6 Stone Barrington Novels (179 page)

WHEN STONE ARRIVED
at Elaine's the following night, Lance was already seated, and Dino was next to him. “Evening, all,” Stone said. “And I thought it was just you and me, Lance,
tête à tête.
”

“Oh, we have no secrets from Dino, Stone; you know that.”

“I wish I had some secrets from him,” Stone replied, as a waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before him.

“Never happen, pal,” Dino said. “You'll always be an open book to me.”

“Isn't it nice to have good friends?” Lance observed.

“It is, when they're not trying to hang a murder charge on you.”

“Dino would never do that.”

“He's done it twice in the last week.”

Dino shrugged. “All I do is follow the evidence, wherever it leads. It's just more fun when it leads to Stone.”

“This is just great,” Stone said, raising his glass, “Lance is following me wherever I go, and my best friend is trying to send me to prison for the rest of my life. Who needs enemies?”

Elaine sat down. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Only if you're willing to defend me.”

“Against what?”

“Whatever these two come up with.”

“I'm staying out of this one,” she replied.

“I'm hungry,” Stone said. “Let's order.”

“Well, that makes a nice change,” Elaine said, then she got up and moved to another table.

The three of them ordered.

“So,” Stone said, when the waiter had left, “did you two come to an understanding on . . . let's see, it's Whitney Stanford, this time, isn't it?”

“We did,” Lance said.

“In spite of the ballistics test,” Dino said. “The slug from your forty-four was a perfect match.”

“I told you, it's not my forty-four.”

“Well, if Lance is going to take Billy Bob off my hands, you're all I've got left.”

“Lance,” Stone said, ignoring Dino, “come on, give us the real poop on your Whitney Stanford guy.”

“I told you, he's trying to sell some new hand grenades to bad people.”

“What new hand grenades?”

“That's top secret, I'm afraid.”

“Dino and I already have that clearance, and anyway, if Billy Bob knows about them, why can't we?”

“The army has developed a new, rifle-launched grenade that's about ten times as powerful as their current ordnance.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Stone said.

“That's why it's rifle launched. It can't be activated by hand; it's activated by the rifle, when it's fired, and it has a range of up to three hundred yards.”

“Sounds more like a mortar,” Dino said.

“In many ways it is. You can imagine what terrorists could do with it in a crowded city. From the top of a building they could lob the things in all directions at, say, a street demonstration or a parade.”

“Or in Times Square,” Dino observed.

“I shudder to think,” Lance said.

“How did Billy Bob get ahold of them?”

“Stolen from an army proving ground in New Mexico; probably an inside job. An investigation is under way.”

“How many did he get?”

“Thirty-six.”

Stone rolled his eyes. “I can see why you want him so badly.”

“And before he sells them,” Lance said. “It exacerbates the situation that they're small and can be carried in a couple of briefcases.”

Their dinner arrived.

“He has an airplane, you know,” Stone said.

“Who?”

“Billy Bob.”

“What kind of an airplane?”

“A GIV. That has a range of, what, forty-five hundred miles?”

“How do you know this?” Lance asked.

“Actually, I don't know it. The first time Dino and I met him, he said he'd just arrived at Teterboro and an engine had eaten a bird and had to be replaced. For all I know, the airplane may just be another of Billy Bob's lies. God knows, everything else he's told me has been a lie.”

“Not everything,” Lance said. “He told you the truth about being in Hawaii.”

“You found him?”

“We found out he'd been there, but he had checked out of a cottage at the Hana Ranch on Maui by the time we got there. We're checking on yachts now. I wish I'd known about the GIV earlier; he may already be gone, and he could go just about anywhere in that thing. I'll phone it in when I've finished this steak. I don't suppose you have a tail number?”

“Nope. You think he's already moved the grenades?”

“Maybe not; he's missing one thing.”

“What?”

“The modification to the standard rifle launcher that arms the grenade when it's fired. All the ones in New Mexico are accounted for, and if he sold it to these people without the arming mechanism, he'd get a bullet in the brain, or worse.”

“The grenades can't be fired any other way?”

“Nope. You could dribble one like a basketball, and it wouldn't explode. The mechanism does everything—launches it and arms it, with a single pull of the trigger.”

“You know,” Stone said, “every time we invent some new method of killing, the bad guys get it. That's been true from the slingshot to the atomic bomb, and now the administration wants to spend a lot of money developing tiny nuclear weapons. Don't they ever learn?”

“If they did, I'd be out of work,” Lance said.

STONE WAS DOING
the
Times
crossword in bed the following morning, when the intercom buzzed. Stone picked it up. “Yes, Joan?”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Did you listen to the phone messages when you came in last night?”

“No.”

“There's one from Bill Eggers: He wants you at an important meeting at ten
A
.
M
., at Woodman and Weld.”

Stone looked at his bedside clock; it was nine twenty-five. “Oh, God.”

“Maybe it's something that will produce some income,” she said. “You can't keep selling stock.”

“I'm running,” Stone said, heading for the shower.

HE ARRIVED
at the meeting in Eggers's office ten minutes late.

“Good afternoon,” Eggers said pointedly.

“I'm sorry. I got your message only a few minutes ago.”

He turned and looked at the other person seated on Eggers's sofa. She appeared to be in her midthirties, dressed in a beautifully
designed suit and expensive shoes, wearing a tasteful diamond choker and a heavy-looking engagement ring and wedding ring. “I'm Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.

She took it, smiled briefly, but said nothing.

“This is Barbara Stanford,” Eggers said.

The name caused Stone to stop breathing for a brief moment. “I'm very pleased to meet you.”

“Sit down, Stone,” Eggers said.

Stone sat and regarded Barbara Stanford. He guessed that, when she stood up, she would be tall. She had chestnut-colored hair and tawny skin, and the silk blouse under her suit didn't bother to cover too much cleavage.

“Barbara has a rather unusual problem,” Eggers said.

“Perhaps I'd better explain the situation to Mr. Barrington,” she said in a beautifully modulated, accentless voice.

“Go right ahead, Barbara,” Eggers said.

“A little over a year ago, I was married to a man I'd only known for a short time. During the time we've been married, we've spent a total of only a few months together, since he travels widely on business and prefers to do so alone.”

Stone saw it coming, and he dreaded it. “May I ask his name?”

“Whitney Stanford,” she replied.

Stone gulped. “Please go on.”

“I began to think there might be another woman,” she said, “and I began poking around among his things. I found a passport. I thought it odd, since he was in Paris at the time and would have needed his passport to travel there, but when I opened it, it was in another name: Forrest Billings. The photograph, however, was of my husband. I had barely gotten over the shock when a magazine called
Avenue
was delivered to my apartment.”

Stone knew the magazine. It was a society journal that was delivered to every apartment building on the Upper East Side.

“The magazine features a lot of photographs of people taken at parties, and to my astonishment, I saw a picture of my husband with another woman and—you won't believe this—the mayor.”

Eggers, who had seemed drowsy, was suddenly alert.

“The caption for the picture said he was somebody called Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

Eggers got to his feet. “If you'll excuse me, I think it would be best if the two of you talked alone.”

“No, it wouldn't,” Stone said. “Sit down, Bill.”

Eggers sat down, grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table and dabbed at his forehead.

Stone nodded. To Barbara Stanford he said, “Please continue.”

“That's about it,” she said. “It appears I'm married to a man with several identities, and I don't know which one is real. What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?” Stone asked. “I mean, what was your first instinct, when you learned about this?”

“Well, I thought about having him arrested for bigamy, but then it occurred to me that I don't know if he has another wife.”

“Suppose you're his only wife: What would you wish to do then?”

“I think that depends on whether he is who he represented himself to be, or whether one of these other identities is real.”

“Suppose none of his identities is real,” Stone said, “including Stanford.”

“Then I would want an immediate divorce,” she replied.

“May I ask,” Stone said, “have you given your husband any money?”

“No, he's insisted on paying all of my bills from the moment we were married—clothes, credit cards, the maintenance fees on my co-op—everything.”

“You owned the apartment before you were married?”

“Yes, my first husband, who is deceased, left it to me.”

“Well, I think that's good news,” Stone said.

“Of course, there are the investments.”

“He invested money for you?”

“Yes, that's his business, and he's very good at it.”

“May I ask, on what basis do you assume he's good at it?”

“Well, his lifestyle, I suppose. And what he's said in conversation. He's had a number of telephone conversations with Warren Buffett about a start-up they're doing together. And he's never been short of money.”

“How much did he invest for you?”

“Oh, not all that much; the bulk of my assets are overseen by a money manager who was the best friend of my late first husband. I let Whit invest only what was in my money market account at the time.”

“And how much was that?”

“Something over eight million dollars.”

Stone winced. “In what did he invest the money?”

“He put it into various companies that he had developed. The investments were quite well diversified.”

“Have you seen monthly statements on the investments?”

She was looking worried now. “No. Do you think there might be something . . . funny about what he did with the money?”

Stone didn't answer her question immediately. “In recent days, has anyone called or visited your apartment looking for him?”

“Why, no. He hasn't had a single phone call or visitor since he left for Paris.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Not quite three weeks ago.”

“Have you heard from him during that time?”

“Yes, he called daily until the day before yesterday. That was when I discovered the passport. The magazine arrived yesterday. He hasn't called since then.”

“May I ask, what was your first husband's name?”

“Morris Stein,” she said.

“Of Stein Industries?”

“That's right.”

Well, Stone thought, she's never going to miss the eight million dollars. Stein had been well up among the top ten on the
Forbes
list of the world's richest people. “Mrs. Stanford,” Stone said, “I don't think it will be necessary for you to obtain a divorce.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would appear that your husband married you under an assumed name, and if we can demonstrate that he did so, then you would be legally entitled to an annulment.”

“Oh, well, that's a relief.”

“Did Mr. Stanford leave a lot of his things in your apartment?”

“Yes—most of his clothes and a lot of personal effects. Can you arrange the annulment?”

“Yes, but there are some steps we should take first.”

“I'll do whatever you say, Mr. Barrington.”

“To begin with, I'd like to bring some people to your apartment to go through his things and look for evidence of any other identities he might have used.”

“All right; just let me know when you'd like them to come.”

“Then, when they've been through everything, you should have Mr. Stanford's possessions packed up and put into storage. You should have the locks on your apartment changed and instruct the building superintendent that Mr. Stanford is not to be allowed in the building or in your apartment. You should also inform the management of your building that you will henceforth be known by your previous name, and you should inform anyone you do business with, and your friends, of that fact. In short, you will want to erase Mr. Stanford from your life as quickly as possible.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any joint bank or brokerage accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Are you able to give instructions on those accounts without Mr. Stanford's permission or cosignature?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should open new accounts in your own name immediately and transfer all assets in the joint accounts to the new accounts.”

“This is going to be quite a lot of work, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Should I report Whitney to the police?”

“I'll take care of that.”

“Should I hire a private investigator to look into Whitney's background?”

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Stanford—perhaps I should say, Mrs. Stein—I think I should bring you up-to-date on what I already know about your husband.”

“You know him?”

“In a manner of speaking.” As gently as possible, Stone told her nearly everything. When he was done, Mrs. Stein sat silently, looking pale. Bill Eggers was no less pale.

Finally, she spoke. “And you still don't think I should hire someone to look into his background?”

“Mrs. Stein, there is a sufficient number of people already looking into everything about him,” Stone said. “Does he have an office?”

“He works from an office in his old apartment, where he lived before we were married.”

“Do you have a key to that apartment?”

“I believe there's one among his things.”

“If I may, I'll accompany you home to get that key.”

“All right.”

Stone ushered her to the elevators. “Just a moment,” he said. He went back to Eggers's office and stuck his head through the door. “I want you to cut me a check for the fifty thousand dollars that your Billy Bob stole from me,” he said. “Have it hand-delivered before the end of the day.”

Eggers nodded, and Stone closed the door.