.’” Svitek paused, his voice admitting a note of compassion. “You’re hardly a sociopath, Adam—you care about people too much. That weakness aside, you’re the best we have.”

“By which you mean they haven’t killed me yet. Despite a dead man’s best efforts.”

“True enough. But that makes my point, doesn’t it?”

Adam’s tone hardened. “Given all that, I’ve earned myself a leave. As you suggest, working under cover gives us certain skills. One is a gift for changing outcomes in ways that can’t be seen. For the next little while, I mean to use those talents on behalf of the three people I most care about.”

Svitek was silent. “You’ve made a commitment to us,” he replied at length, “and your work is essential. Whatever you mean to do there, wrap it up in one month’s time. And don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“I won’t,” Adam said flatly. “Whomever or whatever I’m dealing with, at least it’s not the Taliban.”