by Stuart Woods
“It’s a conundrum. The advantage lies in not having any lies on the record. If you want to answer their questions, he’ll be in the room, to keep you out of trouble.”
“All right, recommend somebody.”
“His name is Herbert Fisher. He’s with my firm, Woodman & Weld. He’s young, smart, and shrewd.”
“All right, Herbert Fisher.”
“He’s called Herb.” He gave her the number.
“I’ll call him.”
“Do that.”
They both hung up. Stone was still confused, but there was enough in her answers to keep him believing that she had not killed Buono.
45
Jack Coulter was in the Breakers’ gym, working out, as he had done every day in prison, except he did not now use weights to achieve bulk. He glanced at the mirrored wall and was pleased to see himself as a well-built, fit forty-year-old. He had had his suits altered twice to adapt to his decreasing weight.
His cell phone rang on the stool beside him, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“Who is this?” A male voice, deep, raspy.
Jack hung up and waited. The phone rang again. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, this is Will Crowder. Are you expecting my call?”
“Yes.”
“Manny Millman said—”
“Stop. Report.”
“Yes, sir. The subject, Harry M. Moss, is a sixty-one-year-old white male, five-nine, one-sixty, in apparently good health. He retired from the FBI at fifty-nine and lives on his pension, plus benefits from an inheritance.”
“What benefits?”
“His mother married twice. Her first husband, Martin Moss, was a carpet salesman for a big furniture store in New York. He died of a heart attack at fifty-four. Her second husband, William Hood, was the owner of the big furniture store. Not long after their marriage, he retired at the age of sixty-nine and sold the business. They moved to Delray Beach, Florida, to a beachfront condominium in a building constructed in the 1920s. He proceeded to gamble away much of his capital, and he shot himself at the age of seventy-two, on the beach in front of their building late at night. Mrs. Hood continued to live in the apartment until her death, three years ago, in much-reduced circumstances. She left her son, Harry, the apartment and enough in a trust to pay the maintenance, taxes, and fees on the apartment, but not much else.
“There was some considerable feeling in local law enforcement that Mrs. Hood murdered her husband, her motive being to conserve what was left in his estate before he threw it all away. The theory of the case is that the two of them went for a walk on the beach after midnight, and that she took along a .32 caliber revolver belonging to her husband that he kept in a bedside drawer, that she shot him in the right temple, knowing that he was right-handed, wiped the gun, put his fingerprints on it, and left it in the sand next to his body. She returned to her apartment via a service elevator, which was very little used at night, then went to bed and waited for someone to come to the door and inform her of her husband’s suicide. She was awakened by the police around eight AM the following morning, roused from a sound sleep, she maintained, after the discovery of Mr. Hood’s body by a maintenance worker who had come to rake the beach.
“Repeated interrogations failed to shake her story—that she had gone to bed at her usual hour of eleven, and that her husband must have taken a late walk after that time, then, depressed by his financial woes, taken his own life. The case was closed after a coroner’s inquest ruled Hood’s death a suicide.
“Moss lives entirely on his pension, as he had saved little, and he is not yet old enough to collect Social Security. He has listed the apartment with a local firm, naming a price of three million nine hundred and fifty thousand. He probably hopes to realize three and a half million. It has been on the market for fifteen months with two offers of less than two mil. He blames local market conditions following the recession. He drives a two-year-old Toyota Camry Hybrid and frequents the five-dollar window at Hialeah racetrack, wins some, loses some.
“Contact with a close acquaintance says that he does little with his time other than hang out at a local coffee shop and the public library in the daytime and a local bar in the evenings, watching sports on TV and trying to pick up women, almost always unsuccessfully. His attitude toward life is one of being thwarted—especially by his stepfather’s gambling habit. He feels that, if not for that, he would be a wealthy man today, driving an expensive car, dressing well, and having sex with beautiful women.
“His defining characteristic is that he is always looking for a windfall that will restore him to that position, but he seems unlikely ever to achieve that.
“That concludes my report. Do you have any questions?”
“No.” Jack hung up.
• • •
Will Crowder stared at the phone in his hand as if to rebuke it. He had no idea whom he had been talking to and no idea why. He called Manny Millman.
“Yes?”
“It’s Will Crowder. I’ve made my report. Your friend seemed satisfied.”
“Good. Your debt is canceled. I’ll have your three grand for you this afternoon at the track. Come see me.” He hung up.
46
Herbie Fisher sat in his office, cradled by his Eames lounge chair, reading a letter for his signature. His secretary buzzed. “Yes?”
“Stone Barrington for you.”
He pressed the SPEAKER button. “Stone?”
“How are you, Herb?”
He had trained Stone not to call him Herbie anymore. “I’m just great, thanks. You?”
“So-so.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I just got off with a friend who may be in trouble.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Her name is Henrietta Cromwell, calls herself Hank.”
“Does she look like a Hank?”
“Not a bit.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d see her, talk to her. If you can help, please do.”
“What’s her number?” Herbie saw the light on his second line flashing. “She may be calling now. Hang on.” He buzzed his secretary. “If someone called Hank Cromwell calls, get her in here.” He went back to line one. “Okay, give me some background.”
Stone started with his meeting Hank at Clarke’s, then took him, step by step, through everything that had happened.
“All right,” Herbie said, “I think I get the picture. Do you have an opinion about this?”
“I’d rather let you form your own after you see her.”
“There is the possibility, as I see it, that after you left the lake cottage with Hank, Buono could have returned to the lake and been murdered by somebody else—either someone who came with him or someone who knew where he was and came after him.”
“I think that’s her way out of this.”
“Is she a truthful person?”
“I’ve caught her in only one lie, about the protective order. Everything else could be true, or she could be lying about all of it.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made my day more interesting. Maybe we’ll talk again after I’ve seen her.”
“I think you’ll make better decisions if I don’t contribute to them.”
“As you wish. See you.”
They both hung up.
His secretary was standing in the door. He signed the letter and handed it to her.
“Ms. Hank Cromwell will be here in a few minutes,” she said.
“When she arrives, show her straight in.”
• • •
Once again, Herbie admired Stone’s taste in women. He took Hank to the other side of the room, sat her on his sofa, and took a chair opposite.
“Stone thinks I may be in trouble,” she said.
“I heard. Do you think you’re in trouble?”
“If there’s a God in heaven, I’m not.”
“That could go either way.”
�
�Do you want to ask me if I’m a murderer?”
“No, I don’t. If I do that, and you answer in the affirmative, then I can’t put you on the stand at trial without becoming your accomplice after the fact. It’s my hope that your version of the facts is sufficient to convince me that you’re entirely innocent.”
“Entirely innocent,” she said flatly, as if she were considering her condition. “Is anyone ever entirely innocent?”
“Certainly. But some people who are innocent of a crime still feel guilt about their behavior, and whether they’ve somehow contributed to the event.”
“In my case, which event?”
“Let’s start with the kidnapping.”
She repeated what she had told Stone.
“If that’s a true story, or alternatively, if it’s a story that cannot be proven to be untrue, then I don’t think you are complicit in your own kidnapping.”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me about your rescue.”
“Onofrio left the cabin to go grocery shopping.”
“Hold it right there. Let’s examine that. Why would a kidnapper leave his victim alone to go to the grocery store?”
“You’ve heard of the Stockholm syndrome, when a kidnapped person begins to feel sympathy for her kidnapper?”
“Of course.”
“This is sort of the opposite of that. I, ah, treated him in such a way that he began to trust me.”
“By having sex with him?”
“That was part of it. I just didn’t behave like a victim. I behaved the way I did when I was seeing him.”
“How long did you see him?”
“About seven months.”
“And the relationship was like what?”
“Pleasant, amusing—he did have a sense of humor—and attractively sexual.”
“And you tried to make it all those things again?”
“Yes, I did, and it worked. Also, besides trusting me, he knew that I had no idea where I was, not even what state I was in, having arrived there in the trunk of a car. He knew that I’m a city person, unaccustomed to the woods, and he knew that I’m a little afraid of the dark.”
“A little?”
“All right, more than a little. Enough that I was well anchored in the cottage. He knew I wouldn’t try to walk out of there at night.”
“So, what is your theory of what happened after you left the cottage with Stone?”
“Well, obviously Onofrio returned to the cabin and someone else killed him. I certainly didn’t, and somehow I don’t think he committed suicide.”
Herbie laughed. “Probably not. Do you have a theory of who killed him?”
“He had associates, he ran a chop shop, which is a criminal enterprise, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then his associates were criminals. I should think he knew a number of people who would kill him for several million dollars. I think that Onofrio would have killed me for several million dollars, but I don’t think he intended to, or that he thought he had to to get the money. Stone had already said that he would bring the money, but that he would have to see me alive before he’d hand it over.”
“Did you ever meet any of Onofrio’s associates?”
“One man, once. Onofrio picked me up at my apartment for dinner, and we drove to an Italian restaurant in Red Hook, a little mom-and-pop place. I can’t remember what it was called, except that it was the possessive of a male Italian’s first name—Gino’s, for instance, but not actually. But it was a very common Italian name.”
“And did he meet someone there?”
“We had just sat down and ordered wine when a man in a sharp suit came into the place, walked over to our table, and handed Onofrio a plain envelope, rather thick, as if it contained money. He introduced the man as Marty, no last name. The two talked for a minute in a kind of code, not mentioning names or places. The effect was that someone who owed him money had paid him. Onofrio put the envelope into his inside suit pocket, and the man left. He didn’t refer to him again.”
“Did you have any other impressions of the man?”
“He was rather handsome, seemed to be Italian, and Onofrio seemed to respect and trust him, as if he were a valued associate.”
“Yes,” Herbie said, “if you’ve got a few million bucks in cash lying around, you’ve gotta watch out for those valued associates.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing,” Herbie said. “Let’s let the police make the next move. Do you know how to make a conference call?”
“You enter some sort of code, don’t you?”
Herbie explained the process. “If you get a call from the police, either Connecticut or New York, ask them to hold and call me. If they come to your home or your place of work, or if they take you or ask you to come to a police station, call me and I’ll meet you there. Tell them you don’t want to answer questions until your attorney arrives, and don’t let them charm or threaten or trick you into talking to them before I arrive or am on the phone.”
“All right.”
“If they don’t contact you, then you’re probably in the clear. Go live your life. But I think you’ll hear from them, if only because they’ll want more information.”
“Should I tell them about Marty?”
“After I’m on the phone or present. Only then. I’ll introduce the subject.”
“All right.”
Herbie walked her to the elevator, shook her hand, then returned to his office and called Stone.
“What did you think?” Stone asked.
“I was impressed with her. She told me something she hasn’t told you.”
“What was that?”
“I tell you this as a collaborator in representing her, so as to avoid client-attorney confidentiality.”
“Of course.”
“She was out to dinner one evening when an associate of Buono’s, who he introduced as ‘Marty,’ brought him an envelope that seemed to hold a lot of money. She said that she thought that Buono respected and liked him and regarded him as a trusted associate. I think that Marty sounds good for the killing, if he knew that Buono was coming into millions in cash. They may even have been collaborating, and Marty wanted it all. I think that Hank would have been killed, too, if you hadn’t just taken her out of the cottage.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can learn about that. What do you think Hank’s future looks like?”
“I think she’ll get through this without getting arrested and charged—unless there’s something she hasn’t told me.”
“Well, there is that, isn’t there?”
“All too often,” Herbie replied.
47
Stone called John Fratelli on his throwaway cell phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Bats Buono is dead.”
“Hey, that’s good news! Who offed him?”
“Somebody arrived at the lake cottage sometime after I left with the girl. He was stabbed repeatedly, and his head was cut off with an ax. His car was rolled into the lake.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If I was his murderer, I’d put the body in the car before I rolled it into the lake.”
“That’s a very good point.”
“Was Bats driving one of his stolen cars?”
“Very possibly.”
“Then here’s how it might have gone down: Bats is partners with some guy in the kidnapping for ransom. He calls the guy and tells him you’re bringing the money, to get up to the cabin. The guy arrives and finds Bats, but no money and no girl. He takes this badly, then one of two things happens: either he goes into a rage and stabs Bats and cuts off his head to make ID harder, or more likely, he believes that Bats has gotten paid and released the girl, so he puts a gun to Bats’s head and tells him to cough up. Bats swears he didn’t get paid, and the guy puts one in his head, then he cuts the head off so the cops can’t do a ballisti
cs match on the bullet. Maybe it’s his favorite piece.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. There’s a suspect. Bats had a close associate named Marty. Ring a bell?”
“I don’t know any of his associates, but tell you what: I’ll call Bats’s old man, Gino, and ask about Marty, see what I can get from him. Call you back?”
“Sure.” They both hung up.
• • •
Fratelli called Gino Buono.
“Yeah?”
“Gino, it’s Johnny Fratelli.”
“Did you kill him, Johnny?”
“So you heard.”
“Some cop from Connecticut called me. Did you, Johnny?”
“No, Gino, I’m in Vegas. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I didn’t think you did, but I had to ask.”
“It’s okay. I’ve heard something, though, might be useful.”
“Tell me.”
“Did Onofrio have an associate called Marty?”
“Yeah, Marty Parese. Marty was his right-hand man. They’ve been tight since they were kids.”
“I heard that Marty and Onofrio might have been in this together and were going to split the money.”
“Onofrio didn’t tell me nothing, but that makes a lot of sense.”
“You think Marty would off Onofrio for a few million in cash?”
Gino was quiet for a moment. “Maybe. Come to think of it, who wouldn’t off him for that much money? I can’t think of anybody I’d trust around that kind of money.”
“Just a thought. My condolences, Gino, for your loss.”
“Thanks, Johnny.”
Fratelli called Stone back. “I spoke to Bats’s old man, Gino.”
“And?”
“Gino says the guy is Marty Parese, and he and Bats were tight since they were kids. Gino also thinks Marty is good for the killing, since there were millions involved.”
“I’ll see that it gets looked into,” Stone said. “Thank you, John.”
“Anytime. Oh, and I’ll give you two to one that when they find Bats’s head, there’ll be a bullet in it.” They hung up.
• • •
Stone called Dino.
