The Son of John Devlin (15 page)

She feigned amazement. “You sound like such an old fogy, Jack,” she said.

He laughed. “Really,” he said, “what would be so bad about a laid-back life down here in the sun?”

She frowned. “I know you’re kidding because I know that you understand completely what would be wrong with it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as no work,” she said emphatically.

“No work,” he repeated.

She nodded as though she’d just delivered the decisive blow. “No work.”

“And that is a problem?” he asked.

She sipped her coffee and smiled at him over the rim of the cup. “I know you’re pulling my leg,” she said, “because it’s obvious how important work is to you. It defines you. What you do defines who you are. Gives you a reason to put one foot in front of the other each day. It sustains you, energizes you, makes you interesting, makes everything else in your life possible.”

Suddenly the joking tone was gone, her gaze was steady and level, and he listened intently.

“It’s who you are,” she said.

He hesitated a moment. “And how can this be discerned?” he asked.

She watched him carefully, pursing her lips as though considering whether to say what was on her mind. But for Emily Lawrence, that was not a difficult call, for she was a woman accustomed to saying what was on her mind.

“Because there’s nothing else in your life,” she said in a soft voice.

Jack was taken aback. She had said it not as a rebuke, but as a statement of fact, a simple observation of what was so obvious, so clear. And he was jarred by the starkness of it, by how apparent it was to the world that this was his life—his work. That he had no other dimension.

“Of course, it so happens that your work coincides with your mission,” she added. “So there’s a lot that’s intertwined.”

He sat in silence, not sure what to say, thinking he would make some kind of joke, but nothing came to mind, and he felt not at all humorous or flip. What could he say? Yes, Em, you are correct. Correct that there is nothing in my life but my work. Correct that I love what I do, define myself by what I do, derive what self-esteem I have from what I do. And yes, you have also seen the essential truth: that layered in with my work is my mission. It is true. You see it all so clearly.

She cocked her head to one side and wrinkled her brow with concern. Leaning forward, she stretched her arms across the table, reaching for his hand.

“I’ve hurt your feelings,” she said in barely a whisper, grasping his hand in hers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I hope that—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Really. I like it that you see who I am. I don’t want any false advertising here. You’re very perceptive.”

She smiled. “More coffee?” she asked.

“Let me get it,” he said. He poured refills for them both and returned to his seat. There was a freshening breeze off the water as the sun rose higher in the sky.

“So tell me,” she said, “if you could create the perfect sort of balance in your life, what would it be? I mean let’s say anything is possible and that you can come to a place like this when you want, work or not work, travel, whatever.”

“So money’s not an object?”

“Within reason,” she said.

“That’s easy. I’d continue to work, of course, but I’d have control of my schedule, and whenever the cold and gray of Boston got to me, I’d hop a plane down here and hang out. Fish, whatever. I might even commit to learn golf.”

“Ah,” she said. “See, I told you you’d come around one day.” Emily was an avid golfer and had tried to explain the bliss of the game to him, but he insisted it was a pursuit best left to the old and sedentary.

“What about you?” he asked. “If you could create the ideal kind of setup.”

Her eyes widened at the prospect. “Well … let’s see. I would continue to work, of course, although I’d want the same thing. Control of my schedule. Maybe I’d work four days a week. Take Fridays off. And I’d live probably where I live now, somewhere with an easy commute. And I’d of course be married and have the most supportive husband in the world. And I’d have two kids, a
boy and a girl, and they’d be three years apart so they wouldn’t fight too much. And I’d bring them all down here for vacations, and one weekend every month we’d come down for a long weekend, and once a year we’d jump in the car and drive to Disney World and the kids would go insane and we’d fish together and play tennis and golf and go to church together and take walks on the beach and—” And suddenly she stopped as she gazed out over the water. Slowly, her eyes shifted back from the horizon and settled on Jack. And she looked at him very directly for a long moment. And then, very softly, she said: “Life would be great.”

Emily was desperate to play a round of golf, and he encouraged her to do so. For the four hours she would be out on the course, he said he’d take a drive and explore the area. The phone book listed Alden Farmer at 2971 Pelican Drive in Vero Beach, a condominium development.

The drive up the coast went quickly, and Jack found the place easily. It was like so many other Florida developments, attractive enough, with clustered homes built around a golf course and a man-made lake.

On a hunch, he tried the golf shop first, and learned that Alden Farmer had teed off three and a half hours earlier. He was due in any time.

Jack found his way to the eighteenth green, a short walk from the golf shop. Behind the green a few seats and benches were scattered for spectators, and Jack settled in on one of the benches. He wore a polo shirt and khaki Bermuda shorts and had lathered up with sunscreen. Even with sunglasses the glare was strong, yet he enjoyed the warmth of the sun as he sat and
watched golfers make their way along the hole. Most of the players appeared to be in their sixties or seventies. There was about an even mixture of men and women, and many of them were proficient players.

Jack studied each foursome as it came over a hill perhaps three hundred yards from where he sat. He had been watching for thirty-five minutes when he thought he spotted Farmer. He knew from reading old press clips that Farmer was quite tall, nearly six-five, and very thin. He’d been described in some of the newspaper articles as “storklike.”

Farmer was in a foursome with three other men. They all walked and pulled handcarts bearing their golf bags. Farmer walked down the left side of the fairway and stopped at his ball, just in the rough. He selected a club and struck the ball, sending it high into the air to land with a thud in the bottom of a yawning sand bunker adjacent to the green. The others hit their second shots in the vicinity of the green, then pitched onto the putting surface.

Alden Farmer selected his sand wedge and went down into the bunker. Farmer set his feet, and then Jack saw the cocked club and the smooth, deliberate swing. The club slid easily through the sand and lifted the ball high up over the lip of the bunker and landed it on the green, where it rolled slowly along a ridge, broke right a few feet, and trickled down into the cup.

Alden Farmer held his hands aloft and smiled, acknowledging the shouted kudos of his playing partners. After the others putted out, the four men came off the green and headed toward the golf shop.

“Nice shot,” Jack said, approaching Farmer.

“Better to be lucky than good,” Farmer replied. “Never birdied that hole before.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with you for a moment?” Jack asked.

Farmer squinted. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“You’re Alden Farmer?”

“I am,” he said. “And you are?”

“Mr. Farmer, my name is Jack Devlin. I’m the son of Jock Devlin.”

Farmer drew back, cocked his head to one side, and looked closely at Jack’s face. He pursed his lips and squinted tightly.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, I can see that you are.” He shook his head in sorrow, looking away. “It was all very sad,” he said. “Very sad.”

There was a long moment during which neither man spoke.

“I’d like to sit down and talk a little bit,” Jack said.

“Talk about …”

Jack shrugged. “I’m trying to come to grips with it all.” He forced a smile. “In my own way. You can probably understand that.”

Farmer nodded. “Of course,” he said. “But it’s been a long time. A very long time.”

“I know,” Jack acknowledged. “But if we could just talk awhile …”

Farmer stared down at the ground, frowning. He seemed suddenly angry. He shook his head. “He shouldn’t have done it,” he blurted. “He shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong. Not just for himself. For you. I’ve thought about you now and then through the years. My wife and I have talked about it. It was—” Farmer caught himself.
He’d just met this young man who, he was sure, had suffered greatly because of his father. Farmer decided he didn’t need to make matters worse.

Jack stood silently, glancing off toward the fairway, then looking back at Farmer.

“Go ahead up on the terrace there,” the retired FBI man said, his voice warmer. “I’ll just put my clubs away and be right up.”

Farmer went off toward the golf shop with his clubs, and Jack took a table on the terrace. From there, he looked out over the course and the homes tucked into the woods off the fairways. They were relatively small houses, most for retirees, Jack supposed, three-bedroom Cape Cod–style structures with well-kept yards and decks with gas grills. The houses were pink and white and a light bluish color, all pastels, most of them stucco. They were the homes of people who had worked for many years, Jack knew. People who were now reaping their rewards. They had come to Florida to find comfort and to enjoy their lives. His father would have liked this, he thought. He would have liked being able to get up early and go fishing. He would have liked schmoozing with his friends and neighbors. Jock Devlin had been able to talk with anyone, make friends with anyone.

Jesus, Jack thought. His father had missed so much. So much. He’d missed Jack’s hockey games through high school and college. Missed his graduations. Missed his passing the bar. Missed his proms and his trips and all the experiences that meant something.

Jack looked toward the practice green and saw an old man bent over, teaching a child how to hold a putter. Christ almighty, he thought. His father had missed so much.

Farmer emerged with a towel draped around his neck and a glass of iced tea in each hand. The old man looked at Jack and squinted. “You okay?” he asked.

Jack nodded.

“You look kind of pale,” Farmer said.

Jack forced a laugh. “Not much sun in Boston this time of year.”

“I don’t miss that,” Farmer said. “Not a bit.” He smiled, a friendly smile. He was a nice-looking old man, his skin brown and weathered, his hair white and wispy. He appeared fit and very alert. It was clear Farmer had taken care of himself in retirement.

“So,” Farmer said, regarding him. “Why now? Why twenty-five years after the fact?”

“Well, Mr. Farmer, I’m trying to close the loop on it in a way. I’m a detective now myself and—”

Farmer was astonished. “You’re kidding.”

“No. I’ve been on the force seven years, a detective for four.”

Farmer half smiled and slowly shook his head in amazement. “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that it strikes me, I don’t know, it seems so ironic in a way.”

Jack smiled. “It is that,” he said affably. “It certainly is that.”

“Well,” Farmer said. “A belated welcome to the fraternity. Now we can really talk. Although I’m not sure how much I can say that you don’t already know. I mean, the way the newspapers covered it, good God, it was a frenzy.”

Farmer sipped his iced tea and gazed off out over the practice green. “So,” he said, “where do we begin?”

“Well, I suppose the best place is at the beginning,” Jack said. “I’ve read about how it was supposed to have
started, but I’d like to hear from you how it was really initiated.”

Alden Farmer sipped his tea again and nodded. He looked out over the golf course and for a moment was lost in his own thoughts. “Jeez,” he said. “It was a long, long time ago.”

He shook his head again as though he found it hard to believe how much time had passed. “You have only a personal interest in this, then?” he asked.

Jack nodded.

“Because if you’re here in an official capacity in any way, I mean I don’t see what it would be exactly, but if you were …” He laughed at himself. “We’re trained to be cautious, and cautious I am.”

“It’s personal,” Jack said.

Farmer was silent as he closely studied Jack. “A personal situation such as yours would be one where we could have an informal conversation, but it’s not the sort of thing that would be appropriate to view in any way other than an informal discussion. For personal purposes. Because if it were in any way—”

Jack shook his head gently, reassuring Farmer.

The retired FBI agent took a breath. “It’s been a long time and I see no harm in discussing it with you,” he said. “You seem like an earnest young man. Would you believe it all began as a result of a divorce proceeding? No one ever really discovered this, but it’s true. There was a guy in Brighton who owned a couple of clubs and he and his wife had split up. In the course of going through the divorce proceedings, she asked for a certain amount of money in child support and a certain amount in alimony. When the husband’s lawyer counters with much, much lower numbers, the mediator says he wants to look at a
net worth and income statement from the husband. These club owners hide a lot of their income, and this guy was probably no different. He comes back with numbers that are surprisingly low. The woman got very angry and says to her lawyer that he’d have more money if he didn’t have so many cops on the payroll. Her lawyer questioned her about this, and she insisted it was true. She said he had told her many times about paying various cops, some of them substantial amounts. The attorney took this seriously and called one of our people. And thus it began.”

“And that’s when you got involved?” Jack asked.

“In fact, no. I had been working in the Kansas City field office for several years, and one day I got word I was needed in Boston. It’s common that whenever there’s a major investigation either undercover or politically sensitive, that people from out of town will be brought in. And so that happened here. There was another fellow, Clive Miller, who came in from Atlanta, although he wasn’t around for very long. I came in and took over and, soon after that, we were underway.”