by Stuart Woods
“Okay, okay, unburden yourself, or you’ll explode.”
“K. is going to run for president.”
“President of what?”
“Not so loud. The U.S.”
“Can she do that?”
“She’s a natural-born American citizen.”
“But, I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean, and the answer is yes, she can do that.”
“But the primaries?”
“She’s going to wait until the convention.”
Dino gave that some thought. “Oh, I see, Will doesn’t think anybody will get a majority?”
“Not on the first ballot.”
“Sounds tricky.”
“Only if someone pulls way ahead during the primaries, and the polls don’t show that happening.”
Dino thought some more. “She’d make a terrific president.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Stone, can this work? Can she raise the money?”
“She’s already raised twenty-one million: twenty other people and me.”
“She can’t run on that.”
“And each of the twenty-one has agreed to raise another twenty-five million.”
Dino flinched. “Don’t look at me.”
Menus arrived, and they ordered.
“So,” Dino said, “what are you going to get?”
“Get?”
“For raising all this money. Ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s? Or will you have to settle for some banana republic?”
“Nothing but the satisfaction of seeing Will Lee’s policies continued, and I expect Kate will have a lot of her own.”
“What about the other twenty guys?”
“Men and women. They can fend for themselves.”
“Yeah, I guess they can.”
“Something else came up.”
“Is it a secret?”
Stone thought about that. “Yes, I guess so. Attorney-client privilege is involved.”
“Oh, the shyster’s seal of the confession.”
“More or less. You remember that big heist at Kennedy, what, twenty-five years ago?”
“Buono,” Dino said. “Eduardo Buono.”
“What a memory!”
“Who could forget a fifteen-million-dollar heist? And less than half of it recovered.” Dino took a swig of his scotch. “Hey, you didn’t find the money, did you?”
“No, and I don’t know where it is, but someone with whom I have recently become acquainted has, ah, stumbled across some of it.”
“Wait a minute,” Dino said, screwing up his forehead. “John Fratelli.”
Stone gaped at him. “I didn’t say that,” he said, looking furtively around.
“He got sprung a couple of days ago.”
“How could you know that?”
“I had a drink with Sean Donnelly last night. He was the lead detective on the case, retired fifteen years ago.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“He looks kind of dead, but I ran into him at P.J. Clarke’s, so unless he’s pulled off a resurrection, I guess he didn’t die, quite.”
“I guess.”
“So, what sort of shape is Fratelli in after twenty-five years inside?”
“Oh, he’s in remarkably . . . Wait a minute, I never mentioned that name.”
“So the shyster’s seal is still intact. Relax. Is Fratelli walking and talking?”
“Both.”
“So Eddie Buono told him where the loot was.”
“Maybe. Maybe some of it.”
“How much?”
“Don’t be so fucking nosy.”
“I’m just curious.”
“I know you’re curious, but I can’t have you whispering in Donnelly’s shell-like ear.”
“Why would I give a shit if John Fratelli has dipped into Buono’s honeypot?”
“I seem to recall that you are a highly placed police official, chief of detectives, namely.”
“I’m off duty,” Dino said.
“You haven’t been off duty since the day you graduated from the academy. And you would just love to bust this case wide open.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Donnelly get the credit for that.”
“Not going to happen,” Stone said.
“So where’s Fratelli?”
“On vacation.”
“Florida, huh?”
“Stop doing that! I didn’t mention Florida!”
“You’re a mine of non-information,” Dino said.
“Dino, you can’t act on any of this. You said you could keep a secret.”
“No, I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t tell Viv.”
“That was about the Kate thing, not the . . . client thing.”
“I’ll have to review our conversation in my mind, to see if that’s true.”
“Don’t review, take my word for it. I’m not having a client of mine who’s done his time getting sent up again for, ah, accepting an inheritance.”
“Oh, well, the statute’s expired, hasn’t it?”
“Right.”
“Unless ‘inheriting’ this sum is a new crime? Like receiving stolen goods?”
“Let it go, Dino.”
“Okay, okay, I’m just busting your balls.”
“It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
They ate their dinner and talked about other things.
6
Stone’s ass had barely touched his office chair the following morning, when Joan buzzed. “Mike Freeman on one.”
Stone heaved a rueful sigh and picked up the phone. “I know, Mike, and I’m sorry.”
“I hope something terrible happened to you that prevented your being there,” Mike said.
“You’re beginning to sound like Dino.”
“I’m beginning to understand Dino’s attitude,” Mike said.
“I got embroiled in a discussion about a client and didn’t realize that I’d missed the event until it was too late. I offer my abject apologies.”
“Kate asked for you. A lot.”
“I’ll write her a note,” Stone said. “Maybe if I include a check for a million dollars, that will mollify her.”
“A very good idea.”
“What’s the name of the superPAC?”
“The Best Woman.”
“Won’t people guess whom it’s for?”
“We’re hoping most people will think it’s for Hillary Clinton.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Look, this is going to get out anyway. I was amazed that it didn’t make yesterday’s papers.”
“So was I. The event is already a day and a half old, and nothing’s out there. Is it possible this could last awhile?”
“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “Frankly, I’ll be relieved when it breaks.”
“When it does, everybody will accuse Kate of being a spoiler for the other candidates. I’ll bet she starts getting write-in votes in primary states.”
“You go write her a note, now,” Mike said. “I’ll see you later.”
Stone hung up, got out a sheet of his best stationery, and wrote his apology. He buzzed Joan. “Please make out a check to something called ‘The Best Woman.’”
“For how much?”
“A million dollars.”
“Good God, for that kind of money she’d better be the best!”
“And bring it to me for my signature with no further comments or questions, please.”
“Yes, boss.”
A moment later, she appeared with the check. Stone signed it, stuffed it into an envelope, and addressed it to the White House box number where Kate got her personal mail. “Post this, please. No, FedEx it.”
“FedEx won’t ship to a P.O. box.”
“All right, make it 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, D.C., plus the box number.”
“Are you bribing the president?”
“Out.”
“And by the way, you have a visitor.” Joan walked out of the office.
“Who?” Stone asked, but she was already gone. Then John Fratelli filled his doorway—at least he thought it must be Fratelli, because the haircut was still the same. Stone waved him to a chair. Fratelli was wearing a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, a crisp white shirt, and a gold necktie. A pearl-gray fedora was in his free hand, and his shoes were new and elegant. He was pulling the largest, most beautifully burnished leather duffel Stone had ever seen—on wheels, yet. It seemed very heavy.
“Good morning,” Fratelli said.
“Mr. Fratelli,” Stone said, “you are a vision of loveliness.”
“I took your advice,” Fratelli said. “They were great at Brooks Brothers. Turns out I’m a perfect forty-four extra long. All they had to do was fix the trouser bottoms.” He sat down and turned the duffel on end, where it remained. “All I got to do now is grow some hair.”
“And I see you got a larger piece of luggage,” Stone said, then held up a hand. “I don’t want to know why you needed it.”
“I’ve got a smaller one for my new clothes,” Fratelli said. “It’s in the car.”
“What car?”
“The livery Lincoln, remember?”
“Yes, but I thought you were getting out of town yesterday.”
“I thought I might enjoy a night at the Plaza Hotel before I left,” Fratelli said, looking pleased with himself. “I had a couple of drinks and a steak in the Oak Bar, but I had this bag with me at all times.”
“I think you’re going to have to find a safe place to leave the contents,” Stone said. “You can’t go everywhere with a bag that size and that heavy without people wondering, especially if you’re paying cash for everything.”
“You’re right, I know, but when I saw me in the mirror in my new suit, I thought I deserved a night in a fine hotel. Oh, and I paid for it with my new debit card. That was very insightful of you, Mr. Barrington. Carrying enough cash to do business does get to be a burden.”
“Has anyone taken a shot at you today?”
“Not yet,” Fratelli answered.
“Then your disguise must be working.”
“So far.”
“Then you should get on the road, before someone from your past recognizes you.”
“You know,” Fratelli said, “I would have thought that getting recognized by somebody from my past would have been impossible—until yesterday.” He stood up, reached into an inside pocket, withdrew an envelope, and laid it on Stone’s desk. “I don’t think we’ll be meeting again,” he said, “and I didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate your advice.” He put on his fedora, gave it a tap to settle it, and wheeled his money out of Stone’s office.
“Good luck!” Stone called after him, and he answered with a little wave. Stone picked up the envelope and counted the money, then inspected it. The picture of Benjamin Franklin was different from that on the current bills, and the Treasury seal and serial numbers were in red ink.
Stone buzzed Joan and asked her to come in. He counted all the hundreds that Fratelli had given him and handed them to her. “Please deposit this three thousand dollars into my main account, but do it at a different branch, where you’re not known.”
Joan looked at the money, then back at him. “Am I going to get arrested?”
“Probably not,” Stone said. “Now get out of here.”
“If I’m busted, I’m going to tell them everything.” Joan shrugged.
“You don’t know anything,” Stone pointed out. “You’re just making a bank deposit.”
“Hah!” she cried as she left.
7
Less than an hour had passed, and Joan had returned from making her bank deposit. She buzzed Stone. “A Detective Donnelly to see you,” she said.
“Tell him, since he doesn’t have an appointment, he’ll have to wait.”
“Gotcha.”
Stone read the New York Times and did the crossword puzzle, then he picked up the phone. “You may send in Detective Donnelly,” he said.
Sean Donnelly, always a big guy, had gained weight since Stone had last seen him.
“Sean,” he said. “Long time.” They shook hands, and Stone waved him to a chair. “What’s up?”
“I believe you have a client named Johnny Fratelli,” Sean said.
“Well, Sean, if I did have such a client I would be unable to either confirm or deny it, because my client list is confidential.”
“You know he’s your client, I know he’s your client. Why?”
“Sean, after all these years in the department, do I have to explain the concept of client-attorney confidentiality to you?”
“He was seen coming out of this office yesterday.”
“Was he? Maybe he just came in to ask directions. People do that sort of thing all the time.”
“He was carrying a heavy suitcase with bullet holes in it. Somebody shot at him.”
“Well, Sean, shouldn’t you be looking for a shooter at this time, instead of harassing an attorney for information you know he couldn’t give you, even if he wanted to?”
“I remember when you were a smart-ass detective third grade,” Sean said.
“I remember that, too,” Stone replied. “Why don’t we talk about that instead of . . . What was that name again?”
“Johnny Fratelli, and you’re still a smart-ass.”
“I expect you could gather a large body of opinion behind that statement, Sean, especially at the NYPD, but discussing it at length would be a waste of our time. Instead, why don’t you tell me what this is all about? I’m dying to know.”
“It’s about seven million dollars,” Sean said.
“And to whom do those funds belong?”
Sean sputtered a little. “There’s some question about that.”
“If you’re looking for it, then I suppose it must be stolen money.”
“It is.”
“And when was it stolen?”
“Roughly twenty-five years ago.”
“Then that theft has been erased by the statute of limitations. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of it,” Sean said. He was turning a little red now.
“Then on what legal grounds are you pursuing this money?”
“Grounds?”
“Sean, think back to the Police Academy. One day there was a lecture on the legal grounds for charging a person with a crime. Were you out sick that day?”
“I know about grounds.”
“And I should also point out that you have not been a police officer for what, fifteen years? What is this, some sort of citizen’s investigation?”
“I don’t care about the crime, and I don’t care about Fratelli. I just want the money back.”
“Back? Did you ever have the money?”
“I want to give it back to its owner.”
“And who might that be? Let’s see.” Stone turned to his laptop and did some Googling. “Ah, the Acme International Transfer Corporation, now defunct. Sean, I’m afraid the owner no longer exists, not since 1989. And the money? Well, I’m very much afraid that belongs to whoever possesses it, under the long-standing and universally accepted legal principle known as ‘Finders, Keepers.’ See the Magna Carta, Article Four, Section Three.”
“Now, listen—”
“You can’t argue with the Magna Carta, Sean.”
“You’re about to get yourself in some very big trouble, Stone.”
“Come off it, Sean. You blew this case a quarter of a century ago, and now you’ve heard that this guy . . .”
“Fratelli.”
“. . . Fratelli got himself recently sprung—on parole?”
“Nah.”
“Sprung after doing all his time like a standup guy, and now you and your friends want to rob him?”
“What friends?” Sean asked, looking alarmed.
“Well, I’m assuming that a graduate of the New York City Police Academy and a veteran trained marksman of the NYPD, if he took a shot at a guy, would h
it him and not put three rounds into a suitcase, so therefore he must have had some less talented and inexperienced help.”
“There could be a cut in this for you.”
“Sean, I don’t need your cut, I’m awash in dough. Don’t you read the gutter press anymore?”
“Yeah, I read about that,” Sean said disconsolately. “All right, I asked you nice, I offered you a cut, you gave me nothing.”
“Nicely summed up, Sean.”
“But the next guys that ask ain’t going to be so friendly about it.”
“Now, now, Sean, threats are against the law.”
“Okay, I tried,” Sean said. He got up and shuffled out of the office.
“Have a good day, Sean, and don’t shoot at anybody!” Stone called out. He heard the outside door slam.
Joan came into his office. “You know,” she said, “things are going downhill around here. These last two guys are the kind of people you used to see before you became an upscale, corporate lawyer. Should I be worried?”
“Joan,” Stone said, “it’s you who keeps sending these people in to see me—it’s not like I’m soliciting their business.”
“Well,” she said over her shoulder as she stalked out, “you must be doing something to attract them.”
8
Stone had a sandwich at his desk, then Joan came in with the New York Post, which he subscribed to but rarely read. Today would be an exception.
RUSSIAN MOGUL DIES ON PRIVATE JET
Yuri Majorov found dead of “heart attack” at Moscow airport
Stone’s heart leapt. He turned quickly to the inside pages for the story.
Russian zillionaire Yuri Majorov arrived aboard his private Gulfstream jet airplane at a Moscow airport a few days ago, dead. Crew members aboard his airplane said that he had gone to sleep before the aircraft left Santa Monica Airport, in California, for Moscow, with a planned refueling stop in Gander, Newfoundland, where he seemed to be still asleep. But after landing in Moscow, when a flight attendant attempted to awaken him, he was stone-cold dead.
Majorov’s body was taken by Russian police to the Moscow morgue, where an autopsy was performed, but no cause of death could be determined. Authorities await the results of tox screening, to see if any drugs were present in his body, but these tests can take weeks or even months in Russia.