Dirt

by Stuart Woods

  Dirt

  Stuart Woods

  The tables have turned on ice-queen gossip columnist Amanda Dart: someone is faxing the scathing details of her sexual indiscretions to national opinion makers. Amanda turns to Stone Barrington – ex-cop, fulltime lawyer, and sometime investigator – for help.

  Stuart Woods

  Dirt

  The second book in the Stone Barrington series, 1996

  This book is for David and Lynn Kaufelt

  Chapter 1

  Dinner had been wonderful – twelve around a gleaming oval table of burled walnut in a dining room a dozen stories above the light-flecked carpet of Central Park, the cooking by the chef of a famous restaurant a few blocks away, the wines from the host’s superb cellar, and the company carefully chosen by a couple who could cast a wide net. Amanda Dart felt quite at home among them.

  As they moved from the table into the library next door for coffee and brandy, Amanda reflected that her presence there was as much a tribute to her position as to her personality, though she could certainly hold her own in any company. Of those present – a movie star and his gorgeous companion, a captain of industry and his dowdy wife, and a former British prime minister, her dinner partner, among them – Amanda alone possessed the power to tell the world just who her hosts had attracted to their table, something the couple wanted very badly for the world to know. It was vulgar to drop names; Amanda Dart, queen of gossip columnists, would do the dropping for them.

  Lord Wight, the former prime minister, was taking a keen interest in Amanda, attention that, on another night, would have been a great deal more interesting for her. Tonight, however, she had other plans, other company in mind, and the thought made for a weak feeling in her crotch.

  “I chose my title from the island of my birth,” Lord Wight was saying.

  “Oh, yes, the Isle of Wight,” Amanda said, returning his serve. “I believe the town of Cowes there is the capital of British yachting.” Point made.

  “The capital of European yachting,” his lordship replied.

  “And that’s where you sail your little yacht?”

  “Actually, it’s quite a large yacht,” Wight replied testily. “And I don’t just sail it, I race it.”

  “Tell me, Lord Wight,” Amanda asked innocently, “just how does someone amass enough of a fortune to buy a large yacht during a lifetime of public service?”

  “Fortunately, my dear lady,” Wight said, smiling softly, “in my country the amassing of a fortune is not incompatible with a life in politics. One acquires knowledgeable friends who advise one on how to invest one’s money.”

  Amanda winked at him. “One understands,” she said.

  Her hostess joined them. “Amanda, dear,” she said, “you made me promise to tell you when it was midnight, and it is. You’re catching a plane?”

  “To St. Bart’s,” Amanda said, moving forward in her seat in preparation for standing.

  “Surely there’s no plane out of Kennedy at this hour,” Wight said, consulting a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “They do have noise regulations, don’t they?”

  “Not at Teterboro,” Amanda replied. “One is fortunate enough to have friends with jets.” She stood up, bringing Lord Wight with her.

  “My dear,” he was saying, “I do hope I can see you when I’m next in New York.”

  “Of course, Lord Wight,” Amanda replied, fishing in her little clutch purse for a card. “I would be delighted to hear from you.” Any night but tonight, she thought.

  She made her good-byes, collected her coat from the butler, and slipped out of the huge apartment.

  Downstairs, her trusty driver, Paul, and her elderly Cadillac were waiting. Amanda slipped into the back seat, and in a moment they were moving. “The Trent, Paul,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.

  It was Amanda’s fiftieth birthday, though no one knew it; she was in spectacular shape, her firm body the product of a regular program with a trainer in her own little gym. Amanda allowed no other person to see her perspire. She placed two fingers on her carotid artery and glanced at her watch. Her resting pulse was normally forty-five; tonight, it was seventy.

  Amanda lived her life in very public view, and she took great care in how she presented herself to her world. Although of a deeply sensual nature, she was known as something of an ice queen, and she was quite happy to keep it that way. Her sexual alliances were few, but athletically maintained, with men who were always wealthy, off her beaten track, very discreet, and usually younger than she. Tonight and for the weekend, she would see her very favorite, a real estate developer from Atlanta named Henry Bell, who made it to New York no more than once every eight or nine months. Perfect for Amanda.

  Henry was a pillar of Atlanta society, the husband of a retired opera singer and the father of two daughters whose social ambitions were relentless. Amanda had helped them meet tout Gotham while, unbeknownst to them or anyone else, she had established a highly erotic relationship with their father, who was a youthful forty-five. This weekend he was in New York, ostensibly for a board meeting, and he was waiting for her at the Trent, a small, elegant hotel in the East Sixties. They planned to be together until early Monday morning.

  The car glided to a halt at the Trent ’s discreet entrance. Amanda looked up and down the block before she got out; she had no wish to run into anyone she knew. “No need to get the door, Paul Please meet me here after midnight on Sunday – say, two A.M.”

  “Two o’clock Monday morning,” Paul said.

  Satisfied that the block was empty of pedestrians, she slid out of the car and ran across the sidewalk, slipping on a pair of dark glasses. She paused for a moment in the foyer of the hotel and glanced across the little lobby at the front desk, where a man in a tailcoat was working. She waited until he turned away, then scooted across the lobby, unspotted, to the alcove where the elevator was. She pressed “P” for penthouse and waited while the car traveled upward for fifteen floors. When the door opened, she popped her head out to check that the hallway was empty, then walked out of the elevator and to the end of the hall, stopping before double doors.

  Glancing around once more to be sure she was alone, she stepped out of her shoes, then slipped off her panties. She was not wearing a bra under the little black dress. She took off her coat and unzipped her dress. Then, holding her coat, shoes, and panties in her hand, she rang the bell. Seconds later the door opened, and she stepped inside.

  Henry Bell stepped back to allow her to enter. He was wearing a silk dressing gown. He said nothing, but untied the belt and whipped it off, presenting a trim physique and a throbbing erection. Amanda dropped her belongings on the floor, wiggled her shoulders, and let the little dress fall off, revealing full breasts and a finely crafted body. She kicked the dress out of the way and stood there, wearing only black stockings and a black garter belt.

  “Hello, sailor,” she said, and went to him.

  Late Sunday evening, they sat propped up in bed, naked, next to the remains of a room service dinner on a tray. Henry dozed lightly while Amanda watched yet another of his endless collection of erotic Scandinavian videotapes. Henry had a little man in Stockholm who sent them to the Trent whenever he was in New York. Amanda loved them.

  This one was particularly intriguing, she thought, glancing at Henry. Poor baby, she had given him a real workout for the whole weekend. He deserved his rest; still… She reached for his penis and began kneading it gently. A small smile appeared on his sleeping face.

  “We’ve just time for one more round, sweetie,” she said.

  Henry didn’t open his eyes. “If I can,” he whimpered.

  Amanda rearranged herself slightly, then bent over and took his penis into her mouth. Henry gave a little groan and began to respond
.

  At that moment, the doors to the suite’s bedroom burst open with a bang, and the room was filled with light.

  “Over here, Amanda!” a man’s voice shouted as a flashbulb went off.

  Amanda sat straight up in bed, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Her left hand still rested on Henry’s penis. “What?!” she screamed. There were all sorts of lights, those that flashed and those that burned steadily.

  “Get out!” Amanda screamed, shaking a fist at the lights.

  Henry sat frozen, dumbfounded.

  “Just one more, Amanda!” the man’s voice shouted.

  Amanda picked up a heavy clock from the bedside table and threw it at the light as Henry suddenly came to life. He started toward the intruders, but the bedroom doors were slammed in his face. He threw his shoulder against them, then howled in pain.

  Amanda did what she most wanted to do in the world: she screamed.

  An hour later, fully dressed but still trembling, Amanda fled the hotel, got into the back of the Cadillac, and was driven home. She looked over her shoulder but saw no witness to her leaving. She was in control again, and she had begun to assess the damage. It promised to be considerable.

  Chapter 2

  Amanda walked into the office suite of her penthouse, dressed in her standard uniform of Chanel suit, Ferragamo shoes, plain gold jewelry, and a gold Cartier Panther wristwatch and bracelet.

  Her staff of three, at their desks five minutes before her always precise nine o’clock arrival, leapt to their feet as one, welcoming her back and complimenting her on how tanned and rested she looked. She shook each of their hands, received their compliments, and sent them back to their desks, save her secretary, the trusty Martha, who had been with her for her entire career as a columnist.

  “Ready for your messages?” Martha asked, holding up a batch of yellow slips.

  “Not yet,” Amanda replied, slipping behind her little French desk. She loved the desk. Sister Parrish, the doyen of New York interior designers, had found it especially for her when she had done the apartment a few years before her death. “Before I do anything else, get me Bill Eggers at Woodman and Weld. He should already be at his desk.”

  Martha returned to her desk, and a moment later the green light on Amanda’s phone flashed; her party was on the line, waiting. Amanda did not converse with other people’s secretaries.

  “Bill,” she breathed into the phone. “How are you, darling?”

  “I’m wonderful, Amanda,” the lawyer replied. “How was your holiday?”

  “Just perfect. I’m fully rested and raring to go. What was Hickock’s reaction to our latest contract proposal?”

  “I called him on Friday, but he’s putting me off,” Eggers replied. “He says somebody in the legal department is on vacation, but to tell you the truth, I think he’s just not giving it his full attention. After all, he’s got another two months and three weeks before your contract expires. He’s used to negotiating with the print unions right up to and past deadlines.”

  Amanda frowned, then forced her facial muscles to relax. Having recently had some lines surgically removed, she didn’t want new ones cropping up. “He’s not going to have that luxury,” she said.

  “You want me to call him again?”

  Amanda thought for a moment. “No,” she replied. “Meet me in the lobby of the Galaxy Building at precisely ten minutes past one this afternoon.”

  “Do you already have an appointment?”

  “No, but he’ll see me.”

  “If you say so, Amanda, but listen, I have to give you my best advice on this before you do anything rash; that’s my responsibility.”

  Amanda sighed. “Go ahead, Bill.”

  “Okay, you’re in a good negotiating position; your readership is slightly up in the home paper, and well up in syndication. You’re not overpaid, at the moment, and what we’re asking for is not out of line with the numbers involved. However, it’s almost never good to appear eager when you’re dealing with Dick Hickock; he’ll have you for breakfast, if he thinks he has any sort of edge. My advice is to wait, not even call him, just wait for his call. He knows exactly when your contract is up, and he won’t ignore the deadline and risk losing you to another paper. Sit tight, and you’ll get most of what you want. There, I’ve said it; what do you want to do?”

  “Precisely ten past one, at the Galaxy Building.”

  “See you there.”

  Amanda hung up and began doing something she had forced herself to put off: She went through the New York and L.A. papers quickly, looking for any reference to the incident of the night before. As she had suspected, there was nothing. Every paper had closed well before the photographs were taken at the hotel, and nobody would have been fool enough to print the story without substantiation. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief; she had until early evening, when the show biz news programs came on, after the evening news.

  Amanda got up, walked to the door, and leaned against the jamb, looking out into the open bay where her secretary and two assistants sat. Of the three, only Martha had known where she had spent the past weekend, and nobody, but nobody, could torture the information out of that woman. While the others hadn’t known, they might have somehow picked up something around the office. Still, each of them was well paid and, apparently, happy in his or her work. One, Helen, was a young woman of thirty who had been with her for three years; the other, Barry, was a gay man who had been with her for eight. There was not a naive bone in Amanda’s body, but her best judgment told her that the news had been leaked from somewhere else, most likely from her lover’s end, although he had denied any such thing. Most likely his wife had put a detective on them, but that remained to be seen.

  “All right, Martha,” Amanda said, “let’s go through the messages.”

  At nine minutes past one the elderly Cadillac glided up to the main entrance of the Galaxy Building, and Amanda stepped out; Bill Eggers was waiting in the lobby. It was lunchtime, and the two were alone together in the elevator.

  “Amanda, won’t he be at lunch at this hour?” Eggers asked.

  “Dick Hickock always has lunch at his desk on Mondays,” she replied. “Always.”

  “Are you sure he’ll see you?”

  “He won’t have a choice,” Amanda said.

  “Jesus,” the lawyer said under his breath.

  They stepped out on the thirtieth floor, into a paneled and hushed hallway. The receptionist’s desk was empty; a sign on the desk said,

  THIS FLOOR IS CLOSED UNTIL 3:00 P.M. FOR ASSISTANCE, PLEASE GO TO THE MAIN RECEPTION DESK ON THE TENTH FLOOR.

  “Follow me,” Amanda said. She strode down the hall, her footsteps silenced by the thick carpeting, through a double door marked “Chairman,” across a reception room, and into the office of Richard M. Hickock, chairman of the board of Galaxy Media. Dick Hickock sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his necktie undone, the Wall Street Journal open before him, eating a huge sandwich.

  “Hello, Dick, darling!” Amanda enthused, walking behind the desk and planting a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smear of cerise.

  Hickock had just taken a large bite out of his sandwich, and he struggled to get it chewed and swallowed so that he could speak. By the time he had, Amanda and her lawyer were seated in a pair of chairs to his right.

  “You know Bill Eggers, don’t you?” Amanda asked.

  Hickock nodded and washed down food with a glass of beer.

  “Amanda, what the hell…” he began.

  “I do apologize for interrupting your lunch, Dick,” Amanda said contritely, “but I hope you will understand that this just won’t wait.”

  “Amanda,” Hickock said, shaking his head in disbelief, “there’s a thirty-eight in my desk drawer, and I would have used it on anybody who walked in here like that.” He smiled benevolently. “Anybody but you. Now what can I do for you?” He nodded at the sandwich. “My Milton Berle is waiting.”

  “What’s in a Milton Berle, Dick?” Amanda
asked, apparently fascinated.

  “Corned beef and chopped liver with Russian dressing on pumpernickel, and this.” He held up a huge pickle. “The reference to Berle,” he said, grinning.

  Amanda blushed. “Oh, Dick! You are awful!”

  “It’s true,” Hickock said to Eggers. “I am awful.”

  “It’s about our contract proposal,” Amanda said without further ado.

  “Amanda, your contract has another three months to run,” Hickock replied. “What’s your rush?”

  “Oh, it’s not me, darling, it’s SI Newhouse.”

  Hickock’s face instantly became expressionless. “SI who?” he asked disingenuously, his eyes narrowing.

  “Dick, it’s been awful; I’ve spent the whole weekend fending him off. Somehow, he got my phone number, and he would not be put off.”

  “Don’t listen to a word he says,” Hickock said.

  “Oh, I’ve tried not to – he’s such an awful flatterer – but I must admit, when he started throwing numbers around…”

  “That absolute shit,” Hickock said, almost to himself.

  “Oh, I don’t want to go with SI, Dick; that’s why I came to see you. He’s practically forced me to have a drink with him later today – God knows, I don’t want to alienate him – and I’m planning to tell him, as sweetly as I possibly can, to go away.”

  “Right, my dear,” Hickock said, smiling. “That’s exactly what you should do.”

  “But I can’t, Dick darling, not with things just… hanging the way they are with my contract.”

  “Just say no, Amanda.”

  “Well, I can’t very well do that, if I don’t know for sure that I have a deal with you, can I? I mean, my God, I don’t want to leave Galaxy, but when he’s dangling all that money in front of me and all those perks…”