Malice by Robert Tanenbaum

Author:Robert Tanenbaum [Tanenbaum, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-02-10T09:11:19.500000+00:00

That’s why V.T. was now looking at a photograph of himself with his father on a deep-sea fishing adventure off of Nova Scotia some twenty years earlier. A voice behind him interrupted the memory. “This could be your office, you know—or if you wait just a bit longer, you could have mine, if you prefer that view.”

V.T. turned and saw his uncle. He felt a little guilty, as if his uncle had read his mind about the contrasting views and personalities. He held out a hand. “Good to see you, Uncle Dean.”

The old man’s hand was cold as ice but his face was the picture of bonhomie. “Welcome. Welcome,” he said, clapping V.T. on the back. “Thanks for coming. I think you’ll find this evening’s meeting very interesting.”

As usual, Dean Newbury was impeccably dressed, in a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and what V.T. presumed to be hand-made calfskin shoes, which probably added another grand to the ensemble. He looked every bit the elder statesman; his hairline had receded until he was bald on top with a fringe of snow-white hair around the sides, but his Aqua Velva–blue eyes were as sharp and piercing as when V.T. had been a boy.

Dean took him by the elbow and ushered him across the hall into his own office. “I wanted a minute alone with you before we meet the others,” he explained.

V.T. looked around with interest. All the years he’d been going to the firm to see his father, he’d only been in his uncle’s office once, and all he remembered was the view. The room had none of the warmth of his father’s, either. The office had a kitchen, done in black granite and stainless steel, all of which looked like it had never been used.

There were the usual law office diplomas on the wall. A photograph of Dean standing on a podium with then president Richard Nixon—one arm around the president’s shoulders and both of them raising the V for victory sign. However, two sets of paintings on the walls seemed incongruous with the sterility of the rest of the decor. One set was a series of portraits in oil that he knew were the senior partners of Newbury, White & Newbury dating back to the early nineteenth century. The second set was three oil paintings of sailing ships that were hung on the wall opposite the portraits, along with what appeared to be a primitive old map depicting Great Britain, Ireland, and Scotland surrounding the Irish Sea.

“I didn’t know you were such an avid ocean lover,” V.T. said, pointing to the paintings.

Dean glanced at the paintings and grunted. “I’m not,” he said. “Matter of fact, anything smaller than a luxury liner like the QEII, and I’m seasick as a dog. I inherited those from your grandfather Newbury, who insisted, as had every head of this firm before him, that they hang in the office of the next in line to remind us that our paternal roots were in seafaring folks.”

Closing the door, Dean turned to his nephew.

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