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  BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

  FICTION

  Foul Play*

  Class Act*

  Double Jeopardy*

  Hush-Hush*

  Shakeup*

  Choppy Water*

  Hit List*

  Treason*

  Stealth*

  Contraband*

  Wild Card*

  A Delicate Touch*

  Desperate Measures*

  Turbulence*

  Shoot First*

  Unbound*

  Quick & Dirty*

  Indecent Exposure*

  Fast & Loose*

  Below the Belt*

  Sex, Lies & Serious Money*

  Dishonorable Intentions*

  Family Jewels*

  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

  Deep Lie§

  Under the Lake

  Run Before the Wind§

  Chiefs§

  COAUTHORED BOOKS

  Jackpot** (with Bryon Quertermous)

  Bombshell** (with Parnell Hall)

  Skin Game** (with Parnell Hall)

  The Money Shot** (with Parnell Hall)

  Barely Legal†† (with Parnell Hall)

  Smooth Operator** (with Parnell Hall)

  TRAVEL

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

  MEMOIR

  Blue Water, Green Skipper

  *A Stone Barrington Novel

  †An Ed Eagle Novel

  ‡A Holly Barker Novel

  §A Will Lee Novel

  **A Teddy Fay Novel

  ††A Herbie Fisher Novel

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Stuart Woods

  Excerpt from Criminal Mischief copyright © 2021 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.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Woods, Stuart, author.

  Title: Foul play / Stuart Woods.

  Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2021. | Series: A Stone Barrington novel.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021034294 (print) | LCCN 2021034295 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593331699 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593331798 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3573.O642 F68 2021 (print) | LCC PS3573.O642 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021034294

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021034295

  p.  cm.

  Cover illustration: Mike Heath

  Cover image: Redswept / Shutterstock

  Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  Title page art: Blurred rainy street © Drop of Light/Shutterstock

  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.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Books by Stuart Woods

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chap
ter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Criminal Mischief

  About the Author

  ONE

  Stone Barrington was headed down Second Avenue in the heaviest rain he could remember. Fortunately, he was in a taxi. He was also about a third of a block from his street. The traffic on the cross street had come to a complete halt, and thus, so had Second Avenue, and Stone had an appointment with a new client in five minutes.

  “I think I’d better get out here,” he said to the driver.

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you.” The rain was hammering on the cab’s roof, making a horrific noise.

  “I’m going to get out!” Stone shouted, shoving some money through the plexiglass screen.

  “You’re gonna drown!” the driver shouted.

  “I have an umbrella!” Stone shouted back, opening the rear door. He stuck the umbrella out first and got it open, then he stepped into the street and kicked the door shut behind him. He was ankle deep in water, but he made it to the sidewalk, which was marginally better.

  As he rounded the corner, the traffic on the cross street suddenly began to move, and turning onto his street, he looked up the block and saw a man kicking something on the sidewalk. His vision was not helped by the rain, but it looked as though a dog was being abused. Stone simultaneously started to trot and close his umbrella, wrapping the tab around it and securing it, while the rain began drumming on his hat. Then he realized that the lump on the sidewalk was a man.

  “Hey!” Stone shouted at the kicker. The man looked up at him; he was wearing a ski mask. Stone ran at him—giving little thought to the size of the man, which was large—and drew back the umbrella. He swung at the man, connecting with his left arm, near the shoulder, and heard a shout of pain. The umbrella was golf-sized and had a thick wooden shaft, topped by a heavy, brierwood curved handle. Stone swung again, aiming at the head. The handle caught the man on the chin, but not solidly, since he was now withdrawing.

  Stone thought of pursuing him, but the man on the ground let out a loud groan, gaining Stone’s attention. He opened the umbrella and held it over the victim. “Can you hear me?” Stone shouted.

  “Yes,” the man said, nodding. Blood was being washed off his face by the rain.

  “If I help you, can you get up?”

  “Maybe.”

  Stone held out his left hand, and the man grabbed it and struggled to his feet. “Hold on to my arm,” Stone said. “It’s just a few doors.” They shuffled up the street together, taking small steps. At the door, Stone found he couldn’t ring the bell without letting go of the umbrella, so that was what he did. He leaned on the bell and heard a continuous ringing.

  A moment later, Joan Robertson, his secretary, opened the door, sized up the situation, and took the man off Stone’s hands. He grabbed the umbrella, closed it, and stepped inside.

  “What happened?” Joan asked. “This man is bleeding.”

  “Just get him inside, make him as comfortable as you can, then call 911 and ask for an ambulance. Tell them a man has been beaten up, and ask for the cops, too.”

  * * *

  —

  By the time help arrived, Joan had the man out of his raincoat and jacket, his tie was loosened, and he was sitting up in a chair in Stone’s office, sipping from a mug of tea with an electric heater blowing on him. The EMTs arrived first and gave him a quick going-over.

  “I don’t think anything is broken,” said the woman in charge of the team, “but it’s a good thing you arrived when you did, or the man might have killed him.”

  The two cops stood by. “Our turn now?”

  “Sure,” the woman said. “He doesn’t need to be transported. Whatever the lady put in that tea is probably as good for him as anything we’ve got in the wagon.”

  Stone walked them to the door, while the cops started asking questions and taking notes. Soon they finished and took their leave.

  All that Stone had heard of the conversation was the man’s name. “You’re Shepherd Troutman, is that right?”

  “He’s your eleven o’clock,” Joan said. “He was on time, too.” She had tucked a blanket around him.

  “He looks like he’s about the same size as Peter,” Stone said, referring to his grown son, who lived in Los Angeles. “See if you can find him a robe in Peter’s closet.”

  Joan headed upstairs to Peter’s room, and Stone sat down on the sofa, across the coffee table. “Mr. Troutman, do you feel like talking a bit?” he asked.

  “I guess I can rub a few words together and make simple sentences,” he said. “But don’t ask me to do any math.”

  “That’s okay with me,” Stone said, “but with all the excitement, I can’t remember why we’re meeting. Who sent you to see me?”

  “My banker,” Troutman said. “I’m new to the city, and I opened an account with him.”

  “Who sent you to the banker?”

  “A guy who went to college with him, who was my last banker.”

  “What’s the new guy’s name?”

  “Barton Crisp,” he said.

  “He’s my banker, too, or one of them. You did well there.”

  “That was my instinct.”

  “Where’d you come to New York from?”

  “Western Massachusetts.”

  “My family springs from that area,” Stone said. “Hence my surname.”

  “Great Barrington? I’m from Lenox.”

  “Welcome to New York,” Stone said. “We’re normally more cordial than your reception this morning. Do you know who your assailant was, or why he attacked you?”

  Troutman shook his head. “Right out of the blue. Never saw him before. Not that I saw him, with that mask on. I can’t think of why anybody would attack me, except to rob me. I have a few hundred dollars in my pocket, but he didn’t get that far before you came along. I haven’t thanked you properly. I’m very grateful for your help.”

  “I’m glad I was there,” Stone said. “Why the move to New York?”

  “I’ve never lived anywhere but Lenox, but my father died a few months ago, and I sold the family business for a lot of money, so I thought I’d make a fresh start.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced, nearly two years ago.”

  “Might your former wife want to come at you again for more money?”

  “No, she got a very favorable settlement at the time, and she’s remarried.”

  “Where are you living in the city?”

  “At the Carlyle Hotel, for the moment, but I want to find an apartment to buy.”

  Joan came back with a cashmere robe. “Mr. Troutman, if you’ll change into this, I’ll get your other things dried and pressed. There’s a powder room where you can change right over there.”

  Troutman took the robe and excused himself.

  Stone turned to Joan. “New client, new in town. Run off a copy of the list for him, will you?”

  “Sure thing.” She went back to her desk, printed out the document, and returned to Stone’s office as Troutman did.

  Stone took the document and handed it to his new client. “This is a list of names and addresses of people you might need to see or talk to at some point—doctor, dentist, insurance agent, financial adviser, real estate broker, etcetera.”

  Troutman looked through the list. “Thank you. I’m sure this will be very useful. I probably should see the financial adviser first, since I’m sitting on a lot of cash.”

  “If I may ask, how much did you derive from the sale of the business?”

  “Two hundred sixty million, give or take,” Troutman replied, “after taxes. And I got about that much from my father’s estate. I was his only heir.”

  “In that case, I’ll recommend a differen
t financial adviser,” Stone said, taking the list from him and writing in the name, address, and number of Charley Fox, his own adviser. “Charley is accustomed to dealing in larger sums than most brokers, and he’s more creative in selecting investments. He handles all of my money.”

  “I’ll call him today.”

  “There’s another attorney on the list, Herbert Fisher, who works with me, and is usually available if I’m not. He works at our firm, Woodman & Weld, in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at Fifty-Second Street. I work here, mostly.”

  They chatted for another half hour, then Joan brought Troutman his dried clothes, and he changed again.

  “The rain has let up a lot,” Stone said, handing him an umbrella, “but you’d better take this. Are you going to the Carlyle, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joan, ask Fred to drive Mr. Troutman.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “We wouldn’t want you to get all wet again, Mr. Troutman.”

  “Call me Shep,” he said, shaking hands.

  “Joan will put you in the car.”

  Joan came back a moment later. “Dino on one for you.”

  TWO

  Stone picked up the phone. “Hey.” Dino Bacchetti and Stone had been partners on the NYPD many years before. Now Dino was the police commissioner for the City of New York.

  “My computer says that some of my uniforms just made a house call at your place. Tell me about it.”

  “I got out of a cab around the corner, made the turn, and saw a man—large, wearing some sort of raincoat and a ski mask and, come to think of it, a black baseball cap, kicking a man who was down. I hit him on the arm with my umbrella, then once on the chin, nearly missing, and he ran. The victim was my eleven o’clock appointment. Joan and I got him inside, and the rest is about as you would imagine.”

  “How badly was the victim injured?”

  “He’s ambulatory, but if I had gotten there a little later, he could have been dead. Are you keeping a watch on my place?”

  “Not exactly. There’s a note in the computer that says call me if a visit is made there or at my place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Also, there was another such beating, about the same time—same description as the attacker at your place, but on the Upper West Side.”

  “Coincidence?”