Galt laughed richly. "You can't have her, Mel. Christine's been cooking for me for thirty years, and I'm not giving her up now."
"I'll get that memo off first thing in the morning, Mr. Sanderhoff," the other one said. "I think it's going to work out well for you."
"Fine, Pres, fine. Good night. Oh, Chester, I want to talk to you for a moment after you've let them out."
"Yes, sir."
Monica heard the door open and close. She did not hear her grandfather walk from the foyer, and she could picture him standing there, his body lean and fit and deeply tanned, his hair silver, his face lined with character instead of age.
The door opened again, and it was Chester. "Sir?" he asked. His voice was firm. Muscles bulged from a sturdy body under the white butlering jacket he wore when he didn't have his black chauffering jacket on.
"Is Whitfield home yet, Chester?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did he get home?"
"I didn't notice, Mr. Sanderhoff."
"Damn it, Chester," he said mildly, "stop covering for him. I'm a little worried about that twat he's taken up with – what's her name?"
"Carla, sir. She's – well, you know. He's at the age where he needs a girl's company now and then."
Galt sighed heavily. "I suppose so, Chester. Still, I wish Whit weren't so damn impulsive. More like his sister – steady. It's unbelievable that Ardelle could have born such entirely different children, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"God, I miss my daughter at times like this. Raising her was tough enough. But I'm too damn old and cranky to be farting around raising her kids too. That Whit – takes after that son of a bitch she stupidly married."
"Yes, sir."
"I don't want it to happen again, Chester. One scoundrel in the family was enough. Have you finished checking her out yet?"
"Very nearly, Mr. Sanderhoff. Would you like me to get my notes on her?"
"In the morning, Chester. I'm a little tired after all that business talk. Nothing to be particularly wary of?"
"Not that my contacts have been able to determine yet, sir. But they're still checking."
"Well, let him dip his randy dick in her, then. I guess you're right – he does need a piece at his age. Oh, before you go, what about Monica and that fellow?"
"Burke Hammond, sir. His father was a stock broker. Good position with a good firm."
"Was?"
"He quit, sir. Apparently, he just wanted a change in his life style. He became a forest ranger after divorcing his wife. She runs a fashion store in Miami and does adequately with it. The boy appears pleasant and well-liked."
"Just quit? Bullshit."
"We can't find anything, Mr. Sanderhoff. No woman, no other man for his wife. He has a modest savings. They urged him to stay on, and we can find nothing out of the ordinary."
"Keep looking, Chester. A guy doesn't quit a job like that and go off in the woods for no reason."
"Apparently, he did, sir."
"I didn't get where I am by accepting appearances, Chester," Galt said levelly. "Look closer into Hammond's wife. You've missed something there, old friend, I'll guarantee it. A man runs to the woods to escape, not to start over."
"Yes, sir."
"What about Monica and the boy?"
"They seem – friendly – Mr. Sanderhoff. I think it won't be long, now."
Another heavy sigh came up the stairwell. "God… it can't happen again, Chester. It just can't."
"I hope not, sir. She's a lovely girl. Every bit as lovely as her mother was. I'm doing my best to keep track…"
"Well, do it faster, Chester," Galt said with a gravelly tone, not really reprimanding him. "Something's going to happen again. I can feel it. I can smell it the way an old bull smells wolf piss. There's a stench in the air that's getting stronger and stronger. Don't believe me, huh? You've got your contacts and network, Chester, and they do a good job, but I've got a nose that beats your contacts all to hell and back."
"I questioned that only once, Mr. Sanderhoff, a long, long time ago. I've never questioned it since. I'll check everything over again."
"What about their father? Is the bastard still in Colombia where he ought to be?"
There was a pause that made Monica hold her breath and strain to hear harder. Then Chester spoke hesitantly.
"We – uh – he seems to have left Bogota, Mr. Sanderhoff. The last check was returned by the bank. We think he's gone to Baranquilla."
"What! The port city? God damn it! Get on it, Chester – fast! The son of a bitch is coming back. Twelve years of taking my money to stay the hell away, and he's coming back to do it again. Herb Lobocky," he grated, as if swearing vilely. "I should have killed him then, Chester."