Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  “Let’s go inside,” Holly said. “I want to see where it happened.”

  Stone led her inside. “There was a carpet here,” he said, pointing. “We were standing right there.”

  Holly looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal, except that they had taken the carpet away to have Jackson’s blood cleaned from it. She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Stone walked her out to the parking lot to where Jackson’s convertible was parked. “Do you have his keys?”

  “I have my own,” Holly said, taking the key from her pocket. “Hop in, Daisy.”

  Daisy cleared the top of the door with room to spare and settled into the passenger seat.

  Holly leaned over and took an envelope from the front seat of the car and opened it. Then it hit her. “Oh, God,” she said. “Paris.” She began to sob. “He was taking me to Paris for our honeymoon.”

  Stone took her in his arms, and she sagged against him. They stood there for a minute or two, and she gradually got control of herself. He handed her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” she said, blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes. “And thank God none of my people saw that.”

  “Don’t they know you’re human?” Stone asked.

  “No, they don’t, and they’re not going to find out anytime soon, if I can help it.”

  “Let me drive you home.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m back in my detached mode again. Sorry about your handkerchief; I’ll return it to you.”

  “No need. It’s one of many.” He gave her his card. “Here are all my numbers, though, should you need to get in touch with me. I’ll be glad to testify, when you’ve arrested the robbers.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Holly said, getting into the car. “I’ll see you later, Stone, and thanks.”

  As she drove away, she saw him standing in the parking lot, looking after her. “What a nice man,” she said aloud.

  She drove back to the house and put the car into the garage. She managed to get upstairs and undressed before she collapsed on the bed and began crying again.

  Daisy hopped onto the bed and laid her head in Holly’s lap, making small whimpering noises.

  Finally, Holly was able to get up and feed Daisy and take her for her walk on the beach. She passed the evening staring blankly at the TV set, letting the answering machine pick up the phone calls. Finally, exhausted, she struggled upstairs and fell into bed.

  In the middle of the night, she rolled over, stretching out a hand for Jackson. Then she sat straight up in bed. She spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

  Eight

  VERY EARLY, HOLLY GOT UP, FED DAISY AND LET her out. She fixed herself some cereal and ate it slowly, watching the sun rise out of the Atlantic. She felt more in control now, but she knew she’d have to be careful with herself, otherwise little things would set her off.

  She dressed in her uniform, then went and listened to the messages on the machine. They were all from friends or coworkers and uniformly kind and concerned. She wrote down their names, so that she could return the calls later, then she called the name at the top of the list, her father.

  “Hello.”

  “Morning, Ham.”

  “How you doing, kiddo?”

  “I’m okay, weirdly enough.”

  “You sound a little dull, not yourself, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you last night, but I just had to sit by myself and let my brain catch up with what’s happened.”

  “Smart move.”

  “Ham, will you do something for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Call a funeral home and get Jackson’s body collected from the hospital morgue. I want it cremated as quickly and cheaply as possible. Jackson hated funerals and the whole business of being disposed of. He told me he wanted to disappear without fanfare when his time came.”

  “Okay, I’ll get that done. What do you want me to do with the ashes?”

  “Just drop them off over here, and I’ll take care of them.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Have dinner with me tonight?”

  “You bet. Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll fix you something.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Great. I’ll call you when I get some idea.”

  “See you.”

  She hung up, and immediately, the phone rang. She sighed and picked it up; the day had begun. “Hello?”

  “Holly, it’s Stone Barrington.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I got hold of my old partner last night, and he called his friend upstate. What he found out was that the robbery was never solved, and they really only ever had one lead.”

  “What was the lead?”

  “A teller at the bank, a woman, was the only employee who’d been there for less than two years; she’d been there three months.”

  “And they couldn’t get anything out of her?”

  “A couple of weeks after the robbery, she vanished, along with a bunch of other people, apparently.”

  “What do you mean, ‘vanished’?”

  “She was a member of some religious sect in the Hudson River Valley, twenty-five or thirty people. They simply pulled up stakes and left the state. Apparently, they had spent the weeks before disposing of their property and even their vehicles. A lot of people thought they’d committed mass suicide, and they may very well have, because every effort to track them down failed.”

  “Very strange.”

  “Very strange indeed. The guy on the New York State Police is doing a follow-up with the FBI office in New York, and he’ll get back to me when he knows more.”

  “Thanks, Stone, I really appreciate this.”

  “Glad to help. You doing okay?”

  “I’m managing.”

  “Let me know if you’d like to see my new airplane; I’m taking delivery today.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “You can reach me at the Disney hotel in Vero, or on my cell phone; the number’s on my card.”

  “Let me see how things go.”

  “Take care.”

  “Bye.”

  When Holly and Daisy got to the office, the atmosphere had returned to something more normal, since the witnesses had all been interviewed and sent home. She went into Hurd’s office. “What’s happening?”

  “We’ve got the employee records, and we’re going through them now.”

  “I want to know about the more recent employees.” She told him about her conversation with Stone.

  “That’s real interesting,” Hurd said. “I’ll rush it.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the tally on what the robbers got.”

  She took the paper and looked at it. “Holy cow! They had over four million dollars in cash in that one bank?”

  “A confluence of four payrolls, not the three we originally thought. They would normally have no more than half a million cash on hand.”

  She handed the paper back. “I don’t suppose there’s any indication of the employees’ religious affiliation in their records?”

  Hurd picked up a file and looked it over. “Nope. That would probably be against some privacy law.”

  “Hurd, when you interview these people—and I do want them all interviewed again—I want you to tell our people to find out, subtly, if possible, what church these folks go to. If any of them is anything smaller or stranger than Baptist, Methodist, Catholic or some other well-established denomination, I want to know about it.”

  “Okay, I’ll pass the word along.” Hurd put down the folder. “Holly, when is the service going to be?”

  “Service?”

  “The funeral.”

  “Oh, sorry. There won’t be one; Jackson’s own wish. He hated everything to do with funerals, and he didn’t want to put his friends through that.”

  “I understand.
I’ll let our people know.”

  “Thanks, Hurd.” She went back to her office. There was a note on her desk to call Fred Ames, Jackson’s partner. His had been one of the messages on her machine. She called him back.

  “Hello, Holly. First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “I know, Fred. It’s a big loss to you, too.”

  “Yes, but still—”

  “Don’t worry about me; I’m all right.”

  “Good. Holly, I don’t want to rush you on this, but you and I should get together and go over Jackson’s estate.”

  “I guess you’re right. Is it important that we do it soon?”

  “I think so. There are some unusual aspects, and the sooner we can go over them, the better.”

  “You don’t want to do it on the phone?”

  “I’d rather do it face-to-face.”

  “Late this afternoon be okay?”

  “Five is good for me.”

  “Five it is; I’ll see you at your office.”

  “Bye, Holly.”

  “Bye.” Holly hung up and went back to Hurd’s office. “Let me have the personnel files you’re finished with, and I’ll go over them again. That way, we’re less likely to miss something.”

  Hurd handed her a stack. “I didn’t notice anything unusual about any of these, but you’re welcome to check them out.”

  “Are you checking out bank officers, too?”

  “Yes, but they’re in a separate bunch. You want them?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Hurd got up and went to a table across his office and picked up a stack of a dozen folders. “Here you go.”

  Holly went back to her office, sat down and opened the first folder.

  Nine

  OLLY ARRIVED AT THE LAW OFFICES OF OXENHANDLER & Ames at five-thirty. The staff had left for the day, and Fred Ames was alone in his office.

  He gave her a big hug. “I’m sorry,” he said, “and I won’t say anything else.”

  She hugged him back. “Thanks, Fred.”

  He waved her to a chair. “Have a seat, and I’ll make this as quick as possible.”

  “You make it sound like a trip to the dentist.”

  “It’s not all bad news, but it’s not all good, either.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Jackson’s affairs were in excellent order. He’d seen to that in anticipation of the marriage.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “He left everything to you, except his half of the practice, which he left to me, and a few small bequests. He appointed you and me as his executors; he figured you’d need some help.”

  “Not only will I need your help, Fred, but I want you to do all the work, at your usual fee. I’m going to be busy.”

  Fred waved a hand. “Don’t talk to me about fees again, all right?”

  “All right, I’m sorry.”

  “The problem with the estate is the law that allows a spouse to leave everything to a spouse with no estate taxes.”

  “Why is that a problem? It sounds like good news.”

  “It’s a problem, because you weren’t Jackson’s spouse.”

  Holly blinked. “Oh.”

  “You were an hour short of spouse, I guess, and I think it’s worth having Jackson’s accountant try to make a case to the IRS that you qualify. After all, you’d been living together for a while, and common-law wife might count.”

  “Common-law wife sounds like a broken-down trailer and a couple of old cars up on blocks in the front yard.”

  “If it works, don’t knock it. Jackson was worth something over three million dollars, including the beach house, his belongings and his investments, so if you have to pay the estate taxes, it’s going to bite.”

  “Listen, Fred, that’s so much more money than I ever expected to have in my life that Uncle Sam can have his cut without any bitching from me.”

  “Still . . .”

  “I know, save what you can.”

  “Right. Now the good news. A couple of weeks ago, Jackson and I took out life insurance policies. We each insured ourselves for a million dollars, and we each had a survivor’s policy for another million that would go to the other in the event one of us died. This was to ensure the survival of the practice, since losing a partner means losing a lot of business.”

  “That’s fine with me, but are you saying he left a policy for another million?”

  “Yes, and it’s payable to you, by name, not to his estate or spouse. What’s great about that is, if you do have to pay the estate taxes, you’ll have cash without having to sell assets.”

  Holly put a hand to her breast. “My God, I had no idea about any of this.”

  “I don’t know if you know this, Holly, but Jackson took that piece of land your house is on in lieu of a fee from a client years ago, then he bought an old Florida farmhouse inland somewhere for a dollar, sawed it in half and had it moved to the lot and reassembled.”

  “Jackson told me about that.”

  “So, after a lot of renovations and additions, and in the current real estate market, which is spectacular, that little old farmhouse on the beach is probably worth two million dollars, should you want to sell.”

  “I don’t. Jackson still lives there, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “As you wish, it’s yours to do with as you like. Jackson has a brokerage account and some T-bills, and about forty thousand dollars in cash in the bank. It’s going to take a few weeks to get this probated, but you’ll have the insurance money in a week or two, so you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to do with it. You don’t want that kind of money sitting around in a checking account.”

  “I know Jackson’s broker. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Good idea. If you need any immediate funds, I can advance them to you.”

  “Thanks, Fred, but no.”

  “That’s about it, then. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  They stood up, and he hugged her again. “You call me when you have questions of any kind. Have you made any arrangements for burial?”

  “Ham’s taking care of that. Jackson wanted to be cremated and scattered without ceremony.”

  “He told me the same thing.”

  “Thank you, Fred. I appreciate your help.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and left.

  Holly drove up A1A with Daisy sticking her nose out the window, and across the north bridge, then took a left down a dirt road and arrived on Ham’s little island. He had inherited the land and a small house from his old army buddy, who had been Holly’s chief until he was murdered.

  Ham walked out of the house and gave her a big hug, then held her at arm’s length. “You look a little funny,” he said, “kind of stunned.”

  “Stunned is right,” she said. She told him about the meeting with Fred Ames.

  “Well, I guess you and I are lucky in the people we choose to be close to. I’ve got my house, and now you’ve got yours.”

  “I guess so.”

  They went into the house and to the kitchen, where Ham had been cleaning fish.

  “Fresh out of the Indian River,” he said, gutting a sea trout. “The sun is over the yardarm; why don’t you pour us a drink?”

  Holly went to a kitchen cabinet and found a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. She got ice from the fridge and poured them both a stiff one. They clinked glasses.

  Ham raised his glass. “Better times than these.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she replied, sipping the whiskey. This had been their evening ritual since she had been old enough to drink, especially when they were serving on the same post. The bourbon tasted like comfort and friendship.

  “You given any thought to what you’re going to do?” Ham asked.

  “Just what I’m doing,” she said. “I’m going to find the people who killed Jackson, and put them in jail and see them tried and convicted, unless they find a way to make it necessary fo
r me to shoot them, which I’d do with pleasure.”

  “Me, too,” Ham said. “As a matter of fact, I was going to offer to do it for you, if you’d look the other way for a minute.”

  “Tell the truth, I’d rather see them rot in jail.”

  “I know you don’t think much of the death penalty, for a cop, anyway.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. What could be worse than rotting in a Florida prison? Dying would be fun in comparison.”

  “You got a point, though I favor the penalty, myself, even if I don’t get to personally administer it. What about after that’s all done? You’re a woman of means now; you can do whatever.”

  “I’m just going to keep on being a cop and keep drinking with you, I guess.”

  Ham rolled a fillet of fish in flour and dropped it into a pan of hot oil, then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

  “You sure know how to make an old man happy.”

  She kissed him back. “I don’t see any old man.”

  “I’m gettin’ there, sugar.”

  “Not you, Ham, not ever.”

  Ham blinked rapidly. “Oh, shut up and drink your bourbon.”

  Ten

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING HOLLY WENT BACK TO work on the bank’s personnel files.

  Hurd Wallace came and leaned on her door-jamb. “Why do you think we’d be more interested in somebody who’s new at the bank than somebody who’d been there for a long time?”

  “Standard operating procedure,” she said. “New employees are more likely to be involved in crimes against their employers than longtime ones. Didn’t they cover that when you went to the academy?”

  “Yes, they did,” Hurd said, “but there’s all kinds of reasons for an old employee to get involved: somebody has debts, maybe gambling or drugs; somebody has an affair and wants to run away with the new girlfriend and ditch the wife, needs funds.”

  “I agree,” Holly said. “All I’m saying is let’s start with the classically most likely employees and work our way down the list.”

  “There’re two on your desk, there,” Hurd said.

  Holly picked up a folder. “Emily Harston?”

  “Yep, and the other one is Franklin Morris. He’s a new manager at the bank, been there four months.”