Alex glanced at the faces of those who surrounded the pit. They were staring at him, but their expressions weren’t impassive. He could read those expressions with ease. They looked at him as though he was a monster. They may as well be speaking out loud — they said, “How come this fucked up kid can’t even cry at his own father’s funeral?”
Alex smiled. It’s what he’d learned to do when he felt awkward. He had a nice set of teeth — always diligent with the brushing, you know — and somehow his smile generally set people at ease.
He saw instantly it was a mistake. In this case, it seemed to do the opposite. People seemed to be even more confused by him. Whatever he was doing, it appeared wrong to those watching. Alex knew he was so different, he simply didn’t know what sort of emotion he should be feeling, given the circumstance.
The truth was, he didn’t know how he felt about his father’s death. He’d never been close to the guy. He was never quite up to the old man’s standard, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. His father had treated him kindly. It wasn’t as though he’d been an angry man or violent toward him. It was more a case that his father had no idea what to do with him. When Alex recalled his father looking at him, it was as though the old man was filled with regret and disappointment. Deep down, Alex was grateful that his father had at least tried to hide those things from him.
Alex scanned those faces again that looked upon him now as people departed. Some awkwardly walked past him without saying a word. Others provided him with some sort of meaningless physical gesture. A pat on the shoulder, a gentle embrace of the arms, or an overtly dutiful handshake. Some of the people, he knew. Others, he could guess where they’d come from. Some men and women were in uniform, from the days when his father had flown helicopters in the Vietnam War. Others had been friends of the family for years.
There was one man who Alex definitely didn’t recognize. An older man, who wore an expensive suit and split his time evenly between checking his watch and glancing up at Alex, as though waiting for an invitation to speak. When the man finally accepted Alex wasn’t going to invite him, the man approached on his own accord.
The man offered his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Goodson.”
Alex took it and met the stranger’s light gray eyes. There was no sign of sadness, like the other guests. Alex asked, “Were you responsible for my father’s death?”
“No. Goodness no. Of course not!” The stranger was startled by the absurd question. “What are you talking about? I was told he had a heart attack in his sleep!”
Alex nodded in confirmation. He had no doubt foul play was involved. “Then you have nothing to feel sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.” Alex paused, unsure how to address the stranger. “Mr. —”
“Whipple. Abel Whipple.”
Alex nodded. He’d never heard the name before, which meant he’d never met this man. Despite his often stumbling, artless behavior, Alex had an eidetic memory. “How did you know my father?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. Not really. I knew of him, but that’s a very different thing than knowing a person, isn’t it?”
Alex nodded again. Not really understanding what the man meant, he remained silent.
“I’m a lawyer, you see,” Abel continued. “If it’s not too much to ask, given all the trouble you must be going through, could I arrange a time for you to come by my office?”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthcoming when we first met. I’m not really here for your father. I’m here to see you.”
“Me?” Alex smiled, making the curve of his lips appear genuine, but it was as practiced as any actor. “What do you want from me?”
“You are the beneficiary of a certain will. As executor, I’d hoped to attend this matter as soon as it is reasonably convenient for you.”
The executor of my father’s will. So that’s why he’s here.
“How about right now?” Alex asked.
Abel’s bushy eyebrow’s narrowed. “Now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Mr. Goodman, don’t you want to attend the wake?”
“No.” Alex’s blond brows drew down as he stared at the distressed, sorrowful, and somewhat baffling faces of those who probably knew his father better than he ever did. “There’s nothing left for me here.”
Abel looked up at him, his smile obsequious. “Very good, sir. Now would be perfect.”
Confused by this form of address, as well as being the recipient of an attitude and facial expressions he’d never experienced, Alex didn’t understand what they meant. Only one thing seemed clear: the man must be a very expensive lawyer.
Chapter Two
The yellow cab stopped out in front of a large building at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Street in New York City. Alex followed the lawyer through the revolving doors, past the glistening lobby and into a private elevator with a waiting attendant. The lawyer, content that he’d achieved his goal in herding Alex to his own office, remained silent throughout the entire trip. It would have made most people uncomfortable, but Alex found the lawyer’s reticence comforting.
He rode the elevator to the top floor, where the lawyer stepped out. The entire office appeared more like a luxurious penthouse than a law firm. It had floor to ceiling glass in every direction, giving expansive views of Central Park. A large placard in golden writing identified the firm as Whipple and Easley. Alex noted the name of the Prestigious law firm and wondered what the hell his father could possibly have to do with such a place. A woman in her mid-forties approached. She was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and spoke with the refined authority of someone who’d studied at an Ivy League university.
She smiled politely and glanced at him with immediate recognition. “Good afternoon, Mr. Goodson. I’m sorry for your loss. My name’s Rebecca Thompson. I’ll be joining Mr. Whipple to execute the last will and testament of the late Mr. Goodson.”
Alex met her professional cordiality with his practiced smile. “Good afternoon.”
“May I organize a drink, or refreshments to be brought up for you?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” Alex dropped into a chair in a boardroom styled office, at the edge of a table that offered at least twenty seats. Opposite him, the two lawyers took their seats. He glanced around the room. Everything about it said mega-expensive — from the rich mahogany table, down to the lavish carpet and gun barrel view of Central Park.
“I’m sure you both have more pressing matters. I’m here to see what request my late father has made of me that he couldn’t ask me in person, and then I’ll be off.”
Whipple smiled. It was surprisingly warm. His previous unctuous façade pulled back, leaving an expression of real disbelief. “Mr. Goodson, why do you think I asked you to come here today?”
“To execute the last will and testament of my late father. Although, to be honest, how he managed to afford your services honestly dumbfounds me.”
“I’m sorry, son, were you under the expectation you are here at the bequest of your late father?”
“Yes,” Alex said, studying their faces, unable to read their expressions.
Abel Whipple took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. He spoke with an unreserved sympathy. “Your grandfather, Mr. William Goodson was in fact our client. I’m afraid I never had the privilege of meeting your father when he was alive.”
At the mention of his grandfather, Alex felt his heart speed up. “My grandfather died nearly ten years ago. Why are you contacting me now?”
“Mr. William Goodson retained our services throughout the past forty years of his life. But it was only the year before he died that he took on a very specific request for our assistance.” Whipple made a big show of taking a deep breath and sighing. “You see, he wanted you to receive some items of particular importance to him.”