by Stuart Woods
"Dad, I don't know anything about money; can I afford a Porsche?"
"Yes, you can."
"Let's get out of here," Angus said.
The two walked up Park Avenue together.
"By the way," Sandy said, "when you get back I want you to go and see a man named Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust."
"What's that?"
"It's a private bank, a very good one. As your trustee, I've had them invest your trust fund, and I want you to sit down with Sam and talk about your plans." He handed Angus the banker's card. "You should talk with him briefly before you leave, open a checking account, and make some arrangements for credit abroad."
"Good idea," Angus said. "Dad, what sort of income can I expect from my trust?"
"Sam can give you a better idea, but I should think something on the order of seven hundred thousand to a million a year."
"That much?"
"Believe me, it isn't as much as it sounds. You're going to get hit hard by taxes, you know. I suggest you sit down with Sam and work out some sort of budget, so much put into your checking account each month, enough to cover your basic expenses. Sam will give you good business advice, too." He laughed. "I don't know why I'm give you fatherly advice about money; you've always been as tight with a buck as anybody I've ever known. I think you get it from your grandfather."
"Maybe I do; seems to come naturally."
"By the way, I'd like to invest in your business idea; I think it will do very well, indeed."
"Maybe I can work you in," Angus said, grinning.
They reached the car dealership, and spent an hour choosing a car and placing an order for European delivery. Then Angus said he wanted to drive a car, and Sandy excused himself.
"One last thing," Sandy said to his son. "While you're gone I want to be the only person who knows how to get in touch with you-except for Sam Warren, of course."
"Why?" Angus asked.
"Never mind why. Send all the postcards you like, but don't give anybody else an itinerary but Sam and me. Give me your word."
"This seems very mysterious to me, Dad."
"Trust me."
"Okay, you have my word; nobody knows my whereabouts but you and Sam Warren. And Maggie, of course; the girl I told you about."
"Angus, Maggie is going to be with you."
"You really think she'll come?"
"If she won't accept an offer like that, then you've chosen the wrong girl; keep looking."
"I'll tell her you said that."
"Good." Sandy hugged his son, an uncommon gesture of affection between the two of them, then he left the car dealer's and walked back toward his office.
Step one. He'd put his son out of reach of Peter Martindale. Step two was next.
CHAPTER 25
Sandy stood under the portico at the Ritz-Carlton and watched the Lincoln come to a stop. Martindale gave him a little wave; he was wearing a chauffeur's cap and dark glasses. Sandy got in.
"How are you, Sandy?" Martindale asked cheerfully as they drove away.
"I'm here; what's going on, Peter?"
"We're going to take a little drive," Martindale replied, "and then all will be revealed. Cheer up, your obligation is nearly at an end."
Sandy rested his head against the bolster and closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't want anything revealed; he wanted to be free of this maniac, free of any debt to him. Am I ungrateful? he asked himself. After all, Martindale had a great deal to do with where I am today. No, he didn't, he thought, contradicting himself. Jock had done it all in his will. All but Joan's inheritance, he remembered reluctantly.
"Here we are," Martindale said.
Sandy opened his eyes. They were turning into the parking garage of a tall office building. Martindale was collecting a ticket from a machine, and the barrier was lifting. He drove down an incline, and the sunlight disappeared. It was like every other parking garage, dimly lit, lots of reinforced concrete.
"Pay attention," Martindale said. "Right, then left, then down a level, making a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, then left again. Please note the elevators on your right."
"Why are we here, Peter?"
"Patience, Sandy, patience. Now, watch." Martindale stopped at a barrier, took a plastic card from his pocket and inserted it into a box mounted on a steel post. The barrier rose, and Martindale drove into a separate parking lot and pulled into a parking space. "A carpark within a carpark, you see," he said, "reserved for members of the law firm, Winthrop and Keyes, and their clients. It rises automatically when a car departs."
"I see," Sandy said. "Why do I care?"
"One more thing to note," Martindale said, "and then I'll tell you. Look over there." He pointed.
"The telephone booth?" Sandy said.
"Correct; the firm has generously supplied an old-fashioned telephone booth for the convenience of its people. You don't see actual telephone booths much any more."
"What of it?"
"It's very conveniently located. Tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty, Sandy, my wife will attend a deposition at Winthrop and Keyes. Helena has, you see, filed for divorce. She will arrive on time-she always arrives on time-in a red Mercedes 500SL convertible, a shiny new one, bought for her with my hard-earned money. The car wears a vanity license plate-DEALER, it says. She will stop at the entrance to the private carpark, give her name to the receptionist upstairs, be admitted, and park her car. She will proceed to the elevators, ride upstairs, and give her sworn testimony. When she is finished, probably in less than an hour, she will return to her car and drive away. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"But she will not drive away, for you will be waiting in the telephone booth I have just shown you. You will arrive here between two forty-five and three o'clock. If you leave the door of the booth ajar, the light inside will not go on; if someone other than Helena comes along, you will be talking on the telephone; if someone seems to be waiting for the telephone, you call out that you will be a long while on the phone, and he will go away. You will see Helena as she enters her car. You will check to see that no one is about, then you will leave the telephone booth. Here, take this." He handed something wrapped in a handkerchief over the seat to Sandy.
Sandy took it and unwrapped the handkerchief. It was a short-barreled pistol, and Sandy had been to enough movies to know that the extension of the barrel was a silencer. "Where on earth did you get this?" he demanded. "It's illegal, isn't it?"
Martindale laughed. "Sandy, really; it's not necessary or advisable for you to know. Of course, it's illegal," Martindale said. "It's a thirty-eight; two in the head should do it. Take her handbag, keep any cash, then dump the bag in the waste receptacle over there," he said, pointing to a trash can, "where it will surely be found, thus establishing a motive of robbery." Martindale handed a key to Sandy. "Then, get into this car, which will be parked here, put on the cap and dark glasses and drive out of the lot. Drive slowly, cautiously. Drive the car to my gallery. There is a carpark across the street; park it there, leave the key in the glove box, and lock the car with the button on the door handle, here." He pointed to his left, then he looked back and smiled broadly at Sandy. "Then go and sin no more."
"Where will you be?" Sandy asked.
"In Tucson, where I will have gone to an opening of an artist I represent. I will take part in the deposition by telephone, then attend the opening, thus establishing, beyond doubt, my presence in another city."
Sandy was silent.
"Is this simple enough for you, Sandy?"
"How will I know it's your wife?" Sandy asked. "Last time, I thought the other woman was Helena."
"By her bright blonde hair," Martindale said, "and by the car, which I have described."
"The other woman had bright blonde hair," Sandy said.
"The other woman is, tragically, dead," Martindale replied. "Incidentally, don't touch the gun for any reason; wear gloves and some sort of coat when you fire it, and discard both as soon as possible. Certain residues are lef
t on clothing when a gun is fired."
"I see," Sandy said.
"Is everything perfectly clear?" Martindale asked.
"Yes."
"Repeat your instructions as I've told you."
Sandy repeated what he was to do.
"Perfect. You really are a quick study, Sandy."
"And when this is done, Peter, it's over."
"Absolutely. When it's done, you and I will never again see each other, or even speak. Unless, of course, we happen to be seated next to each other on an airplane." He chuckled.
"Make sure that never happens," Sandy said.
"Don't worry, I will. Now, Sandy, I want you to get out of the car, take the elevator up to the lobby, and leave the building. You can get a cab back to the Ritz-Carlton; I have business upstairs."
Sandy rewrapped the pistol and put it into his coat pocket. He got out of the car and left Martindale sitting there.
Back on the street, he decided to walk to the Ritz-Carlton. The weight of the gun in his pocket was a constant distraction. When he reached his room he put the pistol in a drawer, under his underwear, then sat for a long time, staring out the window at the San Francisco skyline, wondering how he had come to this.
CHAPTER 26
When Sandy woke the following morning, he found that a fax had been slid under his door; he opened it and read the message from Sam Warren, that he and Mike Bernini's lawyer had concluded negotiations on a contract and that Larsen had come down to nine million even on his selling price for the vineyard. He telephoned Warren.
"Hello, Sandy," the lawyer said. "I trust you got my fax."
"I did, Sam, and I'm delighted," Sandy replied. "I know you recommended eight million eight as a maximum price, but I'm inclined to give Larsen the nine million. What do you think?"
"I think you're right; it's not worth quibbling about such a small percentage of the purchase price. What I'll do is agree to the price, but insist on a purchase of assets, instead of the corporate stock. They've been resisting that, but I think we're buying that sort of freedom from previous liability with the extra two hundred thousand."
"Sounds good. When do you think we can close?"
"It'll take a few weeks; we have to do our own inventory of the stock and take a few other precautions, but we'll get a sales agreement signed almost immediately, I should think. Are you happy with the deal I worked out with Bernini's lawyer?"
"Extremely. I think he'll be worth every penny. I thought I might take him to lunch today and celebrate."
"Let me call Larsen's lawyer and get the final agreement first," Sam said. "He should be in his office in another half hour."
"Call me back, then," Sandy said. He hung up and ordered breakfast, but when it came, he wasn't as hungry as he had thought. His elation over being so near agreement with Larsen was mixed with a deep dread of what the day held, and he left half the ham and eggs on the plate.
Warren called back inside an hour. "They've agreed," he crowed. "The deal's done. I'm faxing him documents, and Larsen will sign today and fax them back, then they'll FedEx the originals, and we'll have them by Monday. I'll have copies hand delivered to your lawyer."
"Thank you so much, Sam, for handling all this so expeditiously," Sandy said.
"It's what we do," Warren replied, then said good-bye and hung up.
Sandy called his office in New York and got his secretary on the line. "There's a case of Lafite Rothschild nineteen forty-five in the number one cellar," he said. "Please send a stockman down for it, then put a big red ribbon on it and send it directly over to Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust."
"Did we get the vineyard?" she asked*
"We did."
"I'm so happy for you, Sandy," she said. "I'll get the wine right over to Mr. Warren."
Sandy thanked her, then hung up and called Mike Bernini and invited him to lunch in the Ritz-Carlton's restaurant. He made the table reservation, then showered, shaved, and got dressed. He had some shopping to do before lunch. He left the hotel and, visiting several inexpensive shops, bought pretty much the same items he had thrown away not long before-a reversible raincoat, a tweed hat, and thin leather driving gloves. He left them in his hotel room and was in the restaurant in time to meet Mike Bernini.
He had a convivial lunch with Bernini, and they split a bottle of good champagne. Sandy tried to stop glancing at his watch, but he was unable to, nor was he able to hide his nervousness.
"Sandy," Bernini said, "are you feeling well? Is it too hot in here for you?" Sandy dabbed at his forehead with his napkin. "I think I may be getting some sort of bug," he said. "Maybe I'll take a little nap after lunch." 't
"Good idea; take care of yourself," Bernini said.
• • •
At two o'clock Sandy shook Bernini's hand and said his good-byes. He went to his room, retrieved his clothing purchases and got the pistol from the safe in the closet.
At 2:45 Sandy arrived at the office building, wearing the raincoat, plaid side out, the cap and sunglasses. The pistol banged against his thigh as he walked down the ramp into the garage. He avoided the elevators and continued down one level, following the route of the day before.
He stooped to pass under the barrier and, as he walked into the law firm's private parking area, he saw the red Mercedes 500SL with its distinctive license plate, DEALER. He went straight to the telephone booth and sat down, leaving the door ajar. He found he was sweating profusely.
He sat sideways in the booth, watching the lights above the elevator doors. He was too far away to read the numbers, so he walked quickly to the elevators and saw where the forty-first number was, then he returned to the booth and sat, waiting.
It will all be over soon, he kept telling himself, trying not to think about what he was about to do. He unwrapped the pistol and put it back into his raincoat pocket, making sure he could extract it quickly when needed.
I am not this kind of man, he kept telling himself, then he would think about his son and his business and his new vineyard, all of which he might lose if he didn't do this. His mind raced from one thing to another; he saw Cara's beautiful face, felt her auburn head on his shoulder, kissed her lips. Then he was firing the silenced pistol through the glass of the Mercedes, and blood was everywhere. He was covered in blood and glass, and there was blonde hair all over the front seat of the car.
He jerked back to reality. He saw the elevator door close and watched as the lights above it illuminated, one by one. He saw the forty-first light go on and stay on for a few seconds, then the order of the lights reversed. The car was coming down.
He hoped it would stop for other passengers, that other people would be present, preventing him from doing this awful thing, but the car ran smoothly, and nothing stopped it before its garage destination. He held his breath as the doors opened; maybe it would be somebody else. But a blonde woman in a red dress stepped from the car and walked purposefully toward the law firm's private parking area. She was attractive, he thought, though she wore more makeup than he liked on a woman. She walked toward the red Mercedes, stopped behind it, and opened the trunk.
Sandy opened the door of the telephone booth as quietly as he could and stepped out, pulling the pistol from his raincoat pocket and holding it slightly behind him, so that if she turned she would not see it. He walked quietly to within a few steps of her. This time there must be no mistake about who she was. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, nearly choking.
She spun around, startled. "Yes?" she said. Then she looked at him, seeming confused. "Sandy?" she asked.
He knew her? Oh, God, he thought. Can I do this? He thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.
"Sandy?" she repeated. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He narrowed his eyes. She was familiar, but he couldn't place her. New York, he thought, but where? Some cocktail party? Was she a friend of Joan's?
"Sandy, say something," she said. "What's wrong? You're frightening me."
&nb
sp; The voice conflicted with the face, but suddenly, he knew.
"Cara?" he asked, struggling to maintain his composure. Then he looked down and saw a small pistol in her hand, and it was pointed at his chest.
CHAPTER 27
They sat in the Mercedes convertible, both breathing hard. Cara's gun was in her lap; Sandy had surreptitiously returned the silenced pistol to his raincoat pocket.
"Sandy what are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I'm buying a vineyard; I was in a lawyer's office upstairs signing a purchase agreement," he half-lied. "Your turn."
"I really don't want you involved in this," she said, shaking her head.
"You told me you were going to Charleston," he said. "Why are you here, and what is it you don't want me involved in?"
"Charleston was just a cover," she replied.
"A cover for what?"
"A cover to keep anyone from knowing that I was coming to San Francisco. Only Thea, my partner, knew."
"I don't understand," he said.
"I don't want you involved," she repeated.
"I got involved last weekend at Edgartown; I remain involved. Please tell me what's going on; maybe I can help."
She was silent for a moment, then sighed and spoke. "I've lied to you," she said."
"I'm sure you must have had a good reason," he replied. "Now tell me the truth."
"It's a long story."
"I've got all the time in the world."
Her shoulders sagged. "All right. My name isn't Cara Mason, it's Helena Martindale. Cara is a family nickname, and Mason is my mother's maiden name."
"Go on."
"I haven't been living in New York for a year; I came to New York on the plane with you; I was in trouble, and Thea offered to hide me."
"Tell me about the trouble."
"I'm… I was married to an Englishman named Peter Martindale. We lived here, in San Francisco, where he runs an art gallery. We were married for a little over two years, and I came to learn that he was… a little strange. I told him I wanted a divorce, and he didn't take it well."