14
Linc
I parked at the country club a couple of miles outside Mission Cove. After I’d stormed out of the mayor’s office, I had paced the hallways trying to get my anger under control. At one point I stopped, leaning against a wall. I concentrated, counting between long inhales of air until I felt calmer. My ears perked up when I heard a conversation occurring in the office next to me.
“Another bill from Sandy Hooks,” a voice muttered. “I swear the mayor spends more time on the putting green than in his office.”
“Probably getting away from the dragon of a wife he’s got,” another voice replied.
I glanced out the window. It was sunny and warm—the perfect day for a game of golf. He and my father used to play a lot of golf, and obviously, things hadn’t changed. I headed to my car, making a call after I slid inside.
“Sandy Hooks Golf Club,” a voice answered.
“Yes, I’m calling from Mayor Tremont’s office. Has he already started his round?” I asked. “He left his cell in the office, and I wanted to bring it to him.”
“Oh yes, about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to get a message to him?”
“No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.” I hung up.
I had a message, all right.
I approached the small group, waiting patiently as they all teed off, then crossed the tee box to the mayor.
“Mayor Tremont.”
He turned, his face confused as he took me in. “Yes. How can I help you, son?”
I turned on the charm, recalling the mayor’s like of alcohol—any kind. I shook his hand. “Lincoln Webber.” From the blank look on his face, I knew he had had no idea who I was, or to whom I was related. “I’m sorry to bother you on a well-earned day on the course, sir, but I am in urgent need to speak to you. May I buy you a drink at the bar?” I indicated the outdoor roll cart, one of the many set up along the course.
He regarded me, then waved to his group. “Play on. I’ll take par on the holes I miss.”
The group all looked amused. “You never make par here.”
He glared. “Well, today, I did. One of my constituents needs to talk to me.”
They moved away. “Leave the cart,” he barked. “My knee is acting up.”
Lazy bastard. But I kept my smile in place. I needed to play this right. We strolled to the makeshift bar and placed our order, then sat on the bench located close. He took a long drink of his beer—probably not his first one of the day.
“Now, how can I help?”
I chose my words carefully. I didn’t know if the mayor had any idea of how my father had double-crossed him for all those years. My father played the game so well that he made sure the mayor shared some of the wealth, but the lion’s share went to my father. Always.
“My lawyer sent in the paperwork for approval on a house demolition. Somehow, the paperwork was lost,” I fibbed, deciding to play this a different way than accusing his wife of treachery. “I have all the other necessary permits but lack this one. I came to see you directly.” I had to pause before I uttered my next lie. “My father always told me to go directly to the source of power.” I clenched my fist so tight, my nails dug into my palm. “His praise for your take-charge handling of things was limitless.”
More like scathing contempt for what a spineless bastard you were, but potato-potahtoh, I added silently.
He frowned. “Webber isn’t a name I’m familiar with. Who was your father?”
I swallowed, barely able to push out the words. “Franklin Thomas.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re Frank’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Why the name change?”
I was prepared for his answer. “Out of respect, sir.”
Not for him, I thought silently.
“Ah, not riding on his coattails.”
I nodded, taking a sip of my water in order not to speak.
He stroked his chin. “I don’t recall seeing any paperwork come across my desk.”
I knew it. There had been no discussion. That cow of a wife of his must have hidden it. But why?
“It somehow has been lost in transit, I think.” I waved my hand. “It happens.”
“What are you planning on pulling down?”
“My father’s house.”
“Why?”
I waited for a moment to answer him, as if I was having trouble finding the words.
“I cannot bear to look at that house without him in it, sir.”
Because I wish he were alive so I could blow him up with it.
“What are your plans?”
“I’m working with my team to decide,” I lied smoothly. “Something benefiting the town.”
“Your team?”
“Webber Holdings Inc.”
His eyes widened. He had heard of my company. He knew the power I had. What I could do for him if I chose to do so. I could feel his mind racing—wondering how to leverage this for himself.
“I plan on spending more time and money here,” I murmured. “As long as things go according to plan. Otherwise, the house will sit, empty and abandoned.” I tsked. “An eyesore.”
“Why don’t you sell it?”
“No,” I snapped, then backpedaled as his eyes widened. “Too many memories.”
“Ah. I always wondered why you never joined your father’s company. He said you had other aspirations.”
He was digging. I held my temper in place and chose my words carefully.
“I couldn’t compete with his image,” I explained.
He grunted. “The master.”
I barely withheld my snort of derision. “Something like that.”
“Let me call my office.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to look abashed. “I was there, sir. I’m afraid your wife misunderstood me and thought I was threatening her. I was simply upset. Dealing with all this is very personal, as I’m sure you understand.”
He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Of course. Your father was your idol. Let me make a call or two. That’s what we do, right? I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
“Of course,” I lied again. The only thing I planned on scratching was an item off my list.
Three hours later, I had my permit. I refused to leave until I knew it was complete. We moved inside to the clubhouse, and I spent three hours listening to the man drone on about my father. All the great things he’d done for the town. Then he went on about the way the town was prospering. “Business is up, rent is down, and the occupancy level is high everywhere,” he boasted. “Even better than when your father was around. We’re very solvent.”
He neglected to tell me it was due to the mysterious benefactor, instead making it sound as if it were his doing. I let him ramble, the alcohol he was imbibing loosening his tongue. There was no doubt who ran the show here—and it wasn’t him.
He tapped his head. “I’m constantly projecting expansion. I have more great things planned.”
I crossed my legs. “I would be interested in hearing them.”