by Stuart Woods
“All right, Manny, start a new guy on the job, and call me when we get to a thousand, and I’ll decide whether I want to go further.”
“I’ll need five hundred up front,” Manny said.
“Manny, for old times’ sake, could you start right now? I’ll send the money today.”
“What old times’ sake? It’s not like you and me have got some kind of warm, fuzzy history.”
“Manny, we have the NYPD in common. That’s a basis to start on.”
“If you FedEx the money, I’ll have it first thing tomorrow.”
Stone sighed. “Give me the address.”
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STON E A N D D IN O were with Tommy Sculley when Bob Cantor called back.
“Hey, Bob,” Stone said. “You okay?”
“I’m okay. Are you in New York?”
“No, I’m in Key West.”
“That’s almost as good as St. Thomas, which is where I am.”
“Not bad, Bob. Can you get me a cell phone number from there?”
“Maybe. Old number?”
“New number, maybe only a day or two old.”
“Do you know where the caller is based?”
“Key West, I should think.”
“What’s the name?”
“Evan Keating.” Stone spelled it for him.
“I’m going to need to do some work on the computer,” Bob said.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Today?”
“Give me a few minutes.”
“Okay, thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up.
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“What else can we do?” he asked Dino.
“I think this is our best bet,” Dino replied. “Let’s wait to hear from Bob, before we start patrolling the streets, which seems like our last remaining option.”
Stone’s cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”
“It’s Manny. Did you send the money?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet, Manny, but I’ll get it to FedEx before the day is out, okay?”
“Terrific. When I get it, I’ll give you what I’ve got.”
“You’ve got something on Keating?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Come on, Manny, you’ll get the money.”
“This is business, Barrington. Why should I trust you?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I wouldn’t trust him, either. Tell you what: You go send the money, then give me the tracking number, and I’ll check it out. If it’s on the way, I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”
Stone sighed again. “All right, Manny.” He hung up. Tommy spoke up. “Is this the same Manny White from the Nineteenth?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“He was always a pain in the ass. Sit tight; I’ll be right back.”
Tommy got up from the table and disappeared through a door. A moment later he was back with a FedEx envelope and waybill. “Here you go; they’ll call it in from the offi ce.”
Stone put five hundreds in the envelope, addressed it and made a note of the tracking number, then Tommy took it to the offi ce. Stone called Manny White.
“Good day, Manny White Investigations,” Manny said.
“Isn’t this still the private line?” Stone asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
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“What do you want?”
“Manny, it’s what you want. The FedEx tracking number, remember?”
“Yeah, gimme it.”
Stone recited the number. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So what’s your information?”
“I haven’t had a chance to call FedEx and track it yet. I’ll call you back.”
“Manny, the package is in the office of the Key West Yacht Club, waiting for FedEx to pick it up.”
“So it’s not in the system yet?”
“I guess not, but it will be.”
“I can’t track ‘will be.’ ”
Tommy and Dino were laughing so hard they couldn’t eat.
“Look,” Tommy said, pointing out the front window. A FedEx truck was leaving the parking lot.
“Okay, Manny,” Stone said, “the truck just left; it’s in the system.”
“I’ll call you back.” Manny hung up.
“It would have been easier to go to Miami and look for the guy myself,” Stone said. His cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”
“Is this Barrington?”
“Yes, Manny.”
“Your package checked out.”
“Good, Manny, now what’s the information you have?”
“Here it is—after a thorough search, the name Evan Keating does not appear on any hotel register in South Beach.”
“That’s it?” Tommy and Dino were in new paroxysms of laughter.
“That’s it.”
“That’s what you call information?”
“It’s what I call very hard-won information,” Manny replied. “My agent had to go to every hotel to get it.”
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“Okay, Manny,” Stone said, “cancel the rest of the search.”
“Whatever you say,” Manny said, and he hung up. Tommy spoke through his tears. “You gotta admit, it was information. Now you know where the guy is not.”
Stone’s cell phone went off. “Hello?”
“It’s Cantor.”
“Good. What’ve you got for me?”
“Zip, I’m afraid. Nobody by that name has gotten new cell phone service in Key West for a week.”
Stone thought about that. “Anybody named Gigi Jones on the list of new customers?”
“Lemme see.” Cantor was shuffling papers. “Nope, nobody by that name, either.”
“Okay, Bob, thanks. Send me your bill.”
“In Key West?”
“Nope, in New York.”
“See ya.” Cantor hung up.
“Stone,” Tommy said, “if Evan Keating lost his old cell phone and is getting a new one, why would he get a new number?”
Stone smote his forehead. “Right! He’d just cancel the old phone and transfer the number to the new phone!”
“Why didn’t you think of that?” Dino asked.
“I don’t know. I should have.”
“Your brain is Swede-addled,” Dino said.
“Is this the doctor?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah. Stone has been sacrificing himself on that altar every night.”
“Some sacrifice,” Tommy said.
Stone ignored them; he was looking for Evan Keating’s old cell number in the list of calls in his phone’s memory. He found it and pressed the send button.
“Hello?”
“Evan?”
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“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
Long pause. “What do you want?”
“I need to see you. There have been developments at home that you need to know about.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Key West Yacht Club.”
“Funny, so am I,” Evan said. “I’m parked within sight of the bar, which I figure is where you’re calling from.”
“Don’t move,” Stone said. He got up and started walking toward the door.
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STO N E B U R S T O U T the door and saw a beautiful little 32-footer moored at the end of the outer dock. Evan Keating was standing in the cockpit, looking at him. Stone hurried over and stepped aboard. Evan pointed at a cockpit seat, and Stone sat down. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a couple of minutes. I came in for fuel, but they don’t have fuel here.”
“I guess you’ll have to go down to Key West Bight.”
“What’s up?”
“First of all,
the managing partner of my law fi rm got your grandfather out of the nursing home where your father had imprisoned him. He’s at home and being taken care of by his old secretary.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Evan said, without much enthusiasm. “What else?”
“It appears that your father may be trying to hire somebody to kill you.”
This got Evan’s full attention. “Why do you think that?”
“Because someone sounding like him, New England accent and 1 2 7
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all, called a private investigator of my acquaintance and inquired about having a dirty job done. Earlier, your father had hired him to fi nd you.”
“That sounds like the old man,” Evan said. “Any details of who he hired and how he plans to do it?”
“No, the P.I. hung up on him when it became obvious what he wanted.”
“And you don’t know if he found somebody else?”
“You know your father better than I—is he the sort of man who would stop with one attempt?”
Evan thought about that. “No, he isn’t.”
“Then, if I were you, I’d start watching my back.”
“That’s my job,” a female voice said.
Stone looked up to see Gigi Jones stepping out of the cabin, almost dressed in a tiny bikini that showed everything to great effect. “Yes, I’ve had some experience of that,” he said. “I’m glad I’m seated with my back to the water.”
Gigi giggled. “Don’t be nervous, Mr. Barrington. It appears we’re on the same side, both dedicated to keeping Evan alive.”
“I guess,” Stone said, then he turned back to Evan. “There’s more: Your grandfather likes the idea of selling the company, so he’s taking over negotiations himself. He’d like very much to hear from you. Will you call him?”
“Sure,” Evan said. “I’ve got nothing against him. Why do you think my father wants me dead?”
“You’ve seen the number on the sales contract,” Stone said. “Do you think he would kill you for your third of eight hundred million dollars?”
Evan shrugged. “I guess that’s motive enough. He’d kill my grandfather for that, too.”
“But then why would he bother to put him in a nursing home?
Also, if you’re right about his poisoning your Uncle Harry, then he might hesitate to kill your grandfather, too.”
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“Too many deaths by poisoning in one family, huh?”
“Yes, but if he had somebody put a bullet in you in Key West, he’s going to be far removed from the crime scene, isn’t he? You’d just be another rich boy who mingled with the wrong people, nothing to do with him.”
“I guess that would work for him,” Evan said.
“Tell me something: Do you think it’s possible your father had something to do with the killing of your friend Charley Boggs?
Could a hit man have gotten the two of you mixed up?”
“I doubt that,” Evan said. “Charley had a beard, remember?”
“Maybe you’ve been in Key West for too long,” Stone said. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable in a different state.”
“Maybe,” Evan said. “How about it, babe?” he said to Gigi. “You ready to move on?”
“I like it here,” Gigi replied.
“As a matter of fact, so do I,” Evan said. “I guess I’ll take my chances.”
“Well, Evan,” Stone said, “you’re the only guy I know who, upon being told there was a contract out on him, would just sit tight and wait for a hit man to show up.”
“Stone, you had a pretty hard time finding me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, why do you think some stupid ex-con would have an easier time of it?”
“If he’s as stupid as you think, then he might not find you. Or he might get lucky. Or if he’s a real pro, he might find you faster than I did and you won’t see him coming.”
“Gigi will,” Evan said, smiling at her.
“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “You’ve got your grandfather’s phone number?”
“I don’t expect it’s changed.”
“Then I’ll be saying goodbye, Evan; my work here is done.” Stone stood up.
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“I guess it is, at that,” Evan said, offering him a hand. “Please don’t worry about me.”
Stone shook the hand. “I’ll try and put the whole business out of my mind,” he said. “But I’ll watch the business pages to see how the sale of Elijah Keating’s Sons turns out.”
“So will I,” Evan said. He went to the helm and started the engines.
“I’ll cast you off,” Stone said.
“Thanks.”
Stone walked down the dock and untied the bow line, the springs and the stern line, coiled them and tossed them to Gigi. He watched them ease out of the berth and turn toward the channel, and he noticed that there was no longer a name on the boat’s stern. He supposed Evan hadn’t thought of one yet. Stone walked back into the yacht club and to Tommy’s table.
“Your food’s getting cold,” Tommy said.
Stone tucked into his burger.
“So you all square with young Mr. Keating?” Dino asked.
“I’ve told him all the news from home,” Stone replied.
“And the news from Manny White?”
“Yep.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Like a champ,” Stone said. “Hardly batted an eye.”
“You know,” Tommy said, “if somebody told me there was a hit man coming for me, I think I’d be upset.”
“Upset enough to leave town?” Stone asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Well, Evan isn’t upset at all,” Stone said, “and he says he isn’t going anywhere. Maybe you’d better save him a slab at your morgue.”
“Oh, we’ve always got a vacant slab,” Tommy said. “And the rates are better than at the Gardens.”
“Cooler, too, I’ll bet,” Dino chimed in.
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“Sometimes in summer,” Tommy said, “when the heat and the humidity are up and there’s no breeze, I’ve thought that a slab of marble might make a cool bed.”
“Brrrr,” Stone said, shivering. “Say, have you made any progress on the homicide of Charley Boggs?”
Tommy shook his head. “It was a clean crime scene, and the canvassing of the neighboring houseboats turned up nothing.”
“Not even the talkative lady next door?”
“Nope. Apparently, she sleeps well. One of these days we’ll bust somebody on a drug charge or something, and he’ll want to give us Charley’s killer in exchange for a walk.”
“That often happens,” Dino agreed.
“I guess,” Stone said.
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THA T E V E N IN G S TON E drove slowly to Annika’s house, taking in Key West as he went. He felt oddly let down, having concluded his business with Evan Keating. He had no real purpose in Key West now, and he thought he might as well head home the next day. His business with Annika Swenson, however, did not seem to be concluded, and he was beginning to wonder if her idea of moving to New York mightn’t be a good one. As long as he paced himself.
The front door was open, and the sounds of good jazz wafted from somewhere in the house. “Hello!” he called out.
“Hello! I’m in the kitchen!” she shouted back. He found her there, stirring something in a pot, wearing a wraparound apron. “Smells good,” he said. “What are you cooking?”
“A venison ragout,” she replied.
“And where would you find venison in Key West? I hope you didn’t go out and shoot one of those lovely little Key deer; they’re protected, you know.”
“Of course not; I got it on the Internet, like anything else. You 13 2
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e n t
want Japanese blowfish? You want Iranian caviar? It’s all on the Internet, for delivery the next day.”
“I never thought of the Internet for food.”
“Oh, you can order all your groceries on the Internet,” she said.
“The freshest foods, all delivered to your door.”
“I wonder if you could order a hit man on the Internet?” he mused.
“What?”
“A hit man, an assassin.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I’ll bet there’s a website called hit man dot com or something.”
“If there is, you can be sure it’s operated by the FBI or a police department.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you see all these news stories on TV where somebody, a husband or wife usually, tries to hire a hit man to off the spouse, and he turns out to be a cop?”
“Yes, I have seen that story, now that you mention it. How can people be so stupid?”
“What’s stupid is trying to murder someone,” Stone said. “Even if you got lucky and found a competent pro, it would always come back to bite you on the ass.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that people in jail solve an inordinate number of homicides.”
“How do they do that?”
“Let’s say you want to have me knocked off …”
“Knocked off what?”
“Knocked off my perch, capped, murdered.”
“Okay, let’s say.”
“Let’s say you wander into the right bar and somebody offers to buy you a drink, and the evening passes and you learn that this 133
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guy is willing to do unusual work for a price. You hire him to kill me …”
“How much would that be?”
“Almost anything: five hundred, ten thousand, whatever the traffic will bear.”
“Traffi c?”
“The free market.”
“Okay, I hire him to kill you, then what?”
“Then he kills me. He hangs around outside my house until I get home, then he shoots me and runs, gets away with it. You pay him off, and he’s happy, you’re happy.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“No, I’m not happy, I’m dead. Then some time passes—a year or two or five—and your hit man gets arrested on a completely unrelated charge.”
“Unrelated to what?”
“Unrelated to making me dead. Let’s say he gets caught trying to rob a liquor store, or maybe he makes a deal to kill somebody else, but the dealmaker is a cop.”
