The Spire (3 page)

'Thanks,' Mark said, then added, 'I only counted two of you.'

Anne's smile became ambiguous. 'Even so.'

As they walked to the door, Mark saw Taylor in the living room, studying her painting as if she had not captured what she imagined'or could not. Suddenly conscious of his gaze, she turned, studying Mark with the same quiet gravity. Farr waited until Mark faced him again. 'I thought you might ask about Steve Tillman. If I try to help him, Mark, do we have a deal''

For an instant, Mark felt himself standing on the edge of the unknown. Then, drawn by the sudden promise of hope and the force of Farr's personality, he answered, 'If you can help me go to school here, I'll do whatever it takes.'

EVER SINCE THAT day, Mark Darrow had done exactly that. But he had not risen by his efforts alone. Lionel Farr had touched the scales of his life, and every privilege he had stemmed from that. Farr had not ordained his tragedies, only his successes.

Two weeks before his return to Caldwell, Farr had telephoned Darrow and asked if he could come by Darrow's law office in Boston. Farr had not explained himself, and Darrow had not requested him to. Awaiting Farr with curiosity, Darrow had gazed out the window of his corner office in the Prudential Center, rewarded by a panoramic view of the Public Garden and the Boston Common. Five months prior, Darrow had won a $120 million verdict in a financial fraud case stemming from the subprime mortgage meltdown, adding to a fortune already swollen beyond his wildest imaginings. On his desk the bones and sinews of a complex shareholder suit'financial statements; an expert deposition in which Darrow had eviscerated an arrogant investment banker'were neatly arranged before him. But as Darrow recalled his last visit with Farr, his eye turned, as it so often did, to the photograph of his wife.

Dark and pretty, Lee stood at the bottom of a ski slope, flushed from a breakneck run, her grin of triumph cracking clean and white and sharp. In the photo she was twenty-eight; in Darrow's mind, she was forever twenty-nine, in the fifth month of her pregnancy, waving to him through the window of the taxi that began her final trip to Iowa. In the two years since, Mark Darrow had turned thirty-eight. He had not seen Farr since Lee's memorial service.

Even among the throng of friends and relatives and Lee's colleagues from MSNBC and the
Boston Globe
who'd crowded the darkened church, Farr had stood out: at sixty-five, he was tall and astonishingly fit, with thick gray-blond hair and the erect posture of the Special Forces officer he had been before he had resigned his commission to pursue a doctorate in philosophy at Yale. That day he had been a quiet presence, offering a few words of sustenance to help Darrow endure this bleakest of winter afternoons. But Farr had lingered for two days after the service, until Darrow had fulfilled his obligations to Lee's parents, then taken him to dinner at the Federalist.

For Darrow, their reunion was shadowed by the day thirteen years before when, in a strange reversal of roles, the young Mark Darrow had called on the newly widowed Farr. Then Mark had managed only to recite a few words of concern for his mentor and his daughter, Taylor; years later, Farr offered him a stiff martini and companionable semisilence until'amid the elegantly appointed room, the quiet talk and laughter of couples taking their normal life for granted'Darrow had asked simply, 'What do I do now''

Sipping his scotch, Farr studied Mark across the table. They were similar enough in appearance that, at times, people mistook them for father and son: Farr's blue eyes retained the clarity of youth, and his still aquiline nose and seamed face, though betraying his years, showed no trace of dissolution. Answering Darrow, his features seemed graven with his own hard memories. 'What I did, I suppose. Each day I picked out a task or two, and tried to perform it like the doing mattered. Teaching helped; I had an audience whose faces revealed how I'd done. So did being a parent, though there I functioned far less well.' He grimaced. 'Perhaps I was better at performing for students than consoling a young daughter shattered by her mother's death. But each morning I tried to look no further than the day ahead.

'There was no bright line, no turning point. More a slow acceptance of what could not be helped, and the realization over time that a greater portion of any given day held a measure of happiness'or, more realistically given who I am, satisfaction. I had my work, however cerebral and self-contained; you have yours, more engrossing in that it's filled with challenges and surprises and because, when you're ready, it will present you with new people to know.' Farr gave a brief, reflective smile. 'Eventually the life that goes on all around you, indifferent to your sadness, will sweep you up again. For better or worse there's a certain Viking hardiness in our natures, an appetite for more.'

Darrow caught Farr's tacit suggestion: however unthinkable now, there would be women'then
a
woman'beyond Lee Hatton. 'I've lost a wife,' Darrow answered, 'and an unborn child. How does one come back from that'' He paused, then added softly, 'Anne died thirteen years ago, Lionel. You're still alone.'

Farr seemed to look inward. 'Perhaps Anne, not solitude, was my anomaly.' He shrugged the remark away. 'In any case, I was at a different stage of life than you, more than a decade older, with a daughter who needed whatever solace I could muster. As you'll recall, Caldwell College is a bit out of the way, and Wayne, Ohio, hardly a magnet for the bright, attractive young people who flock to Boston.' He held up a hand. 'Not that it matters in the face of such a profound loss. I'm simply offering my excuses. It would be tasteless to say more beyond the obvious'that you're young, successful, and live in a vibrant city among close friends. For which I, to whom you mean a great deal, am profoundly grateful.'

Darrow stared at his half-empty martini glass. Then Farr reached across the table, grasping Darrow's forearm in a gesture of solidarity and consolation. Darrow was touched'Lionel Farr was not given to overt gestures of affection. Which had made his response to Lee's death all the more telling: though it was seldom expressed, since their first meeting, a great portion of Farr's empathy and respect, so sparely given, had resided with Mark Darrow.

Between that dinner and Farr's unexplained reappearance in Boston, Darrow had forced himself to live each day as if it mattered. But even after two years, his life seemed to matter less. Making money'if it had ever been'was no longer Darrow's purpose.

His intercom buzzed, announcing Lionel Farr, and then Rebecca, his assistant, opened the door to wave Farr inside.

Standing, Darrow embraced him. Then he leaned back, giving his mentor a look of mock appraisal. 'You look pretty good, Lionel. I could still pick you out of a lineup.'

Farr grimaced, a pantomime of doubt. In truth, Darrow saw a change; though still fit and handsome as he entered his late sixties, Farr looked more tired than Darrow could remember, the flesh beneath his eyes appearing slack and a little bruised. They sat in Darrow's wing chairs, Farr appraising the younger man with affectionate curiosity.

'So,' Farr inquired after a time, 'how are you''

Darrow shrugged. 'All right. I'm still living out the clich's of grief: anger, pain, acceptance. Some days are okay. Then, on a random morning, I'll wake up and, for a moment, Lee's still alive. I reach across the bed, touching where she used to sleep, and feel her loss all over again. I suppose someday that will stop.'

Farr nodded in sympathy. 'Eventually. Does your work help at all''

'Sometimes.' Keen to change the subject, and curious about the unstated reason for Farr's visit, Darrow asked, 'How's your life as provost''

Farr gathered his thoughts. 'Troubled, as is the school. You remember the impact of Angela Hall's murder: we experienced it as no one else could have'except, perhaps, Steve Tillman. When I recall the loss of a young woman with so much promise, murdered in such a terrible way, I still feel disbelief.

'But what remains is the impact on Caldwell College. Sixteen years later, it still lingers: however unfair to the school, the perception of a murder tinged with race caused a falloff in applications, donations, minority students, and'as a result'the quality of the student body. For a short but crucial period, our endowment dipped, limiting our ability to give the kind of scholarships you and Angela received. We've never really recovered.'

Darrow was surprised. 'I thought the place had stabilized.'

'In a fashion,' Farr answered sardonically. 'We've achieved a slower but steady decline. You'll recall that you turned down an appointment to the board of trustees, enabling you to preserve your sense of optimism. But the precise rate of decline hardly matters now, for reasons you must keep in strictest confidence.'

A bit stung, Darrow answered, 'Who would I tell''

' 'Who would give a damn' do you mean' Both of us, I hope.' Farr stood, reminding Darrow of how restless he could be. 'Mind if we take a walk, Mark' It's been years since I strolled through Boston.'

It was a fine spring day, breezy but sunny. Passing the pond in the Public Garden, filled with tourists in swan boats, they stopped at a food stand to buy Polish dogs smothered in grilled onions. Sitting on a park bench, Farr observed, 'I always liked this city. You chose well, Mark.'

Finishing his hot dog, Darrow saw a nun glance at them, smiling to herself'even now Darrow could be taken for Farr's son. Still, the resemblance was not precise. Even before Farr's hair grayed, Darrow's had been blonder; his face, however well proportioned, lacked Farr's striking angularity, the look of warriors; though obviously fit, little about Darrow, now prone to cuff links and Savile Row suits, suggested the Spartan bearing of a soldier. But the most striking difference was in their smiles. Orthodontics, Darrow's mother's last sacrifice before descending into schizophrenia, had purchased what Lee once called his killer smile, which before her death had marked the chief difference between Darrow and Farr. Farr's smile, when it came, was less a show of teeth than a manifestation of his pervasive sense of irony.

'So,' Darrow said. 'Caldwell.'

They began walking again. 'Put simply,' Farr responded, 'nine hundred thousand dollars of endowment money has vanished.'

Darrow turned to him. 'How is that possible''

Farr looked off into the distance, as though pondering the question. 'Deciphering financial chicanery isn't my specialty. But as provost, I'm obliged to try. From what I know, the signs point to our president. You'll recall Clark Durbin.'

'Durbin'' In his astonishment, Darrow almost laughed. 'The man's a classic academic'remember how you had to prop him up after I found her body' I can imagine him writing a paper about embezzlement, complete with footnotes. But not stealing.'

'Clark's weak.' Farr's voice was etched with disdain. 'Faced with hardship, the weak step out of character'or, perhaps, discover it. Clark's wife is an invalid, and his son's a drug addict who needed extensive treatment; heroin, as I observed in Vietnam, grips a man by the throat. Add that Clark has the investment skills common to many of my colleagues: none.'

'So how did a man who can't pick stocks develop a talent for theft''

Farr stopped to contemplate a dog chasing a Frisbee thrown by his youthful master, the animal's stubby legs leaving him endlessly short of the red plastic disk. 'That dog,' he observed, 'will have a coronary. It's the downside of trying too hard to please. As for Clark, our board has an investments committee, with your old friend Joe Betts as chairman.'

'Joe'' Darrow felt his amazement growing. 'In college, his idea of high finance was sending his bloated credit card bills home to Dad.'

'People change,' Farr responded. 'As you'd be the first to acknowledge. Joe Betts is now a partner in a respected investment advisory firm that oversees our endowment. Durbin was on Joe's committee, each of whose members was entitled to direct transfer of endowment funds beneath one million dollars.

'The funds in question were certificates of deposit. What seems to have happened is that Durbin e-mailed Joe's firm, directing that the CDs be transferred to a bank account in the name of Caldwell College, set up by Clark himself. From which, at his direction, the money was transferred to a bank account in Geneva''

'Then you can forget it,' Darrow said flatly. 'The Swiss are a black hole.'

Farr nodded. 'In theory, everyone on the investment committee is suspect. But Durbin sent the e-mail, and his signature is on the papers used to open the bank account in Wayne that received the money.'

'Are there other possibilities''

Farr shrugged. 'The other person seemingly involved is Joe himself, who transferred the money based on Durbin's e-mail. But it's hard to see how Joe could send that e-mail to himself, or gain access to Durbin's computer. It all comes back to Clark.'

Pausing, Darrow watched a young couple walking hand in hand, careless of anything but each other. 'Still, nine hundred thousand isn't that much. How large is our endowment''

'Less than seventy million. The timing of Angela's death killed a capital campaign we desperately needed. And historically the school has never done well with its money'until the last few years, our investment committee might as well have put it under a mattress. We got heavily into equities just in time for the dot-com meltdown, then the near collapse of our financial system'too heavily, it turns out. By the time Joe's firm took over, we'd lost over a third of our endowment. And now this.' Farr shook his head in disgust. 'Stupidity and criminality are a lethal combination. Piety is even worse: church-related schools, I'm finding, don't have the financial safeguards they should'they were founded on notions of man's goodness. What pure-hearted Christian would suspect Clark Durbin of being a crook''

'Or just clever enough to be a fool,' Darrow answered. 'Embezzlement's a dead-end crime: sooner or later, the thief always gets caught.' He faced Farr again. 'If it's money you need, I can make up the nine hundred thousand. More, if you like.'

Farr smiled faintly. 'Who would have ever thought, Mark' I guess lawyering
does
pay better than coaching, your original ambition. But, with deepest thanks, the missing money is not Caldwell's problem. It's reputation.