Okay, enough.
As she neared her destination, Wendy started thinking about the case again, about the continuing links to Princeton, about the fact that four men—Phil Turnball, Dan Mercer, Steve Miciano, Farley Parks—had all been set up within the past year.
One question was, how?
The bigger question was, who?
Wendy figured that she might as well start with Phil Turnball because she had something of an in there. She jammed the hands-free phone cord into her ear and dialed Win’s private line.
Once again Win answered in a voice too haughty for this one word: “Articulate.”
“Can I ask another favor?”
“May I ask another favor? Yes, Wendy, you may.”
“I can’t tell you how much I needed that grammar lesson right about now.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you remember I asked you about Phil Turnball, the guy who got fired for embezzling two million dollars?”
“I recall, yes.”
“Let’s say Phil was set up and didn’t really take the money.”
“Okay, let’s.”
“How would someone go about setting him up?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t steal the money.”
“I see. And, pray tell, what makes you ‘pretty sure’?”
“He told me he’s innocent.”
“Oh, well, that settles it.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, why, if Phil stole two million dollars, isn’t he in jail or even asked to pay the money back? I don’t want to go into details right now, but there are other guys—his college roommates, actually—who’ve been involved in bizarre scandals recently too. In one case, I may have been a patsy.”
Win said nothing.
“Win?”
“Yes, I heard you. I love the word ‘patsy,’ don’t you? It denotes or at least suggests giving feminine characteristics to the act of being duped.”
“Yeah, it’s great.”
Even his sigh was haughty. “What would you like me to do to help?”
“Could you look into it a little? I need to know who set Phil Turnball up.”
“Will do.”
Click.
The abruptness didn’t surprise her quite as much this time, though she wished there’d been time for a follow-up, a crack about quick endings being his specialty, but alas, there was no one on the other line. She held the phone in her hand for another second, half expecting him to call right back. But that didn’t happen this time.
Lawrence Cherston’s home was washed stone and white shutters. There was a circular rose garden surrounding a flagpole. A black pennant with a large orange P hung from it. Oh, boy. Cherston greeted her at the door with a two-hand shake. He had one of those fleshy, ruddy faces that make you think of fat cats and smoke-filled back rooms. He wore a blue blazer with a Princeton logo on the lapel and the same Princeton tie he’d had in his profile pictures. His khakis were freshly pressed, his tasseled loafers shined, and of course he wore no socks. He looked as though he’d started for school chapel this morning and aged twenty years on the walk. Stepping inside, Wendy pictured a closet with a dozen more matching blazers and khaki pants and absolutely nothing else.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. He offered her a drink. She passed. He had laid out finger sandwiches. Wendy took one just to be polite. The finger sandwich was awful enough to make her wonder whether the moniker was also an ingredient list. Cherston was already jabbering on about his classmates.
“We have two Pulitzer Prize winners,” he said. Then leaning forward, he added, “And one’s a woman.”
“A woman.” Wendy froze a smile and blinked. “Wow.”
“We also have a world-famous photographer, several CEOs of course, oh, and one Academy Award nominee. Well, okay, it was for best sound and he didn’t win. But still. Several of our classmates work for the current administration. One was drafted by the Cleveland Browns.”
Wendy nodded like an idiot, wondering how long she could keep the smile on her face. Cherston broke out scrapbooks and photo books and the graduation program and even the freshman face book. He was talking about himself now, his total commitment to his alma mater, as though this might surprise her.
She needed to move this along.
Wendy picked up a photograph album and starting paging through it, hoping to spot any of her Princeton Five. No such luck. Cherston droned on. Okay, time to make something happen. She took hold of the freshman face book and flipped through it, heading straight for the Ms.
“Oh, look,” she said, interrupting him. She pointed to the picture of Steven Miciano. “That’s Dr. Miciano, right?”
“Why, yes, it is.”
“He treated my mother.”
Cherston may have squirmed a bit. “That’s nice.”
“Maybe I should talk to him too.”
“Maybe,” Cherston said. “But I don’t have a current address on him.”
Wendy went back to the face book, summoning up another fake gasp of surprise. “Well, well, look at this. Dr. Miciano roomed with Farley Parks. Isn’t he the one who was running for Congress?”
Lawrence Cherston smiled at her.
“Mr. Cherston?”
“Call me Lawrence.”
“Okay. Isn’t Farley Parks the one who was running for Congress?”
“May I call you Wendy?”
“You may.” Shades of Win.
“Thank you. Wendy, perhaps we could both stop playing this game?”
“What game?”
He shook his head, as though disappointed in a favorite student. “Search engines work both ways. Did you really think I wouldn’t, at least out of curiosity, Google the name of a reporter who wanted to interview me?”
She said nothing.
“So I know you already signed up for the Princeton class page. And more to the point, I know you covered the stories on Dan Mercer. Some might even say you created them.”
He looked at her.
“These finger sandwiches are awesome,” she said.
“My wife made them and they’re dreadful. Anyway, I assume the purpose of this ruse was to gather some background information.”
“If you knew that, why did you agree to see me?”
“Why not?” he countered. “You’re doing a story involving a Princeton graduate. I wanted to be sure that your information is correct, so as not to create innuendo where none belongs.”