Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,11

revealed the best clues.

Two portraits, each of a different, beautiful raven-haired woman with classic features stared out at Colette from the wall behind Caine—or was it a woman and a girl? She took into account the bronze sculptures on pedestals, the designer plants in a corner, and the well-stocked bar—the bottle of scotch was nearly empty. Caine was a good man at a crossroads, one that was far from a run-of-the-mill midlife crisis, she figured.

While Colette Beekman examined Montaro Caine’s office, Montaro examined Colette, reminding himself that corporate raiders could come in all sizes, shapes, and forms, including the stunningly beautiful. Though Caine’s life had seen its share of temptations, he had never strayed from his twenty-year marriage to Cecilia except in his mind, such as now when he gazed upon Colette. Caine guessed her to be about twenty-six years old. And God, what lovely eyes, he thought; they actually sparkled.

Colette placed her briefcase on the table, then looked up at Caine and flashed a smile. Their eyes locked. When Colette felt satisfied that she had held the look between them a beat too long, she let her eyes fall slowly to her briefcase.

“Mr. Caine,” Herman Freich began, “we represent an investor whose resources are considerable and whose holdings are quite diverse. However, we’ve come to see you for reasons over and above any interests we may have concerning investments in Fitzer.”

This information was both surprising and extremely disappointing to Caine. He should have known not to trust Larry Buchanan. “What are those reasons?” he interrupted.

The lock on Colette’s case sprang open as if in response to his question. With a slight hand movement, Freich deferred to Colette and her briefcase. She removed a monogrammed leather folder with a pearl latch, then leafed through its contents and extracted a standard-size white envelope, slightly yellowed with age. The young woman focused on the envelope for a long beat, tapping it against the upturned fingers of her left hand.

Caine watched her. Herman Freich watched Caine. When the tapping subsided, Colette looked up, smiled at Caine, and held the envelope toward him faceup. “To Professor Walmeyer” was handwritten across it in large letters. She turned the envelope over, “M.I.T. Department of Metallurgy” was written on the flap.

“Richard Walmeyer,” Caine read aloud. “I’ll be damned.”

“You recognize the envelope, Mr. Caine?”

“I certainly recognize the name printed on it,” said Caine.

“And the handwriting?”

Not yet ready to acknowledge the handwriting as his own, Caine hesitated, glanced at Freich, and wondered if Colette Beekman was his lawyer, his employer, or his daughter. “It’s not Richard Walmeyer’s,” he said evasively, as he searched Freich’s face for a physical resemblance to Colette Beekman. He saw none. Freich was fiftyish with thinning gray hair, sunken cheeks, and thin, taut lips. On the whole, Caine thought, Freich’s was a stern, cheerless face; laughter did not seem to be the man’s recreational sport. Caine didn’t really figure that Colette was a lawyer because she was behaving too much like one. Unlikely as it seemed, Colette Beekman had to be Freich’s boss, he concluded. But how does Professor Walmeyer connect to whatever it is they’re up to, he wondered. Pointing to the envelope, he asked, “So, what’s in it?”

“A memo.” Colette lifted the flap and pulled a paper from the envelope. Holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger, she extended her arms, giving him a closer look. It was a signed memo on M.I.T. stationery.

“Might that be your signature?”

Again, yes and no.

“Might it be a copy of your signature?”

“It might be.”

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

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

In his third year of graduate work at M.I.T., Montaro had worked as an assistant to the feisty, diminutive, and brilliant Professor