Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

  Elton dropped the handkerchief into the first wastebasket he saw, then he walked back to his son’s office, not hurrying, and, after ascertaining that no one was watching, entered through the taped door. He stripped off the tape and closed it behind him, then he unlocked the front door of the office and went and sat at his son’s desk. He could hear alarms going off somewhere. He went into his son’s private powder room, washed his hands thoroughly and made sure there was no trace of blood on him, then he went back to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Bruce Willard’s cell number.

  “Hello?”

  “Bruce, it’s Elton. I’m back home in Pennsylvania, and I just wanted to thank you again for your kindness to me last evening.”

  “Elton, have you heard what happened at the hotel while we were there?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “A man named Creed Harker shot himself in the men’s room, about the time you were there.”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Elton said.

  “Is there anything you need to tell me?” Bruce asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to thank you again. Oh, here comes my lunch. I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up and sat down at his son’s desk. He was still sitting there when Miss Tozer returned to the office.

  “I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long, but we had an incident in the members’ cloakroom that’s had us pretty busy for the past hour.”

  “Not at all. I’ve enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere here,” Elton replied.

  “The halls are clear now. May I walk you back to the garage?”

  “Thank you, yes.” They returned to where Manolo sat in the Bentley, waiting. He gave her back the badge. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Miss Tozer,” Elton said.

  “I’m so happy to have been able to meet you,” she replied, shaking his hand. “Your son was a wonderful man.”

  “I know,” he said. Manolo opened the door, and he got into the rear seat. “Let’s go home,” he said, and relaxed into his seat.

  His last thought before he dozed off was that, perhaps, he should have strolled over to the Senate and shot Henry Carson, too.

  As he got out of the car in his driveway at home, he spoke for a moment with Manolo. “If anyone should ask, we got home about three hours ago,” he said.

  “As you wish, Mr. Hills,” Manolo replied.

  Late in the afternoon, Stone stepped into the office where Anna Fontana was working. “I read the first volume with great interest,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. It’s going quite well, I think.”

  “I think I mentioned that Carla is coming up for the weekend.”

  “Yes, you did. I’m seeing her for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Well, she just called from a cab, and she should be here in half an hour or so. Would you like to have a drink with us before you go back to Brooklyn?”

  “Why, yes, that’s very kind of you.”

  “If you’re finished for the day, I’ll walk you upstairs to my study.”

  She gave him her work papers for the day, and he locked them in his safe, then went upstairs with Anna, settled her on the sofa in his study, where she asked for a martini.

  “Runs in the family, I guess,” Stone said, pouring one and handing it to her.

  “Quite a lot runs in the family,” she said. “More than you know.”

  Stone poured himself a Knob Creek on the rocks and took a chair opposite her. “Oh?”

  “I’ve had a peek forward in the journals,” she said, “and I’m afraid they will cover a period when Eduardo’s life and mine overlapped.”

  “Afraid?”

  “It’s a subject that I’ve been avoiding for many years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “In an Italian grocery store downtown,” she replied. “I went there once a week to stock up on sausages, cheese, and other things the supermarkets didn’t carry. We had both been offered a taste of some bresaola in the aisle, and we compared notes. He was charming, well-spoken, and beautifully dressed. I suppose it helped that he was older than I, since I had always been attracted to older men.”

  “And what came of this meeting?” Stone asked.

  “Carla,” she said.

  That stopped Stone in his tracks. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I was married, of course, and we had a perfunctory sex life, but it was quite something else with Eduardo.”

  “So, Carla’s father could have been either of the two men?”

  “It seemed so. I told Eduardo of my dilemma and asked his advice. I had been considering an abortion, which, at that time, was illegal but available if you knew someone. He talked me out of the abortion and said that he would be quite happy to have another child, if I would, and that he would take on a father’s responsibilities. My husband and I had been childless up until then, and I had wanted a child, but he had not. I went home and told him I wanted a divorce. He moved out the next morning, and he agreed to a Mexican divorce, since it would save him a lot of money on legal fees. When Carla was born, Eduardo was there, and when he saw her he knew Carla was his, no doubt, and from that moment on, he saw that we had a comfortable life and that Carla was well educated.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “No, I never have. She met him, perhaps a dozen times. After his wife died he proposed to me, but I thought it was too late for such an upheaval in both Carla’s life and mine. But the dilemma is back. Now you know, and depending on what use you make of the journals, a great many other people could soon know.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility. In that unlikely event, I’ll take steps to be discreet.”

  “I’m going to tell her as soon as she arrives,” Anna said, “and I’d appreciate it if you would be with us when I do.”

  “If that’s what you wish.” The doorbell rang, and Fred went to get it. A moment later, Carla walked in.

  “What a surprise,” she said, kissing her mother. “Did you change your mind about dinner?”

  “No, I just stayed for a drink, and I have something to tell you, so get a drink and sit down.”

  Stone made them all a drink, then sat down and shut up.

  Anna began to tell the story again, while Carla listened, transfixed. When her mother had finished, Carla took a swig of her martini and set it down. “I knew it,” she said.

  “How could you have known?”

  “Because Eduardo was the only father I ever had. I met your husband only a couple of times.”

  “Well, he moved to the West Coast.”

  “Those times when we visited Eduardo were like going home to my father. I always thought of him that way. We saw quite a lot of him until I went to Yale.”

  “That’s right, we did,” Anna said. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy with the knowledge.”

  “I’m perfectly happy with it,” Carla said.

  Anna looked at her watch. “Time for me to go. Dinner is uptown, near Columbia University.”

  “I’ll have Fred drive you,” Stone said, “and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  They both said good night to her, and Fred took her down to the car.

  “Wow,” Carla said when she had gone. “I feel different somehow.”

  “I can see how you might.”

  “I want to read those journals when she’s through translating them,” she said.

  “I think you have the right,” Stone replied.

  Still, he wanted to read them first.

  Sergeant Avery Morris was at his desk in the homicide bureau of the DCPD when a television set in the corner of the room caught his eye—something about a shooting at the Capitol. A couple of other people moved to where they could see the TV better, and somebody turned up the volume.

  Morris came over an
d watched long enough to hear that the minority leader of the House of Representatives had been found dead in the House chamber cloakroom with a handgun nearby. He whistled at his partner. “Jimmy, let’s get out of here.”

  Jimmy Clark came over. “For this?” he asked, nodding toward the TV. “That’s at the Capitol—not our jurisdiction. Let the Capitol Police and the FBI handle it.”

  “I’m just curious,” Morris said. “You cover here, I’ll be back in an hour or two.” He went down to the garage and got into their unmarked car. At the Capitol he flashed his badge to get into the garage, then took the elevator up a floor and walked to the office of the Capitol Police.

  Morris had had occasion to visit the Capitol on business, and he had always made a point of treating the cops there as equals, not as security guards. He asked to see Howard Atkins, the chief, and was shown in immediately.

  “Hello, Avery,” Atkins said, standing up to receive him and pumping his hand. “Take a seat. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Atkins buzzed somebody and a uniformed cop came in with two paper cups on a tray.

  “You hear our news?” Atkins asked.

  “On TV. I came over because I have an interest. Can you describe the scene for me?”

  “The minority leader ate his gun,” Atkins said. “I haven’t been able to draw any other conclusion. Of course, we’re still talking to his family and staff. We hope to find something in his background that would explain this.”

  “I have a feeling you won’t find anything that would explain it,” Morris said.

  “Tell me why.”

  “You hear about the guy in the men’s room at the Four Seasons restaurant?”

  “Yeah, sure. You think there’s a connection?”

  “Maybe. What kind of gun was involved?”

  “An old Walther PPK, vintage World War Two.”

  “The one at the Four Seasons was a Colt .45, vintage Korea.”

  “So, two old guns?”

  “Right, and I’ll bet your Walther didn’t have any prints on it or the cartridges except the minority leader’s.”

  “Good guess, Avery,” Atkins said.

  “Tell me, Howard, did any of your people look at the trash cans in the area?”

  “I’ll find out.” Atkins left the room for a moment, then came back. “My people didn’t go into the trash. You want to do that with us?”

  “If you don’t mind, Howard.”

  The two men left the office together. “What are you looking for?” Atkins asked.

  “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Two young cops did the work while the two older men watched. They found it in the third wastebasket. Morris pointed. “That’s what I’m looking for.” He put on some latex gloves. “If I’m right, it won’t have any labels or laundry marks. Somebody washed and ironed it at home.” He took the handkerchief from the young man and unfolded it. “Identical to one I found in a wastebasket at the Four Seasons.”

  Somebody produced an evidence bag and put the handkerchief into it.

  “So,” Atkins said as they walked back to his office. “Is this somehow going to break our case?”

  “I don’t think so,” Morris said. “What it tells us is that these two apparent suicides are connected. The two men did know each other. Creed Harker was a Republican lobbyist, I’ve seen his picture in the papers with the minority leader.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Atkins said.

  “The two guns interest me, too. Harker was a collector, but I think when we look into it, the .45 won’t be something from his collection.”

  “It sounds like what we need is a suspect with some more of those handkerchiefs in his dresser drawer.”

  “Or a gun collection with a couple of missing guns.”

  “Did your people find anyone of interest to talk to?”

  “A couple of dozen people, but all credentialed for the House. We’ve got a tight security system here.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Tell you what we’re going to do, Avery,” Atkins said. “We’re going to start all over and question everybody near the scene again.”

  “I won’t get in your way, but I’d like to hear what you find out.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  The two men shook hands, and Morris went back to the garage and got his car. All the way back to the station he racked his brain. Nothing new came to him.

  Stone didn’t sleep well, even after an athletic hour in bed with Carla. In the middle of the night, he put on a robe and slippers and went down to his office. He opened his big safe and took out the red leather notebooks of Eduardo’s journal. It troubled him that he had to learn of Carla’s relation to Eduardo from a coincidence involving his choice of a translator. He had thought he knew everything about Eduardo’s estate, except for what money he might have hidden from the IRS.

  He began leafing through the journal, which he couldn’t read, looking for initials. In the fourth journal he found a reference to A.F. He pored over the Italian, trying to make sense of it. He could not, but in the next volume he began coming across the initial C. Then he turned a page and found a sealed envelope. He used a letter opener to get at the single page inside, then he unfolded it and switched on his desk lamp. It was a codicil to his will, handwritten and witnessed like the other codicils he had found in Eduardo’s safe. Apparently, Eduardo had kept it separate from the others and had intended for Stone to find it, since he had given him the journals. The codicil left two million dollars to Anna and made Carla an equal heir to his estate, along with Mary Ann, Dolce, and Ben. Eduardo had done the right thing.

  Stone felt hugely relieved, because it had worried him that Eduardo would have been so solicitous of Anna and Carla for decades, then ignored them at the end. It had been out of character, but now all was put right. Except that, at a moment when the estate had been fully settled, he would have to explain this to Mary Ann. And worse, to Dolce. He did not relish the task.

  Back in bed, he finally slept soundly. When he awoke, Carla had gone; she had mentioned an early meeting at the Times.

  • • •

  Late Saturday morning Bruce Willard took a stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue, looking into the shop windows, exchanging an occasional greeting with a competitor. He thought about what Elton had done about the sale of his personal effects and how he would handle it when the time came. He was going to need more storage space than he now had, and it would have to be especially secure as well as temperature and humidity controlled. He could afford to acquire the space now, what with his inheritance from Evan. He was thinking about that when a gray car pulled up to the curb next to him, and a window went down.

  “Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Sergeant Avery Morris, DCPD. We met at the Four Seasons the other day.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bruce said.

  “Will you join me in the car for a moment, please? I have some more questions.”

  Bruce took a deep breath as he walked around the car and got in. He was going to have to be calm and helpful while telling the man nothing. He got into the car.

  “I asked you the name of the elderly gentleman you were with, and you told me ‘Elton.’ Was that a first or a last name?”

  “A first name. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I think of him. His last name is Hills.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An interesting question: he’s the father of a friend of mine, now deceased. He’s led a very reclusive life for at least thirty years, and I think our dinner was the first meal he’s eaten outside his home for thirty or forty years. Beyond that, I don’t know how to explain who he is. He apparently lives on inherited wealth. I met him because I attended his son’s funeral.”

  “How did his son die?”

  “In a traffic accident in New York.”r />
  A tiny light went on in Morris’s head. “Hit-and-run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was his son a congressman named Hills?”

  That was out of the bag, now; time to be forthcoming. “Yes, Evan Hills.”

  “What was your relationship with him?”

  “We were friends and lovers.”

  “Was Elton Hills upset about his son’s death?”

  “Yes, of course. Mostly, I think, he regretted not having been in touch with his son for many years.”

  “Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him very well,” Morris observed.

  “Well, we share a mutual interest in American antiques. I’m a dealer, and I spent several days in his home after the funeral, cataloging his possessions.”

  “Were there any guns among his possessions?” Morris asked.

  “No, none that I saw. Wait, there were a couple of old muskets and a pair of dueling pistols, all eighteenth-century, nothing modern.”

  “Did Mr. Hills somehow connect Creed Harker with his son’s death?”

  “I don’t think he knows who Creed Harker is, or was, and I can’t see how he might make such a connection.”

  “Did you know Creed Harker?”

  “I had seen him around the Four Seasons, where I often dine, but we didn’t know each other.”

  “How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”

  “The one who just died? What about him?”

  “Did you or Mr. Hills know him or know of him? Perhaps through his son?”

  Bruce shook his head. “I never met the gentleman. Elton wouldn’t have met him, either: he and his son had not spoken for many years, and Mr. Hills doesn’t own a TV or read newspapers.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Hills carries a handkerchief?”

  “Doesn’t everybody? I have no specific information that he does.”