Читать книгу Raising The Stakes - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 7
ОглавлениеFour years later:
GRAHAM BARON stepped out of the terminal at the Austin airport and wondered how he’d ever survived spending the first seventeen years of his life in Texas. He was thirty-three and lived in New York now but whenever he came back here, the fact that he’d been born in this place always surprised him. It all seemed alien. The people. Their lazy drawls. The vastness of land and sky. The weather.
Oh, yeah, he thought, the weather, as the heat washed over him like an open furnace. And it wasn’t really summer. Of course, there were those who said this wasn’t really Texas, either. The guidebooks called the area hill country. So did people back East.
“Are you really from Texas?” somebody would say, if the subject of his birthplace came up.
“Yup,” he’d reply, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and putting on a John Wayne drawl, “ah surely am.”
It always got a laugh, considering that he had no accent, didn’t wear cowboy boots and had washed away the stink of oil, cattle and horses sixteen long years ago.
“Where in Texas?” they’d ask. And when Gray said he’d been born in Austin, someone would nod wisely and say, Austin, huh? Wasn’t that, like, different? Weren’t there green trees and rolling hills in Austin? It wasn’t really the same as the rest of the state, right?
Like hell it wasn’t, Gray thought as he put down his briefcase, peeled off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and rolled back his shirtsleeves. A man accustomed to a soaring Manhattan skyline had little use for the puny imitation of this one, and the hills of Central Park rolled as much as the land around here.
Dammit, he was in a rotten mood. For what had to be the hundredth time since he’d boarded the plane at La Guardia this morning, he wished he hadn’t let himself get talked into making this trip…but he had. What was that old saying? Curiosity killed the cat. In his case, it had put him on a 6:00 a.m. flight to Texas.
A horn beeped at the curb. Gray looked over, saw a dark green Jeep with the Espada longhorns painted on the door. Abel Jones waved a hand. Gray waved back and trotted over.
“Nice of you to pick me up,” he said as he got into the seat beside Abel and dumped his briefcase in the back.
Abel gave him a long look, then spat out the window and pulled into traffic. “Jes’ part of the job,” he said laconically.
So much for conversation. Not that Gray was surprised. Jonas Baron’s foreman was a lot like the old man himself. Tall, spare, seemingly ageless, and not given to small talk. Well, that was fine. Gray wasn’t much interested in conversation. He sat back, let the coolness of the air-conditioning wash over him as they made their way out of the airport and onto the highway that led from the city to the town of Brazos Springs, and tried to figure out what his uncle could possibly want.
Jonas had phoned late last night. The call had drawn Gray from the kind of deep sleep that came of having a woman lying warm and sated in his arms. The woman, someone he’d been seeing for several weeks, murmured a soft complaint as he rolled away from her and reached for the telephone, an automatic reaction that came of eight years of practicing criminal law.
You got a lot of middle of the night calls, when your clients weren’t exactly the salt of the earth.
“Gray Baron,” he said hoarsely.
The voice that responded was one he hadn’t heard in a long time, an easy Texas drawl laid over a whip-sharp tone of command.
“Graham?”
“Jonas?” Gray peered at the lighted dial on his alarm clock, then sat up against the pillows. “What’s happened?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your old man, if that’s what you mean. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with nobody you care about, so you can relax.”
“Gray?” the woman beside him murmured. “What’s the matter?”
That was what he was trying to figure out. He reached back, smoothed his hand over her warm skin. Telephone at his ear, he got to his feet and walked, naked, from the bedroom.
“What’s that supposed to mean? That there’s nothing wrong with anybody I care about?”
“It’s jes’ a statement, boy. No need to try and parse it.” There was a brief pause. “I guess you’re wonderin’ why I’m callin’ so late.”
“You guessed right,” Gray said dryly.
“What time is it there, anyways? Midnight?”
“It’s almost two. What’s up, Jonas?”
There was another silence. “I just, uh, I just thought…I thought that we ain’t seen you in these parts for a while.”
Jesus, Gray thought, his uncle had finally gone senile. “No,” he said carefully, “you haven’t.”
“Not since Samantha married that Dee-mee-tree-ose guy,” Jonas said, turning the Greek name of his stepdaughter’s husband into pure Texas.
Forget senile. The old man still had a mind like a steel trap. “So?”
“So…” More silence, then the sound of Jonas clearing his throat. “So, I wondered if you might be in the mood to pop down for a visit.”
“Let me get this straight,” Gray said carefully. “You phoned in the middle of the night to invite me to Espada?”
The old man chuckled. “You don’t buy that, huh?”
“No.” Gray walked through his dark apartment to the kitchen, tucked the phone against his shoulder and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips. “Hell, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you really think I would?”
“That’s what I like about you, boy. You ain’t like some people. You don’t believe in treatin’ me like I was God.”
Gray laughed. What his uncle meant was that he didn’t like the old man and he’d never pretended otherwise. He’d never toadied up to the Baron money the way his father did. Jonas whistled; Leighton came running. It had always been like that, all the years Gray was growing up. Sometimes he’d been hard-pressed to know which of the men he despised more, his father for sucking up or Jonas for wallowing in the pleasure of it. After a while, he hadn’t bothered giving it much thought. All that mattered was that he hadn’t done the same thing. He’d thumbed his nose at both of them and at a system that should have died out in the middle ages, and made his own way in the world.
“No,” he said bluntly, “I don’t.” He put the bottle on the counter and made his way back toward the bedroom. “Look, Jonas, let’s cut the crap, okay? It’s the middle of the night. This is the first time you’ve ever phoned me. Come to think of it, this might just be the first time you’ve said more than three words in a row to me.”
“Or you to me, boy.”
“Absolutely. So, why would you expect me to buy into the idea that you called to invite me down for the weekend? Get to the bottom line. What’s the deal?”
Another of those pauses hummed over the phone. Gray could hear the rasp of the old man’s breath.
“You’re some kinda hotshot lawyer up there in New York, ain’t you?”
Was he? He was a partner in a prestigious firm, but did hotshot lawyers spend their days putting the scum of the earth back on the streets?
“I’m a lawyer, licensed to practice in the state of New York,” Gray said brusquely.
“Well, I got a legal matter needs tendin’.”
“A legal matter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why come to me? For starters, I’m not licensed to practice in Texas.”
“Don’t need you to practice. Maybe I should have said what I need is legal advice.”
“You have people to give it to you. Your son, for one.”
“Travis is a lawyer, all right. But he lives in California.”
“Yeah, and as we both just agreed, I live in New York.”
“I don’t want to involve Travis in this.”
Did the old man know the effect that remark would have? Gray squelched the sudden rush of curiosity that shot through him.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve probably got a powerhouse law firm on retainer in Austin.”
“Damned right.” A touch of pride crept into his uncle’s voice. “The best.”
“Exactly. Whatever legal advice you need, you’d be better off turning to them than to—”
“This here’s a private matter. I want you to handle it, not my son or a passel of lawyers who got no more interest in the Baron name than when they see it on checks.”
Another little flare of curiosity went through his blood but Gray ignored it. “That’s very flattering,” he said politely, “but—”
“Bull patties,” Jonas said curtly. “I ain’t tryin’ to flatter you, an’ you wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn if I was.”
Gray sat down on the edge of the bed. The old man was good at this. He played people like a virtuoso played a Stradivarius, but Gray wasn’t going to let himself be drawn in.
“You’re right,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Look, whatever this is about, I’m not interested. I’m in the middle of a case.”
“You could fly down in the mornin’, fly back by nightfall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Besides—”
“Besides, you’d sooner work for a no-account horse thief than me.”
The only good thing about Jonas was that he was always direct. Gray often thought it was the single quality he and his uncle had in common.
“Yeah.” He smiled into the darkness. “That about sums it up.”
“You know, boy, it ain’t my fault your father’s spent his life suckin’ up to my money.”
Gray rose to his feet. “It’s late,” he said coldly, “and I’ve had a long day. Good night, Jonas.”
“Wait!” The old man huffed audibly. “I need your help.”
Jonas Baron needed help? His help? Gray paused with his finger on the disconnect button. “In what way?”
“You fly down to Espada and I’ll explain.”
“I have no intention of flying down to Espada. Tell me the problem now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this! You get me up in the middle of the night, you mutter some crap about legal advice, and I’m supposed to drop everything and head for Texas?”
“Yes,” the old man said sharply, and Gray suddenly realized his uncle’s just-folks accent had disappeared. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
“Here’s a news flash for you, Uncle. I’ve never done what I was supposed to do and I’m not going to start now.”
“You might find this interesting.”
“I doubt it.”
“Gray.” Another exhalation of breath, this one slightly ragged. “I’m an old man.”
Ah, hell. Gray sat down again. “Look,” he said, “it’s true, you and I never really got along, but—”
“We’d have gotten along fine if we hadn’t based our judgment of each other on your father.”
Gray laughed. Definitely, direct and to the point. And maybe even dead-on correct. “I guess that’s possible. But we did, and it’s too late to go back and change things.” His voice softened. “Jonas, I wish I could help you. But I really am in the middle of a case, and—”
“I’m getting old, boy. Real old.” Jonas cleared his throat. “And—and I did something, a long time ago, that I need to atone for, before my time comes.”
“Hell, I’m no clergyman.”
“Dammit, are you listening to me? I don’t want some candy-assed preacher to hear me confess my sins. What I need is a man I can trust.”
“And you think that’s me? Why? You and I hardly know each other.”
“There’s some of my blood in your veins, boy, even if you wish there wasn’t. My brother was your grandfather.”
Gray pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Jonas. Listen, if you need advice, I can recommend someone. One of my partners clerked for a Federal judge—”
“So did you.”
That the old man would know so much about him took him by surprise. Still, he didn’t want to get drawn into this, whatever “this” might be. Over the years, he’d kept his distance from his father, from his uncle, from Texas. He went back for weddings and big family parties but only because he liked his cousins. Other than that, he’d never felt part of the Baron clan, never wanted to be part of it.
“Graham?”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“I’m tellin’ you again, boy. I need your help.”
“And I’m telling you, Uncle. I can’t give it.”
The old man’s patience slipped. “Damnation,” he’d roared, “you fly down here and I swear, it’ll take less time to tell you my problem than it’s takin’ you to tell me you ain’t interested in hearin’ it!”
Gray had known that was probably the truth. Besides, he couldn’t quite repress that unwanted curiosity. After another few minutes he’d said okay, he’d take the first flight out of La Guardia in the morning.
“Good,” his uncle had said briskly. “You’re on TransAmerica flight 1157, leavin’ at 6:05 in the a.m.”
The phone had gone dead and Gray knew he’d been had. He’d cursed, then laughed, finally climbed back into bed and when the woman in it rolled into his arms he’d made love to her. But part of him had remained at a distance while he’d tried to come up with a reason his uncle would go to such lengths to arrange for this command performance. At four-thirty, he’d risen from the bed, showered, dressed, left a note for his still-sleeping lover asking her to please let herself out and that he’d phone her in a day or two. Then he’d taken a taxi to the airport.
Yes indeed, he thought, as the Jeep pulled through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Espada, curiosity killed the cat—but he was, just as Jonas said, a hotshot New York attorney, too smart to be drawn into anything against his will. He’d hear his uncle’s story, offer some legal mumbo jumbo to soothe whatever twinge of conscience could plague a man at the end of such a long, powerful life and be back in New York by suppertime.
For all he knew, this little break in routine might just clear his head, make him feel better about the way he earned his living, twisting Justice’s arm just enough to keep his next rich client from serving a stretch in prison.
The Jeep came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Gray nodded to Abel, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the house. When he was a kid, it had reminded him of Tara. It still did, he thought, and he was smiling when his uncle’s wife opened the door. Gray was taken aback. He hadn’t given it any thought but now that he did, he was surprised to see Marta, considering how secretive Jonas had made all this sound.
“Graham,” his stepaunt said, “how good of you to come.” Smiling, she held out her arms and hugged him. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked as if she were planning to lunch on Madison Avenue and he thought, as always, how surprising it was that such a woman would be happy in this setting. He liked her; he always had. Of all the wives the old man had gone through, Marta was the best.
“Marta.” He kissed her cheek, put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re as gorgeous as ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, laughing. She linked her arm through his, shut the door on the hot breath of late spring and drew him into the elegant foyer. “I’m so pleased you decided to accept Jonas’s invitation.”
The old man’s summons had been about as much an invitation as the Spanish Inquisition would have extended to heretics, but Gray kept the thought to himself.
“My pleasure,” he said politely. “How have you been?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” Her eyes clouded. “Except Jonas, of course.”
Gray looked at her. “He’s not well?”
“No. Not at all. Didn’t he tell you?” She sighed and shook her head. “Of course he didn’t. He seems to think he can pretend the years aren’t finally catching up with him. And that his doctors haven’t diagnosed—”
“Diagnosed what?”
Marta dropped his arm and folded her hands together at her waist. “Leukemia,” she said softly. “That’s the reason for all of this.”
Hell. It was like sitting in at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Gray knew the characters but he didn’t understand the dialogue. “All of what?” he said carefully.
“You know. The talk about what will happen after—after he’s gone. Whether he’s divided his assets properly. Whether he’s left each child what that child truly wants.” She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “I’m sure your chat is going to ease his mind. I mean, yes, certainly, Jonas has an excellent attorney. And he’s given a great deal of thought to his will, but he seems to feel that discussing some of the specifics with you, as a member of the family, will help him be sure he’s taken care of everything.”
Gray’s eyebrows rose. Was that what this was all about? Was he here to read the old man’s will over his shoulder and offer advice on who should get what? He couldn’t imagine any of Jonas’s offspring quarreling over the disposition of the estate.
“Well,” he said cautiously, “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Marta cleared her throat. “Now,” she said briskly, “what can I get you?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Gray glanced at his watch. “If you’d just tell Jonas that I’m here…”
“How about some coffee? Or something cold. Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours. You’ll join us, of course.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, although he knew that he wouldn’t. “There’s a two o’clock flight back to New York. If I can, I’d like to be on it.”
“Ah. I’ll be disappointed, but I understand. Well then, I’ll have Carmen bring something for you to nibble on. Some of her pecan shortbread, and some lemonade. How’s that sound?”
“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Don’t be silly.” They paused at the closed library door. Marta turned to him and smiled, her eyes glittering with what he knew were unshed tears. “It’s just so kind of you to do this for Jonas. Really, it’s very generous.”
Gray almost told her that kindness had nothing to do with it. Instead he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will. And Gray…try not to let him see your surprise at all the changes.” Her voice quavered. “Will you do that, please?”
He nodded, and she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to the door and he could almost see her pulling herself together.
“Jonas?” She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, then turned the brass handle. “Darling? Graham’s here.”
Marta stepped back and Gray entered the library. The door swung softly shut behind him and as he looked around, his first thought was that he didn’t know what she’d meant, warning him about changes. Everything was the same. He remembered when Marta had married his uncle. She’d redone the living room, the dining room, some of the rest of the big house, but this place—his uncle’s lair, was the way he thought of it—had not been touched.
There were the same sofas and chairs he recalled from childhood, the leather cushions slightly worn and burnished by time. There was the same mahogany sideboard, and the big desk with the conquistador’s sword that had given Espada its name mounted above it. The same draperies hung at the windows, the same old and beautifully faded silk carpet lay on the floor. And there was Jonas, seated in his favorite chair near the massive fireplace, a glass in his hand.
Nothing had changed at all…and then his uncle put down the glass and rose to his feet, and Gray caught his breath.
Jonas had shrunk. That was his first thought. The old man had gone from being six foot something to being five-nine or-ten…except, he hadn’t. It was just that he was hunched over, those once-massive shoulders rounded, that proud back bent.
“Graham.”
Jonas started across the room and Gray got his second shock. His uncle’s stride had always been a proclamation that he owned the world. Now, he shuffled. His booted feet slid across the carpet. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It was the sad, painful sound of age, and of a man who knew he was approaching the end of his life.
“Good to see you, boy.”
Gray gave himself a mental shake and met his uncle in the center of the room. They clasped hands. Jonas’s grip was still surprisingly strong but his fingers felt bony and cold. For the first time in his life, Gray felt a twinge of pity for him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle,” he said.
Jonas nodded toward a pair of chairs. “Have a seat. You want somethin’? I can ring and ask Carmen to bring some coffee.”
“No, thank you. I had enough coffee on the plane to float a ship.”
“Good. I never did trust a man who’d sip coffee when he could be sippin’ whiskey instead.” The old man grinned. “Or ain’t you a bourbon man, nephew? I can’t seem to recall.”
Gray smiled. Jonas recalled, all right. It was a standing joke that nobody would ever join the old man in a glass of the whiskey he favored. His sons preferred wine, beer and ale. Gray’s preference was for single-malt scotch, but the memory of those cold fingers pressing against his made him reconsider.
“I’m not, usually,” he said. “But I think some bourbon might be fine right about now.”
Jonas nodded and shuffled to the sideboard. Gray saw his hands tremble as he opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and warned himself not to let the signs of illness and age influence him. He’d come prepared to listen to whatever his uncle wanted to tell him, then to decline involvement and head home, and that was still what he intended to do. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into sorting out some past mistake, real or imagined…unless Marta was right, and he was here to advise Jonas on his will. Hell, he wouldn’t do that, either. He wanted no part in any of this.
“Here we are,” Jonas said.
Gray took the glass, touched it to his uncle’s and sipped the whiskey. There was more ceremony to get through, this time involving a box of Cuban cigars, which he refused. He waited while the old man bit the tip off one, spat it into the fireplace and lit up.
“Ain’t supposed to drink or smoke, but what the hell’s the difference? I ain’t long for this world anyways.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.
A knock sounded at the door. Jonas opened it, took a quick look at the tray in his housekeeper’s hands and waved her out.
“Lemonade,” he said, his lip curling with disgust, “and cake. You’d think there was a couple of kids in this here room.” He slammed the door and looked at Gray. “Where was I?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“That ain’t what I was saying. I was tellin’ you there’s not much point in me avoidin’ a good shot of whiskey and a fine cigar.” Jonas eased into a chair, motioned to the other one. “But you’re right, I do have some talkin’ to do. I suppose Marta told you I’m dyin’?”
“Uh, well, uh, she said—”
“Come on,” Jonas said impatiently, “don’t play games! There’s just so much time a man has got, and I’ve used up most of mine. Remember what I said last night? That I liked the way you shoot straight? Don’t disappoint me now, boy. I’m dyin’. That’s all there is to it. And you know what? Dyin’s okay. I lived a long, full life.” He smiled, took a puff on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Had me five fine wives, four strong sons, built me this ranch and had me enough good times for a dozen men.” The smile faded and he sat forward. “But the closer I come to the end, the more I’ve been thinkin’ that not all them good times was exactly good, if you catch my drift.”
What was the old man getting at? A confession? A cleansing of the soul? Gray cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, all of us do things we’re not proud of, from time to time. I mean—”
“Damnation, boy, get that panicked look off your face.” Jonas scowled darkly. “I told you, If I wanted a pulpit pansy I’d have sent for one. I ain’t about to drop a bunch of regrets in your lap and ask for absolution.” He paused, took a long breath, then got to his feet. Slowly he walked to his desk and picked up a paperweight. “You ever notice this, Graham?”
Gray rose and followed his uncle to the desk. Jonas held out the paperweight. Gray took it from him and, as he hefted it, he realized it wasn’t a paperweight at all. It was a chunk of rock, pitted, rough and heavy, mottled with snaky streaks of what he figured was some kind of mineral deposit.
“No,” he said slowly, “I guess I never did. What is it? Granite?”
The old man chuckled. “Hold it to the light.”
Gray moved to the window and lifted the rock toward the glass. A beam of sunshine struck it, turning the mineral streaks into dazzling ribbons of bright yellow.
“Gold?” Gray said, looking at his uncle. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what it is, all right. Gold ore.” Jonas took the rock from Gray’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Took it from a mine in Venezuela, more’n half a century ago.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a gold miner,” Gray said, with a little smile. The old man was right. He had, indeed, led a long and interesting life.
“I been a lot of things.” Jonas opened his fist, looked at the rock, then put it down. “I was a young man back then. Already made me a pile of money in longhorns and some other things nobody else thought would pay off so when my pal, Ben Lincoln, asked me to go fifty-fifty on a mine in South America, I figured why not give it a try? The mine was s’posed to be played out but Ben had reason to believe otherwise.”
He paused for a long moment and stared blindly out the window. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the old man saw something out there that nobody else could see.
“So we took ourselves down to Venezuela and then up the Orinoco to this mine in the jungle somebody had worked an’ then abandoned.”
He paused again, this time for so long that Gray moved toward him. “Uncle?” he said softly.
Jonas looked at him. “Yeah. I’m just thinkin’ back.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said briskly, “turned out Ben was mistaken. We found some gold, but not enough. So Ben and me, we decided to end the partnership.”
Gray took another look at the rock. It was an interesting story, but what did it have to do with him? Jonas was still talking, something about him and Ben Lincoln, how they’d gone their separate ways and he’d come back to build Espada. Gray shot a surreptitious glance at his watch. An hour had gone by. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t make that flight to New York.
“Dammit, boy, how about payin’ some attention here?”
Gray’s head came up. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You know,” he said, as carefully as he could, “I don’t like being called `boy.’ And I have been paying attention. I’m here, aren’t I, when I should be meeting with a client—and I still don’t know why in hell I came. What do you want, Jonas?”
“I’m getting to that.” The old man hesitated. “Ben died a long time back. A few months ago, I heard—I heard he had some kin. A granddaughter.”
“And? What does any of this have to do with me?”
The old man’s eyes met his. “I’ve owed a debt to Ben all these years, and I’m a man always pays his debts.”
Gray’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late to worry about repaying this one, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t never too late to do the right thing, Graham. You live as long as me, you might just figure that out for yourself.”
“What kind of debt?”
“A debt, dammit,” Jonas said irritably. “What’s the difference?”
Things were starting to make sense. His uncle owed money to a man who was dead. For all he knew, he’d cheated Ben Lincoln out of some gold. Maybe he’d gone back later and found the mother lode. Maybe he’d done it without ever telling Ben Lincoln. Or maybe he’d palmed a couple of aces when they played cards. Knowing Jonas, anything was possible.
Now, with death looming ahead, he was having an attack of conscience. He wanted to make things right and he didn’t want his sons or even his own lawyer to know about it for fear it would tarnish his image. Gray thought of telling him that there wasn’t anything that could do more damage to an image like his, but what would be the point? The old man really didn’t have much time left. It wouldn’t hurt to do this simple thing for him.
“Okay,” he said. He sat down again, picked up his briefcase and snapped it open. “You tell me the granddaughter’s name, give me her address, and—”
“Don’t know her address.”
Gray sighed. “That’s all right. Her name will probably be enough. I’ve got a couple of private investigators I use all the time. They’ll find her.”
“Don’t know her name, neither.”
“You don’t know her name?” Gray repeated, trying to sound patient.
“Jes’ said that, didn’t I?”
“Okay. Okay, then, just tell me whatever you can about this Ben Lincoln. Where he was from. Where he went after you and he broke up the partnership. Anything you remember.”
“Here.” Jonas plucked a manila envelope from the top of his desk. “Figured you’d want whatever information I got. Wrote it all down for you.”
Gray took the envelope and placed it in his briefcase. “Fine.” He uncapped a pen, put a yellow legal pad on his knees. “These guys I know will find Lincoln’s granddaughter.”
Jonas nodded. “I was counting on that.”
“And how do you want to handle this? After they’ve found her, do you want to mail her a check? Or do you want it hand-delivered?”
“A check?”
“Yes,” Gray said, trying to disguise his impatience. “For his granddaughter. You want to keep it impersonal, or—”
“I don’t intend to give the girl a check. If she’s Ben’s offspring, if she’s a decent woman, I’ll want to meet her. Write her into my will.”
Gray looked up. Jonas was standing over him, one bony hand curled around the back of a chair. His eyes were flat, his mouth a grim line, but a dark blue vein throbbed in his papery temple. Something was going on here, something more than the old man had told him, but what?
“You want to write her into your will?”
“You deaf, counselor? How come I have to repeat everything I say?”
Oh, yeah. Definitely something was going on. There was the look on Jonas’s face. The sudden ringing tone to his voice. More to the point, the on-again, off-again accent had just taken a hike, and that was always meaningful.
Gray capped the pen, placed it and the legal pad inside the briefcase and stood up. He’d been as tall as Jonas for years; now, he towered over him. It was a small but decided advantage, and wasn’t that a crazy thing to think?
“And how will you be sure she’s a decent woman, Uncle?”
Jonas’s mouth curved at the corners. “I’ll rely on your reports, nephew. What else would I do?”
“Now, wait just a minute. I’m willing to use one of my investigators to locate this woman, but if you intend to base your decision on the findings of a private detective…forget it. I won’t take responsibility for somebody else’s opinion of an unknown woman’s moral fiber—assuming the investigator finds her at all.”
“He’ll find her. You just told me he would.”
Hell. Gray ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll put the best man I can think of on the case.”
“I’ve already done that, Graham. I’ve put you on it.” Jonas seemed to stand a little taller. “Your investigator will do the footwork.” He grinned, and suddenly he didn’t look quite so frail and old. “Wouldn’t expect somethin’ so down and dirty of you, boy. But you’re the one who’s gonna verify what the man says. You’ll take a good, hard look at the lady once she’s found. Observe her. Talk to her, check her out every which way. An’ when you know what she’s really like, why then, nephew, you’ll report back to me and tell me everythin’ I need to know.” Jonas strolled to his chair, sat down and picked up his tumbler of bourbon. “Way I figure it, the whole thing shouldn’t take you no more’n a couple of weeks.”
“Jonas.” Gray spoke gently. “Look, I’d like to help you. But surely you understand that I have a law practice. Clients. I have obligations, and I can’t just—”
“You got an obligation to me, boy. Maybe it’s time you knew that.”
Gray narrowed his eyes. There was an ominous sound to the words. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jonas got up, walked to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “You never did get along with your old man, did you? Never did cotton to the idea of sittin’ around, watchin’ him grovel to me.” He sipped the bourbon, smiled over the rim of the tumbler. “You ever stop to think how nice it was, gettin’ away from here when you was, what, eighteen? When you went away to that there fancy college in New Hampshire?”
“I was seventeen,” Gray said coldly. “And what does that have to do with this conversation?”
“An’ how ‘bout that law dee-ploma?” Jonas sighed. “The way I hear it, ain’t ever’body can afford a Yale law dee-gree.”
The hair on the nape of Gray’s neck was rising again. “I had full scholarships to both Dartmouth and Yale.”
Jonas chuckled. “Oh my, yes. You was a smart kid, Graham. You won them scholarships, fair and square.” His smile faded. “‘Course, you never did give too much thought as to who funded those scholarships, did you?”
Gray stared at his uncle. He felt as if the floor were dropping from under his feet. “You?” he said hoarsely. “You funded them?”
“And the pocket money that went along with them.” The old man plucked what remained of his cigar from a heavy glass ashtray and stuck it between his teeth. “Your father did the right thing, son. He come to me, said you was smart and he couldn’t afford to do right by you.”
That his father had once said something good about him didn’t seem to matter half as much as learning that he’d gotten where he was today—wherever in hell that might be—courtesy of the very man he’d grown up despising. Gray could feel a cold, hard knot forming in his gut.
“And now,” he said softly, “you’re calling in your markers.”
His uncle shrugged. “Only if you make it seem that way.”
Gray laughed. “Only if I make it seem…? You are some piece of work, Jonas, you know that? You’re blackmailing me into taking God only knows how much time out of my life so you can soothe your conscience before you die, and you say it’s payback time only if I make it seem that way?” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I don’t suppose you’d settle for me writing out a check for whatever I owe you… No,” he said grimly, when Jonas chuckled, “no, I guess not.” Anger flooded through him and he balled his hands into fists, jammed his fists into his pockets before he did something he knew he’d regret. “I’ve got news for you, old man. You don’t need to be concerned with your conscience because the fact is, you never had one.”
Jonas took the cigar from his mouth and set it back into the ashtray. “Yes,” he said softly, “I do, even if it seems to be catching up years too late.” He walked toward Gray, his gaze locked to the younger man’s, his hand outstretched. “You do this, we’ll call things even.”
Gray held his uncle’s eyes for a long minute. Then he looked pointedly at the outstretched hand, ignored it and reached, instead, for his briefcase.
“You’re damned right we will,” he said, and he pulled open the door and marched down the hall, hating Jonas, hating himself, but most of all hating his own father, a man he’d sworn he’d never emulate, because here he was, dancing to a tune Jonas Baron played and stuck with dancing straight to the very last note.
