Montaro Caine (6 page)

“I have to know everything that the chief of police knows,” Whitcombe was saying, leaning forward in his chair and repeatedly stabbing a finger at seventeen-year-old Priscilla Caine for added emphasis. “And everything the dean knows. Then, I gotta know some things they don’t know.” He tugged at his tie, stretched his collar with an index finger, and stared intimidatingly at Priscilla, a tall, slender young woman who had inherited her father’s self-assurance but not yet his capacity for making smart decisions.

Montaro’s weary, expressionless face offered little sympathy for his daughter, so Priscilla cast a pleading glance at her mother while Whitcombe relentlessly probed her for information. He said he wanted to know all about Priscilla’s life at Mt. Herman, the boarding school where she had been threatened with expulsion and possible criminal charges for supposedly dealing marijuana and cocaine. Priscilla cast her gaze down toward a dainty, wrinkled handkerchief—white and embroidered with strawberries—which had been severely stressed by her nervous fingers.

Priscilla said nothing. Montaro felt his wife stiffen next to him as tears welled up in her eyes and began slowly rolling down her cheeks. He saw Cecilia’s lips begin to tremble as she watched Gordon Whitcombe stripping away Priscilla’s defenses.

“Now,” Whitcombe continued, “how many times per week did you use?”

“I told you,” Priscilla mumbled.

“No, you didn’t. You said more than once. Exactly how many times is more than once?”

“I’m not an addict.”

“I know you’re not, Prissy,” Whitcombe monotoned.

“Then stop treating me like one.”

Cecilia Caine made as if to change positions on the couch so that she could sit next to her daughter and comfort her, but Montaro’s arm restrained her. “No. Stay out of it,” he said, recalling a time when he had been a boy and his grandfather had stopped his mother from comforting him. Montaro had had to make adult decisions from the time he was eight years old, and he knew that, at seventeen, Priscilla was more than old enough.

“Let me go, damn it,” Cecilia told her husband in a sharp whisper.

“I said stay out of it,” said Montaro. “She’s a big girl now. And she’s going to have to deal with this without you.”

Cecilia gave in to her husband’s hold and slumped back into the sofa. For his part, Whitcombe seemed to pay no attention to the little drama that had just flared up between Priscilla’s parents. Instead, he got up and ambled toward the portable bar, the contents of which represented Montaro’s own drug of choice. Montaro could have used
a scotch at this very moment, but given the topic of their discussion, this hardly seemed to be an appropriate time.

“I know I’m pushing hard, Cecilia, but first and foremost we’ve got to head off the criminal charges, no matter what. This is serious business,” said Whitcombe. “When I talk to the police and the dean next week, I have to know all the facts. Montaro, why don’t you and Cecilia go for a little walk and let Prissy and me have another ten, fifteen minutes alone?”

Priscilla looked apprehensively at Whitcombe, wishing desperately for her mother to veto his suggestion. She knew that her father liked Gordon Whitcombe, but that her mother never had. Even so, Cecilia rose and smiled reassuringly at her daughter. “Come to the kitchen when you’re finished, Prissy,” she said. “I’ll have some hot milk and cookies for you.” Then, Montaro led her from the room.

Priscilla sat quietly as her parents’ footsteps faded down the hall. When she could no longer hear them, she spread her handkerchief on her thigh, ironed it several times with the palm of her hand, then waited for Whitcombe’s inquisition to continue.

Strolling slowly, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, the lawyer half-circled the room before stopping directly in front of Priscilla and staring down at the teenager. Priscilla stared defiantly back, waiting for the attack, but the man’s tone was gentler than she had expected.

“You know, the damage to you and the embarrassment to your parents will be considerable if this thing gets out of hand,” Whitcombe told her. “I don’t need to remind you about your father’s situation; I’m sure you read the newspapers and I’m sure your parents talk to you about it, too. This problem of yours could wind up affecting your old man, too. There are some people who work with your father who would very much like to see him fall, and this information about you would only help their cause. So, help me to help you. We’ve got to convince the police up there that you never sold drugs to anyone. Think we can do that?”

“No.”

“So, you were dealing drugs on campus?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” said Whitcombe. “Whatever you do in your private life should be none of my business, but …”

“It
is
none of your business,” Priscilla interrupted.

“Understand me,” said Whitcombe. “I am not interested, at this time, in the names of your friends or fellow students who might be buying, selling, or using. So”—he paused and stared at her before continuing—“you can relax about the other thing.”

“What other thing?” She glanced up suspiciously.

“What you’re most afraid of.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me put it this way, Prissy. Who you neck with at the drive-in, the beach, or wherever you and your boyfriend go to do whatever you do, is strictly between you and him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you cooperate with me, intimate aspects of your private life can remain private.”

“You think we’re having sex orgies up there?” Priscilla asked. “Getting stoned and fucking, right?”

“That’s pretty salty language for a young girl of your upbringing, Priscilla.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking?”

“Orgies?” Whitcombe pretended to ponder for a moment. “No. Getting stoned? A definite yes. My only question is how often and on what. As for the rest, my guess is that you are no longer a virgin, and you’re afraid that your father will find out.”

“My father doesn’t care,” said Priscilla.

“He does,” said Whitcombe. “More than he’d ever let you know. But you’d better start facing the facts. Here’s the story the way I’d like to tell it—you never sold drugs to anyone.”

“Yes, I have,” she replied emphatically. But Whitcombe continued, ignoring Priscilla’s objections.

“You have used, yes, and a great deal more than your parents, or at least your mother, probably imagine, but you have not sold any drugs to anyone.”

“Yes, I did. Lots of times.”

“My God, Prissy, is he so important to you that you’re willing to throw your life away for him?”

Priscilla rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation. Turning away from Whitcombe, she addressed her attention to the handkerchief on her thigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Yes, you do. I’m talking about the boyfriend you haven’t told your parents about. The one you’ve been seeing at Mt. Herman, the one who’s about to graduate.”

“Leave him out of it, O.K.?” she shouted.

“I can’t do that, Prissy,” he shouted back at her.

“Then I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“That’s fine, but you leave me no other choice; I’ll have to turn over the information I have to your parents.”

Priscilla glared at Whitcombe. “What information?”

“I’ve had an investigator doing some interviews in that area for a couple of days.”

Priscilla knew that Whitcombe was not bluffing. Her father had long admired the man’s straightforward approach, his refusal to tell clients what they wanted to hear.

“You mean you’ve been spying?” she asked.

“Call it what you like,” Whitcombe said. “I was just hoping that you would level with your parents and me. It would be better if they heard it from you, but if they don’t, they’ll hear it from me.”

“I think you’re despicable, Mr. Whitcombe,” said Priscilla.

“I’ll have to manage to live with that, my dear,” Whitcombe said.

In the kitchen, Cecilia was warming milk in a small pot over a low flame when the phone rang. She glanced across the kitchen to the breakfast nook where her husband was seated in front of the dish of cookies she had set out for Priscilla.

The phone kept jingling, but Montaro made no move to answer it. As Cecilia reached for the phone, Montaro shook his head. Cecilia turned back to the stove and adjusted the flame slightly. Then, she took a seat next to her husband but said nothing until the ringing stopped. “Finally,” she said. But then, the ringing started again.

Over the past few weeks, practically everyone she knew had called, including some friends she hadn’t heard from in years. They were all calling for the same reason, but only Bette Grayson, Cecilia’s tart-tongued friend since high school, had come right out and asked: “What’s going on at your husband’s company? Should Nelson and I sell our Fitzer stock? Give it to me straight, Cece, what the fuck is happening?”

Like everyone else who had called, Bette had read
The Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times
, both of which had run articles suggesting that, in the aftermath of the Utah mining disaster, unknown suitors were planning to make a strong takeover bid for Fitzer, and Montaro’s position was in jeopardy.

“It’s been jumping off the hook all afternoon, the private line and my cell too,” Cecilia said, indicating the phone that had momentarily fallen silent. Montaro responded with a detached nod.

“I hope this won’t get in the way of any of our summer plans,” said Cecilia. “We can’t miss P.L.’s birthday. And we’ve already paid for the rental of the beach house in Southampton for August.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to undo anything. At least not yet,” Caine said. His thoughts had shifted from Priscilla to the business with Herman Freich, Colette Beekman, and the reappearance of the coin from his past. He hadn’t yet told Cecilia about all that he had discussed with Freich and Beekman and the memories that discussion had conjured up. Cecilia was a woman of strong emotions, much like his mother; he worried that she would get unrealistically hopeful if he told her about the coin, then disappointed if things didn’t work out.

“Fine,” said Cecilia. “But whatever happens, P.L.’s birthday is a must. We have to be there.”

“Of course,” Montaro said. Philip L. Caine, Montaro’s childhood protector, would turn ninety-nine this year, and Montaro knew what his grandfather’s loss would mean to his wife as well as to him. Death had come often to Cecilia in her forty-four years. Her father, mother, older brother, her mother’s sister, Dolly, and Dolly’s husband, Jake—Cecilia had no one left from the family she was born into. When she was decorating her husband’s office, she had hung the portraits of her mother and Dolly on his walls, two raven-haired women who closely
resembled Cecilia, as if to remind her husband that he could take nothing for granted. It was no secret to Montaro that his wife’s huge appetite for life was born out of her fear of death. And he understood, too, that this was part of the reason she clung so protectively to Priscilla and those remaining few on his side of the family—she had not learned the art of letting go, a talent he had perfected when he was just a boy.

“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll go,” he told his wife. He put his arms around her and drew her near.

Once again, the phone exploded in the quiet kitchen. And once again, both Montaro and Cecilia glanced at it, then looked away. A few seconds later, a door slammed shut upstairs. Assuming Priscilla and Whitcombe were on their way, Cecilia kissed her husband, then moved to the stove to ready her daughter’s warm milk.

Gordon Whitcombe entered the room alone and sat across the table from Montaro.

“Isn’t Prissy coming?” Cecilia asked accusingly.

“No, she’s not.”

“Why not?”

“She said she doesn’t feel like it.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Cecilia.” The phones droned on. Though Whitcombe didn’t say much, his weary appearance indicated that he and Priscilla had had a difficult exchange.

“She’s all right,” Whitcombe said quickly. “Just hold your horses, Cecilia.” Turning to Montaro, he continued. “She’s a lot like you; she’s tough, that kid—mind of her own. I still don’t have it all clear, but what I do have is not good. In fact, it’s a hell of a lot rougher than either of you probably think.”

Cecilia turned away from the two men, pretending to concentrate on the stove.

“Get to it,” Caine told Whitcombe.

“She’s in with a bad crowd up there,” the lawyer began. “Casual drug use. Some evidence of dealing; but, that’s just for openers.” Whitcombe stole a glance at Cecilia, then sighed heavily.

“Go on,” urged Caine.

“There’s a personal relationship you don’t know about.”

Montaro seemed to take this information in stride, but Cecilia tensed. She waited, listening to the lawyer’s asthmatic breathing until she heard her husband’s question.

“Personal as in sexual?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Whitcombe.

“Who is he?”

“A student.”

“Is she pregnant? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I strongly recommend you check that out.”

“What’s this kid’s name?”

“Nick Corcell.”

“What’s he like?”

“Bad news,” said Whitcombe. “He’s the root of the problem; but she’s holding the bag, if you know what I mean. He’s smart, cunning, manipulative, and apparently cold-blooded. I strongly recommend we come down on him hard and quick. It’s the only thing that can save her, as I see it.”

Cecilia poured the hot milk from the pot into a pitcher, and placed it on a tray along with an empty cup and the dish of cookies. Then, tray in hand, she walked briskly from the kitchen. As Caine followed her with his eyes, the phones stopped ringing, leaving the two men in heavy silence.

Caine took a breath, turned to Whitcombe, and gave voice to the pragmatic philosophy that ruled his personal and professional lives, both of which seemed to be on the verge of collapse. “We will do what we have to,” he said, thus releasing Whitcombe to plan the downfall of Nick Corcell.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, M
ONTARO ARRIVED WELL IN ADVANCE
of his scheduled meeting with Herman Freich and Colette Beekman at the Fitzer Lab, proceeding directly to the office of his research director, Michen Borceau. The lab was located where it had been since the company’s founding, in lower Manhattan, despite the long-standing advice of Montaro’s colleagues, particularly Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace, to move it out of the city to a location—perhaps Stamford, Connecticut—where space was cheaper. Montaro knew that his attachment to the Manhattan location had provided much fodder for Rothman and Wallace, both of whom had accused Montaro of intransigence and foolhardy sentimentality. But Montaro still loved the lab’s connection to Fitzer’s nearly century-old history; the place reminded him of the laboratories at M.I.T. where he had trained, and more so than even his office, his Westport home, or his apartment in The Carlyle, the Fitzer Lab provided him with a sense of comfort, optimism, and satisfaction with his life’s work. And the truth was, as he had explained countless times to any person who felt the need to question him, the science his business required had not changed so significantly over the past fifty years as to warrant a move to larger or more purportedly modern quarters.