by Stuart Woods
“She did not.”
“You want a couple of hours to feel her out?” Dino asked.
“That won’t be much fun.”
“Not as much fun as feeling her up, I’ll grant you.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Dino.”
“I don’t have to send out the detectives just yet.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Stone said, and he hung up.
44
Stone thought about it for a few minutes before he made the call. He tried the office number and asked for Hank.
Another woman came on the line. “Who’s calling?”
“Stone Barrington. I’m a friend of Hank’s.”
“She called in sick some time back. I haven’t heard from her, and her cell phone went straight to voice mail.”
“I see. Thanks for your help.” He hung up and called Hank’s home number. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. “It’s Stone. We need to talk right away, before you talk to anybody else.” He left his office number, though he knew she had it.
Half an hour later, Hank called back. “Hi, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“Are you ill?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m just a little shaken up, and I’m not thinking very clearly.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yes. I was in the shower when you called earlier. I just saw the flashing light on the phone. Can we get together? I need to talk with you.”
“Then you’d better talk to me now, because soon you’ll be talking to the police, and it won’t be fun.”
“I don’t mind talking to them, I’m the victim, remember? Not a perp, to put it in yours and Dino’s graceful and expressive language.”
“You’d better be prepared to convince the police of that, or not talk to them at all.”
“Are you giving me legal advice?”
“I will, if you like, on the basis of a client-attorney relationship.”
“Should I hire you?”
“You should hire somebody. Do you know any very good attorneys?”
“I don’t know any attorneys at all, except for you.”
“I think it would be a good idea for you to be represented by someone else, in the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“An attorney who might be more sympathetic to your plight.”
“What plight? What are you talking about, Stone?”
“All right, let me ask you one question—as an attorney.”
“Okay.”
“Where’s the head?”
“The head of what?”
“The head of Bats Buono.”
“As far as I know, he’s self-employed.”
He thought she seemed perfectly calm, maybe a little exasperated with him.
“I’m talking about the head that used to rest on his shoulders.”
“You’re saying that Onofrio has lost his head? Metaphorically?”
“Not metaphorically—actually.”
“Stone, you’re not making any sense.”
If this is a performance, he thought, it’s a good one.
“Are you sitting down?”
“No, should I be?”
“Yes. The Connecticut State Police sent a crime-scene team to the lake cottage. They found traces of blood in the kitchen sink.”
“And what conclusion did they draw from that?”
“That somebody did some bleeding.”
“I didn’t, I’m wound-free.”
“Did Bats cut himself shaving?”
“Not that I noticed. What aren’t you telling me, Stone?”
“They searched the property and found a corpse in the woods.”
She gave a little gasp. “Onofrio’s?”
“It was carrying his wallet and two cell phones, yours and his.”
“He took it away from me. He’s actually dead?”
“Yes, and his head is missing.”
“Oh, shit!”
“Well, yes. His car was missing, too, and there were tire tracks leading into the lake. A dive team is on the way there now to raise it.”
“And you’re saying the police think I had something to do with his death?”
“They’re considering it. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Look, he was alive when he drove away from the house. That was the last I saw of him, and he hasn’t called.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?”
“Now that you mention it, I guess not. Am I really a suspect?”
“I think they would probably describe you as ‘a person of interest’ in the case, but that’s only one bad answer from ‘defendant,’ so when they come calling, tell them the truth.”
“I am telling the truth. I always tell the truth.”
“They’re going to ask you about the protection order you took out against Buono.”
“Now, look, Stone . . .”
“Stop right there. Consider your answer.”
She was quiet for a moment. “All right,” she said finally, “I almost took out the order, but I didn’t actually do it.”
“Then why did you lie about it? Don’t you know there are court records of protection orders?”
“I was on the point of doing it, but he suddenly stopped calling, so I waited for a couple of days, and when he didn’t call again, I didn’t take out the order.”
“All right, I’ll accept that answer.”
“That’s very good of you,” she said, and there was acid in her voice. “You checked up on me, did you? Or Dino?”
“Yes. Do you blame me?”
“I apologize for lying to you.”
“Thank you. The good news is, the cops, generally speaking, don’t know about your lie. The bad news is, Dino does.”
“And he would rat me out about that?”
“I don’t know. At least you haven’t lied directly to a cop, only to me. Keep it that way.”
“All right. Any other advice?”
“Do you want me to find a lawyer for you?”
“I thought you would represent me.”
“That is not in your best interests, given our personal history, however short. I say again, I think you need to be represented by another attorney.”
“Do I really need a lawyer right now?”
“That’s my best advice.”
“But then he’ll tell me not to answer any police questions, won’t he?”
“Very possibly.”
“And if I don’t, that will make me look guilty, won’t it?”
“It’s a conundrum. The advantage lies in not having any lies on the record. If you want to answer their questions, he’ll be in the room, to keep you out of trouble.”
“All right, recommend somebody.”
“His name is Herbert Fisher. He’s with my firm, Woodman & Weld. He’s young, smart, and shrewd.”
“All right, Herbert Fisher.”
“He’s called Herb.” He gave her the number.
“I’ll call him.”
“Do that.”
They both hung up. Stone was still confused, but there was enough in her answers to keep him believing that she had not killed Buono.
45
Jack Coulter was in the Breakers’ gym, working out, as he had done every day in prison, except he did not now use weights to achieve bulk. He glanced at the mirrored wall and was pleased to see himself as a well-built, fit forty-year-old. He had had his suits altered twice to adapt to his decreasing weight.
His cell phone rang on the stool beside him, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“Who is this?” A male voice, deep, raspy.
Jack hung up an
d waited. The phone rang again. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, this is Will Crowder. Are you expecting my call?”
“Yes.”
“Manny Millman said—”
“Stop. Report.”
“Yes, sir. The subject, Harry M. Moss, is a sixty-one-year-old white male, five-nine, one-sixty, in apparently good health. He retired from the FBI at fifty-nine and lives on his pension, plus benefits from an inheritance.”
“What benefits?”
“His mother married twice. Her first husband, Martin Moss, was a carpet salesman for a big furniture store in New York. He died of a heart attack at fifty-four. Her second husband, William Hood, was the owner of the big furniture store. Not long after their marriage, he retired at the age of sixty-nine and sold the business. They moved to Delray Beach, Florida, to a beachfront condominium in a building constructed in the 1920s. He proceeded to gamble away much of his capital, and he shot himself at the age of seventy-two, on the beach in front of their building late at night. Mrs. Hood continued to live in the apartment until her death, three years ago, in much-reduced circumstances. She left her son, Harry, the apartment and enough in a trust to pay the maintenance, taxes, and fees on the apartment, but not much else.
“There was some considerable feeling in local law enforcement that Mrs. Hood murdered her husband, her motive being to conserve what was left in his estate before he threw it all away. The theory of the case is that the two of them went for a walk on the beach after midnight, and that she took along a .32 caliber revolver belonging to her husband that he kept in a bedside drawer, that she shot him in the right temple, knowing that he was right-handed, wiped the gun, put his fingerprints on it, and left it in the sand next to his body. She returned to her apartment via a service elevator, which was very little used at night, then went to bed and waited for someone to come to the door and inform her of her husband’s suicide. She was awakened by the police around eight AM the following morning, roused from a sound sleep, she maintained, after the discovery of Mr. Hood’s body by a maintenance worker who had come to rake the beach.
“Repeated interrogations failed to shake her story—that she had gone to bed at her usual hour of eleven, and that her husband must have taken a late walk after that time, then, depressed by his financial woes, taken his own life. The case was closed after a coroner’s inquest ruled Hood’s death a suicide.
“Moss lives entirely on his pension, as he had saved little, and he is not yet old enough to collect Social Security. He has listed the apartment with a local firm, naming a price of three million nine hundred and fifty thousand. He probably hopes to realize three and a half million. It has been on the market for fifteen months with two offers of less than two mil. He blames local market conditions following the recession. He drives a two-year-old Toyota Camry Hybrid and frequents the five-dollar window at Hialeah racetrack, wins some, loses some.
“Contact with a close acquaintance says that he does little with his time other than hang out at a local coffee shop and the public library in the daytime and a local bar in the evenings, watching sports on TV and trying to pick up women, almost always unsuccessfully. His attitude toward life is one of being thwarted—especially by his stepfather’s gambling habit. He feels that, if not for that, he would be a wealthy man today, driving an expensive car, dressing well, and having sex with beautiful women.
“His defining characteristic is that he is always looking for a windfall that will restore him to that position, but he seems unlikely ever to achieve that.
“That concludes my report. Do you have any questions?”
“No.” Jack hung up.
• • •
Will Crowder stared at the phone in his hand as if to rebuke it. He had no idea whom he had been talking to and no idea why. He called Manny Millman.
“Yes?”
“It’s Will Crowder. I’ve made my report. Your friend seemed satisfied.”
“Good. Your debt is canceled. I’ll have your three grand for you this afternoon at the track. Come see me.” He hung up.
46
Herbie Fisher sat in his office, cradled by his Eames lounge chair, reading a letter for his signature. His secretary buzzed. “Yes?”
“Stone Barrington for you.”
He pressed the SPEAKER button. “Stone?”
“How are you, Herb?”
He had trained Stone not to call him Herbie anymore. “I’m just great, thanks. You?”
“So-so.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I just got off with a friend who may be in trouble.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Her name is Henrietta Cromwell, calls herself Hank.”
“Does she look like a Hank?”
“Not a bit.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d see her, talk to her. If you can help, please do.”
“What’s her number?” Herbie saw the light on his second line flashing. “She may be calling now. Hang on.” He buzzed his secretary. “If someone called Hank Cromwell calls, get her in here.” He went back to line one. “Okay, give me some background.”
Stone started with his meeting Hank at Clarke’s, then took him, step by step, through everything that had happened.
“All right,” Herbie said, “I think I get the picture. Do you have an opinion about this?”
“I’d rather let you form your own after you see her.”
“There is the possibility, as I see it, that after you left the lake cottage with Hank, Buono could have returned to the lake and been murdered by somebody else—either someone who came with him or someone who knew where he was and came after him.”
“I think that’s her way out of this.”
“Is she a truthful person?”
“I’ve caught her in only one lie, about the protective order. Everything else could be true, or she could be lying about all of it.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made my day more interesting. Maybe we’ll talk again after I’ve seen her.”
“I think you’ll make better decisions if I don’t contribute to them.”
“As you wish. See you.”
They both hung up.
His secretary was standing in the door. He signed the letter and handed it to her.
“Ms. Hank Cromwell will be here in a few minutes,” she said.
“When she arrives, show her straight in.”
• • •
Once again, Herbie admired Stone’s taste in women. He took Hank to the other side of the room, sat her on his sofa, and took a chair opposite.
“Stone thinks I may be in trouble,” she said.
“I heard. Do you think you’re in trouble?”
“If there’s a God in heaven, I’m not.”
“That could go either way.”
“Do you want to ask me if I’m a murderer?”
“No, I don’t. If I do that, and you answer in the affirmative, then I can’t put you on the stand at trial without becoming your accomplice after the fact. It’s my hope that your version of the facts is sufficient to convince me that you’re entirely innocent.”
“Entirely innocent,” she said flatly, as if she were considering her condition. “Is anyone ever entirely innocent?”
“Certainly. But some people who are innocent of a crime still feel guilt about their behavior, and whether they’ve somehow contributed to the event.”
“In my case, which event?”
“Let’s start with the kidnapping.”
She repeated what she had told Stone.
“If that’s a true story, or alternatively, if it’s a story that cannot be proven to be untrue, then I don’t think you are complicit in your own kidnapping.”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me
about your rescue.”
“Onofrio left the cabin to go grocery shopping.”
“Hold it right there. Let’s examine that. Why would a kidnapper leave his victim alone to go to the grocery store?”
“You’ve heard of the Stockholm syndrome, when a kidnapped person begins to feel sympathy for her kidnapper?”
“Of course.”
“This is sort of the opposite of that. I, ah, treated him in such a way that he began to trust me.”
“By having sex with him?”
“That was part of it. I just didn’t behave like a victim. I behaved the way I did when I was seeing him.”
“How long did you see him?”
“About seven months.”
“And the relationship was like what?”
“Pleasant, amusing—he did have a sense of humor—and attractively sexual.”
“And you tried to make it all those things again?”
“Yes, I did, and it worked. Also, besides trusting me, he knew that I had no idea where I was, not even what state I was in, having arrived there in the trunk of a car. He knew that I’m a city person, unaccustomed to the woods, and he knew that I’m a little afraid of the dark.”
“A little?”
“All right, more than a little. Enough that I was well anchored in the cottage. He knew I wouldn’t try to walk out of there at night.”
“So, what is your theory of what happened after you left the cottage with Stone?”
“Well, obviously Onofrio returned to the cabin and someone else killed him. I certainly didn’t, and somehow I don’t think he committed suicide.”
Herbie laughed. “Probably not. Do you have a theory of who killed him?”
“He had associates, he ran a chop shop, which is a criminal enterprise, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then his associates were criminals. I should think he knew a number of people who would kill him for several million dollars. I think that Onofrio would have killed me for several million dollars, but I don’t think he intended to, or that he thought he had to to get the money. Stone had already said that he would bring the money, but that he would have to see me alive before he’d hand it over.”
“Did you ever meet any of Onofrio’s associates?”