by Stuart Woods
Dino shook his head. “Not really. It’s spooky how the perp looks like Mitteldorfer used to look, though.”
“Yes, it is. I think the Hamburg nephew is not a bad bet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d immigrated, or if he turns up on Mitteldorfer’s visitors list. I’d like to know if Mitteldorfer has any other relatives in this country, particularly any children he didn’t tell us about.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Dino said. “Well, one good thing about all this; it’s given you something else to think about besides your broken heart.”
“Give me a break, Dino,” Stone said wearily.
“Listen, Stone, I think you’re well out of the thing with Arrington.”
“I thought you liked Arrington.”
“I did. I do. I just think that if you’d married her, she might have run off with Vance Calder later, and that would have screwed you up even worse.”
“I am not screwed up, and, anyway, Arrington’s not like that,” Stone said. “I dropped the ball; I didn’t commit when I should have, and by the time I got around to it…”
“And when did you get around to it?”
“I was going to ask her to marry me when we went on the sailing trip; I’d made up my mind on the way down there. Then, when the snowstorm kept her in the city, and when Calder showed up…well, it was a good offer, and she had no reason to think I was going to make a better one.”
“So you blame yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Blame her; it won’t hurt as much. There’s nothing like being pissed off at a woman to make her absence easier.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” Stone said drily.
“You think there’s any chance she’d leave Calder?”
“None. She’s borne him a son, remember? She’s locked in.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time people with kids got a divorce.”
“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
“Why don’t you just go out to LA and get her?”
“I had my shot at that; she made her choice. I’ll just have to learn to live with it.”
“You really believe the kid is Calder’s, not yours?”
“The tests were done, Dino; she wouldn’t lie about that.”
“Nah; women never lie.”
“I’m at peace with that part of it, at least. If the child had been mine, she’d have come back to me. That was our agreement. Why are you digging through all this?”
Dino shrugged. “I figured it might do you good to talk about it.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I do feel a little better having articulated the situation.”
“You sound like a fucking shrink.” Dino abruptly changed the subject. “I’m going to put a watch on you,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Sure it is. This guy followed you the night Susan Bean was killed, you know.”
“You have a point there.”
“It bothers me that he could recognize Mary Ann on the street.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“It means he’s been doing his homework, checking out our lives.”
“That’s pretty scary.”
“And for God knows how long. He may have plans for other people we know. You been seeing any girls at all?”
“No, nobody.”
“That’s not like you, Stone.”
“It’s just as well, though, isn’t it? At least I don’t have to call up women and tell them there’s a lunatic on the loose.”
“He is a lunatic, isn’t he?”
“This is hardly a sane thing to do, even if it is revenge.”
“Has it occurred to you that one victim didn’t even know you? That she just had the misfortune to live within sight of your house?”
“It has. Did anything come of checking out the residents of the buildings on my side of the block?”
Dino shook his head. “Nothing; all solid citizens.”
“He had to have seen her through her rear window,” Stone said. “She wasn’t chosen at random.”
“He wanted you to watch,” Dino said. “Maybe me, too.”
“It was the single worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know how you feel.”
Dino picked up the phone at his side and pressed a speed-dial button. “This is Bacchetti; let me speak to Anderson. Andy? Tomorrow I want you to dig out the case file on a Herbert Mitteldorfer; killed his wife twelve, thirteen years ago. I want you to go back to the neighborhood where he used to live—in the old Germantown area, I think—the East Eighties. Talk to his neighbors, the shopkeepers, anybody who remembers him. See if any of them knows whether he had any family in this country, particularly a son or a nephew; find out who his friends were, and check with them. I want to know about everybody he knew. Check his former workplace, too. There’s a woman called Eloise Enzberg who worked or maybe still works there. Talk to her nicely, and maybe she’ll spill something. She’s been writing to Mitteldorfer at Sing Sing. Also, call the warden’s office and get a list of Mitteldorfer’s visitors for the past two years. Report back to me as you find out things; I want to know it all. Hang on.” Dino covered the receiver. “Can you think of anything else?” he asked Stone.
Stone furrowed his brow. “Have them find out who Mitteldorfer was friends with at Sing Sing and whether any of them has gotten out recently.”
“Good idea.” Dino gave the instruction to Anderson, then hung up. “I don’t know of anything else we can do, do you?”
Stone shook his head. “Not apart from being very, very careful.”
10
S TONE WAS AWAKENED FROM A SOUND sleep by the doorbell. He rolled over, glancing at the clock—9:00 A.M. He picked up the phone and punched the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Joan Robertson, from Woodman and Weld. Bill Eggers sent me over to do some secretarial work for you.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll buzz you in. Wander around until you find the kitchen, and make yourself a cup of coffee. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” He pressed the button that opened the front door.
He struggled out of bed, shaved, showered, and dressed, then ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. A woman with streaked blonde hair, trim, in her forties, sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
“Good morning,” she said. “Join me? I made a pot.”
He shook her hand. “Thanks, I will,” Stone said. He got a cup and sat down. “You look a lot like…what’s her name? The actress?”
“June Allyson?”
“That’s the one.”
“I get that all the time.”
“You even have that husky voice. Is she your mother?”
“Not unless my parents have been lying to me for the past forty-five years.”
“Did Bob tell you anything about what I need?”
“He said you needed a secretary, maybe for a few weeks. He also said that you should not get to like me too much, because he has no intention of letting you steal me.”
Stone laughed. The phone rang, and he went to the wall set and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Sarah Buckminster.”
The English accent rang like a bell, and parts of Stone were ringing, too.
“You’re obviously an impostor,” he said. “The real Sarah Buckminster is in Tuscany, probably treading grapes for the new Chianti.”
“She was until yesterday.” Sarah laughed.
“Are you really back?”
“I am.”
“God, it’s been, what…”
“Six and a half years. How the hell are you?”
“I’m extremely well.”
“So am I. Buy me lunch?”
“You bet. The Four Seasons at one? We’ll celebrate.”
“We certainly will. See you then.”
“Bye.” Stone hung up and came back to the table. “Sorry about that,” he said to Joa
n. “An old friend has turned up unexpectedly.”
“You certainly sounded happy to hear from her,” Joan said.
“It showed, huh? I guess I am very happy to hear from her. Now, I was telling you about—” The doorbell rang. “Excuse me again.” He picked up the phone. “Yes?” He heard footsteps going down the front steps. “Hello?” He hung up and turned back to Joan. “Let me see who that is.”
He walked through the living room to the front door. Nobody there. He looked up and down the street but saw no one who looked interested in his house. He closed the door and turned to go back to the kitchen. On the floor of the entrance hall was a small, yellow envelope. Somebody had apparently put it through the mail slot. He picked it up. A Western Union telegram. He walked back into the kitchen, tossed it onto the table, sat down, and picked up his coffee, which was getting cold. “A telegram,” he said, picking up the envelope.
“That’s odd,” Joan replied.
“How so?” he asked, opening the envelope.
“There are no telegrams anymore. I mean, you can send a mailgram, I think, but I thought fax machines put telegrams out of business a long time ago.”
Stone unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper. It was an old-fashioned telegram, with strips of message glued to the paper. It read:
SORRY I MISSED LAST NIGHT. IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN.
BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW THE POLICE ARE WATCHING YOUR HOUSE?
YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE
Stone stared at the message, rereading it.
“Mr. Barrington,” Joan said. “Are you all right? You’ve turned pale.”
Stone realized that he felt pale. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Is it bad news?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Will you wait right here, Joan? Whatever you do, don’t leave the house or go near the front door.”
“All right,” she said, looking at him curiously.
Stone went to his study and called Dino on his private line.
“Bacchetti.”
“Dino, it’s Stone.”
“Morning. You feeling better?”
“I was until a minute ago.”
Dino’s voice changed. “What’s happened?”
“I’ve had a message from our perp.” Stone read the telegram. “It was pushed through the mail slot five minutes ago.”
“Hang on,” Dino said, putting him on hold.
Stone waited, feeling a little sick at the thought of what he might have gotten Joan Robertson into.
“You there?” Dino asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve put out a new APB in your neighborhood,” he said. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
“There is something else,” Stone said.
“Shoot.”
“I’ve made a big mistake. When Alma was killed, Bill Eggers offered to send somebody over to help out until I can hire a new secretary. She arrived this morning; I had completely forgotten about it.”
“Oh, shit,” Dino said.
“Exactly.”
“We’re going to have to get her out of there,” Dino said.
“What do you suggest?”
Dino thought for a minute. “Can a car get into that garage of yours?”
“Yes. I was thinking of buying a car, and I moved a lot of boxes out of the way.”
“I’ll send an unmarked car over there; you watch for them and open the garage. They can pull inside, then you can put your lady in the backseat, and they can drive her somewhere. I’ll tell them to make sure they’re not followed.”
“Very good,” Stone replied. “Have them call me when they turn into the block.”
“Right.”
Stone hung up and went back to the kitchen. “Joan, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to use you—not for a while, anyway.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied, standing up.
“No, have a seat. A car is being sent to take you back to your office.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Barrington. It’s not much of a walk, and it’s a nice day.”
“I’m afraid it is necessary,” Stone said. “It’s a police car that’s coming for you.”
“A police car? I don’t understand.”
“It wouldn’t do any good to explain; just trust me on this.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Andy Anderson. We’re coming up the street now.”
“Thanks; I’ll open the door.” He hung up. “Please follow me,” he said to Joan Robertson.
She stood up. “All right.”
Stone led her down the back stairs, through his exercise room, and into the garage. He pressed the button, and the door rose noisily. Instantly, a car drove inside, with Mick Kelly at the wheel and Andy Anderson in the passenger seat. Stone opened the door and helped Joan in. “I want you to lie down on the backseat until Detective Anderson tells you it’s all right to sit up.”
Joan laughed. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said.
“Believe me, this is for your protection. Thanks for coming over; I’ll let you know when it’s a better time.” He closed the door and gave Anderson a thumbs-up sign. “Go,” he said. The car backed into the street, and Stone closed the garage door behind them.
He was halfway back to the kitchen when it occurred to him that he had a lunch date that he didn’t dare keep.
11
S TONE WAITED UNTIL TWELVE-THIRTY, then called the Four Seasons and asked for Alex von Bidder, one of the owners. “Hello, Alex, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Good morning, Stone; would you like a lunch table?”
“Yes, I’m supposed to meet a young lady at one o’clock named Sarah Buckminster.”
“The painter?”
“Yes.”
“I have two of her pictures; she’s very good.”
“Yes, she is. Trouble is, I’m not going to be able to meet her, so I’d appreciate it if you’d give her a table next to somebody interesting, so she can eavesdrop…”
Von Bidder laughed. “Of course.”
“…and if you’d give her a phone and ask her to call me.”
“Of course.”
“She likes champagne; give her half a bottle of something good and charge the whole thing to my house account.”
“I’ll see that it’s done, Stone.”
Stone said goodbye and hung up. His stomach was growling, and he hated missing this lunch.
He was eating a ham sandwich when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sarah; I understand you’re standing me up.”
“I am so very sorry; I was looking forward to seeing you, but something extremely…intrusive has come up.”
“So, I have to drink the Veuve-Clicquot all by myself?”
“For the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Shall I come to you after lunch?”
“No, we definitely can’t do that.”
“How about dinner?”
He hesitated. “Where are you staying?”
“I have some friends’ apartment all to myself. They’re in Europe.”
Stone thought about this.
“Are you there?” she asked after a moment.
“Yes, I’m sorry; I was thinking.”
“Is this such a tough decision, Stone?”
“Of course not; I’m dying to see you, it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“We can’t be seen together.”
“Stone, did you get married during my absence?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Are you living with someone?”
“No. It’s just that there’s a very difficult situation I’m dealing with, and I don’t want you drawn into it.”
“How about if I cook you some dinner? I learned a lot in Italy.”
“Are you sure that won’t be too much trouble?”
>
“Of course not.” She gave him the address.
“Can I bring something?”
“You can bring the wine.”
“Red or white?”
“Red. Something Italian; something robust.”
“What time?”
“Eight?”
“Eight it is, and again, I apologize for the situation.”
“I’ll give you an opportunity to make it up to me.” She hung up.
Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Dino, it’s Stone; I have an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“This guy is obviously keeping tabs on me, and he’s not stupid; he’s already made the people you’ve got watching the house.”
“I agree.”
“You remember Sarah Buckminster?”
“The limey you used to go out with? Sure. Didn’t she flee the country to get away from you?”
“She’s back, and I have a dinner date with her. She’s staying at a friend’s apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Seventies, and I’m due up there at eight.”
“I’ll see that you’re followed.”
“No, he’ll expect that. Instead, have the building covered; put a guy in the lobby and one on the street. If he follows me, he won’t know what apartment I’m visiting. Maybe he’ll try and talk to the doorman, or maybe he’ll just lurk around, waiting for me to leave. Either way, we might get a chance to grab him.”
“What’s the exact address?”
Stone told him.
“Okay. Call me at home when you get there.”
“How are Mary Ann and Ben?”
“They’re at her father’s house in Brooklyn; one of his people is driving Ben to school every day for the duration.”
“They couldn’t be safer, then.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see the guy get past those people. Call me tonight.”
Stone hung up and returned to his ham sandwich.
Later in the afternoon, Stone went down to the cellar. He chose a Masi Amerone ’91, which filled Sarah’s wine order, then he went down to the end of the racks, where he had a few very special bottles. He found a bottle of champagne—a Krug ’66—that he’d been saving for an occasion, then went up to the kitchen and put the champagne on ice. At seven-thirty, he found some tissue paper, wrapped the two bottles, and put them into a small shopping bag. He dressed in some cavalry twill slacks, a cashmere turtleneck, soft kid loafers, and a light tweed jacket; then he opened his bedside drawer, took out a 9mm automatic pistol, placed it in the bag, and covered it with more tissue paper. He picked up the shopping bag and let himself out of the house.
