by Stuart Woods
“Oh, all right,” she said, touching the brakes and bringing it down to eighty. “What’s the speed limit out here, anyway?”
“Fifty-five.”
“That’s a crime, a beautiful drive like this!”
“Here’s an idea,” Stone said. “Why don’t you call a security alert and get the road closed for a couple of hours? Then you can come out here—without me—and become part of a large tree.”
“You’re such a wuss, Stone.”
“What’s a wuss? I’m confused.”
“Something between a nerd and a 1955 square.”
“I’m still confused.”
“Of course you are, that’s why you’re a wuss.”
• • •
They got back into Stone’s garage without killing anybody, but Stone still felt a little queasy.
“You want to watch the Lees on 60 Minutes?” Holly asked, handing him back the keys.
“Just as soon as I’ve had a bourbon and Alka-Seltzer.”
• • •
They ordered a pizza and ate it in bed, naked. Stone switched on the program and was surprised to see the Lees in comfortable armchairs, wearing sweaters and jeans. A fire crackled in the fireplace behind them. Lesley Stahl was doing the interviewing.
“First question,” Stahl said: “Why did you two want to do this live, instead of on tape?”
“Because this way we get to edit ourselves, instead of having you do it for us,” Will said, getting a laugh from Kate.
“I want the camera to pan around and give our viewers a look at the family quarters of the White House,” Stahl said, “because it’s so rarely seen.” The camera followed her orders, revealing cozy furniture, bookcases, and even a bar. “Does the bar get used often?” she asked.
“Not as often as Will would like,” Kate said, “but now that I’m a lady of leisure, I let him make me a martini before dinner.”
“I envy her out-of-workness,” Will said, “and I’m looking forward to experiencing that myself.”
“So that you can drink more martinis?” Stahl asked.
“I’m a Southerner, a bourbon drinker.”
“What’s your brand?”
“I won’t answer that until I’m a free man and can get paid for it. Let’s just say that I enjoy giving the state of Kentucky a little business now and then.”
“Let’s go back a couple of weeks and look at a bit of videotape from our New York affiliate,” Stahl said.
The shot was of Will leaving the Blue Note, claiming ignorance of whom Kate was dining with.
“Mrs. Lee, can you enlighten us? With whom were you dining?”
“If I told you, then he would know,” she said, pointing at Will.
“I’ve heard that it was a gathering of twenty prominent Americans,” Stahl said. “Come on, tell us who?”
“I can’t remember that many names,” Kate said. “Can’t a lady throw a party now and then?”
“Is that what it was? A party?”
“And a pretty good one, too.”
“My sources tell me that a ticket to that party cost a million dollars.”
“I don’t think there’s that much caviar in the world,” Kate said. “And no caviar was served.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Stahl said.
“You’re very perceptive, Lesley. But now that I’m not pulling down a government salary I can throw a party without publishing the guest list in the White House daily schedule. It’s very liberating.”
• • •
Holly turned toward Stone. “I’ll bet you know something about this.”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, give!”
“Didn’t you hear the lady? It’ll cost you a million dollars to find out.”
“Who do I make the check to?”
“That would tell you more than Kate wants you to know.”
• • •
“Mr. President,” Stahl said, “can you shed some light on this?”
“I wasn’t there,” Will said, “and I’ve got your videotape to prove it. And I haven’t seen the guest list, either.”
“All right, then let me ask you a substantive question: How much advice have you received from your wife over the past eight years, and how good was it?”
“First of all,” Will said, “since she was director of Central Intelligence for all that time, I got regular office-hours briefings from her, and they were superb.”
“How about after office hours?”
“I got advice from Kate then, too, and it may surprise you to learn that it was very often about domestic affairs. She has an abiding interest in what goes on inside this country and inside the government, and the advice I got from her about those things was always right on the mark. In fact, I would put her in the top two or three among my advisers on domestic matters.”
• • •
“That sounds to me like an endorsement,” Holly said.
“And I think that’s as close as Will will come to one.”
“Now that 60 Minutes has asked about that party,” Holly said, “everybody in the media is going to be all over this.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Stone said.
“And you were at the party, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And it cost you a million dollars?”
“It did.”
“That can mean only one thing,” Holly said, poking him in the ribs. “She’s going to run for office.”
“Kate can do whatever she wants now, what with Will finishing his second term.”
“Well, with the convention looming, it’s too late for her to run for president,” Holly said, “so it would have to be for the senate in Georgia, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know if there’s an open seat down there,” Stone replied.
“Then she must be going to—”
Stone kissed her. “Shhhhhh,” he said, then switched off the TV.
15
When Stone awoke the following morning, Holly was gone, and her side of the bed had been neatly made up. When he sat down at his desk after breakfast, there was an e-mail from Holly’s personal account.
Check this link, it said, and an address was spelled out. He clicked on it. The site was called Crazy Rumors and Wild Speculation.
Last night on 60 Minutes, the top was peeled off a new political can of worms, namely the “party” thrown by First Lady Katherine Rule Lee last week at the Lees’ Carlyle Hotel penthouse for twenty very rich Americans, each of whom allegedly contributed a million dollars to be there. But contributed to what? That’s serious political money, and only a run for one of three offices would attract such a sum: a senate seat or the presidency or the vice presidency. Kate Lee is a Georgia resident, and the incumbent is a Democrat well positioned for reelection, so that’s out; it’s too late to run for president, what with the primaries nearly over and the convention looming, so that’s out. That leaves the vice presidency, and nobody stages a campaign for that. But if Kate wants to be president someday, such a campaign might be a smart move. She’s young enough to wait eight years before going for the big job, so we might be seeing something new in national politics. The names of the Big Twenty shouldn’t be hard to figure out (see below), and by the way, we hear there were twenty-one guests. Who’s the extra man or woman?
• • •
Stone checked the list below and found it to be substantially accurate, but his name was not there. He replied to the e-mail: Sounds like a pretty good guess to me. He clicked SEND.
Joan appeared at the door. “There’s a political reporter from the Times on the phone, named Josh Altman. Do you want to speak to him?”
Stone thought for a moment, then picked up the phone. “This is Stone Barrington.”
&nb
sp; “Josh Altman at the Times, Mr. Barrington.”
“Good morning.”
“Did you see the interview with the president and first lady on 60 Minutes last night?”
“Yes, I did.”
“A source is telling me that you were the twenty-first person on the guest list of that party. Is that true?”
“I had dinner with the president and the first lady last week,” he said.
“And what was discussed at that dinner?”
“It was a private dinner and a private conversation.”
“Were you then invited to the big party?”
“As I said, it was a private dinner and a private conversation. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Somebody posted a made-up guest list on a website this morning. Was it accurate?”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Altman.” Stone hung up.
Joan was back; she turned on Stone’s office TV and changed the channel to Fox News. A very blonde woman and three men occupied a sofa facing the camera.
“Who knows anything about this party the first lady gave last week at the Carlyle?” the blonde asked.
A young man spoke up. “I’ve talked to one person who may have been at the party, he won’t say. But while I didn’t get any names, he hinted that at least one of them was a big-time New York attorney, and several of the guests were prominent Republicans who may have voted for Will Lee last time.”
“We all know there were a few of those,” the blonde said, then moved the conversation to another subject.
Joan switched off the set. “Looks like the guy from the Times isn’t the only one on your trail,” she said, then she went back to her desk.
Stone’s private line rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. I hear Fox News is calling you a big-time New York attorney.”
“That sounds more like Bill Eggers,” Stone said. “And what are you doing watching TV at this time of the morning? You should be ashamed of yourself, wasting the city’s money that way.”
“Somebody told me about it,” Dino said defensively.
“Nah, you were watching Faux News. Bad Dino!”
“All right, I turned it on to what was said about a police shooting last night, and I just happened to hear.”
“What police shooting?”
“Sean Donnelly got popped coming out of P.J. Clarke’s in the middle of the night. He had apparently closed the place.”
“Is Sean dead?”
“No, it was a chest wound, caught a lung instead of his heart. He’ll live.”
“Who the hell would shoot a cop who’s been retired for fifteen years?”
“Good question. We’re looking at his old cases. Maybe somebody Sean put away got sprung and is holding a grudge.”
“I think I’ll send him a dozen roses,” Stone said, “just to piss him off.”
Dino laughed hard. “And don’t include a card, it will drive him nuts!”
“Where have they got him?”
“New York Hospital.”
“Consider it done.”
“You want dinner this evening? Viv’s back, and she’s always happy to see you.”
“Sure.”
“Clarke’s at eight?”
“You’re on.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “Sean Donnelly caught a bullet last night. He’s at New York Hospital. Send him a dozen red roses, no card, and book me a table for three at Clarke’s, please, eight o’clock.”
“Done,” she said.
Stone picked up a stack of mail and leafed through it. An envelope with a Palm Beach, Florida, postmark caught his eye, and he opened it: a twenties-style cartoon of a man under a beach umbrella, a cocktail in one hand and a cigar in the other. Scrawled at the bottom: Good advice, thanks! J.F.
Well, Stone thought, John Fratelli can afford Palm Beach.
16
Dino Bacchetti attended a meeting at an uptown precinct, and among the subjects discussed was the shooting of Sean Donnelly.
“What’s happening with that?” Dino asked the group.
A detective spoke up. “We’re doing the obvious—checking his old cases for somebody newly out of the joint who has a grudge, but nothing yet. Donnelly’s being a bastard, won’t give us anything.”
“Why do you think he’s holding out on us?” Dino asked.
“I think he’s scared the perp will have another shot at him if he talks,” the detective replied.
The meeting broke up, and Dino got into his car and headed back downtown. Then they were passing New York Hospital, and he said to his driver, “Pull into the hospital. I want to visit somebody.”
Sean Donnelly was sitting up in bed, his left arm in a sling, disconsolately watching Fox News. He turned and saw Dino standing in the doorway, then turned back to the TV without speaking. A large vase of red roses rested on the windowsill.
“So, Sean,” Dino said, pulling up a chair to Donnelly’s bedside. “Tell me who shot you last night.”
“No idea,” Donnelly replied. “The blonde’s not bad, is she? I wouldn’t kick her out of the sack.”
“How come you’re stiffing the detectives on your case, Sean?”
“Spectacular tits, huh? Where do they find these women? You don’t see them on MSNBC—they’ve all gotta be so fucking smart over there. Either that or they’re dykes, like whatshername.”
“Sean, look at me,” Dino said.
Donnelly glanced at him, then turned back to the TV. “I’d rather look at the blonde’s tits, if it’s all the same to you, Dino.”
“I guess you retired before the department stopped us from talking like that,” Dino said. “I don’t give a shit about the blonde, I want to know who put a bullet in you.”
“Yeah? Why do you care?”
“Because I don’t want the local hit men running around taking potshots at retired police officers. The best way to stop ’em is to catch ’em. Why do I have to explain that to you?”
“What do you want, Dino? I already finished my Jell-O, so you can’t have that.”
“I told you what I want, give it to me.”
Donnelly sighed. “I was looking into an old case of mine, and I guess I got too close to somebody. Funny thing, the only guy I’ve talked to about it is your old buddy StonefuckingBarrington. Then somebody takes a shot at me. Go figure, huh?”
“Stone had nothing to do with this,” Dino said, “so don’t try and fob it off on him. Whose toes did you step on?”
“Eddie Buono’s, I guess.”
“Buono’s dead.”
“His pal Johnny Fratelli ain’t, and he just got out.”
“I hear somebody took a shot at Fratelli, too,” Dino said. “Would that be you?”
“Me? Why would I want Fratelli dead? He never did nothing to me.”
“Maybe he wants the same thing you do, and he got there first.”
“I want to solve a cold case—you think Fratelli wants that?”
“Why do you, all of a sudden, want to solve your cold case? You didn’t do anything about it for the fifteen years you’ve been retired.”
“Personal satisfaction,” Donnelly said.
“You think the money’s still out there, don’t you?”
Donnelly turned a little red in the face. “I fucking know the money’s still out there! We got Buono’s crew and most of their money, but Eddie never spent a dime of his cut, and he got half! He got busted and sentenced, less than a year after the airport job, for offing Paddy Riley, who ratted him out on an earlier gig. He weaseled out of that one, but not the Riley beef. He went up for Riley.”
“And you think Johnny Fratelli knows where the money is?”
“Look, Dino, Eddie Buono was scared shitless about getting raped in the joint. He was a pretty boy, and he just
knew somebody was going to climb on him, so he hired Fratelli, who’s a big, tough guy, to keep the fags off his back. And he did, too—I talked to one of the guards on their cell block. They were cellmates for twenty-two years! Everybody was too afraid of Fratelli to make a pass at Eddie.”
“So, for that, Buono passed on the money to Fratelli?”
“He knew he was dying, what’s he gonna do, give it to the Salvation Army, in the hope of cracking the pearly gates? Them wops stuck together, or at least they did in the old days.”
Dino ignored the Italian slur. “So, where’s Fratelli? We’ll have a word with him.”
“He was in town, now I hear he’s out of town, nobody knows where. Except, maybe, StonefuckingBarrington. Fratelli was seen in his neighborhood. I guess he needed legal advice, and StonefuckingBarrington had a street rep as a standup guy, who wouldn’t rat him out.”
“And that’s why you went to see Stone? To get him to do something you knew he wasn’t going to do?”
“I thought maybe he’d do it for a cut.”
“Stone’s up to his ass in money. He had a rich wife who lost an argument with a shotgun from an old lover.”
“So he told me,” Donnelly said. “Who knew?”
“I thought everybody did,” Dino said. “I guess you lead a sheltered life.”
“I guess.”
“Sean, who shot you?”
“Somebody who wants the same thing I do.”
“And who might that be?”
“I hadn’t gotten that far in my investigation before I got plugged.”
“No idea at all?”
“None. Hey . . .” He pointed at the windowsill. “Find out who sent me them flowers—maybe that’s the guy.”
Dino suppressed a laugh. “What, there was no card?”
“Dino, if I could get outta this bed, I’d kick your ass. Maybe when I do, I will, just for the fun of it.”
Dino stood up to go. “Not on your best day, Sean.”
“Go see some of your guinea pals—that’s who did this. They’ll tell you all about it, I’ll bet. Maybe give you a cut.”
