The Pact (9 page)

It was only a quarter past eight, so out of habit and guilt, the first call I placed was to check my voice mail at work. It was rare for me to go more than a couple of waking hours without checking messages; Winslow, Brown employees had elevated voice mail to an art form, and I frequently sent and received more than a hundred messages in any twenty-four-hour period. It was well understood that we were expected to check voice mail several times a day, even on weekends or when on vacation. The size of a banker’s voice mailbox was directly correlated with his or her status in the Winslow, Brown hierarchy. Of course, judging by their behavior, most of the men in my department seemed to feel that it was more directly correlated to a certain part of the male anatomy. When I’d been promoted to vice president, the capacity of my box had been doubled, from forty-five minutes to ninety minutes, but I still needed more than all of my hands and feet to count the number of times it had been entirely filled with messages.

I punched in my extension number and password and awaited with mild dread the friendly automated voice that would tell me how many new messages I had. It had been at least twelve hours since the last time I’d checked in, which was more than enough time for all hell to break loose on any of the deals I had underway.

“You have sixteen new messages,” the voice announced with jubilation. I winced and steeled myself to start going through them. Most were unimportant—department-wide announcements, the daily capital markets wrap-up and messages from my assistant about meetings that had to be rearranged the following week. Only one really concerned me, a message from Stan Winslow marked Urgent.

The knowledge that Stan had programmed his voice mail so that all of his messages were marked Urgent wasn’t enough to stave off the feeling of impending doom. A call from Stan on a weekend was never good news. Stan headed up Mergers and Acquisitions. Whether this was due to his deal-making prowess or to his last name, which was indeed related to that on our firm letterhead, was not much in doubt. Stan was part of a dying breed of old-school investment bankers, a generation that had come of age when the profession was still very much controlled by men who had prepped together at various prestigious boarding schools, joined the same exclusive clubs and fraternities at their Ivy League colleges, and got by on their connections and skills on the golf course.

I felt the tension spread up my spine and into my shoulders. Stan had finally embraced diversity as a cause, probably at the urging of his third wife, who fancied herself a feminist, albeit of the sort who disdained activism as “unattractive.” Stan was now making an aggressive attempt to establish himself as a mentor to the diverse elements in the department—namely, me—the only woman. I was sure he would have preferred that I were black, but my skin was so pale as to be nearly translucent, particularly during the long winter months when it took on a lovely bluish tinge. His idea of mentoring was to involve me in every deal that came over his transom.

I couldn’t complain—success in our line of work was based almost entirely on the revenue we generated, which was based in turn on the number and size of deals we could bring in and close. Still, most Stan-originated projects derived from people of Stan’s ilk—while other bankers carved out specialties in telecom or energy deals, I seemed to be building a franchise in serving the Old Boy Network.

His message was incoherent, at best. I guessed it had been sent after a martini-saturated conversation at the Knicker-bocker Club. “Rachel, old gal—Stan here. Something interesting has come up. A friend of mine is mounting a takeover of some sort. He wants our help, and I told him you were just the man—er, harrumph, the gal, I mean, the person for him. I’ll be out in East Hampton this weekend. Give me a call and I’ll fill you in. We want to hit the ground running on this one.” He slurred the number of his country house, and I jotted it down on the back of the guest list.

Great, I thought to myself. I already had more on my plate than I could handle, but saying no to Stan was not a possibility—not, at least, if I wanted to be elected partner one day, preferably sooner rather than later. I deleted the message and hung up the phone with a sigh.

I’d carried my soda up the stairs with me, and I took another large gulp. I wondered if it should worry me that so many of the duties I’d had to perform of late seemed to require either alcoholic or caffeinated fortification.

I checked my watch. It was twenty past eight. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone again and dialed Stan’s number in East Hampton.

“Hello?” I recognized the voice on the other end as belonging to Wife Number Three, whose given name was Susan but was referred to by much of the department (at least outside of Stan’s presence) as “Cupcake.”

“Hi, Susan,” I said. “It’s Rachel Benjamin. I’m so sorry to bother you at home, but Stan asked me to call him ASAP. I hope it’s not too early.”

“Oh, hello, Rachel. He’s been expecting your call. I’ll get him for you.” The spouses of investment bankers were quick to learn that their lives could and would be invaded at any time by work. Most, however, found it a small price to pay for the hefty year-end bonus checks and the lavish lifestyle the checks afforded. I heard Susan calling out Stan’s name, her voice echoing in the cavernous rooms of their oversize beach house.

Stan picked up a moment later, his voice all collegial joviality. “Rachel—how goes it? You were off to a wedding this weekend, weren’t you?” I was surprised he’d remembered, but knowing my weekend plans didn’t seem to have deterred him from disturbing them.

“Yes,” I replied, unwilling to go into the details. “I’m up in the Adirondacks. What’s up?”

“I was having drinks last night with an old friend of mine, Smitty Hamilton. Great guy, Smitty. A real demon on the golf course—can sink a putt from fifty feet blindfolded. When we were over in Scotland playing Saint Andrews, why Smitty put us all to shame….” Stan’s voice wandered off as he reminisced about golf games past. I waited, glad that he couldn’t see my impatient expression over the phone.

He cleared his throat and collected his thoughts. “Well, Smitty runs Hamilton Tech, as you may know. And, there’s an acquisition they want to do. Something techie—silicon chips or X-rays or amoebae or some such thing. I figured I’d let you handle the details. The target doesn’t want to sell, but the company’s so strapped for cash I don’t think they’ll have a choice. They’re about to default on a bank loan they have outstanding. This should be a piece of cake.”

“Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Sounds exciting.”

“Anyhow, we’re meeting with Smitty first thing on Monday. I wanted to send you some of the materials he gave me so that you can get up to speed. I left them with Office Services in New York—if you call them with your fax number they’ll make sure that you get everything.” Winslow, Brown had round-the-clock staff that made copies, typed up documents and took care of faxes and other clerical details seven days a week.

“I’ll call in and make sure I get everything,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was to start preparing for a new business meeting, but it looked like I wouldn’t have much say in the matter.

“Sounds good. See you Monday.”

“Right. Thanks, Stan.”

“No problem, old gal. And Rachel—?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t screw up.”

“O
ld gal, this, you drunken preppie,” I muttered after I hung up the phone, favoring it with an obscene gesture.

I heard a good-natured laugh. “Something wrong?”

I shrieked for the second time that morning, bolting up from my chair and dropping my can of Diet Coke. Luckily, I’d drained it during my conversation with Stan. My heart was beating alarmingly fast, and I struggled to compose myself.

Somehow Peter had managed to enter the room unnoticed. I had no idea how long he’d been standing behind me, but there he was, barefoot in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair sweetly mussed from sleep. I noted with surprise that the events of the morning had managed to wipe any thoughts of him from my mind, even though seeing him now made me recall with a blush the vivid role he’d played in my dreams the previous night.

He looked abashed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I blushed even deeper. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spaz out. I’m just a bit jumpy.” I knelt to retrieve the can. Peter bent down at the same time, and our hands met as we both reached for it. His touch was warm, and he extended his free arm to help me up. I gripped it, noting with appreciation how nicely muscled it was. He placed the can on the table next to the phone, and I smoothed my dress down over my thighs. “Where—where did you come from?” I stammered.

“I’m staying in the guest room up here.” He gestured to an open door on the opposite side of the den. I’d forgotten that there was yet another bedroom on this floor; in a house of this size it was easy to lose track. Through the door I could see a rumpled bed, barely visible in the thin light that managed to pass through the drawn curtains. “I completely overslept,” he continued. “Still on California time, I guess.”

“You must be a world-class sleeper,” I observed. It hadn’t exactly been quiet around here this morning, what with the assorted screaming and sirens.

“Like a rock. If only it were a marketable skill. I take a sleeping pill and use earplugs when I travel, which probably helped.” He grinned, and my heart did a small flip. “So, what’s going on that has you so riled up at a poor defenseless phone? Or is it just the abstract concept of drunken preppies that disturbs you?”

“Oh, no, um,” I struggled for words. “It’s just been sort of a difficult morning so far, and I’m a little grumpy.”

“I wish I hadn’t overslept. Have I messed up on any important prewedding responsibilities?”

I gulped. His question implied that he was entirely in the dark on the events of the past several hours. I had no desire to tell him about the death of his oldest friend, but it looked like I wasn’t going to have much of a choice. “Um, well, actually. Oh, dear. Gee.” I realized that I sounded like a complete idiot, but I had no idea as to how to proceed.

He moved closer and smiled engagingly. “Come on, you can tell me. Have I totally neglected my best man duties? Was there something I was supposed to be doing? Distracting Richard? Picking up rings? Escorting early arrivals to their seats? Some other critical obligation?” His breath had a nice, minty toothpaste smell to it.

“Why don’t you sit down,” I suggested, sinking back into my chair. He remained on his feet, concern washing the smile from his face.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t really know how to tell you this,” I began. “It’s about Richard.”

“Let me guess. Has he gotten cold feet?”

“To put it mildly,” I answered, then cursed my reflexive flippancy. “Oh, bugs. That was the wrong thing to say. You see, it’s just that there’s been an accident.”

The expression on his face downgraded to outright alarm. “What happened? Is he all right?”

“Well, no. In fact, he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

I nodded. He lowered himself slowly onto the sofa next to my chair.

“Dead?” he asked again.

“Yes.” We were both silent for a few minutes. I noted that his face was even more handsome when he was stunned than when he was bemused. I heard my grandmother’s voice in my ear wondering if he was Jewish. With a name like Forrest, it seemed unlikely, but perhaps that was an Ellis Island translation of something of which my grandmother would approve. I moved to sit next to him, wanting to put my hand on his shoulder but too chicken to do so.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nobody’s sure, yet. He, um, he was floating in the pool this morning. I found him there.” The tableau I’d encountered earlier flashed before my eyes, and I stifled a shudder.

“The pool? He drowned? That’s impossible. He’s—he was—I mean, the guy’s the strongest swimmer I know. Knew. He was an all-state champion in middle school.”

“As I said, nobody’s quite sure. The police are here checking into it.”

“I can’t believe it.” He ran his hands through his hair. “We were hanging out, talking, just a few hours ago. I just can’t believe it,” he repeated. He jumped up and began pacing the room.

My curiosity, which had a tendency to rear at inappropriate moments, was piqued. I wondered if Peter had been the last person to see Richard alive. “What time did you go to bed?”

“What?” he asked, distractedly pausing in midpace.

“What time was it when you came in?”

“Hmm,” he said, thinking. “I guess it was a little after three. Yes, in fact I know that’s what time it was because I checked my watch when I came in. We’d stayed up for a while after Matthew and Sean turned in—Richard and I hadn’t seen each other in so long, we had a lot of catching up to do.”

“Did he go to bed also? When you left to come inside?”

“What?” He’d resumed his pacing, obviously trying to digest the news. His brown eyes had a faraway look.

“When you finished talking. Did he go to bed, too, when you did?”

“Uh, no. He said he had a rendezvous. I assumed with Emma. You know, one last prenuptial tryst of some sort.” He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Yes, it was definitely with Emma. He didn’t actually say so, he was being sort of coy about it, but I looked out the window before I drew the blinds and saw her out there with him.”

We were both quiet, thinking. I, too, was a deep sleeper, but I was surprised that Emma had managed to sneak out of our room and back in without waking me. She’d been soundly asleep when I crept into bed a little past two. And the news that she’d been with Richard before he died made me more than a little bit anxious.

Peter crossed back and forth several more times before he finally spoke. “Has anybody told his mother?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I don’t even know if anybody knows how to get in touch with her.” The words were barely out of my mouth when my gaze landed on the folder I’d brought up with me.
M
through
Z.
Just my luck. I opened it up, reluctantly, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t find the information in there. The last thing I wanted was to tell Richard’s mother, however awful she might be, that her only son was dead.

But sure enough, there was her contact information, exactly where it should be, at the head of the long list of last names beginning with
M.
Lydia Mallory Shannon di Malvisano, an address in Campo San Polo in Venice, and a phone number that began with the Italian country code.

“Well, there’s one question answered. I guess I should call her.” I stared at the carefully printed number and tried not to groan. This was hardly a task I would have volunteered to undertake.

“No, you shouldn’t have to do that,” Peter protested. “It’s bad enough that you had to find him like that, you shouldn’t have to be the one to tell his mother. At least she knows me, or did, at one point. I’ll call her.”

“I can do it. Really. It’s okay.” I tried my best to sound as if this were a task I could take in stride.

“No. Absolutely not. You’ve had enough trauma for one morning. Besides, it would probably be best if she hears it from someone familiar. And I know a little Italian, which might come in handy. Here.” He reached out for the piece of paper with Lydia’s information, and I relinquished it, unable not to appreciate the slight tingle I felt when his hand touched mine.

“Thank you.” I made a mental note of how chivalrous it was of him to take on this burden.

“Sure,” he said. “I have my cell phone in my room. I can make the call from there.” He paused and looked at me. “Are you all right?” he asked. “It must have been quite a shock for you to find him like that.”

I nodded, feeling guilty. I couldn’t very well tell him that after shock my next emotion had been relief.

“Well, then,” he said. “I’ll go call her now.” I watched him walk slowly across the room and back through the open door. He shut it gently behind him.

Seeing Peter so clearly distraught aroused my moribund sense of shame. We’d all been so casual and easy, divvying up tasks and joking about the detectives. It was harder to be so cavalier when I considered that Richard had actually meant something to someone. At least, he seemed to have meant something to Peter, his oldest friend. I heard the muffled sound of his voice from behind the closed door.

I wondered how Richard’s mother would react. She was now married to her fourth husband, a minor Italian count with a decaying palazzo in Venice. Emma had told me in shocked confidence that she had declined to make the trip overseas for the wedding, sending instead a set of Italian ceramic dishes along with a short note wishing the couple well. Emma was stunned by this maternal disinterest. What sort of mother would skip the wedding of her only child? I wondered if she would skip his funeral, too.

With a sigh, I returned to my folder and tried to concentrate on the remaining list of names rather than how absurdly appealing Peter was, even in these unfortunate circumstances. There were careful notes indicating which guest would be arriving when. It was easy to figure out who might still not have arrived in town. All in all, there were only a dozen people whom I needed to try to track down, mostly with phone numbers in New York and Connecticut, but between checking voice mail, talking to Stan, and then talking to Peter, I was behind schedule. I would have to hurry if I was going to reach any of them.

I picked up the phone, ready to dial the first number. Mistakenly, however, I’d selected a line already in use. I opened my mouth to apologize to whomever was speaking, but shut it immediately when I realized that I didn’t recognize the voice.

“—the scene around here. Maybe this is just how rich folks behave, but there’s not a lot of wailing or chest beating or hair tearing going on. These people seem to be more pissed off about the inconvenience than anything else. Doesn’t seem like anybody’s going to miss this guy too much.” The man speaking had a deep, resonant voice that was colored by a faint Boston accent, more Kennedy-esque than Dorchester. I guessed that it was the detective Hilary had her eye on.

“Interesting. Now, you’re sure it wasn’t an accident? If we bother these people without a good reason they’ll probably have their lawyers all over us in no time.”

“Well, we won’t know anything for sure until the medical examiner has his say, but I would be pretty surprised if that were the case. The paramedics said that all of the physical signs indicate an overdose, rather than a drowning. There’re no external injuries of any sort, so it doesn’t look like he bumped his head and fell in or anything. My guess is that he was poisoned and then somebody shoved him in the pool to make it look like an accidental drowning.”

“Someone who knows next to nothing about forensics,” pointed out the other voice. “How else could he expect to pass it off as a drowning?”

“Maybe rich people don’t watch any crime shows or read police procedurals,” said the detective dryly. “Anyhow, the medical examiner’s on his way and promised to have his initial findings by tomorrow morning. The nice thing about working up here is that there’s not a lot of competition for resources—this body definitely takes precedence over a couple of senior citizens dying in their beds. We can rush through a lot of the lab work. And we should be able to get a subpoena for phone records and anything else we need pretty quickly. The judge will be ecstatic to have something to do.”

“And you think it has to be someone at the house?”

“Absolutely. This place is like Fort Knox. The security’s out of control. You practically have to pass a retinal scan to get through the front gate.”

I replaced the receiver as quietly as I could. So Matthew had been right. Richard had been dead before he hit the water. And the police thought somebody here had killed him. The plot was thickening, and I was growing increasingly nervous that someone I cared about would be trapped in its sludge.

The sound of the shower running from the bathroom adjacent to Peter’s bedroom shook me out of my reverie, and I dutifully punched an unlit button on the phone to get a line that wasn’t being used, newly eager to get my phone calls out of the way so I could get back downstairs and find out what was really going on before the situation spun further out of control.

Mostly I only reached people’s answering machines, and I left polite but generic messages explaining that the wedding had been canceled and apologizing for the late notice. I did speak to a couple of people directly, and I hurriedly explained that there’d been an accident and that I couldn’t provide further information at this point, except that the wedding would not take place.