Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (13 page)

“Right.” Stone said good-bye and hung up. Immediately, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Stone, it's Betty; Manolo just called and said the police are at the Bel-Air house with a search warrant, tearing the place apart.”

“Call him back and tell him not to impede them in any way,” Stone replied. “I'll call him later.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Did Vance have a principal financial adviser?”

“He pretty much managed his own affairs,” she replied, “but the person who would have the greatest grasp of his affairs is Marvin Kitman, his accountant. His lawyer is Bradford Crane.”

Stone jotted down both numbers. “Call both of them, and tell them I'm handling Arrington's affairs. There's a power of attorney in Vance's office desk, giving me full authority; fax that to both of them.”

“All right. Are you still out of touch, if the police call again?”

“I am. I'll talk to you later.” Stone hung up to see Arrington coming down the stairs. She was wearing a thin, silk dressing gown, and judging from the way she was lit from behind by a large window on the stair landing, nothing else.

“Ah, that's better,” she said, heading for the bar. “Can I fix you a drink?”

“It's a little early for me, and for you, too. Come and sit down, Arrington; we have to talk.”

“I'm having a Virgin Mary,” she said, pouring tomato cocktail over ice, “or, as Vance used to call it when he was dieting, a ‘bloody awful.'” She came and sat down beside him on the sofa, drawing a leg under her, exposing an expanse of inner thigh. “I'm here,” she said, placing her hand on his.

Stone took her hand. “I've got to explain your situation to you,” he said, “and you're going to have to take what I tell you seriously.”

She withdrew her hand. “All right, go ahead.”

“I've retained a criminal trial lawyer to represent you, a man named Marc Blumberg.”

“I know him a little,” Arrington said. “His wife is in my yoga class. But why do I need a criminal lawyer?”

“Because there's a good possibility that you may be charged with Vance's murder.”

“But that's ridiculous!” she said. “Utter nonsense!”

“I know it is, but you have to understand how the police work. They suspect you, because you were the only one in the house when Vance was shot.”

“Except the murderer,” she said.

“They think you hid the gun somewhere in the house, and they're over there right now with a search warrant.”

“Suppose they find it? What then?”

“Then they'll check it for your fingerprints.”

“Complete nonsense.”

“What I'm trying to tell you is that you have to be prepared to be arrested and charged.”

“You mean go to jail?”

“It's possible that, in such a case, bail could be denied by a judge, and you'd have to remain in custody until the trial was over.”

“Oh, God,” she said, bringing both hands to her face, “I don't think I could take that.”

“Blumberg is exploring every possible option as to bail, and you might have to raise a very large sum of money. Are you acquainted enough with Vance's financial affairs to know whether that would be readily available?”

“I only know that Vance was very well off. I mean, we lived splendidly, as you know, but I never took an interest in his finances, and he never sat me down and explained things to me.”

“I'm going to be calling his lawyer and accountant to discuss things with them. I'll know more after that, and I can explain your situation to you then.” Stone thought for a moment. “Do you know if Vance had any life insurance?” He felt very sneaky asking this, but he wanted to know her answer.

“I've no idea,” she replied. “My assumption is that he was rich enough not to need life insurance.”

Stone breathed a little easier. “Did you have a joint bank account?”

“Yes, but I had my own account. Vance put money into it as necessary. There was a household account that Betty paid all our bills from—she signed the checks on that one—and we had the joint account, which Vance used pretty much as his own; I almost never signed checks on that one. I don't know what other accounts he had, because all that sort of mail went to his office, not to the house.”

“Do you have any idea how much cash you have immediately available?”

“Vance put twenty-five thousand dollars in my account a few days before he was killed, and I probably had five or six thousand dollars in there already. So, thirty thousand, maybe? I've no idea what the joint account balance is.”

“I'll check into that,” Stone said. He took a deep breath. “There's something I have to ask you, Arrington, and I want the straightest answer you can give me.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you ever tell anyone that you were considering killing Vance?”

“Of course not!”

“Something else, and this is even more important. I have to know this: Do you think that it is within the realm of possiblity that, during the time you can't remember, you and Vance had such a serious fight that you might have killed him?”

“Absolutely not!” she cried. “How can you even ask? Don't you know me any better than that?”

“As a lawyer I sometimes have to ask unpleasant questions, even of people I know very well.”

She moved across the sofa, her dressing gown falling open, and put her arms around his neck, pressing herself to him. “Oh, Stone, I'm so afraid,” she said. “And I'm so glad you're here.”

Stone could feel the familiar contours of her body against him. He should have pushed her away, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. “I'm here for as long as you need me,” he said, stroking her hair.

They remained like that for what seemed a long time; she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

Then the doorbell began to ring repeatedly, and someone was knocking loudly.

 

 

 

S
TONE OPENED THE DOOR. A STEELY-LOOKING MAN IN his sixties, carrying a large case stood on the doorstep.

“I'm Harold Beame,” the man said. “Marc Blumberg sent me; you Stone Barrington?”

“Yes, come in.”

“Marc didn't want to come himself; he figured there'd be press at the gate, and he was right.”

“Might they have recognized you? Marc says you're well-known to the press.”

“My car windows are heavily tinted, and they wouldn't recognize the car. Where's my subject?”

“She's upstairs; I'll get her in a minute.” He led the man into the study. “Can I see your list of questions?”

“Sure.” Beame handed over a sheaf of papers. “Marc faxed them to me.”

Stone read through the list. They were tough questions, designed not for a milk run polygraph, but for learning the truth. Apparently, Blumberg wanted very much to know if his client was really innocent. “Fine,” Stone said. “I'll get Mrs. Calder.” He went upstairs and found Arrington at her dressing table. She was wearing a cotton shift over her bikini and was brushing her hair.

“Mr. Beame is downstairs in the study; he's ready for you.”

“I'll be right with him.” She seemed entirely serene.

“This is nothing to worry about; just give a truthful answer to each question.”

“I'm not worried,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.”

Stone walked her downstairs to the study. “Do you mind if I sit in?” he asked Beame.

“I mind,” Beame said. “It has to be just me and my subject; I don't want her to have any distractions.”

Stone left the two of them alone in the study and walked out to the rear deck of the house. Beyond a carefully tended beach, the blue Pacific stretched out before him. He took off his jacket and stretched out in a lounge chair. He'd had hardly any time to himself, and he was grateful for the break.

He thought of Dolce, and his thoughts were still angry. He felt some guilt about her, but he told himself he was now a free man. Dolce's behavior had made him want out of the relationship; he couldn't imagine a lifetime with a woman who behaved that way. He should have taken Dino's advice, he thought, and he'd certainly take it now. He would have to call Dolce and tell her flatly that it was over.

He thought of Arrington, and his thoughts were not pure. They had lived together for nearly a year, and during all that time, he had been happier than he had ever been with a woman. He had been crushed when she had married Vance Calder, a fact he had tried to hide from himself, without success. Now she was a free woman again—except, she might not be free for long. He had to get her out of this mess, and if he could, then they could see if they might still have some sort of life together. He thought about the money, and it annoyed him. Eduardo Bianchi's money, and his casual gift of the Manhattan house, had bothered him; he was accustomed to making his own way in the world, and the thought of a wife who was half a billionaire was, somehow, disturbing. He thought of Arrington's son, Peter. He liked the child, and he thought he could get used to being a stepfather. He might even be good at it, if he used his own father as a model. He took a deep breath and dozed off.

 

Arrington was shaking him, and he opened his eyes. The sun was lower in the sky, and the air was cooler.

“We're all done,” she said.

“How'd it go?”

“You'll have to ask Mr. Beame.”

Stone walked into the study and found Beame packing his equipment. “Want to give me a first reaction?” Stone asked.

“Marc said I could,” Beame replied. “I'll send him a written report, but I can tell you now that she aced it.” He frowned. “Funny, I don't think I've ever had a subject who was more relaxed, less nervous. I don't think she was tanked up on Valium, or anything like that; I can still get good readings when they try that.”

“I don't think she was,” Stone said.

“Anyway, if she can pass with me, she can pass with anybody.”

Stone realized that his pulse had increased, and now he could relax. “Thank you; I'm glad to hear it.”

Beame smiled. “It's a lot easier to represent an innocent client than a guilty one, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. When you leave, make sure that crowd at the gate doesn't see your face. I assume your windshield isn't blacked out.”

“I'll wear a hat and dark glasses, and don't worry, the car is registered to a corporate name. If they run the plates, they'll come up dry.”

Stone showed Beame to the door and thanked him. Then he went back out to the terrace. Arrington was out of the shift, now, stretched out on a lounge in her bikini, and there was a cocktail pitcher on the table next to her.

“It's not too early for a drink now, is it?” she asked. “I made one of your favorites.”

Stone poured the drinks into two martini glasses, handed her one and stretched out on the lounge next to her. He sipped the drink. “A vodka gimlet,” he said. “It's been a long time.”

“Poor deprived Stone,” she said.

“I think I associated the drink with you.”

She smiled. “I'm glad you waited until now to have one.”

“You passed the polygraph with flying colors,” he said.

“I know.”

“You know? Arrington, you haven't been taking tranquilizers, have you?”

“Of course not. You told me just to tell the truth, didn't you?” She smiled again. “Are you relieved?”

Stone laughed. “Yes, I'm relieved.”

“There was always the possibility that I'd killed Vance, wasn't there?”

“I never believed that,” he said truthfully.

She reached over and took his hand. “I know you didn't; I could tell.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two and sipped their drinks.

Finally, Arrington spoke. “I told you last year I'd leave Vance for you, remember?”

“I remember.”

“You were terribly proper, and I was angry with you for not taking me up on it, but I must admit, I admired you for the way you behaved.”

Stone said nothing.

“I'm free now, Stone; I hope that makes a difference to you.”

“It does, but there's something that troubles me, and I'm not quite sure how to deal with it.”

“I'm listening.”

“I've spoken with Vance's accountant and lawyer, and as soon as we're past this thing with the police and the will is probated, you're going to be a very rich woman.”

“Well, I suppose I assumed that,” Arrington said. “How rich?”

“Half a billion dollars.”

Her jaw dropped. “Half a
billion
? Is that what you said?”

“That's what I said. In fact, right now, you're a multimillionaire. You and Vance have a joint stock account that's currently worth more than fifteen million dollars.”

“I guess I thought that's what the whole estate would be worth. I guess I don't think about money, much. I don't even pay much attention to the trust Daddy left me.”

“You don't have to think about this right now, but you will have to later on.”

“I suppose so.” She looked at him narrowly. “Are you troubled by my newfound wealth, Stone?”

“Well, yes. I guess I'll just have to get used to it.”

“I was wealthy before, you know. Daddy's trust fund is a fat one, worth about twelve million, last time I checked. It never bothered you before.”