by Stuart Woods
“Well, I guess if I were completely convinced of that, I could.”
“Do it tomorrow, Dino; I don’t want those people to start leaking to the press that I’m a suspect.”
“Maybe I’ll do it right now,” Dino said, nodding toward the door.
Stone turned to see Martin and Dana Brougham coming through the front door.
18
S TONE WATCHED AS ELAINE MADE HER way through the crowd to meet Martin and Dana Brougham. They were obviously asking for a table, but the place was jammed. Then Elaine was pointing at Stone’s table.
“Dino, I think Elaine is suggesting they join us,” Stone said.
“Be interesting to see their reaction,” Dino said.
Their reaction was to nod yes.
“What the hell,” Dino said. “Now is as good a time as any.”
“Why would they want to sit with us if Brougham thinks I murdered Susan?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Dino said, as the couple made their way to the table.
Sarah turned to Stone. “Later, I hope you’ll take the time to explain to me what the fuck is going on.”
“I will,” Stone said, as he got to his feet.
“Hi, Dino,” Martin Brougham said. “Hi, Stone. You remember Dana?”
“Of course,” Stone said. “This is Sarah Buckminster; won’t you join us?”
The Broughams sat down and ordered a drink. “Have you eaten yet?” Brougham asked.
“Not yet,” Stone said.
“Then dinner’s on me; we’re celebrating.”
“I heard; congratulations. Any truth to the rumor that the old man is going to retire and anoint you?”
Brougham laughed aloud. “Not while there’s a breath left in his body.”
They looked at menus and ordered dinner. Stone could not understand Brougham’s behavior, so he decided to charge in headfirst. “Your man Deacon came to see me this morning.”
“He did? What about?”
“Don’t you keep track of the guy?” Dino asked.
“Usually,” Brougham replied. He looked back and forth between Dino and Stone. “Something going on here that I don’t know about?”
“Deacon seems to think he’s taking over the investigation into Susan Bean’s murder,” Dino said.
“Oh, nothing like that, I assure you, Dino. He asked me if he could look into it, and, of course, I told him he could. After all, she was one of us, and we want to see this cleared up.”
Stone said, “Deacon seems to think that I murdered Susan.”
Brougham nearly choked on his drink. He looked at Dino. “Do you have any evidence to support such a notion?”
“None whatever,” Dino said.
“Because, if you do, I shouldn’t be sitting at this table.”
“Relax, Martin,” Dino said. “We cleared Stone of any involvement within half an hour of her death. He had gone out for Chinese when it happened.”
“I’ve heard the timeline,” Brougham said. “It made sense to me. Besides, what possible motive could Stone have had?”
“Exactly,” Dino replied.
“You can talk directly to me, Martin,” Stone said. “If you have any questions, I’d be glad to answer them.”
“You mean, off the record?”
“I answered all of Deacon’s question on the record, right up to the point he accused me of murder, then I told him to call my attorney, and I threw him out. But as a courtesy, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, right here, right now, in front of witnesses.”
Brougham thought about this for a moment. “Did you know Susan before our party?”
“Deacon says I did. He says she assisted Haverty in prosecuting a client of mine. I met Haverty’s second chair, but I don’t remember anything about her. Deacon also says she was a regular here, at the bar, and that I took her home one night and slept with her. I don’t remember that, either, and I think I would, if it had happened.”
“You don’t remember meeting her at the bar? Not at all?”
“No,” Stone replied. “For what it’s worth, Elaine doesn’t remember her, either, and she’s in here a lot more than I am.”
“I suppose so.”
“Elaine remembers Jean Martinelli, remembers throwing her out of here one night, drunk. Apparently, Martinelli is the source of Deacon’s conjecture.”
“Martinelli hasn’t worked for me for nearly a year,” Brougham said, “but it doesn’t surprise me that she talked to Tom; they were something of an item for a while. I expect she called him.”
“What else would you like to know?” Stone asked.
Brougham shrugged.
“Come on, Martin,” he said. “I want to lay this to rest now.”
“Who do you think did it?” Brougham asked.
Dino butted in. “We think it’s somebody Stone and I busted a long time ago, but we don’t know who, yet. There’ve been two other murders, one of them Stone’s secretary, Alma, the same night as Susan Bean, and the other a woman who lives behind Stone’s house in Turtle Bay, the following night.”
“I know about those,” Brougham said. “You think they’re connected to Susan’s death?”
“Only by the murderer,” Dino said. “The night Susan was killed, we think somebody followed Stone from his house here that night, then to your house, then followed Stone and Susan to her place. When he saw Stone leave to get the Chinese, he went in. We think he was still in the building when Stone got back. He was gone when the patrol car arrived. I got there five minutes later. It was Stone who called nine-one-one.”
“That, I knew,” Brougham said.
“Any other questions for me, Martin?” Stone said, trying not to sound too confrontational.
“None that I can think of at the moment.”
“I’ll be happy to come down to your office with my lawyer and answer any others you may think of,” Stone said.
“I appreciate the offer.”
“But,” Stone said, “if I start reading in the papers that I’m a suspect, I’ll know it came from Deacon, and I’ll go straight to the old man. I’ve known him a long time.” This was true, up to a point.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Brougham said. “But, you understand, if Deacon starts poking holes in your story, we’ll be talking again.”
“There aren’t any holes in my story,” Stone said, “because it’s the truth.”
Dinner arrived, saving everyone the embarrassment of continuing the conversation. Dana Brougham changed the subject.
“Aren’t you the painter who’s about to have a show at the Bergman Gallery?” she asked Sarah.
“Yes, that’s right,” Sarah replied. “The opening is next week; may I send you an invitation?”
Dana produced a card from her purse. “I’ve seen some of your early things, and I’d love to see your more recent work. Can you give me a hint?”
“It’s a Tuscan show,” Sarah replied. “I’ve lived there for the past six years, so it’s a combination of landscapes, still lifes, and portraits of people in the Chianti district.”
“Oh, I love that part of Italy.”
A waiter came and whispered something in Dino’s ear, and he left the table. Stone watched him take a phone call, but his face betrayed nothing. He came back and sat down.
Everyone looked at him.
“That was the precinct,” Dino said. “We had a suspect, but his alibi is holding.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Brougham said. “Who is it?”
“A guy named Mitteldorfer; Stone and I nailed him twelve years ago for the murder of his wife.”
“What made you suspect him?”
“Stone and I saw the murder of the woman who lived behind his house. The perp looked the way Mitteldorfer looked twelve years ago. But he doesn’t look that way anymore.”
“Peculiar,” Brougham said.
“We thought so, too. We’ve been looking for a relative who might have been involved, but there isn’t
anybody—not so far, anyway. The precinct was just confirming the questioning of some peripheral people. Mitteldorfer appears to be clean.”
“Is he out of prison?”
“No, but he’s up for parole soon.”
“You want me to toss a grenade into his hearing?”
Dino shook his head. “I don’t like the guy, but I don’t have a thing on him. If he gets out and then we get some evidence, it’ll be simple enough to get his parole revoked.”
Brougham put down his fork. “You think he might get out, then start killing again?”
Dino shrugged. “No way to predict that. He adds up as a one-time perp—killed his wife in the heat of the moment when he found out she was running around on him. She seems to have been his only enemy.”
“Except you and Stone,” Brougham said.
19
S TONE WAS DRESSING THE FOLLOWING morning when Sarah stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Why don’t you take me to the country this weekend?”
“What country?” Stone asked.
“Any country,” she replied. “You forget that I’m English—an English rose, as it were.” She batted her eyes. “And I need frequent communing with trees and grass to keep my corpuscles together. A nice country inn does wonders for them, too.”
“I’ll rent a car.”
“Stone, you told me you just got this big fee, right.”
“Yes.”
“Buy a car.”
Stone shrugged. “Okay.”
“A nice one, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What a good boy are you.”
“I am, am I not?”
“Didn’t I just say so?”
She came out of the bathroom naked, and Stone stopped dressing, ogling her shamelessly.
“None of that, now,” she said. “I’ve got to get to the gallery to start hanging pictures, and your two very nice policemen are waiting in the garage. Well, one nice policeman.”
Stone started dressing again. “Yeah, Kelly’s not exactly good company, is he?”
“He’s a proper little shit,” she replied, slipping into jeans and a sweater, no bra.
“You want me to ask Dino for another cop?”
“Don’t make waves,” she said. “Dino’s already doing us a very big favor. I can live with Kelly.”
Stone put his arms around her. “You can live with me,” he said.
She grabbed his wrists and held his arms at his sides. “We’ll talk about that when I don’t have to live with you anymore,” she said, “and on some nice, neutral ground, that doesn’t have a bed so close at hand.”
“Okay,” he replied, stealing a kiss.
“Go buy a car,” she said.
Stone got out of the police car on Park Avenue in front of the Mercedes-Benz dealership, but not before looking up and down the street once more. “I’ll be a while,” he said to the two cops up front.
“Yessir,” one of them replied, saluting smartly. “We’re at your disposal.”
“Krakauer,” Stone said, “I’ll dispose of you at the earliest possible moment.” He turned and walked into the showroom. Half a dozen cars were on display: a new SLK, the little sports car with the retractable hard top—cute, but tiny. There was an S600 sedan—big, powerful, and extremely expensive, maybe too much of all those things. And sitting in a prime spot, an E320, the middle Mercedes, in a nice, tan metallic color.
A man materialized at his elbow. “May I show you something?” he asked.
“I’m interested in the V8 version of that one,” Stone said, pointing at the E320.
“The E430? Wonderful automobile. I can get you one in about four months, if you’d like to order now.”
“I was thinking about this afternoon.”
“Can’t be done, I’m afraid. The demand has just been too great.”
Stone was annoyed. He’d rented an E430 in Los Angeles a few months before and loved it. He strolled toward the big V12 sedan. “How much?”
“A hundred and thirty-seven thousand, plus various taxes.”
Stone held up a hand. “Stop. Don’t tell me what the taxes are.”
“You’re very wise,” the man replied. “I can get you an S500, the V8 version of this one, almost immediately.”
“How long is ‘almost immediately’?”
“I’ve got one coming in in about two weeks.”
“You really know how to take the pleasure out of impulse buying,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry, but we’re dealing with a lot of demand and not enough cars.”
Stone looked out the side window of the showroom. A car-carrier truck had pulled up and unloaded something black. Now a double door had been opened, and four men were pushing a car onto the sales floor. “What is that?” he asked.
“Ah, now there’s something special,” the salesman said. “It’s called the E55; it’s an E430 that has been specially modified by AMG, the German tuning shop that does a lot of work on various Mercedes models. It’s in obsidian black with parchment-leather upholstery.”
The car was a lot like the E320 on display, but seemed lower and meaner-looking. “Just what, exactly, has AMG done to that car?”
The man went to his desk and removed a folder from a drawer. “This is very out of the ordinary,” he said, reading from the folder. “The car has a five-and-a-half-liter V8 that’s more powerful than the one in the S500, at three hundred fifty-four horsepower, and with the S500 transmission. The body is lowered, and the suspension has upgraded shock absorbers, antiroll bars, and springs. It’s got eighteen-inch wheels, Z-rated tires, and the brakes from the SL600.”
Stone sucked in a breath.
“The windows are tinted darkly enough to make the occupants unrecognizable, and, after it arrived in this country, we sent it to a specialist to be lightly armored.”
“What, exactly, does ‘lightly armored’ mean?”
The salesman opened a door, pressed a button, and a window rolled down halfway. “As you can see, the glass is a lot thicker than standard—half an inch thick, in fact—and the roof, all the door panels, and the floorpan have been reinforced with lightweight, but very tough materials like Kevlar. The car will repel small-weapons fire, even heavy machine-gun fire, but it won’t, of course, stop a bazooka or a land mine. You’d need the fully armored version for that level of protection.”
Stone got into the car and looked around.
“You’ve got sport seats and special trim; there’s also a concealed radar scrambler on board,” he said, looking around to see that no one was listening. “It detects, then makes police radar useless; it’s legal in most states.”
“It’s very nice,” Stone said. “How much?”
“It doesn’t belong to us, actually,” the salesman replied. “It’s the property of the widow of a former client, a South American gentleman.”
“And why is she a widow?”
“The car was delivered a couple of days too late to serve the purpose the gentleman had intended.”
“You mean he was in another car when…”
“When he needed the extra protection that this car affords.”
“How much does the widow want for it?”
“Something in the region of…” He named a figure. “But I believe she is a highly motivated seller.”
“I see,” Stone said, feeling to be sure he had his checkbook with him.
“The car has only eighty-one miles on it, and it has every option ordinarily available on the S600,” the salesman said, “including the portable telephone and the separate rear-seat air-conditioning. Even with the extra weight of the options and the armoring, the car will do zero to sixty in six seconds flat,” the salesman said, “and the top speed is no longer limited to the standard, electronically controlled one hundred thirty miles per hour.”
“What is the top speed?” Stone asked, trying to breathe deeply and slowly.
“Nobody knows,” the salesman replied.
“Ask the widow if
she will accept an offer of…” Stone named a number. “And please tell her it will be my only offer.”
“Let me make a call,” the salesman said. He went to his desk and picked up the phone.
Stone walked around the car, looked in the trunk, then raised the hood. He gave a little gasp. The engine was the most beautiful mechanical object he had ever seen, ingeniously crammed into a car allegedly too small for it and beautifully polished wherever possible. He closed the hood and looked at the wheels. He reckoned they were two inches larger than standard; the rear wheels were wider than the front, and the tires were low profile.
The salesman returned. “The widow accepts your offer,” he said. A film of perspiration covered his face. “Will that be cash, or would you like to finance it?”
“It will be cash,” Stone said, pulling out his checkbook. “How soon can I drive it away?”
“The car’s already been prepped; you can be on your way in half an hour.”
“Can you get me a number for the car phone in that time?”
“You better believe it,” the salesman said, trying not to pant.
20
S TONE DROVE MADDENINGLY SLOWLY through the crosstown traffic, two detectives in a car behind him. Sarah was reading through the instruction book that came as a supplement to the owner’s manual.
“It says here that the electric, rear-seat sunscreen is made of a material that is designed to stop any incoming…” She stopped. “Incoming what?”
“Just incoming. It means bullets or shrapnel.”
“Any incoming that penetrates the rear glass.” She found the button under the armrest and watched as the fabric sunscreen went up and down. “Cute,” she said. “Does it have built-in machine guns like James Bond’s car?”
“Of course not. I shouldn’t have told you about the armor.”
“Oh, I’m very glad to hear about the armor,” she said. “Gives one a cozy warm feeling inside. Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“How long a surprise?”
“Normally less than two hours, but I want to make a brief stop along the way.”
“A brief stop where?”