THE WOMANIZER

Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiction

Warren Adler writes with skill and a sense of scene.

—The New York Times Book Review on The War of the Roses

Engrossing, gripping, absorbing… written by a superb storyteller. Adler’s pen uses brisk, descriptive strokes that are enviable and masterful.

—West Coast Review of Books on Trans-Siberian Express

A fast-paced suspense story… only a seasoned newspaperman could have written with such inside skills.

—The Washington Star on The Henderson Equation

High-tension political intrigue with excellent dramatization of the worlds of good and evil.

—Calgary Herald on The Casanova Embrace

A man who willingly rips the veil from political intrigue.

—Bethesda Tribune on Undertow

Warren Adler’s political thrillers are…

Ingenious.

—Publishers Weekly

Diverting, well-written and sexy.

—Houston Chronicle

Exciting.

—London Daily Telegraph

Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery Series

High-class suspense.

—The New York Times on American Quartet

Adler’s a dandy plot-weaver, a real tale-teller.

—Los Angeles Times on American Sextet

Adler’s depiction of Washington—its geography, social whirl, political intrigue—rings true.

—Booklist on Senator Love

A wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington D.C.

—Los Angeles Times on Death of a Washington Madame

Both the public and the private story in Adler’s second book about intrepid sergeant Fitzgerald make good reading, capturing the political scene and the passionate duplicity of those who would wield power.

—Publishers Weekly on Immaculate Deception

The Womanizer

by Warren Adler

Copyright © 2010 by Warren Adler

ISBN (EPUB edition): 9780795347092

ISBN (Kindle edition): 9780795347108

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination based on historical events or are used fictitiously.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

More Thrillers from Warren Adler

Also by Warren Adler

About the Author

Chapter 1

The rain came down in slanting torrents adding vastly to the sense of impending doom Allen Harris felt for the task that lay just ahead. Heading his car slowly through the tree-lined, sloping driveway that led up the hill to the Georgian-style house that stood as an imposing landmark above the university, he felt like someone about to announce an accidental death of a loved child to an unsuspecting parent.

The mansion had been built thirty years before to house the university president. Gordon Sandborn was its second occupant, a figure as imposing as the house itself. With his well-coifed silver mane, piercing Wedgwood-blue eyes, which stared out over high cheekbones, and a smile that revealed spangling-white capped teeth, he was the living embodiment of commanding dignity and charisma. When he spoke, he intoned, his voice deep and sonorous, his words authoritative and articulate, suggesting that they originated from some mysterious heavenly source.

Harris had represented the university as legal counsel for the ten-year tenure of Francis Gordon Sandborn and had attended most of the board of trustees’ meetings during those years. They offered a ringside seat to Sandborn’s mesmerizing qualities, as he held the board in thrall during these sessions. Even the crusty septuagenarian chairman of the board, Charles Evans Blassingame—no slouch himself in the spellbinding oratorical department—was no match for Sandborn.

Founded by a Methodist preacher, Charles Canfield, in the 1920s, Canfield University had fought gallantly to retain its academic credentials over the years and had grown from a single building to an imposing campus complex with staff and students now numbering more than twenty thousand souls and offering degrees in a number of disciplines.

Some considered a Canfield education a prestigious alternative to Ivy League schools. Midwestern, founded on more rigid values, although it tolerated polite and orderly dissent, Canfield provided a middle-of-the-road approach that attracted parents who believed in the old verities and hoped their progeny would follow suit. It was not an easy road for the university to pursue, and Sandborn had steered the university caravan through the minefields of a frenetic and disorderly modern-day America with great skill.

It was, of course, a challenge, but both staff and students had learned to respect the boundaries and, with some exceptions, were well aware of the reputation of their university as an ethical and traditional bastion of academia. Others outside this orbit tended to characterize Canfield as a relic of the fifties, when accommodation and acceptance of the status quo was the order of the day. To keep this middle-of-the-road posture, Sandborn was able to mitigate the tensions that existed between the board of trustees dominated by rock-ribbed conservatives like Blassingame and the staff of professors and students who were open to the seductions of a more liberal bias under the rubric of academic freedom.

The university’s success in many areas, its enormously prosperous alumni, its sports teams, its cutting-edge research and scientific achievements, and high academic standards, its well-paid staff of professors, its long reach in the geography of academia, made Canfield a name to be reckoned with. Francis Gordon Sandborn had been, up to now, its unassailable icon.

Sandborn was a well-respected national figure as well, a celebrity and frequent guest on talk shows, and an eagerly pursued speaker at numerous academic conventions. He was sought out for counsel by many of the country’s most prominent citizens and was a frequent White House guest. His memoirs had become best sellers. Although his natural bent and perceived reputation was as an enlightened conservative, he was able to walk a safe path through both ends of the political spectrum.

His presence, his charisma, his debating skills, his charm and good looks, and especially his persuasiveness brought national attention to the university and assured its continuing prestige. Like most everyone associated with the university, Allen Harris was in awe of him. Indeed, it was more emulation than awe. Harris had observed Sandborn as a role model and had assumed a guise that often imitated his idol’s speech patterns and movements, perhaps in a subconscious effort to enter Sandborn’s skin. At times, Harris had even sensed, especially when he made a presentation to the board, that he had developed a shadow version of Sandborn’s charisma.

To make his present task even more daunting, Harris and Sandborn had developed a friendship beyond their business relationship. Their families exchanged visits, and Harris and Sandborn often lunched together in the faculty dining room of Canfield. Although their wives had never bonded to that extent, Mrs. Sandborn being too busy with the numerous tasks of the wife of a university president, she and Alice did enjoy an occasional game of tennis together at the country club and were often in attendance together at various luncheons and women’s group meetings.

The members of the board had been stunned by the accusation against Sandborn. Actually, it was more than simply an accusation: it was a mortal stab into the heart and soul, not only to Sandborn but also to the reputation and aura of the university. Jason Beckwith, the lawyer for the accuser, a hard-nosed merciless legal bulldozer, had, in an act, which he cannily deemed sympathetic to the reputation of the university, offered to appear before the board with his evidence before commencing any legal proceedings through the courts. The board had accepted.

In deference to the broad respect in which this university is held in this state and the country, he told them solemnly, adding his own pandering aside, and my personal regard for the convictions of the board,… Harris could see the man’s transparent strategy, the dagger hidden in the velvet glove. In his cups at the country club, Beckwith had often derided the rigid conservatives on the board of trustees. Many dismissed his often-angry criticism, owing its origins to his having never made it to that prestigious and lofty university board.

I thought it incumbent on me to bring the matter before the board with the utmost discretion and delicacy, he purred, obviously enjoying his role. In today’s world, what is called sexual harassment carries criminal penalties, not to mention the publicity possibilities inherent in a salacious frenetic media. I’m sure I don’t have to apprise you of the public outcry it will create in your constituency. We are dealing here with a beloved and respected public figure.

Beckwith’s saccharine presentation was galling to Harris who had locked horns with the man on many a legal occasion. The board listened to him with rapt attention and shocked horror.

Beckwith laid out the evidence, sparing no details. Harris had watched the faces of the board of twelve men and four women, two blacks, one Hispanic, all true believers in their role as overseers, all proud of the university they were shepherding, all deeply respectful of their handpicked president and his vast talents and abilities. It was Sandborn who, through his charm and inspirational salesmanship, had raised vast sums for the university and had put Canfield on the national map.

Harris had found it chilling to listen to the allegations that Beckwith offered, made even more so by the man’s appearance, the bald pate, the lumpy nose set in a face that looked like a Jell-O pudding, with thick lips that opened and closed like some big, squishy fish extracting oxygen from the sea. His whole aspect had always struck Harris as evolution in reverse. Such observations aside, Harris also knew that, under the absurd attempt at polite courtliness, the man was lethal. His client had made exactly the right choice.

The accusing female student was a sophomore. The affair with Sandborn had lasted four months, and the sexual acts were carried out in numerous places in and out of town. Venues included Sandborn’s office, his home, his car, wooded areas, certain hotels in other cities Sandborn had visited, and motels more than fifty miles from the university. Using clever euphemisms and slyly inserting an occasional graphic detail, Beckwith revealed the nature of the acts themselves—oral, anal, and vaginal—and made broad hints that there might have been others involved of both sexes, suggesting orgies and twisting the knife of accusation.

Preposterous! one board member cried out in the midst of Beckwith’s presentation. Most of the board members were too dumbstruck to comment. The member offering the loudest dissent was Todd Farmington, a multimillionaire stockbroker with a flamboyant bent who mixed salesmanship with religious fervor. He was the one who invariably led the prayer at the beginning of each board meeting.

Beckwith looked at the man over his half-glasses, waiting eagerly for further comment.

It’s obvious that the lady has another motive, Farmington said angrily. She’s probably a plant wanting to discredit us. Sandborn is a man of sterling character. Everyone in this room can attest to that. This accusation is beyond belief, it’s blatant extortion.

No one could possibly believe her, one of the women, Dorothy Fischer, a former lieutenant governor huffed.

I agree, another board member, Martin Fox, a high-tech entrepreneur opined. Let her sue.

Have her confront Sandborn directly, retired three-star Marine General Martin Remington, an African-American, opined. A mutter of agreement passed through the room.

Let’s not rush to judgment, Judge Evelyn Freeberg injected in her best judicial tone.

Blassingame nodded after each comment, glancing from the speaker back to Beckwith with ping-pong-like regularity.

Harris watched these reactions with a sinking heart. They were comments of desperation. Like the others, he was appalled. Every barbed detail was an affront. Was it possible? Beckwith, although often blunt and obnoxious, was too cautious a man to chance blackening his reputation with a meritless lawsuit. Harris, however, was convinced, despite the doubts being expressed. Beckwith had the goods to crucify his idol.

Nevertheless, all his legal training cried out for Sandborn to be defended. He could sense, despite the outbursts of denial, that the board had no stomach for a public defense. The humiliation, Harris knew, would be too much for them to bear. Worse, it would be a destructive blow to their beloved institution.

While a public vetting might not be fatal, it would certainly tarnish the university’s carefully wrought reputation. Sandborn was the living embodiment of Canfield. The two were interchangeable. Harris, beyond his hero worship, was a realist and knew that Sandborn was now in the crosshairs of a public assassination, doomed to disgrace and dislodgement.

While sexual freedom was an acknowledged fact of life in modern-day America, especially on campuses and the Internet, those present knew that the boundaries of sexual harassment and intimidation had been fashioned by legal opinions. People in power positions were legally prohibited from using this power to extract sexual favors from those in their employ. The legal precedents were now unassailable. There were, of course, blurred boundaries. People did fall in love. The libido was often in conflict with what passed as propriety. Sexual favors were a fact of life. Power was, indeed, an aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, in this case, all these clichés and rationalizations were meaningless. What it came down to was a man using his cock as a buzz saw to cut down the mighty oak of his reputation. To Harris it was a chilling image that rattled his bones.

The echoes of national trauma resonated unmistakably throughout the room: the long nightmare of the Clinton impeachment, the still lingering sexual scandals of the Catholic Church, the libidinous stupidity of the governor of New York. Zero tolerance of sexual exploitation was the order of the day. The accusations against Sandborn, however mighty his reputation and his achievements, could not be ignored. The golden patina of reputation and prestige was no match for such a blatant accusation. Sandborn, Harris knew, was toast.

These were among the considerations that ran through Harris’s mind as he mulled the dangers that Beckwith’s words implied. There were others as well, more personal matters, but these he had deliberately repressed as being irrelevant to the matter at hand. Besides, he had schooled himself well in compartmentalizing all aspects of his life. A troubling biblical analogy passed through his thoughts: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

Aside from the university being merely one of the clients of McNaughton, Harris and Gibbs, Harris’s representation was more a labor of love than a business enterprise. While, at the insistence of the chairman, he did not represent them pro bono, he believed in the goals of the university with all his heart and often lectured at the law school. At this stage in his life, on the cusp of the fifty-year mark, he was seriously considering a career change, with academia one of his options. He was also toying with the possibility of running for office. Actually, he was considering many options. He dared not even contemplate what he longed for most in his soul: the very job his idol currently occupied. A stab of guilt cut through his gut.

Lately, he had come to consider these errant yearnings and fantasies as a typical midlife crisis, and he feared surrendering to the idea. At first, he had been only vaguely dissatisfied, despite the measure of success he had achieved as a lawyer. He was the envy of many. He had helped create a great practice. He was widely respected, his advice sought. He was considered a wonderful, wise, perceptive, and analytical lawyer. Yet inside himself, something nagged, something nameless and intangible. He wanted more, more, that nameless wave of inchoate lusting for something bigger, gargantuan.

Others had told him that he possessed his own brand of charisma and could move people by his oratorical and persuasive gifts. Some said he had that rare quality to fill a room with his presence. He was, of course, flattered by the praise. Yet, despite the evidence of these talents and its effect on others, his sense of himself fell far short of such esteem. Yet he managed, like a good actor, to keep up appearances, hoping he showed no clues, no chinks in the armor of his disciplined façade. He was certain that no one suspected. Meanwhile, he continued to observe and imitate Sandborn, often asking himself: What is his secret?

He had no money problems, a loyal and loving wife. His children were typically strong-minded, but then he had encouraged dissent in their upbringing and, while often infuriating him, he understood the generational dynamics. But when he looked ahead to his future, he saw only a straight, relentless, and repetitive road to oblivion. More and more, he felt that he was playing a lead role in a boring play with no dramatic denouement.

At first he had self-diagnosed his condition as depression and briefly entertained visiting a therapist, an idea he resisted. He feared being prescribed antidepressant drugs, hating the prospect of pharmacological dependency. Worse, he feared confessing, revealing his secret life. Lately, he had awakened in cold sweats, the victim of barely remembered dreams of guilt, some possibly earned, some featuring real and imaginary transgressions.

Despite all his public success, his reputation and respect among his peers and clients, he felt like a failure. He tried repeatedly to dismiss such a characterization but could not. He felt alone and lived in hope that this sense of emptiness would pass. It hadn’t.

He shared these symptoms with no one, not even Alice, and carefully maintained this façade of dignified respectability, certain that no one noticed any outward effect of the battle being waged within him. He was completely aware that some cataclysmic life change was called for, and he became more and more convinced that when such an opportunity opened before him, it would lead him to the light at the end of the tunnel. Only a vast new challenge, he speculated, something that would tax all his skills and talents, something big and different would emerge to save him.

Alice, his wife, if she had known what was going on behind the carefully wrought façade, would be sympathetic to these yearnings. As always, she was fully supportive of anything he wished to do.

Leslie, his oldest daughter, had just finished law school and was clerking with a judge in Chicago. His youngest, Janet, was a social worker in New York City. They had left the nest, and he and Alice were empty nesters and, in theory at least, free of care.

***

It’s only the tip of the iceberg, Beckwith said, with unabashed ingenuousness. Believe me, I feel personally awful about this, but I am bound to protect my client’s interest. He looked slowly around the table, his searching glance washing over each face.

Harris followed his movements, certain that he knew what was going through the minds of the people around the table, the sense of betrayal by a figure so revered, the attempt to take refuge in denial, the deep, searing, heartfelt sense of disappointment. The icon had fallen. It reminded Harris of the pictures he had seen of the statue of Saddam Hussein being pulled down by angry crowds in Baghdad.

The point of this early visit, Beckwith said, is to explore the possibilities of some early accommodation that might forestall this matter coming to a head. Believe me, it would be far less costly in reputation and in damages to meet this situation at the pass, so to speak.

There was no mistaking his suggestion. Pay up, and we’ll shut up. Again, more personal implications surfaced in Harris’s mind. He forced himself to stifle them, although he could not completely shed the icy chill of fear that shot through him like a serrated-knife thrust.

Yet, he was safe. He knew he was safe. This had nothing to do with him. Any personal implications were pure fantasy, a hangover from another era in his life. He felt sick to his stomach and fought to keep his nausea controlled. The old guilt had surfaced, and it took all his willpower to tamp it down. He wished he could leave the room.

As always, the members of the board waited for the chairman to comment. Now in his early eighties, Blassingame was still a man to be reckoned with. He had made a huge fortune, and his philanthropies were well known throughout the state and the country.

Beyond money alone, he was perceived as a model of integrity and wisdom, despite accusations of sharp practices in the early days of amassing his fortune in the commodity markets. At one point, he had been accused of cornering the corn market but had outfoxed his accusers by selling out with exquisite timing. He had been a board member for forty years and chairman for twenty.

As with all boards, one member was always dominant and, on the important issues, his decisions carried the others along. He was a spare man, with a thin, ascetic-looking face and a laser-like stare. When he spoke, hardly a muscle moved in his face or body, and his hands were as motionless as his features. He chose his words carefully, speaking slowly, which gave his speech a greater sense of weight and wisdom.

Ladies and gentlemen, he said, after the long pause for which he was legendary. The pause was always interpreted as a profound rumination, and the others waited with rapt attention, uttering no sound to disturb the process.

There is no need for Mr. Beckwith to go on. This is a nasty business. Very nasty. Nevertheless, Mr. Beckwith’s message is quite clear. The fate of our university takes precedence over the fate of our president. He has served us well, but this allegation could have serious consequences for the reputation of our institution. This matter will hurt too many people, true or not. We are living in awful times. There is no point in belaboring the merits of this woman’s accusation and her threat. Mr. Beckwith’s implication is correct. To preserve the integrity of the university, we must negotiate our way out of this crisis with the least amount of disruption.

At that point, he turned toward Harris.

We have competent legal counsel. Indeed, outstanding legal counsel in Allen Harris. He is a man of unblemished integrity and skill. I move we put the matter in his hands. He turned toward Beckwith. Am I to assume that monetary considerations could bring this matter to a close?

Beckwith, who possessed his own flair for the dramatic, paused while his glance patiently washed over the assembled participants.

My client is a young woman who feels herself humiliated and betrayed. While she does understand the value of money, she has other, to her, more pressing demands.

Such as? Blassingame asked. Harris’s stomach knotted. He knew exactly what was coming.

Believe me, I’ve tried, without success, to convince her that her demands are too extreme. She wants an apology from Sandborn.

An apology implies guilt, Blassingame said. It is, after all, the woman’s word against Sandborn’s.

True, sir, very true. But the man is guilty. The woman has proof. She has tape recordings of some conversations. They may not be admissible in a court of law, but that would not cover the media.

I take that as a threat, Mr. Beckwith, Blassingame snapped.

Threat, sir? Beckwith shot back. On the contrary. It is a fact.

Are you saying that an apology alone will satisfy your client? Blassingame asked.

I did not say that, sir, Beckwith said, looking toward Harris, who had no illusions about what was coming next. We expect a monetary consideration as one of the conditions of dropping any suit.

One of the conditions? Blassingame pressed.

Beckwith shook his head and sucked in a deep breath, paused, and offered a revolving look at everyone around the table.

The key condition would be the resignation of Mr. Sandborn.

A murmur of obvious indignation and outrage passed through the room. The statement, spoken so blandly, had the effect of an exploding grenade.

Good God! Blassingame said, with unaccustomed emotion. That seems very, very harsh, Mr. Beckwith.

I quite agree. It is a terrible thing, Beckwith said, offering a façade of mock sympathy.

Harris felt compelled to comment.

We are still dealing here with a ‘he said, she said’ proposition. We haven’t heard the tapes. They may be subject to interpretation. Sometimes, what seems explicit may have another connotation.

There’s more, Beckwith snapped.

More?

Witnesses. Beckwith waited for the information to sink into the common consciousness. Hotel and motel room clerks. Waitresses. He paused, ominous in his implications. Perhaps others. Again his gaze roamed the faces around the table. There is a paper trail as well. Letters. Poems. E-mail. The case is open and shut. There is no doubt about the woman’s veracity. In an open court, Sandborn will be crucified.

I still believe that there could be another alternative to Sandborn’s resignation, Todd Farmington said.

Like what? Dorothy Fischer exclaimed.

Maybe… Farmington’s nostrils flared. Treatment. Surely this could be diagnosed as some… illness.

It is, after all, aberrant behavior. Another voice heard from. It was Charles Baker, who ran his family’s foundation.

Good thought, Charlie, Farmington said.

You might choose that path, Beckwith said. But that would not, of course, meet my client’s demands.

Perhaps, we could sweeten the pot, Martin Fox said, looking around the table for allies.

At this point, Blassingame turned to Harris, his signal for comment.

Your client is being unreasonable, Harris said, his statement cautious and lawyerly. He knew in his soul that Sandborn’s fate was sealed, and that this was now an exercise in damage control.

I know, but she is adamant. These are her conditions for not proceeding with the lawsuit. Beckwith said. She does have the reputation of the university in mind. To her way of thinking, she is being generous. She considers Sandborn a sexual predator. This would not be the first time.

Good God, man! Farmington exploded. Blassingame calmed him with a hand gesture.

You have proof of this? Harris asked.

I’d rather not say. But I do have evidence of past indiscretions prior to his employment at the university.

Blassingame turned to Harris. And we did not know this?

If I recall, Harris said, refreshing his memory. His references were impeccable, nothing but glowing reports. His career prior to Canfield was distinguished.

We have proof this has happened before.

How could we not have known? Blassingame asked.

In this situation, if our offer is accepted, no one will know. The stigma will not follow him. Surely, you will not want it made public that the man is a sexual predator. Indeed, if made public, I believe that others will find the courage to step forward. The predators in the Catholic Church are a good example. Once the dam opens, the waters cannot be stopped.

Beckwith was being deliberately threatening, Harris knew. He had them in his sights. He had narrowed the options. Harris toyed with the argument that the Church’s method of keeping a lid on the situation was to transfer the predators to other venues. He desisted. It was not comparable, easily evaded.

We will look like incompetents for not properly vetting the man, Farmington said. It was now obvious that the board members would eventually fall one by one.

Be assured, ladies and gentlemen, Beckwith said, plunging the sword further. This is probably not the first time he has acted in this way since his appointment at Canfield.

He shrugged in mock sadness, but the look in his eyes was pregnant with disdain and ominous