Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 5

  “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.

  5

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MONTARO 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.

  Shortly after entering Michen Borceau’s office, where his research director was awaiting him, Montaro announced that no member of the laboratory staff, not even Borceau himself, would be allowed to take part in the analysis he had scheduled to begin shortly after his guests arrived. The portly, Lyon-born chemist was instantly miffed; his brooding eyes glared from under bushy eyebrows and his smooth, ruddy cheeks blushed redder than usual, but he knew that Montaro must have had a good reason for the unusual protocol. Never once, in all their years of association, had Caine slighted him in any way. Never had Caine questioned any of Borceau’s or his staff’s procedures. Further, Borceau was sensitive and savvy enough to understand that delicate political concerns shrouded all human relationships in the world of big business. He was careful to display no sign of his annoyance, yet both his professional and personal curiosity were further piqued when his secretary, Gina Lao, led Colette Beekman and Herman Freich into his office.

  “Welcome,” Borceau said directly to Colette. “I am Michen Borceau, Director of Research.” He looked from Freich to Colette. Though he was aware that Caine was waiting for him to depart, he was a man who had difficulty containing his appetites, and he could barely keep his eyes off the confident young woman in their midst.

  “Thank you,” said Colette, all too aware of Borceau’s gaze.

  As Beekman and Freich introduced themselves to Borceau, Caine addressed himself somewhat brusquely to Gina Lao, a woman whom he knew Borceau had hired more for her looks than for her efficiency or her trustworthiness. Caine had never openly questioned Borceau’s decision to hire Gina, but he had thought many times that the lab could be run more efficiently if Borceau had hired someone more like his own reliable, but far from glamorous secretary, Nancy MacDonald.

  “Gina,” Caine said, “I don’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gina replied. She prepared to leave, though her boss was making no move to do so.

  “Well, I do hope you enjoy your visit with us,” Borceau said awkwardly, still staring at Colette.

  “Coffee, anyone?” asked Gina Lao, attempting to break the contact with Colette that Borceau had locked himself into. “Ms. Beekman?”

  “No, I’ve had mine,” Colette said. She finally turned away from Borceau.

  “If you change your mind, buzz me,” Gina added as she exited.

  A long pause swelled before Borceau reluctantly turned from Colette, looked at Montaro, smiled at Freich, then followed his secretary out, closing the door behind him.

  Colette laid her briefcase on Borceau’s desk, opened it, reached in among its well-ordered contents, removed a folded dark velvet cloth, then turned to face Caine. After a moment’s hesitation, she handed the packet to him. Caine felt a small box wrapped inside the soft material. Beekman and Freich seated themselves in the chairs before Borceau’s desk and focused their attention on Caine, who moved behind the desk.

  Caine sat and unfolded the cloth to reveal a small gray jeweler’s box. He opened the box slowly. When he saw the contents of the box, his disappointment was instant, yet so was his confusion. Still, he tried not to reveal the slightest reaction. Yes, the object looked similar to the one he remembered—same size, same color—but the configuration of dots upon its face was not quite the same. He wondered if Freich and Beekman knew that the object was different from the one that he had analyzed at M.I.T.

  Caine removed the coin from the box. He held it up for a long, close look at its face before turning the smooth, flat, reverse side upward toward the light. Had they brought him a fake?

  “Well, let’s go to the lab,” he said, knowing that the spectrometer’s results would say all that needed to be said.

  In the wonderfully musty laboratory, Montaro attempted to couch his apprehensions by preparing the coin for its compositional analysis. As he gently polished the coin, he described to Freich and Colette the workings of the spectrometer, which resembled a hefty old-fashioned office Xerox machine, and he offered a rudimentary explanation of the sort of wavelength readings that the spectrometer would provide. He explained that though this form of analysis had been around since World War II, it remained the most reliable and, further, it would do the least amount of damage to the object. He continued his lecture, knowing that Freich and Colette would stay with him for however long the procedure would last, and that they would not let him or the coin out of their sight. He disliked the arrangement, but it was the one he had agreed to. So, with his guests watching his every move, he fired up the machine and waited.

  As the results of the analysis began to reveal themselves, Montaro was surprised and increasingly heartened to discover that this object’s toughness and resilience to heat were of the same remarkable level as that of the original coin. Throughout the workup, he remained careful to conceal his growing elation. What was the history of the coin, he wondered, and what was its connection to the other object he had once held? But no matter how many times his clients asked him and no matter how many times he analyzed, reanalyzed, checked and re-checked, he was not yet ready to tell his clients what the spectrometer was telling him. Yes, he had found elements that were not only unknown, but ones that he was fairly certain were not even contained in the makeup of the first coin.

  All three of them remained silent when they returned to Borceau’s office. When he was finally seated behind Borceau’s desk, he placed the tiny coin back into the jewel box and snapped the lid shut.

  “This isn’t the same coin,” he said at last. Freich and Beekman did not appear surprised.

  “It isn’t?” asked Freich evenly.

  “It isn’t,” repeated Caine. He watched their faces carefully.

  “I don’t understand, Montaro. What do you mean?” Colette asked.

  Caine stood up, leaned forward on Borceau’s desk, and looked from Freich to Beekman before speaking in a clear, firm voice. “I remember every detail. This is not the coin I worked on at M.I.T. It is not the coin we discussed yesterday in my office.”

  Freich and Beekman exchanged looks. “Are you sure?” Colette asked.

  “I’m certain of it, and so are you. So, no games please. Now, please tell me, what is the point of all this?”

  Colette’s only reply was an enigmatic smile before she looked down, pulling Caine’s attention to Freich. “Bottom line, Herman,” Caine said. “Get right to it or let’s call it a day. I’m a busy man; let’s not waste each other’s ti
me.”

  Freich stood up and took a step toward Caine. “Our apologies for misleading you. It is not the same coin,” he said.

  “Where’s the other one, if you don’t mind my asking?” Caine asked.

  “First, Montaro,” Colette interrupted, “can you tell us if there is a relationship between the composition of the two coins?”

  Montaro disliked having a question answered by a question. He weighed his answer before he spoke.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are they of the same nature?” Colette asked.

  “In terms of their strength, yes,” said Caine.

  “Are they of two different compositions?” Colette pressed further.

  “Both contain some elements that are in the other,” Caine responded, trying to keep his answer as vague as he could.

  “Then both are composed of some additional elements that are not to be found in the other?” Freich asked.

  “Where is the first one?” asked Caine. He, too, could play the game of answering a question with a question.

  “In a minute,” said Freich. “One last question—given your expertise as a scientist and given what you wrote in your memo twenty-six years ago, do you know of any civilization in which these objects could have been constructed?”

  “I don’t,” Caine replied. He thought he caught Freich’s eyes dancing for a moment.

  “Which is not to say that such a civilization did not exist, does it?” Freich continued. For emphasis, he shifted his body weight to his right foot, moving him inches nearer to Caine.

  Caine remained silent until Colette interrupted his thoughts. “Is it possible they could have been made by a culture that might have existed some time in human history of which we presently have no knowledge?” she asked.

  “Maybe. A very, very long time ago,” Caine answered as he took a seat.

  “Thank you, Montaro,” Colette said with a smile.

  “So, what about the other one?” Caine asked. “Do you mind telling me about it?”