The List (42 page)

After absorbing the collective glares of everyone in the room, Renny slunk out of the conference room. He spent the last hour at work worrying that Barnette Heywood was going to storm back into his office. Leaving a few minutes early, he made sure he didn't walk past Heywood's door.

Mrs. Stokes was watching television in her bedroom when Renny stopped in to tell her about his change in plans.

“I have to go to the coast earlier than I thought but I'll still be back Sunday evening.”

“That's fine. I'll look out for Brandy.”

“Thanks.” Renny turned to go, then said, “Pray for me, Mrs. Stokes.”

“Oh, I will, I will. God bless you, Renny.”

Mrs. Stokes closed the door after a frazzled-looking Renny walked away. Going to the prayer closet, she sat down and asked for help. Slipping to her knees, she started praying.

Renny called Jo on his car phone. “How are you?” he asked.

“A little tired, but I'm glad you called. My schedule has been different every day, and I have to leave in a few minutes. Are you on the car phone?” “Yes.”

“You sounded a little fuzzy. Well, I've prayed every chance I could about the List, and I am convinced you should just let it go. You're smart and can work for a living without entangling yourself further in something neither of us fully understands.”

For the first time ever, Renny regretted talking to Jo. He decided to face her head-on. “I don't agree. Since we've talked, I've positioned everything to guarantee the distribution. The situation at the law firm is the pits, and I can't see myself staying with it long term. It should all be over in a few days, then I'll back away.”

Renny listened to loud static as he passed under a high-voltage power line. “Did you say something?” he asked when he had a clear signal.

“No. I guess I'm too surprised. Don't you think we need to agree about this?”

“I wanted us to agree, too, but ultimately it has to be my decision.”

“Then why ask my opinion?”

“I respect your opinion. We just have different ideas about the best way to go.”

Again silence.

“Are you on your way to Georgetown now?”

“Yes. I'm seeing LaRochette tonight to discuss opening a new account outside Switzerland. He asked me to do some research about it before the meeting tomorrow.”

“Renny, can you hear me?” Even on the car phone Renny could sense desperation in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Don't go to Georgetown. Please don't go.”

“Jo, I appreciate what you feel, but there are things I have worked out. You don't need to worry.”

“Don't be condescending,” she said sharply.

“I'm not, or I don't mean to be. We have a simple difference of opinion. I think it's best to do this my way.”

“You're not going to listen to me, are you?”

“Yes. I heard you. Just because I'm not going to do what you suggest doesn't mean I'm not listening.”

“Well, I can see this conversation has nowhere to go, and I have patients to see who will let me help them.”

“Jo—”

“Call me Sunday. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Renny put the phone in its cradle.
Boy, she's hot. But she'll cool down and be glad once this is over.

All the way to Georgetown, Renny imagined life as a multimillionaire. His thoughts were different than immediately after his father's death—a nobler thread ran through his dreams and plans. He would become a discreet philanthropist. Maybe build Mama A's church a new sanctuary or gymnasium. He would contribute to worthy charitable causes from art museums to zoo acquisitions, all anonymously so as not to attract attention to himself. He would identify himself as an investor on his tax return, pay all taxes owed, and not worry about an IRS subpoena. He would not invest solely on the amount of anticipated return but would also consider the integrity and societal benevolence of the company or project.

Of course, there would be plenty of money left to enjoy a comfortable life—with Jo. A beach house, mountain house, city house, and vacations all over the world in between. The expenses that made life stressful for others would not be a factor for them. Their children would not have to struggle and scrape; each would be the beneficiary of a well-funded trust that supplied all their needs from infancy through postgraduate education and would leave no doubt of their father's love and care for them.

He would no longer work as most people understood it. Rather, like the aristocracy of times past, he would devote himself to creative pursuits. He could write. And if no publisher recognized his talent and genius, he would publish his works himself.

It took many miles and a lot of imagination to spend $100 million, and when he came back to earth he was only a few miles from Georgetown. It was dark and raining, and he decided to go directly to LaRochette's house. Driving north on Highway 17, he soon recognized the tract of land given many years before to the U.S. government by Bernard Baruch, a wealthy adviser to Franklin D. Roosevelt. The U.S. government owned the property but had never developed it for public use. Turning his wipers on high to clear the rain from the windshield, Renny slowed. He turned between two small red reflectors that marked the driveway to LaRochette's place.

An electric gate wedged between two ancient live oaks blocked the driveway about two hundred feet from the highway. Renny punched in the access number, and the barrier swung smoothly open. Once past it, the driveway wound over a mile through low-growing trees and dune grass before it opened into a clearing.

LaRochette's beach retreat was worthy of the long entranceway. A French provincial surrounded by massive live oaks, it spread out before the lights of Renny's car in a sprawl of pale gray stucco, steep roofs, and narrow windows. A guesthouse to the right was as large as a typical beach house on the Isle of Palms. The driveway curved in a large arc around a fountain surrounded by low shrubs. Renny parked behind a silver Mercedes coupe. He'd forgotten an umbrella, so he grabbed his briefcase and made a quick dash up a walk of crushed seashells to a covered area in front of the main entrance. His heart was pounding as he rang the bell.

LaRochette, dressed in a blue yachting blazer, white shirt, and gray slacks, answered the door. Every gray hair was neatly in its place.

“Good evening, Renny. Come in out of the storm. Did you have any problem finding the house?”

“No problem at all.”

“It's turned into a nasty night, hasn't it?”

Renny came into a two-story foyer dimly lit by recessed lighting that reflected upward from fixtures hidden by dark wooden molding halfway up the wall. A huge grandfather clock started striking the hour as he entered.

“What timing. Just on the strike of ten.” LaRochette pointed to the clock. “It's 175 years old, the case was made by slave craftsmen on one of the family plantations, the works imported from Switzerland.”

“It's a nice piece,” Renny said.

“Come into the library and have a drink. We can talk in there.”

LaRochette opened a set of pocket doors that slid noiselessly into the wall and led Renny into one of the most incredible rooms he'd ever seen. The library was the realization of every ideal for a sanctuary dedicated to books. A thick oriental rug covered the wooden floor, and bookcases ten feet in height covered three walls with a rolling ladder that allowed access to the top shelves. Opposite the door was a fireplace framed by burgundy leather chairs. Two matching couches faced each other in the center of the room. An antique secretary and writing desk occupied two corners of the room, and a bar filled another. LaRochette turned up the lights so Renny could take it all in.

“You like it?”

“Amazing. It's what a library should be.”

A figure rose from one of the chairs facing the fireplace. It was Robert Roget, dressed casually in a green golf shirt and tan slacks.

“Good evening, Renny.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Roget.”

“Call me Robert.”

They shook hands. Roget's hand was cool and limp.

LaRochette spoke up. “Robert, pour three glasses of the Maison Prunier.”

Roget obviously knew his way around LaRochette's liquor cabinet.

Renny took a sip of the premium brandy. He would make the drink last as long as possible.

LaRochette and Roget sat on one couch and Renny faced them with his briefcase beside him. LaRochette began, “Before we get to business, I wanted to ask if you have had further contact with Miss Johnston?”

“Yes, I have,” Renny said nervously. “She recently visited me in Charlotte.”

“How is she doing?”

“Fine. I've asked her to marry me.”

“Fast work, my boy,” LaRochette said, smiling.

“And I believe she will say yes,” Renny continued. “Once married, we will, for all practical purposes, be joint members of the List.”

“Which means your interest in privacy will be shared by her?” LaRochette said.

“Yes sir, that's what I thought. I don't think she has any desire to cause trouble anyway, but our relationship removes any doubt.”

“Sounds good to me,” said LaRochette. “How about you, Robert?”

“Ride on and catch the fox, my boy. Every man needs a good woman—or two,” he said.

“Now to the business at hand,” LaRochette said. “I thought it would be helpful if Robert joined us. Tell us what you learned from your research.”

Renny opened the briefcase and organized his notes and papers on a low table between them. “I told Mr. LaRochette that I am not an expert in offshore banking, but I have been able to pull together a lot of relevant information.” Renny spent the next hour outlining the pros and cons of different options. LaRochette asked a few questions, Roget none.

“Impressive,” LaRochette said when Renny turned over his last sheet. “Our obvious choice is one of two banks—in the Caymans or in the Lesser Antilles. Do you have a preference, Robert?”

“The Caymans are better established, but the Lesser Antilles, more protective. I would lean toward the Caymans because the banks are larger and our money less likely to create a tidal wave.”

“I agree,” LaRochette said with finality. “Renny, please be prepared to make a presentation on the Cayman banks at the meeting tomorrow night.”

“Yes, sir.”

LaRochette rose and stretched his legs. “Can I get you another drink?”

“No thanks, I've not finished my first one.”

“All right. Before you go, I have a couple of matters to discuss with you. Robert, please get the List.”

Roget walked over to the secretary, opened the front, and retrieved the familiar black ledger. He handed it to LaRochette, who set it down on the table.

“Renny, your father, as custodian of the List, held a position of honor and respect. My hope is that his son will follow in his footsteps.”

“I'm honored that you think so.” Renny took a drink of his brandy and waited.