Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 4

  “Might that be your signature?”

  Again, yes and no.

  “Might it be a copy of your signature?”

  “It might be.”

  “Please read it, if you don’t mind.” She handed the memo to him. Amusement crinkled the corners of Caine’s mouth as he took the page from her, wondering why she had chosen this dramatic approach. Whatever the hell Herman Freich does, I’ll bet he’s good at it, Caine thought. At that same moment, Colette crossed her legs, distracting him. Great legs, he judged. To Caine, the discreet angle at which Colette held her lovely legs spoke of an extremely cultivated background. He was quite intrigued and cautioned himself not to become more so.

  At first glance, the folded memo appeared to be not unlike scores of others Caine had written to his old professor. Near the top border of the page was a symbol over which was printed “Massachusetts Institute of Technology Metallurgy Department.” But scanning it quickly, he knew exactly what it was.

  In his third year of graduate work at M.I.T., Montaro had worked as an assistant to the feisty, diminutive, and brilliant Professor Richard Walmeyer, then head of Metallurgy. On a busy, cold morning in early December, a few hours before Professor Walmeyer was scheduled to leave for a conference in Spain, Caine had been summoned to his professor’s office and introduced to Michael Chasman, a tall, middle-aged man who was said to be an old friend of the professor’s.

  “Dr. Chasman needs to have a workup done for a friend, as quickly as possible, Montaro. I want you to put everything aside and get to it,” Walmeyer had said.

  “Sorry about this mad rush, Richard,” Dr. Chasman had apologized.

  “Nonsense, Michael, I would do it for you myself if I didn’t have to catch a plane.” Casting a stern look in Montaro’s direction, he continued, “I’ll be back in five or six days. If you finish before the weekend, leave your report with my secretary, Linda, and I’ll see that Dr. Chasman gets it first thing Monday morning.”

  Caine nodded curiously.

  “Here,” Professor Walmeyer said, picking up a small coinlike object that had been lying on his desk unnoticed by Caine. He placed the coin in Caine’s hand. “Be careful; we don’t want it disfigured in any way.”

  Caine had studied the object carefully; in some ways, it resembled a coin, but in other ways it did not. Dark gray in color, it was somewhere between the size of a nickel and a quarter. The surface on one face was sprinkled irregularly with dots of different sizes. Off to one side, one dot was considerably larger than the rest. In some ways, the dots seemed to suggest an arrangement of planets and constellations. The other side of the object was flat and smooth with no markings whatsoever.

  Now at his office in Fitzer Corporation headquarters, Caine read the memo that he had written twenty-six years earlier and his heart began to thump violently in his chest. He knew that this particular memo was dynamite. Every word he had written seemed to ignite in his memory. In the memo, Caine told his professor about the extraordinary strength and durability of the materials that he had found upon analyzing the coin.

  “To Professor Walmeyer,” Caine had written. “Sir, after repeated analysis, I have been able to separate and identify only four of the seven compound elements that make up the object. So far, the three remaining ones do not conform to any available information we have. Individual analysis was run on each one, isolated from the others, with negative results.

  “I could learn nothing from studying the elements in various combinations. The four known compounds make up approximately eighty percent of the coin’s mass, which, in itself, is highly unusual, since these particular four elements have seldom, if ever, been used in the minting process of any coins or metal objects from any culture we know of. The remaining twenty percent of the object’s mass, represented by the three unknown elements, exerts enormous influence on the behavior of the known properties.”

  As he sat behind his desk in his office, Caine kept his gaze fixed on the memo. The cold scientific language he had used while writing the memo had not expressed the fascination he had felt while examining the object. He remembered the ambivalence that had gripped him at the typewriter in Professor Walmeyer’s lab that winter afternoon. On the one hand, he felt sure that he had disappointed his mentor by having failed in the lab to break down and explain a simple mass consisting of as few as seven elements. On the other hand, he had the strong feeling that he was on the verge of some sort of discovery. He felt certain that he had isolated three—not one, but three—previously unknown materials.

  “They give every indication of being impervious to heat far above the temperature I was able to expose them to,” he had written.

  Professor Walmeyer’s approval was hard to come by. Still, despite his apprehensions, Caine was not unmindful of the potential benefits to industrial America if, he fantasized, his “discovery” could be cost-effectively reproduced. But two weeks would pass before Walmeyer would offer any response at all. And when he did, he had only a grudging word of praise for Caine’s workup. Walmeyer acknowledged that he was fascinated by the presence of the unknown elements that Caine had apparently discovered and said he wanted to subject them to more in-depth examinations. But neither Professor Walmeyer nor Montaro would see the coin again. They tried repeatedly, with the help of Dr. Michael Chasman, to persuade the mysterious owner of the object to submit it for a more scientifically thorough analysis.

  “I’m embarrassed to hell,” Dr. Chasman told Richard Walmeyer and Montaro after the owner turned down his last request. “He appreciates and respects your interest but, ‘no, not at this time,’ he says. He says it would be inappropriate for reasons he would rather keep to himself. Frankly, I’m baffled by his reaction. It’s not at all like him. I’m sorry, gentlemen. That’s all I can say.”

  Montaro Caine now looked up from the old memo into the radiant face of Colette Beekman, whose eyes seemed to dance with anticipation as he handed the document back to her. She took it and waited, expecting Caine to comment. As several moments passed in silence, her tongue glided across her already moist lower lip, betraying something of her own internal excitement.

  Your move, honey, he thought, challenging her with his eyes before turning to Herman Freich, wondering if this austere man before him could have been the owner of the coin.

  “Do you remember much about that object, Mr. Caine?” Colette asked with a forced casualness that recaptured his attention. “Given, of course, that it was you who wrote the original memo.”

  Aha, Caine thought, no more cat and mouse—bottom line at last. “Yes, I remember it,” he answered in a controlled voice.

  “Mr. Caine, may I call you Montaro?”

  Montaro nodded.

  “Montaro,” she pressed on, “since so much time has passed and there have been so many new innovations in the analytic process of metals, we wondered if you would consider conducting another workup of the object with more sophisticated equipment.”

  My God, they’ve got it. They’ve got it! Montaro screamed inside his head while he struggled to keep his expression neutral. How incredible. After years of speculating about the fate of that coin, these two walk in and they’ve got it—possibly right there in her briefcase. But easy now, easy. Not so fast, he cautioned himself. Who are these people? He forced his imagination not to run wild with the endless possibilities he believed might be locked away in those unknown elements: exciting possibilities for industry, the military, the country, Fitzer Corporation too, perhaps even the solution to the problems he was facing. He swore not to let the coin’s secrets evade him again. He reminded himself to remain alert, to stay a beat ahead until he could find out who these people were and what they really wanted. He smiled now as he thought of how suspicious he’d been when Larry had first told him of Freich and Beekman. He absentmindedly stroked his tie. Then he leaned forward in his seat with his head hanging down. He spoke as if addressing his shoes.

  “What exactly are you interested in? The object or what it’s made of?�
�

  “Both,” Freich said.

  “This person you represent, how long has he had the coin?”

  “Why do you assume it’s not a she who has it, Montaro?” Colette asked simply. With the barest of nods, Montaro acknowledged her point.

  “Long enough,” said Freich obliquely in reply to Caine’s question.

  “Am I interested in having another look at it?” Caine replied. “Maybe. Providing my schedule permits. What time frame do you have in mind?”

  “Tomorrow,” Colette answered.

  “That’s rather fast,” said Caine.

  “But it can be done, can’t it?”

  He knew they knew it could, though not without some difficulty. He had planned to use much of the next day to prepare for an emergency board meeting that would be followed by a meeting of Fitzer’s regional managers. “I have a very busy work schedule, Ms. Beekman … or Colette, if I may, and I would be hard put to accommodate something that doesn’t have anything to do directly with the business of Fitzer Corporation. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  He wondered what their hurry was.

  “We would of course compensate you for your inconvenience, Montaro,” said Colette.

  “Let me look into it,” said Caine. “Where can I call you after lunch?”

  “Waldorf Towers, Suite 2943,” Freich answered.

  Well, Montaro thought, whoever Freich and Beekman are, they are certainly not New Yorkers. The choice of the Waldorf-Astoria proved that.

  “Good,” Caine said. Then, after deliberately allowing a pause to grow awkward, he spoke again. “Larry Buchanan was under the impression that there was some urgency to your interest in Fitzer from an investment point of view. The impression is incorrect, I gather?”

  “Not completely, Montaro,” Freich replied. “We are genuinely interested in Fitzer, but we are more interested, at the moment, in an up-to-date analysis of the object in question.”

  Colette stood and thrust her hand toward Caine. “Thank you for your time. We will be waiting to hear from you, Montaro.”

  “You’re welcome, Colette,” he said.

  They shook hands firmly. Caine was impressed to find that her hand was dry—there was no sign of nerves. She’s cool, this one. A clever dealer, sharp beyond her years, he thought, then steered his visitors to the door.

  “Montaro, if you find you can accommodate us tomorrow, we would appreciate it if you would make the procedure a private affair, limited to just the three of us,” Freich said before Caine opened the door into the reception area.

  Caine stood staring at the door long after his visitors had disappeared into the main hallway. Nancy MacDonald hovered quietly by.

  “Get ahold of Michen Borceau in Research. Tell him I’ll be coming into the lab tomorrow for a few hours,” Caine finally told her. “Cancel everything for tomorrow.”

  “Everything?” she asked.

  “Everything.”

  “But, Mr. Caine, you have half a dozen meetings tomorrow.”

  “Reschedule all of them,” Montaro said. “Then, get busy with Borceau. I want to know when he can make the lab available tomorrow. Then, call Freich and Beekman to set up the time. They’re at the Waldorf Towers, Suite 2943.”

  “Mr. Caine?”

  “Nancy, please, just do as I ask,” he said, and then he closed his door.

  4

  THE STUDY OF MONTARO CAINE’S HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD COLONIAL in Westport, Connecticut, was as well appointed as that of any belonging to his neighbors, who included investment bankers, doctors, lawyers, and CEOs like Montaro himself. A portable bar was set up in front of a bay window that overlooked the patio and Cecilia Caine’s lovingly tended garden. But today, all these exquisite trappings provided little comfort to Montaro as he sat in a black leather Eames sofa beside his wife and daughter, listening to the harsh words spoken by his family’s bespectacled, nearly bald lawyer, Gordon Whitcombe. Montaro’s professional life at Fitzer Corporation was nearly shattered, he was meeting with Herman Freich and Colette Beekman the following morning about a mysterious coinlike object, and now there was this.

  “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, bu
t 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.”