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“Watch your tongue with me, Hammond.”
“Watch my tongue?” Hammond angrily sprang from his chair and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a child, Father. I’m a county prosecutor. And you’re a crook.”
Bourbon-flushed blood rushed to the capillaries of Preston’s face. “Okay, you’re so smart. What do you think you know?”
“I know that if Detective Smilow or anyone else discovers your name in conjunction with the Speckle Island project, it could cost you a hefty fine, maybe even jail time, and spell the end of my career. Unless I prosecute my own father. Either way, your alliance with Pettijohn has placed me in an untenable situation.”
“Relax, Hammond. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m out of Speckle Island.”
Hammond didn’t know whether to believe him or not. His father’s face was calm, implacable, giving off no telltale signs of dishonesty. He was talented that way. “Since when?” he asked.
“Weeks ago.”
“Pettijohn didn’t know that.”
“Of course he did. He tried to talk me out of withdrawing. I got out anyway, and took my money with me. Pissed him off something fierce.”
Hammond felt his face growing warm with embarrassment. Pettijohn had told him last Saturday afternoon that Preston was up to his neck in Speckle Island. He had shown him signed documents on which his father’s signature was readily recognizable. Had Pettijohn been playing with him? “One of you is lying.”
“When did you exchange confidences with Lute?” Preston wanted to know.
Hammond ignored the question. “When you pulled out, did you sell your partnership for a profit?”
“It wouldn’t have been good business not to. There was a buyer wanting to get in on the deal, and ready to pay my price for my share.”
The sour coffee in Hammond’s stomach roiled. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re out now or not. If you were ever connected to that project, you’re tainted. And by association, so am I.”
“You’re making far too much of this, Hammond.”
“If it ever becomes public knowledge—”
“It won’t.”
“It might.”
Preston shrugged. “Then I’ll tell the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I was unaware of what Lute was doing out there. When I found out, I disapproved and pulled out.”
“You’ve got it figured from all angles.”
“That’s right, I do. Always have.”
Hammond glared at his father. Preston was practically daring him to make a case out of it—literally. But Hammond knew it would be futile to do so. Probably even Lute Pettijohn had known that Preston would have all his ducks in a row. He had used Preston’s temporary affiliation with the Speckle Island project to manipulate Hammond.
“My advice to you, Hammond,” Preston was saying, “is to learn a valuable lesson from this. You can get by with just about anything, as long as you leave yourself a dependable escape hatch.”
“That’s your advice to your only son? Fuck integrity?”
“I didn’t make the rules,” he snapped. “And you might not like them.” Leaning forward in his chair, he punctuated his words by stabbing the air with a blunt index finger. “But you’ve got to abide by them, or those who aren’t so high-minded will leave you choking on their heel dust.”
This was familiar territory. They’d tramped over it a thousand times. When Hammond became old enough to question his father’s infallibility and to dispute some of his principles, it soon became apparent that they differed. A line had been drawn in the sand. These were arguments that neither could win because neither would concede an inch.
Now that Hammond had seen written proof of his father’s involvement in one of Pettijohn’s more nefarious schemes, he realized how vastly different their viewpoints were. He didn’t believe for an instant that Preston was ever unaware of what was taking place on that sea island. Conscience had played no part in his decision to pull out when he did. He had merely waited for an opportunity to make a profit on his own investment.
Hammond saw the gulf between them yawning wider. He saw no way to span it.
