“Don’t ask me why, but that photo gave my career a boost, probably opened some doors that wouldn’t have opened otherwise. But Margie was livid, and that two weeks with Deena was the beginning of the end for Margie and me. And the beginning of my connection with Deena.”
Harper felt a sudden calm. Nothing to do but watch and listen and absorb what she sensed was coming. A spreading warmth in her chest like the first flush of whiskey hitting the blood.
He blinked hard and shook his head as if waking from a trance.
“Sorry, sorry, I got sidetracked. So the thing I was trying to say was that after you were born, I failed Deena. I didn’t realize how hard motherhood would be for her, and I simply let my work and the drumbeat of my career seduce me away from her at the most important moment of Deena’s life. It was a betrayal of loyalty. A desertion of the worst kind. Later on, as much as I tried to make it up to her, the damage was done. What trust she had in me was shattered.”
He took another distracted look around the room.
“Look, Harper. Maybe this is the wrong time. Maybe this is the exact worst time I could’ve chosen, but Deena’s gone now, and you and I are here together in the middle of this shitty situation. I don’t know, but I feel like it’s important to lay it all out for you.”
“So do it.”
He drew a breath and said, “Warren Roberts isn’t your father.”
The silence that followed sent an ache deep into her chest.
When she spoke, her voice was thin and faraway.
“You are,” she said. “Ben Westfield is my father.”
He nodded. Yes, yes, yes.
Her first reaction was ridiculous. Well, hey, this solved a lifetime of puzzles. Her height, for one. Towering above Warren, a full foot taller than Deena. A different body type than either, rangy, long limbed in a family of petites and bantamweights. And it explained Warren’s cool disinterest in her welfare and Deena’s own businesslike mothering approach. It opened up endless reconsiderations. And yet somehow the disclosure also felt like a reprieve. A burden lifted, a fresh start.
A moment later, when the full impact hit her, the sheer absurdity of it made her giddy. An impulsive burst of laughter broke from her throat. The idea that she was Ben Westfield’s daughter was so preposterous she couldn’t stop herself. She laughed harder and harder still. Shaking, gasping for breath, bending forward, holding her stomach, a series of uncontrollable hiccups of laughter. Ben Westfield, screen legend, man’s man, Deena’s lover, her goddamn father.
He lay a hand on her back, warm, comforting, trying to draw her back.
For a moment amid the laughter, Harper broke free of her body and floated somewhere overhead, looking down on this opulent room, this strange spectacle, and she knew her laughter was grossly inappropriate. An insult to Westfield’s sincerity. She tried to bring it to a halt, but the laughter wouldn’t slow. One after another the guffaws rolled and rolled and rolled up from her belly in irrepressible bursts until she thought she might faint. Her vision fogged, an iron fist clamped deep in her gut.
Then with a sputtering gasp and a deep gulp of air, she stopped. She wiped her eyes, looked up at Ben. He’d stepped away from the couch and was watching her warily from a few feet away.
“It’s true,” he said. “I’m sorry to drop it on you this way.”
She nodded.
“Warren has always known you weren’t his,” he said, “but as far as Deena knew, he didn’t suspect me.”
She eased back against the cushions, glanced at the closed door.
“And Nick?”
He nodded.
“Deena told him. I don’t know why. She never explained it.”
“And Sal?”
“Nobody but Nick, and now you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Now me.”
And those were the last words she managed until morning.
At ten, as Ben and Harper were leaving for the Albion meeting, Sal met them in the lobby, asked to speak to Harper alone.
Sal guided her to a quiet corner in the Widder lobby.
“What’s up?”
“Wanted to wish you luck.”
“In private?”
“Well,” he said. “There was something else.”
He motioned to the zebra-striped chairs nearby, and they sat.
He looked off at the sunlight streaming through the plate-glass windows, people on the sidewalk outside shuffling through the new snow, and he blinked hard as if to clear his eyes.
“One thing you learn you get my age, the work I did, living around tough guys with guns, you can never be sure, somebody walks out the door, maybe this is the last time you see them. This right here.”
Harper waited.
“I don’t mean to be morbid, but you know, my age, these ideas take shape, they’re hard to ignore.”
“Are you sick, Sal?”
He waved away the thought, then shrugged.
“No, no, it’s not that. I mean, yeah, I had a brush with cancer, some polyps a year back, but they dug around in there, got it all, they think. No, this is something else, just a feeling I had. You love somebody, you start looking at them, and I can’t help it, but I think, like, what if they got hurt or had a heart attack, a stroke, or god forbid they got shot and killed and this was the last time I ever saw them. It’s just that time of life for me, is all. It’s not a premonition about what you’re doing today or nothing like that. It’s just how I been feeling lately.”
“About me.”
“About you, yeah.”
“What you’re saying is you love me.”
Sal straightened up, looked around the lobby, flustered. “Sure I love you. Sure, sure. You’re my granddaughter, for christsakes. Of course I do.”
“But it’s more than me being your granddaughter, isn’t it?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m being a sentimental old schmuck. Just ignore me, okay. Good luck today. That’s all I meant to say.”
“I love you too, Sal. Sure you’re my granddad, but it’s more than that. I love who you are.”
“Jesus, listen to us. A couple of sappy douche bags.”
She rose and bent forward and gave Sal a kiss on his cheek. First time she’d kissed the old man. And not, if she could help it, the last.
THIRTY-SIX
Mid-March, Albion building, Zurich, Switzerland
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
Lester Albion swept his hand toward the far wall of the conference room. In the center of the space stood an eight-foot-tall fountain with dark melted chocolate cascading from tier to tier, seven tiers in all, the rich, earthy odor of the concoction flooding the room. Around its base were dishes heaped with fresh strawberries.
“This particular chocolate is Marburg’s finest grand cru champagne truffle. Arnold, my chef, hasn’t slept in days, perfecting the recipe so it flows smoothly. Go on, dip a berry. Taste a bit of paradise.”
Harper hung back behind Ben Westfield’s shoulder. Everyone’s attention was focused on the movie star. Everyone except Albion’s young daughter.
“This lady doesn’t like chocolate, Daddy. She looks allergic.” Bonnie Albion was smiling up at Harper. A menacing grin. The girl seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to Harper, as if somehow she knew Harper was here to take down her father. The girl’s bright-blonde hair was cut in a harsh pageboy. She was dolled up in a blue velvet frock and black patent-leather shoes. A slash of garish red lipstick ineptly applied.
As though the two were old chums, Albion gripped Ben Westfield’s elbow and steered him with possessive delight across the room to meet Edwin Marburg.
Marburg was a tall, skeletal man with a sour mouth and watery eyes and an ill-fitting gray suit. Then came Larissa Bixel, who shook Westfield’s hand while her eyes dodged left and right, never settling on anything for more than a half second. Bixel was a blocky woman, who’d tried without success to hide her massive arms and shoulders beneath an oversize tunic sweater. Flanking her was Mr. He
lmut Mullen, who gave Ben’s hand a perfunctory pump while eyeing Harper with a bitter we’re-not-done-yet smile.
No one seemed surprised to find Harper McDaniel accompanying the movie legend. She suspected that Adrian Naff had made the connection between Westfield and Harper and cautioned his colleagues that there was some kind of trickery afoot. Perhaps they’d even devised their own counterstrategy, setting a trap for Harper that they’d spring once Albion had finished hobnobbing with the star.
But as long as Edwin Marburg was in attendance, Harper was fairly sure she and Ben were safe. None of these people would dare jeopardize Albion’s merger plans by committing a crude act of violence in front of the priggish Marburg.
When Albion drew away from Ben to consult with Adrian Naff, who’d just arrived, Westfield bent in Harper’s direction.
“We’re outnumbered. Where’s your friend with the badge?”
“Late as usual.”
Lester Albion clapped his hands and turned to face the assembly. It was then that Harper noticed his eyes were lit from within as if by a fierce blue flame. As he spoke, welcoming them to this gathering in honor of Ben Westfield, Harper studied their smoldering intensity. She’d seen those eyes only briefly before, but that was all the evidence she needed.
She leaned close to Ben and whispered the revelation in his ear.
He absorbed her message and straightened, staring across the room at their host.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.”
“Now it is my great honor and personal thrill to introduce my lifelong hero, a man who has brought to life some of my favorite characters, strong men, determined men, larger-than-life heroes, as well as some of the most twisted and inspired villains ever seen. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the master of his dramatic craft and the driving force behind many of the finest films of our time, Mr. Ben Westfield.”
After a patter of awkward applause, Albion herded the group to the conference table, where yellow nameplates marked their spots. Westfield was positioned at the head of the table, Marburg at the opposite end. Albion, Bixel, Mullen, and Naff sat side by side across from Harper, and beside her was a single, empty seat with a blank yellow card. Bonnie fluttered around the table like a high-strung sparrow searching for a safe roost.
Harper drew her iPad from her purse and laid it on the table before her, the video of Ross’s murder cued up.
In a blind flurry this morning in the hours before dawn, Harper had scribbled ten pages detailing the events in Miami, Africa, and Zurich. She’d pared those ten down to four and presented them to Ben at breakfast.
“Before you read them, let me sketch out the plan.”
When she had finished, Ben nodded.
“And after we’re done, how the hell do we get out of there alive?”
“Not to worry. A highly skilled friend of mine from law enforcement will be there and have our backs.”
He’d read through her notes and handed them back. That’s all he needed, he’d assured her. He was a one-read-through veteran.
“As you know,” Albion was saying, “Mr. Westfield has come all this way to pick our brains so that we might provide him what assistance we can concerning his latest film project, which will center on the industry we all know and cherish, the business of chocolate. Ben, if I may call you that, you have the floor.”
The conference room door swung open and Lavonne Jones entered. Her hair was stacked in a five-inch pile of Rasta braids, and her costume for the day was a royal-blue knee-length dress embroidered lavishly across the breast with thread as gold as the late autumn sun over the plains of Kenya. Even on an average day, Lavonne was statuesque, but today, for drama’s sake, in heels and with her shoulders drawn back and her chin tipped up, she seemed positively regal.
Harper motioned Lavonne to her chair.
“Mr. Westfield’s personal assistant,” Harper announced, “always makes an entrance.”
When Lavonne was seated, Ben came to his feet, ticked his gaze across each face in the room, then drew a long, fortifying breath. Albion smiled around the table as if basking in the glow of Westfield’s eminence.
“The film story I’m about to describe to you will begin shooting this spring. I believe the narrative is solid. It’s the details that need work, the nitty-gritty factual stuff. Which, as Lester said, is why I’m here. So you, a group of highly knowledgeable folks, can prevent me from making a damn fool of myself.”
Albion laughed and said, “I seriously doubt that’s possible. But we’re happy to help.”
Ben nodded at Albion with a pinched smile as if to caution him against further interruptions.
“Okay then. Our movie opens in a small village in the jungle. Primitive folks going about their daily lives. Huts, open fires, kids playing in the dirt, everyone terribly poor, but they’re happy enough, making do. There’s love here, deep family bonds. Camera moves back and we see a handful of African lads standing shirtless at the edge of the village looking warily out into the jungle.
“Music rises, tension in the air. The men are holding machetes and wooden staffs, apparently on guard. Then we get more peacefulness of the village, normal routines, old women stirring pots of stew. We’re only half a minute in, credits slow rolling.
“With a blast of gunfire, a group of men with automatic weapons storm the village. They’re white, they’re in uniform, a paramilitary look. With their AK-47s, they take out the men guarding the perimeter, then wade into the helpless village itself. Firing, firing, firing, kids screaming, kids splattered, mothers running with their babies into the jungle, cut down. I know, I know, it’s raw, ugly stuff. Somewhat gory. But we’ll do it tastefully—there are ways. The right director, the right cinematographer.
“So that’s a minute in, just the opening. Now we cut to a coffee shop in modern day Miami, two men speaking in a booth. The contrast is jarring and delicious. Bright, affluent first world with palm trees, a warped echo of the third-world scene we just saw. One man is showing the other a video on his iPad. We just get a glimpse of it, but it’s clearly in a jungle, a quick image of that village where we just were.
“Man number one is describing a massacre to man number two. Dozens murdered. What he wants to know is, Will man number two investigate, write about it for the newspaper? The journalist stares at the video, winces like he’s about to be sick. Finally he says yes, I’ll look into it.
“Then we get a quick montage as the final credits are scrolling. Journalist on the phone, typing on his laptop, he’s at his computer reading through old newspaper clippings. He’s researching, researching.
“In that montage, we see the journalist’s wife and young son living a happy, modern, busy life. Until one night, the wife is away, and two strangers barge into the house and shoot the journalist dead. His son, not even a year old, is gunned down too.
“This is the setup. Five minutes in. Everything is on the table now, all the elements that will pay off later in the movie. It sounds like a lot to cram into five minutes, but believe me, we do it all the time.”
Bonnie crowded in between her father and Bixel and said, “This is boring. Isn’t it boring, Daddy? I thought his movies were fun.”
Albion wiped his mouth to smooth away a grimace.
“Helmut,” he said. “Escort Bonnie to the waiting room, and stay with her if you please.”
“I believe I’m needed here, sir.”
Albion looked at Bixel, prompting her with a jerk of his head.
Bixel said, “Do it, Helmut. We’ll be fine.”
Scowling, Helmut rose. Bonnie ducked away from his encircling arm, fleeing to the fountain, where she seized a handful of strawberries and dunked them in the molten chocolate and plopped them in her mouth as Helmut guided her roughly out the door.
Lavonne leaned close and murmured, “Nice folks.”
Across the table, the fire in Albion’s eyes burned the stark blue-white of an acetylene torch. Embarrassed by his daughter, or alarmed by Ben Westfi
eld’s unfolding story, hard to tell. But those eyes, Harper was certain, were the ones behind the white ghost mask. Lester Albion was the scrawny man who’d followed Spider into their house on Margaret Street and destroyed her family.
Harper swallowed back the acid burn of rage and tried to ease the clench in her throat that made breathing all but impossible. She tried to imagine the world as seen through those burning eyes, his twisted reasoning, his failure of conscience, tried to fathom what grotesque need he’d satisfied in gunning down Ross and Leo. A merit badge. That’s how Spider had seen it.
When Ben resumed, he sailed through the rest of the story. The murders, the heroine’s derring-do, her trip to Africa, the discoveries that led her to Zurich and to the doorstep of a giant multinational corporation.
While Ben spoke, Albion’s forehead began to glisten, and a pink glow colored his cheeks. Unblinking, Marburg looked on with pursed lips and the straight-backed sanctimony of a Victorian preacher about to lay waste to his sinful flock.
“Okay, our heroine discovers a small, highly regarded chocolate maker is the target for acquisition of the corrupt corporation, and since the owner of that small prestigious company is a deeply pious man, the deal would surely explode if he learned his business suitor is using child slaves and committing mass murder to cover up the fact.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Albion said.
“Not quite done,” said Westfield. “Juicy parts still to come.”
Ben cleared his throat, shot Harper a get-ready look, and continued, describing a video the heroine discovers that shows the murder of her husband and son by two men.
“And in one final revelation, our heroine learns that the CEO of the corporation responsible for the African massacre was the very man who murdered her husband and child.”
Across the room, Albion scooted his chair a few inches away from the table. Bixel’s gaze had finally come to rest and was fixed on Harper with such poisonous loathing that the air between them seemed to ripple. Only Adrian Naff appeared blithely unaffected. A half smile played on his lips, eyes downcast.
When They Come for You Page 22