6 Stone Barrington Novels (175 page)

ON MONDAY MORNING,
when he still hadn't heard from Billy Bob, Stone called the Four Seasons again and was told that Billy Bob had checked out early that morning. Stone called Bill Eggers.

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning, Bill; we have a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“You know our client Billy Bob?”

“I believe he's
your
client, Stone.”

“He's a client of the firm, is he not?”

“To whom did he make out his retainer check?”

“Well, to me, I guess.”

“Good guess. Now, whose client is he?”

“All right, my client. Would you like to hear about the problem?”

“Not really.”

“There are ethical problems that might reflect badly on the firm.”

“Since Mr. Billy Bob is not now nor has he ever been a client of the firm, I don't see how any of his problems could reflect on the firm in any manner whatever.”

“His photograph in the company of the mayor, taken at the firm party, has appeared in the newspapers.”

“We didn't tell the mayor who he could or could not bring to our party.”

“You mean, he came with the
mayor.
”

“I believe he did.”

“Are you aware that, the day after the party, Billy Bob's date was found murdered in his bed?”

“Good God! The Four Seasons must have gone nuts!”

“They weren't at the Four Seasons; they were in my guest room.”

Eggers managed a vocal shrug. “Well, Stone, I don't see how that relates to the firm.”

“It was at your request that Billy Bob was a guest in my home.”

“It was just a suggestion.”

“So, I'm stuck with Billy Bob, is that it?”

“Looks that way.”

“Then perhaps you would give me some advice on the ethical ramifications of representing him.”

“Would this entail your sharing details of your relationship with Billy Bob?”

“It might.”

“Then my advice is don't violate attorney-client confidentiality. I've got a meeting; let's have dinner.” Eggers hung up.

Stone resisted a very strong urge to rip the phone from its connection and bang it repeatedly against the wall. Calming himself, he found the slip of paper on which he had written Billy Bob's phone numbers and dialed his home. A woman answered.

“Good morning, the Barnstormer residence.”

“May I speak with Mr. Barnstormer, please; it's Stone Barrington calling.”

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Barnstormer is traveling today.”

Stone consulted the paper for the GIV's number and found it not present. “May I have the phone number for his airplane?”

“I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to give out that number. I should be speaking with Mr. Barnstormer later today; can I tell him you called?”

“Please. He has the number.” Stone thanked her and hung up. He buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Joan, have you already deposited Billy Bob's retainer check?”

“Sure, I told you that. We'd have had to sell stock without it.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and fumed for a moment, then he dug out Warren Buffett's card and called his Omaha office.

“Good morning, Berkshire Hathaway,” a woman said.

Stone was about to speak but he stopped himself. He was sure that the voice he was hearing from Omaha was the same voice he had heard at Billy Bob's home in Dallas. He hung up and looked at the area code on Buffett's card: 402. He got out a phone book and looked up the area code for Omaha: 402. He looked up the area code for Dallas; there were three, one of them 469, same as Billy Bob's. But the same woman was answering both phones. He called Omaha information and asked for a number for Berkshire Hathaway. He was given a number different from the one on Warren Buffett's card. He dialed the number, and a woman answered.

“Good morning, Berkshire Hathaway.” Different voice, different accent.

“Good morning, can you tell me if this is the only number listed for Berkshire Hathaway?”

“It's the only one in Omaha,” she said.

“Thank you.” He hung up and looked at the Warren Buffett card. This Buffet was spelled with one
t.

Stone reached for the phone to call Dino, then stopped. He couldn't give the police unfavorable information about his client. Not that he had a hell of a lot of information about his client. He turned to his computer, went online and did a Google search for Billy Bob Barnstormer.
He got a lot of aviation hits, and to his surprise, learned that quite a number of people were actually named Barnstormer. He got two hits on a Billy Bob, both of them on Web sites that reported society news in New York, both of them referring to Billy Bob's presence at the Woodman & Weld party, one of them featuring the photograph with the mayor. Nothing before that date. Apparently, Billy Bob Barnstormer had not existed before that, at least on the Internet.

He did another search, this time for addresses and phone numbers. That service had never heard of anybody named Barnstormer. He tried Barnstetter and got the same result.

Stone sat at the computer, thinking hard. Then a tiny lightbulb went on in his brain, accompanied by a sinking feeling. He went back to Google and typed in “Rodney Peeples.” To his astonishment, he got three thousand, four hundred and twenty-two hits. For the next hour he scrolled laboriously through them and found two that mattered: a Web site for a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and another for a firm of certified public accountants in Enid, Oklahoma. The used-car Web site had photographs of the California Peeples standing in his car lot, a flashy girl on each arm. The man had a big mustache and sideburns, but he was, without doubt, Billy Bob Barnstormer. On the Web site of Peeples & Strange, accountants, he found photographs of the partners. This time he wore a conservative suit, button-down shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, but he was, nevertheless, Billy Bob.

So Billy Bob, in addition to being a Texas entrepreneur, was also a flamboyant used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a nerdy CPA in Enid, Oklahoma. Stone wondered how many other identities the man had. The mind boggled. He buzzed Joan again.

“Yes?”

“Joan, call my broker and tell him to sell a hundred thousand dollars of stocks, and to minimize the tax consequences. Have him wire the funds to our checking account immediately, and draw a cashier's
check for fifty thousand dollars, payable to Billy Bob. Then send the following letter to Billy Bob Barnstormer at the address we have for him: ‘Dear Mr. Barnstormer, this firm is unable to continue to offer you legal representation. We enclose a cashier's check in the amount of $50,000, representing a return of your retainer.' Send it Express Mail, return receipt requested, and get it out today.”

“As you wish.”

“And ask the bank to let you know when the cashier's check is paid.”

“Okeydokey.”

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“This is a confidential informant,” Stone said. “Listen carefully: Call Warren Buffett's office again, but this time, get the number from Omaha information.”

“Okay,” Dino said. “You want to have dinner?”

“Why not?”

“Elaine's, nine o'clock?”

“Sure.”

STONE WAS HALFWAY
through his first drink when Dino arrived and sat down. “So, what's this confidential informant crap?” he asked.

“If anybody ever asks where you got that information, I want you to be able to say, truthfully, that you got it from a confidential informant.”

“Well, that's very lawyerly of you,” Dino said, signaling a waiter for a drink.

“It's what I do. Did you call Berkshire Hathaway?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And we've both been had. Warren Buffett has never heard of Billy Bob.”

“You could say that. Something else I can tell you, since I no longer represent Billy Bob, is that you should go on the Internet, do a Google search for one Rodney Peeples, and pay particular attention to the hits you will get on a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a firm of accountants, Peeples and Strange, in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“Why?”

“I think you will find the experience rewarding.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Stone, stop talking like Alistair Cooke and tell me what's going on.”

“You will find that the Rodney Peeples of San Mateo and the Rodney Peeples of Enid are both Billy Bob Barnstormer. Or vice versa. Or they're all somebody else.”

“Oh? So Billy Bob made a complete fucking schmuck out of you, then?”

“Not quite. He paid me fifty thousand dollars for my trouble.”

“So, you're only a schmuck, then.”

“Except that I gave him back his fifty grand and told him to get lost.”

“So, you are, after all, a complete fucking schmuck.”

“One could say that.”

“What's Billy Bob's game?” Dino asked. “Besides murder, I mean.”

“I have no idea what his game is, but what do you mean, murder?”

“I mean the ME came back with a definite time of death of between eight
A
.
M
. and noon.”

“When Billy Bob was still in the house?”

“Correct.”

“Then I'm off the hook?”

“Not exactly. You haven't yet proved that the two of you weren't in it together.”

“You mean, you think that Tiffany may have been strangled by one of Billy Bob's hands and one of mine, working in concert?”

“Could be something like that.”

“My God, the entire Nineteenth Precinct detective squad, along with its lieutenant, is going to have to repeat junior detective school.”

“We are more in the business of implicating than exonerating.”

“Is there a warrant for Billy Bob yet?”

“First thing in the morning; I only got the ME's verdict an hour ago. Do you know where he is?”

“No, but if you will telephone Mr. Barnstormer's former attorney's secretary tomorrow morning, she might give you his address and phone number in Dallas.”

“Will he be there?”

“I have not been vouchsafed that information.”

“There you go again—what is this,
Masterpiece Theatre
?”

“Or you could try him in Enid, Oklahoma, or San Mateo, California.”

“Well, I have to say that Billy Bob, or whoever he is, is the most interesting co-murderer I've run across for a long time.”

“You want my theory?”

“I'm going to hear it, whether I want to or not.”

“I think his murdering Tiffany, or Hilda, or whatever her name was, was more in the way of an accident.”

“You mean you subscribe to that theory about strangling adding punch to the orgasm?”

“Either that, or they got rough, and he went too far. He doesn't strike me as a cold-blooded killer.”

“Guys like Billy Bob strike you as whatever they want to. He's a con man, a pro, and guys like that will go to great lengths to protect whatever identity they've chosen for themselves, up to and including murder.”

“You mean you think she got hold of his wallet or his passport or something and figured out he wasn't who he said he was?”

“Yeah, or maybe he confided in her, and she threatened to turn him in.”

“A little blackmail?”

“Hookers have been know to indulge in that sport.”

Stone glanced toward the front door in time to see Tiff enter. He waved her back to the table.

“Hi, there,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, back. Hey, Dino.”

“Good evening.”

“Good to see you,” Stone said, trying and failing to remember if he'd invited her to Elaine's.

“I thought you might be here, and I didn't have anything else to do tonight.”

“So the AG is done with you?”

“Not by a long shot, but he's on his way back to D.C., thank God.” The waiter approached, and she ordered a drink.

“What was the panic about?”

“More enthusiasm than panic, but, of course, I can't tell you.”

“I'll trade information with you,” Stone said.

“What have you got to trade?”

“Info about your friend Rodney Peeples.”

“I thought you didn't represent him.”

“Technically, I didn't; however I've come into some information about your Mr. Peeples that connects him to someone I do, or rather, did represent. At one time.”

“And who would that be?” The waiter returned with her drink, and she sipped it.

“You remember my client, now former client, the large Texan with the glittery tuxedo and the Tiffany, at the Woodman and Weld party?”

“How could I possibly forget?”

“Turns out he's not only my former client; he's also Rodney Peeples.”

Tiff nearly choked on her drink. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought I was clear.”

“Why didn't you tell this to the Secret Service guys who called on you? Don't you know it's a felony to lie to a federal investigator?”

“Because, when I spoke to them, I didn't know that Billy Bob and Peeples were one and the same.”

“And how did you find out? Did he tell you?”

“I found out by doing a Google search for Peeples, an investigative technique available to any six-year-old with a computer, and one that I recommend to your Junior G-Men.”

“And what did you find out about Peeples?”

“That he is a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a CPA in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“And you're sure that he's my Rodney Peeples?”

“No, just that he's
my
Rodney Peeples. Both Web sites sport his photograph.”

“Well, we didn't know about either San Mateo or Enid. Did you get the two-dollar bill from Peeples/Billy Bob?”

“I can't say.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“Having received information, it is your turn to impart it.”

“Let's just say that we have evidence of other activities of Mr. Peeples, but not the two you mention.”

“Exchanging information with you is an unrewarding experience,” Stone said.

“If I told you, I'd have to lock you up, so you couldn't tell anybody else.”

“You'd do that?”

“Not if I could help it, but the AG would do it in the blink of an eye, if he thought you knew about it.”

“You intrigue me.”

“That's the nicest thing anybody has said to me all day,” she said, batting her eyes furiously. “My office is buying dinner,” she said, reaching for a menu, “in return for the information.”

“Oh, no, you don't. I'm not becoming a confidential informant for the feds, and don't you dare write my name down anywhere.”

“I'll have to tell some people where I got the information about Peeples.”

“Tell them you got it from Google, which is the truth, sort of.”

“Okay. If you insist on buying, let's split the porterhouse.”

“Gold digger.”