by Stuart Woods
They flew back to Key West. Then, back at the hotel, Stone called Evan Keating’s cell phone number and got his voice mail. “This is Stone Barrington; please call me immediately, very urgent,” he said, then he hung up.
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“Looks like he’s going to need legal representation again,” Dino said.
“Looks like,” Stone agreed.
STON E WA S H AV I N G a drink before dinner with Annika at Louie’s Backyard when his cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”
“I got your message,” a voice on the phone said.
“To whom am I speaking this time?” Stone asked. “Evan Keating or Charley Boggs?”
“Take your pick,” he replied.
“Where are you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Tell me something: When you were knifed, how did you pay your hospital bill?”
Silence.
“Was Charley Boggs using Evan Keating’s very exclusive credit card?”
“What’s your point?”
“I guess I’ll refer to you as Evan Keating from now on,” Stone said.
“Okay.”
“Once again, where are you?”
“I’m in Torrington, Connecticut.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Look, Stone, I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“Evan, it would be wise of you, in a legal sense, to answer my questions.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Where is your boat at this moment?”
“This is getting very strange,” Evan said.
“It’s even stranger that you’re in Connecticut.”
“My father is dead.”
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“I know.”
“You know?”
“I know. How did you happen to fi nd out?”
“I spoke to my grandfather, and he told me.”
“When was that?”
“Early this morning.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“On my boat.”
“And where was the boat?”
“West of the Keys.”
“And how did you get back to Key West?”
“I didn’t go to Key West. I went by seaplane from the boat to Miami and got a plane there.”
“Your boat is no longer at Fort Jefferson,” Stone said.
“How do you know where it is?”
“Because I was aboard it this morning when the Coast Guard arrived, impounded it and towed it away.”
“What?”
“Do I have your attention now, Evan?”
“You do.”
“Someone saw your boat out there, unattended. I went out there with the police to find out if you were aboard, dead.”
“Why should I be dead?”
“Well, during the past week or ten days you’ve been knifed and shot. It’s not too great a leap.”
“But why did the Coast Guard impound the boat? It’s not illegal to be anchored out there.”
“Gee, Evan, I’m not sure. Do you think it could be because of the large amount of drugs in the stern locker?”
“There are no drugs on my boat.”
“I pried the lock off the stern locker myself. The Coast Guard chose that moment to arrive, relieving me of the responsibility of calling them.”
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“The stern locker wasn’t locked,” Evan said. “The lock I had on it rusted out, and I threw it away. I haven’t yet bought a replacement.”
“Well, somebody did you the favor of buying a replacement, a very substantial combination lock.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Evan, I think you’d better return to Key West right away and answer some questions.”
“I can’t just yet. I’m dealing with my father’s burial. My grandfather isn’t up to it.”
“I should tell you,” Stone said, “that one of the theories being posited in all this is that your grandfather hired someone to kill both you and your father.”
“That’s preposterous!” Evan said. “No one who knows my grandfather would ever think that.”
“Do you have another candidate for who might want both you and your father dead?”
A long silence. “No, I don’t.”
“Then answer me this: Who might have a motive for wanting you both out of the picture?”
“I don’t know.”
“A financial motive, maybe?”
“Do you mean the money from the sale of the family business?”
“I would have thought it was enough to kill for.”
“For some people maybe, but not my grandfather.”
“Well, on your fl ight back to Key West, you’ll have time to consider who else might profit from your demise.”
“Am I suspected of a crime?”
“You own a boat that was carrying drugs.”
“There were no drugs in that locker when Gigi and I left,”
Evan said. “I know, because I got a rubber dinghy out of the locker to move us and our luggage from the boat to the seaplane, and there was nothing else in that locker except fenders and mooring lines.”
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“Evan, are you coming back? What do you want me to tell the Coast Guard?”
“I’m coming back, and I’d like to retain you again.”
“All right. When are you coming back?”
“My father’s remains are being cremated tomorrow morning. I’ll get the earliest plane I can after that. I shouldn’t think it would be before tomorrow night, or perhaps the day after. It depends on how my grandfather is bearing up.”
“All right, I’ll call the Coast Guard and tell them that.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you when I get in. Goodbye.” Evan hung up.
“You lead such an interesting life,” Annika said. 2 01
44
ST O N E A RRIV E D B A C K at the Marquesa near lunchtime the next day to find Dino on the phone. Dino punched the speaker button. “You might want to hear this; it’s Dan Hotchkiss.”
Stone sat down.
“Go, Dan,” Dino said.
“Just a follow-up,” Dan said. “We traced the Pirelli 210 tires to a Mercedes station wagon owned by a Dr. Ralph Peters, of Torrington. Dr. Peters left his car at the airport, and he and his wife went to Maine for a couple of days. When he was taking his baggage out of the car a man offered to help, a white male, fortyish, medium height, medium weight, wearing sunglasses and a yellow ball cap.”
“That’s our guy,” Stone said.
“Dr. Peters said he saw a red Cessna there, too, one that isn’t based there and wasn’t there when he returned this morning. Also, when he got back he realized he was missing his ignition key from his key ring, and he found the key on the driver’s seat. He fi gured it had fallen off when he was getting out of the car.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dino said. “I figure our guy borrowed his car for a while.”
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“The tire prints matched the Mercedes,” Dan said. “We got back the ballistics report from our lab, too. The bullet we found in the kitchen wall was a .223. I’ve faxed the report to Tommy Sculley to compare with his slug.”
“So now you know how the killer got to Torrington and out of town,” Stone said. “He’s probably having the airplane painted somewhere in South Florida as we speak.”
“Probably,” Dan agreed. “I don’t think our chances of nailing this guy are very good, which is a shame, because I’d really like to know who hired him.”
“Are you looking at Eli Keating for this?”
“God knows he’s got a motive, but I can’t see him hiring a hit man to kill his son and grandson. He’s in his eighties, and very rich already. I could see how he’d be pissed off at his son for trying
to lock him away, but he wouldn’t have anything against the grandson. They were treating each other very warmly when I talked to them.”
“Anything new on the poisoning of Harry Keating?” Stone asked.
“The FBI lab report came back; the poison was thallium, which is found in some insecticides, one of which was present in Warren Keating’s toolshed. That one’s a wash, since Warren is dead, too.”
“Hey, Dan,” Dino said. “Don’t you guys ever catch a killer who’s still alive?”
“Go fuck yourself, Dino,” Dan said pleasantly. “Bye-bye.” He hung up.
“Looka here,” Dino said, nodding toward the pool as he closed his phone. Tommy Sculley, the Coast Guard cutter captain and a man they had not seen before were coming down the walkway toward them.
“Good morning, all,” Dino said.
“Morning,” Tommy replied. “Agent Corelli, this is Stone Barrington, an attorney, and Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, of the NYPD. 2 0 3
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Fellas, this is Agent Rocco Corelli, of the DEA, and of course you know Lieutenant Tabor, of the U.S. Coast Guard.”
“Of course,” Stone said. They pulled up more chairs, and everybody sat down.
“Coffee, anyone?” Stone asked.
Nobody wanted coffee.
“Mr. Barrington, I understand you represent one Charles Boggs, who owns the boat Lieutenant Tabor impounded yesterday?”
“Actually, I represent the boat’s owner, who is not Charles Boggs but one Evan Keating.”
“Hang on,” Tommy said.
Stone held up a hand. “Their respective identities are as we fi rst thought them to be,” Stone said. “I’ll explain later, or at least, I think I will.”
“All right, then,” Corelli said, “you represent this Evan Keating?”
“I do,” Stone replied.
“And where might I find Mr. Keating at this moment?”
“At this moment, he is, I believe, en route back from Connecticut, where he has been attending to his father’s death for the past two days. The father is one Warren Keating, who was murdered a couple of days ago. Evan informed me that he will be back in Key West tonight or tomorrow sometime. He is anxious to speak with you about the drugs we found on his boat.”
“There has been progress in the Warren Keating investigation,”
Dino said. “It appears that Mr. Keating was murdered by the same man who tried to murder his son, Evan, in Key West. The descriptions match, and when you get back to your office, Tommy, you should have the ballistics report for comparison with your bullet.”
“Good,” Tommy said. “I’ve sort of brought Tabor and Corelli up to date on all that.”
“Agent Corelli,” Stone said, “Evan Keating maintains that when he and his girlfriend left his boat, after hearing of the death of his 2 04
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father, the stern locker contained nothing but a rubber dinghy, which he took with him, and his mooring lines and fenders, and that it was not secured with a lock. He will tell you this himself after his arrival in Key West.”
“And he has no idea why the locker was full of twenty kilos of pure cocaine, with a street value of millions?”
“None whatever. I should also tell you that Evan Keating is personally wealthy, and that he is anticipating a fi fty percent share of the proceeds of the sale of his family’s business, which will make him some hundreds of millions of dollars wealthier. I can attest to this, because I have reviewed the contract for the business sale. Thus, he has no motive to make money from the sale of drugs.”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Barrington,” Corelli said. “Does he have any other explanation for why the drugs were present on his boat?”
“No, but I can posit an answer to your question.”
“Please do so,” Corelli said.
“It seems likely that drug smugglers, who work regularly in and out of Key West, spotted Evan’s boat, which is well known on the island, having been previously owned by the local tennis pro, Chuck Chandler. Perhaps this person or persons thought the drugs might arrive in Key West with less chance of being found if they entered the harbor on a well-known local boat instead of whatever drug-running rocket ship they were traveling in.”
“I do know of a couple of cases where smugglers tried to move drugs on the boats of unsuspecting owners,” Corelli said, “so your supposition is not entirely beyond reason. However, I will still need to question Mr. Keating and his girlfriend, Ms. Jones.”
“If you’ll give me your card,” Stone said, “I’ll arrange a meeting as soon as Evan arrives back in Key West.”
“Tommy,” Corelli said, “you know this gentleman. Is his word to be trusted?”
“Yes,” Tommy said.
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Corelli stood up, and so did everybody else. “In that case, I’ll look forward to your call,” he said, handing Stone his card. They all shook hands, and Tommy and his party left.
“You up for some conch fritters?” Dino asked.
“Always,” Stone replied.
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45
STON E A N D D IN O were polishing off their usual dessert of key lime pie.
“I think we should go to Miami,” Dino said. Stone blinked. “Why?”
“To talk to our erstwhile colleague Manny White.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t have anything else to do, and visiting Manny will keep us busy.”
“What do you hope to learn from Manny?” Stone asked.
“We already have our suspicions about Manny,” Dino said, “but even if they aren’t true, he probably knows more about all this than we do.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” Stone said. “But first I need to call Evan.”
He did so.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone. Where are you?”
“Still in Connecticut. We’re taking a morning flight from LaGuardia tomorrow, and we’ll land in Key West at two o’clock.”
“Where are you staying?”
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“At the Marquesa again. We can’t stay on the boat, can we?”
“Not yet. A DEA agent came to see me earlier today. Naturally, he’s anxious to talk with you about the drugs found on your boat.”
“Naturally,” Evan replied.
“I’ll set something up with him tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll go see him.”
“All right. Not before four o’clock; you know how flights are these days.”
“That will be good. See you then.” Stone hung up, called Rocco Corelli and made the appointment. “All right,” he said to Dino, “let’s go to Miami. Do we have an address?”
“He’ll be in the phone book,” Dino replied. On the way to the airport, Stone got a weather forecast and fi led a fl ight plan. Half an hour later they were winging their way north.
They landed at Tamiami Airport and got Manny White’s address from a phone book, then took a cab.
Manny White Investigations was housed in an elegant little Art Deco office building in South Beach, on the top floor. There was a nicely furnished reception room with a pretty receptionist, and they were shown into Manny’s office right away.
Manny didn’t rise to greet them. “Well,” he said, deadpan, “to what do I owe the thrill of this visit?”
“We were in town and thought we’d drop by to say hello,” Dino replied, offering himself a chair.
“Hello,” Manny said. He turned toward Stone. “You too.”
“Hi, Manny,” Stone replied.
“So how long you been in business here?” Dino asked.
“Since I retired, seven years ago.”
Dino looked around the office. “Business must be good.”
“Not bad,” Manny said. “It took a while to build it up.”
“What sort of investigations do you do?” Stone asked. 2 0 8
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“Skip tracing, employee embezzlement, divorce and child custody, you name it.”
“How many operatives do you employ?” Dino asked.
“Half a dozen, all freelancers.”
“Who are they?”
“Ex-cops, mostly. Now and then I run across somebody who’s just smart, and I hire him.”
“Manny,” Dino said, “you were helpful to us when a client of Stone’s was in danger of getting shot. Suppose we wanted a little wet work done. Could you send me to somebody good?”
“What kind of wet work?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“How can I send you to the right guy if I don’t know what kind of work you want done? Everybody’s a specialist these days. You want somebody burgled, I recommend one guy; you want a debt collected, I recommend another guy.”
“Suppose we wanted somebody’s clock stopped,” Stone said.
“Could you handle that?”
Manny regarded him evenly. “You guys wearing a wire? Maybe you should be in your underwear for this conversation.”
“I’ll be happy to strip for you, Manny, but neither of us is wired.”
“This is just an informal discussion,” Dino said. “Very hypothetical. Could you handle a clock-stopping?”
“I don’t handle nothing,” Manny said. “I just pass along instructions.”
“You sound like the Happy Hooker, Manny,” Dino said.
“That’s not an unfair comparison,” Manny replied. “I’ll need to know whose clock we’re talking about and where he is, something about his habits.”
“Maybe we should talk directly to your contractor,” Stone said. Manny shook his head slowly. “You never meet him; he’s funny that way.”
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“What’s the going rate for
clock-stopping these days?” Dino
asked.
Manny shrugged. “Depends on distance, difficulty and whether the guy has protection.”
“Ballpark number?”
“Could be twenty-five big ones, if it’s local and easy; two, three times that if travel is involved and if he has security. What part of the country we talking about?”
“Key West, maybe,” Stone said. “Maybe Connecticut.”
Manny became inert.
“Manny, you still there?” Dino asked.
“I’m still here,” Manny said, “but you guys aren’t.” He nodded toward the door. “Take a hike.”