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  Flesh and Blood

  A Ben Tolliver Mystery

  James Neal Harvey

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  THIS BOOK IS FOR DEAN,

  MY FAVORITE WRITER.

  I wish to thank the following for providing me with expert technical advice as I wrote this book:

  Hank Davis, Mgr. Investigations, Barnett Banks; Sidney Arias, Panamanian Investigator, Barnett Banks; Randy Kennedy, Exec. V.P., Executive Airfleet; Harold Shoffiett, Chief Inspector, U.S. Customs, Palm Beach International Airport; Chuck Green, U.S. Customs Inspector (ret.); and my many friends in the New York Police Department, especially former Detective Lieutenant Richard Marcus. Also, my thanks to Robert Garvel, funeral director and master embalmer. Each of you made an important contribution, and I’m extremely grateful.

  J. N. H.

  1

  There were two things Senator Clayton Cunningham III enjoyed having after dinner.

  One was a cigar.

  The other was a woman.

  The cigar had to be Cuban, of course, preferably a Hoyo de Monterrey. It was still impossible to import them directly into the United States, so he had them sent from Montreal. His favorites were the Churchills, eight inches long, thick and dark, with incredibly rich flavor. They cost fifteen dollars apiece, which to him seemed neither expensive nor a bargain. As with most material goods, the price was of little significance. Quality was what mattered.

  The quality of the woman was equally important. Like the cigar, she had to be something special: young, with a ripe, firm body. He also preferred her to be reasonably bright, able to display at least a certain amount of what he would define as style. And above all, he wanted her to be enthusiastic.

  Tonight he planned to have both the cigar and the woman, and that was a pleasure to contemplate. First, however, there was some disagreeable family business to take care of—which didn’t faze him; he believed he could handle anything.

  At seventy-two, Cunningham could easily pass for much younger. He was tall and robust, with a flat gut and a full head of black hair that showed only touches of gray in the sideburns. Still a force in New York politics, his career in the U.S. Senate had ended ten years earlier, but after his defeat he’d kept the title. Just as his grandfather had been called the Colonel for the last twenty years of his life, although his military service had amounted to four months in Washington during the war with Spain.

  It was the Colonel who had built the original family fortune. A little over a century ago, he’d founded the Cunningham Mining Corporation, which today acted as a holding company for the family’s various enterprises. His son, the senator’s father, had borne a less flattering nickname. Always in the shadow of the overbearing Colonel, he was called Junior. He died young, along with the senator’s mother, in an accident in Europe.

  Sitting at the head of the table in the dining room of his mansion on East Seventieth Street in Manhattan, the senator looked at the members of his immediate family. They were all here, joining him for one of the clan’s frequent gatherings.

  His son, Clayton IV, was seated on the senator’s right. Clay ran the family-owned stock brokerage, Cunningham Securities, another enterprise that had been founded by the original Clayton Cunningham, just after World War I. Next to Clay was his chestnut-haired actress wife, Laura Bentley. Laura had retired after her marriage, but she could still be seen occasionally in an old movie on TV.

  On the senator’s left was his daughter, Ingrid. She headed the other side of the family business, a commercial real estate company with interests in Europe as well as in the United States. An ardent horsewoman, Ingrid owned a stud farm in Connecticut. Beside her was her husband, Kurt Kramer, an aristocratic German adventurer who apparently thought that by marrying into the family he’d struck the mother lode.

  At the far end of the table sat Claire Cunningham, the senator’s second wife. Claire was sixty years old—attractive, amiable, suitable. And about as exciting as a lukewarm bath.

  “When will you be going to Palm Beach, Daddy?” The question came from Ingrid. She was smoothly groomed, her sandy hair pulled back in a French knot.

  “Haven’t decided yet. In a few weeks, I suppose.”

  “You’ll be there for Christmas, won’t you?”

  “Oh yes. Wouldn’t miss it.” In fact, he never had. Each year, the Cunninghams settled in at Casa Mare, their oceanfront villa, for the season. They were all together at Christmas, and then the members would stay for varying periods, some of them through Easter.

  It was a tradition begun before the senator was born, and he’d always taken part, although in recent years he’d spent less time there, quickly growing bored with the island’s languid pace and itching to get back to the action in New York. This year, he’d leave right after the New Year’s celebration. As always, he had much to occupy him here, in politics as well as in business. His wife would stay on in Florida until early spring, which was another reason he’d return to New York early.

  Clayton IV turned to the senator. “Did you see we beat Groton, Dad?”

  “Certainly did. How’d Skip do—he get into the game?”

  “Oh yes. Played most of the first half and all of the second.”

  “Good for him. He do anything special?”

  “Intercepted a pass, made a couple of tackles.”

  “Excellent.”

  Skip was Clay’s son, Clayton V. As had all the males in the Cunningham family, the boy attended St. George’s and was now in the sixth form. He was a strapping youth and the senator was fond of him. He looked like a Cunningham—tall, dark, square-jawed.

  “Got himself a bloody nose,” Clay said proudly. “But it didn’t slow him down any. Refused to come out, in fact.”

  The senator nodded approval. “Glad to hear it.”

  Football was a form of religion in the family; after St. George’s, the men were expected to play at Dartmouth, as had the senator’s father, followed by the senator himself and then Clay. Thus Skip would become the fourth Cunningham to wear Dartmouth green.

  “He needs to put on some more weight, though,” the senator said, “before he can play college ball.”

  “Oh, I agree,” Clay replied. “I’ve already hired a trainer to work with him right through the summer. I want him to pick up fifteen pounds or so before next season.”

  “How are his grades?”

  Clay shrugged. “Not what they should be, but I’ll have him tutored. I’m sure he’ll do well when he gets to Dartmouth. Although frankly, I’m disgusted with what’s been going on up there.”

  “So am I,” the senator said. “I raised hell at the last meeting of the trustees, and I intend to raise some more at the next one. Women’s rights, gay rights, political correctness—Christ, it’s hard to recognize the place.”

  “The admissions policies are what baffle me. Next thing you know, they’ll be taking monkeys.”

  The senator grunted. “They already are.”

  “What arrogance,” Clay went on. “You’d think with all the money we’ve poured into the place, they’d pay more attention to what we tell them.” He looked at his father. “Maybe I ought to be on the board, as well.”

  The old man scowled. “Maybe you ought to pay more attention to business before you worry abou
t what the college is doing,”

  That brought Clay up short, as the senator had intended. His children were a source of irritation, both of them. In his opinion, they were spoiled and arrogant, seeming to believe good things should come their way automatically, as if having been born Cunninghams was qualification enough.

  Moreover, despite their pretended affection for one another, he knew they were in fact intensely jealous, motivated by greed. What these people needed was a good shaking up, and that was exactly what he was going to give them.

  The maids were clearing the dessert dishes, and Claire looked down the table at him. “Shall we have coffee in the library, Clayton?”

  “In a few minutes,” he said. “But first, there’s something I want to say.”

  He waited as the conversations trailed off and the others all turned toward him expectantly. For the next few moments, he didn’t speak but, instead, raised his gaze to a level above their heads and slowly looked about the room, at the Berchem and Stuart and Hogarth oils in their gilded frames, at the crystal chandelier depending from the high ceiling, at the elaborately carved crown moldings.

  It was a technique he’d often used before delivering a political speech and it invariably had the desired effect. Those in the audience were respectful, quiet, sure they were about to hear words of profound importance. Tonight they would, but the message would not make them happy.

  The senator lowered his gaze and swept the faces of his family at the same measured pace. He cleared his throat. “What I want to talk about has to do with your future, Clay. And yours, too, Ingrid. It’s the reason I asked you here this evening.”

  He paused. “I want you to know I’m very disturbed by the way our companies are being run. The situation with the brokerage is especially troubling, what with the SEC as well as the district attorney’s office nosing around in our activities.”

  Clay’s face reddened. “They haven’t proved a damn thing.”

  “They’d better not,” the old man snapped. “Because if they ever did, our interests would be severely damaged. In fact, the entire structure could be put at risk. And what do you think would happen if the media got hold of the story?”

  “You’re aware of how I’ve been handling it,” Clay said. “It’s under control.”

  “Control isn’t good enough. The investigation has been going on much too long. It should be stopped, by whatever means necessary.”

  Clay returned his father’s gaze for a moment, then looked down at his plate.

  The senator turned to Ingrid. “What’s been happening with Cunningham Ventures is every bit as troubling. The auditors tell me the firm is stretched to the limit financially. If it wasn’t for the money coming through the holding company, you’d be in considerable trouble.”

  She frowned. “It’s not my fault that the economy has been in a downturn. When it recovers, so will our business. You know how cyclical real estate is.”

  “That’s only one part of the problem. Even worse is the possibility that the investigation might spread to your operation. If a link could be established, the muckrakers would have a field day. Meantime, you seem more concerned about breeding those horses of yours. You should keep in mind that the Cunninghams have more important goals than winning polo matches.”

  Ingrid flushed, but at least she didn’t avert her eyes. “That’s not fair. I’m—”

  He raised a hand to cut her off. “Listen to me, both of you. As you are well aware, there is a maxim that this family lives by. A maxim that was created by your great grandfather, the Colonel.”

  He leaned forward. “Money begets power; power begets money.”

  The room was silent as he allowed time for the words to sink in. Then he said, “There are times when you seem to forget that. But it’s as true now as it was when he was alive. Therefore, I’ve reached a decision that will show you just how determined I am to correct this erosion of the Cunningham purpose.”

  He paused again. “Unless I see a marked improvement in your performances, I’m going to make drastic changes in the management of our companies. Moreover, I may also withdraw my support.”

  They stared at him, stunned.

  “You can’t say you haven’t seen this coming,” the senator continued. “I’ve warned you many times in the past. But apparently you failed to take me seriously. Now, however, you’ll have to.”

  Clay spoke up. “What if the problems can’t be dealt with that easily?”

  “Don’t weasel with me, young man. There is nothing that can’t be dealt with, if you’re decisive.”

  Kurt Kramer cleared his throat as if he was about to say something, but the old man ignored him. He was only a son-in-law, not a blood relative, and therefore didn’t count.

  “But if we make these, uh, improvements,” Ingrid said, “then you’ll reconsider? Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. But only if I’m completely satisfied.”

  The wine they’d had with the main course was outstanding, a ’79 Margaux. The senator raised his glass, saying, “Thank you all for coming,” and drained it.

  No one moved. They continued to eye him as if unable to believe what they’d heard.

  He waved a hand. “Please go on into the library for your coffee and brandy. You’ll forgive me for not joining you, but I want to go next door to my office. There are some things I have to do.”

  In fact, there were two things, and he was looking forward to enjoying both of them. He got to his feet and left the room.

  2

  The offices of the Cunningham Foundation were housed in a building adjacent to the senator’s home. Like the mansion, it was formally styled and handsome, faced in white limestone. To enter it from his house, it was unnecessary for Clayton Cunningham to go out onto the street; there was a connecting door leading into the building from a rear hallway.

  He went through the door, finding the building eerily quiet; the staff had left hours ago. Only the guards and the administrator, Ardis Merritt, would be here now. Ardis lived in an apartment on the top floor.

  As Cunningham walked down the corridor, he saw Evan Montrock, chief of security, coming toward him. Balding and solidly built, Montrock was by background and nature ideally suited to his job. A one-time police officer, he was on duty seven days a week, never leaving the building while the senator was present.

  “Evening, Senator,” Montrock said.

  “Good evening, Evan. I’m expecting a visitor. Let me know when she arrives, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cunningham walked on down the corridor and went up the back stairway to his suite of offices, flicking on the lights. The suite consisted of an outer sitting area, an office for his secretary, and his own office with connecting bath. He sat at his desk and leafed through the stack of memos and messages, finding nothing that warranted his attention tonight.

  This room was his favorite. It was where he not only did much of his work but where he felt most in tune with his heritage. The space was filled with mementos and reminders of the Cunningham family history.

  The desk, for example, had been his grandfather’s. It was large, built of mahogany, with an inlaid top of red leather and with corners and drawer pulls bound in brass. The chair he was sitting in had also belonged to the first Clayton Cunningham, as had the oversized sofa across the room, both deeply upholstered in the same red leather as on the desk. A pair of matching visitor’s chairs were covered in leather as well, but these were forest green, a holdover from the senator’s days in Washington.

  Across the room was a drop-leaf cherry-wood table, flanked by William and Mary armchairs. He’d bought them years ago in an auction at Sotheby’s. Hanging on three of the walls were paintings of the Old West by Frederick Remington, part of his grandfather’s collection.

  The fourth wall, the one behind his desk, was covered by framed photographs of the senator with famous people, taken at various times in his long and illustrious career. There were photos of him with Gover
nors Dewey, Rockefeller, and Cuomo, with Presidents Johnson, Nixon, Carter, Reagan, and Clinton, with numerous congressmen and mayors and committee heads, and with a sprinkling of show-business personalities.

  On the credenza beside his desk was a humidor from Dunhill, made of burled walnut. He opened the box and selected a cigar, holding it to his nose and inhaling its fragrance. Then he cut a slit in the end with a silver pocketknife and placed the cigar on his desk.

  There was a knock on the door and Ardis Merritt opened it.

  Cunningham looked up. “Hello, Ardis. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She smiled as she entered the room. A plain-featured young woman, she didn’t help her appearance by wearing dowdy clothes. Tonight she had on a drab, shapeless skirt and a tan cardigan sweater. Her brown hair was done up in a bun and heavy horn-rimmed glasses covered much of her face. She was carrying a thickly packed manila folder.

  He didn’t ask her to sit down. “You working late?”

  “No, I was watching television. But I do have a few papers for you to sign.”

  “Uh-huh. Can’t they wait till morning?” He wished she’d get out of here. His visitor would arrive at any moment.

  “You have a board meeting in the morning, at Fidelity Trust. And this won’t take long, I promise.”

  “Oh, all right.” He sat at his desk and she took a chair opposite, opening the folder and placing the stack of papers before him.

  He picked up a pen. “What is this stuff?”

  “Just the last of this month’s bequests. The board has already approved them, but they need your signature.”

  As he began scribbling his name with the customary whirls and flourishes, he said, “What about the new scanning equipment that’s being installed at the hospital? Don’t the PR people have something scheduled on that?”

  “Not yet. I think they want to be sure they’ll have maximum press coverage.”