Open and Shut - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,95
fresh look like Laurie taught me. And all of a sudden, I know exactly why Philip Gant would cut down beautiful trees like that.
I ARRIVE AT THE GANT ESTATE at eleven the next morning, having called ahead to tell Philip I needed to speak to him. He was cordial and without a hint of concern in his voice; he seemed to know nothing about Markham's proffer. I ring the bell and the butler, Frederick, answers.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.”
“Hello, Frederick. The Senator is expecting me.”
Frederick nods. “Yes, sir. He's at the pool.”
I nod and move quickly through the house and out to the back. I head toward the pool, and find Philip sitting in his bathing suit at an umbrella-shaded table, nursing a drink and reading a book. He hears me coming and looks up.
“Hello, Andrew.”
“Hello, Philip. Am I interrupting anything important?”
“No … no … not at all. It's very disappointing about you and Nicole. I very much wanted it to work out.”
“And you usually get what you want,” I say.
I can see him react to this; it is not something that someone would ordinarily come out and say to him, even though it is obviously true. He decides to let it pass by treating it good-naturedly.
He grins. “Yes, I guess I do. I guess I do. Congratulations on your victory in that trial.”
“Did you hear about Victor Markham?” I ask.
He nods. “I did. The entire episode is terrible. Just terrible.”
“You know,” I say, “it's funny. A secret like that is kept for almost forty years, and then it comes out, just like that. Makes you think, doesn't it?”
“About what?” he asks.
“That if you have something to hide, you can never be sure it will stay hidden. There's always that worry, always that chance that a base hasn't been completely covered.”
“I suppose that's true.” Philip's tone is now a little uncertain, tentative.
“I mean, think about this case. There's still a secret to be revealed. There's still someone who hasn't been accounted for.”
“And who might that be?” he asks.
“The guy who took the picture.”
The look in his eyes says I've got his attention, so I continue. “Maybe he's the one who gave my father the money. Maybe he's the one whose house it was.”
Philip sits there, sipping his drink, unruffled. The son of a bitch. “Andrew,” he says, “you don't want to go any further.”
But I do, and I will. “Maybe he's the one who was afraid he'd be ruined … that his perfectly planned future could be destroyed. Maybe he's the one who killed Julie McGregor to protect himself.”
Philip puts down his drink: his way of saying that it's time to get serious. “All right, Andrew, what exactly are you saying?”
“I'm saying that if I were that person, I'd be worried. Because secrets like this are very difficult to keep. And if that person were somebody prominent, somebody hot-shit important, then his whole life could go down the drain, slowly … surely … totally.”
As much as I despise this man, I am almost mesmerized by him. He is being confronted with the revelation of a secret so terrible that he has murdered to preserve it, yet he seems unfazed and totally in control. It's either a confidence bordering on invincibility, or an Academy Award winning performance.
“Goodbye, Andrew,” he says.
But I'm not going anywhere. “I know my father took your money, and that was wrong. But you had saved his life when he fell through the ice, and now he was saving yours. You were his oldest friend, and he let that cloud his judgment. But it doesn't matter anymore, because you know what, Philip? The bad news for you is that I'm not my father.”
“That much is true,” he says. “You're not even close.”
“Victor Markham gave a proffer for a plea bargain, Philip. He said that you were there … that you all took Julie McGregor to this house.”
For a moment there is a flash of uncertainty in Philip's eyes, but it is immediately replaced by confidence.
“I don't believe that is true. But even if it were, his death renders that useless.”
“You know,” I say, “Julie McGregor's body was never found.”
Philip smiles, serenely confident. “Is that right?”
“If it was me, if I were a pig like yourself, I would have buried the body. And then I would have covered it up … like maybe with a guest house. Which was built not long after that night. You didn't build it as a future home for your child, Philip. You built it