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  BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

  F I C T I O N

  Scandalous Behavior†

  Foreign Affairs†

  Naked Greed†

  Hot Pursuit†

  Insatiable Appetites†

  Paris Match†

  Cut and Thrust†

  Carnal Curiosity†

  Standup Guy†

  Doing Hard Time†

  Unintended Consequences†

  Collateral Damage†

  Severe Clear†

  Unnatural Acts†

  D.C. Dead†

  Son of Stone†

  Bel-Air Dead†

  Strategic Moves†

  Santa Fe Edge§

  Lucid Intervals†

  Kisser†

  Hothouse Orchid*

  Loitering with Intent†

  Mounting Fears‡

  Hot Mahogany†

  Santa Fe Dead§

  Beverly Hills Dead

  Shoot Him If He Runs†

  Fresh Disasters†

  Short Straw§

  Dark Harbor†

  Iron Orchid*

  Two-Dollar Bill†

  The Prince of Beverly Hills

  Reckless Abandon†

  Capital Crimes‡

  Dirty Work†

  Blood Orchid*

  The Short Forever†

  Orchid Blues*

  Cold Paradise†

  L.A. Dead†

  The Run‡

  Worst Fears Realized†

  Orchid Beach*

  Swimming to Catalina†

  Dead in the Water†

  Dirt†

  Choke

  Imperfect Strangers

  Heat

  Dead Eyes

  L.A. Times

  Santa Fe Rules§

  New York Dead†

  Palindrome

  Grass Roots‡

  White Cargo

  Under the Lake

  Deep Lie‡

  Run Before the Wind‡

  Chiefs‡

  T R A V E L

  A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)

  M E M O I R

  Blue Water, Green Skipper

  *A Holly Barker Novel

  †A Stone Barrington Novel

  ‡A Will Lee Novel

  §An Ed Eagle Novel

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Stuart Woods

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  eBook ISBN 9780698195073

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is for Earl and Deborah Potter.

  CONTENTS

  Books by Stuart Woods

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  1

  Stone Barrington fell into his chair at his desk. He had flown his airplane across the Atlantic from England the day before, and however much sleep he had had that night had not been enough. Joan Robertson, his secretary, came into his office bearing a mug of steaming coffee.

  “Welcome back,” she said. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks for confirming that for me. It’s jet lag.”

  “I thought you didn’t get that, if you flew your own airplane.”

  “A myth, apparently.” He tasted the coffee and burned his tongue. He made a face. “Do you have to make it this hot?”

  “That is the temperature that the coffeepot operates at, and you’ve never complained about it before. Let it sit there for a minute or two and it’ll cool down. Your first patient of the day is waiting to see you.”

  “Patient? What am I, a dentist?”

  “More of a psychiatrist, I guess. Somehow, I think of them all as patients.”

  “I don’t have any appointments this morning.”

  “This one is a walk-in.”

  “Do we take walk-ins here? I don’t remember doing that.”

  “Sure we do. Some of your most interesting patients have been walk-ins. And anyway, you look as though you could use something to take your mind off the hangover.”

  “It’s not a hangover, it’s jet lag. I don’t drink when I fly.”

  “Take your mind off the jet lag, then.”

  “Oh, all right, send him in.”

  “Sexist! You assume it’s a man.”

  “All right, send her in.”

  “Now you’re assuming it’s a woman.”

  “I’m running out of choices—humor me.”

  “Right.” Joan walked out of the office, and he heard her say, “The doctor will see you now.” This was followed by a laugh, a female laugh. Joan led in a woman. “This is Mr. Barrington. Mr. Barrington, this is Ms. Fiske.”

  Stone tried to focus on her and failed. The blur of her was tall and slim, though, and that was a start.

  “How do
you do?” she asked in a low-pitched voice.

  Stone felt as if he were Humphrey Bogart, meeting Lauren Bacall for the first time. “Very well, thank you,” he said, struggling to his feet and extending a hand. “Won’t you sit down?”

  She shook his hand, then sat down across the desk from him and crossed her legs. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “You look as though you need it more than I,” she said.

  “There’s enough for both of us.”

  “I’ve already had my morning coffee, and a second cup would just get me wired.”

  It was easier to focus on her sitting down, and, once he was able to focus, it was very pleasant, too. She had blond hair, parted on the right and held back by a tortoiseshell clip. “It’s not working that way for me—not yet, anyway.” He took another sip and didn’t burn his tongue.

  “You look jet-lagged.”

  “I am—thank you for not suggesting I have a hangover.”

  “You’re welcome. Where have you flown in from?”

  “The south of England.”

  “London?”

  “Farther south—Hampshire.”

  “But you flew from London.”

  “No, from Hampshire.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that—fly from Hampshire to New York.”

  “You can, but you have to fly the airplane yourself.”

  “And it would have to be a big enough airplane to have that kind of range.”

  “No, just big enough to make it to the Azores, then Newfoundland, then Teterboro.”

  “And how big is that?”

  “You know Citations?”

  “Yes, my former husband owned one, until the bank took it away from him.”

  “A Citation M2.”

  “Oh. I used to fly a Bonanza.”

  The conversation was cutting the fog, so he continued. “So did I—a B-36TC.”

  “Mine was an A36.”

  “Sweet airplane, isn’t it?”

  “It was. My husband made me sell it when we got married. He was afraid to fly with me.”

  “The swine.”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. He’s why I’m here.”

  “Are you divorced?”

  “Yes, almost a year ago.”

  “Did you get a satisfactory settlement?”

  “No, but he did.”

  “Ah.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does he want more?”

  “Yes, but he knows he has no chance of that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “He won’t leave me alone—he follows me, turns up at places I’m going.”

  “Does he bother you on those occasions?”

  “Yes. Oh, he doesn’t push me around or anything, he just stares at me unrelentingly.”

  “There’s a word for that—stalking. And there’s a very useful New York State law against it.”

  “Sure there is, but it won’t do me any good when I’m dead.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “He doesn’t speak, he just stares.”

  “But you think he wants to kill you?”

  “I know he does. He told me right after we were married that if I ever left him, he’d kill me. I have no reason to doubt him.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “About five months, before I filed for divorce.”

  “And you’ve been divorced for nearly a year?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Stone took a big swig of the coffee; it was clearing his head. “Then why hasn’t he killed you?”

  “He just isn’t ready yet. Harvey was always a planner. I don’t think that has changed.”

  Stone took a yellow pad from a desk drawer and picked up a pen. “All right, let’s start at the beginning. What is your name?”

  “Carrie Jarman Fiske.”

  “Jarman?”

  “My grandfather was in shoes—Jarman shoes.”

  “I see. Address?”

  She gave him a very, very good Park Avenue address.

  “Age?”

  “That’s rude.”

  “I’m guessing, forty . . .”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “That was my first guess. Are you employed, Ms. Fiske?”

  “Self-employed. I’m an investor.”

  “Any children?”

  “None. I took precautions.”

  “What is your ex-husband’s name?”

  “Harvey Biggers.”

  “Is he employed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is his business?”

  “Managing my money.”

  “Before that?”

  “Managing other people’s money.”

  “Was he successful at managing your money?”

  “He would have been an abject failure if I had listened to him.”

  “Beg pardon? He didn’t have control of your funds?”

  “Certainly not. I may have been stupid to marry him, but I’m not crazy. He thought he managed my money, but he had no control of it. He would say, ‘Sell Apple,’ and I’d pretend to call my broker and tell him to sell Apple.”

  “So you never sold Apple?”

  “Of course not. My grandfather left those shares to me, twenty-five thousand of them, also ten thousand shares of a very nice company called Berkshire Hathaway.”

  “Your grandfather was a good stock picker. How long ago did he leave you these shares?”

  “He died when I was seven.”

  “You said he was in shoes?”

  “He was a traveling salesman. He sold men’s suits and shoes to stores all over the Southeast. But he was also a very good poker player, very shrewd. He played poker almost every night for forty years when he was on the road, and he banked his winnings. Then, once a month, he would invest them. The shares were put into a trust when he died, and I got control when I was twenty-five.”

  “And when you divorced, what did you have to give your husband?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That was it?”

  “Yep. I wrote him a check, moved his stuff out of my apartment, and told the doormen to call the police if he ever showed up.”

  “Did you have a restraining order against him?”

  “Yes, one that prevents him from coming closer to me than a hundred feet, and he never has.”

  “So, you’re legally divorced, your settlement was paid, and he hasn’t violated the TRO?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then there’s nothing we can do. Legally.”

  “How about illegally?”

  “No, no, don’t even think that. Do you have your ex-husband’s address?”

  She gave him the number of an apartment building on Second Avenue. “It’s a studio,” she said. “I suppose he’s living frugally.”

  “Do you have a will?”

  She blinked. “Yes. I forgot. And he’s the sole heir. How could I forget that?” She slapped her forehead.

  “Where is the original of the will?”

  “It’s in my safe, in my apartment.”

  “Well, when it’s convenient, get it to me. In the meantime, let’s draw up a new will.”

  “Right now?”

  “The sooner the better,” Stone said. “And we’ll send your ex-husband a copy.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I can’t do it right now; I have a lunch date.”

  “Don’t delay.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  2

  Now,” Stone said, “do you mind having some company for a few days?”

  “Are you volunteering?” she asked, a little smile on her face.r />
  “I’m volunteering a man who works for me. His name is Fred Flicker, and he is very competent.”

  “And what will his duties be?”

  “To see that you move about safely, and to frighten your ex-husband.”

  “Harvey was a boxing champion at Yale,” she said. “He doesn’t frighten easily.”

  “He hasn’t met Fred Flicker. Shall I introduce you?”

  “All right.”

  Stone buzzed Joan. “Please ask Fred to join us.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be just a moment.”

  A moment later Fred Flicker entered the room. “You rang, sir?” Fred Flicker would have been about five-six, if he wore heels, which he did not.

  “I did, Fred. This is Ms. Fiske. I would like you to accompany her everywhere she goes for the next few days. Her ex-husband has been following her, and when given the opportunity, I would like you to persuade him to discontinue that activity.”

  “How much persuasion may I use, sir?”

  “You may not harm him, except in self-defense.”

  “Will he be armed?”

  Stone looked at Carrie and raised his eyebrows.

  “He owns guns,” she said. “I don’t know if he has been walking around armed.”

  “Does he have a license to do so?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I expect not. Do you mind if he is sent to prison for a while?”

  “For killing me? For a very long time, please.”

  “No, for carrying a gun illegally.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Fred, if you learn that Mr. Harvey Biggers—that’s his name—is carrying, take steps.”

  “Quite, sir.”

  “You may go and get the car, Fred. Ms. Fiske will meet you outside momentarily.”

  Fred disappeared.

  “You really think this is going to work?” she asked.

  “Very probably. Bullies don’t like being confronted by those they have not chosen to bully.”

  “Harvey is a bully, now that you mention it, but I’m not sure that little man will frighten him.”

  “That little man, as you describe him, is a retired regimental sergeant of the Royal Marine Commandos. He is extraordinarily well qualified to frighten bullies.”

  “I can’t wait to see this.”

  “Then go somewhere today where you think Harvey might follow you. Fred is waiting outside in my car. I would like him to drive you anywhere you wish to go.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until Harvey vanishes.”

  “Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “I guess this is worth a try. What do we do if it doesn’t work?”