Cold Paradise 07

by Stuart Woods

  Dino held a finger to his lips. He found a switch and the bed rose until Stone was in a sitting position. Dino pointed to the curtain and cupped a hand behind his ear.

  Stone tried to focus. He could hear a woman’s voice from behind the curtain.

  “Don’t you die on me, goddammit,” she was saying.

  “Don’t you leave me in this mess. We’re going to get out of this together.”

  Stone recognized the voice, and he looked at Thad, whose face was drawn and whiter than usual.

  “I’m going to need some time to heal,” Paul Manning’s voice rumbled, surprisingly strong.

  “They’re taking you to surgery in a minute,” Allison Manning said. “But I’ve got to talk to you first. Thad told me they know about Winston.”

  “Do they know about you, or just me?” Manning asked.

  “I don’t know, but I can get Thad to tell me. Don’t worry, I can deal with Thad. He’ll believe whatever I tell him.”

  Stone looked at Thad. He looks worse than I do, he thought.

  “The money is already in the Caymans,” Manning said. “You know the account number. Wait until I’ve recovered; but before they move me to some jail ward, find a way to get me out of here. Charter a plane and bring me a gun.”

  “All right,” Allison said. “I hear a gurney. They’re coming for you.”

  “Better get out of here and back to Shames.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Thad stepped over to the curtain and drew it back. Allison spun around and looked at her husband and the other two men. It took her only a moment to recover. “Thad! Thank God you’re here!”

  “Hello, Liz,” he said. “Or, perhaps I should say, Allison.”

  “Did you hear all that?” she asked. “Paul is crazy, you know. I was trying to find out what he did with your two million dollars.”

  Dino left the cubicle.

  “Were you?” Thad asked. “Well, I guess you found out, didn’t you? It’s in the Cayman Islands, and you know the account number.”

  “Thad …”

  Thad held up a hand. “Don’t. You’ll just embarrass us both.”

  Dino returned with Dan Griggs and the Houston detective, Fritz Parker.

  “Mrs., ah, Shames, I guess it is,” Griggs said. “You’re going to have to come with me. This detective has some questions he’d like to ask you, and I have a few, myself.”

  Allison looked at Thad. “You’ve got to help me,” she said.

  “I don’t see how I can,” Thad replied. Then he turned and walked away.

  “Stone,” she said, “you’ve got to represent me. I need your help.”

  “You don’t need me, Allison,” Stone said. “You can afford the very best. Paul probably has a phone number in his pocket.”

  “Please, please,” she begged.

  “Goodbye, Allison,” Stone said. “I expect I’ll see you in court.”

  They led her away, then Griggs came back. “We took a nine-millimeter away from Manning,” he said, “but it looks like the security guard was shot with a smaller caliber. You have any thoughts on that?”

  Stone thought about that for a moment, then he shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “We didn’t recover the slug.”

  Good, Stone thought.

  “I understand there was some sort of scuffle in the garden after Manning was stopped. You know anything about that?”

  Stone opened his eyes. “A drunken guest,” he said. Apparently Griggs thought he’d been shot by Manning. “She had to be removed.” He closed his eyes again and kept them closed until Griggs went away.

  Stone was comfortable in a reclining seat on the G V. His arm was still numb, and he was still in a slight morphine haze.

  Callie put a pillow behind his head. “Anything else I can do for you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “but not right now. Could I have a telephone, please?”

  “I’ll get you one.”

  Stone looked at his watch. Just past seven A.M. He had been taken to the airplane on a stretcher, but he had managed to walk up the airstair steps on his own. Callie had packed his clothes. They had been in the air for half an hour, and Dino was dozing across the aisle.

  Callie brought him the phone. “After your call, you should get some sleep.”

  “Have you got the phone number for the Breakers Hotel?” he asked.

  She took the phone, dialed the number for him, handed the phone back and walked toward the front of the airplane.

  “The Breakers,” an operator said.

  “Please connect me with Mrs. Vance Calder,” Stone said.

  “One moment.” The phone began ringing.

  “Hello,” a sleepy voice said.

  Stone thought for a second, then pressed the off button on the phone.

  Dino stirred and turned toward Stone. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Good question,” Stone said.

  “Why did you hang up?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

  “When?”

  “When a man answers.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WANT TO EXPRESS MY GRATITUDE TO MY EDITOR, DAVID Highfill, and my publisher, Phyllis Grann, for their continuing care and contributions to my work.

  My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career, always with excellent results, and they, as ever, have my gratitude.

  I want to thank my friends, David and Carolyn Klemm, for sharing their Palm Beach existence with me and for showing me the town, its restaurants, golf courses and shops.

  My wife, Chris, is my first and most critical reader, and I thank her for her strong opinions and her love.

  Please turn the page for a preview of Stuart Woods’s Stone Barrington novel

  THE SHORT FOREVER

  available from Signet.

  ELAINE’S, LATE.

  Stone Barrington sipped his third Wild Turkey and resisted the basket of hot sourdough bread that the waiter had just placed on the table. Callie was to have been there an hour and a half ago, and he was very, very hungry. She’d called from the airport to say that she was on the ground and on her way, but that had been an hour ago. It just didn’t take that long to get to Elaine’s from Teterboro Airport, where her boss’s jet landed. He glanced at his watch: He’d give her another three minutes, and then he was ordering.

  He had been looking forward to seeing her. They’d spent some very pleasant time together in Palm Beach a few months before, on the yacht of his client Thad Shames. She was Shames’s majordomo—assistant, cook, social secretary, whatever he needed—and she moved when Shames moved, back and forth between Palm Beach and New York. In New York, she had been living with Stone, and he missed her when she was away.

  “Give me a menu,” Stone said to Michael, the headwaiter.

  “Giving up on her?” Michael asked.

  “I am. If I drink any more without some food in my stomach, you’re going to have to send me home in a wheelbarrow.”

  Michael laughed and placed a menu before him. “Dino’s not coming?”

  “He should be here in a while. He said he had to work late.” He opened the menu, and Michael stood ready, pad in hand. When Stone was this hungry, everything looked good. He’d meant to have fish; he’d gained three pounds, and he needed to get it off, but now he was too hungry. “I’ll have a Caesar salad and the osso buco,” he said, “and a bottle of the Amerone.”

  Michael jotted down the order, and as he reached for the menu, Stone looked up to see Callie breezing through the front door. He rose to meet her. She looked wonderful, as usual, in an Armani pantsuit. She gave him a short, dry kiss and sat down.

  “I’d given up on you,” Stone said. “I just ordered.”

  Michael handed her a menu, but she handed it back. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay for dinner,” she said.

  Stone looked at her, stupefied. She had kept him waiting for an ho
ur and a half, and now she wasn’t going to have dinner?

  “Would you like a drink, Callie?” Michael asked.

  She shook her head. “No time, Michael.”

  “You still want dinner, Stone?”

  “Yes, please,” Stone replied.

  Michael retreated.

  “So?” Stone asked.

  “So what?” Callie replied.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” He wanted an apology and an explanation, but he got neither.

  “Stone,” Callie said, looking at the tablecloth and playing with a matchbook. She didn’t continue.

  “I’m right here,” he replied. “Have been, for an hour and a half.”

  “God, this is hard,” she said.

  “Maybe a drink would help.”

  “No, I don’t have the time.”

  “Where do you have to be at this hour?” he asked.

  “Back in Palm Beach.”

  Stone wasn’t terribly surprised. Thad Shames, a computer software billionaire, had a peripatetic lifestyle, and Callie was, after all, at his beck and call.

  “First of all, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to go by the house and pick up some things.”

  Stone looked around. She wasn’t carrying anything.

  “They’re in the car,” she said.

  “What did you have to pick up?” he asked.

  “Some things. My things.”

  Stone blinked. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Back to Palm Beach. I told you.”

  Stone was baffled. “Callie …”

  She took a deep breath and interrupted him. “Thad and I are being married this weekend.”

  Stone was drinking his bourbon, and he choked on it.

  “I know you didn’t expect this,” she said. “For that matter, neither did I. It’s just happened the past couple of weeks.” She had been gone for two weeks on this last trip.

  Stone recovered his voice. “Are you perfectly serious about this?”

  “Perfectly, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to talk me out of it.”

  That was exactly what he wanted to try. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It’s good, Stone. It isn’t like with you and me, but that could never last.”

  “Why not?” Stone demanded, stung.

  “Oh, it’s been great. I arrive in town, move in with you. We go to Elaine’s and the theater, and around. We fuck our brains out for a week or two, then I go back.”

  That was exactly what they did, he reflected, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “I thought we had more than that going,” he said.

  “Oh, men always think that,” she said, exasperated. “There are things Thad can give me, things I need, things you can’t …” She left it hanging.

  “Can’t afford?” he asked. “I live pretty well. Of course, I’m not worth five billion dollars, but I didn’t think Thad was, anymore, not after his new stock offering collapsed, and with the way the market has been.”

  “It’s true,” she said, “Thad was hurt badly. Now he’s only worth three billion.”

  “What a blow,” Stone said.

  “It’s not the money,” she said. “All right, maybe that’s part of it. God knows, I’ll never have to draw another anxious breath.”

  “Not about money, anyway.”

  “Won’t you try to understand?”

  “What is there to understand? I’m out, Thad’s in. It’s your life; I can’t tell you how to live it.”

  “If only you’d …” She stopped.

  Stone didn’t want to hear the rest, anyway. “I think it’s a little late for ‘if only,’ ” he said. “Clearly, you’ve thought this out. I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.”

  “Thank God for that,” she muttered, half to herself.

  They sat silently for a moment, then, without another word, Callie got up and headed for the door, nearly knocking down Dino, who had chosen that moment to walk in.

  Dino turned and watched her rush out the door, then he walked over to Stone’s table and sat down. Dino Bacchetti had been Stone’s partner when he was still in the NYPD. Now he ran the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. “So,” he said, “I see you managed to fuck up another relationship.”

  “Jesus, Dino, I didn’t do anything,” Stone said.

  Dino motioned to Michael for a drink. “That’s usually the problem,” he said. The drink was placed before him, and he sipped it.

  “You want some dinner, Dino?” Michael asked.

  “Whatever he’s having,” Dino replied.

  “Caesar salad and the osso buco?”

  “Good.” He turned to Stone. “After a while, women expect you to do something.”

  “She’s marrying Thad Shames.”

  Dino’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit? Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t see that one coming. I guess Thad isn’t broke yet.”

  “Not yet, but he’s worth only three billion now.”

  “Poor guy; couple months, he’ll be living on the street. Still, he got the girl.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “It’s what I do,” Dino explained.

  Stone’s cell phone, clipped to his belt, began to vibrate. “Now what?” he said to nobody in particular. “Hello?”

  “Stone, it’s Bill Eggers.” Bill was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the prestigious law firm for which Stone did unprestigious jobs.

  “Yeah, Bill.”

  “You sound down.”

  “Just tired. What’s up?”

  “You got anything heavy on your plate right now?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Good. There’s a guy coming to see you tomorrow morning at nine, with some work. Do whatever he says.”

  “Suppose he wants me to kill somebody.”

  “If this guy wanted somebody killed, he’d do it himself. His name is John Bartholomew, and he’s major, in his way.”

  “I’ll be glad to see him.”

  “You got a passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You’re going to need it.” Eggers hung up.

  Elaine came over and pulled up a chair. “Callie left in a hurry,” she said. “I guess you fucked it up again.”

  “Don’t you start,” Stone said.

  Stone woke up hungover. He shouldn’t drink that much so close to bedtime, he reflected, and resolved, once again, not to do it again. It was half past eight, and this guy Bartholomew was coming at nine; there was no time for breakfast. He showered and shaved and got into a suit, then went down to his office on the ground floor.

  The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist’s office when Stone’s great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist’s office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of town houses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.

  Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You’re in early,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

  “That’s what I mean. I’ll bet you didn’t have time for breakfast.”

  “You got some coffee on?”

  “I’ll get you a cup,” she said.

  “There’s some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”

  “I’ll show him in when he arrives,” she said.

  Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Eggers that he wasn’t busy.

  Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in bean
s ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.

  “She got in, then she got out.”

  “Out? You mean, out?”

  “I do. She’s marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”

  “Good God! I’m shocked!”

  “So was I, to tell the truth.”

  “You let another one get away.”

  “Joan …”

  She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”

  Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”

  The doorbell rang. “There’s your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.

  “I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

  “John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.

  Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

  “Did he give you any details?”

  “No.”

  Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.

  Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.

  There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”

  “The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”

  Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.

  “We don’t have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I’ll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister’s only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She’s twenty, dropped out of Mount Holyoke, has become involved with a flashy young man named Lance Cabot.”

  “Of the Massachusetts Cabots?”

  “He’d like people to think so, I’m sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn’t even know them. I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I’m reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”