The Melody Lingers On (18 page)

That first Sunday he had heard nothing that was of any use. Anne Bennett was not someone who talked to herself. She was on the telephone only once and there was nothing in her conversation to a
friend that had any meaning for him.

His job was to see if either Anne or her son was in touch with Parker Bennett.

Jon knew Eric’s New York apartment was bugged, and Eric would be too smart to say anything incriminating over any phone that might be tapped. But he
did
visit his mother every
other evening to have dinner with her. He had come to dinner last Sunday night.

Anne brought up Parker Bennett’s name. She had said, “Eric, I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but something in me is telling me that your father is still alive.”

Eric’s answer had been, “Mom, try to put that thought out of your mind. And if he is, can you imagine how awful it would be for Dad to spend the rest of his life in prison? Because
that’s what will happen if he is found.”

Anne Bennett’s answer had been, “Eric, suppose if your father is alive and they find him and he still has most of the money. Wouldn’t they give him a break? I mean,
couldn’t he say that he had a mental breakdown?”

“Mom, nobody is going to give him a break and nobody is going to care about any mental breakdowns. There’s a two-million-dollar reward for anyone who can tell the FBI where to find
Dad. If he is alive, I assure you that anyone who knows where he is will be rushing to get that reward.”

Anne’s next question shocked Jonathan Pierce. “How about that girlfriend of his, the countess? If your father is alive, I’ll bet he’s in touch with her.”

“Mom, Dad never thought you knew about her.”

As Jonathan listened, he realized that Anne Bennett had a totally honest core of reality, and that she was challenging her son.

“Eric,” she said. “I believe you are innocent of your father’s crime. I’m still not sure whether or not you are in touch with him if he’s alive. I certainly
am not deaf, dumb, or blind. I always realized, even when I married him, that Parker was the kind of man who would probably stray.”

There was a pause as Jonathan strained to hear, trying not to miss a word of the conversation.

“Eric,” Anne Bennett continued, “I’ve been aware of all your father’s affairs. But the way I’ve looked at it is that there are marriages where the wife can
exist happily knowing the kind of man she married and is capable of living with it in a nontraditional way. Your father was involved with the countess for about eight years, and with many other
women before that, in the years before he disappeared. But if he is still alive and she knows it, I’m afraid for him. If she finds out there is a reward, she would be just the kind to turn
him in, if she knows where he is.”

Eric left soon after and for a long time Jonathan sat quietly absorbing what he had heard.

Anne Bennett was clearly warning Eric that if his father was still alive, Countess Sylvie de la Marco might be a threat to him, and that he should give him that message.

Later that week he listened as a tearful Anne Bennett pleaded with Lane to understand how much Eric was in love with her.

This from a woman who suspects that her husband is still alive and her son is in touch with him!

Don’t get caught up in this mess, Lane, he thought. Don’t get caught up in it.

T
imidly, but with a sense of excitement, Eleanor Becker dialed Sean Cunningham. He was at his desk. The writing of his book was going well and Sean
almost decided to ignore the call and let the answering machine take a message. But when he saw on the ID that it was Eleanor Becker, he rushed to pick it up.

“Eleanor,” he said. “How are you, and how’s Frank?”

“I’m what you’d expect and Frank, well, you know, Sean, all this tension is not good for him.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Sean, remember you told me that there may have been a few times when something hit me as odd, I mean about Parker Bennett?”

“Yes I do.” Let there be something of substance, Sean prayed.

“Well, you see, I’ve been really trying to search my memory. And the other night I came up with something.”

As Sean listened, Eleanor explained about bumping heads with Parker Bennett. “I mean it wasn’t just a little bump. Now I remember he had dropped some cards out of his wallet, and
when I reached for one of them, he lunged at it. I think now that he was afraid to have me see it.”

“Eleanor, when did this happen?”

“It was when we moved into the new office.”

That was the beginning of the fraud, Sean thought. “Eleanor, do you know what kind of card that was?”

“It’s come back to me. It was a driver’s license, but not an American one. I just can’t remember anything more than that, even though I think I did get a pretty good look
at it.”

“Eleanor, this could be very important. Would you consider being hypnotized to see if we can learn more about what information may be on that card?”

“That’s a little scary. Does it hurt?”

“No, Eleanor. There is absolutely no pain attached to hypnosis.”

“I mean, I’m not afraid of pain. It’s just such a strange idea to me. But if it helps to find Mr. Bennett, or where the money is, I’d be glad to do it.”

“Eleanor, this could be nothing, but it may be worth everything to try it. I’ll make an appointment with a psychiatrist who is also a very good hypnotist and I’ll get back to
you.”

Sean did not put down his cell phone after he said good-bye to Eleanor. Instead he immediately dialed Rudy Schell and told him what was going on.

“Rudy, I’ve heard that in some cases the FBI uses hypnosis to help people recall certain events?”

“Yes we do, Sean. Why are you asking?”

“Because it’s possible that Eleanor Becker needs to fully recall something that happened right at the beginning of Parker Bennett’s fraud. She thinks she saw a driver’s
license that definitely was not an American one, and that Parker rushed to get it out of her hand.”

Rudy had hoped that the publicizing of a two-million-dollar reward might be a lure for anyone who had any shred of evidence to offer, but Sal Caparo, the agent who made the rounds of people who
had been seen frequently with Bennett, had drawn a blank.

His biggest hope had been Pamela Winslow, a close friend of Countess Sylvie de la Marco. The fact that they knew each other in Staten Island and had remained close friends made Rudy hope that
the countess might have confided something about Parker to her.

But of course to someone married to a billionaire, the two-million-dollar reward was pocket change. Pamela had vigorously defended her friend, even to the point of saying that Sylvie de la Marco
only saw Parker on a business basis.

But now, maybe, Eleanor Becker could provide meaningful evidence under hypnosis that would help them apprehend Parker Bennett at last.

R
anger figured out where to buy a gun, but he didn’t have any idea about what kind of gun he should buy. He drove his car into one of the
housing developments in the Bronx that was known to be a high-crime area.

This time his car fit well in the rundown neighborhood with its broken windows, trash-filled streets, and permeating sense of desolation.

He drove cautiously, noting with concern the young men hanging out in groups of three or four on the street corners. He wasn’t really sure what he should do. Do I go up to one of those
guys? he asked himself. Suppose they don’t have a gun? Suppose they’re okay kids and turn me in to the cops?

Moistening his dry lips with his tongue, he slowly cruised the neighborhood. Then he stopped at a traffic light and a kid who didn’t look more than sixteen sidled up to the car and tapped
on the window.

“Hey dude. What are you looking for?” he asked. “Pot, smack, coke?”

Ranger swallowed hard, unable to speak for a moment. Then, his voice hoarse, he whispered, “There’s a guy out to get me. I need a gun.”

“Sure, what kind?”

“I don’t know—something simple. I mean, I only want it for protection.”

“Sure you do. Ever use a gun?”

“No.”

“All right. Let’s make it easy for you. Man, you want a Smith and Wesson .38 Special. Pull over to the curb.”

Ranger parked as the kid disappeared down the alleyway between two apartment buildings. In five minutes he was back, his right hand in his pocket. He glanced up and down the street, obviously
looking for a police car, and then pulled his clenched right hand from his pocket. “The best,” he said proudly. “Like I promised, a .38 Special Smith and Wesson, two-inch barrel,
easy to use. Loaded. You got five shots before you have to reload it.” He handed it to Ranger.

Ranger held the gun gingerly but liked the feel of it. “You said five shots?”

“Five. The cops had this kind of gun for a time. No harder than using a water pistol.” The kid laughed. “But whoever gets hit with it at close range won’t think he got
hit by no water pistol. Most likely he’ll be dead.”

Nervously, Ranger put the gun in the glove compartment.

“How much?” he asked.

“Two hundred bucks.”

Ranger wanted nothing more than to get away, out of this neighborhood where a cop would be sure something was going on, seeing him parked here and the kid leaning in the window. He pulled out
his wallet. He handed the money to the kid.

As he was closing the window and starting the car he was unaware of the kid’s friendly, “Anytime, dude.”

Nor was he aware that the kid burst out laughing when he counted the money. Two hundreds bucks for an old pistol, he thought, and then the dope was so nervous he gave me an extra twenty by
mistake. Can’t have a better day than this!

T
he Monday after Lane’s visit to Anne Bennett, Lane and Glady were at the countess’s apartment awaiting the arrival of two antique
Bashir rugs for the salon.

“Do you remember what La-di-da said when I showed her pictures of them?” Glady asked Lane.

“Sure I do. She thought they looked a little dull. She says she likes bright colors.”

The rugs had a soft pallette of creams, beiges, and terra-cotta that would project old-world elegance within a more modern context. The ceiling and paneling of the salon were now creamy beige.
Austrian crystal chandeliers were hanging above the two seating areas.

“I hope she gets smart enough to appreciate all this,” Glady said tartly.

Then, switching subjects as usual, she asked, “Lane, what’s the matter with you? You look as though you just lost your best friend. It depresses me to see that long face on you.
What’s going on?”

Lane was not sure whether she wanted to confide in Glady but then decided to go ahead. “When I brought out those pillows to Anne Bennett’s apartment . . .”

“The ones I gave her for free?”

“I know, Glady. The gist of it is that Anne told me that Eric cares very deeply for me and that he has been afraid to call me because I might have been upset about our picture together
being in the
Post
.”

“As he should be,” Glady snapped.

“Glady, I believe Eric is innocent.”

“I don’t.”

“I know that, but hear me out. I’m certainly not ready for a serious relationship with Eric, but I do like him and don’t want to be one of the people who would reject him
because of his father. In fact I’m going to call him. The problem is that Katie was getting so attached to him.”