6 Stone Barrington Novels (176 page)

STONE WAS WAKENED
from a sound sleep by the ringing of his bedside telephone. He answered it as quickly as possible, to avoid waking Tiff, who slumbered beside him, her hand on his belly.

“Hello?” he half whispered.

“Hey, Stone.” The line was staticky and faint.

Stone felt a wave of irritation. “Billy Bob.”

“You left me a message to call.”

“Not at . . .” he looked at the bedside clock “ . . . three-thirty in the morning.”

“Sorry about that. It ain't three-thirty here.”

“Where are you?”

“Maui.”

“Hawaii?”

“Got a little deal going out here. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Stone checked the caller ID window on the phone.
Unavailable.
“It's hard to remember in the middle of the night.”

“Well, I might not be able to get back to you for a few days. We're headed out for a little cruise on a big ol' yacht in the morning.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. I've resigned from representing you as your attorney. I sent you a letter and a refund of your retainer to your Dallas address.”

“Well, shoot, Stone. What'd you want to go and do that for? Ain't my money no good?”

“I don't represent clients who conceal their identities from me, or who employ more than one identity.”

A silence.

“Or who murder women in my guest room.”

“It wasn't murder, exactly,” Billy Bob said, and he managed to sound sheepish.

“Exactly what was it?”

“She wanted me to choke her a little; said she got off better that way. I told her to tap me on the hand if she wanted me to stop, but she didn't. I don't know why.”

“You're a big, strong guy, Billy Bob,” Stone said. “Strong hands, I expect. By the way, the electric blanket was a clever idea. It threw the medical examiner for a loop, until he figured it out.”

“I needed to buy me some time,” Billy Bob said. “Are the cops looking for me?”

Stone wasn't going to become an accomplice to flight. “I can't comment on that.”

“I'm looking for advice, here, Stone; that's what I'm paying you for.”

“No, you're not. I've sent you a cashier's check for the full fifty thousand, so you haven't paid me a penny.”

“So that's the way it is, then?”

“That's the way it is. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't contact me again.”

“Oh, you'll be hearing from me, Stone.”

“And Billy Bob? The next time you print up some cards for Warren Buffett, try and remember that he spells his name with two
t
's.”

Silence, then Billy Bob hung up.

Stone tried to get back to sleep, but he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

STONE FELL ASLEEP
about a minute before Tiff woke him, moving her hand down his belly. He groaned. “I got a phone call in the middle of the night and never got back to sleep. Forgive me if I'm not too responsive this morning.”

“So Billy Bob is in Hawaii?”

“I thought you were asleep. You're a sneaky person.”

“Where in Hawaii?”

“Let me think about this for a moment.” He thought about it. “He told me where he was while he still thought I was his attorney, so I can't tell you.”

“God, but you're a pain in the ass.”

“I cherish my license to practice law,” Stone replied.

She grabbed his balls. “I'll bet I could torture it out of you.”

“We're not at Guantanamo, missy,” he said. “Oh, Billy Bob did confess to murder, and that was after I told him I wasn't his lawyer anymore.”

“Murder?”

“You haven't heard?” He told her about Tiffany's death. “Actually, he didn't confess to murder; he said it was an accident.”

“Murder isn't a federal crime, unless the victim is a federal official.”

“If it helps, I have no way of knowing if Billy Bob was actually in Hawaii; he just said he was. The time zone works, though; it's what, six hours earlier there?”

“Seven, I think.”

“So it would have been midevening in Maui—oops, forget I said that.”

“You're sweet,” she said, tickling his balls. “And you're becoming more responsive, too.”

She was right.

STONE WAS SITTING
in his office at midafternoon, trying to stay awake, when Dino called.

“Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner; it's been busy here. What's up?”

“Billy Bob called in the middle of the night; said he was in Maui.”

“You believe him?”

“Who knows what to believe? He could be anywhere. Oh, he said he was going on a cruise on a yacht for a few days.”

“Where do you cruise to in Hawaii?”

“Hawaii, I think. Anything else is a long way away.”

“I could ask the Hawaii state police for an APB, I guess.”

“Must be lots of yachts in Hawaii, so that's a lot of work, and if Billy Bob was lying about his whereabouts, the cops out there won't appreciate the wild-goose chase. Oh, something else: Billy Bob owned up to killing Tiffany, but your theory was right, or he says it was. He said she asked him to choke her, because it gave her a better orgasm. She was supposed to ask him to stop, but she didn't.”

“Did you tell him we were looking for him?”

“I declined to address the subject.”

“So he knows?”

“Probably. Another reason why he might not be aboard a yacht in Hawaii. He wouldn't be doing what he said he'd be doing, if he knew there was a warrant out for him.”

“Okay, so I won't ask for a Hawaii APB.”

“The phone call was kind of scratchy, like it was from a long way away.”

“A cell phone, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“He could still be in the city, then?”

“Could be. He checked out of the Four Seasons, though; I called yesterday.”

“Could have changed hotels.”

“And names. Did you add Peeples to the warrant?”

“Yeah; that's on the record, now. Does he know we know about the Peeples identity?”

“I didn't tell him, but the feds are looking for him under that name, and they've got a head start. If they find him first, lots of luck on ever getting him back for a murder trial.”

“Yeah, I'd like to get my hands on him first.”

Joan came into the room, and she didn't look happy.

“Dino, hang on for a minute. What's up, Joan?”

“The bank called; the cashier's check cleared.”

“Boy, that was fast.”

“They wired the funds to a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

“You hear that, Dino?” he said into the phone.

“Yeah, we'll never track him that way.”

“There's something else,” Joan said.

“What?”

“The check Billy Bob gave us bounced.”

“
What?
”

Joan shrugged.

“I heard that,” Dino said. “Stone, you are a complete, absolute, gold-plated, fucking schmuck!”

Stone could not find a reason to disagree.

JOAN KNOCKED
on Stone's office door.

Stone looked up. “Yes?”

“Don't look so depressed.”

“I have good reason to feel depressed,” he said. “Somebody just stole fifty thousand dollars from me.”

“Not to make it worse, but that leaves us overdrawn at the bank, and if I don't get some money in there pronto,
our
checks are going to start bouncing.”

Stone sighed. “All right, tell my broker to sell another fifty thousand and wire it.”

“Ah, that would only replace Billy Bob's fifty thousand, and we've already sent him that much, so we're going to need to raise a hundred and fifty thousand, if we're going to pay this week's bills.”

“All right, a hundred and fifty thousand,” Stone said. That meant that, in a single week, he had cashed in 20 percent of his portfolio.

Joan disappeared.

Stone grabbed his coat and walked down the hall to her office. “I've got to get out of the house, or I'll go crazy,” he said.

“Go shopping,” Joan suggested. “That usually makes you feel better.”

“That makes
women
feel better,” Stone said. He left by the street door and started walking west. A cold wind whipped around him,
blowing down his neck. He had forgotten to wear a muffler or a hat. By the time he got to Park Avenue he was freezing, and he was certain he was being followed. Crosstown traffic was heavy, of course, not moving much faster than he was, but the same black Suburban with darkened windows kept pulling even with him, then dropping back, allowing other traffic to pass. New York drivers did not allow other traffic to pass; in fact, most of them would rather block traffic completely than let anyone else pass. It was unnatural.

He turned right on Park, walked to Fifty-seventh Street and turned west again. A few steps from Park, he went into Turnbull & Asser, his shirtmakers. He went up to the second floor and looked idly at ties, choosing a couple, then he found a cashmere scarf he liked. He looked at hats and chose a soft, foldable one, then he walked to the window and looked down: the black Suburban was parked across the street, next to a fire hydrant.

Stone went to the rear of the shop, to the custom department, and started flipping through the book of Sea Island Cotton fabrics. He grabbed a pad and jotted down numbers of swatches, then a salesman approached.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “May I help you?”

Stone tore the sheet off the pad and handed it to him. “I'd like to order these numbers, please.”

The man got an order pad and made note of the numbers.

“How long?”

“Eight to ten weeks.”

That wasn't exactly the instant gratification Stone was looking for. He charged the things he had selected and put on the scarf and the hat, then he walked back downstairs. The black Suburban was still there, its engine running.

Stone looked down the street and saw a meter maid, or whatever they called them these days, coming. He cracked the front door. “Excuse me, miss,” he said.

She walked over to the door. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, that enormous black car over there has been parked next to that fireplug for at least an hour. I hate to see the law flouted like that.”

“I'll take care of it,” she said. She jaywalked across the street, to the rear of the car, took out her pad and began writing a ticket.

Stone stood and watched. The driver's door of the Suburban opened and a man got out, wearing only a business suit, in spite of the cold wind. The man pointed at the license plate and said something. The meter maid didn't even look up, just kept writing. The man reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it and showed it to her. She ignored him, finished writing the ticket, walked to the other end of the truck and put it under the windshield wiper.

The man pursued her, waving his arms and yelling.

Stone pulled up the scarf to obscure part of his face, pulled his hat brim down, slipped out of the shop, walked to the corner and crossed the street. As he approached the Suburban, he checked the license plate: U.S. Government. Swell.

He walked down Fifty-seventh Street, then turned north on Madison Avenue, feeling better. A moment later, the Suburban passed him, then turned right on Fifty-ninth Street, apparently missing him. He went into Barney's, a department store in the low sixties, found the restaurant and ordered a double espresso. He got out his cell phone and called Tiff Baldwin. He got her secretary, who seemed to recognize his name and put him through.

“So,” Tiff said, without preamble, “are you having an attack of bad conscience?”

“About what?”

“About not telling me how to find Billy Bob.”

“You know everything I know, kiddo,” he said.

“I doubt it.”

“Is that why you're having me followed?”

“What are you talking about?”

“C'mon, Tiff, I left my house a while ago, and a black Suburban with government plates and men with badges has been following me ever since.”

“They're not mine,” she said.

“Then whose are they?”

“They could be anybody's,” she replied. “Could be the Department of Agriculture or the Bureau of Weights and Standards—anybody.”

“Well, that's helpful. Why would fed types be interested, if you didn't sic 'em on me?”

“Consult your conscience for the answer to that one, my dear. You want to talk dirty, or something? Because I've got people waiting, and if I'm going to stay on the phone with you I need a good reason.”

“Let's do it tonight.”

“Do what?”

“We'll figure out something.”

“Okay. By the way, I need some letters of recommendation for my co-op board application. Will you write me one?”

“I'd love to, but I have to tell you, it's probably not a good thing to have a lawyer write a letter.”

“Why not?”

“Because there might be somebody on the board who's been on the other side of some disagreement with one of his clients, and who remembers the situation unfavorably. Call Dino, and ask him. They'd love a letter from the head of detectives at the One Nine.”

“I see your point, and that's a good suggestion. I'll pick you up at eight tonight, and I'll book the table.”

“You're on, and ask around and see if any of your people are on my back, will you?”

“Maybe.” She hung up.

As Stone was putting away his cell phone a man sat down at his table.

Stone blinked. “Hello, Lance,” he said. Lance Cabot was a CIA officer he had had some dealings with a couple of years ago.

“Good morning, Stone,” Lance said. “That wasn't very nice, what you did to my guy a few minutes ago.” Lance was impeccably dressed, as always, in a camel-hair polo coat with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket.

“I think everybody should obey the law, most of the time,” Stone said. “So he was yours?”

“He was and is.”

“And why are you interested in where I buy shirts?”

“Not so much that, as where you're going and who you're seeing these days.”

“And why would you care?”

“Oh, we like to look in on our contract consultants from time to time, make sure they're not moving in bad company.”

Stone had signed a contract with Lance a year ago to offer counsel when requested. “Oh, that's right, I'm a consultant for you people now. You know, I haven't seen a nickel out of that contract.”

“We haven't needed your help until now,” Lance said.

“What's up?”

“It's about a client of yours, one Whitney Stanford.”

“Never heard of him,” Stone said, then a light went on. “Unless . . .”