by Stuart Woods
“That’s why I got the cash—so I wouldn’t have to write checks.”
“Still, you could have dated it earlier, couldn’t you?”
“Check with my bank; I’ll call them for you, if you like.”
“After we’ve run the bills for prints,” Morton said. “Let’s go see the downstairs safe.”
Stone led them downstairs and showed them the safe in Joan’s office. “Help yourself. This is my secretary, Joan Robertson, Detectives Morton and Weiss. Oh, Joan cashed the ten-thousand-dollar check for me; she can confirm the date.”
Joan did so, and Morton handed Stone back his checkbook.
“We’ve got cash in here, too,” Weiss said.
“There are times when we have a fair amount of cash in the safe,” Joan said. “Occasionally, a client prefers to pay in cash.”
“And it’s always reported as income,” Stone said.
“I can confirm that,” Joan said. “I get the tax stuff together for the accountant.”
“We’re not the IRS.” Weiss bagged the hundreds in the safe and wrote out a receipt.
TWO HOURS LATER, when the police had gone, Stone called Dino. “Your guys are done,” he said.
“I heard. I heard they found about six grand in hundreds in your upstairs safe, too.”
“And they won’t find Billy Bob’s fingerprints on them,” Stone said, “and not the girl’s either.”
“I hope you’re right,” Dino said.
“No, you don’t; you’re enjoying this.”
“Dinner tonight? We never got around to it last night.”
“See you at nine.”
11
STONE AND DINO arrived at Elaine’s simultaneously, Stone in a cab and Dino in his umarked police car with driver. They walked in, and the first thing Stone saw was Billy Bob, sitting at Stone’s regular table.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“You mean you’re not thrilled to see your client?” Dino asked.
“Shut up.”
“Hey, y’all,” Billy Bob said, delighted to see them. “Well, I’m glad I don’t have to eat by myself. Y’all have a drink.”
“So, Billy Bob,” Dino said, “did your lawyer tell you you’ve been eliminated as a suspect in the girl’s murder? We checked with Buffett’s office, and they confirmed that you were in Omaha.”
“Naw, Stone didn’t mention that,” Billy Bob said, looking askance at Stone.
“First time I’ve seen you,” Stone said.
“Stone isn’t off the hook, though,” Dino said. “In fact, he’s our prime suspect.”
“Now why would ol’ Stone want to kill Tiffany? You wouldn’t do that, would you, Stone?”
Stone sipped his bourbon and ignored the question.
“Well, what we look for in a suspect,” Dino said, “is motive, means and opportunity. Stone had the means—his hands—and the opportunity—he was alone in the house with the girl all day—and as for motive, well, two out of three is often enough for a jury.”
Stone ended his silence. “Dino forgot to mention that he needs physical evidence or an eyewitness,” Stone said. “And, of course, he has neither.”
“No, no physical evidence, though we did find his fingerprints on her throat.”
“I felt her throat for a pulse,” Stone said to Billy Bob.
“And the DNA from the sperm inside her,” Dino added.
“Whose DNA?” Stone asked.
“His,” Dino said, pointing at Billy Bob.
“He told you he had sex with her before leaving for Omaha,” Stone pointed out.
“And that room was completely wiped clean of prints,” Dino said.
“And why would either Billy Bob or I bother to do that? It’s my house—perfectly normal for my prints to be found there, and Billy Bob was a guest, living in that room. Normal for his prints to be there, too. Would I bother to do that in my own house?”
“Right,” Billy Bob said.
“Dino,” Stone said, “has it occurred to you that the murderer took his time? He wasn’t in a rush, what with wiping down the room and putting an electric blanket over the body.”
“That’s kinda weird, ain’t it?” Billy Bob asked. “Why would somebody want to keep her warm?”
“To screw up our estimate of when she was murdered,” Dino said. “For instance, if you had killed her before you left for Omaha that morning, the blanket would have made it seem that she died much later, because the body wouldn’t have cooled as quickly. What have you got to say about that, Billy Bob?”
“Don’t answer that,” Stone said.
“Oh, we’re completely off the record here,” Dino said, smiling.
“Don’t say a word, Billy Bob.”
Billy Bob was looking worried, now.
“So, Dino, what’s the ME’s new stab at time of death, now that he knows about the electric blanket?”
“Earlier than before,” Dino said.
“Earlier? That’s it? No ballpark?”
“Turns out the ME has never had a case where somebody tried to keep a body warm with an electric blanket,” Dino said. “He’s working on it, though, doing some tests.”
“What kind of tests?” Stone asked. “Is he going to strangle somebody, then put a blanket over the body and take its temperature every ten minutes?”
“Something like that,” Dino said, “except for the strangling part. He’ll nail it down; don’t worry.” Dino excused himself and went into the men’s room.
“Billy Bob,” Stone said, “the police turned up at my house this morning with a search warrant, and they found your gun in my safe.”
Billy Bob grinned. “Good thing I didn’t shoot that girl.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Stone said, “and be careful what you say around Dino. Don’t forget, he’s the police.”
“But Dino’s your buddy, right?”
“Right, but he’s still a cop. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook, unless he has to, and if the medical examiner comes up with a supportable estimate of time of death that includes the time before you left for Omaha, then Dino is going to come calling on you. And by the way, the next time you leave town, come get that cannon of yours. My secretary will give it to you. It’s a good thing Dino’s detectives didn’t check the serial number against my license, or we’d have both been in trouble.”
Dino came back from the men’s room and began rummaging in his overcoat pockets. He came up with a clear plastic bag full of hundred-dollar bills and tossed it on the table. “Almost forgot,” he said. “You can have your money back. We didn’t find Billy Bob’s or the girl’s prints on any of it.”
Before Stone could remove the money, Elaine came and sat down. “Hey,” she said, “you’re getting to be a pretty good tipper.”
Stone stuffed the money into his own overcoat. “I’ve always been a good tipper,” he said, “but not that good.”
“Strangled anybody else lately?” she asked Stone.
“Stop it, you’re worse than Dino.”
“I think a woman did it,” Elaine said.
“How come?” Dino asked.
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Some woman Stone dumped probably did it.”
Dino nodded. “Women are born killers, like cats. Who’ve you dumped lately, Stone?”
“I haven’t dumped anybody; I get dumped, not the other way around.”
“That’s true,” Dino said, nodding vigorously. “Stone gets dumped a lot.”
“Well, not a lot,” Stone said, “but once in a while.”
“More than that,” Dino said.
“Just once in a while.”
“Okay, who’re you seeing at the moment?”
“The U.S. Attorney,” Elaine said, “but she hasn’t had time to dump him, yet.”
“Why don’t you two just get dumping off your minds?” Stone asked.
“What’s-her-name dumped him,” Dino said. “You know, the one that married the billionaire from Pal
m Beach.”
“Right,” Elaine said. “And there was Arrington, she dumped him. You know, Dino, Stone does get dumped a lot.
“Let’s order dinner,” Stone said, picking up a menu.
“About time,” Elaine said, getting up and wandering over to another table.
AFTER DINNER, Billy Bob grabbed the check, tossed a wad of two-dollar bills on the table and stood up. “Y’all got to excuse me,” he said. “Got a late date.” He put on his coat and left.
“More two-dollar bills,” Dino said, poking at them with a finger. “Where does he get them?”
“I have no idea,” Stone said, “but there never seems to be a shortage.” He took a bill from the pile, stuck it in his pocket and replaced it with a pair of ones. “Souvenir,” he said.
“Oh,” Dino said, digging into his coat pocket. “I meant to give Billy Bob back Warren Buffett’s card.” He handed it to Stone. “You can give it to him next time you consult with him.”
Stone glanced at the card and put it in his pocket. “Will do.”
12
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, Tiff arrived at Stone’s house at seven, bearing an armload of shopping bags and looking a little frazzled.
“Whew!” she said, giving Stone a kiss. “I’m beat!”
“You need a drink,” Stone said, steering her toward the kitchen. They passed through the living room and the library.
“This is a beautiful house,” Tiff said. “Is this the cabinetwork your father did?”
“It is, all of it. The doors, too.”
In the kitchen, she dropped her bags. He deposited her on the sofa tucked into a corner and took a green-tinted bottle of vodka from the freezer.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A specialty of the house,” Stone replied. He found two thin crystal martini glasses, poured the liquid into each and returned the bottle to the freezer. He handed her a glass. “Try that.”
Tiff sipped and smiled. “That’s wonderful! What is it?”
“It’s a very special vodka gimlet.”
“Sounds powerful. What’s in it?”
“Not as powerful as a martini. It’s three parts of vodka and one part of Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice. What’s special about it is the intensity. Normally, you’d pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, shake it until your fingers freeze to the shaker, then strain it into a glass. What I do is take a full fifth of vodka, pour six ounces of it into another bottle and replace that with the lime juice. Then I put it into the freezer for a few hours. That way, when it’s poured, it’s colder than ice, because the vodka doesn’t freeze, and it hasn’t been watered down by the melting ice in the shaker.”
“Heaven.” She sighed, sinking into the sofa.
“Did you have a good day?”
“Spectacular. I found an apartment.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s what you New Yorkers call a classic six, on Park Avenue in the sixties, and it’s already been renovated, so it’s in move-in condition. It had been sold, and the owners moved out, but the co-op board turned down the buyer, so it’s sitting there, empty, ready for me.”
“Sounds great, but how long will it take for you to get board approval?”
“The board meets at the end of next week, so if I can get all the paperwork together in a hurry, I’ll know then. My real-estate agent says the board will like the idea of a U.S. Attorney living in the building, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Co-op boards can be tricky,” Stone said.
“I’ll get the AG to write a letter of recommendation—the president, if I have to. Say, can I borrow your shower? I’ve been apartment-hunting and shopping all day, and I haven’t had time to change.”
“Sure, follow me.” He led her up the back stairs into his bedroom, carrying her shopping bags. “There’s a robe on the back of the bathroom door,” he said.
“I won’t be long,” she replied, setting her gimlet on his desk.
Stone went back to the kitchen and began organizing dinner.
SOON, SHE CAME DOWN the stairs, her hair wet, wearing tan leather pants and a tight sweater.
“New clothes?” he asked.
“Fresh from Madison Avenue’s finest shops.”
He poured her another gimlet. “I’m going to start dinner, now,” he said. “I’m making risotto, so I may need some help stirring.”
He emptied a packet of arborio rice into a copper pan, with half a stick of butter and some olive oil, and cooked it until it was glossy, then began adding hot chicken stock to the pan, a little at a time. Halfway through the process, he tossed a pair of thick veal chops onto the grill of the Viking range and let them brown for a few minutes on each side.
When the risotto had absorbed all the chicken stock and the rice was tender, he added half a cup of crème fraîche and a considerable amount of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese and stirred them in, then set the pan on a trivet on the kitchen dining table, forked the veal chops on two plates and added haricots verts that he had cooked earlier. He opened a bottle of Far Niente cabernet and held a chair for her to sit down.
“It looks wonderful,” she said.
“We’ll see.”
She tasted the risotto. “Marvelous!”
They dined slowly, enjoying the food and wine. When they had finished, he took away the dishes and served them each a tiny slice of Italian cheesecake from a deli he knew.
He made espresso and poured them each a brandy.
“I feel so much better,” she said. “You heard anything from Rodney Peeples?”
That brought Stone up short.
“We going to talk shop?”
“Just for a minute.”
“This is only the second time I’ve heard that name—both from you. I am not acquainted with the gentleman.”
“And he is not your client?”
“I would have to be acquainted with him for him to be my client.”
“Good point.”
“But, as long as we’re talking shop, could I ask a favor of you?”
“Maybe.”
“Your office handles cases with the Treasury Department, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You know anybody in the Secret Service you could have a word with?”
“Probably.”
Stone dug into a pocket and came out with Billy Bob’s two-dollar bill. “Could you ask someone there to run the serial number on this bill and see if anything pops up?”
She took the bill and looked at it. “Why?”
“Just a favor.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Stone took back the bill. “Never mind.”
“That was a very odd request. Do you think the bill might have been stolen?”
“No, I’m just curious to see what I can learn about it. You don’t see a lot of two-dollar bills.”
“I’m going to have to have a better explanation than that if you want me to have it run.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a better explanation than that,” Stone said. “Let’s just forget it.”
She grabbed the bill back. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll call in a favor and have it run on an informal basis.”
“That would be great.”
“You’re sure you don’t know Rodney Peeples?”
“Will you stop with that name, Tiff? I’ve told you repeatedly that I don’t.”
“Okay, okay.”
“How long will it take to run the two-dollar bill?”
“I’ll make the call on Monday; a day or two, I guess. This isn’t going to get me into trouble, is it?”
“If I thought it were, I wouldn’t ask you to run it. It’s just that I’m curious, and I don’t have any contacts in the Secret Service. I’m only looking for information; I’m not asking anybody to intercede on behalf of a client.”
“You have contacts in other federal agencies?”
“One or two,” Stone said. “I recently had dinne
r with the United States Attorney for New York.”
She laughed. “Yes, you did, didn’t you? Now what?”
He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“So am I,” she said, kissing him back.
13
STONE WAS WAKENED by a ringing cell phone, and he knew it wasn’t his. He opened an eye and found it filled with a naked breast, a pleasing sight. He reached across Tiff and grabbed her handbag from her bedside table, then he laid the handbag on her belly.
“Your belly is ringing,” he said into her ear.
She made a noise and turned onto her side, away from him.
“Tiff, it’s your cell phone.”
“Shhhhhh,” she said.
The cell phone stopped ringing.
Stone turned and snuggled up next to her back, enjoying the feeling of her buttocks against his belly.
Tiff made another, more approving noise and pushed against him.
Stone responded, and in a moment, they were both awake, working together to guide him inside her. That accomplished, they moved in concert, faster and faster, until they both came loudly.
“That was good,” she said, when their breathing had returned to normal.
“It was better than good,” Stone murmured, resting his cheek on her moist back.
She rolled over, threw a leg over him and put her head on his shoulder. “You’re right,” she said.
“I’m never wrong about these things.”
She laughed, then seemed to fall asleep. Stone was nearly asleep, himself, when she jerked awake.
“Is that my cell phone ringing?” she asked.
“About fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe they left a message.”
“I don’t want it,” she replied. “What are our plans for the day?”
“Eggs Benedict, mimosas and the New York Times.”
“I get the crossword.”
“I’ll make you a copy and race you to the finish.”
“You wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Big talk.”