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Morning, Noon and Night
Sidney Sheldon
The Stanford family is one of the most respected in America – but behind the facade of fame and glamour lies a hidden web of blackmail, drugs and murder…When Harry Stanford, one of the wealthiest men in the world, mysteriously drowns while cruising on his yacht off the rugged coast of Corsica, it sets off a chain of events that reverberates around the globe.At the family gathering following the funeral in Boston, a strikingly beautiful young woman appears. She claims to be Stanford's daughter and entitled to a share of the tycoon's estate. Is she genuine, or is she an imposter?



Morning Noon & Night
SIDNEY SHELDON



Dedication (#ulink_2aff13dc-9972-5a33-ad57-ea18a754eab8)
To Kimberly with love

Contents
Cover (#u639d8dcc-ef1a-56d6-b316-386a8b9109d5)
Title Page (#u1f5827fd-d201-5b41-9488-fa6cfc12f039)
Dedication (#ulink_b8199f07-9936-5429-9acb-5f0051133d7c)
Prologue (#ulink_0c334291-4172-55df-94f6-9dcb77bf32f3)
Morning
Chapter One (#ulink_d91c12b5-d551-5085-84d4-d80a52a61f72)
Chapter Two (#ulink_d1b9dc6c-5b29-5cb4-98b3-3c2c1e2fd150)
Chapter Three (#ulink_6a8e1653-1b9f-508a-9017-98c89eff5377)
Chapter Four (#ulink_2295f46a-60d6-5b3b-a7e0-becc76b42bc0)
Chapter Five (#ulink_bf2f2a39-3d91-5875-bf01-868eaf5d44b5)
Chapter Six (#ulink_293474b2-5e72-5ed6-a5da-b5c72be6a1f7)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_4c3cfc8a-5b86-5762-b0c9-eb0dc800f769)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_df7a8bbd-1224-59c9-8019-5290a3d5ab4c)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_6c94a347-19cd-5c5b-a540-79b857df3357)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Noon
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Night
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_366fc071-d395-576f-9aa0-6fed92d0941d)
Allow the morning sun to warm
Your heart when you are young
And let the soft winds of noon
Cool your passion,
But beware the night
For death lurks there,
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD

MORNING (#ulink_733a36e2-4d83-5c5a-9c07-ec09fd01e07b)

Chapter One (#ulink_97820870-9d30-5167-b98e-d984c54312ce)
Dmitri asked, ‘Do you know we’re being followed, Mr Stanford?’
‘Yes.’ He had been aware of them for the past twenty-four hours.
The two men and the woman were dressed casually, attempting to blend in with the summer tourists strolling along the cobbled streets in the early morning, but it was difficult to remain inconspicuous in a place as small as the fortified village of St-Paul-de-Vence.
Harry Stanford had first noticed them because they were too casual, trying too hard not to look at him. Wherever he turned, one of them was in the background.
Harry Stanford was an easy target to follow. He was six feet tall, with white hair lapping over his collar and an aristocratic, almost imperious face. He was accompanied by a strikingly lovely young brunette, a pure-white German shepherd, and Dmitri Kaminsky, a six-foot four-inch bodyguard with a bulging neck and sloping forehead. Hard to lose us, Stanford thought.
He knew who had sent them and why, and he was filled with a sense of imminent danger. He had learned long ago to trust his instincts. Instinct and intuition had helped make him one of the wealthiest men in the world. Forbes magazine estimated the value of Stanford Enterprises at six billion dollars, while the Fortune 500 appraised it at seven billion. The Wall Street Journal, Barron’s, and the Financial Times had all done profiles on Harry Stanford, trying to explain his mystique, his amazing sense of timing, the ineffable acumen that had created the giant Stanford Enterprises. None had fully succeeded.
What they all agreed on was that he had an almost palpable, manic energy. He was inexhaustible. His philosophy was simple: A day without making a deal was a day wasted. He wore out his competitors, his staff, and everyone else who came in contact with him. He was a phenomenon, larger than life. He thought of himself as a religious man. He believed in God, and the God he believed in wanted him to be rich and successful, and his enemies dead.
Harry Stanford was a public figure, and the press knew everything about him. Harry Stanford was a private figure, and the press knew nothing about him. They had written about his charisma, his lavish life-style, his private plane and his yacht, and his legendary homes in Hobe Sound, Morocco, Long Island, London, the South of France, and of course his magnificent estate, Rose Hill, in the Back Bay area of Boston. But the real Harry Stanford remained an enigma.
‘Where are we going?’ the woman asked.
He was too preoccupied to answer. The couple on the other side of the street was using the cross-switch technique, and they had just changed partners again. Along with his sense of danger, Stanford felt a deep anger that they were invading his privacy. They had dared come to him in this place, his secret haven from the rest of the world.
St-Paul-de-Vence is a picturesque, medieval village, weaving its ancient magic on a hilltop in the Alps Maritimes, situated inland between Cannes and Nice. It is surrounded by a spectacular and enchanting landscape of hills and valleys covered with flowers, orchards, and pine forests. The village itself, a cornucopia of artists’ studios, galleries and wonderful antique shops, is a magnet for tourists from all over the world.
Harry Stanford and his group turned onto the Rue Grande.
Stanford turned to the woman Sophia, ‘Do you like museums?’
‘Yes, caro.’ She was eager to please him. She had never met anyone like Harry Stanford. Wait until I tell my girlfriends about him. I didn’t think there was anything left for me to learn about sex, but my God, he’s so creative! He’s wearing me out!
They went up the hill to the Fondation Maeght art museum, and browsed through its renowned collection of paintings by Bonnard and Chagall and many other contemporary artists. When Harry Stanford casually glanced around, he observed the woman at the other end of the gallery, earnestly studying a Miró.
Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yes. If you are.’ Must not be pushy.
‘Good. We’ll have lunch at La Colombe d’Or.’
La Colombe d’Or was one of Stanford’s favorite restaurants, a sixteenth-century house at the entrance to the old village, converted into a hotel and restaurant. Stanford and Sophia sat at a table in the garden, by the pool, where Stanford could admire the Braque and Calder.
Prince, the white German shepherd, lay at his feet, ever watchful. The dog was Harry Stanford’s trademark. Where Stanford went, Prince went. It was rumored that at Harry Stanford’s command, the animal would tear out a person’s throat. No one wanted to test that rumor.
Dmitri sat by himself at a table near the hotel entrance, carefully observing the other patrons as they came and went.
Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘Shall I order for you, my dear?’
‘Please.’
Harry Stanford prided himself on being a gourmet. He ordered a green salad and fricassée de lotte for both of them.
As they were being served their main course, Danielle Roux, who ran the hotel with her husband, Francois, approached the table and smiled. ‘Bonjour. Is everything all right, Monsieur Stanford?’
‘Wonderful, Madame Roux.’
And it was going to be. They are pygmies, trying to fell a giant. They’re in for a big disappointment.
Sophia said, ‘I’ve never been here before. It’s such a lovely village.’
Stanford turned his attention to her. Dmitri had picked her up for him in Nice a day earlier.
‘Mr Stanford, I brought someone for you.’
‘Any problem?’ Stanford had asked.
Dmitri had grinned. ‘None.’ He had seen her in the lobby of the Hotel Negresco, and had approached her.
‘Excuse me, do you speak English?’
‘Yes.’ She had a lilting Italian accent.
‘The man I work for would like you to have dinner with him.’
She had been indignant. ‘I’m not a puttana! I’m an actress,’ she had said haughtily. In fact, she had had a walk-on part in Pupi Avati’s last film, and a role with two lines of dialogue in a Giuseppe Tornatore film. ‘Why would I have dinner with a stranger?’
Dmitri had taken out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He pushed five into her hand. ‘My friend is very generous. He has a yacht, and he is lonely.’ He had watched her expression go through a series of changes from indignation, to curiosity, to interest.
‘As it happens, I’m between pictures.’ She smiled. ‘It would probably do no harm to have dinner with your friend.’
‘Good. He will be pleased.’
‘Where is he?’
‘St-Paul-de-Vence.’
Dmitri had chosen well. Italian. In her late twenties. A sensuous, catlike face. Full-breasted figure. Now, looking at her across the table, Harry Stanford made a decision.
‘Do you like to travel, Sophia?’
‘I adore it.’
‘Good. We’ll go on a little trip. Excuse me a moment.’
Sophia watched as he walked into the restaurant and to a public telephone outside the men’s room.
Stanford put a jeton in the slot and dialed.
‘Marine operator, please.’
Seconds later, a voice said, ‘C’est l’opératrice maritime.’
‘I want to put in a call to the yacht Blue Skies. Whiskey bravo lima nine eight zero …’
The conversation lasted five minutes, and when Stanford was finished, he dialed the airport at Nice. The conversation was shorter this time.
When Stanford was through talking, he spoke to Dmitri, who rapidly left the restaurant. Then he returned to Sophia. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s take a walk.’ He needed time to work out a plan.
It was a perfect day. The sun had splashed pink clouds across the horizon and rivers of silver light ran through the streets.
They strolled along the Rue Grande, past the Église, the beautiful twelfth-century church, and stopped at the boulangerie in front of the Arch to buy some fresh baked bread. When they came out, one of the three watchers was standing outside, busily studying the church. Dmitri was also waiting for them.
Harry Stanford handed the bread to Sophia. ‘Why don’t you take this up to the house? I’ll be along in a few minutes.’
‘All right.’ She smiled and said softly, ‘Hurry, caro.’
Stanford watched her leave, then motioned to Dmitri.
‘What did you find out?’
‘The woman and one of the men are staying at Le Hameau, on the road to La Colle.’
Harry Stanford knew the place. It was a whitewashed farmhouse with an orchard a mile west of St-Paul-de-Vence. ‘And the other one?’
‘At Le Mas d’Artigny.’
Le Mas d’Artigny was a Provencal mansion on a hillside two miles west of St-Paul-de-Vence.
‘What do you want me to do with them, sir?’
‘Nothing. I’ll take care of them.’
Harry Stanford’s villa was on the Rue de Casette, next to the mairie, in an area of narrow cobblestone streets and very old houses. The villa was a five-level house made of old stone and plaster. Two levels below the main house were a garage and an old cave used as a wine cellar. A stone staircase led to upstairs bedrooms, an office, and a tiled-roof terrace. The entire house was furnished in French antiques and filled with flowers.
When Stanford returned to the villa, Sophia was in his bedroom, waiting for him. She was naked.
‘What took you so long?’ she whispered.
In order to survive, Sophia Matteo often picked up money between film assignments as a call girl, and she was used to faking orgasms to please her clients, but with this man, there was no need to pretend. He was insatiable, and she found herself climaxing again and again.
When they were finally exhausted, Sophia put her arms around him and murmured happily, ‘I could stay here forever, caro.’
I wish I could, Stanford thought, grimly.
They had dinner at Le Café de la Place in Plaza du General-de-Gaulle, near the entrance to the village. The dinner was delicious, and for Stanford the danger added spice to the meal.
When they were finished, they made their way back to the villa. Stanford walked slowly, to make certain his pursuers followed.
At one A.M., a man standing across the street watched the lights in the villa being turned off, one by one, until the building was in total darkness.
At four thirty in the morning, Harry Stanford went into the guest bedroom where Sophia slept. He shook her gently. ‘Sophia …?’
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a smile of anticipation on her face, then frowned. He was fully dressed. She sat up. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, my dear. Everything is fine. You said you liked to travel. Well, we’re going to take a little trip.’
She was wide awake now. ‘At this hour?’
‘Yes. We must be very quiet.’
‘But …’
‘Hurry.’
Fifteen minutes later, Harry Stanford, Sophia, Dmitri, and Prince were moving down the stone staircase to the basement garage where a brown Renault was parked. Dmitri quietly opened the garage door and looked out onto the street. Except for Stanford’s white Corniche, parked in front, it seemed deserted. ‘All clear.’
Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘We’re going to play a little game. You and I are going to get in the back of the Renault and lie down on the floor.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘Some business competitors have been following me,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’m about to close a very large deal, and they’re trying to find out about it. If they do, it could cost me a lot of money.’
‘I understand,’ Sophia said. She had no idea what he was talking about.
Five minutes later, they were driving past the gates of the village on the road to Nice. A man seated on a bench watched the brown Renault as it sped through the gates. At the wheel was Dmitri Kaminsky and beside him was Prince. The man hastily took out a cellular telephone and began dialing.
‘We may have a problem,’ he told the woman.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘A brown Renault just drove out of the gates. Dmitri Kaminsky was driving, and the dog was in the car, too.’
‘And Stanford wasn’t in the car?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe it. His bodyguard never leaves him at night, and that dog never leaves him, ever.’
‘Is his Corniche still parked in front of the villa?’ asked the other man sent to follow Harry Stanford.
‘Yes, but maybe he switched cars.’
‘Or it could be a trick! Call the airport.’
Within minutes, they were talking to the tower.
‘Monsieur Stanford’s plane? Oui. It arrived an hour ago and has already refueled.’
Five minutes later, two members of the surveillance team were on their way to the airport, while the third kept watch on the sleeping villa.
As the brown Renault passed through La Coalle-sur-Loup, Stanford moved onto the seat. ‘It’s all right to sit up, now,’ he told Sophia. He turned to Dmitri, ‘Nice airport. Hurry.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_93bb04c0-8b2a-5d9d-9cfb-cacf2a757e6c)
Half an hour later, at Nice airport, a converted Boeing 727 was slowly taxiing down the runway to the takeoff point. Up in the tower, the flight controller said, ‘They certainly are in a hurry to get that plane off the ground. The pilot has asked for a clearance three times.’
‘Whose plane is it?’
‘Harry Stanford. King Midas himself.’
‘He’s probably on his way to make another billion or two.’
The controller turned to monitor a Learjet taking off, then picked up the microphone. ‘Boeing eight nine five Papa, this is Nice departure control. You are cleared for takeoff. Five left. After departure, turn right to a heading of one four zero.’
Harry Stanford’s pilot and copilot exchanged a relieved look. The pilot pressed the microphone button. ‘Roger. Boeing eight nine five Papa is cleared for takeoff. Will turn right to one four zero.’
A moment later, the huge plane thundered down the runway and knifed into the gray dawn sky.
The copilot spoke into the microphone again. ‘Departure, Boeing eight nine five Papa is climbing out of three thousand for flight level seven zero.’
The copilot turned to the pilot. ‘Whew! Old Man Stanford was sure anxious for us to get off the ground, wasn’t he?’
The pilot shrugged. Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. How’s he doing back there?’
The copilot rose and stepped to the door of the cockpit, and looked into the cabin. ‘He’s resting.’
They telephoned the airport tower from the car.
‘Mr Stanford’s plane … Is it still on the ground?’
‘Non, monsieur. It has departed.’
‘Did the pilot file a flight plan?’
‘Of course, monsieur.’
‘To where?’
‘The plane is headed for JKF.’
‘Thank you.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Kennedy. We’ll have people there to meet him.’
When the Renault passed the outskirts of Monte Carlo, speeding toward the Italian border, Harry Stanford said, ‘There’s no chance that we were followed, Dmitri?’
‘No, sir. We’ve lost them.’
‘Good.’ Harry Stanford leaned back in his seat and relaxed. There was nothing to worry about. They would be tracking the plane. He reviewed the situation in his mind. It was really a question of what they knew and when they knew it. They were jackals following the trail of a lion, hoping to bring him down. Harry Stanford smiled to himself. They had underestimated the man they were dealing with. Others who had made that mistake had paid dearly for it. Someone would also pay this time. He was Harry Stanford, the confidant of presidents and kings, powerful and rich enough to make or break the economies of a dozen countries.
The 727 was in the skies over Marseilles. The pilot spoke into the microphone. ‘Marseilles, Boeing eight nine five Papa is with you, climbing out of flight level one nine zero for flight level two three zero.’
‘Roger.’
The Renault reached San Remo shortly after dawn. Harry Stanford had fond memories of the city, but it had changed drastically. He remembered a time when it had been an elegant town with first-class hotels and restaurants, and a casino where black tie was required and where fortunes could be lost or won in an evening. Now it had succumbed to tourism, with loud-mouthed patrons gambling in their shirtsleeves.
The Renault was approaching the harbor, twelve miles from the French-Italian border. There were two marinas at the harbor, Marina Porto Sole to the east, and Porto Communale to the west. In Porto Sole, a marine attendant directed the berthing. In Porto Communale, there was no attendant.
‘Which one?’ Dmitri asked.
‘Porto Communale,’ Stanford directed. The fewer people around, the better.
‘Yes, sir.’
A few minutes later, the Renault pulled up next to the Blue Skies, a sleek hundred-and-eighty-foot motor yacht. Captain Vacarro and the crew of twelve were lined up on deck. The captain hurried down the gangplank to greet the new arrivals.
‘Good morning, Signor Stanford,’ Captain Vacarro said. ‘We’ll take your luggage, and …’
‘No luggage. Let’s shove off.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Stanford was studying the crew. He frowned. The man on the end. He’s new, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. Our cabin boy got sick in Capri, and we took on this one. He’s highly –’
‘Get rid of him,’ Stanford ordered.
The captain looked at him, puzzled. ‘Get …?’
‘Pay him off. Let’s get out of here.’
Captain Vacarro nodded. ‘Right, sir.’
Looking around, Harry Stanford was filled with an increasing sense of foreboding. He could almost reach out and touch it. He did not want any strangers near him. Captain Vacarro and his crew had been with him for years. He could trust them. He turned to look at the girl. Since Dmitri had picked her up at random, here was no danger there. And as for Dmitri, his faithful bodyguard had saved his life more than once. Stanford turned to Dmitri. ‘Stay close to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stanford took Sophia’s arm. ‘Let’s go aboard, my dear.’
Dmitri Kaminsky stood on deck, watching the crew prepare to cast off. He scanned the harbor, but he saw nothing to be alarmed about. At this time of the morning, there was very little activity. The yacht’s huge generators burst into life, and the vessel got under weigh.
The captain approached Harry Stanford. ‘You didn’t say where we were heading, Signor Stanford.’
‘No, I didn’t, did I, captain?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Portofino.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By the way, I want you to maintain strict radio silence.’
Captain Vacarro frowned. ‘Radio silence? Yes, sir, but what if …?’
Harry Stanford said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Just do it. And I don’t want anyone using the satellite phones.’
‘Right, sir. Will we be laying over in Portofino?’
‘I’ll let you know, captain.’
Harry Stanford took Sophia on a tour of the yacht. It was one of his prized possessions, and he enjoyed showing it off. It was a breathtaking vessel. It had a luxuriously appointed master suite with a sitting room and an office. The office was spacious and comfortably furnished with a couch, several easy chairs, and a desk, behind which was enough equipment to run a small town. On the wall was a large electronic map with a small moving boat showing the current position of the yacht. Sliding glass doors opened from the master suite onto an outside veranda deck furnished with a chaise longue and a table with four chairs. A teak railing ran along the outside. On balmy days, it was Stanford’s custom to have breakfast on the veranda.
There were six guest staterooms, each with hand-painted silk panels, picture windows, and a bath with a Jacuzzi. The large library was done in koa wood.
The dining room could seat sixteen guests. A fully equipped fitness salon was on the lower deck. The yacht also contained a wine cellar and a theater that was ideal for running films. Harry Stanford had one of the world’s greatest libraries of pornographic movies. The furnishings throughout the vessel were exquisite, and the paintings would have made any museum proud.
‘Well, now you’ve seen most of it,’ Stanford told Sophia at the end of the tour. ‘I’ll show you the rest tomorrow.’
She was awed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s … it’s like a city!’
Harry Stanford smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘The steward will show you to your cabin. Make yourself comfortable. I have some work to do.’
Harry Stanford returned to his office and checked the electronic map on the wall for the location of the yacht. Blue Skies was in the Ligurian Sea, heading northeast. They won’t know where I’ve gone, Stanford thought. They’ll be waiting for me at JFK. When we get to Portofino, I’ll straighten everything out.
Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, the pilot of the 727 was getting new instructions. ‘Boeing eight nine five Papa, you are cleared directly to Delta India November upper route forty as filed.’
‘Roger. Boeing eight nine five Papa is cleared direct Dinard upper route forty as filed.’ He turned to the copilot. ‘All clear.’
The pilot stretched, got up, and walked to the cockpit door. He looked into the cabin.
‘How’s our passenger doing?’ the copilot asked.
‘He looks hungry to me.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_13ac668f-6097-5ebd-a422-3b0a71ee0907)
The Ligurian coast is the Italian Riviera, sweeping in a semicircle from the French-Italian border around to Genoa, and then continuing down to the Gulf of La Spezia. The beautiful long ribbon of coast and its sparkling waters contain the storied ports of Portofino, Vernazza, and beyond them Elba, Sardinia, and Corsica.
Blue Skies was approaching Portofino, which even from a distance was an impressive sight, its hillsides covered with olive trees, pines, cypresses and palms. Harry Stanford, Sophia, and Dmitri were on deck, studying the approaching coastline.
‘Have you been to Portofino often?’ Sophia asked.
‘A few times.’
‘Where is your main home?’
Too personal. ‘You’ll enjoy Portofino, Sophia. It’s really quite beautiful.’
Captain Vacarro approached them. ‘Will you be having lunch aboard, Signor Stanford?’
‘No, we’ll have lunch at the Splendido.’
‘Very good. And shall I be prepared to weigh anchor right after lunch?’
‘I think not. Let’s enjoy the beauty of the place.’
Captain Vacarro studied him, puzzled. One moment Harry Stanford was in a terrible hurry, and the next moment he seemed to have all the time in the world. And the radio shut down? Unheard of! Pazzo.
When Blue Skies dropped anchor in the outer harbor; Stanford, Sophia and Dmitri took the yacht’s launch ashore. The small seaport was charming, with a variety of amusing shops and outdoor trattorie lining the single road that led up to the hills. A dozen or so small fishing boats were pulled up onto the pebbled beach.
Stanford turned to Sophia. ‘We’ll be lunching at the hotel on top of the hill. There’s a lovely view from there.’ He nodded toward a taxi stopped beyond the docks. ‘Take a taxi up there, and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.’ He handed her some lire.
‘Very well, caro.’
His eyes followed her as she walked away; then he turned to Dmitri. ‘I have to make a call.’
But not from the ship, Dmitri thought.
The men went to the two phone booths at the side of the dock. Dmitri watched as Stanford stepped inside one of them, picked up the receiver, and inserted a token.
‘Operator, I would like to place a call to someone at the Union Bank of Switzerland in Geneva.’
A woman was approaching the second phone booth. Dmitri stepped in front of it, blocking her way.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I …’
‘I’m waiting for a call.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh.’ She glanced hopefully at the phone booth Stanford was in.
‘I wouldn’t wait,’ Dmitri grunted. ‘He’s going to be on the telephone for a long time.’
The woman shrugged and walked away.
‘Hello?’
Dmitri was watching Stanford speaking into the mouthpiece.
‘Peter? We have a little problem.’ Stanford closed the door to the booth. He was speaking very fast, and Dmitri could not hear what he was saying. At the end of the conversation, Stanford replaced the receiver and opened the door.
‘Is everything all right, Mr Stanford?’ Dmitri asked.
‘Let’s get some lunch.’
The Splendido is the crown jewel of Portofino, a hotel with a magnificent panoramic view of the emerald bay below. The hotel caters to the very rich, and jealously guards its reputation. Harry Stanford and Sophia had lunch out on the terrace.
‘Shall I order for you?’ Stanford asked. ‘They have some specialties here that I think you might enjoy.’
‘Please,’ Sophia said.
Stanford ordered the trenette al pesto, the local pasta, veal, and focaccia, the salted bread of the region.
‘And bring us a bottle of Schram Eighty-eight.’ He turned to Sophia. ‘It received a gold medal in the International Wine Challenge in London. I own the vineyard.’
She smiled. ‘You’re lucky.’
Luck had nothing to do with it. ‘I believe that man was meant to enjoy the gustatory delights that have been put on the earth.’ He took her hand in his. ‘And other delights, too.’
‘You’re an amazing man.’
‘Thank you.’
It excited Stanford to have beautiful women admiring him. This one was young enough to be his daughter and that excited him even more.
When they had finished lunch, Stanford looked at Sophia and grinned. ‘Let’s get back to the yacht.’
‘Oh, yes!’
Harry Stanford was a protean lover, passionate and skilled. His enormous ego made him more concerned about satisfying a woman than about satisfying himself. He knew how to excite a woman’s erotic zones, and he orchestrated his lovemaking in a sensuous symphony that brought his lovers to heights they had never achieved before.
They spent the afternoon in Stanford’s suite, and when they were finished making love, Sophia was exhausted. Harry Stanford dressed and went to the bridge to see Captain Vacarro.
‘Would you like to go on to Sardinia, Signor Stanford?’ the captain asked.
‘Let’s stop off at Elba first.’
‘Very good, sir. Is everything satisfactory?’
‘Yes,’ Stanford said. ‘Everything is satisfactory.’ He was feeling aroused again. He went back to Sophia’s stateroom.
They reached Elba the following afternoon and anchored at Portoferraio.
As the Boeing 727 entered North American airspace, the pilot checked in with ground control.
‘New York Center, Boeing eight nine five Papa is with you, passing flight level two six zero for flight level two four zero.’
The voice of New York Center came on. ‘Roger, you are cleared to one two thousand, direct JFK. Call approach on one two seven point four.’
From the back of the plane came a low growl.
‘Easy, Prince. That’s a good boy. Let’s get this seat belt around you.’
There were four men waiting when the 727 landed. They stood at different vantage points so they could watch the passengers descend from the plane. They waited for half an hour. The only passenger to come out was a white German shepherd.


Portoferraio is the main shopping center of Elba. The streets are lined with elegant, sophisticated shops, and behind the harbor, the eighteenth-century buildings are tucked under the craggy sixteenth-century citadel built by the Duke of Florence.
Harry Stanford had visited the island many times, and in a strange way, he felt at home here. This was where Napoleon Bonaparte had been sent into exile.
‘We’re going to look at Napoleon’s house,’ he told Sophia. ‘I’ll meet you there.’ He turned to Dmitri. ‘Take her to the Villa dei Mulini.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stanford watched Dmitri and Sophia leave. He looked at his watch. Time was running out. His plane would already have landed at Kennedy. When they learned that he was not aboard, the manhunt would begin again. It will take them a while to pick up the trail, Stanford thought. By then, everything will have been settled.
He stepped into a phone booth at the end of the dock. ‘I want to place a call to London,’ Stanford told the operator. ‘Barclays Bank. One seven one …’
Half an hour later, he picked up Sophia and brought her back to the harbor.
‘You go aboard,’ Stanford told her. ‘I have another call to make.’
She watched him stride over to the telephone booth beside the dock. Why doesn’t he use the telephones on the yacht? Sophia wondered.
Inside the telephone booth, Harry Stanford was saying, ‘The Sumitomo Bank in Tokyo …’
Fifteen minutes later, when he returned to the yacht, he was in a fury.
‘Are we going to be anchoring here for the night?’ Captain Vacarro asked.
‘Yes,’ Stanford snapped. ‘No! Let’s head for Sardinia. Now!’
The Costa Smeralda in Sardinia is one of the most exquisite places along the Mediterranean coast. The little town of Porto Cervo is a haven for the wealthy, with a large part of the area dotted with villas built by Aly Khan.
The first thing Harry Stanford did when they docked was to head for a telephone booth.
Dmitri followed him, standing guard outside the booth.
‘I want to place a call to Banca d’Italia in Rome …’ The phone booth door closed.
The conversation lasted for almost half an hour. When Stanford came out of the phone booth, he was grim. Dmitri wondered what was going on.
Stanford and Sophia had lunch at the beach of Liscia di Vacca. Stanford ordered for them. ‘We’ll start with malloreddus.’ Flakes of dough made of hard-grain wheat. ‘Then the porceddu.’ Little suckling pig, cooked with myrtle and bay leaves. ‘For a wine, we’ll have the Vernaccia, and for dessert, we’ll have sebadas.’ Fried fritters filled with fresh cheese and grated lemon rind, dusted with bitter honey and sugar.
‘Bene, signor.’ The waiter walked away, impressed.
As Stanford turned to talk to Sophia, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. Near the entrance to the restaurant two men were seated at a table, studying him. Dressed in dark suits in the summer sun, they were not even bothering to pretend they were tourists. Are they after me or are they innocent strangers? I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Stanford thought.
Sophia was speaking. ‘I’ve never asked you before. What business are you in?’
Stanford studied her. It was refreshing to be with someone who knew nothing about him. ‘I’m retired,’ he told her. ‘I just travel around, enjoying the world.’
‘And you’re all by yourself?’ Her voice was filled with sympathy. ‘You must be very lonely.’
It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. ‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you’re here with me.’
She put her hand over his. ‘I, too, caro.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Stanford saw the two men leave.
When luncheon was over, Stanford and Sophia and Dmitri returned to town.
Stanford headed for a telephone booth. ‘I want the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris …’
Watching him, Sophia spoke to Dmitri. ‘He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?’
‘There’s no one like him.’
‘Have you been with him long?’
‘Two years,’ Dmitri said.
‘You’re lucky.’
‘I know.’ Dmitri walked over and stood guard right outside the telephone booth. He heard Stanford saying, ‘René? You know why I’m calling … Yes … Yes … You will? … That’s wonderful!’ His voice was filled with relief. ‘No … not there. Let’s meet in Corsica. That’s perfect. After our meeting, I can return directly home. Thank you, René.’
Stanford put down the receiver. He stood there a moment, smiling, then dialed a number in Boston.
A secretary answered. ‘Mr Fitzgerald’s office.’
‘This is Harry Stanford. Let me talk to him.’
‘Oh, Mr Stanford! I’m sorry, Mr Fitzgerald is on vacation. Can someone else …?’
‘No. I’m on my way back to the States. You tell him I want him in Boston at Rose Hill at nine o’clock Monday morning. Tell him to bring a copy of my will and a notary.’
‘I’ll try to –’
‘Don’t try. Do it, my dear.’ He put down the receiver and stood there, his mind racing. When he stepped out of the telephone booth, his voice was calm. ‘I have a little business to take care of, Sophia. Go to the Hotel Pitrizza and wait for me.’
‘All right,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘Don’t be too long.’
‘I won’t.’
The two men watched her walk away.
‘Let’s get back to the yacht,’ Stanford told Dmitri. ‘We’re leaving.’
Dmitri looked at him in surprise. ‘What about …?’
‘She can screw her way back home.’
When they returned to the Blue Skies, Harry Stanford went to see Captain Vacarro. ‘We’re heading for Corsica,’ he said. ‘Let’s shove off.’
‘I just received an updated weather report, Signor Stanford. I’m afraid there’s a bad storm. It would be better if we waited it out and – ‘
‘I want to leave now, captain.’
Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘It will be a rough voyage, sir. It’s a libeccio – the southwest wind. We’ll have heavy seas and squalls.’
‘I don’t care about that.’ The meeting in Corsica was going to solve all his problems. He turned to Dmitri. ‘I want you to arrange for a helicopter to pick us up in Corsica and take us to Naples. Use the public telephone on the dock.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dmitri Kaminsky walked back to the dock and entered the telephone booth.
Twenty minutes later, Blue Skies was under weigh.

Chapter Four (#ulink_abbd41ab-7cbb-5a13-ae82-ef20cc414ec3)
His idol was Dan Quayle, and he often used the name as his touchstone.
‘I don’t care what you say about Quayle, he’s the only politician with real values. Family – that’s what it’s all about. Without family values, this country would be up the creek even worse than it is. All these young kids are living together without being married, and having babies. It’s shocking. No wonder there’s so much crime. If Dan Quayle ever runs for president, he’s sure got my vote.’ It was a shame, he thought, that he couldn’t vote because of a stupid law, but, regardless, he was behind Quayle all the way.
He had four children: Billy, eight, and the girls – Amy, Clarissa, and Susan, ten, twelve, and fourteen. They were wonderful children, and his greatest joy was spending what he liked to call quality time with them. His weekends were totally devoted to the children. He barbecued for them, played with them, took them to movies and ball games, and helped them with their homework. All the youngsters in the neighborhood adored him. He repaired their bikes and toys, and invited them on picnics with his family. They gave him the nickname of Papa.
On a sunny Saturday morning, he was seated in the bleachers, watching the baseball game. It was a picture-perfect day, with warm sunshine and fluffy cumulus clouds dappling the sky. His eight-year-old son, Billy, was at bat, looking very professional and grown up in his Little League uniform. Papa’s three girls and his wife were at his side. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought happily. Why can’t all families be like ours?
It was the bottom of the eighth inning, the score was tied, with two outs and the bases loaded. Billy was at the plate, three balls and two strikes against him.
Papa called out, encouragingly, ‘Get ’em, Billy! Over the fence!’
Billy waited for the pitch. It was fast and low, and Billy swung wildly and missed.
The umpire yelled, ‘Strike three!’
The inning was over.
There were groans and cheers from the crowd of parents and family friends. Billy stood there disheartened, watching the teams change sides.
Papa called out, ‘It’s all right, son. You’ll do it next time!’
Billy tried to force a smile.
John Cotton, the team manager, was waiting for Billy. ‘You’re outta the game!’ he said.
‘But, Mr Cotton …’
‘Go on. Get off the field.’
Billy’s father watched in hurt amazement as his son left the field. He can’t do that, he thought. He has to give Billy another chance. I’ll have to speak to Mr Cotton and explain. At that instant, the cellular phone he carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it. Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.
Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button, and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Hello?’
The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several minutes. Papa listened, nodding from time to time. Finally he said, ‘Yes. I understand. I’ll take care of it.’ He put the phone away.
‘Is everything all right, darling?’ his wife asked.
‘No. I’m afraid it isn’t. They want me to work over the weekend. I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow.’
His wife took his hand and said lovingly, ‘Don’t worry about it. Your work is more important.’
Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly. Dan Quayle would understand.
His hand began to itch fiercely and he scratched it. Why does it do that? he wondered. I’ll have to see a dermatologist one of these days.
John Cotton was the assistant manager at the local supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to manage the Little League team because his son was a ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of young Billy.
The supermarket had closed, and John Cotton was in the parking lot, walking toward his car, when a stranger approached him, carrying a package.
‘Excuse me, Mr Cotton.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment?’
‘The store is closed.’
‘Oh, it’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son. Billy is very upset that you took him out of the game and told him he couldn’t play again.’
‘Billy is your son? I’m sorry he was even in the game. He’ll never be a ballplayer.’
Billy’s father said earnestly, ‘You’re not being fair, Mr Cotton. I know Billy. He’s really a fine ballplayer. You’ll see. When he plays next Saturday –’
‘He isn’t going to play next Saturday. He’s out.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. That’s it. Now, if there’s nothing else …’
‘Oh, there is.’ Billy’s father had unwrapped the package in his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly, ‘This is the bat that Billy used. You can see that it’s chipped, so it isn’t fair to punish him because –’
‘Look, mister, I don’t give a damn about the bat. Your son is out!’
Billy’s father sighed unhappily. ‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind?’
‘No chance.’
As Cotton reached for the door handle of his car, Billy’s father swung the bat against the rear window, smashing it.
Cotton stared at him in shock. ‘What … what the hell are you doing?’
‘Warming up,’ Papa explained. He raised the bat and swung it again, smashing it against Cotton’s kneecap.
John Cotton screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in pain. ‘You’re crazy!’ he yelled. ‘Help!’
Billy’s father knelt beside him and said softly, ‘Make one more sound, and I’ll break your other kneecap.’
Cotton stared up at him in agony, terrified.
‘If my son isn’t in the game next Saturday, I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?’
Cotton looked into the man’s eyes and nodded, fighting to keep from screaming with pain.
‘Good. Oh, and I wouldn’t want this to get out. I’ve got friends.’ He looked at his watch. He had just enough time to catch the next flight to Boston.
His hand began to itch again.
At seven o’clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he walked past Vendome, through Copley Square, and on to Stuart Street. A half block past the Park Plaza Castle, he entered the Boston Trust Building and approached the guard. With dozens of tenants in the huge building, there would be no way the guard at the reception desk could identify him.
‘Good morning,’ the man said.
‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’
He sighed. ‘Even God can’t help me. They think I have nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that someone else should have done.’
The guard said, sympathetically, ‘I know the feeling.’ He pushed a log book forward. ‘Would you sign in, please?’
He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators. The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read, RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The reception room was furnished in old-fashioned, conservative taste, as befitted one of Boston’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment, orienting himself, then moved toward the back, to a filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the front. He tried the cabinet marked R-S. It was locked.
From his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding the key with the pair of pliers, he carefully filed off the black spots. He put the key into the lock again, and repeated the procedure. He was humming quietly to himself as he picked the lock, and he smiled as he suddenly realized what he was humming: ‘Far Away Places’. I’ll take my family on vacation, he thought happily. A real vacation. I’ll bet the kids would love Hawaii.
The cabinet drawer came open, and he pulled it toward him. It took only a moment to find the folder he wanted. He removed a small Pentax camera from his briefcase and went to work. Ten minutes later he was finished. He took several pieces of Kleenex from the briefcase, walked over to the water cooler, and wet them. He returned to the filing room and wiped up the steel shavings on the floor. He locked the file cabinet, made his way out to the corridor, locked the front door to the offices, and left the building.

Chapter Five (#ulink_9d3762c4-3104-50b9-9573-990462be62a7)
At sea, later that evening, Captain Vacarro came to Harry Stanford’s stateroom.
‘Signor Stanford …’
‘Yes?’
The captain pointed to the electronic map on the wall. ‘I’m afraid the winds are getting worse. The libeccio is centered in the Strait of Bonifacio. I would suggest that we take shelter in a harbor until –’
Stanford cut him short. ‘This is a good ship, and you’re a good captain. I’m sure you can handle it.’
Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘As you say, signor. I will do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will, captain.’
Harry Stanford sat in the office of his suite, planning his strategy. He would meet René in Corsica and get everything straightened out. After that, the helicopter would fly him to Naples, and from there he would charter a plane to take him to Boston. Everything is going to be fine, he decided. All I need is forty-eight hours. Just forty-eight hours.


He was awakened at 2 A.M. by the wild pitching of the yacht and a howling gale outside. Stanford had been in storms before, but this was one of the worst. Captain Vacarro had been right. Harry Stanford got out of bed, holding on to the nightstand to steady himself, and made his way to the wall map. The ship was in the Strait of Bonifacio. We should be in Ajaccio in the next few hours, he thought. Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.
The events that occurred later that night were a matter of speculation. The papers strewn around the veranda suggested that the strong wind had blown some of the others away, and that Harry Stanford had tried to retrieve them, but because of the pitching yacht he had lost his balance and fallen overboard. Dmitri Kaminsky saw him fall into the water and immediately grabbed the intercom.
‘Man overboard!’

Chapter Six (#ulink_67464a00-287f-54f1-a21d-4010470f71dd)
Capitaine François Durer, chef de police in Corsica, was in a foul mood. The island was overcrowded with stupid summer tourists who were incapable of holding onto their passports, their wallets, or their children. Complaints had come streaming in all day long to the tiny police headquarters at 2 Cours Napoléon off Rue Sergent Casalonga.
‘A man snatched my purse.’
‘My ship sailed without me. My wife is on board.’
‘I bought this watch from someone on the street. It has nothing inside.’
‘The drugstores here don’t carry the pills I need.’
The problems were endless, endless, endless.
And now it seemed that the capitaine had a body on his hands.
‘I have no time for this now,’ he snapped.
‘But they’re waiting outside,’ his assistant informed him. ‘What shall I tell them?’
Capitaine Durer was impatient to get to his mistress. His impulse was to say, ‘Take the body to some other island,’ but he was, after all, the chief police official on the island.
‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll see them briefly.’
A moment later, Captain Vacarro and Dmitri Kaminsky were ushered into the office.
‘Sit down.’ Capitaine Durer said, ungraciously.
The two men took chairs.
‘Tell me, please, exactly what occurred.’
Captain Vacarro said, ‘I’m not sure exactly. I didn’t see it happen.’ He turned to Dmitri Kaminsky. ‘He was an eyewitness. Perhaps he should explain it.’
Dmitri took a deep breath. ‘It was terrible. I work … worked for the man.’
‘Doing what, monsieur?’
‘Bodyguard, masseur, chauffeur. Our yacht was caught in the storm last night. It was very bad. He asked me to give him a massage to relax him. Afterward, he asked me to get him a sleeping pill. They were in the bathroom. When I returned, he was standing out on the veranda, at the railing. The storm was tossing the yacht around. He had been holding some papers in his hand. One of them flew away, and he reached out to grab for it, lost his balance, and fell over the side. I raced to save him, but there was nothing I could do. I called for help. Captain Vacarro immediately stopped the yacht, and through the captain’s heroic efforts, we found him. But it was too late. He had drowned.’
‘I am very sorry.’ He could not have cared less.
Captain Vacarro spoke up. ‘The wind and the sea carried the body back to the yacht. It was pure luck, but now we would like permission to take the body home.’
‘That should be no problem.’ He would still have time to have a drink with his mistress before he went home to his wife. ‘I will have a death certificate and an exit visa for the body prepared at once.’ He picked up a yellow pad. ‘The name of the victim?’
‘Harry Stanford.’
Capitaine Durer was suddenly very still. He looked up. ‘Harry Stanford?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Harry Stanford?’
‘Yes.’
And Capitaine Durer’s future suddenly became much brighter. The gods had dropped manna in his lap. Harry Stanford was an international legend! The news of his death would reverberate around the world, and he, Capitaine Durer, was in control of the situation. The immediate question was how to manipulate it for the maximum benefit to himself. Durer sat there, staring into space, thinking.
‘How soon can you release the body?’ Captain Vacarro asked.
He looked up. ‘Ah. That’s a good question.’ How much time will it take for the press to arrive? Should I ask the yacht’s captain to participate in the interview? No. Why share the glory with him? I will handle this alone. ‘There is much to be done,’ he said regretfully. Papers to prepare …’ He sighed. ‘It could well be a week or more.’
Captain Vacarro was appalled. ‘A week or more? But you said –’
‘There are certain formalities to be observed,’ Durer said sternly. ‘These matters can’t be rushed.’ He picked up the yellow pad again. ‘Who is the next of kin?’
Captain Vacarro looked at Dmitri for help.
‘I guess you’d better check with his attorneys in Boston.’
‘The names?’
‘Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald.’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_4737f3d5-ee78-54f8-b82f-b3485a97350e)
Although the legend on the door read RENQUIST, RENQUIST & FITZGERALD, the two Renquists had been long deceased. Simon Fitzgerald was still very much alive, and at seventy-six, he was the dynamo that powered the office, with sixty attorneys working under him. He was perilously thin, with a full mane of white hair, and he walked with the sternly straight carriage of a military man. At the moment, he was pacing back and forth, his mind in a turmoil.
He stopped in front of his secretary. ‘When Mr Stanford telephoned, didn’t he give any indication of what he wanted to see me about so urgently?’
‘No, sir. He just said he wanted you to be at his house at nine o’clock Monday morning, and to bring his will and a notary.’
‘Thank you. Ask Mr Sloane to come in.’
Steve Sloane was one of the bright, innovative attorneys in the office. A Harvard Law School graduate in his forties, he was tall and lean, with blond hair, amusedly inquisitive blue eyes, and an easy, graceful presence. He was the troubleshooter for the firm, and Simon Fitzgerald’s choice to take over one day. If I had had a son, Fitzgerald thought, I would have wanted him to be like Steve. He watched as Steve Sloane walked in.
‘You’re supposed to be salmon fishing up in Newfoundland,’ Steve said.
‘Something came up. Sit down, Steve. We have a problem.’
Steve sighed. ‘What else is new?’
‘It’s about Harry Stanford.’
Harry Stanford was one of their most prestigious clients. Half a dozen other law firms handled various Stanford Enterprises subsidiaries, but Renquist, Renquist & Fitzgerald handled his personal affairs. Except for Fitzgerald, none of the members of the firm had ever met him, but he was a legend around the office.
‘What’s Stanford done now?’ Steve asked.
‘He’s gotten himself dead.’
Steve looked at him, shocked. ‘He’s what?’
‘I just received a fax from the French police in Corsica. Apparently Stanford fell off his yacht and drowned yesterday.’
‘My God!’
‘I know you’ve never met him, but I’ve represented him for more than thirty years. He was a difficult man.’ Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair, thinking about the past. ‘There were really two Harry Stanfords – the public one who could coax the birds off the money tree, and the sonofabitch who took pleasure in destroying people. He was a charmer, but he could turn on you like a cobra. He had a split personality – he was both the snake charmer and the snake.’
‘Sounds fascinating.’
‘It was about thirty years ago – thirty-one, to be exact – when I joined this law firm. Old Man Renquist handled Stanford then. You know how people use the phrase “larger than life”? Well, Harry Stanford was really larger than life. If he didn’t exist, you couldn’t have invented him. He was a colossus. He had an amazing energy and ambition. He was a great athlete. He boxed in college and was a ten-goal polo player. But even when he was young, Harry Stanford was impossible. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was totally without compassion. He was sadistic and vindictive, and he had the instincts of a vulture. He loved forcing his competitors into bankruptcy. It was rumored that there was more than one suicide because of him.’
‘He sounds like a monster.’
‘On the one hand, yes. On the other hand, he founded an orphanage in New Guinea and a hospital in Bombay, and he gave millions to charity – anonymously. No one ever knew what to expect next.’
‘How did he become so wealthy?’
‘How’s your Greek mythology?’
‘I’m a little rusty.’
‘You know the story of Oedipus?’
Steve nodded. ‘He killed his father to get his mother.’
‘Right. Well, that was Harry Stanford. Only he killed his father to get his mother’s vote.’
Steve was staring at him. ‘What?’
Fitzgerald leaned forward. ‘In the early thirties, Harry’s father had a grocery store here in Boston. It did so well that he opened a second one, and pretty soon he had a small chain of grocery stores. When Harry finished college, his father brought him into the business as a partner and put him on the board of directors. As I said, Harry was ambitious. He had big dreams. Instead of buying meat from packing houses, he wanted the chain to raise its own livestock. He wanted it to buy land and grow its own vegetables, can its own goods. His father disagreed, and they fought a lot.
‘Then Harry had his biggest brainstorm of all. He told his father he wanted the company to build a chain of supermarkets that sold everything from automobiles to furniture to life insurance, at a discount, and charge customers a membership fee. Harry’s father thought he was crazy, and he turned down the idea. But Harry didn’t intend to let anything get in his way. He decided he had to get rid of the old man. He persuaded his father to take a long vacation, and while he was away, Harry went to work charming the board of directors.
‘He was a brilliant salesman and he sold them on his concept. He persuaded his aunt and uncle, who were on the board, to vote for him. He romanced the other members of the board. He took them to lunch, went fox hunting with one, golfing with another. He slept with a board member’s wife who had influence over her husband. But it was his mother who held the largest block of stock and had the final vote. Harry persuaded her to give it to him and to vote against her husband.’
That’s unbelievable!’
‘When Harry’s father returned, he learned that his family had voted him out of the company.’
‘My God!’
There’s more. Harry wasn’t satisfied with that. When his father tried to get into his own office, he found that he was barred from the building. And, remember, Harry was only in his thirties then. His nickname around the company was the Iceman. But credit where credit is due, Steve. He single-handedly built Stanford Enterprises into one of the biggest privately held conglomerates in the world. He expanded the company to include timber, chemicals, communications, electronics, and a staggering amount of real estate. And he wound up with all the stock.’
‘He must have been an incredible man,’ Steve said.
‘He was. To men – and to women.’
‘Was he married?’
Simon Fitzgerald sat there for a long time, remembering. When he finally spoke he said, ‘Harry Stanford was married to one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Emily Temple. They had three children, two boys and a girl. Emily came from a very social family in Hobe Sound, Florida. She adored Harry, and she tried to close her eyes to his cheating, but one day it got to be too much for her. She had a governess for the children, a woman named Rosemary Nelson. Young and attractive. What made her even more attractive to Harry Stanford was the fact that she refused to go to bed with him. It drove him crazy. He wasn’t used to rejection. Well, when Harry Stanford turned on the charm, he was irresistible. He finally got Rosemary into bed. He got her pregnant, and she went to see a doctor. Unfortunately, the doctor’s son-in-law was a columnist, and he got hold of the story and printed it. There was one hell of a scandal. You know Boston. It was all over the newspapers. I still have clippings about it somewhere.’
‘Did she get an abortion?’
Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.’
‘That’s awful. What happened to the governess?’
‘Rosemary Nelson disappeared. We know that she had a daughter she named Julia, at St Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee. She sent a note to Stanford, but I don’t believe he even bothered to reply. By then, he was involved with someone new. He wasn’t interested in Rosemary anymore.’
‘Charming …’
‘The real tragedy is what happened later. The children rightfully blamed their father for their mother’s suicide. They were ten, twelve, and fourteen at the time. Old enough to feel the pain, but too young to fight their father. They hated him. And Harry’s greatest fear was that one day they would do to him what he had done to his own father. So he did everything he could to make sure that never happened. He sent them away to different boarding schools and summer camps, and arranged for his children to see as little of one another as possible. They received no money from him. They lived on the small trust that their mother had left them. All their lives he used the carrot-and-stick approach with them. He held out his fortune as the carrot, then withdrew it if they displeased him.’
‘What’s happened to the children?’
‘Tyler is a judge in the circuit court in Chicago. Woodrow doesn’t do anything. He’s a playboy. He lives in Hobe Sound and gambles on golf and polo. A few years ago, he picked up a waitress in a diner, got her pregnant, and to everyone’s surprise, married her. Kendall is a successful fashion designer, married to a Frenchman. They live in New York.’ He stood up. ‘Steve, have you ever been to Corsica?’
‘No.’
‘I’d like you to fly there. They’re holding Harry Stanford’s body, and the police refuse to release it. I want you to straighten out the matter.’
‘All right.’
‘If there’s a chance of your leaving today …’
‘Right. I’ll work it out.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
On the Air France commuter flight from Paris to Corsica, Steve Sloane read a travel book about Corsica. He learned that the island was largely mountainous, that its principal port city was Ajaccio, and that it was the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte. The book was filled with interesting statistics, but Steve was totally unprepared for the beauty of the island. As the plane approached Corsica, far below he saw a high solid wall of white rock that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. It was breathtaking.
The plane landed at Ajaccio airport and a taxi took Steve down the Cours Napoléon, the main street that stretched from Place General de Gaulle northward to the train station. He had made arrangements for a plane to stand by to fly Harry Stanford’s body back to Paris, where the coffin would be transferred to a plane to Boston. All he needed was to get a release for the body.
Steve had the taxi drop him off at the Préfecture building on Cours Napoléon. He went up one flight of stairs and walked into the reception office. A uniformed sergeant was seated at the desk.
‘Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?’
‘Who is in charge here?’
‘Capitaine Durer.’
‘I would like to see him, please.’
‘And what is it of concern in relationship to?’ The sergeant was proud of his English.
Steve took out his business card. ‘I’m the attorney for Harry Stanford. I’ve come to take his body back to the States.’
The sergeant frowned. ‘Remain, please.’ He disappeared into Capitaine Durer’s office, carefully closing the door behind him. The office was crowded, filled with reporters from television and news services from all over the globe. Everyone seemed to be speaking at the same time.
‘Capitaine, why was he out in a storm when …?’
‘How could he fall off a yacht in the middle of …?’
‘Was there any sign of foul play?’
‘Have you done an autopsy?’
‘Who else was on the ship with …?’
‘Please, gentlemen.’ Capitaine Durer held up his hand. ‘Please, gentlemen. Please.’ He looked around the room at all the reporters hanging on his every word, and he was ecstatic. He had dreamed of moments like this. If I handle this properly, it will mean a big promotion and –
The sergeant interrupted his thoughts. ‘Capitaine.’ He whispered in Durer’s ear and handed him Steve Sloane’s card.
Capitaine Durer studied it and frowned. ‘I can’t see him now,’ he snapped. Tell him to come back tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Capitaine Durer watched thoughtfully as the sergeant left the room. He had no intention of letting anyone take away his moment of glory. He turned back to the reporters and smiled. ‘Now, what were you asking …?’
In the outer office, the sergeant was saying to Sloane, ‘I am sorry, but Capitaine Durer is very busy immediately. He would like you to expose yourself here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’
Steve Sloane looked at him in dismay. ‘Tomorrow morning? That’s ridiculous – I don’t want to wait that long.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘That is of your chosen, monsieur.’
Steve frowned. ‘Very well. I don’t have a hotel reservation. Can you recommend a hotel?’
‘Mais oui. I am pleased to have recommended the Colomba, eight Avenue de Paris.’
Steve hesitated. ‘Isn’t there some way …?’
‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Steve turned and walked out of the office.
In Durer’s office, the capitaine was happily coping with the barrage of reporters’ questions.
A television reporter asked, ‘How can you be sure it was an accident?’
Durer looked into the lens of the camera. ‘Fortunately, there was an eyewitness to this terrible event. Monsieur Stanford’s cabin has an open veranda. Apparently some important papers flew out of his hand, onto the terrace, and he ran to retrieve them. When he reached out, he lost his balance and fell into the water. His bodyguard saw it happen and immediately called for help. The ship stopped, and they were able to retrieve the body.’
‘What did the autopsy show?’
‘Corsica is a small island, gentlemen. We are not properly equipped to do a full autopsy. However, our medical examiner reports that the cause of death was drowning. We found seawater in his lungs. There were no bruises or any signs of foul play.’
‘Where is the body now?’
‘We are keeping it in the cold storage room until authorization is given for it to be taken away.’
One of the photographers said, ‘Do you mind if we take a picture of you, capitaine?’
Capitaine Durer hesitated for a dramatic moment. ‘No. Please, gentlemen, do what you must.’
And the cameras began to flash.
He had lunch at La Fontana on Rue Nôtre Dame, and with the rest of the day to kill, started exploring the town.
Ajaccio was a colorful Mediterranean town that still basked in the glory of having been Napoleon Bonaparte’s birthplace. I think Harry Stanford would have identified with this place, Steve thought.
It was the tourist season in Corsica, and the streets were crowded with visitors chatting away in French, Italian, German and Japanese.
That evening Steve had an Italian dinner at Le Boccaccio and returned to his hotel.
‘Any messages?’ he asked the room clerk, optimistically.
‘No, monsieur.’
He lay in bed haunted by what Simon Fitzgerald had told him about Harry Stanford.
Did she get an abortion?
No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.
Steve wondered how she had done it.
He finally fell asleep.
At ten o’clock the following morning, Steve Sloane appeared again at the Préfecture. The same sergeant was seated behind the desk.
‘Good morning,’ Steve said.
‘Bonjour, monsieur. Can I help to assist you?’
Steve handed the sergeant another business card. ‘I’m here to see Capitaine Durer.’
‘A moment.’ The sergeant got up, walked into the inner office, and closed the door behind him.
Capitaine Durer, dressed in an impressive new uniform, was being interviewed by an RAI television crew from Italy. He was looking into the camera. ‘When I took charge of the case, the first thing I did was to make certain that there was no foul play involved in Monsieur Stanford’s death.’
The interviewer asked, ‘And you were satisfied that there was none, capitaine?’
‘Completely satisfied. There is no question but that it was an unfortunate accident.’
The director said, ‘Bene. Let us cut to another angle and a closer shot.’
The sergeant took the opportunity to hand Capitaine Durer Sloane’s business card. ‘He is outside.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ Durer growled. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? Have him come back tomorrow.’ He had just received word that there were a dozen more reporters on their way, some from as far away as Russia and South Africa. ‘Demain.’
‘Oui.’
‘Are you ready, capitaine?’ the director asked.
Capitaine Durer smiled. ‘I’m ready.’
The sergeant returned to the outer office. ‘I am sorry, monsieur. Capitaine Durer is out of business today.’
‘So am I,’ Steve snapped. ‘Tell him that all he has to do is sign a paper authorizing the release of Mr Stanford’s body, and I’ll be on my way. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘I am afraid, yes. The capitaine has many responsibilities, and – ’
‘Can’t someone else give me the authorization?’
‘Oh, no, monsieur. Only the capitaine can do the authority.’
Steve Sloane stood there, seething. ‘When can I see him?’
‘I suggest if you try again tomorrow morning.’
The phrase ‘try again’ grated on Steve’s ears.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘By the way, I understand there was an eyewitness to the accident – Mr Stanford’s bodyguard, a Dmitri Kaminsky.’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like to talk to him. Could you tell me where he’s staying?’
‘Australia.’
‘Is that a hotel?’
‘No, monsieur.’ There was pity in his voice. ‘It is a country.’
Steve’s voice rose an octave. ‘Are you telling me that the only witness to Stanford’s death was allowed by the police to leave here before anyone could interrogate him?’
‘Capitaine Durer interrogated him.’
Steve took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problems, monsieur.’
When Steve returned to his hotel, he reported back to Simon Fitzgerald.
‘It looks like I’m going to have to stay another night here.’
‘What’s going on, Steve?’
‘The man in charge seems to be very busy. It’s the tourist season. He’s probably looking for some lost purses. I should be out of here by tomorrow.’
‘Stay in touch.’
In spite of his irritation, Steve found the island of Corsica enchanting. It had almost a thousand miles of coastline, with soaring, granite mountains that stayed snow-topped until July. The island had been ruled by the Italians until France took it over, and the combination of the two cultures was fascinating.
During his dinner at the Crêperie U San Carlu, he remembered how Simon Fitzgerald had described Harry Stanford. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was totally without compassion … a sadistic and vindictive man.
Well, Harry Stanford is causing a hell of a lot of trouble even in death, Steve thought.
On the way to his hotel, Steve stopped at a newsstand to pick up a copy of the International Herald Tribune. The headline read: WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE STANFORD EMPIRE? He paid for the newspaper, and as he turned to leave, his eye was caught by the headlines in some of the foreign papers on the stand. He picked them up and looked through them, stunned. Every single newspaper had front-page stories about the death of Harry Stanford, and in each one of them, Capitaine Durer was prominently featured, his photograph beaming from the pages. So that’s what’s keeping him so busy! We’ll see about that.
At nine forty-five the following morning, Steve returned to Capitaine Durer’s reception office. The sergeant was not at his desk, and the door to the inner office was ajar. Steve pushed it open and stepped inside. The capitaine was changing into a new uniform, preparing for his morning press interviews. He looked up as Steve entered.
‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? C’est un bureau privé! Allez-vous-en!’
‘I’m with the New York Times,’ Steve Sloane said.
Instantly, Durer brightened. ‘Ah, come in, come in. You said your name is …?’
‘Jones. John Jones.’
‘Can I offer you something, perhaps? Coffee? Cognac?’
‘Nothing, thanks,’ Steve said.
‘Please, please, sit down.’ Durer’s voice became somber. ‘You are here, of course, about the terrible tragedy that has happened on our little island. Poor Monsieur Stanford.’
‘When do you plan to release the body?’ Steve asked. Capitaine Durer sighed. ‘Ah, I am afraid not for many, many days. There are a great number of forms to fill out in the case of a man as important as Monsieur Stanford. There are protocols to be followed, you understand.’
‘I think I do,’ Steve said.
‘Perhaps ten days. Perhaps, two weeks.’ By then the interest of the press will have cooled down.
‘Here’s my card,’ Steve said. He handed Capitaine Durer a card.
The capitaine glanced at it, then took a closer look. ‘You are an attorney. You are not a reporter?’
‘No. I’m Harry Stanford’s attorney.’ Steve Sloane rose. ‘I want your authorization to release his body.’
‘Ah, I wish I could give it to you,’ Capitaine Durer said, regretfully. ‘Unfortunately, my hands are tied. I do not see how–’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That is impossible! There is no way …’
‘I suggest that you get in touch with your superiors in Paris. Stanford Enterprises has several very large factories in France. It would be a shame if our board of directors decided to close all of them down and build in other countries.’
Capitaine Durer was staring at him. ‘I … I have no control over such matters, monsieur.’
‘But I do,’ Steve assured him. ‘You will see that Mr Stanford’s body is released to me tomorrow, or you’re going to find yourself in more trouble than you can possibly imagine.’ Steve turned to leave.
‘Wait! Monsieur! Perhaps in a few days, I can –’
‘Tomorrow.’ And Steve was gone.
Three hours later, Steve Sloane received a telephone call at his hotel.
‘Monsieur Sloane? Ah, I have wonderful news for you! I have managed to arrange for Mr Stanford’s body to be released to you immediately. I hope you appreciate the trouble …’
‘Thank you. A private plane will leave here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to take us back. I assume all the proper papers will be in order by then.’
‘Yes, of course. Do not worry. I will see to –’
‘Good.’ Steve replaced the receiver.
Capitaine Durer sat there for a long time. Merde! What bad luck! I could have been a celebrity for at least another week.
When the plane carrying Harry Stanford’s body landed at Logan International Airport in Boston, there was a hearse waiting to meet it. Funeral services were to be held three days later.
Steve Sloane reported back to Simon Fitzgerald.
‘So the old man is finally home,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘It’s going to be quite a reunion.’
‘A reunion?’
‘Yes. It should be interesting,’ he said. ‘Harry Stanford’s children are coming here to celebrate their father’s death. Tyler, Woody and Kendall.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_462d219f-d126-5812-a317-c391de9a5647)
Judge Tyler Stanford had first seen the story on Chicago’s station WBBM. He had stared at the television set, mesmerized, his heart pounding. There was a picture of the yacht Blue Skies, and a news commentator was saying, ‘. . . in a storm, in Corsican waters, when the tragedy occurred. Dmitri Kaminsky, Harry Stanford’s bodyguard, was a witness to the accident, but was unable to save his employer. Harry Stanford was known in financial circles as one of the shrewdest …’
Tyler sat there, watching the shifting images, remembering, remembering …
It was the loud voices that had awakened him in the middle of the night. He was fourteen years old. He had listened to the angry voices for a few minutes, then crept down the upstairs hall to the staircase. In the foyer below, his mother and father were having a fight. His mother was screaming, and he watched his father slap her across the face.


The picture on the television set shifted. There was a scene of Harry Stanford in the Oval Office of the White House, shaking hands with President Ronald Reagan. ‘One of the cornerstones of the president’s new financial task force, Harry Stanford has been an important adviser to …’
They were playing football in back of the house, and his brother, Woody, threw the ball toward the house. Tyler chased it, and as he picked it up he heard his father, on the other side of the hedge. ‘I’m in love with you. You know that!’
He stopped, thrilled that his mother and father were not fighting, and then he heard the voice of their governess, Rosemary. ‘You’re married. I want you to leave me alone.’
And he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He loved his mother and he loved Rosemary. His father was a terrifying stranger.
The picture on the screen flashed to a series of shots of Harry Stanford posing with Margaret Thatcher … President Mitterrand … Mikhail Gorbachev … The announcer was saying, ‘The legendary tycoon was equally at home with factory workers and world leaders.’
He was passing the door to his father’s office when he heard Rosemary’s voice. ‘I’m leaving.’ And then his father’s voice, ‘I won’t let you leave. You’ve got to be reasonable, Rosemary! This is the only way that you and I can …’
‘I won’t listen to you. And I’m keeping the baby!’
Then Rosemary had disappeared.
The scene on the television set shifted again. There were old clips of the Stanford family in front of a church, watching a coffin being lifted into a hearse. The commentator was saying, ‘. . . Harry Stanford and the children beside the coffin … Mrs Stanford’s suicide was attributed to her failing health. According to police investigators, Harry Stanford …’
In the middle of the night, he had been shaken awake by his father. ‘Get up, son. I have some bad news for you.’
The fourteen-year-old boy began to tremble.
‘Your mother had an accident, Tyler.’
It was a lie. His father had killed her. She had committed suicide because of his father and his affair with Rosemary.
The newspapers had been filled with the story. It was a scandal that rocked Boston, and the tabloids took full advantage of it. There was no way to keep the news from the Stanford children. Their classmates made their lives hell. In just twenty-four hours, the three young children had lost the two people they loved most. And it was their father who was to blame.
‘I don’t care if he is our father.’ Kendall sobbed. ‘I hate him.’
‘Me, too!’
‘Me, too!’
They thought about running away, but they had nowhere to go. They decided to rebel.
Tyler was delegated to talk to him. ‘We want a different father. We don’t want you.’
Harry Stanford had looked at him and said, coldly, ‘I think we can arrange that.’
Three weeks later, they were all shipped off to different boarding schools.
As the years went by, the children saw very little of their father. They read about him in newspapers, or watched him on television, escorting beautiful women or chatting with celebrities, but the only time they were with him was on what he called ‘occasions’ – photo opportunities at Christmas time or other holidays – to show what a devoted father he was. After that, the children were sent back to their different schools and camps until the next ‘occasion’.
Tyler sat hypnotized by what he was watching. On the television screen was a montage of factories in different parts of the world, with pictures of his father. ‘. . . one of the largest privately held conglomerates in the world. Harry Stanford, who created it, was a legend … The question in the minds of Wall Street experts is, What is going to happen to the family-owned company now that its founder is gone? Harry Stanford left three children, but it is not known who will inherit the multibillion-dollar fortune that Stanford left behind, or who will control the corporation …’
He was six years old. He loved roaming around the large house, exploring all the exciting rooms. The only place that was off-limits to him was his father’s office. Tyler was aware that important meetings went on in there. Impressive-looking men dressed in dark suits were constantly coming and going, meeting with his father. The fact that the office was off-limits to Tyler made it irresistible.
One day when his father was away, Tyler decided to go into the office. The huge room was overpowering, awesome. Tyler stood there, looking at the large desk and at the huge leather chair that his father sat in. One day I’m going to sit in that chair, and I’m going to be important like Father. He moved over to the desk and examined it. There were dozens of official-looking papers on it. He moved around to the back of the desk and sat in his father’s chair. It felt wonderful. I’m important now, too!
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Tyler looked up, startled. His father stood in the doorway, furious.
‘Who told you you could sit behind that desk?’
The young boy was trembling. ‘I … I just wanted to see what it was like.’
His father stormed over to him. ‘Well, you’ll never know what it’s like! Never! Now get the hell out of here and stay out!’
Tyler ran upstairs, sobbing, and his mother came to his room. She put her arms around him. ‘Don’t cry, darling. It’s going to be all right.’
‘It’s … it’s not going to be all right,’ he sobbed. ‘He … he hates me!’
‘No. He doesn’t hate you.’
‘All I did was to sit in his chair.’
‘It’s his chair, darling. He doesn’t want anyone to sit in it.’
He could not stop crying. She held him close and said, ‘Tyler, when your father and I were married, he said he wanted me to be part of his company. He gave me one share of stock. It was kind of a family joke. I’m going to give you that share. I’ll put it in a trust for you. So now you’re part of the company, too. All right?’
There were one hundred shares of stock in Stanford Enterprises, and Tyler was now a proud owner of one share.
When Harry Stanford heard what his wife had done, he scoffed, ‘What the hell do you think he’s going to do with that one share? Take over the company?’
Tyler switched off the television set and sat there, adjusting to the news. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Traditionally, sons wanted to be successful to please their fathers. Tyler Stanford had longed to be a success so he could destroy his father.
As a child, he had a recurring dream that his father was charged with murdering his mother, and Tyler was the one who would pass sentence. I sentence you to die in the electric chair! Sometimes the dream would vary, and Tyler would sentence his father to be hanged or poisoned or shot. The dreams became almost real.
The military school he was sent to was in Mississippi, and it was four years of pure hell. Tyler hated the discipline and the rigid life-style. In his first year at school, he seriously contemplated committing suicide, and the only thing that stopped him was the determination not to give his father that satisfaction. He killed my mother. He’s not going to kill me.
It seemed to Tyler that his instructors were particularly hard on him, and he was sure his father was responsible. Tyler refused to let the school break him. Although he was forced to go home on holidays, his visits with his father grew more and more unpleasant.
His brother and sister were also home for holidays, but there was no sense of kinship. Their father had destroyed that. They were strangers to one another, waiting for the holidays to be over so they could escape.
Tyler knew that his father was a multibillionaire but the small allowance that Tyler, Woody, and Kendall had came from their mother’s estate. As he grew older, Tyler wondered whether he was entitled to the family fortune. He was sure he and his siblings were being cheated. I need an attorney. That, of course, was out of the question, but his next thought was, I’m going to become an attorney.
When Tyler’s father heard about his son’s plans, he said, ‘So, you’re going to become a lawyer, huh? I suppose you think I’ll give you a job with Stanford Enterprises. Well, forget it. I wouldn’t let you within a mile of it!’
When Tyler was graduated from law school he could have practised in Boston, and because of the family name he would have been welcomed on the boards of dozens of companies, but he preferred to get far away from his father.
He decided to set up a law practice in Chicago. In the beginning, it was difficult. He refused to trade on his family name, and clients were scarce. Chicago politics were run by the Machine, and Tyler very quickly learned that it would be advantageous for a young lawyer to become involved with the powerful central Cook County Lawyers Association. He was given a job with the district attorney’s office. He had a keen mind and was a quick study, and it was not long before he became invaluable to them. He prosecuted felons accused of every conceivable crime, and his record of convictions was phenomenal.
He rose rapidly through the ranks, and finally the day came when he received his reward. He was appointed Cook County circuit court judge. He had thought his father finally would be proud of him. He was wrong.
‘You? A circuit court judge? For God’s sake, I wouldn’t let you judge a baking contest!’
Judge Tyler Stanford was a short, slightly overweight man with sharp, calculating eyes and a hard mouth. He had none of his father’s charisma or attractiveness. His outstanding feature was a deep, sonorous voice, perfect for pronouncing sentence.
Tyler Stanford was a private man who kept his thoughts to himself. He was forty years old, but he looked much older than his years. He prided himself on having no sense of humor. Life was too grim for levity. His only hobby was chess, and once a week he played at a local club, where he invariably won.
Tyler Stanford was a brilliant jurist, held in high esteem by his fellow judges, who often came to him for advice. Very few people were aware that he was one of the Stanfords. He never mentioned his father’s name.
The judge’s chambers were in the large Cook County Criminal Court Building at Twenty-sixth and California streets, a fourteen-storey stone edifice with steps leading up to the front entrance. It was in a dangerous neighborhood, and a notice outside stated: BY JUDICIAL ORDER, ALL PERSONS ENTERING THIS BUILDING SHALL SUBMIT TO SEARCH.
This was where Tyler spent his days, hearing cases involving robbery, burglary, rape, shootings, drugs and murders. Ruthless in his decisions, he became known as the Hanging Judge. All day long he listened to defendants pleading poverty, child abuse, broken homes, and a hundred other excuses. He accepted none of them. A crime was a crime and had to be punished. And in the back of his mind, always, was his father.
Tyler Stanford’s fellow judges knew very little about his personal life. They knew that he had had a bitter marriage and was now divorced, and that he lived alone in a small three-bedroom Georgian house on Kimbark Avenue in Hyde Park. The area was surrounded by beautiful old homes, because the great fire of 1871 that razed Chicago had whimsically spared the Hyde Park district. He made no friends in the neighborhood, and his neighbors knew nothing about him. He had a housekeeper who came in three times a week, but Tyler did the shopping himself. He was a methodical man with a fixed routine. On Saturdays, he went to Harper Court, a small shopping mall near his home, or to Mr G’s Fine Foods or Medici’s on Fifty-seventh Street.
From time to time, at official gatherings, Tyler would meet the wives of his fellow jurists. They sensed that he was lonely, and they offered to introduce him to women friends or invite him to dinner. He always declined.
‘I’m busy that evening.’
His evenings seemed to be full, but they had no idea what he was doing with them.
Tyler isn’t interested in anything but the law,’ one of the judges explained to his wife. ‘And he’s just not interested in meeting any women yet. I heard he had a terrible marriage.’
He was right.
After his divorce, Tyler had sworn to himself that he would never become emotionally involved again. And then he had met Lee, and everything had suddenly changed. Lee was beautiful, sensitive and caring – the one Tyler wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Tyler loved Lee, but why should Lee love him? A successful model, Lee had dozens of admirers, most of them wealthy. And Lee liked expensive things.
Tyler had felt that his cause was hopeless. There was no way to compete with others for Lee’s affection. But overnight, with the death of his father, everything could change. He could become wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.
He could give Lee the world.
Tyler walked into the chambers of the chief judge. ‘Keith, I’m afraid I have to go to Boston for a few days. Family affairs. I wonder if you would have someone take over my caseload for me.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange it,’ the chief judge said.
‘Thank you.’
That afternoon, Judge Tyler Stanford was on his way to Boston. On the plane, he thought again about his father’s words on that terrible day: I know your dirty little secret.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_fd05a434-e6c0-598b-82b3-5c6b4d73ff37)
It was raining in Paris, a warm July rain that sent pedestrians racing along the street for shelter or looking for nonexistent taxis. Inside the auditorium of a large gray building on a corner of Rue Faubourg St Honoré, there was panic. A dozen half-naked models were running around in a kind of mass hysteria, while ushers finished setting up chairs and carpenters pounded away at last-minute bits of carpentry. Everyone was screaming and gesticulating wildly, and the noise level was painful.
In the eye of the hurricane, trying to bring order out of chaos, was the maîtresse herself, Kendall Stanford Renaud. Four hours before the fashion show was scheduled to begin, everything was falling apart.
Catastrophe: John Fairchild of W was unexpectedly going to be in Paris, and there was no seat for him.
Tragedy: the speaker system was not working.
Disaster: one of the top models was ill.
Emergency: two of the make-up artists were fighting backstage and were far behind schedule.
Calamity: all the seams on the cigarette skirts were tearing.
In other words, Kendall thought wryly, everything is normal.
Kendall Stanford Renaud could have been mistaken for one of the models herself, and at one time she had been a model. She exuded carefully plotted elegance from her golden chignon to her Chanel pumps. Everything about her – the curve of her arm, the shade of her nail polish, the timbre of her laugh – bespoke well-mannered chic. Her face, if stripped of its careful make-up, was actually plain, but Kendall took pains to see that no one ever realized this, and no one ever did.
She was everywhere at once.
‘Who lit that runway, Ray Charles?’
‘I want a blue backdrop …’
The lining is showing. Fix it!’
‘I don’t want the models doing their hair and make-up in the holding area. Have Lulu find them a dressing room!’
Kendall’s venue manager came hurrying up to her. ‘Kendall, thirty minutes is too long! Too long! The show should be no more than twenty-five minutes.’
She stopped what she was doing. ‘What do you suggest, Scott?’
‘We could cut a few of the designs and –’
‘No. I’ll have the models move faster.’
She heard her name called again, and turned.
‘Kendall, we can’t locate Pia. Do you want Tami to switch to the charcoal gray jacket with the trousers?’
‘No. Give that to Dana. Give the cat suit and tunic to Tami.’
‘What about the dark gray jersey?’
‘Monique. And make sure she wears the dark gray stockings.’
Kendall looked at the board holding a set of Polaroid pictures of the models in a variety of gowns. When they were set, the pictures would be placed in a precise order. She ran a practiced eye over the board. ‘Let’s change this. I want the beige cardigan out first, then the separates, followed by the strapless silk jersey, then the taffeta evening gown, the afternoon dresses with matching jackets …’
Two of her assistants hurried up to her.
‘Kendall, we’re having an argument about the seating. Do you want the retailers together, or do you want to mix them with the celebrities?’
The other assistant spoke up. ‘Or we could mix the celebrities and press together.’
Kendall was hardly listening. She had been up for two nights, checking everything to make sure nothing would go wrong. ‘Work it out yourselves,’ she said.
She looked around at all the activity and thought about the show that was about to begin, and the famous names from all over the world who would be there to applaud what she had created. I should thank my father for all this. He told me I would never succeed …
She had always known that she wanted to be a designer. From the time she was a little girl, she had had a natural sense of style. Her dolls had the trendiest outfits in town. She would show off her latest creations for her mother’s approval. Her mother would hug her and say, ‘You’re very talented, darling. Someday you’re going to be a very important designer.’
And Kendall was sure of it.
In school, Kendall studied graphic design, structural drawing, spatial conceptions, and color coordination.
‘The best way to begin,’ one of her teachers had advised her, ‘is to become a model yourself. That way, you will meet all the top designers, and if you keep your eyes open, you will learn from them.’
When Kendall had mentioned her dream to her father, he had looked at her and said, ‘You? A model! You must be joking!’
When Kendall finished school, she returned to Rose Hill. Father needs me to run the house, she thought. There were a dozen servants, but no one was really in charge. Since Harry Stanford was away a good deal of the time, the staff was left to its own devices. Kendall tried to organize things. She scheduled the household activities, served as hostess for her father’s parties, and did everything she could to make him comfortable. She was longing for his approval. Instead, she suffered a barrage of criticisms.
‘Who hired that damned chef? Get rid of him.’
‘I don’t like the new dishes you bought. Where the hell is your taste …?’
‘Who told you you could redecorate my bedroom? Keep the hell out of there.’
No matter what Kendall did, it was never good enough.
It was her father’s domineering cruelty that finally drove her out of the house. It had always been a loveless household, and her father had paid no attention to his children, except to try to control and discipline them. One night, Kendall overheard her father saying to a visitor, ‘My daughter has a face like a horse. She’s going to need a lot of money to hook some poor sucker.’
It was the final straw. The following day, Kendall left Boston and headed for New York.
Alone in her hotel room, Kendall thought, All right. Here I am in New York. How do I become a designer? How do I break into the fashion industry? How do I get anyone even to notice me? She remembered her teacher’s advice. I’ll start as a model. That’s the way to begin.
The following morning, Kendall looked through the yellow pages, copied a list of modeling agencies, and began making the rounds. I have to be honest with them, Kendall thought. I’ll tell them that I can stay with them only temporarily, until I get started designing.
She walked into the office of the first agency on her list. A middle-aged woman behind a desk said, ‘May I help you?’
‘Yes. I want to be a model.’
‘So do I, dearie. Forget it.’
‘What?’
‘You’re too tall.’
Kendall’s jaw tightened. ‘I’d like to see whoever is in charge here.’
‘You’re looking at her. I own this joint.’
The next half a dozen stops were no more successful.
‘You’re too short.’
‘Too thin.’
‘Too fat.’
‘Too young.’
‘Too old.’
‘Wrong type.’
By the end of the week, Kendall was getting desperate. There was one more name on her list.
Paramount Models was the top modeling agency in Manhattan. There was no one at the reception desk.
A voice from one of the offices said, ‘She’ll be available next Monday. But you can have her for only one day. She’s booked solid for the next three weeks.’
Kendall walked over to the office and peered inside. A woman in a tailored suit was talking on the phone.
A woman in a tailored suit was talking on the phone.
‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’ Roxanne Marinack replaced the receiver and looked up. ‘Sorry, we aren’t looking for your type.’
Kendall said desperately, ‘I can be any type you want me to be. I can be taller or I can be shorter. I can be younger or older, thinner –’
Roxanne held up her hand. ‘Hold it.’
‘All I want is a chance. I really need this.’
Roxanne hesitated. There was an appealing eagerness about the girl and she did have an exquisite figure. She was not beautiful, but possibly with the right make-up … ‘Have you had any experience?’
‘Yes. I’ve been wearing clothes all my life.’
Roxanne laughed. ‘All right. Let me see your portfolio.’
Kendall looked at her blankly. ‘My portfolio?’
Roxanne sighed. ‘My dear girl, no self-respecting model walks around without a portfolio. It’s your bible. It’s what your prospective clients are going to look at.’ Roxanne sighed again. ‘I want you to get two head shots – one smiling and one serious. Turn around.’
‘Right.’ Kendall began to turn.
‘Slowly.’ Roxanne studied her. ‘Not bad. I want a photo of you in a bathing suit or lingerie, whatever is the most flattering for your figure.’
‘I’ll get one of each,’ she said eagerly.
Roxanne had to smile at her earnestness. ‘All right.
You’re … er … different, but you might have a shot.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me too soon. Modeling for fashion magazines isn’t as simple as it looks. It’s a tough business.’
‘I’m ready for it.’
‘We’ll see. I’m going to take a chance on you. I’ll send you out on some go-sees.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A go-see is where clients catch up on all the new models. There will be models from other agencies there, too. It’s kind of a cattle call.’
‘I can handle it.’
That had been the beginning. Kendall went on a dozen go-sees before a designer was interested in having her wear his clothes. She was so tense, she almost spoiled her chances by talking too much.
‘I really love your dresses, and I think they would look good on me. I mean, they would look good on any woman, of course. They’re wonderful! But I think they’ll look especially good on me.’ She was so nervous that she was stammering.
The designer nodded sympathetically. ‘This is your first job, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He had smiled. ‘All right. I’ll try you. What did you say your name was?’
‘Kendall Stanford.’ She wondered if he would make the connection between her and the Stanfords, but of course, there was no reason for him to.
Roxanne had been right. Modeling was a tough business. Kendall had to learn to accept constant rejection, go-sees that led nowhere, and weeks without work. When she did work, she was in make-up at six A.M., finished a shoot, went on to the next, and often didn’t get through until after midnight.

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