Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

  Hills, who had been staring disconsolately into the middle distance, suddenly focused, maybe even brightened a bit. “You’d do that for me?”

  “I would.”

  “All right,” he said, standing up. “I have to make some arrangements first and get my things from my hotel.”

  “My advice is not to tell anyone where you are, at least for a couple of days,” Stone said. “And then think carefully about who you tell.”

  “There’s only one person,” Hills said.

  Stone buzzed for Joan, and she came in. “Joan, this is Mr. Hills. He’s going to be staying next door for a while. Will you ask Helene to make sure the apartment is ready for him?”

  “Of course,” Joan said.

  “How long before you’ll be back?” Stone asked.

  “An hour at the most,” Hills said.

  “We’ll look forward to seeing you. Enter through the office door, and Joan will take you next door.”

  Hills offered his hand, the first time he had done so, and Stone shook it.

  “One other thing,” Hills said.

  “Yes?”

  “I made a recording of the meeting.”

  “Good. You may need it.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Barrington.” Hills put on his coat and hat and left, looking relieved.

  Hills walked up to Third Avenue and looked for a cab. His cell phone buzzed, and he checked the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m going to stay in New York for a while. Got a pencil?”

  “Yep.”

  Hills gave him the address. “You can always reach me on my cell.”

  “Let me give you some advice. Get one of those prepaid throwaway cell phones from an electronics shop, and don’t give the number to anyone but me.”

  “I’ll do that right now,” Hills said. He hung up and walked up Third Avenue, looking for a place to buy the phone.

  Stone tidied his desk, then walked into Joan’s office. “Did the congressman come back?”

  “Is that what he is? No, he didn’t.”

  Stone looked at his watch. “He said he’d be back inside an hour. It’s been nearly two.”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “Well, show him to the suite when he returns. I’m going upstairs for a while, then to dinner with Dino at Clarke’s.” Stone went up to his study, poured himself a drink, and settled in to watch the news. The anchorwoman finished a report, then turned to another camera. “This just in: there’s been a hit-and-run at the corner of Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, and a man is dead. Don Kerr is at the scene.”

  The live shot came up. “Deborah, the ambulance has just taken the man’s body away, and an officer told me that there was identification in his pockets, but they’re not releasing the name pending notification of next of kin. I have with me a gentleman who saw it happen.” He stuck the microphone in a man’s face.

  “Yeah, I saw it. The guy was jaywalking, but there was no excuse to hit him. It could have been avoided.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “It was black—an SUV, I think.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “Just a glimpse. It wasn’t a New York plate.”

  “Have the police interviewed you?”

  “Yeah, I talked to two detectives.”

  Kerr turned back to the camera. “That’s it, Deborah, until we get an ID on the victim.”

  Stone tuned out what Deborah was saying now. He had an awful feeling that he didn’t want to give in to. He called Dino.

  “Hey,” Dino said.

  “Hey. Do you keep track of hit-and-runs?”

  “Not personally, but we get a lot of them.”

  “There was one this afternoon at Fifty-seventh and Park, and the TV said he had ID on him. Can you find out his name?”

  “Call you right back.”

  Stone switched to MSNBC and the Chris Matthews show, then he tugged at his drink and worried. Ten minutes passed, and the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “The guy’s ID says he was a U.S. congressman named Evan Hills.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Barely.”

  “Dinner tonight? I’m batching it.”

  “Clarke’s at seven-thirty?”

  “You’re on.” Dino hung up.

  Stone called Carla Fontana. “I’ve got bad news,” he said to her.

  “What?”

  “Evan Hills is dead.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Hit-and-run at Park and Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “In New York?”

  “Right. He came to see me earlier this afternoon.”

  “What sort of frame of mind was he in?”

  “Despondent, I’d say.”

  “I think he was getting shaky.”

  “He told me he wanted out, and he didn’t mean the story.”

  “Are you saying he was suicidal?”

  “I think maybe so. I offered him an apartment in the house I own next door, and he accepted. He was going back to his hotel to get his luggage. The local news said he was jaywalking, but a witness said the accident was avoidable. It was a black SUV with an out-of-state tag. His identity hasn’t been made public yet. I found out from a friend at the NYPD.”

  “You think he was murdered?”

  “I think he was afraid he was going to be murdered, but it’s a toss-up. It could have been just an accident. We get a lot of hit-and-runs in the city.”

  “Well, at least we have his statement.”

  “You may have more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me he had a recording of the meeting, and that the voices were clearly distinguishable.”

  “Did you hear it?”

  “No. He may not have had it on him.”

  “Can your friend at the NYPD find out if the police found it?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call him.”

  “I’ll call our New York city desk and get them on it.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a dinner date with my friend. I’ll let you know what he says.” He hung up, got his coat, and headed for P.J. Clarke’s.

  The bar at Clarke’s was jammed, and Stone practically had to elbow his way through the career women and metrosexuals. Dino wasn’t there yet, but the headwaiter knew him and gave him a fairly quiet table, where he ordered a drink.

  Stone remembered that Hills had said he had only one friend he trusted, and he wondered who the friend was—maybe the man who owned the antiques shop where Carla had met with Hills. He called Carla.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet on the recording, but Hills told me there was only one person he would tell where he was, and I think it could be the man who owns the antiques shop. Why don’t you talk to him? He probably hasn’t heard about the event yet.”

  “I’ll do that right now.”

  “I’ll be on my cell.”

  Dino walked in, hung up his coat, and sat down. His scotch magically appeared. “What a day!” He raised his glass and drank.

  “Dino, have you released the congressman’s name to the media yet?”

  “Nah, not until tomorrow. We’re having trouble finding a next of kin. His father’s phone is immediately answered by a machine, and he hasn’t returned our calls.”

  “There are some things I’d better tell you,” Stone said. He gave Dino a blow-by-blow of the meeting, the phone call he’d received from Hills, and his contact with Carla Fontana.

  “Isn’t she the one who interviewed you in Paris?”

  “Right. She’s put together a big story on the meeting, and she has a statement from Hill
s. What she didn’t know is that Hills had a recording of the meeting. He told me this afternoon.”

  “You saw him?”

  “He came to my office and seemed very worried. He thought his life was in danger. I offered him the apartment next door, and he left to get his luggage. He didn’t come back. And, Dino, he was talking about checking out.”

  “So you think he could have picked a car and just walked in front of it?”

  “I think it’s about as much a possibility as someone murdering him. That part is far-fetched. I think he was just being paranoid.”

  “Did you hear the recording?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say how he recorded it?”

  “No, but an iPhone would do it.”

  Dino got out his cell phone and made a call. “It’s Bacchetti,” he said. “Have you got the hit-and-run victim’s belongings?” He listened for a bit. “Did he have an iPhone or some other recording device on him? Bring it to me at Clarke’s, and tell your people to canvass the neighborhood, and when you find it, search his room for a recording device and if you find it, bring it to me.” He hung up. “He had an iPhone, and it’s on its way, but they haven’t found his hotel room yet. They’re canvassing every place in the neighborhood.”

  They ordered dinner, and by the time they had finished their first course, a detective, Garbanza, was at their table. Dino introduced him to Stone.

  “There’s a recording on the phone,” the detective said. “Some sort of political meeting.”

  “Can I have the phone?” Stone asked.

  “Of course not,” Dino said. “It’s evidence.”

  “I just want to record his recording. I won’t mess it up.”

  Dino nodded and Garbanza opened his briefcase, took the phone from a plastic evidence bag, found a cable and plugged it into Stone’s iPhone. “I’ll sync it for you.” He selected the recording and pressed a button. Dinner came, and they began to eat. The syncing ran for half an hour. Garbanza unhooked the phones and returned Stone’s. “If that’s who I think it is on the recording, it’s hot stuff,” he said.

  “The Times already has Hills’s statement about the meeting. The recording will back up his account,” Stone said.

  “If you haven’t reached a next of kin by nine tomorrow morning, release Hills’s name to the media,” Dino said, “but don’t say anything about the recording, and I want that phone secured, and I mean secured until further notice. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Garbanza said.

  “Not a word to anybody, not even your partner.”

  “Got it.” The detective put the phone back into the bag, put the bag into his briefcase, and left.

  Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Carla.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes, and he’s a mixture of broken up and mad as hell. Hills called him this afternoon and gave him your address. The man’s name is Bruce Willard. He was going to meet Hills in New York on Sunday.”

  “Did he say where Hills was staying?”

  “At the Lowell, Sixty-third and Madison. It was Hills’s regular place in the city.”

  “Hang on.” Stone covered the phone. “Hills was staying at the Lowell.”

  “That’s in my block.”

  “I know.”

  Dino got on his phone and Stone went back to his. “The recording was on Hills’s iPhone,” he said, “and it’s been copied to mine. The police have sequestered the phone and it won’t be mentioned when they release Hills’s name to the press tomorrow morning. They haven’t been able to reach his father.”

  “He’s reclusive, I hear. I’ll see if I know someone who can reach him. Can I send someone to where you are to pick up the recording?”

  “Let’s take care of that tomorrow. I’ll transfer it to tape and FedEx it to you.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  Stone hung up. “She’s going to try to reach Hills’s father. Apparently he’s something of a recluse.”

  They finished dinner, then Dino dropped off Stone at home.

  Stone had just gotten into bed when his phone rang. He picked up the bedside handset. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Barrington? You don’t know me. My name is Bruce Willard. Evan Hills gave me your number this afternoon.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Willard. Evan mentioned you.”

  “I called the New York police and tried to find out what happened to him, but they wouldn’t talk to me, because I wasn’t a family member. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Stone brought Willard up to date on the hit-and-run and subsequent events.

  “Do you know what’s on the recording?”

  “I haven’t listened to it yet, but I believe it was made at the meeting that Evan has been talking to Carla Fontana about.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What will be done with the recording?”

  “It will go to Carla, at the Times.”

  “I’m supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow.”

  “She’ll have the recording by that time.”

  “I suppose Evan told you he was worried about those people coming after him.”

  “He did tell me that, and I tried to ease his mind. That kind of thing happens only in the movies. American politicians don’t actually kill each other, though I’m sure there are times when they’d like to.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Willard said.

  “Did Evan give you any details of exactly whom he was afraid of?”

  “No, he was vague, he just referred to ‘them.’”

  “A witness said on TV that Evan was jaywalking, so it could be an accident, and the driver just panicked. Often in these cases the driver will talk to the police later.”

  “There was one name that Evan mentioned. He works at some lobbying firm in Washington, for several right-wing groups. His name is Creed Harker . . .” He spelled the name. “Evan said his specialty was dirty work.”

  “Did he say what kind of dirty work?”

  “Tampering with elections, character smears, taking pictures in bedrooms—creepy stuff. Evan thought he’d do anything he was paid to do.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “Evan once pointed him out to me in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown: very tall, wiry, bald as an egg, no eyebrows. He looks like a space alien in a bad movie.”

  “Did Evan say anything else about him?”

  “Just that he wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark alley.”

  “Well, Mr. Willard, talk to Carla and keep reading the Times. They’re going to be writing a lot about this.”

  “All right, Mr. Barrington. Thank you for your time.”

  “And, Mr. Willard, I’m very sorry for your loss. He was a nice man.”

  “He was a lot more than that, Mr. Barrington, but thank you for the sentiment.” Willard hung up.

  Stone felt sorry for the man.

  The following morning when Stone went down to his office, he found a thick envelope on his desk. Joan came in with some phone messages.

  “Where’d this come from?” he asked, holding up the envelope.

  “It was on the hall table in the waiting area,” she said. “Maybe Mr. Hills left it.”

  Stone slit open the envelope and took out several pages. There was a letter on fine stationery, handwritten.

  Dear Mr. Barrington,

  There’s no one I can trust in Washington with this, so I’m turning to you. I hereby appoint you as my sole attorney and legal adviser and as executor of my estate. I enclose the original of my will, recently drawn and witnessed by three of the staff at the Georgetown Four Seasons Hotel, where I frequently lunch and dine.

  This is not a spur-of-the-momen
t decision. I’ve thoroughly checked you out, and I’m very satisfied with what I’ve learned about you. My will is as simple and clear as I know how to make it, and I’m a pretty good lawyer myself.

  I enclose a copy of the recording I told you about and a check for a retainer. You may bill me at the above address for any further charges. Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

  Cordially,

  Evan Hills

  There was a mini-cassette enclosed and a check for $25,000, drawn on a Georgetown bank.

  Stone read the will and the attached financial statement. He had left a dozen or so bequests to employees, congressional staff members, and arts organizations, and the remainder of his assets were left to Bruce Willard, of a Pennsylvania Avenue address in Georgetown.

  Hills’s property included a house in Philadelphia, another in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, a house in Georgetown, and three investment accounts showing cash and securities in excess of twenty million dollars. He had no debts older than thirty days, and the will was dated two days before.

  Joan was still standing in the door. “Anything?”

  “We have a new client,” he said, handing her everything but the mini-cassette. “He died yesterday, so start a file.” He held up the mini-cassette. “Duplicate this, and FedEx one of the copies to Carla Fontana, at the New York Times Washington bureau.”

  “Got it,” Joan said, and left his office.

  Stone was tidying up his desk at the end of the day when he heard the doorbell ring, and Joan buzzed him.

  “There’s a Mr. Bruce Willard to see you,” she said. “He says you know him.”

  Stone sat back down. “Send him in,” he said.

  A solidly built man of around six feet, with salt-and-pepper, closely cropped hair, appeared in the doorway, shucking off a sheepskin coat for Joan to take.

  “Come in, Mr. Willard,” Stone said, catching a glimpse of hardware under the man’s tweed jacket. “Have a seat, and please give me the handgun you’re wearing. We don’t permit weapons in our offices, except those of law enforcement officers.”

  Willard produced a 9mm Beretta, of the type used as a military sidearm, and handed it to Stone across his desk. Stone popped the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber onto his desktop, then he opened the small safe in his desk and secured the weapon. Finally, he offered his hand to Willard, who shook it with an iron grip. “How do you do?”