by Stuart Woods
He turned and looked at the other person seated on Eggers’s sofa. She appeared to be in her midthirties, dressed in a beautifully designed suit and expensive shoes, wearing a tasteful diamond choker and a heavy-looking engagement ring and wedding ring. “I’m Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.
She took it, smiled briefly, but said nothing.
“This is Barbara Stanford,” Eggers said.
The name caused Stone to stop breathing for a brief moment. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Sit down, Stone,” Eggers said.
Stone sat and regarded Barbara Stanford. He guessed that, when she stood up, she would be tall. She had chestnut-colored hair and tawny skin, and the silk blouse under her suit didn’t bother to cover too much cleavage.
“Barbara has a rather unusual problem,” Eggers said.
“Perhaps I’d better explain the situation to Mr. Barrington,” she said in a beautifully modulated, accentless voice.
“Go right ahead, Barbara,” Eggers said.
“A little over a year ago, I was married to a man I’d only known for a short time. During the time we’ve been married, we’ve spent a total of only a few months together, since he travels widely on business and prefers to do so alone.”
Stone saw it coming, and he dreaded it. “May I ask his name?”
“Whitney Stanford,” she replied.
Stone gulped. “Please go on.”
“I began to think there might be another woman,” she said, “and I began poking around among his things. I found a passport. I thought it odd, since he was in Paris at the time and would have needed his passport to travel there, but when I opened it, it was in another name: Forrest Billings. The photograph, however, was of my husband. I had barely gotten over the shock when a magazine called Avenue was delivered to my apartment.”
Stone knew the magazine. It was a society journal that was delivered to every apartment building on the Upper East Side.
“The magazine features a lot of photographs of people taken at parties, and to my astonishment, I saw a picture of my husband with another woman and—you won’t believe this—the mayor.”
Eggers, who had seemed drowsy, was suddenly alert.
“The caption for the picture said he was somebody called Billy Bob Barnstormer.”
Eggers got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it would be best if the two of you talked alone.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Stone said. “Sit down, Bill.”
Eggers sat down, grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table and dabbed at his forehead.
Stone nodded. To Barbara Stanford he said, “Please continue.”
“That’s about it,” she said. “It appears I’m married to a man with several identities, and I don’t know which one is real. What should I do?”
“What do you want to do?” Stone asked. “I mean, what was your first instinct, when you learned about this?”
“Well, I thought about having him arrested for bigamy, but then it occurred to me that I don’t know if he has another wife.”
“Suppose you’re his only wife: What would you wish to do then?”
“I think that depends on whether he is who he represented himself to be, or whether one of these other identities is real.”
“Suppose none of his identities is real,” Stone said, “including Stanford.”
“Then I would want an immediate divorce,” she replied.
“May I ask,” Stone said, “have you given your husband any money?”
“No, he’s insisted on paying all of my bills from the moment we were married—clothes, credit cards, the maintenance fees on my co-op—everything.”
“You owned the apartment before you were married?”
“Yes, my first husband, who is deceased, left it to me.”
“Well, I think that’s good news,” Stone said.
“Of course, there are the investments.”
“He invested money for you?”
“Yes, that’s his business, and he’s very good at it.”
“May I ask, on what basis do you assume he’s good at it?”
“Well, his lifestyle, I suppose. And what he’s said in conversation. He’s had a number of telephone conversations with Warren Buffett about a start-up they’re doing together. And he’s never been short of money.”
“How much did he invest for you?”
“Oh, not all that much; the bulk of my assets are overseen by a money manager who was the best friend of my late first husband. I let Whit invest only what was in my money market account at the time.”
“And how much was that?”
“Something over eight million dollars.”
Stone winced. “In what did he invest the money?”
“He put it into various companies that he had developed. The investments were quite well diversified.”
“Have you seen monthly statements on the investments?”
She was looking worried now. “No. Do you think there might be something . . . funny about what he did with the money?”
Stone didn’t answer her question immediately. “In recent days, has anyone called or visited your apartment looking for him?”
“Why, no. He hasn’t had a single phone call or visitor since he left for Paris.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Not quite three weeks ago.”
“Have you heard from him during that time?”
“Yes, he called daily until the day before yesterday. That was when I discovered the passport. The magazine arrived yesterday. He hasn’t called since then.”
“May I ask, what was your first husband’s name?”
“Morris Stein,” she said.
“Of Stein Industries?”
“That’s right.”
Well, Stone thought, she’s never going to miss the eight million dollars. Stein had been well up among the top ten on the Forbes list of the world’s richest people. “Mrs. Stanford,” Stone said, “I don’t think it will be necessary for you to obtain a divorce.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would appear that your husband married you under an assumed name, and if we can demonstrate that he did so, then you would be legally entitled to an annulment.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief.”
“Did Mr. Stanford leave a lot of his things in your apartment?”
“Yes—most of his clothes and a lot of personal effects. Can you arrange the annulment?”
“Yes, but there are some steps we should take first.”
“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Barrington.”
“To begin with, I’d like to bring some people to your apartment to go through his things and look for evidence of any other identities he might have used.”
“All right; just let me know when you’d like them to come.”
“Then, when they’ve been through everything, you should have Mr. Stanford’s possessions packed up and put into storage. You should have the locks on your apartment changed and instruct the building superintendent that Mr. Stanford is not to be allowed in the building or in your apartment. You should also inform the management of your building that you will henceforth be known by your previous name, and you should inform anyone you do business with, and your friends, of that fact. In short, you will want to erase Mr. Stanford from your life as quickly as possible.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any joint bank or brokerage accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Are you able to give instructions on those accounts without Mr. Stanford’s permission or cosignature?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should open new accounts in your own name immediately and transfer all assets in the joint accounts to the new accounts.”
“This is going to be quite a lot of work, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Should I report Whitney to the police?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
<
br /> “Should I hire a private investigator to look into Whitney’s background?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Stanford—perhaps I should say, Mrs. Stein—I think I should bring you up-to-date on what I already know about your husband.”
“You know him?”
“In a manner of speaking.” As gently as possible, Stone told her nearly everything. When he was done, Mrs. Stein sat silently, looking pale. Bill Eggers was no less pale.
Finally, she spoke. “And you still don’t think I should hire someone to look into his background?”
“Mrs. Stein, there is a sufficient number of people already looking into everything about him,” Stone said. “Does he have an office?”
“He works from an office in his old apartment, where he lived before we were married.”
“Do you have a key to that apartment?”
“I believe there’s one among his things.”
“If I may, I’ll accompany you home to get that key.”
“All right.”
Stone ushered her to the elevators. “Just a moment,” he said. He went back to Eggers’s office and stuck his head through the door. “I want you to cut me a check for the fifty thousand dollars that your Billy Bob stole from me,” he said. “Have it hand-delivered before the end of the day.”
Eggers nodded, and Stone closed the door.
24
STONE WALKED Barbara Stein downstairs.
“Would you like to come and get the key now?” she asked. “You can ride with me.”
“Yes, thank you.” They got into her car, while the chauffeur held the door for her. Stone looked around the interior. It was the new Maybach, made by Mercedes-Benz, and he hadn’t been in one before.
“Go ahead and play with the seat,” she said, pointing to the controls. “Everyone wants to.”
Stone tried the switches and discovered that it was much like a first-class airline seat. He could nearly recline.
“Fun, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.
Stone thought she looked very nice in a smile. “Yes, it is. I drive the small economy version of your car.”
“I would never have bought the thing, but Morris ordered it before he died, and I thought, what the hell?”
“How long were you and your husband married?” Stone asked, as they made their way silently through traffic.
“Twenty-one years,” she said. “I was twenty-two and working as a flight attendant on the transatlantic route. Morris flew with me twice, then asked me to dinner in London. I was swept off my feet. He had been widowed for less than a year.”
Stone was doing the arithmetic. She was older than he had thought, but apparent youth was common among the well-tended women of the ultrarich class.
“Do the math, yet?” she asked. “You’re blushing. It’s so rare to meet a man with blond hair these days; you even have blond eyebrows. What are your national origins?”
“English on both sides, all the way back to the Bronze Age, but I suppose a Viking rapist must have insinuated himself, somewhere along the way.”
“I expect it gets blonder in the summertime.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m Polish, myself,” she said. “My maiden name was Murawski.”
“A handsome people, the Poles.”
She laughed. “I like you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Please call me Stone.”
“And I’m Barbara. Where did the name come from?”
“My mother’s name was Matilda Stone.”
“The painter?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen her things at the Metropolitan, in the American Wing.”
The car drew to a smooth halt in front of 1111 Fifth Avenue, and they got out and went inside.
Barbara Stein lived in a three-story house, it turned out, but it was situated at the top of a fourteen-story apartment building. The elevator opened directly into the foyer, and a butler stood waiting to open the doors to the living room, which was on the top floor.
“There are two other floors downstairs,” she said, “but we always enjoyed entertaining up here, because of the terrace. She led him through French doors to a beautifully planted terrace stretching the width of the building, with spectacular views west and south over Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum.
“Breathtaking,” Stone said.
“Would you like something to drink? Iced tea, perhaps?”
“Thank you, perhaps another time. I’d really like to get that key and get some people over there as quickly as possible.”
“Of course; please follow me.” She led him down a floor to a gigantic bedroom and thence to a large, mahogany-paneled dressing room, filled with a man’s clothing. She rummaged in the top drawer of a built-in stack and came up with a key. “Here it is.” She gave him the address.
“Do you know if he has a safe there?”
“I expect so; there’s one here, too, behind his suits.”
“Then, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to bring some people back here to go through his things and open the safe.”
“Of course; whenever you like.”
“In the meantime, you might ask your staff to pack all these things, and they needn’t be careful about how they do it.”
She laughed. “I’ll see that they make a mess of it.” She led Stone back upstairs and to the foyer. “Thank you so much for your advice. When can we start on the annulment?”
“First, let me see what we come up with in the search, then we can make a decision.”
She rang for the elevator and held out her hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” She held onto his hand just a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll phone you later today,” Stone said. “Are you in the book?”
“Under B. Stein.”
He gave her his card. The elevator arrived, and Stone rode down. On the sidewalk, he phoned Lance.
“Yes?” Lance drawled.
“Meet me at . . .” Stone looked at the address and read it to him. “Between Lex and Third.”
“Why?”
“Because I have the key to Whitney Stanford’s apartment at that address.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Fine, and bring some help and a safecracker. Later, you’ll need to go to an apartment on Fifth Avenue, too, where his wife lives.”
“Wife?”
“Of some months. She was formerly married to Morris Stein.”
“The Morris Stein?”
“The same.”
“Good God!”
“Fifteen minutes.”
THEY ARRIVED at the building, in the East Sixties, simultaneously, Lance with two companions. It was a small apartment building, with no doorman. They took the elevator to the top floor and let themselves in. “We have Mrs. Stanford’s permission, so a warrant won’t be necessary,” Stone said.
“A warrant is rarely necessary,” Lance replied drolly. The place was a two-bedroom floor-through, professionally decorated in an impersonal style, with a roof terrace at the back.
“All right,” Lance said, “take the place apart, but this is a covert search; everything must be left exactly as it was. Jim, find the safe and get started on that first.” The two men went to work, and so did Stone and Lance.
“Watch me for a minute,” Lance said. He donned a pair of latex gloves, went to a desk in the living room, pulled out a drawer, and set it on top of the desk, then he removed and replaced precisely the contents of the drawer. “Like that,” he said. “I realize you haven’t been trained to do this, so go slowly, and check the bottoms of the drawers, too.” He handed Stone some gloves.
He left Stone to the desk and went to another room. Stone went through the drawers very carefully, and under the right-hand top drawer he found a small piece of paper taped in place.
“Lance,” he called.
“Yes?”
“You’
re not going to need to crack the safe; I’ve found the combination.”
Lance returned, looked at the piece of paper once, then went away again. A moment later, he called out, “Stone, come in here.”
Stone found his way to the master bedroom and into a dressing room. Lance stood before an open safe.
“My God,” he murmured. There were four passports stacked up in a corner of the safe, next to stacks of cash in dollars, pounds and Euros. Stone picked up a stack. “Two-dollar bills,” he said, “unused and with consecutive serial numbers. The rest seem to be hundreds.”
“Photograph everything,” Lance said to his men, “then put it all back. I want an individual, readable shot of every page of every passport. Take down the serial numbers of every bank note.”
Lance left them to it while he and Stone went quickly through the other rooms of the apartment. Except for the contents of the safe, not another scrap of paper yielded any useful information.
TWO HOURS LATER they had finished and returned everything in the apartment to its original state. As they were about to open the door, there was a noise from the other side. Lance held a finger to his lips, and he and the other two men produced guns and stood away from the door.
There was a scraping noise that went on for, perhaps, thirty seconds, then the door opened and two men walked in, followed by a woman.
The woman was Tiffany Baldwin.
25
TIFF STARED AT STONE. “What the hell are you doing here, and who the hell are these guys?” She gestured at Lance and his two men.
Lance showed her his ID. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, looking appreciatively up and down her. “My name is Lance Cabot.”
“How do you do?” she said, then turned back to Stone. “You really are mixed up with the CIA?”
“ ‘Mixed up’ is a good way to put it,” Stone said.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Tiff replied. She turned back to Lance. “What are you doing here?”
Lance spoke up. “It would appear that we have a mutual interest in the gentleman who resides here. I should think we also have a mutual interest in not disturbing the contents of his apartment. If he knows either of us has been here, he’ll bolt.”
