Family Jewels

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m afraid I have a conflict of interest,” Stone said.

  “What conflict?”

  “I represent the estate of the victim.”

  “What estate? What victim?”

  “Come now, Mr. Barnes, disingenuousness doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve baffled me.”

  “The murder of Carrie Fiske.”

  “Wait a minute—Carrie is dead?”

  Stone checked his watch again: two minutes.

  “Tell you what, I’ll hear your alibi and give you some advice, no charge.”

  “When and where was she killed? I’ll give you my alibi.”

  “Later in the evening, after your dinner date with her.”

  “Last time I had dinner with Carrie, you were there, in East Hampton.”

  “Then how is it that the police have a voice message on her phone from you, confirming dinner?”

  “Dinner where?”

  “In New Mexico. Nicky Chalmers puts you there, too.”

  “We left New Mexico an hour after I saw Nicky.”

  “Oh, and here’s the kicker—the police have a photograph of you at the scene of her death, and it’s date-stamped.”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Remember the camera and tripod you knocked over? It went off, and got a very nice likeness.”

  “I think I’d better be going,” he said.

  “But you haven’t had my free advice.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Give yourself up, tell the police everything, and I’ll recommend a good lawyer to represent you. With a little luck, he might get the charge reduced to manslaughter.”

  “Thanks, I don’t think so.”

  “You could be out in ten years, or so.”

  “Oh, swell.”

  “It beats life in the New Mexico State Prison, which is not the sort of elegant hostelry you’re accustomed to.”

  Another silence, then . . . “Who’s the lawyer?”

  “Ed Eagle, of Santa Fe. He’s in the phone book. There is none better west of the Mississippi—maybe not east of, either.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “What other charges against you are current? Is there a line of prosecutors waiting?”

  “I have never been charged with any crime,” he said.

  “Then how did you come to the attention of the Palm Beach police?”

  “That was a misunderstanding, quickly cleared up.”

  “What sort of misunderstanding?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t. But Carrie Fiske matters, I can promise you that.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Barrington.” He hung up.

  Stone buzzed Joan. “Tell Dino, if that wasn’t long enough for him to trace, he’s fired.”

  53

  Joan buzzed. “Ms. Tiffany Baldwin to see you.”

  “Show her in, and remember what I said.”

  A blond head was stuck around his doorjamb. “Knock, knock?”

  “Come in, Tiffany,” he said, extending a hand to be shaken.

  She brushed it aside and came into his arms. “Hello, cutie,” she said, rubbing herself against his crotch.

  Behind her, Joan produced a coughing fit. Tiffany turned and glared at her.

  “Take the sofa, Tiffany, Joan can take the chair.” He picked up her folder and pretended to study it while she decided what to do. Finally, she sat down. Joan was ready with her steno pad.

  “I don’t want to keep you from the business of the nation for too long, so let’s get started.” He glanced at the folder. “Columbia undergraduate and Columbia Law School, assistant district attorney under the esteemed Robert Morgenthau for eight years, then chief prosecutor—a fairly meteoric rise, I’d say.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” she said archly.

  “Then assistant U.S. attorney for another six, and lo and behold, you’re appointed to the big job—United States attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

  “That is correct, as you well know.”

  “What would you say is the hallmark of your time in that office?”

  “Fighting crime—decimating organized crime in my jurisdiction.”

  “Did you deal much with constitutional issues, as opposed to criminal prosecutions?”

  “Whenever those issues arose.”

  “Lifelong Democrat?”

  “No, I was a Republican until I went to work for Mr. Morgenthau. He showed me the error of my ways.”

  “Good for Mr. Morgenthau. Tell me, what would the President be surprised to hear about you?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “You could tell her as well as I.”

  Joan coughed again and pretended to write down something.

  “Anything more apropos to the occasion?”

  “She might be surprised by my liberal bent on the bench.”

  “But you’ve never served on any bench. Would you say you’ve been a liberal prosecutor?”

  “The law doesn’t allow for political preferences, it’s just enforced.”

  “Good point. Is there anything you would not like to come up during the vetting process?”

  “My personal life,” she said. “Or yours.”

  That sounded like a threat to Stone. “My life doesn’t enter into it.”

  “I’m sure you would prefer that it didn’t.”

  “Is there anything more the President should know about your background?”

  “My life is an open book.”

  I certainly hope not, Stone thought. “I’ll tell her you said so. Is there anything else you’d like to include in our conversation?”

  “Not in the present company,” she replied, her eyes drilling through Joan. “Perhaps if we could meet alone.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stone said. “That completes the interview.” He stood up, and so did Joan. “Joan, will you show Ms. Baldwin out, please?” He offered his hand again, this time with the coffee table between them. “Good to see you, Tiffany.”

  Joan managed to keep herself between Stone and his guest as she showed the woman to the door. Stone heard her lock it behind Tiffany, then she returned.

  “That woman is a piece of work,” she said. “I thought she was going to jump you right here in front of me.”

  “Thank you, Joan, that will be all. Oh, get me Dino, will you, please?” He settled behind his desk and waited for the phone to buzz, which it did. “Good morning. I hope we gave your people enough time to trace that call.”

  “Oh, yes, plenty of time,” Dino said. “He was driving down Park Avenue, presumably in a cab. He got off at Forty-fourth Street.”

  “No luck, then?”

  “None.”

  “Well, I got luckier, I think.”

  “You think? Don’t you know when you get lucky?”

  “He told me his real name—his girlfriend’s, too. He says they’re not married.”

  “I’ve got a pencil.”

  “He says his name is Daryl Barnes, and hers is Annie Allen. To hear him tell it they were childhood sweethearts in a small town in Georgia called Delano, in Meriwether County.”

  “What makes you think he told you his real name?”

  “He wanted me to represent him. By the way, he denied all knowledge of Carrie’s murder, until I told him we had his voice on her iPhone and the photograph of him at the scene. Then he came over all quiet.”

  “I would have been happier if a DA had surprised him with that information.”

  “I was trying to get his real name.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Dino made typing noises. “Nothing on him,” he said.

  “He told me he’d never been arrested before, that whatever ha
ppened in Palm Beach was a misunderstanding, quickly resolved.”

  “Wait a minute, we’ve got a bite on an Ann Allen. She was picked up in an Atlanta hotel fifteen years ago for running the badger game on an undercover cop. Her partner got away clean, and since she didn’t have a record, she got a thousand-dollar fine and a year, suspended. Her fine was paid by a Daryl Jones, in cash. We’ve got nothing on a Daryl Jones.”

  “So maybe his name is Daryl Barnes—maybe he changed it for the occasion.”

  “Sounds that way to me.”

  “You want me to run Daryl Barnes through a computer program I know about?”

  “You mean the computer program I’ve never heard of?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I can’t stop you.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” Stone called Bob Cantor and waited while he ran the name against hotel registrants.

  “Nothing,” Cantor said.

  “See you.” Stone hung up and called Dino. “No Daryl Barnes registered at any New York hotel.”

  “Well, shit. If you’re going to use an illegal means of search, you might at least try to use one that works.”

  “Dino, that makes as much sense as anything you’ve ever said to me.” Stone hung up.

  54

  Joan came into Stone’s office bearing an envelope. “This just arrived by messenger from Sotheby’s.”

  Stone opened the envelope and found another. Inside that was an invitation printed on heavy cream paper:

  The Board of Directors of Sotheby’s requests the pleasure of your company at a private showing of jewelry from the estate of Carrie Fiske, to include the first sight in three-quarters of a century of the diamond-and-ruby necklace worn by Adele Bloch-Bauer in the Gold painting by Gustav Klimt

  The date and time were for three days hence. Stone had a sudden thought. He called Jamie Niven at Sotheby’s.

  “Good afternoon, Stone. I trust you received your invitation to the private showing.”

  “I did, thank you, and I am responding. I will attend with pleasure.”

  “This is going to be a real do. Have you seen any of the publicity?”

  “Everywhere and constantly. Jamie, you’re doing a great job.”

  “Thank you. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Jamie, I assume that you have a computerized list of the people Sotheby’s does business with.”

  “We have.”

  “Would you search a name for me, please?”

  “Of course.

  “Daryl Barnes.” Stone spelled it for him.

  Clicking of keys. “Yes, we do. He’s never bought anything, but he requested to be notified of important jewelry sales.”

  “Do you have an address for Mr. Barnes?”

  “We do. He resides at 740 Park Avenue.”

  That stopped Stone in his tracks; that was the address of Carrie Fiske’s apartment. “Are you positive of that?”

  “I am.”

  “Would you be kind enough to dispatch an invitation to the private showing to Mr. Barnes?”

  “If you wish it, of course.”

  “Tell me, Jamie, what sort of security will you have for such an event?”

  “We have four levels of security. This will be Level One, the highest, because of the allure of the Bloch-Bauer necklace,” he said. “It would only go higher if the President or the Pope were attending.”

  “How many of them will be in some sort of uniform?”

  “Only two, who will be stationed near the necklace. Everyone else will be in plainclothes.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Put those two in plainclothes, too, and don’t use your largest men.”

  “What did you have in mind, Stone?”

  “An attempt to steal the necklace.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Mr. Daryl Barnes may be the murderer of Carrie Fiske, and he is a lover of fine jewelry.”

  Jamie made an odd sound. “Well, in that case, I think we’d better have a police presence, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t think it should be obvious. May I make those arrangements for you? The commissioner and I are old friends.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “And if you don’t mind, I won’t make the nature of that presence known to anyone else at Sotheby’s but you.”

  “That’s a very odd suggestion. Why not?”

  “Well, if I were a jewel thief, I would do my very best to suborn a well-placed person on your staff. Wouldn’t you?”

  “While I resent the implication, I believe I would.”

  “This means you must not tell a soul that the police will be there. This is black tie, right?”

  “Right, and I will keep the police presence to myself.”

  “I’ll arrange a meeting between Dino and his people and you, but not at Sotheby’s. They will want to see the layout of the viewing at that time.”

  “All right, I’ll produce that on request.”

  “And please hand-deliver Mr. Barnes’s invitation.”

  “It will be there inside an hour.”

  “Thank you, Jamie.” He hung up and called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “I think we may have had something of a break.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Stone did.

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Guessing is all that is left to us, is it not?”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Then you’d better get some of your people over to the tuxedo rental place, and it would be a good idea to have as many female officers as males. We want elegant-looking couples, not a lot of apes in black tie standing around waiting for something terrible to happen. It might make Mr. Barnes nervous.”

  55

  Stone looked up a White House number and found the direct line for Paul Kale, a young man who was one of three secretaries to the President. He dialed the number.

  “Paul Kale.”

  “Good morning, Paul, this is Stone Barrington. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mr. Barrington, and you?”

  “Very well. Can you tell me if the President is available at this hour? She asked me to call.”

  “If you will kindly hold, I’ll see if she can talk. I know she’s expecting your call.”

  “Of course.” Stone waited for about a minute and a half, then Katharine Lee came on the line.

  “Stone!”

  “Good morning, Madam President.”

  “Please, it’s Kate when we’re alone.”

  “I know, but I have trouble with that.”

  “Get over it or I’ll hang up on you.”

  “I’m over it, Kate.”

  “Have you a report for me?”

  “I do. You asked not to have it in writing.”

  “I did. Speak to me.”

  “Very well. First, Tiffany Baldwin. Ms. Baldwin is an outstanding prosecuting attorney with no judicial experience. She seems to be best in black-and-white situations, which lends itself to criminal prosecution, but perhaps not the bench. She lacks subtlety in every part of her life that I am familiar with, and I have known her for some years. In a confirmation hearing, the question of judicial temperament will surely be raised, and justly so. In those circumstances she is likely to respond to questions in a manner demonstrating her complete lack of such temperament. Need I continue?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve heard similar but less blunt assertions from others about her. Continue?”

  “Next is Senator Marisa Bond, with whom I was very impressed.”

  Kate laughed. “I rather thought you would be.”

  “Impressed in every possible way. She is highly inte
lligent, has spectacular credentials, and a temperament that would go a long way toward giving the Court a more collegial atmosphere. In spite of her liberal leanings, she has made a continuous effort over the years to get along with Republicans without necessarily going along. For this reason, I think confirmation would be quick.”

  “I’m delighted to hear you say that. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Senator Bond went out of her way to convey to me that her sexual preferences are, well, broad.”

  “Oh? That surprises me.”

  “I believe she told me this in response to a question of what might surprise you about her. She also made it clear that she has exercised her tastes in a highly limited and very discreet manner. There is only one living female partner in her past, who is the wife of a sitting senator—she didn’t say which one. I had the impression that, once confirmed, she might be less discreet in that regard, but we must remember that she likes men, too.”

  “She had a bad marriage, I believe.”

  “She did. It ended twelve years ago with recriminations on the part of her former husband that she says were outright lies. He died two years after their divorce. It’s possible that opposition research might unearth some of the man’s comments.”

  “It was a long time ago, and she’s conducted her life impeccably since that time.”

  “I agree.”

  “So you think she’s a serious candidate?”

  “I think she’s a very fine one, though it occurs to me that women are already well represented on the court.”

  “That has to be considered. What did you think of Terry Maher?”

  “I liked him enormously, as I have often in his television appearances. He is frank to the point of bluntness, charming when he wants to be, and very, very smart. He offsets being gay with a macho mien, which was well-earned in the U.S. Marines, in his youth. I don’t know whether you’re aware that he was the middleweight boxing champion of his service.”

  “I am aware of that. I like it, too, that he retired as a gunnery sergeant, not a colonel.”

  “He didn’t mention that to me, but it’s a good point.”

  “So, Stone, do you have a preference among the three?”

  “Maher.”

  “No doubts?”

  “None. He’s made a very successful effort, like Senator Bond, of getting along with his opposition, and I think that after the uproar from the right wing about his gayness has subsided, he would be easily confirmed and look good doing it on television. He’s also only in his mid-forties, so given good health, he’d be on the Court for a very long time.”