6 Stone Barrington Novels (57 page)

“I wish you hadn't asked that question.”

“Because you don't know the answer?”

“That's pretty much it.”

Dino sighed deeply. “It looks like I'm going to have to come down there and straighten this out for you.”

Stone had sort of been hoping he would; he missed Dino.

“You'll have to bring Mary Ann.”

“Nah, she won't come while the kid's in school.”

“How is Ben?”

“Well, his grandfather hasn't turned him into a made man yet.”

“And how is Eduardo?”

“As mean as ever. He never gets older, just meaner.”

“And Dolce?”

“I don't know. Mary Ann won't talk about her. I guess she's still nuts. Eduardo's got her locked up in farthest Brooklyn, and I don't see her ever getting out.”

“When can you come?”

“Tomorrow, the next day, maybe. I can get the time off, I think. Can you find me a sack?”

“Sure, and a nice one, too.”

“I'll call you with my flight number.”

“I'll be there.”

“See you.”

“See you.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING IT WAS, TO STONE'S ASTONISHMENT, raining, and raining hard. Juanito had put up clear curtains around the afterdeck, so Stone had breakfast alone there and checked with Joan for messages. He returned half a dozen calls, including one to Bill Eggers.

“I spoke to Thad yesterday,” Eggers said, “and he is one happy client. I hope you're not thinking of coming back to New York before you clear up any remaining problems. If you do, I'll have you hit over the head in the airport and put you on the next airplane back to Palm Beach.”

“Oh, I'm sticking it out,” Stone said, “and it has turned interesting.”

“How so?”

Stone went through the whole story once again.

“You know,” Eggers said when Stone had finished, “being a partner in this firm is not nearly as interesting as what you do.”

“Probably not. By the way, I sat next to one of your clients at dinner last night—a Lila Baldwin.”

“Oh, God,” Eggers groaned. “Be careful around her. Once, during a discussion of estate tax avoidance, she grabbed my crotch.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“
I
was, I can tell you.”

“You've led a sheltered life.”

“Right, and I'd better get back to it. Call me if you need any backup.”

“Will do.”

Stone had hardly hung up when the phone rang. He punched a button. “Shames residence.”

“May I speak with a Mr. Stone Barrington, please?” A male voice.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Barrington, my name is Ebbe Lundquist. I'm with the Minneapolis Police Department.”

“How are you?”

“Okay. Earlier this morning I had a very interesting conversation with Chief Griggs of the Palm Beach PD.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, and I immediately checked our records on Mrs. Frances Bartlett.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found that the smashup was handled as an accident by the traffic division of the sheriff's department, and since they didn't suspect foul play, we were never brought into it. Apart from reading about it in the papers, this was the first I've known about it.”

“I'm glad Dan Griggs enlightened you.”

“He said that you enlightened him. You're ex-NYPD, right?”

“Right.”

“Ever work homicide?”

“For many years.”

“You think this was a homicide?”

“It has that distinct odor.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Griggs told you about Bartlett's little identity problem?”

“Yes, we're looking at that now.”

“That's a tip-off. Then there's the fact that Mrs. Bartlett rescinded a prenuptial agreement and made a new will in Paul Bartlett's favor less than a month before she was killed. And I understand she was very rich.”

“First I've heard of that,” Lundquist said. “I'll check it out. We're looking for the wrecked car, too. Right now, I'm not sure where it is.”

“I'd be very interested in what you learn,” Stone said.

“Tell me, what's your interest in Paul Bartlett?”

“He may be harassing a client of mine.”

“Enough harassment to put him in jail?”

“Not yet, not unless he tries to harm her.”

“So, if we arrested him for the murder of his wife, that would be okay with you, huh?”

“Sure would. But please don't think I'm trying to frame him for it to get my client off the hook. The information that Griggs and I passed on to you is just what I came up with, almost by accident. If he's a murderer, I'd like to see him nailed for it, but I'm not positive he's the guy who's harassing my client. There's a physical resemblance, and that's as far as I've gotten. Griggs told you about the FBI hold on his fingerprint file?”

“Yeah. I've run into that once before. It's not going to help.”

“I don't see how it would hurt a homicide investigation. You can convict him as Bartlett or as John Doe; you don't need his real identity. I'm the one who needs that, so if you come up with something along those lines, I'd really like to hear about it.”

“Can I reach you at this number?”

“Yes, and I'll give you my cell phone number, too.” He recited the number.

“Got it. I'll call you.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you know where this guy can be found?”

“No. He checked out of the Chesterfield Hotel yesterday and didn't leave a forwarding address. He says he's house-hunting, and that he bought a Bentley. So far, he doesn't seem to have any interest in leaving Palm Beach, unless he's worried about me. I did ask him a few pointed questions.”

“Do me a favor and don't crowd him. If we get something on him, I want him where I can find him.”

“Our interests may diverge there,” Stone said. “I have to put my client's safety first.”

“Okay, okay, just try not to scare him out of town.”

“I won't, unless I have to.”

“Thanks. I'll call you.”

“Bye.” Stone hung up and greeted Callie, who was still yawning. “Sleep late?”

“It's the rain,” she said. “It's like a narcotic. You had breakfast?”

“Yep, but it wasn't as good as the ones you make.”

“You're sweet.”

“Are you going to talk to Thad today?”

“Maybe. I can, if necessary.”

“Please tell him that I've asked a friend, a New York City detective lieutenant, to come down here and lend a hand. I'd like to put him up on the boat.”

“I'm sure that will be all right. We're not expecting any other guests, and anyway, the house is ready now. Who is this fellow?”

“His name is Dino Bacchetti. He and I were partners for a long time when I was on the force. He's saved my ass more than once.”

“I must remember to thank him. Will I like him?”

“Probably. He'll certainly like you,” Stone said.

“Should I see if I can find him some female companionship while he's here?”

“Not unless you want his Sicilian wife to come after you with a sharp instrument.”

“I think not.”

“Don't worry, Dino will be fine on his own. Anyway, we can pair him with Liz at dinner.”

“Does he know her?”

“He knows about her, but they've never met.”

“Funny, I don't think I've ever met a cop before. I mean, except for you, and you're not a cop anymore.”

“You'll find Dino charming at times, and blunt to the point of rudeness at others.”

“I never mind bluntness in people, unless they're insulting. Sometimes I'm not sure whether they're trying to insult.”

“When Dino is trying, you'll know.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“He is certainly that.”

Liz came out of her cabin and made her way aft.

“Oh, Liz,” Callie said. “Stone has got you a date.”

“Huh?” Liz asked sleepily.

“Not a date, just a dinner companion,” Stone explained.

“As long as it's not Paul Manning,” she said, sitting down at their table.

“It's not,” Stone said. “Callie, do you know where the Rolls-Royce dealership is in Palm Beach?”

“It's in West Palm, on the mainland,” she said. “Hang on, I'll show you.” She dug a map out of her purse and pointed at it. “There are a whole bunch of car dealers along this stretch of road; it's one of those. You thinking of buying a Rolls?”

“No, but they sell Bentley, too.”

S
TONE CROSSED THE BRIDGE TO THE MAINLAND. THE heavy rain roiled the Inland Waterway, and his windshield wipers were on full blast. The Rolls-Royce showroom was on the same lot with the BMW dealership, but separate. He put up his borrowed umbrella, strolled into the showroom and began looking at the Rollses and Bentleys, new and used, on the floor. Shortly, a man whose clothes were a cut above those of the average car salesman left his glassed-in office and approached him.

“Good morning. May I answer any questions?”

“Just looking, really. What does the new Bentley sell for?”

“It starts at two hundred fifteen thousand,” the man said. “And there are some options available.”

“Very handsome car,” Stone said. “You just sold one to an acquaintance of mine—yesterday, I believe.”

The salesman wrinkled his brow. “Yesterday? And who would that be?”

“His name is Paul Bartlett.”

“Tall gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he came in and had a test drive, but he didn't buy a car. I believe he went into the BMW showroom next door, though. Perhaps they had something rather more to his liking.”

“Maybe so,” Stone said.

“Would you like to drive a car?”

“On another occasion, perhaps. Thanks for your time.”

“Please come back,” the salesman said.

Stone left and went next door. The BMW showroom was less plush than its neighbor, and the salesmen were lined up along the window at steel desks. One of them leaped up and came toward Stone.

“Hi, there. Can I show you a car?”

“Oh, I'm just window-shopping at the moment. You sold a car to a friend of mine yesterday, though.”

“Oh? Who's that? We sell cars every day.”

“Paul Bartlett.”

“Oh, yeah. We did the deal on the phone. I picked him up at the airport yesterday. He's from Minneapolis.”

“That's the one.”

“Paul got the black 750i, with the V-twelve engine. I've got another one on the lot. I could put you in it inside the hour. Why don't you take a test drive?”

“Oh, I'd just be wasting your time. I'm a couple of weeks away from buying. I just wanted to have a look. Say, where is Paul staying, do you know? He was at the Chesterfield, but he's checked out.”

“He's at the Colony. I sent the paperwork over there yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, the Colony. Say, I don't mean to cause you any concern, but how did Paul pay for the car?”

“He gave me a cashier's check from a local bank.” He suddenly looked concerned. “Why? Do you think something might be wrong?”

“Not if he gave you a cashier's check,” Stone said. “Thanks for your time.” He walked out of the showroom, put up his umbrella and ran back to his car, avoiding the deeper puddles. Well, he thought, Mr. Bartlett has lied about his residence and his car. He is obviously now watching his back. Stone sat in the car and called the Minneapolis Police Department.

“Ebbe Lundquist, in homicide,” he said to the operator.

“Homicide,” a man's voice said.

“Ebbe Lundquist, please.”

“Lieutenant Lundquist is out of the office for a few days.”

“Might he have gone to Florida?”

“That's right. Can someone else help you?”

“No, thanks,” Stone said. He broke the connection and called Dan Griggs.

“Hello?”

“Morning, Dan, it's Stone Barrington. I believe you talked to a Lieutenant Lundquist yesterday?”

“Right.”

“I think he's on the way down here.”

“He must have found out something that got him moving,” Griggs said.

“I think he wants to talk to Paul Bartlett,” Stone said. “I've learned that Bartlett didn't buy a Bentley but a black BMW 750i. Also, he's moved into the Colony Hotel. I think Lundquist might appreciate it if you put a man on him. He seems to be getting slippery.”

“I can do that.”

“Tell him not to crowd the guy. Our friend Mr. Bartlett is getting nervous, and we wouldn't want him to bail out before Lundquist has a crack at him.”

“I'll tell my man to work wide. Thanks, Stone.”

“And I'd appreciate a call if there are any developments.”

“Sure. You learn anything about that protocol ten-oh-two thing?”

“I talked to my old partner in New York. His guess is that Bartlett is, or rather was, in the Justice Department's witness protection program, and that he jumped ship and set up a new identity on his own.”

“That's an interesting theory,” Griggs said. “Has he got anything to back it up?”

“No, it's just his hunch, but I think it's a good one. By the way, he's coming down here soon, and I'd like for you to meet him. His name is Dino Bacchetti, and he commands the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct.”