by Stuart Woods
Stone let them into his house and locked the door behind him.
He didn’t turn on a light but kissed her in the dark. She leaned into him and gave him her lips and tongue.
“I think I’d like to see the master suite,” she breathed in his ear.
“Right this way,” he replied, steering her into the elevator. He continued kissing her on the way up. They reached the third floor and left the elevator.
“It’s very nice,” she said, looking around. “Where is the bathroom?”
He pointed to the door, then undressed, turned off the bedside light and got into bed. The moonlight flooded the room, as it had the garden the night before, and when she came out of the bathroom, naked, her body in that light might have been marble. She slid into bed beside him and snuggled close.
“Let’s not rush,” she said. “We have time.”
“We certainly do,” he replied, kissing her ear.
They kissed for the longest time he could remember since high school, until he pulled her leg over his and felt the wet on his thigh. He worked his way down her body, kissing and biting her nipples and feeling a satisfying response to each nip. He spent some time on her belly and navel, then she pushed his head farther down.
He used his lips and tongue for a very long time, until he brought her fully to climax. He waited until her last shudder, then asked, “Again?”
“Again,” she said, “but this time I want you inside me.”
He rolled on top of her and waited while she took him in her hand and guided him inside, then he moved slowly, while she became fully aroused again. He took her all the way before allowing himself to follow her, then let their passion cool before he moved beside her and took her in his arms. “More, later,” he whispered.
“Mmmmmm,” she said, burying her face in the hollow of his neck. In a moment she was breathing deeply.
Stone didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he was awakened by the sound of breaking glass and a soft pop. He laid Tatiana gently onto her pillow, got out of bed and listened. A flicker caught his eye, and he looked out the window into the garden. Inside Tatiana’s kitchen window he saw a flame.
Stone picked up the phone and dialed 911. “There’s a fire at the rear of a house in Turtle Bay,” he said, then he gave the address and hung up. He woke Tatiana gently. “I’m afraid there’s trouble,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “How could there be trouble?” she asked, raising herself on one elbow.
“Look,” he said, pointing out the window. They could hear the fire truck’s siren approaching.
They stood in front of her house, watching the firemen carry out the hose. When the men were out, a captain approached them.
“You were lucky,” he said. “Come with me.” He led them through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen, which was a mess. The captain pointed to a blackened spot on the floor. “Someone dropped a bottle of an accelerant, probably gasoline, and tossed a match into it. Fortunately, it was in an open area, and there wasn’t much to consume. It was a small bottle, too, probably no bigger than a Coke bottle. You’ll have a lot of cleaning to do, from the smoke, but there’s remarkably little actual fire damage.”
“I heard the bottle pop,” Stone said, “and I could see the flames from the rear window of my house, across the way.”
“A quick nine-one-one call always helps,” the captain said. “If there’s nothing else we can do for you, I’ll say good night.” He gave Tatiana a little salute and left.
“It was Henry,” Tatiana said.
“It’s always the husband,” Stone replied. He glanced at his watch. “You’re sleeping at my house tonight.”
“I certainly am,” she said.
The following morning, after breakfast, when Tatiana had gone home, Stone called Bob Cantor.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got some work for you,” he said.
“Always good news.”
“The name is Henry Kennerly, real estate guy. It’s a bad divorce.”
“And you’re a friend of the wife,” Cantor said.
“Right. He set a fire in her house last night. Luckily, there wasn’t much damage. I want phone, bank and credit card records. He has an expensive girlfriend, and I want to know how much she’s costing him.” He gave Cantor the address. “And I want you to replace all the locks with better locks.”
“Right. How’s the mahogany-secretary thing going?” Cantor asked.
“Still simmering but not on the boil yet. I’ll bring you up to date on developments when I see you. Anything interesting on Charlie’s phone?”
“There have been a couple of short, cryptic phone calls to a cell phone. Just a few words exchanged.”
“What sort of words?”
“They’re like ‘It’s done. Good. Details later. Good.’ ”
“Whose cell phone?”
“I don’t know; I can’t trace it. Probably a prepaid job from Radio Shack or a supermarket.”
“I don’t like it when the guy I’m on to gets that smart,” Stone said.
“Neither do I.”
“If he’s going to be that cryptic, is there any point in paying your guy at the phone company five bills a day?”
“Probably not.”
“End it, then.”
“Will do. I’ll e-mail you Mr. Kennerly’s printouts later today.”
“That’s fast.”
“We aim to please.” Cantor hung up.
Stone hung up, too. He was going to give Tatiana all the ammo she needed to nail her husband’s hide to the barn door.
53
Barton Cabot visited the Madison Avenue branch of his bank and asked for James Foster, an important senior vice president who was in charge of all Manhattan branches. He was shown directly in.
“Good morning, Barton,” Foster said, waving him to a seat.
“Good morning, James. I have some new business for you.”
“Always good news. Tell me about it.”
Barton removed a stack of eight-by-ten prints of the photographs he had taken in Bristol and handed them over.
Foster leafed through them rapidly. “This is all very nice, but what am I looking at?”
“You’re looking at the largest and finest collection of eighteenth-century American furniture in private hands,” Barton said.
“In whose hands?”
“Mine.”
“Congratulations. It must have taken a long time to put together that collection.”
“It took me two days,” Barton said.
“I don’t understand.”
Barton sighed. The man was a banker. “All these pieces have been, since they were made, in one house, that of a Mrs. Caleb Strong of Bristol, Rhode Island, who passed away Sunday night at the age of ninety-seven.”
“And you inherited all these?”
“No, a few days before her sudden death, when she appeared to be in excellent health, I contracted with her to buy the collection for twenty million dollars, to be paid at the rate of a million dollars a year for the rest of her life, the remainder upon her death.”
“Which was Sunday night?”
“That’s correct.”
“So now you owe her estate twenty million dollars?” The banker’s eyes were wide.
“Correct again.”
“Do you have twenty million dollars?”
“Of course not. Why do you think I’m here?”
“You want to borrow twenty million dollars from us?”
“What’s the matter, James, don’t you have twenty million dollars?”
“Of course we do, but… what sort of collateral can you offer?”
“The collection itself. I put its value at between forty and fifty million dollars.”
“Have you had an independent appraisal?”
“That would take weeks, perhaps months. I know as much about these pieces as anyone in the country; I am certain of their value, and I must close this deal in ten days.”
“Of course I do. I would only need the loan for a short period, perhaps as little as three months.”
“It’s not the term of the loan that worries me, Barton; it’s the ten days before you must have the money.”
“I know this is unusual, James, but it’s also the greatest opportunity of my lifetime, one that will make me very wealthy.”
“How would you realize the value of the collection? Auction it?”
“It would take at least a year to pull off an auction this big,” Barton said. “I have a different plan.”
“I’d like to hear about that,” Foster said.
“It’s my intention to offer the collection to some of the biggest museums in the country,” Barton said, “intact. They would pay for the collection by soliciting large donors, and they would display it, permanently, in replicas of some of the rooms of the Strong house.”
“It sounds as though you’re talking about building a wing onto a museum. That would take a lot longer than an auction.”
“No, there are several museums that could make room for the collection in their present space.”
“Barton, I really think it would be better to auction the collection piece by piece. You’d get huge publicity for such a sale, wouldn’t you?”
“Certainly,” Barton said, “but I don’t think you’d realize as much money from such an auction.”
“You expect to get more from a museum?”
“The whole of the collection is worth more than the sum of the parts,” Barton explained, “and only a museum could raise sufficient funds to buy it intact. You have to understand that the availability of this collection is an historic event, one that will never occur again.”
“Well, I suppose you have a point there, Barton, but you’re talking with a bank here. The loan committee could not approve such a large loan; it would have to go to the board, and it couldn’t even be presented to them until the whole collection had been appraised by an established authority, like an auction house, perhaps more than one. There are also questions of security and insurance that would have to be satisfied.”
“I understand that this is an unusual request, James, but I’ve been a client here for a long time, and I have put much more than twenty million dollars in cash flow through this bank during those years.”
Foster consulted his calendar. “Barton, the next scheduled meeting of the board is five weeks from today, and I’m not sure we could get the appraisals done by that time. They’re certainly not going to call a special board meeting for this purpose, and, anyway, I happen to know that three of the board members, including the chairman, are abroad. Couldn’t you ask for more time to close the deal?”
“The executors of Mrs. Strong’s estate have made it clear that they will be strict about the terms of the contract. For all I know, they may have an auction house waiting in the wings to pull this collection to pieces and scatter it all over the world.”
Foster spread his hands wide. “Barton, I appreciate everything you’ve said, and I’m sure the collection is as important and worth as much as you say it is, but I’m afraid that, given the time pressure, the deal is just not doable for us. And I’m afraid that you’d get the same answer from any other bank.”
Barton hauled himself to his feet. “Thank you for your candor, James.”
Foster walked him to the door. “A better bet might be to approach a very wealthy individual who might buy the collection and present it to a museum.”
“Then I would lose any control I might have over where and how the collection would be displayed.”
“It’s an imperfect world, Barton.”
The two men shook hands, and Barton left. He went to a Kinko’s, where copies of his prospectus had been run off and bound. He messengered copies to Carla and Stone, then FedExed others to eight museum directors with a covering letter, then he drove back to Connecticut, feeling dejected and numb.
When Barton reached home, he got the mail from his mailbox and let himself into the house. He made a fire in the study, poured himself a drink and sat down to warm up. In his mind he riffled through his client list, most of them wealthy people, but he could not come up with one who would have both the cash and the commitment to collecting that would be required to bring the deal off. Harlan Deal, for instance, certainly had the money, but not the taste or sophistication to appreciate the value of the collection, let alone the commitment to a museum.
He began opening his mail. Halfway through the stack he came across an engraved envelope; inside was a dinner invitation for Saturday night from Ab Kramer.
Perhaps, he thought, he might know the right man after all.
54
Stone sat at his desk, going over the bank statements, broker- age statements and credit card statements of Henry Kennerly, jotting down notes and amounts as he went. It took him more than two hours to complete the job and total the amounts and categories. When he was done, he called Tatiana.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone. How is the cleanup going?”
“I’ve got a professional crew, and they’ve promised to stay until it’s done, even if it’s midnight.”
“Good. Be sure and call your insurance company; they’ll pay for it.”
“I have already done that; their adjuster just left. I had to file a police report, though.”
“Good. That’s one more bargaining chip. And speaking of bargaining chips, do you have a pencil and paper?”
“I’ll get one,” she said and put down the phone. A moment later she was back. “Go ahead.”
“First of all, how long ago did you and Henry separate?”
“About five weeks ago.”
“Good. All of the following expenditures were made since that time.”
“Expenditures? Henry’s?”
“Yes.”
“How would you have access to his expenditures?”
“You’re not to ask me that; just listen.”
“All right.”
“During the past thirty days, Henry has spent more than eight thousand dollars in restaurants. I can tell you from experience that he would have to order a lot of expensive wines to get that figure so high. He has also spent more than two thousand dollars with a florist, and about twelve thousand dollars with three jewelers. Has he taken you to dinner, sent you flowers or given you jewelry during the past thirty days?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then here’s what you do: You instruct your attorney to get a subpoena for all of Henry’s financial records and to look for these expenditures, but don’t mention the exact amounts or tell him that I gave you this information. Remember, he has spent all this money from marital funds, so you’re entitled to half in cash.”
“That’s wonderful, Stone! How on earth…”
“No, no, no,” Stone interrupted. “Don’t ask.”
“Oh, all right.”
“And don’t tell your attorney that you’ve learned all this; just tell him you’ve become suspicious of Henry’s spending habits since you parted.”
“All right.”
“Now to more pleasant things. I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut, and I’ve been invited to a very nice dinner party on Saturday night. Will you come up there with me for the weekend?”
“Oh, I’d love to!” she said. “I’ve been stuck in the city for too long.”
“Good. We’ll drive up Saturday morning and come back Sunday or Monday, whichever you prefer.”
“It sounds wonderful. Now I have to get back to work.”
“Talk to you later.” Stone hung up, and Joan came in with an envelope.
“This arrived by messenger,” she said.
Stone opened the envelope and found Barton’s prospectus. He leafed through it slowly, marveling at the pieces, and suddenly he came to a stop. He found himself staring at a photograph of Barton’s mahogany secretary. He read the accompanying caption:
&nbs
p; A very fine example of a secretary, in two pieces, from the firm of Goddard-Townsend, of Newport, commissioned by Josiah Strong in 1760 and housed in the family home since that time. It is, very possibly, one of only two pieces still in private hands. A sister piece sold for $12.1 million at Christie’s in June of 1989.
Stone remembered that he had walked through the entire house with Barton, cataloguing each piece, and there had been no Goddard-Townsend secretary in any of the rooms or the attic. It seemed that Barton had thought of a way to give the remaining piece still in his possession an instant provenance. Stone also recalled that Barton had said he could not remember whether the stolen piece was the original or his copy and no one could tell the difference.
Joan buzzed. “Barton Cabot on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Barton?”
“Yes, Stone. Did you get the prospectus?”
“Yes, I was just reading it.”
“I saw my banker earlier today, and my loan request was denied.”
“I’m astonished,” Stone said. “Isn’t the collection its own collateral?”
“That was only part of it. He said that such a large personal loan would have to be approved by the board of directors of the bank, which doesn’t meet again for another five weeks.”
“That’s bad news,” Stone said. “What is your next move?”
“It appears that my only move is to find a person who is wealthy enough and motivated enough to come up with the money. The drawback is I’ll have no control over how it’s sold. The pieces might have to be auctioned, piecemeal, to recover the investment, and even if a museum buys it, I’ll have no control over how the collection is displayed.”
“Have you sent the prospectus to any museums?”
“Yes, I’ve sent it to the eight directors most likely to want it, afford it and house it.”
“Well, maybe one of them will be able to come up with the money in time to close the sale with Mildred’s executors.”
“That will never happen. Even if they’re dying for it, they’d have to go first to their boards, then to their richest donors for the money. That could take months to resolve.”
