It was an hour from Montpelier, Vermont, to Hanover, New Hampshire. The tranquil countryside was snow covered.
I went to a state college and got a good education but I wouldn’t have minded being part of the Ivy League scene, Joel thought as he exited Route 89 and turned onto Route 91 North.
Dismissing that kind of foolishness, he was entering Hanover proper when his cell phone rang. He pressed the speaker button and said crisply, “Joel Weber.”
It was Carl Frazier Jr.
Joel explained his reason for calling and requested a meeting. “I would like to ask you to give an impression of some of your classmates. Perhaps I can explain it better when I meet with you,” Joel said.
“Sounds somewhat mysterious,” was Carl Frazier’s response. “Can you explain a little further now?”
“I will when we meet. I am only asking for half an hour of your time.”
His voice somewhat cool, Frazier asked, “How close are you?”
“I just got off the highway and I’m crossing the river.”
“Then let’s meet at the Hanover Inn. I was about to drop in there for a cup of coffee.”
Ten minutes later Joel was parking the car outside of the inn. It was not crowded and it was easy to pick out the man in his late thirties having coffee by the window.
Joel went over, greeted him, and without being invited, sat down.
When the waitress approached, he said, “Just coffee, please,” and focused on the man across the table.
Frazier would be about Eric Bennett’s age, he thought, thirty-seven. He looks a little older, but that’s just because of his receding hairline. He wore rimless glasses and had a scholarly look about him. Even if he did not already know it, Joel would have guessed him to be an academic.
He decided to get right to the point. “When I called your father’s home and got your number, I did not tell him that I’m with an investigative agency and I’m retired FBI.”
Frazier raised his eyebrows. “I can’t imagine what you would want with me,” he said quietly.
“I simply want your impressions of a classmate,” Joel answered.
“And who would that be? No, let me guess, Eric Bennett?”
“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Joel replied.
“It wasn’t hard to guess,” Frazier explained to him. “Of course Eric was only at Magna Carta for one year, so none of us could say we even knew him well, but from what I remember, he was a nice enough guy.”
“Why did he transfer so abruptly, at the beginning of his sophomore year?”
“Well, he got mugged pretty badly at that time. He was in the hospital for three days.”
“Was it a random attack?” As Joel asked the question, he could sense that it had not been a random attack, not at all.
“Well, that was the strange part,” Carl said. “As far as we all knew he never went to the police. He shrugged it off, even though he had a broken arm. Then his father made the donation, and he was off to Ireland.”
“Do you think he left because he was afraid of being attacked again?” Joel persisted.
“Nobody really knows, although sometimes I wonder if someone on the faculty had an idea of what was up. The rumor was that Eric was asked to leave.”
“Can you tell me the name of any student he was close to? Maybe a girlfriend?” Joel asked.
“There was one very pretty girl. She was in the local public high school. Eric brought her to the games. They seemed to spend a lot of time together,” Carl said.
“She was in high school? How old would you think she was?”
“Sixteen,” Carl responded.
Joel considered that a moment, then asked, “Was Eric ever into gambling as far as you know?”
“Well, he wasn’t old enough to go to a casino, but he was very good at cards, and sometimes, for some of the guys with money, the stakes could get pretty high.”
“Did anyone ever think that he was cheating?”
“I was in some of those games myself,” Carl offered, “especially poker. Eric never had to cheat. He was a real card counter. He could make it in Vegas.”
Nothing much here, Joel thought, except for the mugging, and for his getting out of town so fast. And then an idle question came to his head.
“Do you remember the high school girl’s name?”
“Yes I do,” Carl answered. “Regina Crowley. Her uncle is the political columnist Dwight Crowley.”
After Frazier left, Joel used his iPhone to find the number of Montpelier High School. Google Maps showed that it was adjacent to the Magna Carta campus. The school secretary confirmed that the principal would be in all afternoon and would be available to meet with him. Fifteen minutes later Joel was back on the highway heading toward Montpelier.
45
Parker Bennett/George Hawkins was now counting the days until he could leave St. Thomas without appearing to be in any kind of rush. He had told whatever friends he had the story about going back to England at the end of the month. There was no way he wanted to change his plans so that there might be any suspicion about him. The seed had already been planted by Len Stacey’s drawing attention to how much he looked like Parker Bennett. The brown wig and glasses were not a sufficient disguise if someone carefully studied his face. His only hope was that Len was too stupid to follow through and do any serious reflection on the similarity. He had had to stall on the last two million that Sylvie had demanded. When he sent that and the money for the villa in Switzerland, he would be down to his last five thousand dollars. And out of that money he would need to buy his plane ticket and pay to stay in Miami for at least three weeks until he could grow a beard, get a different wig, and go out to New Jersey and get into Anne’s apartment.
Anne and Eric had always been close and Eric was certainly furious at him. Parker didn’t know yet what he was going to do. Could he trust Anne not to turn him in? Would she, out of pity for the people who had lost their investments, be tempted to go the noble route? It had been easy to keep track of her these two years. Googling her had provided him with all the information he needed. And of course it was entirely possible she was still under surveillance. It certainly would be risky for him to just walk up to her door and ring the bell, but he may have no other choice. There were considerations that had to be planned for very, very carefully. He knew he was getting desperately nervous and that could be the source of his own undoing.
And of course there was Sylvie, always there was Sylvie. What would I do if I were in her boots? he wondered. I can only stall her for so long for the last two million. If she thinks I’m broke, I’m no good to her. More than that, she might try to make a deal with the FBI. They might give her a pass to get at me. He knew he had to get out of St. Thomas fast with the danger of Len’s shooting off his mouth comparing George Hawkins with Parker Bennett. But in the meantime, he must not do anything unusual. He would golf a little and play at different public courses, go out on the boat every day, and hold his breath hoping that he wouldn’t keep running into Len.
He made a list of the clothes he would buy for New Jersey—jeans, a heavy jacket, a hat with earmuffs, gloves, flannel shirts. All in dark colors of course. Nothing that would make anyone think about him twice. The fact that New Jersey was having a cold early winter would serve him well.
He would have to take several winter suits so that if he needed business attire, he would have it with him. He would not register anywhere as George Hawkins.
What would happen if Sylvie turned him in? If she did, George Hawkins was the man they would be looking for. It was not safe to use that name again. When he got to Miami, he would try to find out where fake ID’s were sold. And then there was the matter of a passport. Could he get a new passport using his birth name Joseph Bennett while everyone was looking for Parker Bennett?
Thanksgiving day came and went. He had a number of invitations and knew he could not use illness as an excuse again. Instead he said he already had plans. His housekeeper had
cooked a small turkey for him. He thought of the Thanksgiving dinners in Greenwich with Anne and Eric. They seldom had guests for holiday dinners.
He knew that Anne was an uncomfortable and unwilling hostess, although she’d tried valiantly to appear at ease when he had had dinner parties with high-powered executives.
On Thanksgiving day she’d always insisted that it be just the three of them. Of course, that was after her parents died. Before that he had endured their presence regularly. He had been irritated that her father saw through his elaborate remake of himself. Every so often Anne’s father would slip and call him Joey—a deliberate slip, of course. He always thought of Anne’s father’s hands as smelling slightly of liverwurst and bologna, a memory that amused him.
Anne’s mother was exactly like Anne, ill at ease in the presence of anyone she considered her superior. Totally unlike Sylvie, who had vaulted herself out of her Italian grandmother’s kitchen and its elaborate Sunday afternoon pasta meals attended by an obnoxious number of cousins and aunts and uncles. The minute she finished high school at age eighteen, she had put the whole bunch of them behind her for good.
All this Parker was thinking as he ate his solitary dinner, thoroughly contented with his own company.
The next day he began packing his suitcase. A few days more, he thought, and then I’m out of here. It was Friday. He managed to avoid Len for the next twenty-four hours, but then received a phone call on Saturday that dismayed him. The minute he heard, “Hi George,” in that booming voice, he felt his palms begin to sweat and a knot form in the pit of his stomach.
“George, where have you been?” Len continued. “The guys were hoping to catch you this morning.”
“Oh, I’m just enjoying the last few days on the boat. You know how I love to sail.” He hoped his tone was sufficiently casual.
“Well, I have a surprise for you,” Len said. “Dewayne and Bruce and I enjoyed playing golf with you so much that we decided we wanted you to join us on Monday. Let’s have a final round of golf at nine o’clock and then we’ll have lunch at the course. Don’t say no, I’ve already made the reservation.”
I wish I could strangle him, Parker thought. Of course he could simply say he was too busy getting ready to leave, but something warned him to be careful and to go along with Len’s unwanted farewell.
Even though it was perfect sailing weather and he spent all day Sunday on the boat, he was not able to enjoy the feel of the water’s spray, the gliding of the boat through the water, the clear blue sky, the occasional drifting cloud. Everything was anticipation of the final meeting with Len. He had hoped that it would rain on Monday, a steady persistent rain, but of course it could not have been a more perfect day.
At nine A.M. the foursome teed off. Parker liked the two men who accompanied Len. Bruce Groom was a retired executive in one of the drug companies; quiet, intent on his game, he said very little. Parker had the feeling Bruce did not have the slightest interest in Len’s comparison of George Hawkins to Parker Bennett.
Dewayne Lamparello rounded out the foursome. He had the highest handicap of the group but even that could not help his game. Quite simply, he was a lousy golfer, far less interested in inane chatter than seeing that his next shot was not another ground ball.
Len did not bring up the subject of Parker Bennett at all. Parker was beginning to relax, and by the time they sat down to lunch, he was sure he didn’t have to worry anymore.
As was to be expected, Len led the conversation. He had been a minor executive in a cereal company.
“I used to say my nickname was ‘Snap, crackle, pop,’ ” he joked, referring to the famous tagline of a Kellogg cereal.
Snap, crackle, shut up, Parker thought, but admitted to himself that he would much prefer this tedious chatter to a replay of a discussion about Parker Bennett.
But when the others ordered a second coffee, he decided he could gracefully get away.
“Well, I really do have to get going,” he said. “Len, I think this was great and I thank you. I am sure you understand that I’ve got quite a checklist to go over before my departure.”
“Are you going to rent the house?” Len asked. “Because if you are, I know someone in the market for a good rental.”
“No, I am not,” Parker replied. “I want to know it’s available to me any time I can get away.”
“You could do a week-to-week,” Len persisted. “You would make a lot of money.”
“Again, I have thought about it but have absolutely decided against it,” Parker said firmly.
As he stood up to leave he smiled warmly.
“Thanks so much, Len. Bruce, Dewayne, great to play with you again. I hope to see you on the links when I get back. Len, next time lunch is on me.” Careful not to seem too hurried, Parker turned toward the exit of the dining room. He had just reached the door when Len shouted, “Hey, Parker.”
He spun around and realized too late he had been trapped. In an instant he tried to make a recovery.
With a hearty laugh, he shouted back, “You and your jokes, Len.”
The other diners had looked up. How many of them would make the connection? Parker spent the rest of the afternoon willing himself to remain calm while fully expecting a knock on the door and the arrival of the police. But no one came and at eight o’clock the next morning, he was on his way to the airport.
The plane to Miami was leaving on time. As he showed his boarding pass to the attendant, he thought with regret that this would be the last time he was able to fly using the name George Hawkins. He probably would never set foot in St. Thomas again.
46
At the insistence of her cousins, Eleanor and Frank Becker made the forty-minute drive from Yonkers to New City in Rockland County for Thanksgiving dinner. Her cousin Joan was her age. Joan’s husband, Eddie, was a retired detective. Their two children along with their spouses and four grandchildren made for a festive group.
Eleanor knew it was good for her and Frank to have decided to visit them instead of staying home for another solitary holiday. She liked Joan’s family and could feel the sincerity in the warmth with which they greeted her and Frank.
At dinner they studiously avoided any reference to the current situation. It was only when the children had left the table and the adults were lingering over a cup of coffee that the subject was broached.
It was Eleanor who brought it up.
“I know you’re all too polite to ask but I think you may be interested in this.” She told them about going under hypnosis and how far she had gotten in trying to remember the name she had seen on that British driver’s license.
“The first name was George,” she said firmly. “But I simply cannot remember the last name.”
“It could make all the difference in the world,” Eddie commented. “I know about that from when I was in the department. Of course I never worked that area. I was on the street doing undercover work.”
“What’s it like to be hypnotized?” Joan asked.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Eleanor answered. “In fact, it was kind of peaceful, and trust me, the way things are going these days, sometimes I think that I wouldn’t mind being hypnotized all the time.”
“You’d get sick of going up and down in the elevator,” Frank said wryly. It was the first time in months Eleanor had heard him joke about anything.
Maybe if I could just not be so tense all the time, she thought. Maybe I could make myself remember.
It was reassuring to have Eddie tell her, “Eleanor, I know how you must be feeling. I have seen innocent people under a cloud of suspicion by the authorities living in a constant state of fear. When are you going back to the hypnotist?”
“I am not sure,” she said. “I know how disappointed they were in me. Maybe I just told them something because I wanted to be able to tell them something. Frank, remember when you got stopped in the car because the cop said you had gone through a red light in Manhattan?”
“I remember,” Frank sai
d angrily. “I didn’t go through any red light. It was still on yellow. That cop had a quota to fill; that’s why I was stopped.”
“Frank, I’ve heard that song before,” Eddie commented.
“Well, what I mean is when the cop asked Frank for his driver’s license, he gave him his credit card by mistake. For a minute he thought Frank was trying to bribe him.”
“He must have been a real rookie,” Eddie observed dryly. “You don’t try to bribe a cop with a credit card.”
“The reason I remember,” Eleanor continued, “is because maybe I’m mixing up seeing him give the wrong card to the cop with what I think happened in Parker Bennett’s office. The point is I don’t think it will do any good to go back to the hypnotist. Actually, being hypnotized wasn’t a bad experience. It’s dreading doing it, then making a fool of myself. When I look back on it, I really don’t like being out of control. It was scary somehow to know someone is exploring your mind, and you’re giving answers that perhaps aren’t even true but just made up.”
“I think you’re making a mistake, Eleanor,” Eddie said quietly. “No one is expecting you to be able to give a complete picture. That would be totally unrealistic. Why don’t you go back to that doctor? You have nothing to lose and certainly nothing to fear.”
His concern and warmth made Eleanor realize how foolish she had been to withdraw so completely from her immediate circle of family and friends. She had been so sure that under a veneer of sympathy they were judging her as being a part of Parker’s elaborate scheme. Over these past two years the newspapers had alleged that she was in on the fraud. Some pretty convincing editorials had been published. “There had to have been another person involved in the fraud,” the newspapers had screamed over and over again. She spoke of that now to Joan and Eddie.
“Anyone who knows me well enough would know that I was not capable of being the other person behind that fraud,” she said sadly.
The Melody Lingers On Page 14