by Stuart Woods
“Thank you, Lance.”
“Now, what are we going to do about Todd Bacon?”
“I think we should do nothing,” Holly said.
“Don’t you want to know if he’s dead?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to ask. If he is, he’ll be discovered in due course. Nobody in this building doesn’t not show up for work unless he’s called in. If Todd doesn’t show, someone will find out why.”
“All right, let that sleeping dog lie,” Lance said.
Holly went back to her office, and her phone was ringing. “Hello?”
“It’s Stone. We’re out of here. Dino and I are flying directly to New Haven for Peter’s opening tonight.”
“I’d send him a telegram if there were still such a thing,” Holly said. “Tell him I said break a leg.”
“Will do. What should I do with the car?”
“Leave it at the FBO at Manassas, with the keys under the seat. It will be picked up.”
“Thank you for such good company while we’ve been here,” Stone said.
“We both needed that, I think.”
“Coming to New York anytime soon?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Take care, then.”
They said good-bye and hung up.
HOLLY WAS WORKING AT her desk just before lunch when her phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Tank Wheeler, in Tech Services.”
“Morning, Tank. What can I do for you?”
“Todd Bacon is dead.”
Holly took a long beat before answering. “How?”
“When he didn’t come in this morning and didn’t call, I sent some people over to his place. They broke in and found him in the bathtub with his wrists slit.”
“Did Todd seem suicidal to you?”
“Nope. He seemed to be enjoying his work. He had something on his mind, though—he had been preoccupied for a few days.”
“Have you any reason to believe it wasn’t a suicide?”
“My people had a look around, but there was no evidence of foul play. One odd thing, though: they found a sniper’s rifle in a briefcase in Todd’s car that he had checked out of the weapons vault yesterday. I’ve no idea why.”
Holly did not comment on that. “Have you called the local police?”
“I’m about to do that right now. I wanted to tell you first.”
“Play it by the book,” she said, “except for the sniper’s rifle. You can put that back where it belongs and deal with the written record.”
“I have already done so.”
“We’ll want our own pathologist at the autopsy.”
“Of course. We’ll track the investigation every step of the way and keep the Agency out of the papers.”
“Let me know the results,” Holly said. “And thanks, Tank.” She hung up and went into Lance’s office.
He looked up from his desk. “Heard anything?”
“Tank Wheeler just called. When Todd didn’t show up for work, he sent some people out t
here. They found him in the bathtub, bled out. There was an Agency sniper’s rifle in his car.”
“I see.”
“I told Tank to call the police and go by our playbook for such an event. We’ll be represented at the autopsy, and of course we’ll see the police report. Tank has returned the rifle to the vault and adjusted the record.”
“And the Agency will be kept out of it?”
“Of course.”
“I guess I’d better start thinking of a replacement for Todd in Tech Services.”
“I might be interested,” Holly said.
“Not going to happen,” Lance said. “Your future at the Agency will depend on how my plans for me work out,” he said. “But don’t worry, whatever happens, you’re thought of as valuable around here.”
“Thank you,” Holly saiӀ”d, then went back to her office and put Todd Bacon and Teddy Fay out of her mind.
57
DINO PARKED THE CAR AT THE MANASSAS FBO, AND HE AND Stone carried their luggage to the airplane. While Dino stowed the bags, Stone walked around the airplane and did his preflight inspection. He had already gotten a weather forecast—good all the way—from Flight Services and filed his flight plan.
Then Stone remembered a call he had not made. He checked his notebook for the number and the hospital answered. “Dr. Tom Kendrick,” Stone said.
After a short wait, Tom Kendrick came on the line. “Dr. Kendrick.”
“Dr. Kendrick, this is Stone Barrington. We met at your parents’ house.”
“I remember,” Kendrick said.
“We’ve concluded our investigation, and I wanted you to know the results.”
“I’d like to hear it,” Kendrick replied.
“We have concluded that your father did not kill your mother. The note he left was misinterpreted.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Kendrick replied, “but who did kill her?”
“She was killed by a woman named Shelley Bach, who was having an affair with your father. We believe that your father took his own life because he felt that his affair with Ms. Bach was the root cause of her death. This will all be in the papers by tomorrow, so you’d better prepare yourself for a lot of phone calls from the media.”
“Thank you, I’ll try to handle that. And thank you for letting me know the outcome.” Kendrick hung up.
Stone got aboard, then buttoned up the airplane, started the engines, and ran through his checklist. Finally, he called ground control for his clearance. The controller read him the clearance, and Stone repeated it.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen an airplane cleared across the Washington TFR,” he said, referring to central Washington, including the White House. “And at low altitude. You must know somebody.”
Stone laughed. “No, just the luck of the draw,” he replied, and requested permission to taxi. When they had lifted off, Stone said to Dino, “You’re going to be impressed with our routing.”
“Yeah, why?”
“I think Holly used her influence with Air Traffic Control to see that we got the scenic route.”
Moments later they crossed the Potomac at three thousand feet and saw the Washington Monument and the White House ahead.
“Man, what a view!” Dino said. “I’m going to send Holly some flowers!”
Shortly after they had passed the White House, Stone was told to climb directly to his filed cruising altitude and to fly direct to New Haven. Normally, he would have ascended in stages and been told to fly an airway.
They landed at Tweed Field, New Haven, and Dino’s son, Ben, drove out onto the ramp to meet them and unload their luggage.
Dino embraced his son, and Stone shook his hand. “We could have taken a cab,” Stone said.
“I’m glad to have a break from the theater,” Ben said. “Peter will be embroiled with details until curtain րcab,”time, since he’s the director, but I wasn’t needed. I’m only the producer.”
He drove them to the building where Peter had bought an apartment that housed himself, Ben, and Peter’s girlfriend, and Stone and Dino made themselves comfortable in the guest room, while Ben went back to the theater.
“They’ve done some more fixing up since we were here last,” Dino said.
“Yes, they’ve got curtains and a nice Oriental rug, now,” Stone agreed. They found the makings of sandwiches in the fridge and made lunch.
As THE FINAL CURTAIN came down, the audience rose as one, applauding, whistling, and shouting. The cast took multiple curtain calls, then, to shouts of “Author! Author!” Peter joined them for the final bow.
“That was really something,” Stone said.
“I hadn’t expected it to be so funny,” Dino replied. “That was terrific writing.”
“It certainly was,” Stone said. “They’re meeting us at the restaurant.”
THE OPENING NIGHT PARTY was nearly as much of a triumph as the opening night performance. Stone and Dino
were treated with deference by the student crowd, but stayed out of the way and let Peter and Ben have their moment of glory.
Finally, Peter joined them at their table.
“It was brilliant, Peter,” Stone said.
Dino praised him, as
well.
“I’ve got some news,” Peter said. “There was someone from the Shubert Organization in New York in the audience, and it looks like we’re going to get an offer to open our play in one of their theaters after Christmas.”
“Will you direct?” Stone asked.
“I doubt it,” Peter replied. “They’ll recast it with New York actors and get a pro to direct. We’re just a bunch of students, after all.”
“Some bunch of students!” Stone said. “Every one of them was perfection.”
“They were, weren’t they?” Peter said. “I’ll get you guys another drink, and then I have to circulate some more.” He left, found a waiter, then blended into the crowd again.
“You know,” Stone said to Dino, “I much prefer seeing that play to seeing Peter quarterback Yale to a victory over Harvard.”
“I know how you feel,” Dino said, “and this way, he doesn’t get a concussion.”
58
SHELLEY BACH RINSED UNDER THE SHOWER, THEN GOT INTO A robe and toweled her hair. She checked the mirror and approved of what she saw. The new auburn color worked very well for her, or would soon.
She dried her hair and dressed, then went to the basement of the apartment building in Arlington and got into the Honda Civic she had bought earlier, under her new name, using ID she had manufactured using FBI equipment. She drove a couple of blocks down the street, parked at a strip mall, and went into a shop.
“I’m Carly Shaker,” she said to the receptionist. “I have an appointment.”
“Right this way, Ms. Shaker,” the young woman said. She showed her down the hall to a curtained booth ހght="2and handed her a paper robe. “Undress and put this on, and she will be with you in a moment.”
Carly did as she was told, and had a seat. Another woman, who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, came into the booth and checked a clipboard. “Let’s see,” she said, “you’re getting the full-body airbrush, is that right?”
“That’s correct,” Carly said. She got up and pointed at a color chart on the wall. “And I think this shade would be good for me. What do you think?”
“Very good,” the woman said. “Not too dark, just a lovely shade that will go perfectly with your hair. Now, if you’ll take off your robe and stand on the little pedestal, we’ll get to work.”
AN HOUR LATER, Carly stood naked before a full-length mirror and stared at her new complexion. Her formerly blond whiteness had been darkened to a nearly Mediterranean shade that blended perfectly with her new hair color. It would last for two weeks, then she would have it touched up.
She got dressed, paid her bill, and drove back to her apartment building, a new woman. Back in her apartment she felt a pang of regret. She took the new, anonymous cell phone she had bought at a Radio Shack, looked up a number, and tapped it in. The phone went directly to voice mail, and she left a message.
That would have to do, for now. Later, who knew?
59
STONE SET DOWN THE AIRPLANE LIGHTLY AFTER FLYING THE ILS 19 approach into Teterboro Airport, and was given permission to taxi to Jet Aviation. He was directed to a parking place a few yards from the terminal, and he opened the luggage compartment so that a lineman could unload their luggage onto a cart.
Stone checked the oil in both engines, then opened the rear luggage compartment, disconnected the battery, and handed another lineman the engine plugs and pitot tube covers, to be installed. They followed their luggage into the terminal, then out the front door, where Stone’s secretary, Joan, was waiting in Stone’s car.
Traffic was light going into the city, and they dropped Dino off at his apartment building, then headed for Turtle Bay, and Stone’s house.
DINO LET HIMSELF INTO his apartment and took his bags into the bedroom, where he unpacked and put everything away, then he went into his study. There was a large stack of mail, mostly bills and junk, on his desk, and he sat down and began sorting and opening it.
Then he noticed that the light on his answering machine was blinking, and he pushed the button to get his messages.
“Hello, Dino,” a familiar female voice said. “I’ve been thinking about you, and I couldn’t resist calling.”
“Jesus,” Dino muttered to himself, then checked the caller ID. “Number Blocked,” it read.
“I wanted you to know that I’m all right,” she continued. “I had feared something like this might happen, so I made some preparations in advance
. I’m in a new place, now, with a new life. Eventually, though, I might get to New York. If I do, would you like to hear from me? Think about that, and I’ll call again sometime. In the meantime, I’ll think about you in bed, and that little thing you do so nicely. Bye-bye.”
Dino hung up and thought for a moment, then he called Stone’s office number.
“Woodman and Weld,” Joan said.
“Joan, it’s Dino. Let me speak to him.”
“Hang, Dino.” She put him on hold.
“Hey, Dino,” Stone said. “Miss me already?”
“Oh, terribly,” Dino said.
“Dinner at Elaine’s, eight-thirty?”
“You’re on, but I’ve got news. Guess who left a message on my answering machine?”
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her y
our manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookselle
r to contact his Penguin representativ">Those or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Rachel Kahan at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
BOOKS BY STUART WOODS
FICTION
Son of Stone†
Bel-Air Dead†
Strategic Moves†
Santa Fe Edge§
Lucid Intervals†
Kisser†
Hothouse Orchid*
Loitering with Intent†
Mounting Fears‡
Hot Mahogany†
Santa Fe Dead§
Beverly Hills Dead
Shoot Him If He Runs†
Fresh Disasters†
Short Straw§
Dark Harbor†
Iron Orchid*
Two-Dollar Bill†
The Prince of
Beverly Hills
Reckless Abandon†
Capital Crimes‡
Dirty Work†
Blood Orchid*
The Short Forever†
Orchid Blues*
Cold Paradise†
L.A. Dead†
