“Sure, from Elaine’s.” Wally was a retired cop, now a private investigator.
“I gave it to him, and he got it done.”
“I’ll call Wally.”
“Tell him I said it’s okay to talk to you and to call me for confi rmation if he wants.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.” Stone hung up and called the Gardens and left a voice mail for Evan Keating. “The contract will be here by noon tomorrow. Call me in the morning, and I’ll buy you lunch.”
Stone looked up Wally Millard’s number in his address book and called him.
“Hey, Stone.”
“Hey, Wally. Bill Eggers asked me to call you about a skip trace you did for him.”
“If I call Eggers, will he tell me that?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take your word for it. What do you want to know?”
“It was a guy named Evan Keating. Apparently, you found him in Miami, but he skipped again.”
“Jesus, I’m getting too old to go running off to Miami on a skip. I called a guy named Manny White, ex-NYPD, who’s a P.I. down there, and he put somebody on it.” Wally gave him White’s number.
“Took him a couple of weeks, so finding the guy wasn’t a piece of cake. Tell him I said to call.”
“Thanks, Wally. Say hello to Elaine.”
“Sure.” Wally hung up.
“How’s Wally?” Dino asked.
“He’s okay.”
“I’m hungry, let’s get out of here. You can call Manny White later.”
“You know him?”
“Old-timer, Wally’s generation. I had some dealings with him on a case when I was still in a rookie uniform, and he busted my chops every chance he got.”
“Obviously, he knew you well.”
“What do you mean? I was a great rookie.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything.”
“Oh.”
THEY WENT TO the Raw Bar for conch fritters, third time. They were halfway through lunch when Stone’s cell phone went off. A Miami number.
“Hello?” Stone put it on speaker; it was easier than repeating everything to Dino.
“Is this that little Barrington shit who worked out of the Nineteenth, until they kicked his ass down the stairs?”
Dino broke up. “It’s Manny White.”
“No,” Stone said, “this is the Barrington who was a very smart detective at the Nineteenth and who walked down the stairs on his own.”
“I didn’t know there was one like that.”
“There was.”
“Wally called me. What the fuck do you want?”
“Wally gave you a skip trace on a guy named Evan Keating.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“He said it took you two weeks to find him. What was so hard about it?”
“You think I hoof it up and down the streets looking for guys at my age? I put an agent on it. Took two weeks to check every hotel in South Beach, locate the guy and put a tail on him.”
“I hear you lost him.”
“So? People lose things all the time. Anyway, my agent lost him. What’s it to you?”
“I need background on the guy; there’s a hundred in it for you, if you can give me something I need.”
“What do you need?”
“Like I said, background. What was he doing in South Beach? Did he work? Who were his friends?”
“He was doing what everybody else in South Beach was doing—
looking pretty, drinking, snorting powder and spending money they don’t have, except he had the money. That’ll be a hundred bucks.”
“Come on, Manny, give me something about the guy, not about everybody else.”
Manny thought about it for a moment. “He had a boat. He left in it—that’s why my agent couldn’t figure out where he went.”
“I already knew he had a boat. Give me something worth the hundred.”
“He was staying at the Delano, which, if you don’t already know, is a hotshot hotel for the young and stupid. They got a pretty bar, but the rooms look like underfurnished cells in an insane asylum. The people who stay there think this is stylish.”
“Did he have a girl with him?”
“A different one every night. At least one.”
“How long was he there?”
“A month, give or take, and in a suite, too.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“His mama’s belly, where do you think?”
“Where did he live before South Beach?” Stone could hear some papers shuffl ing.
“Santa Fe.”
“In New Mexico?”
“No, in Alaska. A very hot spot, I hear.”
“How long was he there?”
“A month, give or take. Same thing with the girls. I hear he’s cute. Lemme give you my P.O. box for the hundred, which you’ve used up.” He gave the number and zip code. “You want to start on a second hundred?”
“You got anything else?”
“No, but I’ll take the second hundred.”
“Thanks, Manny, you’re a prince.” Stone hung up.
“Was he always like that?” he asked Dino.
“Always. Did you call the Swede? You promised.”
Stone sighed and got out his cell again.
21
STONE L AY ON his back, panting. The ceiling fan was a blur above him. For the past two hours, off and on, he and Annika had explored every nook and cranny, every orifice, every nerve ending in both their bodies. To his credit, even she seemed tired.
“Tell me, Stone,” she said, “what do you do?”
They were going to have the first-date chitchat now? “Do you really want to know?”
“I don’t ask what I don’t want to know.”
“I’m an attorney.”
“Why do lawyers always say they are attorneys, instead of lawyers?”
“Because lawyers have a bad name with a lot of people.”
“And attorneys don’t?”
“Oh, no. Attorneys are a different class of people altogether. Much higher up the totem pole.”
“They are Eskimos?”
“Just a fi gure of speech.”
“Americans use a lot of figure of speeches.”
“Yes, we do. You will, too, when you’ve been here a little longer.”
“What possible business could an attorney have in Key West?”
she asked.
“I was looking for a man.”
“Did you fi nd him?”
“Finally.”
“Why was it so hard?”
“You know, today I asked the same question of another man who took a while to fi nd him.”
“It was hard for him, too?”
“Yes.”
“Who is this man?”
“His name is Evan Keating.”
“Oh, Evan.”
Stone lifted his head from the damp pillow and looked at her.
“You know him?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean, of course?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“How could you possibly know him?”
“All sorts of people come through an emergency room,” she replied. “We get drunks, criminals, brand-new quadriplegics and . . .”
“Hang on, what’s a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“A drunken college student who, during spring break, dives off the White Street Pier into shallow water and breaks his neck. We get about one a year.”
“Good God.”
“Exactly. And there’s a big sign saying, ‘Don’t Dive Off the Pier, Because the Water Is Shallow, and You’ll Break Your Neck.’ Or words to that effect.”
“How do you treat a brand-new quadriplegic?”
“You pack him onto a helicopter and send him to Miami, where they know better how to deal with these things.”
“What else do you deal with?”
&nbs
p; “We treat a few gunshot wounds now and then.”
“Yeah?”
“Usually in the foot, which is where people often shoot them-selves. If somebody else shoots them, they’re often dead.”
“I know. I used to be a cop, and in New York people shoot each other somewhat more often than in Key West.”
“It must be interesting to be an emergency room physician in New York,” she said.
“I used to go out with one, until she married a doctor.”
“Is her job still open? I’m thinking of moving on.”
“As far as I know, she didn’t leave her job. You’re thinking of moving to New York?”
“Why not? I was there once, and I liked it.”
“Annika, if you moved to New York, I would be dead in a month.”
She laughed. “No, I would keep you alive,” she said, fondling him. “I would chain you to the bed and fuck you until you were at the edge of death, then I would revive you with Swedish meatballs until you were ready again.”
“That’s pretty much what you’re doing here,” he said.
“I suppose it is. Oh, look, you’re coming up again.”
“I don’t need to look; I can tell.”
“Where would you like me to put it this time?”
“You choose.”
“I choose everywhere.”
“Again?”
“Again and again.”
Stone groaned.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” she said, throwing a leg over him.
“Wait a minute,” he said, but it was too late; he was already inside her. “How do you know Evan Keating?”
“I treated him in the emergency room,” she said, moving slowly.
“For what?”
“He said it was some sort of boating accident, but it was a knife wound.” She began moving faster.
“Who cut him?”
“That wasn’t one of the questions on the admitting form,” she said, then she exploded in climax.
Stone hung on for dear life, though that was just a fi gure of speech.
22
STONE AND DINO were lounging by the pool when the FedEx lady arrived. Stone signed for the package and thanked her.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Dino asked.
“It’s addressed to Evan, in care of me,” Stone said.
“So?”
“I don’t think I should open a package addressed to somebody else.”
“Give it to me,” Dino said. “I’ll open it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Stone said. “Why are you so curious about a contract?”
“I want to know what Evan’s old man is getting for the company.”
“But it’s none of your business.”
“What the fuck difference does that make?”
“I mean, it’s my business, sort of, but I’m not opening the package. Are you accustomed to reading other people’s mail?”
“Every chance I get,” Dino replied.
Stone’s cell phone rang, and he answered it.
“It’s Evan Keating. When do you expect to have the contract?”
“It came about ninety seconds ago.”
“Have you read the contract?”
“It’s addressed to you. If I have your permission to open the pack-age and read it, I’ll be glad to do so.”
“No. Your message said something about lunch?”
“Do you know the Raw Bar?”
“Yes.”
“ Forty-fi ve minutes?”
“Fine.” Evan hung up.
“He wouldn’t let you open the package,” Dino said. “Serves you right.”
“No, it confirms my judgment,” Stone said.
STONE SAT IN the Raw Bar, gazing out over the marina and smelling the frying seafood. He glanced at the front entrance and saw Evan Keating and Gigi Jones arriving, and he waved them over.
Evan came over; Gigi went and sat at another table. “Good afternoon,” Evan said. “May I see the contract, please?”
A waitress approached.
“Shall we order first?” Stone asked.
“A pound of stone crab claws and a Heineken,” Evan said.
“Conch fritters and iced tea,” Stone said, and the waitress left.
“Now may I see the contract?”
“Not yet; I want to ask you some questions.”
“Questions?”
“How do I know you’re Evan Keating?” Stone said. “I would hate to deliver a confidential document to the wrong person. How about a picture I.D.?”
Evan took out a wallet and handed Stone a Florida driver’s license. The face matched the name. “Now may I see the contract?”
“I’m not finished with my questions.”
“What else could you possibly want to know?”
“How did you get the knife wound?”
Evan rarely seemed to register anything, but at the question he registered surprise. “How the hell did you know about that?”
“That’s not pertinent,” Stone replied. “How’d you get the knife wound?”
“From a knife.”
“Who was holding it?”
“A bad person.”
“You don’t really want to see the contract, do you?”
“A drug dealer. I was buying a little cocaine, and we disagreed over the quality and price.”
“And why do you know enough about cocaine to be able to judge quality and price?”
“Experience,” Evan said. “On widely separated occasions.”
“What happened after he knifed you?”
“Gigi rendered him unconscious, and we left.”
“Gigi is a handy girl to have around, isn’t she?”
“Sometimes. At other times she’s just a pain in the ass.”
“Or the neck,” Stone said, rubbing his own at the memory. “Did you pay for the cocaine?”
“Gigi stuffed the money in his mouth.”
“Are you likely to meet up with him again?”
“I certainly hope not. Gigi might kill him next time.”
“He might kill you and Gigi next time,” Stone said. “You should consider that before dealing with the criminal element again. Did the hospital report the knife wound to the police?”
“I told them the cut was from a gaffing hook while fi shing. How did you know I went to the hospital?”
“It’s where I would go, if somebody knifed me.”
“Now may I see the contract?”
“Give me an account of your whereabouts and activities since you graduated from college.”
“You really are a very curious guy,” Evan said. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m a very curious guy,” Stone replied.
“Maybe I should sic Gigi on you.”
“You may tell Gigi for me that if she ever again approaches me from any angle, I’ll break her pretty face.”
Evan burst out laughing. “I’d like to see you try that,” he said.
“How did you meet Gigi?”
“We hooked up in Miami.”
“In South Beach?”
“How did . . . never mind. Yes.”
“How much business have you done with South Beach Security?”
“I had an account there when I lived in South Beach,” Evan said warily.
“Did you do any illegal business with them?”
Their food arrived, and Evan used it as an excuse not to answer the question. They ate in silence for a while.
“Do you really think your father poisoned your Uncle Harry?”
Stone asked fi nally.
Evan regarded him evenly over a crab claw. “I think it’s well within the realm of possibility. If I ever see that contract, I can give you a better answer.”
Stone handed him the FedEx envelope.
Evan ate the crab claw, wiped his hands carefully on a paper towel from the roll on the table and ripped open the package. He seemed to be speed-reading, flipping the pages rapi
dly. Then he stopped halfway through and read more slowly.
“Well?” Stone said.
Evan stuffed the contract back into the envelope, ate another crab claw and sipped his beer. “Yes,” he said. “I think my father poisoned Uncle Harry, and you can pass the word to him: no deal.” He tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table, then got up and left without another word, taking the contract with him.
23
STONE ARRIVED BACK at the Marquesa to find Dino still by the pool, eating an enormous club sandwich, accompanied by a fruity-looking drink with an umbrella in it.
“So did he read the contract?” Dino asked.
“Yes.”
“How much is the business being sold for?”
“I don’t know; he didn’t tell me, and he took the contract with him.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated, and he glanced at it. “Eggers; he’s going to love this.”
Stone put the phone on speaker. “Yes, Bill?”
“Did you get the contract?”
“Yes.”
“Did you show it to Evan Keating?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said to tell Warren, no deal.”
“Shit!” Eggers said.
“You were hoping he would take it?”
“It sure would have made my life a lot simpler,” Eggers said. “This was supposed to go like clockwork; you were supposed to fi nd Evan, get his signature and everybody would have been happy.”
“Everybody except Grandpa Eli, who’s locked in the nursing home, Uncle Harry, who’s dead, and Evan, who thinks, not without cause, that he’s being cheated out of his share of the business.”
“It’s a snakepit, that’s what it is,” Eggers moaned.
“Bill, what’s the sales price for the business?”
“Didn’t you read the contract?”
“No, it was addressed to Evan, care of me, and when I gave it to him he didn’t read it aloud.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘No deal,’ and when I asked him if he thought his father poisoned Uncle Harry, he replied in the affi rmative.”
“And you think I should go to the police?”
“From what Evan said the other day, the police are already looking into Harry’s death. What could you tell them?”
“That I have reason to believe that Harry Keating was poisoned by his brother.”
“And what reason do you have to believe that?”
Loitering with Intent sb-16 Page 8
