by Stuart Woods
This book is for
Elaine Kaufman
Contents
E-book Extra “We Are Very Different People”:
Stuart Woods on Stone Barrington
Chapters:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64
Acknowledgments
Stone Barrington: The First Five
About the Author
Praise for Stuart Woods
Books by Stuart Woods
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
T HE PAIN LAY BURIED SOMEWHERE IN THE depths of Stone Barrington’s upper body; a cross between a slipped disc and a coronary, it seemed. It had begun after a phone conversation early in the previous winter. The call, from Arrington Carter, had ended everything. Now she was the wife of another man, living in his house, rearing his son. He would never see her again, except in her husband’s company, and he would never think of her again without feeling the pain.
He had never believed it would persist into the following spring, but it had. If anything, it was worse. He saw Dino a couple of times a week, always at Elaine’s. Dino was his closest friend—sometimes, he felt, his only friend. Not true, of course. Elaine was his friend, and the evenings in her restaurant, with Elaine and Dino, were the only bright spots in his week. His law practice had lately been boring, a personal injury suit that dragged on and on, a bone thrown to him by Woodman & Weld, because there wasn’t enough meat on it to nourish a firm with thirty partners and a hundred associates. They were ready to go to trial, and the expected settlement offer had not materialized. It was depressing. Everything was depressing. And the pain continued, assuaged only by bourbon, and he had done too much assuaging lately. He sat at table number five, at Elaine’s, with Dino, and ordered another assuagement.
“Let’s go to a party,” Dino said. “Have your next one there.”
“I don’t feel like going to a party with a lot of cops,” Stone said.
“It’s not a cop party.”
“You don’t know anybody but cops,” Stone said.
Dino caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for a check. “I know lots of people,” he said.
“Name three who aren’t cops or Mafiosi.”
“It’s not a Mafia party, either,” Dino said, dodging the question.
“Whose party is it?”
“It’s at a deputy DA’s.”
“Oh. Then we get to bring our own booze.”
“His name is Martin B-r-o-u-g-h-a-m,” he spelled, “pronounced ‘Broom,’ and he’s got some money, I think.”
“Isn’t he handling the Dante trial?” Dante was a crime boss, and his trial was the most important since Gotti’s.
“He got a conviction this afternoon.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Don’t you watch the news anymore?”
“Not much.”
“The party is to celebrate the conviction.”
“How come I don’t know Brougham?”
“Because he runs with a classier crowd than you’re accustomed to. The only seedy lawyers he meets are in court.”
“Who are you calling a seedy lawyer?”
“How many lawyers are at this table?”
“I am not a seedy lawyer; I just take seedy cases. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever you say,” Dino said, standing up and reaching for his raincoat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I don’t want to,” Stone grumbled.
“You don’t want to do anything, you desolate fuck, and I can’t stand it anymore. Now put your coat on and come with me, or I’ll just shoot you here and now. Nobody would ever prosecute me; it would be justifiable homicide.”
“Oh, all right,” Stone said, struggling to his feet and grabbing his coat. “One drink, if the guy serves decent booze. Then I’m out of there.”
The apartment was a duplex in the East Sixties, definitely not the preserve of an assistant DA.
“You’re right,” Stone said, as they handed their coats to a maid. “He’s got money. There’s at least a million dollars of art hanging in this room.”
“What are you, his insurance agent?” Dino whispered. “Try and have a good time, okay?”
“Tell me more about this guy,” Stone said.
“Word is, he’s up for chief deputy DA, and he’s going to run for DA, if the old man ever retires.”
“He’ll grow old waiting,” Stone said.
A handsome man of about forty spotted Dino and came across the room, towing a tall blond woman in a Chanel suit.
“Dino,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m glad you could make it. You remember Dana.”
The woman shook Dino’s hand. “Who’s this?” she asked, turning her gaze on Stone.
“This is Stone Barrington, Dana. Stone, this is Martin and Dana Brougham.”
“How do you do?” Stone said mechanically, shaking their hands.
“I’ve heard of you,” Brougham said, steering Stone and Dino toward the bar. “You were Dino’s partner at the Nineteenth Precinct a while back, weren’t you?”
“A while back,” Stone echoed. “After I left the force they had to kick him upstairs; nobody else would ride in the same car with him.”
“You’re over at Woodman and Weld, aren’t you?”
“I’m of counsel, to them,” Stone replied, “but Woodman and Weld would probably rather you didn’t know it.” It was a remark he wouldn’t have made if he had been entirely sober.
Brougham laughed. “What are you drinking?”
“Wild Turkey on the rocks, if you have it.”
Brougham grabbed a bottle that looked like a crystal decanter and poured Stone a double. “This is Wild Turkey, but it’s got a leg up on the standard stuff.”
Stone tasted the whiskey. The man was right. This stuff cost thirty bucks a bottle; he was beginning to like Brougham.
A couple arrived at the front door, and Brougham went off to greet them. “Wander around,” he said. “Meet some people.”
Stone looked around. The room was jammed with people, and somebody was playing the piano rather well. “I see at least four cops,” he said to Dino.
“So what? There are a lot of civilians here, too.”
“If you consider assistant DA’s civilians. Who’s the tall guy by the fireplace?”
“Tom Deacon. He runs the DA’s investigative division.”
“I don’t like him,” Stone said.
“Have you ever even met him?”
“No.”
“What the hell is the matter with you lately?”
“He’s got shifty eyes.”
“He’s with the DA, isn’t he?”
The party had clearly been going on for some time, because there was no food left, and everybody had had several drinks. Stone was as drunk as any of them but not as gregarious. He looked for a quiet corner. He left Dino with Dana Brougham and walked through a pair of double doors, into a handsome library. A pair of leather wing chairs faced each other before a cheerful fire, and Stone headed for one. He sat down, glad to be alone; then he saw that the other chair was occupied.
A chestnut-haired woman in a pin-striped suit sat with her legs pulled under her, reading by firelight from a leather-bound book. She glanced at him, raised her glass a millimeter in greeting, then went back to her book.
“You’ll ruin your eyes,” Stone said.
She gazed at him for a moment. “You’ve changed, Mom.”
“Sorry. What are you reading?”
�
�Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”
“I haven’t read that since high school,” he said.
“I haven’t read it at all,” she replied.
“It seemed terribly erotic at sixteen, but then almost everything did.”
She smiled a little but didn’t look up. “I remember.”
“Where were you when you were sixteen?”
“At Spence.”
Spence was a very tony Manhattan private school.
“And after that?”
“Yale.”
“Law?”
“Yes. I work for Martin.”
“Funny, you don’t look like an assistant DA.”
“That’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me this year.”
“Then you’ve been seeing the wrong men.”
“You’re not only courtly, you’re clairvoyant.”
“I can’t divine your name.”
“Susan Bean.”
“Of the L.L. Beans?”
“No, and not of the Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner, and Beans, either. Of the entirely undistinguished Beans. And you?”
“Stone Barrington.”
“I believe I’ve heard the name. Of the Massachusetts Great Barringtons, I presume?”
Stone shook his head. “Of the Massachusetts Lesser Barringtons.”
“And how did you come to be in the big city?”
“It was easy; I was born here. After my parents had bailed out of Massachusetts.”
“Are you hungry?”
To his surprise, he was. He’d hardly touched his dinner at Elaine’s. “Yes.”
“The canapés were already gone when I got here. You want to get some dinner someplace?”
“I do.”
She stood up, and she was taller than he had expected. Quite beautiful, too. Stone got out of his chair. “Did you have a coat?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go find it.”
He took her arm, and, just for a moment, he thought the pain had gone away. Not quite, but a little. He steered her toward the front door, avoiding their hosts. Dino gave him a surreptitious wink, and a moment later, they were on the sidewalk.
“It’s nearly eleven,” Stone said, glancing at his watch. “I wonder if anyplace is still serving around here.”
“My apartment is only a couple of blocks away,” she said, “and there’s a good Chinese place that delivers.”
“Perfect,” he said.
“It’s not perfect, but it delivers.”
“I wasn’t talking about Chinese food.”
2
T HEY WALKED AT A LEISURELY PACE, CHATTING idly. Her voice was low and musical, and Stone enjoyed listening.
“I recall that you are a lawyer, but I forget with whom,” she said.
“I’m in private practice.”
She laughed. “At Yale law we were taught to believe that ‘private practice’ meant you couldn’t get a job with a good firm.”
“That’s probably a fair characterization, but my excuse is that I was a cop for fourteen years and came to the practice of law, as opposed to the upholding of it, late in life. I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I work out of a home office.”
She wrinkled her brow. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, I guess.”
“Oh, I get it; you do the dirty work, the stuff they don’t want to be seen to handle.”
“You’re very quick.”
“That’s what they say about me down at the DA’s Office,” she said. “‘Susan Bean is very quick.’ Of course, that’s not all they say about me.”
They stopped for a traffic light. “What else do they say?”
“Some call me the conscience of the office; others call me a pain in the ass. I guess it’s pretty much the same thing.”
“What are you working on now?”
“I was second chair to Martin Brougham on the Dante case,” she said.
“Congratulations,” Stone replied. “That was a big win.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Oh, I’m glad we won,” she said. “I’m just not very happy about how we won.”
He was about to ask her what she meant when they arrived at her apartment building. She dug for a key and let them in; they took the elevator to the top floor, which was marked PH on the button.
“The penthouse?” Stone said. “Pretty fancy for an ADA.”
“It’s the top floor, the twelfth. That’s its only qualification as a penthouse.”
They rode up, and she opened the door to the apartment. It was small—living room, a dining alcove, bedroom, and kitchen. There was a small terrace overlooking the street. Any skyline view was blocked by a taller building across the street.
She went into the kitchen, dug a menu out of a drawer, and picked up the phone. “Trust me on the selections?” she asked.
“Sure, but nothing too spicy for me.”
She dialed the number and read off a list of dishes. “How long?” she asked. She listened, then covered the phone. “The delivery boy is out sick; would you mind picking it up? It’s not far.”
“Glad to,” Stone said.
“How long?” she asked again. “Okay, twenty minutes.” She hung up. “Can I get you a drink? Twenty minutes really means thirty.”
“Maybe some wine?”
She dug a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge and handed it to Stone with a corkscrew. “You open it; I’m clumsy.”
Stone opened the bottle and poured them a glass. He threw his coat on a chair, and they sat on the sofa.
“That was quite a list of dishes you ordered,” he said.
“I exist on leftovers from takeout,” she replied. “So what fascinating dirty work are you doing for Woodman and Weld at the moment?” she asked.
“A personal injury suit,” he replied. “Dirty work isn’t always fascinating.”
“Is it a fascinating injury?”
“Not in the least. A Woodman and Weld client’s daughter was hurt in an automobile accident, and the other driver’s insurance company has been recalcitrant about paying her for her pain and suffering.”
“They usually are.”
“What’s next for you at the DA’s Office, now that you’ve put Dante away?”
She sighed. “I don’t know; I’m thinking about giving it up. It wears on me, you know?”
“I think I do, but it sounds like Brougham is on his way up. Won’t he take you with him?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure I want to go. When I joined the DA’s Office I was pretty idealistic, I guess. I saw it as the good guys against the bad guys, but now I’m not sure there are any good guys.”
“Life is a gray area,” Stone said.
“It’s charcoal gray and getting darker,” she said. “Did I ask you if you’re married?”
“No; I’m not.”
“Divorced?”
“Nope.”
“A lifelong bachelor? My God! Are you gay?”
“Nope.”
“Why did you never marry?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” He had been using that answer for a long time. “What about you?”
“A spinster at thirty-two,” she replied.
“Not for want of offers, I suspect.”
“I’ve had my moments.” She looked at him oddly. “May I kiss you?”
Stone laughed. “I’ve been kissed, but I’ve never been asked.”
“May I?”
“You don’t need to ask,” he said.
She leaned over, put her fingertips on his face, and drew him to her.
Her lips were firm and purposeful, and her tongue lay in waiting, darting into his mouth from time to time. He snaked an arm around her and pulled her closer, but she broke off the kiss and looked at her watch.
“Uh-oh, our dinner’s getting cold.” She stood up and threw him his coat. “To be continued after Chinese food. I’ll set the table and make some tea.
Hurry.”
Stone got into his coat.
“Here,” she said, “take my key, so I won’t have to buzz you in.” She handed it to him.
Stone pocketed the key, kissed her quickly, and left the apartment. It was a block and a half to the restaurant, and he had to wait a bit for the food. It came in a large paper bag, and he paid and left, walking quickly back to the apartment house. He let himself in, went to the elevator, and pressed the button. He looked up at the lights and saw that the elevator was on the top floor. Shortly, it began to move. Elevators in short buildings moved slowly, he reflected. It stopped on the sixth floor, then began moving down again, finally reaching the ground floor. Stone pressed PH and the car crept upward.
He let himself into the apartment. Music was playing, and a loud whistling noise emanated from the kitchen. The kettle was boiling. He set the food down on the dining table, shucked off his coat, and walked toward the whistling noise. The kitchen light was off, and the single living-room lamp didn’t offer much illumination. He groped for the light switch but couldn’t find it. Blindly, he groped his way toward the stove, aiming at the gas flame. Susan must be in the john, he thought. Now that he was closer, the kettle’s whistle had become a scream.
He took another step, and, suddenly, he was slipping, falling. He hit the floor with a thump, groaning, as his elbow took most of his weight. He put a hand on the floor to help himself up, but it was slippery, and he fell again. She had apparently spilled something on the floor. The kettle screamed on.
He grabbed hold of the kitchen counter, hoisted himself to his feet, and turned off the gas jet. Slowly, the scream died. He groped his way back toward the kitchen door, holding on to the counter, and felt again for the light switch. This time he found it and turned it on.
He looked at his hands, dumbfounded. They were covered in red paint. Slowly, still holding on to keep from slipping, he turned and looked back into the kitchen. The paint was everywhere, but it wasn’t paint.
Susan Bean lay on her back next to the wall, staring at the ceiling. Her throat gaped open. He made himself move toward her, knelt at her side, and felt her wrist for a pulse. Nothing. There was no point it trying CPR, he realized. Close up, he could see that she had been very nearly decapitated.
Stone got shakily to his feet, holding on to whatever he could for support. He made it to the kitchen phone, picked it up, and started to call Dino’s cell phone, then he stopped.
