by Stuart Woods
“Come on.” Stone took her arm and guided her toward the couple. The brunette, looking past her companion, flicked an eye toward them, then turned back to her conversation.
Stone stopped a pace from the couple. “Paul!” he said, loudly enough to be sure he could be heard.
The man’s head jerked around in an instantaneous reaction.
“That’s the man,” Callie whispered.
“I’m Stone Barrington. I’m sure you remember.”
The man turned fully around and regarded Stone, his brow wrinkled. His hair was longish and dark, flecked with gray. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, “but weren’t you at the Shames party the other night?”
Stone looked at him carefully. The face was thin, the nose straight. He was the right age, and there was a resemblance to the Paul Manning he had known, but the nose seemed to change everything. “Yes, I was, but we met some time ago, in St. Marks.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I put into St. Marks a few years ago on a sailing charter, but I don’t recall meeting you there.”
“I’m sure you remember your wife,” Stone said.
The brunette looked up sharply at the man.
“My wife died last year,” he said.
“Oh, longer ago than that,” Stone said.
“I think I would remember when my wife died,” the man said quietly.
The brunette spoke up. “You didn’t tell me, Paul. I’m sorry.”
“I hadn’t had time, yet, but thank you,” he said to her. He offered his hand to Stone. “I’m Paul Bartlett, and this lovely lady is Charmaine Tallman,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Stone nodded at the woman and shook the man’s hand. “Stone Barrington.”
“Do you live in Palm Beach, Stone?”
“No. How about you?”
“I arrived a couple of weeks ago.”
“How long do you plan to stay?” Stone asked.
“Actually, I’m house-hunting. I sold my business late last year, and I suppose I’m taking early retirement.”
“What sort of business?”
“Graphic design.”
“Where?”
“Minneapolis. I thought I’d try somewhere with a warmer winter. Florida seemed attractive. Where are you from, Stone?”
“New York,” Stone replied. The man displayed not a hint of nerves. Could he be mistaken?
“Did you think I was another Paul?”
“Does the name Paul Manning ring a bell?”
“Writer? I read some of his stuff a few years ago, but not recently.”
“How did you come to be at the Shames party?” Callie asked.
“I came with the Wilkeses,” he said. “We just stopped by for a drink on the way to another dinner.”
“How do you know the Wilkeses?”
“From Minneapolis. I used to do a lot of his company’s design work—product packaging, mostly.”
Callie nodded.
“Does the name Allison ring a bell?” Stone asked.
“I had a secretary named Allison, once.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stone saw Detective Riley moving slowly past them. He stopped a few feet behind Paul Bartlett.
“I can’t get past the feeling that you think I’m someone else.”
“I can’t get past that, myself,” Stone replied. “What was the name of your firm?”
“Bartlett and Bishop,” he replied. “We were bought out by a New York-based firm. May I offer you a drink?”
“Thanks, but we have to be going,” Stone said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again. Where are you staying?”
“At the Chesterfield,” Bartlett replied. “Call me anytime.”
“Thanks. Ready, Callie?”
“Sure.”
Stone gave the couple a small wave and guided Callie out of the bar.
On the sidewalk, as they waited for their car to be brought around, the policeman approached them. “Mr. Barrington? I’m Dave Riley.”
Stone shook his hand. “Of course. Chief Griggs said you’d be here.”
“Was that your man?”
“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “He’s the right size and age, but I haven’t seen him for a few years, and I’m told he’s had his nose altered. Did you hear any of our conversation?”
“I got his name and his story about the business.”
“Can you check that out? Maybe get a photograph of Paul Bartlett?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Riley said.
The car arrived. Stone thanked the detective and he and Callie got in and drove away.
“What he said about the Wilkeses rings true,” she said. “He was standing near them when I saw him, and Mr. Wilkes does have a lot of business interests in the midwest.”
“At first I was sure it was Manning,” Stone said. “But now … Well, let’s see what the police turn up.”
“Why are the police involved?”
Stone took a deep breath. “I’ve already told you about Allison; Manning was her husband.” He told her the story.
“And you think Manning is in Palm Beach? What evidence do you have of that?”
“Nothing concrete,” Stone said. “Just a hunch, brought on by the trashing of Liz’s study at her house.”
“Bizarre,” Callie said.
“Indeed.”
They pulled into the driveway of the Shames house, got out and walked toward the yacht.
“So,” Callie said, “what about this threesome?”
“Well, there are problems about that,” Stone said, trying to think of some.
“What sort of problems? I’m certainly not one of them. I think she’s very attractive.”
“She’s my client, and she’s the girlfriend of another client, for a start.”
“And where in the canon of legal ethics does it say you can’t sleep with a client?”
“I, ah, can’t quote you chapter and verse, but believe me, it’s inadvisable.”
“Come on, Stone, what’s the real reason? You’re a red-blooded American boy. You must harbor the fantasy of two women in bed with you—and with each other.”
“I can’t deny that,” Stone said, reaching the gangplank and helping her aboard. “I suppose the main reason is that I wouldn’t want to share you with anybody, not even another beautiful woman.”
“Now, that was the politic thing to say,” she said, smiling at him. “But is there some other reason?”
“Apart from what I’ve already said, it just doesn’t feel right,” he replied.
“Now, that’s the best reason you’ve given me,” she said. “Maybe another time.”
“You never know,” Stone replied.
“I can tell you’re interested,” Callie said.
“How?”
She rubbed the back of her hand across the front of his trousers. “Let’s just say, it shows.”
Stone laughed and pulled her to him. “Think you could be satisfied with just me?”
“I expect so,” she replied, leading him toward his cabin.
20
STONE HAD A LATE BREAKFAST THE FOLLOWING MORNING and was finishing his coffee, when Juanito came aboard from the house with a Federal Express package for Stone. He ripped it open.
Joan wrote in a note: “Bob Berman brought this by for you. He said you’d know what it is.”
Stone lifted a four-inch-thick stack of computer paper out of the box and looked at the first page. It was a computerized registration form for the Brooke Hotel in Manhattan. The fanfold paper opened to reveal what appeared to be the entire guest list for the Brooke on the previous Friday.
Liz came on deck looking fresh and new in a short linen dress. “Good morning,” she said. “What’s that?”
“I had some phone calls from a Manhattan hotel last week; fellow asked for me and wouldn’t leave a number.”
“You think it might have been Paul?”
“Maybe. It would be a big help if you would g
o through these registration forms and see if any of the names seems familiar to you—not just people you know, but names that Paul might have chosen for a new identity.”
“Sure, I’ll be glad to.”
“When you’ve done that, I’d like you to take a ride with me.”
“Where?”
“I met a man last night who could possibly be Paul, but I couldn’t be sure. The nose was different, as you said, and that seemed to change everything. Anyway, I haven’t seen him for some years, and I’m not sure how good I’d be at identifying him. I’d like to see if we can spot him around his hotel and let you get a look at him.”
“Okay, and I can tell you that when I saw him in Easthampton he looked very different from his old self. I spotted him as much by his walk and his body language as by his appearance.”
“What sort of hair did he have?”
“His natural dark, going gray; that hadn’t changed.”
“How long?”
“Not too long; longer than yours, though.”
“Does the name Paul Bartlett ring any bells?”
“Just the Paul. But if Paul were hiding out, I don’t think he’d use his real first name. He’s a lot smarter than that.”
“Sit down, and let’s go through this hotel list together.”
“Okay. Can I have some coffee first?”
Stone rang for Juanito and ordered the coffee, then they started through the stack of fanfold paper. They had gone through only a dozen or so names when Liz stopped. “Garland,” she said. “Donald Garland.”
“Familiar?”
“Garland was Paul’s mother’s maiden name. Donald was his father’s first name.”
“Do you know how to contact them? Maybe he’s been in touch.”
“Both dead,” Liz said.
“Mr. Garland is from San Francisco,” Stone read from the document. “Says here he’s with Golden Gate Publishing, and he lives in Pacific Heights. When it’s opening time out there, I’ll check him out.”
They continued to read through the list for a while, then Juanito appeared with the telephone. “For you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Dan Griggs.”
“Morning, Dan. I expect Dave Riley briefed you on last night’s events.”
“Yes, and we’ve checked out Mr. Bartlett. He’s from Minneapolis, as he said, and he did sell his design firm last year.”
“Oh,” Stone said. “I guess that lets him out.”
“Not necessarily,” Griggs said. “He had owned the firm for only two years when he sold it, and I haven’t been able to find out anything about him before that, which is unusual.”
“I thought I’d take Mrs. Harding over to his hotel this morning and see if we can spot him. She thinks she can identify Paul Manning.”
“It’s a nice thought, but he checked out this morning; said he was going back to Minneapolis on business.”
“He doesn’t have a business,” Stone pointed out.
“I’m checking with the airlines to see if he was on any outbound flight this morning,” Griggs said. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
“Thanks, Dan,” Stone said, and hung up.
Liz was still going through the guest list. “I haven’t come across anything else yet,” she said.
“Paul Bartlett has checked out of his hotel,” Stone said. “Said he was returning to Minneapolis on business. Did Paul Manning have any connection with Minneapolis?”
“No, but he wouldn’t have settled in a place where anybody knew him.”
“How recognizable would he have been to his readers? Did he do a lot of book signings? Have his photograph on the book jackets?”
“The only photograph of Paul that ever appeared on a book jacket or in a press release from his publishers would have been one taken when he was very heavy and had a full beard. He would be completely unrecognizable to any reader now.”
“Bartlett recently sold a graphic design business. Did Paul have any design inclinations?”
“He was a fine arts major at Syracuse,” Liz said. “He drew and painted quite well.”
“Did he take any design courses? Anything that would give him the skills he would need for graphic design?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “He didn’t talk about college all that much.”
Callie appeared on deck. “What are you two doing?” she asked.
Stone explained the stack of paper.
“And how did you get the guest list of a New York hotel?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Juanito came back with the phone for Stone.
“Hello.”
“It’s Dan Griggs. Paul Bartlett didn’t take any flight out this morning, and he didn’t charter any aircraft on the field, but he did turn in his rental car at Hertz, at the airport.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Stone said. “Why would he drive to the airport and turn in his car, then not fly out? How would he leave the airport without transportation?”
“I’ll check the local cab companies and see if a driver picked up anyone answering his description,” Griggs said.
“You might check if he rented a car from another company, too, and if so, what kind and what license number. Might be nice to get his driver’s license info from Hertz, too.”
“I got that. It lists a Minneapolis address.”
“Issued when?”
“Two years, three months ago.”
“Can you check with the Minnesota motor vehicle department and find out if it was a renewal or a new license, and if he turned in a license from another state?”
“Sure, that’s pretty easy.”
“Oh, and what’s his date of birth on the license?”
Griggs told him, and he repeated it to Liz.
“Eighteen months younger than Paul,” she said.
“Keep me posted,” Stone said to Griggs, and hung up.
Liz was still going through the hotel list.
“Anything at all?” Stone asked.
“Just Garland so far,” she said. “Pity the hotel doesn’t photograph its guests.”
“I’ll bet it won’t be long before they start that,” Stone said. “That’ll make it easier to track fugitives.”
“And errant husbands,” Liz said. “I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Bartlett.”
“He said she died last year.”
“Might be interesting to check with the Minneapolis Police Department and find out if that’s true and, if so, how she died,” Liz said.
“You know something, Mrs. Harding,” Stone said. “You’d make a good cop.” He picked up the phone and called Dan Griggs.
“It’s Stone. Bartlett said his wife died last year. Can you check with the Minneapolis PD and see if there was foul play suspected?”
“Sure can do that,” Griggs said. “Bartlett’s driver’s license was issued after a driving test, not swapped for another state’s.”
“Now that’s really interesting,” Stone said. “How many middle-aged men take driving tests?”
“Only those who learned to drive late in life, and that’s not likely—and those who haven’t driven for a long time or who’ve been out of the country long enough for their licenses to expire.”
“And people who need new identities.”
“Right. Something else: I talked with the Hertz clerk at the airport, and she said Bartlett was picked up by somebody in a BMW. She could see the curb from her desk.”
“So he could still be in town.”
“Or on a road trip.”
“Yeah. Dan, could you check with an outfit called Golden Gate Publishing in San Francisco and find out if their employee Donald Garland matches Bartlett’s description?”
“Okay. They open in an hour out there. How’d you get onto this Garland?”
“You’d rather not know, but there’s an outside chance he could be Manning.”
“I’ll get somebody on it.”
&
nbsp; “Thanks.” Stone hung up and gazed across Lake Worth.
“What?” Liz asked.
“Somebody picked up Bartlett at the airport. I wonder why.”
Callie was leafing through the hotel guest list.
“Callie? Where do the Wilkeses live?”
“On North County Road.”
“Let’s go see them.”
21
“TELL ME ABOUT THE WILKESES,” STONE SAID. “WHAT Tare their first names?” They were driving up North County Road. To their right, usually behind high hedges, were houses that fronted the beach.
“Frank and Margaret,” she said. “He founded a chain of fast-food restaurants in the Midwest, and later, he bought some other companies. He’s very rich.” She pointed. “The house is the next one.”
Stone pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, which was tightly shut. A section of hedge prevented the house from being seen from the street.
“I think I’m uncomfortable just ringing the bell,” Callie said.
Stone handed her his cell phone. “Tell them we’re in the neighborhood, and we’re calling at the suggestion of Thad Shames.”
Callie made the call, chatted brightly with Mrs. Wilkes for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “Okay,” she said, “they’ll see us.”
Stone pulled up to the gates, reached out the window, rang the bell and the gates opened. The driveway was longer than Stone had expected, and they emerged in a cobblestoned circle with a fountain in its center. The house was an old one, in the Florida Spanish style, and appeared to have been carefully restored. Stone and Callie got out of the car and rang the front doorbell.
The door was answered by Margaret Wilkes, dressed for golf in a plaid skirt and polo shirt. “Callie, come in,” she said. “How nice to see you.”
“Mrs. Wilkes, this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Thad’s.”
“How do you do?” Stone said, and shook her extended hand.
“Please come back to the terrace,” she said. A houseman appeared from the rear of the house. “Bobby, please bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”
Frank Wilkes rose from a wicker sofa on the rear terrace to greet them, and introductions were made. The terrace overlooked a large pool and a garden, with the Atlantic beyond. Both the Wilkeses were charming and unpretentious.
After the lemonade had been served, Stone got to the point. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes …”
“Please, Frank and Margaret,” Wilkes said.