Tyler was furious. His father had no right to interrupt him. He was tempted to ignore the call. But on the other hand, if it was that urgent…
Tyler stood up. “Court is recessed for fifteen minutes.”
Tyler hurried into his chambers and picked up the telephone. “Father?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Tyler.” There was malice in his voice.
“As a matter of fact, you are. I’m in the middle of a trial and—”
“Well, give him a traffic ticket and forget it.”
“Father…”
“I need your help with a serious problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“My chef is stealing from me.”
Tyler could not believe what he was hearing. He was so angry he could hardly speak. “You called me off the bench because…?”
“You’re the law, aren’t you? Well, he’s breaking the law. I want you to come back to Boston and check out my whole staff. They’re robbing me blind!”
It was all Tyler could do to keep from exploding. “Father…”
“You just can’t trust those damn employment agencies.”
“I’m in the middle of a trial. I can’t possibly go back to Boston now.”
There was a moment of ominous silence. “What did you say?”
“I said…”
“You aren’t going to disappoint me again, are you, Tyler? Maybe I should talk to Fitzgerald about some changes in my will.”
And there was the carrot again. The money. His share of the billions of dollars waiting for him when his father died.
Tyler cleared his throat. “If you could send your plane for me…”
“Hell, no! If you play your cards right, Judge, that plane will belong to you one day. Just think about that. Meanwhile, fly commercial like everyone else. But I want you to get your ass back here!” The line went dead.
Tyler sat there, filled with humiliation. My father has done this to me all my life. To hell with him! I won’t go. I won’t go.
Tyler flew to Boston that evening.
Harry Stanford employed a staff of twenty-two. There was a phalanx of secretaries, butlers, housekeepers, maids, chefs, chauffeurs, gardeners, and a bodyguard.
“Thieves, every damned one of them,” Harry Stanford complained to Tyler.
“If you’re so worried, why don’t you hire a private detective or go to the police?”
“Because I have you,” Harry Stanford said. “You’re a judge, right? Well, you judge them for me.”
It was pure malevolence.
Tyler looked around the huge house with its exquisite furniture and paintings, and he thought of the dreary little house he lived in. This is what I deserve to have, he thought. And one day, I’ll have it.
Tyler talked to the butler, Clark, and other senior members of the staff. He interviewed the servants, one by one, and checked their résumés. Most of the employees were fairly new because Harry Stanford was an impossible man to work for. The staff turnover at the house was extraordinary. Some of them lasted only a day or two. A few new employees were guilty of petty pilfering, and one was an alcoholic, but other than that, Tyler could see no problem.
Except for Dmitri Kaminsky.
Dmitri Kaminsky had been hired by his father as a bodyguard and masseur. Sitting on the bench had made Tyler a good judge of character, and there was something about Dmitri that Tyler instantly mistrusted. He was the most recent employee. Harry Stanford’s former bodyguard had quit—Tyler could imagine why—and he had recommended Kaminsky.
The man was huge, with a barrel chest and large, muscular arms. He spoke English with a thick Russian accent. “You want to see me?”
“Yes.” Tyler gestured to a chair. “Sit down.” He had looked at the man’s employment record, and it had told him very little, except that Dmitri had come from Russia recently. “You were born in Russia?”
“Yes.” He was watching Tyler warily.
“What part?”
“Smolensk.”
“Why did you leave Russia to come to America?”
Kaminsky shrugged. “There is more opportunity here.”
Opportunity for what? Tyler wondered. There was something evasive about the man’s manner. They spoke for twenty minutes, and at the end of that time, Tyler was convinced that Dmitri Kaminsky was concealing something.
Tyler telephoned Fred Masterson, an acquaintance of his with the FBI.