Lee laughed. “You mean on that great big white yacht to St.-Tropez?”
“That’s right.”
“Sure. I can be ready anytime,” he said mockingly.
“Lee, I’m serious.”
“Oh, come off it, Tyler. Judges don’t have yachts. I have to go now. My guests are calling me.”
“Wait a minute!” Tyler said desperately. “Do you know who I am?”
“Sure, you’re—”
“I’m Tyler Stanford. My father was Harry Stanford.”
There was a moment of silence. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m in Boston now, settling up the estate.”
“My God! You’re that Stanford. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I…I’ve been hearing stuff on the news, but I didn’t pay much attention. I never figured it was you.”
“That’s all right.”
“You really meant it about taking me to St.-Tropez, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. We’re going to do a lot of things together,” Tyler said. “That is, if you want to.”
“I certainly do!” Lee’s voice was suddenly filled with enthusiasm. “Gee, Tyler, this is really great news…”
When Tyler replaced the receiver, he was smiling. Lee was taken care of. Now, he thought, it’s time to take care of my half sister.
Tyler went into the library where Harry Stanford’s gun collection was kept, opened the case, and removed a mahogany box. From a drawer below the case, he took out some ammunition. He put the ammunition in his pocket and carried the wooden box upstairs to his bedroom, locked the door behind him, and opened the box. Inside were two matching Ruger revolvers, Harry Stanford’s favorites. Tyler removed one, carefully loaded it, and then placed the extra ammunition and the box containing the other revolver in his bureau drawer. One shot will do it, he thought. They had taught him to shoot well at the military school his father had sent him to. Thank you, Father.
Next, Tyler picked up a telephone directory and looked for Steve Sloane’s home address.
280 Newbury Street, Boston.
Tyler made his way to the garage, where there were half a dozen cars. He chose the black Mercedes as being the least conspicuous. He opened the garage door and listened to see if the noise had disturbed anyone. There was only silence.
On the drive to Steve Sloane’s house, Tyler thought about what he was about to do. He had never physically committed a murder before. But this time he had no choice. Julia Stanford was the last obstacle between him and his dreams. With her gone, his problems would be over. Forever, Tyler thought.
He drove slowly, careful not to attract attention. When he reached Newbury Street, Tyler cruised past Steve’s address. A few cars were parked on the street, but no pedestrians were around.
He parked the car a block away and walked back to the house. He rang the doorbell and waited.
Julia’s voice came through the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Judge Stanford.”
Julia opened the door. She looked at him in surprise. “What are you doing here? Is anything wrong?”
“No, not at all,” he said easily. “Steve Sloane asked me to have a talk with you. He told me you were here. May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.”
Tyler walked into the hall and watched Julia close the door behind him. She led the way into the living room.
“Steve isn’t here,” she said. “He’s on his way to San Remo.”
“I know.” He looked around. “Are you alone? Isn’t there a housekeeper or someone to stay with you?”
“No. I’m safe here. May I offer you something?”
“No, thanks.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I came to talk about you, Julia. I’m disappointed in you.”
“Disappointed…?”
“You should never have come here. Did you really think you could walk in and try to collect a fortune that doesn’t belong to you?”
She looked at him a moment. “But I have a right to—”
“You have a right to nothing!” Tyler snapped. “Where were you all those years when we were being humiliated and punished by our father? He went out of his way to hurt us every chance he got. He put us through hell. You didn’t have to go through any of that. Well, we did, and we deserve the money. Not you.”