by Stuart Woods
Who are you calling? she asked.
Yes, tell him it's important.
Shames came onto the line. Stone? Anything to report?
There's someone here who'd like to speak with you, Stone said. He handed the phone to Liz.
She took it, baffled. Hello? Yes, this is Liz. Oh, it's you! We were just talking about you. Well, yes, I'd like to see you again. Saturday? I believe I'm free. All right, I'll look forward to seeing you then. She handed the phone back to Stone.
Stone, bring her to the party on Saturday night, aboard Toscana. Seven o'clock.
All right.
See you then. Gotta run.
Stone returned the cell phone to his pocket.
So, you're a matchmaker, as well?
Glad to be of service.
He is well known, isn't he?
Yes, in the worlds of computer software and Wall Street, he's something of a celebrity.
I don't know about these things. I never read the Wall Street Journal.
Neither do I.
She frowned.
Anything wrong?
There is something else.
What's that?
Paul Manning.
He's dead.
She shook her head. No, he's not.
But he went back to St. Marks and was Stone stopped. You bought him out, didn't you?
She nodded sheepishly. I called Sir Leslie, the barrister, remember?
Oh, yes. How much did it cost you?
Half a million.
You got a volume discount?
Stone, I couldn't just let him be hanged.
Why not? He's a triple murderer. And, when he thought you were going to be executed, he didn't lift a hand to save you from the gallows.
That's true, of course, but still
A terrible thought struck Stone. Please tell me Paul doesn't know you're alive.
She slumped. I'm afraid he does. Sir Leslie let it slip.
Good God. Where is Paul?
I don't know, but he was in Easthampton last weekend.
You saw him?
I was in a shop on Sunday afternoon, and he passed by in the street.
You're sure it was Paul?
Absolutely sure. He's kept all that weight off, and he's had a nose job, but I recognized him just by the way he walked.
Did he see you?
No. I mean, I don't think so. Still, I got the hell out of the Hamptons, and as soon as I got to Palm Beach, I changed my hair color. What can I do about this, Stone?
It's the money he wants, isn't it? You could try buying him off.
Will you deal with that for me?
Well, there are two problems with that. First, I don't know where to find him. Second, the last time he saw me, he wanted to kill me, and since I got him arrested, imprisoned and nearly hanged in St. Marks, I doubt if he feels any more kindly toward me. In fact, it makes me nervous just knowing he's out there somewhere.
Apparently, he wants to kill me, too, she said. At least, that's what he told Sir Leslie.
Grateful, isn't he?
Stone, what am I going to do?
Well, Allison excuse me, Liz since we don't know how to find him, I suppose we're going to have to wait for him to find you.
She nodded. Or you.
After lunch, when Allison, now Liz, had left him, Stone took a drive around Palm Beach before returning to the yacht. He thought about Paul Manning and how he would not like to renew his acquaintance with the man. During his career as a police officer, Stone had known a number of people who would have preferred to see him dead, rather than alive, but all of them were either dead themselves, or safely locked away in prison. Except Paul Manning. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed his office number.
Stone Barrington's office, Joan said.
Hi, it's me.
Hi. How's Palm Beach?
Sunny and warm.
Oh, shit.
Stone laughed. Joan, have you told anyone I'm in Palm Beach?
No, she said.
Has anybody inquired about my whereabouts?
I don't think anybody cares, she said archly.
Thanks. Will you check my old files for one on the Boston Mutual Insurance Company. There's an investigator there I'd like to speak to, and I can't remember his name.
You want to hold? I've got most of that stuff scanned into the computer.
Go ahead and look. Stone made a couple of turns. He was now in a handsome residential neighborhood off North County Road, which pretty much served as Palm Beach's main street.
I've got it, she said. He's the chief investigative officer for Boston Mutual.
That's the guy. Name and phone number? He pulled to the curb and got out his notebook.
Frank Stendahl. She gave him the number.
Stone wrote it down. Any other calls?
She read him a short list, and he gave her instructions on handling them, then he hung up and dialed Frank Stendahl's number. He had met Stendahl in St. Marks, when the man had come to investigate the claim on Paul Manning's insurance policy and had ended up testifying at Allison's trial. Stone had involved him in the capture of Paul Manning later, but the murder charges against Manning had taken precedence over Boston Mutual's insurance fraud charges, and, since Allison had made their twelve million dollars disappear before she was hanged, Manning had had no money left for them to go after.
Stendahl, a gruff voice said.
Frank, it's Stone Barrington.
Stendahl's voice warmed. Stone, how are you?
Very well, thanks. How's the weather in Boston?
Don't ask.
I won't. Tell me, Frank, how do you think your company would feel about getting back some of the money you paid out on the Paul Manning policy?
You planning to reimburse us, Stone? Suspicion had crept into the investigator's voice.
Certainly not, Stone replied. But it might be possible to recover a part of the sum.
How?
Let's just say that I have a client who is interested in clearing up the matter. Not the whole twelve million, of course, but a decent fraction.
How decent a fraction?
How about a million dollars?
How about six million?
It's not going to happen, Frank.
And what do we have to do to get this money?
Nothing, really. Just agree to a settlement and sign a release.
Releasing who from what?
Releasing anybody from any liability connected with the fraud.
Stendahl was silent.
Frank?
I'm just trying to figure this out, he said. Who's your client?
I'm afraid that's confidential and will have to remain so.
I just don't get it, Stone, Stendahl said. Both the people responsible for the fraud are dead, and the money vanished into thin air, or at least into some offshore account we could never find. Who would want to give us a million bucks out of the goodness of his heart?
I'm afraid I can't help you there, Frank. I was contacted and instructed to contact your company and make the offer. That's all I can tell you.
I just don't get it, Stendahl said again.
You want me to tell my client you said no?
Of course not, Stendahl nearly shouted. I'll have to take this upstairs, see what they have to say.
I can have the money in your account twenty-four hours after I receive the release.
I'll tell them that.
And, Frank, it's going to be an iron-clad release broad and deep, covering anything anybody could ever have done to Boston Mutual in the matter of this policy.
Stone, do you have any idea how hard it would be for an insurance executive ever to sign such a document? It would turn his liver to rock candy.
Maybe a million dollars would melt it.
Where can I reach you?
Stone gave him the cell phone number. I'm in Florida, he said.
Stendahl groaned and hung up.
Stone
called his office again and dictated a release. Type that up, leaving the amount blank, and have it ready to fax to Stendahl, he said.
Will do, Joan replied.
Stone pulled back into traffic. On the way back to the yacht, he passed West Indies Drive, where Elizabeth Harding's house was. He was going to have to get used to that name.
Liz, he said aloud. Liz, Liz, Liz. He thought about the nights he had spent with her aboard the yacht in St. Marks, and the memory stirred more in him than he was comfortable with. After all, he was pimping well, that was too strong a word representing Thad Shames in the matter of Liz Harding, and sleeping with the woman his client was chasing would probably violate some canon of legal ethics.
He was back on board Toscana, sipping a rum and tonic on the after-deck, when his cell phone rang.
Stone Barrington.
It's Stendahl. I'm with our CEO and CFO, and I'm going to put you on the speakerphone.
Okay.
Stendahl's voice became hollow. Now, Stone, our people are not willing to enter into this transaction without knowing more about your client and his reasons for making this offer.
Frank, gentlemen, client-attorney confidentiality prevents me from telling you any more than I already have about my client's identity or motives. This is a very simple proposition: I will wire-transfer one million dollars into Boston Mutual's account, in return for a release of criminal and civil liability in the matter of the Paul Manning policy for anyone who ever had anything to do with it.
Another voice spoke. This is Morrison, CFO of the company, it said. Five million, and that's our best offer.
Mr. Morrison, Stone said, I'm doing the offering, and while I'm at it, I'll give you our last, best offer to settle this matter. One million, five hundred thousand dollars, and that's it. You have only to accept or reject, but I must tell you, that if you reject this offer, when this phone call is over, you will never hear of this matter again. You simply have to decide whether you'd rather be out twelve million dollars or ten million, five. Stone stopped talking and waited.
Hang on, Stendahl said, and the call went on hold.
Stone waited, tapping his fingers against his glass. If they stood firm, he could always come back with five million later. After all, that's what Liz Harding had said she would pay.
We're back, Stendahl said.
This is Shanklin, the CEO of the company, a new voice said. We accept, pending a legal review of the form of the release.
Give me a fax number, Stone said, then wrote it down. Gentlemen, you'll have the release in five minutes. Sign and fax it to my office, along with your bank account number, and FedEx the original. Upon receipt of the original, I will wire-transfer the funds to your account.
We're waiting, Stendahl said.
Stone punched off and speed-dialed his office. When Joan answered, he said, Insert the amount of one million five hundred thousand dollars in the document, print it out and fax it to Stendahl pronto; he's waiting for it. He gave her the number, then hung up.
Stone sat and sipped his drink, watching the afternoon grow later. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. Hello?
It's Joan. They signed the document and faxed it back to us.
Great, Stone said. He found Juanito, got the yacht's fax number, gave it to Joan and asked her to fax the document to him, then he called Liz Harding.
It's Stone, he said when she had answered. I have news.
Tell me, she said.
Boston Mutual has accepted an offer of one point five million to settle the matter and release you from any civil or criminal liability.
Oh, Stone, she gushed. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to hear that.
Now listen, he said. It's three-thirty. I want you to call or fax your bank right this minute and instruct them to wire-transfer the funds to my firm's trust account in New York. It's too late for them to do it today, but instruct them to wire the funds immediately upon opening on Monday morning. That way, I can have the funds wired to Boston the same day, and this transaction will be complete.
Then I'm a free woman?
I've no doubt that you're a very expensive woman, but you'll be free when that money hits their bank account. I have a copy of the release being faxed to me, and I'll give it to you tomorrow night, when I pick you up. And I want you to fax a copy of the instructions to your bank to me aboard the yacht. He gave her the fax number. Now get moving.
Okay!
Half an hour later, he had both faxes in hand. He took a long swig of his drink and reflected on a good day's work. There was some small doubt tickling the back of his brain, but before he could summon it up, the rum flushed it away.
Stone was taking a nap in his cabin when there was a knock on his door.
Come in, he called out.
The door opened and Callie Hodges stuck her head in. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.
Stone sat up on his elbows. It's all right. How are you?
I'm good. You free for dinner?
Sure.
I'll cook for you, then.
Sounds wonderful.
Find the galley when you're awake, she said. I'll be the one in the apron.
Be there shortly, he said. I'd like to grab a shower.
Half an hour is fine, she said, then closed the door.
Stone went into the bathroom, a little groggy, and inspected his face. The shave was okay. He stripped and got into the shower, and by the time he emerged, he was awake again. He dried his hair, slipped into a polo shirt and chinos and made his way forward. He found the galley a deck below the bridge, off the dining room. Callie was, indeed, wearing an apron, and, it appeared, nothing else.
Hi, she said. Make us a drink? She pointed to the butler's pantry, and when she turned back to the stove he was a little disappointed to see that she was wearing a strapless top and shorts under her apron.
What would you like? Stone asked.
You were drinking vodka gimlets last night, weren't you?
That's right. Would you like to try one?
Love to.
Stone measured the vodka and Rose's sweetened lime juice into a shaker, shook the liquid cold and strained it into two martini glasses. He took them back into the galley and handed one to Callie. Try that.
She sipped the icy drink. Mmmm perfect!
What are you cooking?
Risotto, she said, stirring a pot with her free hand. It has to be constantly stirred until it's done.
I love risotto, he said.
Any kind of food you don't love?
I never eat raw animals, he said, or anything that might still be alive, like an oyster.
You don't like oysters? You don't know what you're missing.
Last time I saw somebody eat oysters, he squeezed some lemon juice onto them, and they flinched. I never eat anything that can still flinch.
Anything else?
Stone thought. Celery and green peppers. I think that's it.
There's a bottle of chardonnay in the little wine fridge, there, she said, nodding. Will you open it? This is almost ready.
Stone found a bottle of Ferarri-Carano Reserve and opened it. Where are we dining?
She was spooning risotto onto two large plates. Follow me, she said, picking them up. She led the way through a swinging door into a small dining room, where a table was set for two. The big dining room is through that door, she said. We can seat up to sixteen in there.
This is lovely, Stone said, sliding her chair under her and taking his own. He tasted the wine and poured two glasses.
Dig in, she said. Don't let it get cold.
Stone tasted the risotto, which contained fresh shrimp and asparagus. Superb. Where'd you learn to cook?
At my father's knee, she said. My mother preferred his cooking to hers, so she never entered the kitchen if she could help it. Later, I did a course at Cordon Bleu, in London, and I worked for a while for Prudence Leith, who has a London restaurant and catering service there. I learned a lot from Prue.
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How'd you come to work for Thad Shames?
Last summer I was cooking for a movie producer and his wife in the Hamptons, and Thad came to dinner. The producer was a real shit. He enjoyed ordering me around and complaining about my attitude.
Did you have an attitude?
Probably. Anyway, he was particularly bad that night, complaining about the food, when everyone else was complimenting it. Finally, I'd had enough. I put dessert on the table and told him I was quitting, and he could do the dishes, then I walked out. I went to my room and packed my suitcase and started walking toward the village, up the dark road. Then Thad pulled up in a car and offered me a lift. He asked where I was going, and I said I didn't know. He offered me a job cooking for him, drove me back to his place, installed me in the guest house, and I've worked for him ever since. The job has grown to include lots of other duties, and I've enjoyed it.
What would you be doing if you weren't working for Thad? Stone asked.
Probably working in a restaurant and hating it. I don't like a big kitchen, and you have no social life at all. This job is perfect for me. You aren't married, are you?
No.
Ever married?
No. Well, once for about fifteen minutes. It was sort of annulled.
And where is the ex-wife today?
Under full-time psychiatric care. I have that effect on women.
She laughed. I won't pry. I just wanted to know if you were free before
Before what?
Before I seduced you.
If I weren't free, would it matter?
It certainly would, she said. I've learned not to get involved with married men.
I won't ask how. Where are you from?
I was born in a small town in Georgia, called Delano, but I grew up mostly in Kent, Connecticut.
I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut.
Nice town.
Your folks still there?
Both dead. Daddy was a small-town lawyer and banker; my mother wrote short stories and poetry, sometimes for The New Yorker.
One of them was Jewish, you said?
Mother. She was a New York girl through and through. They met in the city at a party, and she married him and moved to Connecticut with him. She always missed living in New York. How about you?
Born and bred in the city. My father was a cabinet and furniture maker, my mother, a painter.