Stephen McNair looked somewhat displeased at being lumped in with the general populace. Ben had a hunch the man had gotten accustomed to being able to buy anything he wanted, people and time included. If it were that easy, Ben mused, his son would have been back to him in minutes.
McNair’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Ben felt himself being sized up. He couldn’t say he liked it any. Given the circumstances, Ben decided McNair was entitled to some slack.
“Surely I’m permitted to throw a bonus into the agreement?”
“So we’ll work a little faster?” Ben guessed, trying hard not to take offense.
McNair smiled triumphantly. “Exactly.”
Ben shifted his lanky frame in his chair. He wasn’t here to pass judgment. It was a given that the people who came into these offices were usually at their worst. It wasn’t his place to like or dislike any of them. For the most part, he had to admit he felt for them and liked them. He didn’t care for McNair. But that didn’t matter one way or another. It was finding the boy that counted.
He couldn’t help wondering if the boy would grow up to be like his father.
The man sitting before him in the six-hundred-dollar suit was about ten years older than Ben and gave new meaning to the word polished. The card McNair had made a point of presenting to him even before they had shaken hands identified him as Stephen W. McNair, president and CEO of IndieCorp, a fast-rising company that was, if he remembered correctly, on the cusp of a colossal merger with Mercury Electronics. The talk was that between the two giants, the semiconductor market was just about covered.
Ben rocked back in his chair, studying McNair in silence for a moment, questions occurring to him. A man like McNair could easily have a hundred agencies at his beck and call, including the FBI. Considering that kidnapping was every parent’s nightmare and had become a reality for McNair, Ben couldn’t help wondering what the man was doing here. Granted, ChildFinders had a heretofore unbelievable track record for solving kidnapping cases. For every closed case, there had been a happy ending. Not many places could boast a record like that. But the FBI had more manpower.
Ben leaned forward. “If you don’t mind my asking, why haven’t you gone to the police?”
There was a flash of annoyance in Stephen McNair’s piercing blue eyes, but it was gone so quickly, Ben thought he might have imagined it. McNair looked the soul of cooperation as he answered, “Perhaps you’re aware of the merger Indie is about to make with Mercury?”
Ben had found he learned a great deal when he pretended to be ignorant of things. “I don’t keep up with the financial section of the newspaper, Mr. McNair. In my line of work, there’s not much time for things that aren’t directly relevant to the cases I’m working on.”
A slight frown twitched McNair’s lips before he proceeded to enlighten Ben. “Yes, well, my company is at a crucial stage of its development right now. We’re to merge with Mercury Electronics. Any hint of scandal and the entire negotiations could be placed in jeopardy.”
“I don’t know the kind of people you’re dealing with, Mr. McNair, but I don’t think they’d consider the kidnapping of a child as scandalous.”
In response, Stephen McNair merely shook his head. “It’s not the kidnapping they’d consider scandalous, it’s the circumstances surrounding it.”
Now they were getting somewhere, Ben thought. He took out the tape recorder that was part of each office’s furnishings and placed it on the desk beside him.
“Tell me about the circumstances.” He pressed the red button down on the recorder and the tape began to whir softly.
McNair froze. He glared at the small rectangle on the desk as if it were an offending lower life-form. “Turn that off.” The three terse words were not a request. They were an order.
Despite his affable demeanor, Ben didn’t respond well to being ordered around. That had been one of the reasons he and the Bedford Police Department hadn’t remained on intimate terms. He made no move to comply with McNair’s order. “Sorry, company policy.”
“I said turn it off.” Rather than wait, McNair leaned over and switched off the recorder himself. He met Ben’s barely veiled annoyed look with a passionate verbal volley. “I won’t be recorded. I—” He lowered his voice as he searched for the right words. “This is very delicate, Mr. Underwood. Haven’t you ever been in a delicate situation you didn’t want broadcast?”
“This doesn’t get broadcast, Mr. McNair.” He indicated the tape recorder. “The only reason the initial interview is taped is to help us go over the case. Sometimes things are said that are forgotten later. Other times, playing the tape back might inadvertently remind you of a detail or event you forgot to mention.”
McNair remained unmovable. “I have a photographic memory, Mr. Underwood. I assure you I do not forget anything.” He paused, then added a bit more softly, “Except, perhaps, discretion.” His eyes met Ben’s. “But I am paying dearly for my error now.”
Ben made a judgment call. He left the tape recorder off. Curiosity had gotten the better of him. His mother had always warned him it would be his undoing.
“All right, we’ll leave it off for the time being. Now, do you have any idea who might have kidnapped your son?”
“Any idea who kidnapped my son?” McNair parroted the question incredulously. “Of course I have an idea who kidnapped my son. I know exactly who’s responsible. Gloria Prescott kidnapped my son.”
“Gloria Prescott,” Ben repeated, and McNair nodded adamantly. It was a toss-up whether to ask first who the woman was or why she would abduct his son. Ben went with the more important of the two. “And do you have any idea why she would kidnap your son?”
McNair passed his hand slowly over his face, a man struggling with his secrets, buying himself a tiny fragment of time in which to compose himself and frame his answer.
“She kidnapped Andrew to get back at me. She is—was,” McNair said, correcting himself, “Andrew’s nanny.” Just for an instant, his eyes grew soft, as if he were visualizing her. “She’s quite a stunning young woman.” The laugh that followed was self-mocking. “Too young for me, really.”
Mentally, Ben filled in the blanks. He had heard it often enough before. Older man, younger woman. The combination rarely yielded satisfactory results. According to his mother, that was why his own father had left. In pursuit of youth. In this case, youth had a name. Claudia Gershon. Ben had a half brother named Jason who was half his age. For his father, things had worked out. Obviously, for McNair it hadn’t.
“Go on,” he encouraged when McNair continued to remain silent.
The older man shrugged. “You’ve heard it before, I’m sure. Older man trying to hang on to his youth, beautiful young woman bringing it to him in a gift-wrapped box.” There was a faraway look in his eyes as he spoke.
The man had gotten it bad, Ben thought. He thought of his own mother. “And how did Mrs. McNair feel about you hanging on to your youth? Or Gloria’s,” he amended wryly.
McNair’s eyes went flat as he regarded him. “She didn’t feel anything.”
“And why is that?” Ben was playing devil’s advocate, but there was something a little too pat about the man sitting before him. He seemed a little too held together. Ben was used to people coming unraveled under the pressure of the crisis they were enduring. This man looked annoyed, nothing more. Fathers didn’t look annoyed or inconvenienced when their sons were taken—they looked angry. Distraught, capable of mayhem themselves. On occasion, they looked lost. But not annoyed.
He wanted to get to the bottom of Stephen McNair.
“Because there is no Mrs. McNair.”