“I was hoping you could help me find out who’s doing it and get them to stop.”
“So what have you done to be blackmailed?” I asked.
He pointed up at the oil painting of Benjamin Franklin and said, “No more than him.”
In the painting, Franklin was wearing wire-framed octagonal eyeglasses and looked down at us from above the mantelpiece like a benign grandfather with a Mona Lisa smile.
“That’s great. You’re having an affair with Ben Franklin.”
He gave me a wry grin and asked, “What do you really know about him?”
“Come on, Jordan. This is ridiculous,” I said.
“Benjamin Franklin. What do you know about him?” he persisted.
“His face is on the hundred dollar bill. I wish I had a few more of them.”
“What else?”
“He wrote Poor Richard’s Almanac. And he had a big hand in drafting the Constitution.”
“He also discovered the Atlantic Gulf Stream. And electricity.”
“Yeah . . . it was all in the Disney movie.”
“Right. Well Disney didn’t include any scenes of Old Ben screwing his favorite prostitutes when he was seventy-nine years old . . . or mention that his diary was full of entries about his favorite sex toys and his fear of contracting venereal disease.”
“I think I’m getting the picture,” I said.
“Does anyone blame Benjamin Franklin for his little eccentricities? No . . . all they remember is that he was one of the greatest men of his generation or any other generation . . . but he was a randy old rogue.”
“I assume there is a point to all this.”
“The man was obsessed with women until the day he died . . . and I know just what was going through his mind. And now I’m going to pay for it.”
“If you’re being blackmailed, Jordan, then go to the sheriff or the district attorney,” I advised. “They have people trained and equipped to deal with blackmailers.”
“I should go and lay my problem at the feet of Big Jim Dickey? My career here would be over.”
I wondered whether he had confided the problem to Blair and whether she had told him to ask for my help.
“You once said that part of your work in the army was counterintelligence, undercover work . . . secret surveillance and all that,” he said.
“That’s ancient history.”
“I’m just asking you to try. You could at least try, couldn’t you?”
Walking over to his polished desk, he unlocked one of the drawers with a key. Removing a brown envelope, he handed it to me. “There’s a video recording in there. I’m the star. I’d like you to take a look at it in my study.”
He pointed to a pocket door in the paneling against the far wall.
“You want to watch it with me?”
“Once was enough,” he said as I headed for the door. “I’m afraid you’re going to be pretty shocked.”
“That would take a lot.”
“Jake . . . you’re the only one I can trust with this.”
I nodded. The study was barely larger than a walk-in closet, but it was clearly Jordan’s touchstone to a more idealistic past. Fastened to the back of the door was an old black-and-white poster from the 1960s showing policemen spraying black protesters with fire hoses in Selma, Alabama.
A scarred gray metal desk sat between the two walls. I remembered one like it from his first office in Detroit. Above the desk was a photograph of him as a boy in Mississippi and another of him and Blair shortly before they were married. The last one was with Michelle Obama.
A small television connected to a disc player sat next to a leather club chair. I removed the case from the envelope. It could have been purchased in any convenience store. The plastic cover was unlabeled. I turned on the television and inserted the disc.
It was a silent movie. The images were slightly distorted, as if the camera had been set too close to the subjects in the room. It had not been filmed with professional surveillance equipment. The picture was out of focus, although clear enough to identify Jordan. He was standing beside a woman next to a bed in what appeared to be a motel room. She looked Eurasian, with a slender figure and a delicate face.
The camera never moved. Its wide lens covered a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room and some of the area next to it. For the next twenty minutes, I watched Jordan and the young woman interact with each other. There was nothing remotely arousing to me about any of it.
After slowly removing the woman’s clothes, Jordan picked up what looked like a small nickel-plated vibrator from a leather briefcase next to the bed and proceeded to give her a full body massage. He was very patient, starting at the soles of her feet and moving slowly up the legs, then up to her neck, shoulders, and back. The girl seemed to enjoy it, particularly when he finally brought the vibrator within range of her pubis. At the end she appeared to experience a deep orgasm. The disc went blank as she was putting her clothes back on.
He had been absolutely right. The encounter was deeply shocking to me, the reason apparent from the moment he first appeared on camera. Jordan Langford, the virile young president of St. Andrews College, former all-American football player, and the husband of my lost love, was dressed in women’s lingerie—a lace bra and panties, with matching garter belt, silk stockings, and black high heels. An expensive shoulder-length black wig framed his face. His eyes were heavily accented with mascara and eye shadow, and he was wearing bold red lipstick.
When I came back out of the study he was standing at the window, still looking down at his college domain.
“You’re right,” I said. “I was shocked.”
“I happen to dig exotic girls,” he said as if that were the principal problem. “There’s a service I use out of Syracuse.”
“That wasn’t it,” I said.
“I know,” he said, struggling to maintain his composure as I stared at him.
“Did you film it yourself?” I asked, knowing that some people liked to keep a record of their sexual adventures.
He shook his head and said, “I have no idea who filmed it. It arrived in the mail.”
He handed me the brown envelope. It was addressed to Alicia Verlaine at a Syracuse post office box. There was no return address. It had been postmarked two days earlier from New York City.
“Well that’s a start,” I said, pointing to the postmark. “It narrows your suspects in the state down to around twelve million people.”
His eyes hardened for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. I took another look at the envelope. It had been slit with a letter opener. A single sheet of white paper lay inside, folded into thirds.
“You opened this yourself?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “Yes. Thank God.”
I pulled out the small magnifier I kept in my breast pocket and examined the handwriting on the address. It was crudely written, as if the person had used his or her nonwriting hand to scrawl the words.
“It came to a special post office box I have,” said Jordan. “When I order things . . . it’s under an assumed name.”
“I take it you’re Alicia Verlaine.”
He winced before finally nodding at me.
“The blackmail note is inside,” he said. “I received it yesterday.”
I unfolded the page. The lines were in red ink and matched the writing on the envelope. At first glance, the individual letters looked as if they had been scrawled by someone recovering from a serious stroke. They were scraggly and disjointed:
Alicia, if you want to avoid the public disgrace that will accompany the release of this sordid episode, you will give us five million dollars, payable under the instructions you will find in this envelope. Failure to do so by Sunday at five o’clock will result in copies of it being distributed to all the national news organizations.
“It sounds so goddamn matter of fact,” he said, his eyes perplexed. “Like a dunning notice from a collection agency.”
“Why tomorrow at five?” I asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“It’s the day before you’re supposed to announce Wheatley’s gift,” I said. “It’s entirely possible his death and the blackmail scheme are connected. Find the answer to one and it may answer both.”
“There’s so little time,” said Jordan.
“Has anyone attempted to contact you since you received the recording?”
He shook his head and said, “I have no idea what’s coming next. The instructions provided me with an account number to transfer the money to in the Cayman Islands.”
“They may have no more plans to contact you if you decide to pay them,” I said. “Direct contact raises the risk of the blackmailer being caught.”
“I don’t have five million dollars.”
“You have fifty million.”
“That isn’t mine.”
“The blackmailer appears to know you have fifty. If so, I’m surprised they aren’t asking for more.”
“I will not use his money. If you can’t stop whoever is doing this, I will resign at the trustees meeting.”
“Look Jordan, you never even screwed these women,” I said. “There is no victim here, and it’s clearly an act between two consenting adults. Hell . . . we live in the People’s Republic of Groton. They celebrate the month of Gaypril here. There are probably more pagan ministers and UFO worshippers in this town than Baptists. It’s as liberated a place as you could find in the whole country. No one cares what you do in your bedroom or your barn.”
Shaking his head morosely, he said, “Don’t you understand, Jake? This will wreck my career. It will make me a laughingstock. And it will destroy my marriage to Blair.”
I nodded.
“I take it Blair doesn’t cut it for you anymore,” I said with an edge of bitterness in my voice.
My tone obviously registered with him. His eyes seemed to fill with something like regret. Of course, he might have just been feeling sorry for himself.
“Blair is the best thing that happened in my life . . . she always has been, Jake. You probably won’t understand this . . . but this thing, these liaisons . . . weren’t about sexual release.”
“No?”
“It was the . . . the adventure of it . . . the excitement . . . a macabre kind of dangerous theater . . . and the chance to give someone pleasure.”
He was right. I didn’t understand. He must have seen it in my eyes.
“It’s true. I loved the thrill of it . . . and the danger.”
“Why, Jordan?”
“I’ve thought about that,” he said with a ghastly smile. “Maybe it’s because I grew up the only boy in a family with a very strong mother and five sisters. Who the hell knows? It’s not something I’ve brought up with my therapist.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“It’s too late now.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Does Blair know?”
“God no. And that’s the most important thing. I don’t want to hurt her. I’ll resign before I let her know.”
“She may find out anyway.”
“It would ruin us,” he said.
I imagined her watching the recording and nodded in agreement.
“Yeah,” I said. “And you’re right about something else. The media vultures would have a field day with this story. All-American football star turned college president and future senate candidate prefers silk lingerie. In the day or two before they got a new target in their sights, you would be the poster boy on every tabloid television news show around the clock.”
He visibly shuddered.
“Will you help me?”
“What about the woman you were filmed with?” I asked. “Could she be part of the blackmail plot?”
Shaking his head, he said, “She’s an innocent kid . . . from Bali, I think, and barely speaks English. I’ve only been with her twice. None of these girls I meet ever know when I plan to call the service. I call the number and they send whichever girl is available.”
“What about the service?”
“I’ve never actually been there. It’s always handled over the phone, and the voices are usually different. They have no idea who I really am. And I always pay with cash.”
“How often do you need these . . . adventures?”
“Once . . . sometimes twice a month,” he said. “It’s usually spur of the moment . . . when I need release from the stress of the job.”
I wondered why he couldn’t relax with a six-pack of Killian’s Red or a jolt of Captain Morgan like the rest of us.
“What about the motel?” I asked.
“It’s called the Wonderland. It’s about forty miles from here . . . just off the thruway . . . the exit that has the big truck stop. They, uh . . . specialize in hourly rates.”
My mind was racing with the conflicting emotions I felt. One part of me wanted to destroy him and maybe win Blair back after he was publicly burned at the stake. At the same time, I felt sorry for him. I reluctantly decided to give my better angels a chance.
“I’ll start with the service,” I said. “What did this girl call herself?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“What am I supposed to do, Jordan, wave a magic wand?” I asked. “There is nothing else for me to go on. The only thing I can think of to do is ask questions of everyone who might possibly be involved. Maybe if I ask enough questions, something will fall into place. I’ll need the phone numbers of the call-girl service and the motel.”
“Her name is Leila,” he said, punching up the numbers on his phone. “And she isn’t a call girl.”
“Right. She’s not a call girl. What room did you stay in this last time?” I asked.
“Room ten,” he said, jotting the phone numbers down on a memo pad and handing them to me.
“You only have until tomorrow afternoon,” he said as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “If you strike out, I’ll submit my resignation and just pray the blackmailer doesn’t go public.”
“Yeah . . . keep praying. Am I working for you under the authority of the campus police department?” I asked.
He nodded.
“As quietly as possible.”
“You’ll need to clear my reinstatement with Morgo.”
“Leave that to me,” he said, picking up the phone. Flashing me one of the slow easy grins that had made so many women melt over the years, he added, “Thanks, Jake.”
I was heading for the door when the sound of shouting erupted in the reception area outside his office. A moment later, the door burst open and a woman stormed into the room. I recognized her immediately, even without the straw hat. It was Evelyn Wheatley. Her eyes went straight to Jordan, who was still standing in front of Benjamin Franklin.
“Evelyn,” he said as she advanced toward him. “I’ve left messages for you all morning. This is a terrible tragedy and . . .”
“You’d better do something right now,” she demanded fiercely. “Dennis is dead, and no one here is doing a goddamn thing about it.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” he said, reaching for her hand.
Ignoring it, she retorted, “I think there’s some kind of cover-up going on.”
Turning, she noticed me standing behind the open door. Her eyes widened as she pointed at me and said, “This officer suggested that Dennis might have been murdered. And when he raised that possibility to the moronic bitch who runs the campus police, she suspended him right in front of me. What’s going on here?”
In response, Jordan looked over at me. Clearly what we had just discussed was off-limits.
“I’m not sure,” I said finally. “But I don’t believe he was on that bridge alone.”
“Evelyn, I pledge to you that I will remain personally involved in this,” Jordan said, guiding her over to the couch and sitting down beside her. “The investigation will be handled with every possible asset at our disposal, regardless of the cost.”
As he tried to take her hand again, she batted his away.
“At least this officer has the intelligence to consider every possibility,” she declared, pointing at me again. “Why isn’t he in charge?”
“The college police have no official role in any criminal investigation,” said Jordan, “but I will make sure he is assigned to the case as our liaison to the investigative team.”
“I will not allow his death to be swept under the rug, no matter who might be embarrassed by the consequences,” she said fiercely, getting up from the couch. “That woman even refused to allow me to see Dennis at the coroner’s office. Please arrange for a car to take me there now.”
“Of course,” he said, quickly heading for his desk.
I hoped for Jordan’s sake that the Groton Fire and Rescue Squad had been able to retrieve Wheatley’s head. After he called the coroner and cleared her visit, Jordan’s secretary escorted Evelyn Wheatley down to the parking lot.
“What a fucked-up mess,” said Jordan when she was gone.
“Since Wheatley and his money seem to be the common denominator, I’m going to pursue both avenues and see where they lead. Aside from his wife, does Wheatley have any friends at the reunion that could have seen him in the final hours before the hanging?”
“I don’t know. He was staying at his old fraternity house for homecoming weekend,” said Jordan. “Some of his brothers from those days might have come back too.”
“You should know there is a reporter tracking the story. Her name is Lauren Kenniston and she works for the Groton Journal. She was eavesdropping outside Morgo’s office when I left to come over here.”
“I’ve met her,” said Jordan. “Grew up here, went to Princeton, and apparently had a promising career in fashion design in New York before tossing it in and moving back home.”
“She left the bright city lights to come back here and cover Cub Scout blue and gold dinners?”
“I seem to recall some kind of family trouble.”
“You need to call Captain Morgo,” I said.
He picked up the telephone and dialed her extension.
“Janet,” he began, “we have to rethink this Cantrell suspension.”
I could hear her yelling through the line from across the room. They could have heard her in Buffalo.