Shoot First

by Stuart Woods

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “A million dollars more than Arthur Steele paid for it, but half a million less than he was asking.”

  “This was Arthur’s house?”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t know that,” Stone said, “because if you had, I’d have shot you.”

  “You don’t sound all that happy about having this wonderful place.”

  “I’m overjoyed,” Stone said, deadpan. “This was a conspiracy among Arthur, Joan, and Jack Spottswood.”

  “They only did it because they love you,” Viv said.

  Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Jack. You’re now a slip-owning member of the Key West Yacht Club. They’ll send you a bill for the initiation fee and the first year’s dues and slip charges.”

  “That was very quick.”

  “I’m a past commodore and my nephew Billy is the current one. We know people.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “And I booked you a table for four for dinner tonight. There’s an annual minimum charge for food and drink, and I thought you might like to start whittling it down.”

  “You’re a fine attorney, a great proposer, and a lovely concierge,” Stone said. “I thank you for all of that.” They said goodbye and hung up.

  “That was Jack Spottswood,” Stone said. “I’m now a member of the Key West Yacht Club, and we’re having dinner there tonight.”

  “Great,” Dino said.

  “I also own a slip. If I hadn’t taken it I’d have had to wait for somebody to die.”

  “But you don’t own a boat,” Dino pointed out.

  “It’s only Tuesday,” Viv said. “He’ll be here for a few more days.”

  “I’m not buying a boat,” Stone said.

  * * *

  —

  THAT EVENING, Stone, Meg, Dino, and Viv arrived at Stone’s new yacht club. Jack Spottswood greeted them from the bar. “Come outside,” he said to Stone, “and I’ll show you your slip in the marina.”

  Stone followed him out the door and across the parking lot, where a row of berths lay, each containing a boat.

  “There you go,” Jack said, pointing, “that’s your slip.”

  Stone looked at it and saw that a familiar-looking boat was parked in it. “Whose is the Hinckley 43 in my slip?”

  “Oh, that belonged to the previous owner of the berth,” Jack said. “He died a couple of months ago, and his widow has put the boat up for sale.”

  “It looks quite new,” Stone said.

  “He had owned it for only a short time when he died,” Jack explained. “I think the engines have something like fifty hours on them.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” a woman’s voice said from behind them.

  Stone turned to find a handsome woman in her sixties standing there.

  “Stone,” Jack said, “this is Betty Koelere, who now owns the Hinckley.”

  Stone shook her hand. “How do you do, Betty? I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”

  “Well, he had twenty-two years on me, and I guess it was his time,” she replied, then handed him a thick brown envelope. “I thought you might like to look this over—it’s the order form for the boat, listing all the equipment installed.”

  Stone accepted the envelope. “I’ll have a look at it,” he replied.

  “Have a good evening,” Betty said, then turned and walked back into the clubhouse.

  “Jack,” Stone said, “is this a setup?”

  “You mean, you, Betty, and the boat being in the same place at the same time?”

  “Let’s not leave you out of the equation.”

  Jack laughed and took Stone’s arm. “Let’s go back to the bar. You can look over the specs later.”

  “You know,” Stone said, allowing himself to be led toward where the bourbon was, “I own a Hinckley 43 already, which is at my house in England.”

  “I know that,” Jack replied. “I guess that means Betty won’t have to sell you on it.”

  “I am not buying a boat,” Stone said.

  8

  Stone finished his Knob Creek just as the bartender set down another. He took the papers out of the envelope and scanned them quickly. The boat was equipped almost identically to his own, in England, but with a few extra options.

  “How much is Betty asking?” Stone said to Jack Spottswood.

  “I believe a new one is going for around two million,” Jack replied.

  “They’ve gone up the past couple of years?”

  “Hasn’t everything?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. How much is she asking?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Stone, she’s all alone now, and she’s cash-poor. I think she’ll accept any reasonable offer.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of a widow’s situation,” Stone said.

  “Just offer her whatever you think is fair.”

  Stone took another gulp of the bourbon, then a deep breath. “Offer her a million eight,” he said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jack replied. He walked to the other end of the bar and exchanged a few words with Betty Koelere, then returned. “Betty gratefully accepts your offer,” Jack said. He took the sheaf of papers and removed the last page. “Here’s the contract I drew up for her.” He wrote in Stone’s name and the price. “Initial in the two places and sign right here.”

  Stone took another swig of the bourbon, then quickly read the contract, signed, and handed it to Jack. He got out his iPhone and tapped out an e-mail to Joan, then sent it. “Joan will transfer the funds to your firm’s account tomorrow,” he said to Jack.

  Jack walked back down the bar, delivered the contract to Betty, who smiled broadly and waved. Jack returned. “Congratulations, Stone, and thank you for making that gentlemanly offer. And by the way, everything on the yacht is in perfect working order, the bottom is clean, and the boat is still under warranty for another four and a half years.”

  Dino waved at him from a table. “Join us for dinner?” Stone asked Jack.

  “Thanks, but I’m meeting some people. Your copy of the contract is in the envelope.”

  Stone walked over to the table and sat down.

  “Don’t tell us,” Dino said. “You just bought a boat.”

  Stone finished his drink and waved for another. “God help me, I did.”

  “Let’s go look at it,” Viv said.

  “Tomorrow. Right now I’m starving.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Meg said. “You started the day homeless, clubless, and yachtless in Key West, and you’ve put all that together in a single day.”

  Stone managed a weak smile. “I guess I have,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  GINO AND VERONICA BELLINI checked into the Royal Suite at the Dorchester Hotel in London. He plugged in his laptop and checked his e-mail. “My goodness,” Gino said, “Miss Meg’s driverless cars, six in New York and one in Key West, seem to have gone awry. Harmony Software has already reached out for my help.”

  “Isn’t that a pity,” Veronica said, lifting the back of his toupee and kissing his bald head. “Now, tell me what you’re getting out of this.”

  “Satisfaction, pure satisfaction,” Gino replied, “and a big settlement when I tell them how to fix it.” His cell phone rang, and he answered it.

  “Mr. Bellini, this is Frank Simmons at Harmony Software.”

  “Hi there, Frank. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you get my e-mail? We’ve got a major glitch in the driverless car software, and we need your help.”

  “My help? Why, I thought you folks were getting along just fine without my help.”

  “Be that as it may, we’d like to retain you as a consultant on the project.” />
  “On what terms?”

  “One year, two million dollars.”

  “Sorry, Frank, I’m a busy man.”

  “What will it take, Gino? Tell me.”

  “Three years at five million a year, and I don’t work on-site, just wherever I happen to be when you need me.”

  “Please hold for a moment.”

  “He’s checking with Meg,” Gino said to Veronica.

  Simmons came back. “Done. I’ll e-mail you a contract. You can sign it, scan it, and return it. Meg will do the same. Now we need you to go into the Beta version and fix whatever is causing the cars to stop running.”

  “Just as soon as I receive the contract, signed by Meg.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “All right, Frank, I’ll fix Meg’s toy. It will be done by noon, Florida time, tomorrow. Oh, and I’ll need the latest sign-ins and passwords.”

  “Thank you. Your contract is on the way to Meg.”

  “Nice doing business with you, Frank,” Gino said, then hung up.

  “It worked?” Veronica asked.

  “To the tune of fifteen million dollars over three years,” Gino replied, grinning.

  * * *

  —

  MEG HUNG up her cell phone.

  “You look glum,” Stone said. “Anything I can do to help?” They were in the middle of dinner.

  “No, I’ve just fixed the problem, but it cost me fifteen million, out of my own pocket.”

  “What does that fix?”

  “The cars. We should be able to go on with the demonstration to the board. I’ll need to borrow your computer and printer when we get back to the house.”

  Stone poured them all more wine. “Meg,” he said, “I get the feeling that extortion may be involved here.”

  “And very likely, more to come,” she replied.

  * * *

  —

  THE BELLINIS DINED at Le Gavroche, possibly London’s finest restaurant and holder of three stars from the Guide Michelin.

  “I think you should do some shopping tomorrow,” he said to Veronica.

  “You’ve read my mind,” she replied. “How much can I spend?”

  “I never thought I’d hear myself say these words, but whatever you like.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you say those words,” she replied, “but they sound very sweet.”

  “I’m a very sweet guy,” Gino said, as the sommelier tipped more Chateau Lafite 1978 into their glasses.

  9

  Stone navigated his new boat out of its berth, across Garrison Bight, through Key West Harbor, then turned west, into open water, and pushed the throttles of the Hinckley 43 to 3200 rpms. Soon they were cruising at a little better than 30 knots.

  “How long to our destination?” Meg asked from the big, comfortable seat beside him.

  “It’s about seventy miles, so a bit more than two hours. The calm seas will keep us fast and comfortable.”

  “What’s it like out there?”

  “It’s better if you see it for yourself.” Stone tapped in half a dozen waypoints on the moving map before him and engaged the autopilot, which took charge and pointed them at the first waypoint.

  Dino and Viv came in from the cockpit. “It’s getting pretty windy back there,” Dino said.

  “Grab a beer and make yourselves comfortable in the cabin.”

  Stone arranged himself in the helmsman’s chair so that he could see both the moving map and Meg by shifting his gaze. “I’m concerned about you,” he said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Well, I’ve known you for only a few days, but who I’m seeing now is not the happy person I saw earlier this week.”

  She sighed. “I’m just afraid that, by paying this . . . ‘extortion,’ as you put it, I’m buying into more problems than I’m solving.”

  “That’s often the way it is with extortion or blackmail. It’s very likely that he’ll ask you for considerably more. What hold does he have over you?”

  “The keys to the kingdom, you might say. Gino Bellini has what you might call a checkered background,” she said. “He was a troubled youth, spent some time in reform school for hacking and computer theft, and narrowly avoided prison. He was rescued from that life by a mentor, a professor of computer science at Stanford, who got him a scholarship there. He didn’t graduate—he was sucked out of there by a Silicon Valley start-up—not mine, not yet—and he began making more money than he would have ever imagined possible, half a million dollars a year, and more. Still, as I was to learn, he retained that part of his psyche that controlled criminality.”

  “He’s a born criminal, you mean?”

  “Not exactly. That was learned behavior, I think, but it still seems to remain an important part of the way he thinks. When I let him go and paid him off for his share of the company, I thought that would be the end to it. I mean, even after taxes he was sitting on more than a hundred million dollars. You’d think that would be enough to satisfy him, but no. It chafed on him that I was making more than a billion dollars on the deal, never mind that the concept was mine and that I had secured the financing, supervised his coding, and ran the business, while his job was to sit at his computer and make my ideas work. He still managed to believe that, somehow, I had wronged him, cheated him out of his fair share.”

  “I hope you had a good attorney when you were setting up the business and writing employment contracts.”

  “Oh, yes, the best legal minds in Silicon Valley were paid exorbitant sums to make sure that a situation like this could never arise.”

  “Sometimes good lawyers are worth whatever you pay them,” Stone said, with a little reproval in his voice.

  “Oh, I know that, and I don’t question either the quality of their work or what I paid them. I just don’t think they ever realized who they were dealing with in Gino’s case—nor did I, for that matter.”

  “A good contract covers legalities,” Stone said. “It’s difficult to predict illegalities, though every attorney tries to. Has Bellini committed any criminal act that you know of?”

  “I suspect so,” Meg replied. “I suspect that he’s planted little bombs in our software that can be triggered whenever he likes.”

  “Have you caught him at it?”

  “My people can’t even find the bombs, let alone prove that he put them there. I think what he’s doing is using a password that he set up some time ago to get into the programs and set off the bombs. And now, because of the deal I’ve made with him, he has the current passwords necessary to do that—the aforementioned keys to the kingdom. He knew the demonstration to the Steele board was coming up and how important that would be to the company’s success, and he’s managed to turn that into fifteen million dollars in his pocket.”

  “Will there be other opportunities for him to do that?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ll be turning over our prototypes and our software to the State of California and the U.S. government soon, and it’s critical that we get certification from both, otherwise we won’t be able to go into production and do large-scale fleet testing of the vehicles. I’ll tell you this, Stone, in the strictest confidence—last night I was thinking of trying to find someone to kill the man.”

  “Whoa,” Stone said. “Even if that were successful, like the bribe you paid, it would create more problems for you than it would solve.”

  “My brain tells me that, but my gut wants him dead,” she said.

  “Let me explain how this would go,” Stone said. “First of all, you’d have to find a contract killer, a hit man. Do you know someone who might know someone who does that?”

  She laughed. “The only person I know who might know someone like that is Gino Bellini.”

  Stone laughed. “What happens when someone like you tries to find someone like that is that you have to deal w
ith criminals, people who can’t be trusted, no matter how much money they are being offered. Often, these people are already snitches for one or more police officers or FBI agents. They’re out on parole, maybe, and they want to endear themselves to the people who have the power to send them back to prison. You’d find yourself handing over money in an alley or a bar somewhere to an officer of the law, who will then arrest you and charge you with conspiracy to murder. It’s a losing game.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I should just lure Gino into a back alley and shoot him myself,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t have to trust anybody, and I’d save a lot of money.”

  “And you would almost certainly spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  “Why? I’m smart, why couldn’t I get away with it?”

  “You’re talking to a former homicide detective, and I can tell you from experience that there are so many ways to make mistakes and so many techniques available to the police for finding those mistakes that you’d have very little chance of success. All it takes is one little mistake, and you’re done. The best you could hope for is to hire the world’s most expensive defense lawyer who might, somehow, win at trial and get you off. You’d spend more than you’ve already given Bellini on your defense, then his wife would bring a civil suit against you for wrongful death, which you could easily lose, and for the rest of your life, at least half the people who know and love you would believe that you’re a murderer, and that would be hard to live with.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Meg said disconsolately.

  “Ask O. J. Simpson,” Stone said.

  The autopilot turned the yacht toward the last waypoint and, ahead, low islands came into sight.

  10

  Gino Bellini switched off his laptop. “There,” he said, “Miss Meg is up and running again. For the moment, at least.”

  “Have you given up on just killing her outright?” Veronica asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” Gino replied. “Dirty Joe is still on the hunt in Key West.”

  “That didn’t go so well last time—we had to run for it.”