by Stuart Woods
After an hour of searching the area, Stone got back into the Range Rover and drove back to Tesuque, through the village and up to the Eagle residence. There were caterers’ trucks and a flower van parked out front, and inside, the living room was being decorated for Susannah’s birthday party, and a man was tuning the grand piano.
Stone wandered into Ed’s study and found Nicky Chalmers reading a book about Winchester rifles. Nicky looked up at him. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your lunch with my phone call,” he said, “but I thought you’d want to know about Harvey.”
Stone sat down on the sofa beside Nicky. “Do you have any idea why he’s here?”
“None whatever,” Nicky replied, “unless he’s still stalking Carrie.”
“Since I last saw you, Harvey has been connected to the corpse next door to Carrie Fiske’s house in East Hampton. Not only that, he was found in similar circumstances in West Palm Beach two years ago.”
“That’s a very disturbing coincidence,” Nicky said.
“It is indeed. And a couple of days ago, Harvey turned up on my doorstep with a gun.”
“Jesus! I’ve known Harvey since Yale, and I wouldn’t have suspected him of something like that. I guess he’s just crazy over the divorce.”
“That’s my feeling. I managed to get into the house and shut the door before he could think about using it.”
“Do you think that was his intention?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that question. Let me ask you another, one that I suspect you’re not supposed to tell me the answer to.”
“And what would that be?”
“Where is Carrie?”
“Ah,” Nicky said, “you’re quite right, I took an oath not to tell you.”
“Let me take a guess,” Stone said. “Maybe you’ll tell me if I’m wrong. Is Carrie in Santa Fe?”
“No,” Nicky said without hesitation.
“Near Santa Fe?”
“Now I’m getting uncomfortable.”
“How near?”
“An hour or two, perhaps. I’m not sure.”
“Do you know how Carrie and I became acquainted?”
“She told me she went to see you about her will.”
Stone sighed.
“Is that, strictly speaking, not true?” Nicky asked.
“Strictly speaking, no. The conversation eventually turned to that, and her will was, ostensibly, the reason I was in East Hampton when we met. Unfortunately, I’m sworn not to tell you the first reason we met.”
“Ah, attorney-client confidentiality?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I could have a guess?”
“If you like.”
“Was Carrie concerned about her safety? Specifically, with regard to Harvey?”
Stone nodded. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
Nicky smiled.
“You said, I believe, you knew Harvey at Yale?”
“Yes. We were on the rowing team together, and we were quite a good one. Harvey was an oar. I, given my smaller stature, was coxswain.”
“May I ask, given your long acquaintance, what is your opinion of Harvey?”
“You may ask, but being of long acquaintance doesn’t mean we saw a lot of each other after Yale. Not even at Yale, truth be told, except when afloat. Harvey was then, and at times since, ah . . . mercurial, shall we say.”
“Mercurial to the point of being unstable?”
“I’m not sure I’m qualified, by training or constant exposure, to answer that in the affirmative. I can tell you, though, that at Yale, Harvey was quick to anger and quick to use his fists when angry. I’ve heard reports from others to suggest that that has not changed in the succeeding years.”
“Do you know if he ever hurt anybody?”
“At Yale, he didn’t lose any fights. Harvey was, then as now, tall and muscular. He may have run to fat a bit over the years, but who among us hasn’t?”
Stone ignored that. “Nicky,” Stone said, “do you suppose that tomorrow you and I might get into a car, take a drive, and accidentally bump into Carrie Fiske?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Nicky said, removing a cell phone from his pocket. “Why don’t I just call her?”
Stone stood up. “I’ll take a short walk,” he said. “Tell her that Harvey is in Santa Fe, that I’m concerned for her safety, and that she can’t have Bob back.”
22
Nicky handed Stone the phone. “It’s not a very good connection, I’m afraid.”
Stone took the phone. “Hello?” He got a garbled voice. “Can you hear me, Carrie?” More garbling. “It’s Stone. If you can hear me, call me on my cell when your signal improves.” He hung up and gave the phone back to Nicky. “Where the hell is she, Nicky?”
“In Abiquiu.” He spelled it. “It’s up north from here, the landscape where Georgia O’Keeffe lived and painted. Carrie wanted to photograph the area.”
“Does cell reception get any better than that?”
“I don’t know, it’s the first time I’ve tried.”
“Will you go up there with me tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, if you like.”
“Right after breakfast.”
“Okay.”
Juan came into the room and inquired as to whether he could get them anything.
“A glass of iced tea, please,” Nicky replied.
“Make that two,” Stone said.
When the tea came it was delicious, and Stone was thirsty.
“May I ask, what sort of relationship do you and Carrie have?”
“Nonprofessionally, quite cordial,” Stone replied. “Professionally—well, she doesn’t listen.”
“Do you really think Harvey is a threat to her?”
“Nicky, do you really think Harvey is entirely sane?”
“Entirely? Who among us is entirely sane?”
“I am,” Stone said. “You are.”
“You’ll have to speak for yourself.”
“Why is it I can’t get anybody to take a position on Harvey’s sanity or character? Not Carrie, not you.”
“I’ve told you, Stone, I don’t feel competent to make that judgment.”
“And Carrie seems to keep changing her mind.”
“A woman’s prerogative.”
“And an exasperating one, too.”
“I think Carrie, in general, seems to want to think the best of everyone, perhaps even Harvey, though of course, she did divorce him, so she must have had some doubts about the guy.”
“In my experience as an attorney, amicable divorces are rare-to-nonexistent. All too often people seem to want to reduce their exes, not just in wealth but in general well-being. It makes them happier if they can make their exes unhappier.”
“I think that’s a cynical take on the human race,” Nicky said.
“A couple of property division conferences can make a cynic of you.”
“I suppose I’m fortunate in my marriage. Vanessa and I have hardly ever had a cross word. That’s unusual, I suppose.”
“Unusual? It’s miraculous.”
“I seem to remember that Susannah and her ex had some issues.”
“Issues? She shot him in the head.”
“In self-defense, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Do you think she enjoyed doing it?”
“I don’t know,” Stone said, “but I was around at the time, and she didn’t seem to have any regrets.”
—
The party was celebratory, just short of raucous. A jazz trio played in the living room, and outside, at the far end of the deck, a mariachi band of plump men with stringed instruments and sombreros held its cultural own. Ed made a charming little speech about how he had met Susannah; then more meat than
Stone had ever seen at one time was served from an outdoor grill that had been trucked in from somewhere or other.
Stone and Gala found a reasonably quiet corner and attacked their steaks, washed down with a spectacular cabernet that somebody kept filling their glasses with.
Ed came over to check on them. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“I’ve already gained two pounds,” Stone replied.
“That’s the way it should go,” Ed said, laughing. “Susannah is enjoying herself.” He nodded toward his wife, who was laughing very hard at somebody’s joke. “She loves a party, not least when it’s in her honor.” He wandered on to speak to his other guests.
“Susannah got lucky with that guy,” Gala said.
“Nice to know there are some happy marriages,” Stone said. “I was having a chat with Nicky Chalmers this afternoon on that same subject, and he puts Vanessa and himself among that group. On the other hand, I have to drive to a place called Abiquiu tomorrow morning, to make sure that a client’s ex-husband isn’t doing her in.”
“I love it up there,” Gala said. “Want some company?”
“I love good company. We’ll have Nicky along, too, for a guide.”
“You won’t need him with me along,” she said. “I know the territory.”
“Then I’ll get the address and we’ll ditch him,” Stone said.
23
Gala insisted on picking up Stone the following morning in her new Aston Martin.
“You figured out how to drive it?”
“I read the manual,” she said, “as a last resort.” She pressed the “sport” button and, using the paddles to shift, tore down the mountain and headed northwest, toward Española. A little later they entered a dramatic landscape. “I can understand why O’Keeffe wanted to paint up here,” he said.
“This address you have is a cabin at Ghost Ranch,” Gala said. “I know the place.” They turned off the main highway past signs warning of private property, and after a dusty drive through the surrounding hills, came to a low adobe house—more like a cabin—with a green Range Rover parked outside. “Here you are,” Gala said, setting the brake and turning up the jazz on the satellite radio. “I’ll wait.”
“Give me a few minutes,” he said. “If she’s receiving visitors, I’ll ask her to invite you in.”
“I’m happy here,” she said.
Stone got out of the low-slung car and walked to the door, which was ajar. He rapped on the ancient wood. “Carrie? It’s Stone Barrington. You here?”
A radio played mariachi music somewhere. “Carrie?” He pushed the door and it swung open to reveal a simple but attractive sitting room. Everything was in perfect order, except that a Toyo 5x7 camera lay on its side, still affixed to its wooden tripod. A dining table held half a dozen pieces of photographic equipment. “Carrie?” he called.
The music seemed to be coming from the next room, probably a bedroom. “Carrie?” he called once again. No response. He looked at his watch: 10:35 AM, a little late for her to still be sleeping. He knocked on the door to the next room and got no response. He opened the door. “Carrie?”
The radio was on a small writing table across the room from the bed. Windows were open, and there was the noise of flies buzzing. Carrie was in the bed, under a spread, her head turned slightly away from him. “Carrie?” He approached her and put a hand on her shoulder. She was unresponsive; she had that inert feeling of a dead person. He put a hand to her throat and felt for a pulse; she was at about room temperature, and there was no pulse. Her eyes were half open, and he closed them.
Stone left the room, then the house. He went to the car and got in, grateful for the air-conditioning in the idling vehicle. He turned the radio off. “What county are we in?” he asked.
“Rio Arriba,” Gala replied. “I saw a sign on the road.”
He got out his cell phone and dialed 911, wondering if he would be connected to New York’s emergency services. The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Rio Arriba Sheriff’s Office,” a woman said.
“My name is Stone Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak to the sheriff, please? I want to report a homicide.”
“Did you say a homicide?”
“Yes.”
“Just a minute, I’ll see if I can get the sheriff on the radio.” He heard her calling and getting an answer. “Hang on, I’ll patch you through to Sheriff Martinez.”
“This is Ray Martinez,” a man said.
“Sheriff, my name is Stone Barrington. I’m at Ghost Ranch, at a small adobe house with the name Casa Juanita.”
“I know the place. You say there’s a homicide?”
“Yes. I’m an attorney. I came here to visit a client of mine. Her name is Carrie Fiske. I found her in her bed, unresponsive. I should think she’s been dead since sometime yesterday.”
“I met her yesterday morning when I was on patrol. She was taking pictures. I’m not far away—I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You’re going to need a crime scene team and a medical examiner, the works.”
“I’ll call that in,” Martinez said. “Over and out.”
Stone ended the call. Gala was staring at him. “Sounds like we’re late,” she said.
Stone nodded. “I’m afraid this is going to take a few hours. Sorry about that.”
“Not to worry. Is it bad in there?”
“No sign of a disturbance, except an overturned camera on a tripod. Everything else is neat as a pin.”
“You said it’s a homicide—that means not natural causes?”
“That’s right.”
“How did she die?”
“I’m going to let the sheriff discover that,” Stone said. “Policemen everywhere don’t like their crime scenes disturbed.”
—
The sheriff was there inside ten minutes, as he had promised, and Stone got out of the car to greet him.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Ray Martinez.” The two men shook hands. “On the phone it sounded like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m a retired NYPD detective,” he said.
“Tell me what I’ve got here.”
“I came to see Ms. Fiske. The front door was ajar. I got no response, so I went inside. Everything is in good order, except for a camera on a tripod that may have been knocked over. Ms. Fiske is in her bed, a radio was playing.”
“And why do you think it’s a homicide?”
“I came here to tell her that her life could be in danger.”
“Well, I want to hear all about that,” the sheriff said. “First, take me in the way you went and show me what you found.”
Stone took him inside and showed him.
Martinez lifted a corner of the spread and found Carrie Fiske, deceased. Her clothing had been disturbed; she was naked from the waist down, and her clothes were near her feet, under the spread.
“Strangled, looks like,” Martinez said. “Let’s me and you go have a seat. I want to know everything you know.”
They went back into the living room, and Stone began to tell him the history of the past couple of weeks, while Martinez took notes.
24
Stone and Sheriff Martinez stood on the front porch of the little house and watched Carrie Fiske’s body being loaded into a county ambulance.
“I’ve requested a statewide APB on this guy, Harvey Biggers,” Martinez said. “I’ve also alerted the Santa Fe and Albuquerque police to cover the airports. The way you describe him, he should be easy to spot.”
“I should think so,” Stone said. “What did the ME have to say about the cause of death?”
“Strangulation, like I thought. She also had some broken ribs and some defensive bruises on her forearms. Apparently, he sat on her while he killed her. It wasn’t
pretty.”
“It never is, is it?”
“You got that right. Our murders around here generally fall into two big categories—barroom and domestic. I’ve never had a rich Anglo woman victim, and I’ve been in office nine years.”
“In New York, we got ’em all—rich, poor, and in between.”
“Why’d you retire young?” Martinez asked.
“The official reason was that I flunked the physical after a gunshot wound to the knee,” Stone replied. “But I think you could say my departure was by popular request.”
Martinez emitted a short laugh. “I know what that’s like. I was a street cop in Albuquerque,” he said, “and I never fitted in too well. My captain called me ‘Smartass,’ like it was my name. I had to punch a couple of guys who tried to make it that.”
The ME walked over to where they stood. “I’ll have a report for you tomorrow. The tox screen will take a lot longer, although that wouldn’t seem to bear on the case. What difference does it make if she was drunk, doped, or sober? She was murdered all the same.” He got into his car and drove away.
“You said you came up here to warn her?” Martinez asked.
“I tried to call her yesterday afternoon, as soon as I heard Biggers was in Santa Fe, but we had a bad cell connection, so I came up here.”
“What time did you talk to her?”
“Three-thirty, four o’clock.”
“So we know she was alive then.”
“If Harvey left Santa Fe before I was looking for him, he could have been here then.”
“That falls within the ME’s guess. He said late afternoon, early evening.”
“The stomach contents will tell you something about that, whether she’d had dinner or not.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell you where she was?”
“She presented me with a dog for a gift, and I think she was afraid I’d want to return it. She needn’t have worried, the dog and I get along just fine.”
“Who else knew where she was, except this Nicky guy?”
“Harvey Biggers,” Stone said. “But I don’t know how he found out or who else knew.”