by Stuart Woods
It was four pages long.
“Done,” Stone said, twenty minutes later. The screen image of the file dissolved and melted away.
“Done here, too,” Joan replied.
“Type that up for us, please. We’ll be upstairs.”
Fred entered the room. “Gentlemen, lunch is served.”
“Those words always make me hungry,” Dino said.
* * *
—
Later over coffee: “It’s difficult to believe that the pudgy, bald guy we know was once a Marine,” Dino said.
“A Marine trained for special operations,” Stone said. “You know what I find most interesting about that?”
“What?”
“That Donald fired Expert with the Colt 1911 .45.”
“And with every other firearm in the special ops repertoire,” Dino replied.
“What bullet killed Art Jacoby’s girlfriend?”
“A .45,” Dino replied. “Anybody who could fire Expert with that weapon is damned good. I could never even hit the target with it.”
“Well, you’re pretty good with most guns,” Stone said, “so that says something about Donald’s skills.”
“What do you mean, ‘pretty good’?”
“Okay, more than pretty good.”
“Damn straight.”
“So, we have motive and means,” Stone said. “But opportunity?”
“I left my office in a rush, and I didn’t bring the file on the girlfriend’s shooting, but you can bet your ass Donald Clark has a solid gold alibi.”
“Can’t you remember what his alibi was?”
“I’ve got it,” Dino said. “He was dining with the D.C. chief of police.”
“Little Debby,” Stone said. “How convenient.”
“Ain’t it?” Dino said.
“I’ll bet that with a little elbow grease we can punch holes in that story.”
“I’ll get somebody with elbows on it,” Dino said, getting out his phone.
29
Stone picked up his own phone and called Art Jacoby.
“This is Jacoby.”
“It’s Stone. Are you settled in?”
“Very comfortably, thank you.”
“Dino and I just accessed Donald Clark’s file, which was blocked for national security reasons. That make any sense to you?”
“There must be something in his background that nobody wants you to know.”
“There was something,” Stone said. “He was in the Marines when he was younger, and he fired Expert with a Colt .45.”
“Interesting,” Art admitted. “I couldn’t do that, and I’m a pretty good shot.”
“That’s not the point. Your girl was killed with a .45, right?”
“Right, but she was shot at close range, so anybody could have done it.”
“I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t think of that. Did they find the weapon?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t call anybody at my shop, because I’m hiding out.”
“Would they give that information to Dino?”
“Probably. Just ask for the case officer.”
“There’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Clark’s alibi is that he was having dinner with Little Debby.”
“That’s not just interesting, that’s suspicious,” Art said. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned, culpable. It’s too convenient.”
“So they were both in on it, then they used each other as an alibi?”
“That’s my opinion,” Art said. “If I were running the case, I’d be all over that.”
“Who’s the case officer?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know, and I can hardly phone anybody down there and ask.”
“I’ll get Dino to find out who the case officer is. What do I do then?”
“Ask him if he’s tried busting that alibi yet. If he hasn’t, the case officer’s probably in on it, too.”
“Good idea.”
“You know, if they can’t break the alibi, I think I’ll just kill Don Clark myself.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Stone said.
“I SAID, IF—”
“I mean I didn’t hear it,” Stone said. “And if you repeat it, I won’t hear it then, either.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“I’ll get Dino on it.”
“Good. Let me know what he comes up with.”
They hung up, and Stone turned to Dino. “As far as Art is concerned, Don’s alibi being Little Debby means they’re in it together. Can you call the DCPD and find out who the case officer is? Art can’t do it without exposing himself.”
“If he does that in my city, he’ll get arrested!” Dino said.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Okay, you want me just to call down there blind and ask who the case officer is?”
“I was hoping that, being as well-connected as you are with all things police, you might know somebody who could find out without tipping our hand.”
“I didn’t know we had a hand,” Dino said.
Stone sighed. “Nevertheless.”
“All right, suppose I can get the name. What do we do then?”
“Art says to ask the case officer if he’s tried to break the alibi. If he hasn’t, then he’s in on the murder, too.”
“That’s a pretty big leap, isn’t it?”
“Maybe not. Art knows those people.”
“And he’s going to tell that to a judge?”
“Look at it this way: if we accept Art’s hunch, and the case officer isn’t interested in breaking the alibi, then we’ll know that the murderer is one of at least three people.”
“One of them being the case officer, then Don and Debby?”
“That’s his hunch.”
“Even if we can’t prove it?”
“At least, we’ll know.”
“If we accept Art’s hunch.”
“You’re making this sound like a bad idea.”
“Well, I haven’t heard anything yet that makes it sound like a good idea.”
“You and I have solved cases based on a hunch,” Stone said.
“At least it was our hunch, not Arthur Jacoby’s.”
“We’re not on the ground in D.C.,” Stone pointed out. “Art is. At least, he was before he went into hiding.”
“Look,” Dino said. “If you and Art start poking around in a D.C. case, it could bounce back on us, make people think we know where Art is.”
“We do know where he is,” Stone said.
“But nobody knows we know that,” Dino pointed out.
“Maybe we should just drop the idea of breaking the alibi,” Stone said.
“That’s the first good idea you’ve had all day.”
“Well,” Stone said, consulting his watch, “it’s only two-thirty.”
“I have to go back to work,” Dino said, rising. “I can’t spend any more time today doing D.C.’s job for them.” Dino left.
Stone thought about who he might know who would know who the case officer was. He asked Joan for the initial report on the killing, which somebody had sent him. Art’s girlfriend’s name was Deana Carlyle. He had a thought, and it was worth a try. He called the phone number on the report.
“Homicide,” a gruff voice answered.
“Hi, this is Detective Benson with the NYPD.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Who’s the case officer on the Deana Carlyle killing?”
“That would be Dean Casey,” the man said. “Hang on, I’ll transfer you.”
Stone hung up. Deana? Dean? Case Casey? This was nuts. His phone rang. “Yes?”
“Art Jacoby for you on one.”
Stone punched the button. “Hey, Art.”
“The case officer is Dean Casey.”
“I heard. And your girlfriend’s name was Deana Carlyle?”
“Right.”
“Who’s Dean Casey?”
“Little Debby’s most favorite toady in the whole world.”
“So, he’s suspect number three?”
“In my book he is.”
“Thanks.” He called Dino and told him, and Dino laughed out loud.
30
Stone was in bed with a book when Holly called. “We scrambled?” she asked.
“We are,” Stone replied. “How was your day?”
“No worse than it should have been. This early in a new administration, everybody works hard to get it right, to prove their competence and my good judgment in hiring them.”
“That’s an astute observation.”
“Thank you, I needed that. When you’re at the top, everybody wants to praise your efforts, whether you deserve it or not.”
“Another astute observation. They’re piling up. You should keep a diary, and you can publish it when you’re done.”
“Can you suggest a title?”
“How about Astute Observations?”
She laughed. “Too self-congratulatory.”
“Well, somebody’s got to congratulate you.”
“You’re doing just fine,” she said. “What, if anything, happened to you today?”
“Well, the suspect list for the death of Art Jacoby’s girlfriend has grown to three.”
“And who are they?”
“Donald Clark, Debby Myers, and a cop named Dean Casey, all suspected of being in cahoots.”
“Who’s Casey?”
“The case officer, oddly enough. And, rumor has it, he’s Little Debby’s favorite toady. She put him in charge of the investigation.”
“Well, that’s very cozy, isn’t it?”
“Any suggestions on how to proceed?”
“Is the girlfriend a federal employee?”
“I don’t know what she does—ah, did.”
“If she was, then killing her is a federal crime, and I can sic the FBI on them.”
“I’ll find out. Can you hang on a moment?”
“You’re putting your president on hold? That isn’t done.”
“Only for a moment.” He called Art Jacoby.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone. What kind of work did your girlfriend do?”
“She was a secretary at Justice.”
“Thanks.” Stone switched back to Holly
“You there?”
“Just barely. In all my time in this office, I’ve never been treated that way.”
“Awwww. Good news, though. Art’s girlfriend was a secretary at the DOJ.”
“I’ll goose the Bureau, then.”
“Can you have the goose get in touch with me? I’ll bring him up to date, off the record.”
“I suppose I can suggest that.” She sighed. “I miss you.”
“You mean, you miss the sex?”
“That, too.”
“As long as you don’t miss only the sex.”
Holly sang a few bars of “All of You.”
“That’s sweet!”
“You say that as though you’re surprised I can be sweet.”
“I’ve never doubted it.”
“But you think of me, more, as tart.”
“No, I don’t think of you as a tart, except in bed.”
“A lady in the parlor and a tart in the bedroom, huh?”
“Not the reference I would choose, but not inapt.”
“Good,” she said. “Now I have to go goose the Bureau. Expect a call.”
* * *
—
Stone hung up and tried to settle back into his book, but thoughts of Holly kept intruding. His phone rang.
“May I speak to Stone Barrington, please?” A woman’s voice, a very pleasant one.
“This is he.”
“This is Maren Gustav; I’m a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Stone hadn’t expected a woman; he hoped that didn’t make him a misogynist. Probably not, he decided. “Good evening.”
“You didn’t expect a woman, did you?”
“I had no expectations of any kind.”
“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, who lives in a large house in Washington.”
“I believe we must.”
“May I take you to lunch tomorrow,” she asked, “so we can discuss the matter?”
“That sounds good, but I’m in New York,” Stone replied.
“What a coincidence, so am I!”
“Then when and where shall we meet?”
“At the Grill, at twelve-thirty?”
“Very good. How will I recognize you?”
“You can’t miss me. I’ll be wearing a badge, a helmet, and SWAT body armor.”
“I’m sure the other patrons will find that entertaining.”
“I’ll know you from the waltzing photos in People.”
“Oh, no.”
“Until then.” She hung up. Stone knew from past experience that it was unwise to form mental pictures of a woman, based only on her voice, but his bet was that she was not short, fat, and unattractive.
31
The following morning Stone had the thought of inviting Dino to join them at lunch but decided against it, until he had made his own assessment of Maren Gustav. He idled through the morning, then walked up to the Seagram Building and into the Grill’s street-level entrance. He walked up the stairs into the bar, and the maître d’ approached. “Ms. Gustav is waiting for you on the back row,” he said, nodding toward the rows of table.
Her face was hidden behind a menu as he approached. “Ms. Gustav?” he said, and the menu went to half-staff, revealing a Swedish blonde who, sitting down, appeared to be quite tall.
“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, shaking hands. It was a hand with long fingers.
Stone sat down. “Please call me Stone,” he said.
“And I’m Maren.”
“As Swedish names go, isn’t there usually a ‘son’ on the end of a Gustav?”
“There was, but I found it inconveniently long, and I got tired of spelling it for people.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
“Let’s order, then we can talk.”
The waiter poured him a glass of champagne, and he ordered the Dover sole.
“Make that two,” she said to the waiter, “and we’ll stick with the champagne.” She handed her menu back and turned toward Stone. “Now, please tell me everything you know about the Deana Carlyle case.”
“Actually, Ms. Carlyle’s corpse is the second in line, after Patricia Clark’s.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve read that file, too.”
“I believe the two murders are part of the same case,” Stone said. He picked his way through the story, trying not to leave anything out. By the time he had finished, a Dover sole was staring back at him from his plate.
“Let’s eat, then we’ll talk more about the case,” Maren said. They did so, and she pressed him for his personal history. He gave her the two-minute bio, instead of the sixty-second summary.
“Now, you,” he said.
“I was born in a lovely house in the Stockholm archipelago of Sweden.”
“Did the Bureau give you a hard time about not being a born citizen?”
“No, the house belonged to my grandparents. My parents had emigrated to the States years before, but my grandmother felt her grandchild should be born in her house, and not in a New York railroad apartment, which was where my parents lived at the time. They registered my birth at the American embassy, so there wou
ld be no nationality problems. I grew up on the Upper West Side, went to Columbia for my BA and my JD, and was recruited by the Bureau out of law school. That was more years ago than I am willing to admit. You look as though you’re thinking about something else.”
“I’m sorry. There are one or two things that may not be in the two case files you read,” Stone said.
“Now, that’s the sort of stuff I like to hear.”
“Right. Here goes: Donald Clark has had threesomes with Deana Carlyle and Deborah Myers.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “This case is going to be more fun than I thought.”
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” Stone replied.
“Then do go on.”
“Also Deana’s boyfriend, Art Jacoby, a homicide lieutenant with the DCPD, was the unwarranted first suspect in the case. That position, as you can see, is now up for grabs.”
“Heavens to Betsy,” she said, fanning herself with her hands.
“And,” Stone continued, “Dean Casey, who is now supervising, is said to be Debby Myers’s favorite toady. Art Jacoby feels that that makes Little Debby, as many like to call her, a suspect.”
“Where is Agatha Christie when we need her?” Maren asked.
“You,” Stone said, “are now the Agatha Christie in this case, and good luck to you.”
They walked out of the building together, where a black SUV awaited her.
“May I give you a lift?” Maren asked.
“Tell me, how does a special agent rate a car and driver?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I told you: I’m the deputy director for criminal investigations.”
“It’s not all that far,” Stone said, “but you can drop me.” He gave her his address.
“Tell me again,” she said as they drove away, “how did you become involved in this case?”
“It was easy,” Stone said. “I returned to my suite at the Hay-Adams after the inaugural address, and the body of Patricia Clark was waiting for me on the living room floor.”
“So, you were suspect number one, then?”
“For only a few minutes. The police commissioner of New York and his wife were a few steps behind me. And when Deb Myers turned up, they were able to assure her that I had been with them at the time of the death—and also with our new president. We dropped her at the White House after the ceremony, then changed cars for the trip to the hotel.”
