Fall from Grace by Richard North Patterson Page A

yet.”
    “Still, he could have fallen. And now you’ve learned that he had brain cancer, which suggests the possibility of suicide.”
    Hanley’s smile became bleak, his lips clamped tight. “The man I knew for fifty years would not have deprived the world of his presence. But you could posit that—unlike wars, famine, pestilence, and plague—brain cancer disheartened him a bit.”
    “And therefore, accident or suicide are real possibilities. I’m left to wonder why you think this could have been a murder.”
    “Yup,” Hanley agreed laconically. “You’re left to wonder. Not that I’m saying it was.”
    Adam watched his eyes. “But you think it was, don’t you?”
    Hanley fixed him with an unblinking gaze. “You know that promontory intimately. Do you believe Ben had one too many and just stumbled off the cliff? Or decided to end his life even a day before God did it for him?”
    No, Adam thought. “I’ve no idea, George. As you point out, I hadn’t seen him for ten years.”
    A new expression, probing and tough, entered Hanley’s eyes. “Can I ask why?”
    Adam had expected this. “Objection, George—irrelevant. When he went off the cliff, I was in Afghanistan. I sure as hell didn’t push him.”
    “But there came a time when you might have wanted to, didn’t there?”
    Adam stared at him. “Everyone wants to know why I left, like it must be shrouded in mystery. I suggest that you consider the man you knew.”
    Suddenly, Hanley’s expression held the merciless bleakness of a recording angel. “You know what I’m asking. Was there something about Ben, even ten years back, that might provoke someone to consider killing him?”
    The way he treated all of us, Adam thought. In an even voice, he said, “Which cuckolded husband or boyfriend are we talking about? Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.”
    Hanley’s tone and expression were unimpressed. “Even when you were in high school, Adam, they said you were the smartest guy around. You’re here for your own reasons. I suspect it’s the will, and the feelings it might engender among members of your family.”
    Adam shook his head. “You can’t feel anything about a will that you don’t know exists. That leaves Carla Pacelli, who had everything to gain and, as I understand it, no alibi at all.”
    Quiet, Hanley watched the passing parade of Vineyarders and tourists. At length, he said, “We’re not going to play this game, young Mr. Blaine. You could say the same about your mother and Teddy, who got written out of the will—after all, no murderer with a motive would confess to having one. Or Jack, who everyone knows disliked Ben intensely. And if you’re looking for people who gained from Ben’s death, you could throw in Jenny Leigh.” He turned to Adam. “I’m not saying who I think it is, if anyone. I’m merely following your logic to its insubstantial conclusion.”
    “So Pacelli has no alibi.”
    Hanley’s eyes glinted. “You can think that if you like. So tell me why your father left you a hundred thousand and made you his executor.”
    “Oh, that’s easy,” Adam said in a throwaway tone. “He wanted to compete with me from beyond the grave.”
    Hanley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he laughed aloud. “You plan to break the will, don’t you.”
    “It’s crossed my mind. Maybe it crossed his. He always liked games.”
    Hanley’s smile faded. “Hard to believe he’s dead,” he mused. “I still remember him in high school. I wanted to be quarterback in the worst way. But there was Ben, always Ben. He wouldn’t let me beat him out.”
    “He couldn’t, George. That would have killed him for sure.”
    Hanley appraised him. After a moment, he said, “I think I’ve said all I care to, and you’ve ferreted out what you can. Any time you want to say what else is on your mind, feel free.”
    “I will,” Adam said easily. “At the moment, all that’s on my mind is using the restroom.”
    Briskly, Hanley