Family Jewels (20 page)

46

S
tone Googled the Rio Arriba County Sheriff’s Office and called the number.

“Sheriff’s Office.”

“May I speak to Sheriff Martinez, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Stone Barrington.”

“One moment.” A pause, then, “Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, how are you, Sheriff?”

“Call me Ray.”

“And I’m Stone.”

“I’m real good. You?”

“Good. Tell me, have you made any progress on the Carrie Fiske murder?”

“Well, that’s a real embarrassing question, and I’m afraid the answer is embarrassing, too. It’s no. I got a call from somebody in Washington, D.C., alibiing that fella, what’s his name, Biggert?”

“Biggers, Harvey.”

“That’s the one. Well, I got this call saying that Biggers was in New York at the time of the murder, and the guy wrote me a letter, too. First time I ever got a letter from the CIA. I had it framed.”

“No other suspects, then?”

“Nope, not a single one.”

“I’ve got two for you.”

“I’m real glad to hear that. Who are they?”

“A couple, Derek and Alicia Bedford.” He spelled the names.

“They live around here?”

“No, and where they live is something of a mystery. Their names might be bogus, too. I think they might have been in a Santa Fe hotel the night before the murder, though.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know—possibly the Inn of the Anasazi. If not, then maybe one of the ones around the plaza. Could one of your people check that out?”

“I’ll put a deputy on it right away. We can do that on the phone. What do you want me to do if I find them?”

“I doubt if you will find them, but you might get an address
on them. If they paid by credit card, you could get that number and run it for a name and a billing address. You could try the rental car agencies, too.”

“If, on the off chance, I actually can lay my hands on them, have you got anything to support a charge of murder?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then how is it worth it to me to put a deputy on this? I can’t arrest ’em for parting their hair funny.”

“If you can tell me where to find them, I can put the NYPD onto them, and they might come up with something.”

“Well, if they do come up with something worthwhile, I’m going to want these folks back in my county.”

“There’s an extradition process for that.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’d appreciate your help, Ray. Maybe we can clear this one, get it off your books.”

“I’d sure like that.”

Stone gave him his number. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” The two men ended the conversation, and Stone hung up. He buzzed Joan.

“Yep?”

“Where is Carrie Fiske’s stuff that was sent from New Mexico?”

“In the basement storage room.”

“Can you ask Fred to bring all of it into my office?”

“Sure thing.”

—

T
en minutes later Fred started carrying luggage into Stone’s office; it took him three trips. “Anything else, sir?”

“Not at the moment,” Stone said.

He put the largest suitcase on his desk and went methodically through it. Nothing but clothes, neatly packed. He went through the smaller case and found pretty much the same thing. The train case was all girl stuff. Her briefcase yielded an airplane e-ticket to New York, her passport, some keys, four checkbooks, some pens, and an envelope containing five thousand dollars in brand-new bills. He set it aside and went through the two photography cases, which contained, not surprisingly, cameras, lenses, film, and a tripod. In the larger case Stone found the 4x5 camera that he had seen on the floor in Carrie’s rental cottage. He examined it carefully and found that it contained a plate. He stopped himself from pulling it out of the camera, not knowing how to determine if the plate had been exposed. He buzzed Joan.

“Yep?”

“Will you call Bob Cantor and ask him to drop by here when he gets a chance?”

“Does that mean right now?”

“If he’s available.”

She hung up and called him back three minutes later. “He’s not far away—ten minutes.”

“Good.” Stone set the camera and case aside, picked up the handbag and emptied it onto his desktop. It contained everything he would expect to find in a woman’s handbag: wallet, credit cards and cash, makeup, hairbrush, a guide to Ghost Ranch, and a checkbook. And an iPhone 6.

Joan buzzed. “Cantor’s here, coming in.”

Bob Cantor walked into the room. “You rang, Your Lordship?”

“What?”

“I heard you’re a lord of the manor now.”

“Put that out of your mind.” He handed Cantor the camera. “This appears to have a plate in it, but I can’t tell if it’s been exposed, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

Cantor examined the camera, then he went to the case and found an aluminum plate, inserted it into the camera, and withdrew it with the plate attached. “There you go,” he said.

“Has it been exposed?”

“I don’t know. I can take it back to my darkroom and find out, and if it has, develop and print the shot.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

Cantor left.

Stone picked up the iPhone and examined it. The number one appeared on the phone icon. He pressed it and found another number one on the voice mail icon. He pressed that and found a number. He pressed that, and a man’s voice said, “Hey, Carrie, got your message. We’ll see you around seven-thirty. Bye.”

Stone noted the date and the phone number, then compared it to the one Nicky Chalmers had given him for the Bedfords. It was identical. He checked the recent calls and found a call to a 505 area code number; he pressed the I icon and the Hotel Santa Fe, Hacienda & Spa came up. He called Ray Martinez. “You don’t have to do the search for the Bedford couple,” he said. “They were at the Santa Fe Hotel and Hacienda, and they left a message confirming a dinner date with Ms. Fiske the night before I found her body. You still might try for an address.”

“You done good,” Martinez said.

47

S
tone wasn’t through with the iPhone; he pressed the photos icon and came up with dozens of photographs. He went carefully through them and was surprised to find his own face there: it had been taken at the East Hampton house. He looked through the same roll and found pictures of Nicky and Vanessa Chalmers and of Carrie Fiske, but there were no decent shots of Derek and Alicia Bedford. Each time a camera had been pointed at them they had managed to turn away or get a hand over their faces or otherwise prevent themselves from being photographed.

Joan buzzed. “Dino on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Tell me you’ve got news.”

“I’ve got news, but not much. The Bedfords checked out of the Carlyle this morning. My people had a look at their suite
and found the remains of a throwaway cell phone in a wastebasket, no SIM card.”

“Can any data be recovered?”

“It’s already in the lab, but they’re not optimistic.”

“I’ve got Carrie’s cell phone, and there’s a voice mail message that sounds like Derek, confirming a dinner date with her the night before I found her body. The call came from a Santa Fe hotel, and Sheriff Martinez is checking it out for an address, but given what you’ve just told me, I’m not hopeful.”

“I have still more news,” Dino said.

“Sorry I interrupted you.”

“The names Derek and Alicia Bedford came up as aka’s from the Palm Beach police, so we no longer know their names.”

“How did they register at the Carlyle?”

“Hang on a minute.”

“I’m hanging.”

Dino came back. “They were registered as David and Alexandra Bannister and had a credit card that contained a number, but not a name. This sounds very much like the card is connected to a numbered account at an offshore bank that protects its clients with anonymity. The hotel looked at it askance, but it worked, so they didn’t make a fuss.”

“So we know their new names.”

“For as long as they use them.”

“I notice that the first initials of each name are the same as before. Why don’t you canvass the high-end hotels for the new
name, and if it isn’t there, check for names beginning with D, A, and B?”

“You know something? You should have been a detective.” Dino hung up.

Joan came on the phone. “Bob Cantor is on his way back here with a photograph,” she said.

“Good news.”

Bob arrived fifteen minutes later. “I’ve got something,” he said, holding up an envelope. He fished out a photo. “It appears to have been taken with the camera on the floor, looking up. You can see beams across the ceiling.” He held up a photograph of a man in left profile.

“Aha!” Stone said. “Progress. I found the camera on the floor of the cottage, and I speculated at the time that it may have been knocked over in a struggle.”

“Looks like the camera went off when it hit the floor. Do you recognize the guy?”

“I do. It’s somebody who called himself Derek Bedford, who has since changed his name to David Bannister.”

“I’ve got more,” Bob said. “I flopped the neg and printed it, so I’ve got a right profile.” He held up the print. “Then through a little photographic legerdemain, I put the two profiles together and got a full face, sort of, but not exactly, since it’s made up of two left profiles, and most people, if you draw a line down the middle of their faces and put two lefts or two rights together, look different.”

“This one looks different,” Stone said, “but it’s a hell of a lot
better than nothing, which is what we had five minutes ago.” He buzzed Joan and asked her to fax the three photos to Dino, who called back in a flash.

“Where’d you get a photo of the guy?” he demanded.

Stone explained about the fallen camera and Bob’s work on the negative.

“Okay, I’m going to get this distributed right now, and we can fax it to our list of hotels.”

“You do that, pal, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

“Thanks for the photo. Now, have you got a motive for me?”

“I think they were after the Bloch-Bauer necklace, but it could just as well have been all of Carrie’s jewelry. The guy must have tried to beat or choke the safe combination out of her. What he didn’t know was that, in her purse, was a key to the apartment with a tab on the key ring that held the combination to the safe. He had it all and didn’t know it.”

“Where’s her jewelry now?”

“At Sotheby’s, where it will be auctioned. My appraiser says it’s worth millions, something like a hundred pieces.”

“Now we know what billionaires do with their money,” Dino said.

“She’s not even a billionaire. It just shows you that a girl can squeak by on a few hundred million bucks, until a billionaire comes along to take her away from all that.”

“I could squeak by on a few hundred million,” Dino said, “and you, my friend, are already doing just that.”

“Then I confirm my own judgment.”

“Okay, then tell me where to look for these two murderers.”

“Well, we know they were in the city until this morning, but they could have left. Probably not to Palm Beach, since they seem to be already known to the police there. I’d say they’re big-city people—L.A., Chicago, San Francisco, or maybe resort people—Aspen, Santa Barbara, like that. They seem to tend toward elegance and have expensive tastes. Maybe the FBI has something on them.”

“I’ve already queried them, but I haven’t had an answer yet. I’ll bug them again. Talk to you later.” Dino hung up.

“These people sound like they need the services of a good forger of identity documents,” Bob said. “Would you like me to make some inquiries in the netherworld?”

“If you can do it without putting yourself at risk, Bob.”

“I try to avoid that.”

“Something just occurred to me,” Stone said. “Don’t you have some software that allows you to look at hotel registrations all over the place?”

“I do. They all seem to use one of about three software packages, and I’ve got an in with all three.”

“Could you check current registrations for Derek and Alicia Bedford and for David and Alexandra Bannister?”

“As long as you don’t tell the cops where you got the info.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll have to do this in my truck. Be back in a few.”

Stone twiddled his thumbs for a few minutes, until Bob
returned. “Mr. and Mrs. Bannister checked into the Lowell, on East Sixty-third, an hour ago.” He gave Stone the suite number.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said.

“Wait a little while before you call Dino,” Bob said.

“If you think that will help.”

“It might.” Bob left.

Stone waited fifteen minutes, then called Dino.