by Stuart Woods
Outside the terminal ambulances had traffic snarled. To Sandy's surprise, a uniformed driver was still standing at the curb, holding a sign with Sandy's name on it. The driver loaded their luggage into the trunk, and they piled into the car. The cop had a word with a colleague about letting their car through, but another twenty minutes passed before they were able to drive away.
"I'll tell you something," Cara said when they were headed for the Triborough Bridge. "I've led an exciting life since I met you."
Sandy laughed aloud. "That's as close to gunfire as I ever hope to be."
In another three-quarters of an hour they were in Sandy's apartment, unpacking.
"Tomorrow, let's send for the rest of your things at Thea's," he said, tossing aside his laundry.
"There's not much still there," Cara said. "I came to New York with only two bags and a briefcase."
Sandy hung up some suits and turned to his second bag. He opened it and began removing clean shirts.
"Look," Cara said, pointing at the end of the suitcase. Sandy bent over and looked. A neat hole punctured the leather. He moved aside some clothes and looked at the inside of the case. "Good God," he said, holding up a shoe.
"I don't believe it," Cara said.
The bullet had penetrated the case and was now visible protruding from the shoe, apparently stopped by the cedar tree inside. Sandy plucked it out and held it up between thumb and forefinger. It was only slightly deformed.
"Was it an expensive shoe?" Cara asked.
"Don't ask."
"Somehow, I feel awfully lucky," she said, slipping her arms around his waist. "To be alive, of course, but to be here with you, too."
"Me, too," Sandy replied. "Let's hope our luck holds."
Somehow he had the feeling that, with their picture all over the papers, it wouldn't hold long.
CHAPTER 40
The ringing woke Sandy early; he glanced at the bedside clock as he reached for the phone. A quarter to seven.
"Hello?"
"Dad?"
"Angus, where are you?"
"I'm in Beaune. Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're all over the Herald Tribune this morning," he said. "You and Cara."
"What?"
"Your picture at the airport; you're standing right behind that Arab guy"
"Oh." After all, there had been a lot of photographers there. "Yeah, it got a little too exciting there for a minute."
"I'm glad you weren't hurt. The article doesn't mention you by name, but I couldn't see you in the second photograph."
"We ducked when the shooting started. Did you pick up your car in Stuttgart?"
"Oh, yeah, and we had a great tour of the Porsche factory, too. Maggie says hello. She had one hell of a hangover the morning after our dinner. Come to that, so did I."
"Did you call M'sieur Calvet?"
"Yes, and our tour is today Maggie is champing at the bit."
"Take a lesson from that girl; get interested in wine."
"It looks as though I may have to."
"I thought Maggie was terrific; so did Cara."
"Maggie liked you both, too, and I think Cara is a knockout."
"Where're you headed after today?"
"Looks like it's to Bordeaux; more wine country."
"Good news. Keep me posted on your whereabouts, okay? Call in every few days."
"From Bordeaux we plan to drive through the south of France to Rome, taking our time."
"Good. Try the Hotel Hassler in Rome; it's a lot like the Connaught."
"We will."
"How's the car running?"
"Just great; it's a real pleasure to drive. Well, I'd better get going."
"Glad you called. Keep in touch."
Sandy got out of bed and went to the front door for the Times. Spread across the bottom of the front page were three photographs of the Said shooting, in sequence. In the first, he and Cara could be seen clearly, he apparently looking toward the photographer/shooter. In the second, their heads were nearly out of sight behind the luggage cart, as Said was struck by gunfire, and in the third, they were nowhere to be seen. He took the paper into the bedroom, where Cara was struggling to sit up in bed. "Have a look at this," he said.
Cara blinked at the sight of the photographs, then read rapidly through the story. "I'm glad they didn't mention our names," she said.
"The cop must not have given them out."
"It's a hell of a way to get on the front page, isn't it?" she said.
"A hell of a way."
"Do you think this will make the San Francisco papers?"
"Maybe. Let's cross that bridge when it collapses under us."
"Whatever you say. How about some breakfast?"
"Please."
Cara got into a dressing gown and headed for the kitchen. Sandy shaved, showered and got dressed, then went into the kitchen.
Cara was dishing up eggs and bacon. "I think I'll get our furniture orders in this morning," she said, "then this afternoon, I'll come to your shop and do some measuring, if that's all right."
"That's fine."
"I'm going to have to use Thea's resources to find the right cabinet maker for the shop fixtures," she said. "I think we may have to go to somebody with some theatrical set design experience, to get the right look. It's going to need some distressing, to keep it from looking too new."
"Whatever you say."
"What are you going to do about Peter?"
"I don't know yet; it's going to take some thought."
"Yes, it is."
"Maybe the best thing is just to do nothing; maybe he'll cool off and stay away," he said.
"Maybe, but I'm not going to count on it," Cara replied.
Sandy hit the work hard as soon as he got to the office. He'd been neglecting the business, what with everything else he'd had to contend with over the past weeks, and it needed attention. He called in the shop manager, Ed Klein.
"Ed, you've done a fine job managing the shop," Sandy said. "Now I want you to take a larger role in the whole business, both London and New York."
"I'd like that very much, Sandy," Klein said.
"I'm buying a vineyard, too; that's still hush-hush, until we close the deal, and I'd like you to start thinking of ways we can merchandize our own wines through the shops and mail order."
"That's going to be very exciting," Klein said.
"I'm giving you a twenty percent raise, and I'd like to pick somebody from downstairs to begin stepping into the shop manager's position. Have we got somebody who can do it, or do we have to go outside?"
"Mark Hammond will be perfect," Klein said.
"He's only been here a year or so; are you sure?"
"He works like a beaver; he knows the operation better than anybody else down there."
"I'll take your word for it."
"What's my new job called?"
"How about vice-president and general manager?"
"I like it."
"Something else; now that we're independent from Bailley and Son, I'd like you to put together an employee benefits package-health insurance, profit sharing, life insurance; whatever you think we need to create some loyalty to the company. I want our people to feel secure, and I want their loyalty. Structure it, cost it, and make a recommendation."
"I'll get right on it."
"I want you to spend at least half your time with Mark, until you're sure he has the shop in hand; the rest you can spend on whatever else we come up with." He shook hands with Ed, then turned to looking over that week's ad in the Times.
The phone rang; Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"
"You take a very nice picture," he said. "So does Helena."
Anger welled up in Sandy. "You son of a bitch. I told you never to call me again."
"You lied to me, Sandy."
"You deserved to be lied to. You haven't done anything but lie to me since I met you. You lied about your wife, certainly
; you can't be trusted."
"You wound me."
"If I hear from you again, I will."
"Threats, now?"
"Promises. Listen to me very carefully: back off; give it up; let go. Lead your life; let us lead ours. You'll be a happier man, believe me."
"I create my own happiness."
"Don't be self-destructive. You got what you wanted from her. Be happy with what you have."
"Sandy, Sandy; you just don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
There was a click, and the connection was broken.
Get what? What did the man want? What would make him go away? Sandy hung up the phone and sat, at a loss about what to do next.
CHAPTER 41
Alain Duvivier sat at his desk, just outside the captain's office, and allowed himself to be watched. This was part of his punishment for screwing up on the Kinsolving murder investigation, to sit and be looked at by the captain through the glass partition of his office. He felt like an ill-behaved child who had been moved to the front row of the classroom, so the teacher could keep an eye on him.
He was working two murders on the East Side-a shopkeeper robbed and shot to death, and a bar owner who'd suffered the same fate. He thought the same perpetrator was responsible for both, and since his bailiwick was the East Side and the robber/murderer was probably from somewhere else, he was depending on favors from detectives in other precincts. His best chance was some word from another detective's snitch from Harlem or the Bronx, somebody flashing too much money, somebody who carried a.44 Magnum pistol, which was what the perpetrator had used. There was no useful physical evidence and no witnesses, either.
A patrolman from the front desk downstairs walked over with a red, white, and blue envelope. "FedEx for you, Al," the man said, tossing the envelope on his desk.
Duvivier wasn't expecting such a delivery; he picked it up and looked at the sender's address. A Thomas Williams, with an address in Los Angeles. Peculiar. He ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. A smaller envelope fell out, then a small sheet of paper. He picked up the paper.
"He paid me to do it," the message said. It seemed to have been typed with an electric typewriter. And if it was anonymous, the return name and address would be fiction.
Duvivier dropped the sheet of paper onto his desk, aware that fingerprints might get to be a factor in this delivery. He picked up the smaller envelope by its edges, used a letter opener to cut the flap, and shook out the contents. Two keys fell onto the blotter.
"What the hell?" he asked himself aloud. He sat and looked at the keys for a minute or so, trying to remember if keys came into some case he'd worked. He couldn't remember any such case. He took a small fingerprint kit from his bottom drawer and dusted the letter, front and back. The only fingerprints that showed up corresponded to where he had held the paper. He dusted the keys, too, on both sides, but no prints appeared. He wiped off the black powder from the three items, then returned the kit to its drawer.
"Something, Al?" Leary asked from the next desk.
"I don't know," Duvivier replied. "Take a look at this." He handed over the letter and the keys. "It was sent from Los Angeles…" He consulted the Federal Express form. "Yesterday. Has any case we've worked lately had anything to do with Los Angeles?"
Leary thought for a moment. "There was a tourist murdered last month at that hotel on Madison; he was from L.A., but it wasn't our case. Is the envelope addressed to you specifically?"
Duvivier looked at the envelope. "Yes. And there were no prints on either the letter or the keys."
Leary held up the two keys. "Both copies; one looks like a Yale, the other, I'm not sure. Outside and inside doors of an apartment house, maybe? Like a brownstone?"
"That's certainly common enough," Duvivier said. "Could be. But what case?"
Duvivier took the keys back, took a magnifying glass from his desk and examined them both. "Third Avenue," it says. "Stamped right here." He pointed with a pencil.
"That the locksmith?"
Duvivier had a look in the yellow pages. "Third Avenue Locks and Safes," he said. "The number looks like in the eighties. Want to take a drive?"
"What else have we got to do?" Leary said, taking his coat from the back of the chair and slipping it on.
On the drive over to Third Avenue, Duvivier tried to stop thinking about the keys, to just let his mind wander. He sometimes made a mental connection this way, but it wasn't working today.
"Here's the shop," Leary said.
They double-parked, put down the visor with the department identification, to keep from getting ticketed, and went into the shop.
A man got up from a workbench and walked to the counter. "Help you?"
Leary showed him his badge, and Duvivier put the keys onto the countertop. "You make these?" Leary asked.
The man picked up both keys and held them up to the light.
"One of 'em's a Yale, isn't it?" Leary asked.
"They both are, and I made 'em," the man replied.
"Got any idea who for? You have any records?"
"I have excellent records," the man said. "Whenever I do the locks for a house or a building, I keep good records. But these are off-the-street stuff. You know, some lady comes in, wants an extra set for the maid? That kind of stuff I don't keep records on; I'd get writer's cramp."
"Got any idea what the keys might be for? I mean, like the outside and inside doors for a brownstone?"
"That kind of thing, I guess," the man said. "Typical door lock keys, as opposed to car keys or padlock keys. That's about all I can tell you."
"Thanks," Duvivier said, and the two detectives left the shop. Back in the car, Duvivier rested his head against the seat back, then sat up straight. "Head over to Fifth Avenue," he said.
"Huh?"
"Fifth Avenue."
"You had a thought?"
"I've had a thought."
Leary parked the car, and the two men got out. "I follow your thinking," he said.
"It's a long shot, but worth a try," Duvivier replied. They crossed the street, and Duvivier led the way down the steps. He tried the first key; it went into the lock, but wouldn't turn. He extracted it and tried the other key. It worked. He opened the door. "Come on," he said.
They walked half a dozen steps to the storeroom. Duvivier inserted the key into the lock and turned it. "Yes!" he said.
"They're Kinsolving's then," Leary said.
"Yes, and he gave them to someone who's now in Los Angeles. Come on, let's get out of here."
Back in the car, Duvivier asked, "Do we have a photograph of Alexander Kinsolving?"
"No reason why we should," Leary said, "and there wouldn't be anything on record, since he doesn't have a record."
"Where could we find a recent photograph, do you think?"
Leary thought about it. "Remember, Kinsolving took his wine business out of the Bailley company?"
"Yes."
"Maybe there was an announcement about it somewhere?"
Duvivier grinned. "The Wall Street Journal," he said. "Let's go to the public library at Fifth and Forty-second."
When Duvivier left the library he was still grinning, and he had an envelope under his arm.
Leary laughed aloud. "We're such terrific fucking detectives," he said. "They couldn't do no better on 'N.Y.P.D. Blue.'"
Duvivier took the photostat of the newspaper article from the envelope and placed it on the locksmith's counter. "Have you ever seen this man before?" he asked, then he held his breath.
The locksmith held the stat up to the light and thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he said, "I think I have. Hang on just a minute, will you?"
Duvivier and Leary changed glances.
"It's not enough to hang him," Leary said.
"No," Duvivier replied, "but it might be enough to crack him, if he thinks we know where the keys came from."
The locksmith came back from his desk with a newspaper. "Yeah," he said, "I thought
I'd seen him before." He tapped the front page of yesterday's New York Daily News.
Duvivier and Leary looked at the newspaper and saw Sandy Kinsolving at the airport, walking behind an Arab, then falling behind a luggage cart.
"Has this man ever been in your shop?" he asked the locksmith.
The locksmith shrugged. "Lots of people come in this shop," he said. "Who knows?"
Duvivier sighed.
CHAPTER 42
In the early afternoon Sandy sat in Sam Warren's conference room at the Mayfair Trust and listened to the phone conversation between Sam, his lawyer, and Larsen and his lawyers in San Francisco, as they worked through minute changes to the sales documents for the vineyard. Simultaneously, he went through the list of assets of the vineyard and through the appraiser's report, asking questions and looking for anomalies. At four o'clock Sandy affixed his signature to each of the documents, and their representative in San Francisco, having ascertained that Larsen had signed, presented the seller with a cashier's check for nine million dollars.
At last, Sandy had his vineyard. He walked back to the wine shop slowly, enjoying the summer afternoon and contemplating the changes and improvements he would make. There was an owner's house; Cara could furnish and decorate that. There was the change of name; Cara could design the labeling. He would gradually sell off the wines made under Larsen, and in the autumn, his first vintage would come in, the first wines bearing the name Kinsolving Vineyards. He was a happy man.
He was less happy when, back at the shop, his secretary intercepted him on the way to his office.
"Mr. Kinsolving, that Detective Duvivier and another policemen are waiting in your office; I didn't know what else to do with them."
"Thanks, that's fine," Sandy replied, gritting his teeth. He walked into his office and Duvivier and his partner, Leary, stood up from the sofa. "Afternoon, gentlemen," Sandy said, taking a seat at his desk. "Have you found my wife's killer?"
Duvivier walked toward the desk. "We're making real progress," he said, placing a pair of keys on the desktop.
