Rex Banion, idiot.
Not that I don’t appreciate him solving our dilemma with Daddy’s
little secret society games, but a man should know when someone’s
plotting his death. Its probably the booze. Coming in here with
whiskey on his breath. There is a constable stationed in the security
office, and if Rex hadn’t ducked him he could have been arrested.
I took a sip of my martini.
I picked up the phone and dialed zero.
“Miriam,” I said.
“Yes, Ms. Hemingway,” she said.
“Rex is leaving, have Henson and Jacobson follow him,” I said.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she said.
“If they can get the journals back without killing him, that’s better,” I said.
“Absolutely, Ma’am,” she said
“And Miriam, he’s slippery,” I said.
“I know Rex, Ma’am,” she said.
I was sure she did.
I hung up.
I’d been spending my whole life cleaning up Daddy’s indiscretions, waiting, waiting for the fortune that was rightly mine, and I wasn’t going to give it up now to Dunny or anyone else.
Since I turned eighteen Daddy’d held the will over my head like a paper sword. The old will, penned before I was born. All the money to Dunny except a little pittance to me to starve on. Why, I’d have to move out of the suite and get an apartment, like a barbarian.
And finally, finally, in those last and dying days, after I’d pushed all of his victims into the harbor and fobbed it off on the rum runners, he signed it. Signed the new will and sealed the old one inside the leather cover of one of his journals, just to let me know it wasn’t gone.
The day after Daddy’s death, Dunny called me up to say that he had a copy of the old will naming him as the sole heir, and also three letters that made Daddy look as mad as King George.
Of course I had to do something. I wasn’t about to stop now, with so much blood on my hands already.
Rex came from a family friend, with a reputation for secrecy, ruthlessness and a weakness for women. Even if he did talk, our friend had plenty of dirt on him from his days in the Boston P.D.
I’d sent Henson and Jacobson with Rex, but he’d slipped them somehow. They were supposed to watch him find the journals, and then we were supposed to find him floating face down in Pelham Bay.
Then he shows up here. The nerve. If he wasn’t so pretty, I’d have shot him myself.
Don’t want to get blood on the rug, either.
I took another sip of my martini.
I dialed zero again.
“Miriam,” I said, “Get me Senator Crane.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” she said.
It was time to cash in a favor.