by Stuart Woods
“That would be me,” said a pretty waitress at his elbow. That got a big round of applause.
Todd watched appreciatively as she went back toward the bar for his drink.
“Watch it, Chief,” one of his men said.
“I am, pal, I am.”
TEDDY FAY WORKED AWAY at his airplane in his hangar at Clinton Field. He borrowed a small crane from the airfield’s shop and spent the morning unbolting his engine from the airframe and lowering it into a crate, for shipment back to the manufacturer. The engine had served him well, but it was near the end of its Time-Between-Overhauls period, and he had elected, for reasons of speed, to replace it with a factory remanufactured engine, which came with a zero-time logbook and a full warranty. The new engine would arrive the following day. Teddy also had plans to replace most of the instruments in the airplane’s panel with new glass cockpit instrumentation.
Teddy screwed the lid of the crate into place and affixed a shipping label. The engine would be picked up the same day. He was having the propeller overhauled locally.
Lauren called down from upstairs. “The movie starts at two,” she said.
“I’ll get cleaned up, and I’ll buy you lunch,” he called back.
He went upstairs, used grease remover on his hands and scrubbed his nails, then he took a shower and changed clothes.
Lauren was waiting in the almost new Toyota convertible he had bought her the day before, and he got into the passenger seat. “Take me for my first spin,” he said.
They drove across the ramp, past the FBO (Fixed Base Operator), where they stopped to let a Cirrus pass in front of them, on the way to parking. Teddy exchanged a wave with the instructor, sitting in the righthand seat. “I’ve talked to that guy a couple of times,” Teddy said to Lauren. “He’s trying to get me to become a part-time instructor here. The FBO has a busy little flying school.”
“Why don’t you do that?” Lauren asked, driving behind the airplane toward the exit gate.
“Tell you what I’d rather do,” Teddy said. “I’d rather teach you to fly.”
“Me, fly?”
“I think you’d enjoy it. As soon as I get the airplane back together, let me give you a few lessons. If you don’t like it, we’ll forget about it.” Teddy was concerned about her becoming bored in their new location.
“Okay, I’ll give it a whirl,” she said.
They drove out to a mall, lunched at a little restau
rant, and went to see The Social Network. They both thought it was great.
Back at Clinton Field, they let themselves through the security gate with the card they had been given, then had to slow again for the same plane they’d seen earlier.
“That stude>h tnt seems to be taking two lessons a day,” Teddy said. “That’s quite a load of work.”
“He must have a lot of time on his hands,” Lauren said. “Maybe he’s too rich to work.”
“Maybe so,” Teddy replied.
30
STONE AND DINO SAT IN A BORROWED OFFICE IN THE WEST Wing of the White House and gazed at the middle-aged Filipino woman who sat across the desk from them. She was fidgeting a little, and there was a film of perspiration on her forehead. She was the fourth of the four White House maids who cleaned the family quarters, the first three having been a waste of time to question.
“Mrs. Feliciano,” Stone said, “we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes about your work.”
“I try very hard to do the best job I can,” the woman said. “I hope there haven’t been any complaints.”
“Oh, no,” Stone said, “nothing like that. We’re just interested in some of the visitors you may have encountered in the family quarters.”
“Does the president know you’re talking to me?” the woman asked.
“Yes, he does. We’re speaking to you at his request.”
“The president told you to talk to me?” Now she looked more nervous than ever.
“No, Mrs. Feliciano, not just you. We’re talking to all the maids who work in the family quarters to get a few questions answered.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Well, I don’t know anything,” she said. “I just clean.”
Stone smiled and tried again to put her at ease. “How long have you worked at the White House?” he asked.
“Twelve and a half years,” she replied.
“And how long have you cleaned the family quarters?”
“A little over three years.”
“Good. Now think back over the past two years or so. Have you, when you were cleaning upstairs, ever seen anyone in the quarters who did not belong there?”
“Oh, no, sir, the Secret Service people would never allow any unauthorized persons in the quarters.”
“How about authorized persons, like the cooks and repairmen?”
“Oh, yes, I see them all the time.”
“How about Mr. Kendrick? Did you ever see him in the quarters?”
“Mr. Brix? Oh, yes, many times.”
“What would he be doing when you saw him?”
“Well, he would sometimes bring in people from the outside, like to install new carpets or curtains, or he would supervise when they put in a new TV, or once, a new ice machine.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Brix in the quarters with a lady?”
“Sometimes the people he brought in would be a lady.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Brix and a lady go into or come out of one of the upstairs bedrooms?”
The woman looked more thoughtful. “Sometimes.”
“Do you remember who any of the ladies were?”
h ked more dth="1em">“He sometimes brought the White House decorator upstairs.”
“And what is the decorator’s name?”
“Miss Charles,” she replied. “I don’t know her first name.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Brix take Miss Charles into one of the bedrooms?”
“I guess ... I’m not sure.” Then her face changed, as she seemed to remember something. “Oh,” she said, “do you mean go into a bedroom and close the door?”
“Did you ever see Mr. Brix and Miss Charles go into a bedroom and close the door?”
“No,” she replied, “but once I...” She flushed a little.
“Go on, Mrs. Feliciano.”
“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble,” she said.
“Don’t worry, no one will get into trouble.”
“Well, once I saw that happen, but it wasn’t Miss Charles.”
“Who was the lady?”
“I don’t know. I went upstairs once to bring some linens that had come back from the laundry. It was early in the afternoon, when I’m not usually in the quarters. I clean in the mornings.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I was in the linen closet, putting away some sheets, and I heard some voices—a man and a woman. They were laughing. I stepped out of the closet just in time to see two people go into the Lincoln Bedroom. One of them, the man, was Mr. Brix.”
“And the other?”
“I couldn’t tell. I just saw her back for a second before Mr. Brix closed the door.”
“Think back. Is there anything at all you can remember about the woman? Tall or short? Heavy or slim? Blonde or brunette?”
She closed her eyes for a long moment, then she opened them. “No,” she said.
“What did you do then?”
She looked a little embarrassed. “I won’t get into trouble?”
“No, Mrs. Feliciano, you won’t get into trouble. Please be honest with us, this is very important.”
“Well . . . I went into the bedroom next door, into the bathroom that’s just next to the Lincoln Bedroom, and I . . .”
“Go on.”
“Well . . . I picked up the tooth glass and put it against the wall and put my ear to it. I could hear them talking.”
“And what were they saying?”
She flushed even more. “They ... it was sexy talk.”
“Can yo
u repeat exactly what they said? Don’t be embarrassed, it’s important.”
“I heard her say, ‘I want it,’ and he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to give it to you.’ And then they were on the bed. I could hear the bed squeaking. I think they were ... doing it.”
“What do you think they were doing?”
“What a man and a woman do in the bedroom.”
“Did you hear them say anything else?”
“No, just noises, like. Happy noises.”
“What did you do then?”
“I cleaned the glass, then I got out of the quarters. I didn’t want to be there when they came out of the bedroom.”
“Did you see them after that?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. But the next morning, I changed the sheets in the Lincoln Bedroom. They were ... stained, sort of.”
“Can you remember anything else, Mrs. Feliciano?”
She looked down. “I took something,” she said. “From the Lincoln Bedroom bathroom.”
“What did you take?”
Mrs. Feliciano’s purse was in her lap, and she opened it and rummaged around for a moment, then she held out something.
Stone took it from her and examined it. It was a lipstick tube, and the name “Pagan Spring” was printed on it.
“I didn’t think she would be coming back for it,” Mrs. Feliciano said.
“No, I suppose not,” Stone replied. “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“No, please do,” she replied. “It isn’t mine, anyway, but I
liked the color.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Feliciano,” Stone said. “Can you put a date to when this happened? Estimate when it was?”
“I know exactly when it was,” she said. “It was the day Mrs. Kendrick and Mr. Brix died. It was the last time I saw Mr. Brix.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Feliciano,” Stone said. “You’ve been a very big help.”
The woman gratefully fled the room.
“Okay,” Dino said, “your theory is starting to look a little better.”
31
STONE CALLED HOLLY ON HER PERSONAL CELL PHONE.
Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Well, hello, stranger. How long has it been?”
“Uh, night before last?”
“Oh, right. I’m beginning to feel that I’m on a Stone-restricted diet.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived. How about tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Room service and what you once so charmingly referred to as a ‘bounce.’”
“Oh, yes, I think I remember.”
“I should bloody well hope so,” Stone said, contriving to sound hurt.
“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me, now. That sounds like a good plan. You know those vodka gimlets you make at home?”
“I believe I recall the consumption of vodka gimlets.”
“Do you think you could make some for tonight?”
“I think I can manage to remember the recipe.”
“Oh, good. What is the recipe?”
“You’ll have to screw that out of me tonight, so to speak.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Is eight o’clock all right? I have to clear my desktop of some 1crap.”
“Eight will be just long enough for the gimlets to get frosty, before your arrival.”
“Until then, then.”
“Until then.” Stone hung up. “Oh, shit,” he said aloud to himself, then pressed the redial button.
“It’s me again,” she said.
“It’s me again, too. I forgot to ask you about something.”
“Does it involve national security?”
Stone thought about that. “I don’t know, but, as Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”
“Unlike yourself, I’m not old enough to remember who Fats Waller is, or was.”
“Was. The composer of ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ and a very great pianist.”
“Oh, yes. What was it you wanted to know?”
“Do you have any contacts at the DCPD?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Whether what you want to know from them is important enough for me to use up a favor over there.”
“Well, it’s important to me, since they may very well still consider me a suspect in the murder of Milly Hart. Is that important enough to use up a favor?”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Don’t be coy. You don’t want me arrested before tonight, do you?”
“Perhaps not. What do you want to know?”
“Do they still consider me a suspect in the murder of Milly Hart, and are there any new developments in that case?”
“That’s two favors.”
“Be cagey.”
“I can do that, I suppose.”
“You do it better than anybody I know.”
“That’s high praise, coming from you, slick.”
“I meant being cagey.”
“What a disappointment!”
“I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”
“Good. Suckle you later, honey.” She hung up.
Dino looked across the room at him. “I can only imagine her side of the conversation,” he said.
“Dream on,” Stone said, then picked up the phone again and called room service.
“Yes, Mr. Barrington?” a woman’s voice said. “Or is it Mr. Bacchetti?”
“Right the first time,” Stone said.
“What may room service serve you?”
“A bottle of your cheapest vodka and a bottle of Rose’s sweetened lime juice.”
“Is that dinner for one or two?”
“That’s cocktails, honest. I’ll order dinner later.”
“I’m afraid our cheapest vodka isn’t very cheap,” she replied. “Just between us, you’d do a lot better at a liquor store.”
“But then I’d have to go to a liquor store.”
“ size="3May I make a recommendation?”
“Of course.”
“Call the bell captain and have him send a bellman around the corner for your order. Tip him fifty dollars, and you’ll save a hundred and fifty.”
“What a grand idea! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’ve obviously never bought a bottle of spirits from hotel room service before.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“Yes, you could send up canapes for two.” His attention was attracted by Dino, who was waving both hands. “Make that for three.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Room temperature.”
“It will be done. Good evening, Mr. Barrington.”
“Good evening.” They both hung up. Stone called the bell captain, and twenty minutes later a bellman appeared at the door with a brown paper bag, grinning in anticipation. Stone handed him a hundred and took the bag.
“Thank you,” the man said, then dematerialized.
Stone went to the bar and looked around. “We don’t seem to have a measuring cup,” he said.
“Do we have a shot glass?” Dino asked.
Stone looked further. “No.”
“How much vodka do you have to pour out of the bottle?”
“Six ounces.”
“Stop at the top of the label,” Dino said.
Stone found a tumbler and poured the six ounces into it, then he refilled the bottle with the Rose’s and held it up to the light. “That looks perfect,” he said. “Where did you learn that?”
“From you,” Dino said.
“When?”
“One night when we had finished a bottle of gimlets and you had to make some more. You had a measuring cup
that time, but you were still sober enough to notice that, after pouring out six ounces, the vodka level was at the top of the label. You weren’t sober enough to remember it, though.”
“Now
I know why I hang around with you,” Stone said, tucking the bottle of gimlets into the freezer compartment of the bar fridge.
“Nah,” Dino said, “you hang around with me to learn, not to remember.”
Stone held up the tumbler of spare vodka. “What am I going to do with this?”
“You’ll think of something,” Dino said.
32
HOLLY TOOK THE FIRST SIP OF HER FIRST GIMLET. “WOW,” she said. “Super cold!”
“Colder than ice,” Stone said, “because alcohol freezes at a much lower temperature than water—that’s the point. You don’t have to water it down by putting it in a cocktail shaker with ice.” He offered her a canape.
She chose something with smoked salmon on it. “Yum.”
Stone took a sip of his gimlet. “I concur in your judgment of this drink.”
m">
“What did you find out from the DCPD?”
“I thought you’d get around to asking that,” she said, taking another pull at her gimlet.
“What, did you think I asked you over here for the sex?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Come on, cough it up.”
“The detective lieutenant I spoke with expressed considerable disappointment,” she said.
“In what was he disappointed?”
“He was disappointed that he couldn’t find a way to hang the murder on you.”
“Well, gee, the poor guy. Maybe I should send him roses, or something.”
“Or something.”
“What else did he say about the case?”
“In addition to being disappointed, he was relieved.”
“Relieved that he couldn’t hang it on me?”
“No, relieved that he couldn’t hang it on Paul Brandon, Muffy’s spouse. Mr. Brandon is very prominent and well connected locally, and he could have created all sorts of problems for the department if they’d charged him. They were very pleased that there was no substantive evidence against him.”
“Well, I’m so happy Mr. Brandon has been spared their further attention. Do they have any fucking idea who killed Milly?”
“Oh, you and Milly were on a first-name basis, were you?” she asked archly.
“Oh, yeah, I mean we knew each other for a good twenty-four hours.”