False Pretenses (14 page)

She watched him dress and shove his pipe into his coat pocket, and wanted to cry.

 

Senator Charles Henkle took the sealed envelope handed to him by his housekeeper with an impatient nod. He was late for a meeting, but the letter was unusual. It had been hand-delivered, and “
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
” was written in big block letters at the bottom. Perhaps, he thought, ever cynical, it was another contribution from an unknown person or persons, who would more than likely let his identity be known soon enough if he, Charles, accepted the contribution. He wandered to his desk and sat down. He picked up his antique letter opener and carefully slit open the envelope.

It contained a half-dozen eight-by-ten photos. Nothing more. He picked one up and turned it over, and froze. It was in glittering color. Brad Carleton was naked on his hands and knees. Another man, younger, was pumping into him, the look on his face sheer ecstasy.

Slowly, one at a time, Charles Henkle looked at
each of the photos. They were excellent photography, he thought vaguely. So much detail, so many close-ups. The one that made him truly ill was of Brad kissing his partner, his tongue deep in the man's mouth, his hand on his cock.

He carefully put the photos back in the envelope and locked it in a drawer. He walked from his study to the bathroom and vomited. His first thought after he'd rinsed out his mouth was: Has Jenny slept with him? My God, what if he has AIDS? Then he wanted to kill Brad Carleton. It was a simple, clean desire.

He left his home in Georgetown, not wanting to see either his wife or his daughter. He thought about showing the photos to Jenny, then dismissed the idea.

He returned home at midnight, went into his study, firmly closing the door behind him. He reached for the phone. All right, you little bastard, he thought, let's see if you're home, and if you are, you damned son of a bitch, another man better not answer the phone.

He was gritting his teeth on the third ring.

“Hello? Brad Carleton here.”

He got a grip on himself. “This is Charles Henkle,” he said. “I want to see you, Brad. I want you to fly to Washington tomorrow. I'll meet you at La Fourchette at precisely noon.”

“But . . . what's the matter, sir? Jenny's all right, isn't she?” Brad ran his hand through his hair, trying to get his wits together. He'd been deeply asleep, and it was late, very late. He heard his soon-to-be-father-in-law's deep breathing on the other end of the line. What the hell was going on? He said again, more sharply, “Sir, is Jenny all right?”

“Yes. Just be here, Brad.”

 

Jonathan Harley walked out of the First People's Bank of Philadelphia at precisely ten o'clock in the
morning. He was wearing a smile that made people he passed start, then smile back at him involuntarily.

“Ten million dollars,” he said aloud. “Out of the woods. I'm safe.” The loan had a thirty-day call-in after three months. It was plenty of time, and the interest rate wasn't all that exorbitant. Too, those were only paper terms. He knew his banker well, and if he needed it, he could get as long an extension as he wanted. He'd buy up another hunk of Rose's stock—through a go-between, since she'd probably spit in his face if she knew he was the buyer. Then he'd expand as he'd wanted to do.

“Went well, I see,” said Midge, reacting to the beautiful smile on her boss's face.

“You got it,” Jonathan said.

“Congratulations.”

He nodded, and strode into his office like a man who knew he was now in control.

“You deserve it,” Midge said under her breath. “You're rid of that bitch of a wife and now you've got enough money to make a real go of it.” She grinned down at her computer. If she were ten years younger and not in love with her husband, well, just maybe . . .

Ten minutes later, Jonathan walked from his office. His face was utterly white. Midge jumped to her feet. “What happened?”

He silently handed her a letter, one she hadn't opened because it had been marked “
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
.”

The envelope had no return address on it. It was blank save for Jonathan's name and address. Her hand was shaking as she smoothed out the single page. She finished reading it, then looked up at her boss's face. It was no longer white. He was flushed with anger, and his jaw was working.

“The bastards, the damned bastards,” he said, more
to himself than to her. “I won't let them get away with it.”

Actually, Midge wanted to tell him, it wasn't bastards at all, it was a woman, one very big, very powerful woman. Elizabeth Xavier Carleton. And she wanted Jonathan's company.

 

Charles Henkle ordered a Perrier. He never drank during the day, but he sure wanted something stiff right now. His eyes remained trained on the door of La Fourchette. Young men in business suits streamed in, young government men for the most part. This restaurant wasn't popular with his cronies and he'd picked it for just that reason.

He saw Brad step toward the hostess exactly two minutes past noon. Punctual bastard.

He didn't rise. Brad's face was a study of concern. “Sir,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

Charles said, “Sit down, Brad.”

Brad pulled back his hand and sat down, his eyes carefully studying the older man's face. Charles looked older, more tired, and Brad could see strain in his eyes. Why all the secrecy and this command performance?

“You're well, sir?” he asked, with proper deference.

“No, I'm not,” said Charles. “Nor am I the least bit hungry. I simply asked you here because I didn't fancy meeting in some park. I suggest that you order a drink, Brad.”

Brad ordered a Scotch. What was wrong? Why was Charles babbling about meeting in a park?

Charles waited until Brad drank a long swallow from his Scotch glass. Then he said very calmly the words he'd rehearsed so he wouldn't physically assault the young man: “You aren't going to marry Jenny. Indeed, you'll break it off with her. I would suggest that you claim you've met another woman, you can't help yourself, you don't want to hurt her, all that
nonsense. I'm certain you can carry it off once you give it enough thought.”

Brad very carefully set down his glass. His mind was racing. “What is this all about? You know I love Jenny. You know there isn't another girl.”

“No, I don't imagine there is,” said Charles, his voice laced with irony.

Brad frowned and a small thrill of fear began to travel through him. He said nothing for a moment, his brain frantically sorting through possibilities. He stared at Henkle's thick wavy white hair and clear blue eyes, imagining cynically that his constituency believed him the epitome of a statesman, an honest and honorable man. In God's name, what was the old man's problem?

“Lunch, gentlemen?”

Charles shook his head and waved the waiter away.

“As I said, Brad, you'll break it off with Jenny. I'll give you three days to come up with the best story. No longer.”

This ridiculous old man telling him what to do, just because he was a bigwig in the government? Brad could buy and sell him three times over. “No, I won't,” Brad said. “As I said, I love your daughter, and she, I might add, loves me.”

“I know she loves you, more's the pity. Her heart will mend, however. Don't make me get dirty, Brad.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Very well.” Charles opened his briefcase and extracted one photograph. He handed it to Brad facedown.

He watched the young man's face go slack with shock.

He watched his mouth work, but nothing came out. Charles leaned forward over the table and said very softly, “Now, you dirty little bastard, you will do just as I said.”

Brad reacted without thinking. He shredded the photograph.

“I have five others. Each are quite detailed,” said Charles.

“How did you get these?”

He sounded defeated, and scared, scared as hell. Charles felt no pity for him, not an ounce. “I got them, that's all I need to tell you. Just one thing—have you slept with my daughter?”

Brad wanted to shout at the old man that he'd screwed Jenny a good hundred times, but he wasn't stupid. If he said he'd slept with her, there was no telling what Henkle would do. “No,” he said. “I haven't slept with Jenny.”

“You'd better be telling me the truth, Carleton. I'll ask Jenny, you may be sure of that, and she always tells me the truth.”

Brad gulped. “Very well. We did sleep together, but just two or three times. I always used a condom, I swear it.”

Charles wanted to kill him. “You lying little slime. You deserve to die.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “If you don't do exactly what I tell you to do, I'll see that everyone in the entire world sees these photos. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.”

“If I do as you say, will you give me the photographs?”

“Worried, aren't you? Yes, I'll give them to you.” Charles laughed. “You see, you filthy scum, someone sent the photos to me, anonymously. So someone else knows, knows all about you. You'd best cover your flank. You've nothing to fear from me if you break off with my daughter. Now, I'm leaving. You sicken me.”

Charles tossed a twenty on the table. He handed Brad the envelope of photos. “You might want these,”
he said, “for inspiration. Just remember that I have another set.”

Brad didn't know what to say. He felt a certain amount of relief, despite his fear. He was aware of the contempt flowing from the senator. What did he know about anything? He swallowed down angry words, and watched Charles walk from the restaurant.

 

Brad looked at his grandmother, so proud, so queenly-looking, as was her wont.
Queenly.
He would have laughed at the thought had he been able. Odd how he never thought of her as old, not really. Objectively, she was ancient, a relic. She should be his little white-haired grandmother, a bit dotty and all that. God, what a joke. He was beginning to believe that she'd live forever, and control all of them until they died off. He glanced toward his Uncle Michael, who was seated near Laurette, his expression one of mild curiosity.

“Now I suppose you will tell your uncle and me what this is all about?” Laurette asked in her calm, well-bred voice.

Brad closed the library doors very firmly. “I'm not going to marry Jenny Henkle,” he said.

Laurette merely arched an eyebrow at her grandson. “May I ask why?”

Brad pictured Jenny's face in his mind for a moment, seeing her bewilderment, her shock, then the tears that streamed down her face. Pitiful little female. He realized that he'd cared more for her at that instant than he ever had before. And she loved him, really loved him, at least she thought she did.

He said, “Jenny broke it off.”

Michael merely stared at him. “Bull,” he said. “The girl would kill for you.”

“Why?” asked Laurette, her voice sounding mildly interested, no more.

“She decided that we wouldn't suit.”

Brad knew the moment his Uncle Michael realized the truth. Not all of it, not the nastiness, but enough of it. He sucked in his breath and his face went pale. “It's just as well,” he said. “Yes, it's just as well.”

“Both of you are being ridiculous,” said Laurette. “I want this marriage. You will go through with it, Bradley. If you have already spoken to Jenny, you will call her back . . . no, you will go see her, on your hands and knees, if necessary.”

“That's impossible, Grandmother,” Brad said, sending an agonized look toward his uncle.

Michael shrugged. “She knows,” he said.

“I know,” Laurette said in a crisp voice, “that you have this unfortunate . . . propensity for men, Bradley. Is that what Michael is talking about?”

“Yes, it is. Her father knows and he threatened me with exposure if I didn't break it off immediately.”

Laurette closed her eyes a moment. She felt the familiar pain in her kidneys, at least she thought it was her kidneys. It could be anything. It wasn't fair. There was so much to do . . . so much. At times like this, she wanted to just get up and leave the room, leave everything to Michael. But Michael wasn't Timothy. He would flounder like a raft in a storm. “I will speak to Senator Henkle,” she said.

“No, Grandmother, you can't.”

“I assure you that I can.”

“He . . . he has photos.” There, he'd said it. It was out in the open.

“Show them to me,” Laurette said.

Michael jumped to his feet. “No, Mother, please, no.”

“Don't be a fool, Michael. I assure you that I've seen everything there is to see in my eighty-four years. The photos, if you please, Bradley.”

Silently Brad handed her the envelope. He watched her pull out the photos, one at a time. There wasn't a sound in the room. Michael had dropped his head
into his hands. Brad felt frozen to the spot, his eyes on his grandmother's face. He felt shame, so much shame that he wanted to choke on it. She showed no expression.

She still said nothing as she replaced the photos in the envelope. “Does Henkle have copies?”

“He told me that he did. He told me he would give them to me once I'd broken off with Jenny.”

“I believe him,” she said. She continued thoughtfully, “Now, of course, the important thing is, where did he get the photos?”

“I don't know. He said they were sent to him anonymously.”

“Elizabeth,” she whispered.

Michael started. “Come now, Mother, really. Not Elizabeth.”

“Both of you are fools. Just because she's a woman, just because she has no business experience, you discount her. You know as well as I do that she found out about Rowe Chalmers and, shall we say, neutralized him. She's growing stronger by the minute. Come, Michael, you know that she has taken over ACI. Now this.”