Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  "He didn't want the divorce?"

  "No. Not because he was in love with me-he never was, I think. The money for the gallery came out of my inheritance, and he wanted more."

  "And you wouldn't give it to him?"

  "No. He'd used up nearly half my funds setting up the gallery. I had a lien on the pictures he'd bought, but as he sold them, he never repaid the money I'd loaned him. When I told him I planned to divorce him, he tried to make it up between us. I stayed with him for a while, then I moved in with a friend and filed for divorce. This was about seven months ago."

  "Were you having an affair?" Sandy asked.

  "No, no. He's a painter named Saul Winner; Saul is in his sixties and has a nineteen-year-old boy for a lover. I moved into his house temporarily, but I continued to go to the gallery, to keep an eye on my investment. Peter got stranger and stranger, and one night a couple of weeks ago, he asked me to meet a client from New York at the gallery, late, while he was in Los Angeles. I wanted to use the opportunity to be in the gallery while he was away so that I could go over the books with our bookkeeper, Sally, to see just how much he'd taken in since he started the gallery. It was a lot, I think, but before I could get the whole picture, I got a call from Saul, who was having a big spat with his boyfriend. I had to meet him in a bar and listen to him cry in his beer for over an hour, and when I came back to the gallery, the street was full of police cars and an ambulance. Sally had been murdered. I thought Peter might have had something to do with it-that maybe I was the intended victim. I ran. I drove to Saul's house, got my clothes, then checked into the Ritz-Carlton under the name of Cara Mason. I called Thea, and she said, 'Come to New York; be my partner.' It was a lifeline, and I grabbed it. You were in the car from the hotel and on my plane." She turned and looked at him. "I was about to grab at you, too, but I felt I had to settle things with Peter first."

  "And did you?"

  "Yes. We agreed on a property settlement; Peter got to keep all the money I'd loaned him for the gallery and the apartment. I got my freedom. I was upstairs signing the final papers a few minutes ago. I'm now a free woman."

  "I'm glad to hear it," Sandy said. "Why the gun?"

  "I haven't changed my will, yet. I think Peter may be capable of killing me for what's left of my money."

  Sandy sat and thought. So Martindale had lied to him about everything. Helena hadn't been having an affair with Saul Winner, she hadn't been trying to take half the gallery-in fact, she'd given it all to him. And he still wanted her dead. Jesus Christ.

  "Where is Peter now?" Sandy asked.

  "In Tucson; he called from there while I was in the lawyer's office."

  "Is it your lawyer who's upstairs, or Peter's?"

  "Both. Different lawyers in the firm represent each of us."

  "Here's what I want you to do: I want you to go back upstairs and make a new will right this minute, or at least, revoke the old one. Make sure that the lawyer lets Peter know immediately that it's been done; that should remove any possible motive for murder." He dug his hotel key out of his pocket. "Where have you been staying?"

  "At Saul's house."

  "Don't go back there, even to get your clothes, and don't call Saul. Who owns this car?"

  "I do; it's registered in my name."

  "Do you know of somewhere you could stare it for a while? Someplace where Peter won't find it?"

  She thought for a moment. "I have some friends who are out of the country for a while, and I have a key to their house; there's a big garage."

  "Good." He took the small pistol from her hand. "Where did you get this?"

  "It was my father's."

  "Do you have a permit for it?"

  "No."

  "I'll get rid of it; you certainly can't take it to New York with you on the plane."

  She shook her head, took the pistol, and put it into the glove compartment. "It was my father's, and I don't want to lose it. I'll just leave it in the car."

  "All right; call a cab from the house, then pick up enough new clothes and things to last you a couple of days." He handed her his key. "This is to my suite at the Ritz-Carlton; go there and wait for me, and don't answer the telephone."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to help you disappear," Sandy said. "And by the way, I'm going to keep calling you Cara; I've sort of gotten used to it."

  She smiled. "I'd like that; it's what my parents always called me.

  He reached over and kissed her. "Go on back to your lawyer's office; I'll see you at the Ritz as soon as I can get there." He got out of the car, and walked her to the elevator.

  When she was on her way up, he went back to Martindale's Lincoln, put on the chauffeur's cap and the dark glasses, and drove out of the garage. He found his way to the gallery and parked at the lot across the street, as he had been instructed. He put the cap and sunglasses on the front seat, put the ignition key in the glove compartment and started to get out of the car, then he stopped. Leaving the car door open, he got out and looked around the garage. It was empty of people. He walked around the garage, looking for a soft surface, and he found it in a stack of cardboard boxes that had been broken down flat and left for pickup next to a garbage can. He took the pistol from his raincoat pocket, looked around to be sure he was still alone, then fired two quick shots into the cardboard boxes. He was surprised at how quiet the weapon was.

  Walking back to the car, he dug out the handkerchief the pistol had been wrapped in, rewrapped it, and tucked it under the driver's seat. Then he locked the car and walked out to the street, looking for a wastebasket. He found one and got rid of his new raincoat and cap, then hailed a cab.

  On the ride to the hotel, he went over his plan carefully.

  CHAPTER 28

  Sandy got to the hotel first, quickly checked his messages and returned Sam Warren's call on one of his two lines.

  "Hi, Sam; what's happened?"

  "The sales agreement has been faxed to me, and I'm faxing it to you; we'll have the original on Monday"

  "Great news! Sam, do you by any chance know the name of a law firm in this building in San Francisco?" He gave the address.

  "Yes, we do some business now and then with Carter and Ellis; they're in that building."

  "What's the name of a lawyer there?"

  "I usually deal with Terry Ellis, why?"

  "Oh, it's nothing."

  "You need a lawyer out there?"

  "No, Sam; it's for a kind of practical joke."

  "You want me to call Terry for you?"

  "No, really, I just needed a name."

  "Whatever you say. By the way, a case of quite spectacular wine arrived in my office today. I don't know how to thank you."

  "I'm thanking you, Sam, and I want you to enjoy every bottle."

  The other phone line rang.

  "Got a call coming in; better run; see you Monday." Sandy punched the button on the other line. "Hello?"

  "It's Bart."

  "Yes?"

  "How did it go?"

  "I've satisfied all my obligations to you," Sandy replied.

  "Did you leave the building without hindrance?"

  "I did. The package we discussed is in the trunk of the red car."

  There was a brief silence, then, "And where is the car?"

  "It's rather wet."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "I told you to leave the package in the garage; I wanted it to be found."

  "You told me no such thing, so I improvised. It's taken a dunking; and you won't be seeing it again. Nobody will."

  "That wasn't part of the deal."

  "This is my end of the deal; I handled it as I saw fit. Don't worry, no one is ever going to be able to connect you with this transaction."

  "But you can't prove to me that the package is in the car, can you?"

  Sandy allowed himself a chuckle. "I guess you're just going to have to take my word for it, Bart."

  "You're enjoying this, a
ren't you, Sandy?"

  "I confess I am."

  "So there's no chance I'll ever see the package again?"

  "Not unless you're a superb swimmer."

  "Then we're done."

  "That's exactly it, Bart; we're done. Don't ever try to contact me again; don't phone, don't write, don't tap on my window. Because if you do, I promise you I'll terminate the relationship in the most prejudicial manner, and the hell with everything else. Do you understand me clearly?"

  "I believe I do."

  "Good. Now you can go fuck yourself." Sandy hung up the phone, and he was trembling. His next thought was to make sure that he and Cara didn't run into Peter Martindale at an airport. He found the yellow pages and looked through the a's, then dialed a number.

  "Hayward Air Charters," a woman answered.

  "I'd like to charter an airplane," he said.

  "I'll connect you with Pete Harris."

  "Pete Harris," a man's voice said.

  "I'd like to charter a jet for a trip to New York, something that will get me there nonstop."

  "When would you like to leave?"

  Sandy glanced at his watch; just after four. "Around six o'clock," he replied.

  "How many people?"

  "Two."

  "I've got a Hawker one-two-five that should do nicely; it's twelve hundred dollars an hour, including fuel. Way we do it is we take the clock time for the eastbound trip, double it, and add an hour for the headwinds on the trip back."

  "How long will the trip take?"

  "About four and a half hours."

  "Fine."

  "Your name?"

  "Kinsolving." He gave the man a credit card number.

  "Can we send a limo for you? It's included in the service."

  "Thank you, yes; at the Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco at six."

  "Got it, Mr. Kinsolving; our man will see you at six."

  "By the way," Sandy said, "could you arrange a very good dinner and some champagne for the flight?"

  Sandy hung up, suddenly tired. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.

  He woke with a start as the door to the suite opened. He sat up and saw Cara walk in, carrying a suitcase. The blonde hair was auburn again. He embraced her. "I like your hair better this way," he said.

  "It's pretty much my natural color, now. The wig is in my handbag."

  "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he breathed.

  "I'm going to need some clothes," she said.

  "No, you won't; we're leaving the hotel at six for New York. I've chartered an airplane from Hayward, south of Oakland, so that we can avoid the major airports."

  "Good thinking," she said.

  "Did you see anyone you know?"

  "I'm afraid I saw Saul. I had to go back to his place to retrieve some things, but he can keep a secret. He's been told to say that I took my bag with me when I went to the meeting at the law firm, and he doesn't know where I went from there."

  "Sounds good." He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid we don't have time to do what I'd planned to do when you got here." She laughed. "Well, we can always join the mile-high club."

  It was nearly five a.m. when they arrived at Sandy's apartment, tired, happy, and still laughing about the effort required to make love in a corporate jet.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sandy woke up shortly before noon, rested and happy. He crept out of bed, made muffins, coffee, and orange juice for two, then tucked the Saturday Times under his arm and took the tray into the bedroom, where Cara was still sound asleep. He set the tray on the bed and kissed her on an ear.

  "Mmmmm," she murmured, turning over and putting her arms around his neck. "What a lovely way to be wakened."

  "What's your schedule for the coming week?" he asked.

  She sat up and accepted a glass of orange juice. "Well, I have a dinner meeting with my most important client on Monday evening, and after that-"

  "Is he also your only client?" Sandy asked.

  "I'm afraid so. Thea couldn't believe it when I corraled him before even arriving in New York."

  "I'm afraid your only client is going to be leaving town on Tuesday," he said.

  She looked at him narrowly. "You have something better to do?"

  "Yes, I'm going to London."

  Her face fell. "For how long?"

  He smiled. "How long do you want to stay?"

  She smiled. "I'm going, too?"

  "I want to get you out of the country for a while, and I have a perfect business excuse: I have to show you the London shop, so that you can design the New York store to resemble it."

  "Not just a dirty weekend, but a dirty business trip," she said. "I love it."

  He climbed into bed beside her, laughing, and picked up the Times. "Also, I want you to meet my son, Angus."

  "Is he in London?"

  "He will be in a couple of days; he's flying to Prestwick, in Scotland, on Monday, to run a family errand, then he's coming to London. His new girlfriend will be with him; I haven't met her yet."

  "I'll be on my best behavior," she said.

  "Only in public, I hope."

  "Only in public. Where are we staying?"

  "I have a little flat over the shop, but there's no service, so I think we'll stay at the Connaught, which is just down the street. Also, I don't think I'm quite ready to introduce you to the London staff as… what you are. You'll just be the designer, and they'll think I'm staying in the flat."

  "I hear the Connaught is very good."

  "I think it will meet your standards. That reminds me, I'd better go and fax them now." He went into the study, switched on his computer, wrote a letter to the manager of the Connaught, and faxed it from the computer. He was on the way back to the bedroom when the house phone rang. He picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Kinsolving, Detective Duvivier is here to see you," the lobby man said.

  Oh, no, Sandy groaned to himself. It had been so long since he had heard from the detective, he thought he had been forgotten. "Ask him to wait ten minutes, then send him up."

  "Yes sir."

  Sandy hung up the phone and went to the bedroom. "I'm going to lock you in here for a few minutes, and I don't want you to suddenly appear naked in the living room," he said, "though ordinarily I wouldn't mind."

  "What's up?"

  "A visitor, and I can't brush him off."

  She picked up the paper. "I'll be quiet as a mouse."

  "Good." He went to his dressing room and got into some casual clothes, and he was waiting for Duvivier at the elevator when it arrived.

  "I'm very sorry to disturb you on a Saturday," the detective said.

  "That's quite all right," Sandy replied. "Please come into the study." Shortly they were settled. "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Thank you, no," Duvivier said, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

  "What's up, then?"

  "I wanted you to know right away that we've made an arrest in the matter of your wife's murder."

  Sandy froze for just a moment before he could bring himself to speak. "I'm glad to hear it; who is he?"

  "His name is Thomas Wills," Duvivier said.

  Sandy sat up straight. "You mean our building's janitor?"

  "That's correct."

  "That's impossible; Thomas wouldn't harm a fly, let alone an occupant of this building."

  "Actually, he has a record of violent crime," Duvivier said.

  "I don't believe it. I told you at our first meeting that every employee of this building has his background checked."

  "His conviction wouldn't have showed up, unless he had been fingerprinted," Duvivier said. "You see, he has been living for some years under an assumed identity. His real name is Morris Wilkes."

  Sandy slumped. "How long ago did this criminal activity take place?"

  "Nearly twenty years ago. Wills served seven years for voluntary manslaughter."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He killed another man in a
barroom brawl, was charged with murder, then pled to manslaughter for a reduced sentence. Some time after his release, he changed his name, picked up a new social security number and driver's license, and got a job in your building."

  Sandy shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just don't buy it. Where is he being held?"

  "At the Nineteenth Precinct, at the moment."

  "What evidence do you have?"

  Duvivier counted off on his fingers. "First, motive-money; he knew about the jewelry in the safe; second, opportunity-he had complete access to the scene, had his own keys; third, physical evidence-his fingerprints on the doorjamb of the storage room and on several places in the room. Finally, no alibi."

  "If you had all that, why didn't you arrest him immediately?"

  "We didn't know about his background. All the interviews we conducted agreed with your assessment of the man, but then we got a tip from a good source about his real identity."

  "Is there anything else you have to tell me about this?" Sandy asked.

  "No, sir."

  "Then I'll have to ask you to excuse me, detective; I have some work to do."

  "Of course."

  Sandy walked him to the door, shook his hand and put him into the elevator. Then he went straight to his study, got his phone book and called his lawyer.

  "Jim Barwick," a sleepy voice said.

  "Jim, it's Sandy Kinsolving; I'm sorry to disturb you on a Saturday."

  "That's all right, Sandy; if it's about your sales agreement, Sam Warren expects to have it on Monday morning. I've already read the fax, and it looks good to me."

  "No, it's something else. An employee of our co-op, whose name is Thomas Wills, has been arrested for the murder of my wife."

  "Excellent!" Barwick said. "I'm delighted to hear it."

  "No, it's not excellent; he didn't do it."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "No, not exactly," Sandy said, "but if you knew the man, you'd know he couldn't possibly have done it. He's one of our most trusted employees in the building."

  "Sandy, the police know what they're doing," the lawyer said. "They don't arrest people for murder precipitously."

  "Of course they do, Jim; they do it all the time."