Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels Read online

  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.

  Eighteen

  STONE 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.”

  “I didn’t know the details,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were all that rich.”

  “Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek.

  Stone took a deep breath. “Now, there’s something about me you have to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You remember Dolce.”

  “Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter? How could I forget that dinner party in Connecticut last summer?”

  “Dolce and I were to have been married last weekend, in Venice.”

  Arrington sat up and looked at him, surprised. “Oh?”

  He started to tell her about the preliminary, but thought better of it. What did it matter? “But before it could take place, I was on a plane to L.A.”

  Arrington placed a hand on her breast. “Close call,” she said. “Whew!” Then she sat back. “Are you in love with her?”

  “I’m . . . a little confused about that,” Stone said.

  She took his hand again. “Let me help clear your mind.”

  “I’ll admit, I had misgivings, even before going to Venice, but she was pretty overwhelming.”

  “I can imagine,” Arrington said tartly.

  “Now, I think I must have been crazy. Dino has been telling me that since the moment I met her.”

  “Dino is a very smart man,” Arrington said. “Listen to him. I know how overwhelming a moment can be; that’s how I came to marry Vance. You’re well out of that relationship.”

  “I’m not exactly out of it, yet,” Stone replied. “I still have to speak to her; she’s been . . . unavailable when I’ve called her. She’s in Sicily.”

  “That’s just about far enough away,” Arrington said. “That should make it easier for you.”

  “I’m going to have to tell Eduardo, too.”

  “I can understand how facing him might be more daunting than telling Dolce.”

  “He’s been very kind to me; he made it plain that he was very happy about my becoming his son-in-law.”

  “He’s a nice man, but try not to make him angry. He would make a bad enemy, from what Vance has told me about him.”

  “Yes, I know; or, at least, that’s what Dino keeps telling me. God knows, I don’t want him for an enemy.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t let too much time pass before squaring this with both Eduardo and Dolce,” Arrington said. “It won’t get any easier.”

  “I know,” Stone replied.

  The phone on the table between them rang, and Arrington picked it up. “Yes? Oh, hello, Manolo; yes, I’m very well, thank you. I’ll be spending a couple of days out here.” She listened for a moment. “Did the police make much of a mess? Well, I’m sure you and Isabel can handle it. Yes, he’s right here.” She handed the phone to Stone. “Manolo wants to speak to you.”

  Stone took the phone. “Hello, Manolo.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. A lady has been telephoning you here; she’s called several times. A Miss Bianchi?”

  “Yes, I know her; I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “She left a number.”

  Stone realized he had left Dolce’s number in Sicily at the Bel-Air house. He took out a pen and notebook. “Please give it to me.”

  Manolo repeated the number; Stone thanked him and hung up.

  “Dolce called?” Arrington asked.

  “Yes.” He looked at his notebook. “She seems to be at the Bel-Air Hotel.”

  “Why don’t you call her from the study,” Arrington said. “I don’t want to hear this conversation.”

  “Good idea.” Stone went into the study and dialed the hotel number.

  “Bel-Air Hotel,” the operator said.

  “Miss Dolce Bianchi, please.”

  “One moment. I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”

  Stone was baffled for a moment; then he had a terrible thought. “Do you have a Mrs. Stone Barrington?”

  “Yes, sir; I’ll connect you.”

  As the phone rang, Stone gritted his teeth.

  Nineteen

  THE PHONE RANG AND RANG, AND FOR A MOMENT, Stone thought she’d be out. He was sighing with relief when Dolce, a little breathless, picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  Stone couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

  “Stone, don’t you hang up on me,” she said.

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry I took so long to answer; I was in the shower.”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Come on over; I’ll order dinner for us.”

  “I won’t be able to stay for dinner; I have another commitment.” This was almost true.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “It’ll take me at least half an hour, depending on traffic. See you then,” he said hurriedly, before she asked where he’d be coming from. He hung up and went back out to the deck. “I’m going to go and see her now,” he said.

  Arrington stood up, put her arms around him and gave him a soulful kiss. For the first time—for the first time since she’d run off with Vance—he responded the way he wanted to. Arrington stepped back and patted him on the cheek. “Poor Stone,” she said. “Don’t worry—you can handle it.” She turned him around, pointed him toward the door, and gave him a spank on the backside, like a coach sending in a quarterback with a new play. “I’ll order in some food and fix us some dinner,” she called, as he reached the door.

  “Don’t start cooking until I call,” he said. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

  The mob at the Colony gate had boiled down to one TV van and a photographer, and although they stared at him as he drove through, they didn’t seem to connect him with Vance Calder’s widow. A few miles down the Pacific Coast Highway, there was an accident that held up traffic for half an hour, giving Stone more time than he wanted to think.

  Women, he reflected, usually broke it off with him, for lack of commitment. He had never been in the position of breaking off an engagement, and he dreaded the thought. By the time he got past the accident and made it to the hotel, he was an hour late.

  Dolce opened the door and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you,” she whispered into his ear. It did not make Stone feel any better that she was naked. It seemed that women had been f
launting nakedness all day, and he had never been very good at resisting it. He pushed her into the suite and closed the door. “Please put something on; we have to talk.”

  Dolce grabbed a robe and led him into the living room. Stone chose an armchair so he wouldn’t have to share the sofa with her. “I’m sorry you came here,” he said. “It was the wrong thing to do under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” she asked.

  “Arrington is in trouble, and until I can get her out of it, I can’t think about anything else.”

  “She killed Vance, didn’t she? I knew it.”

  “She did not,” Stone said.

  “I could smell it as soon as I arrived in this town. The newspapers and TV know she’s guilty, don’t they?”

  “They don’t know anything, except the hints the cops are dropping.”

  “The cops know she’s guilty, don’t they?”

  “Dolce, she passed a lie detector test this afternoon, a tough one, by a real expert.”

  “You need to think she’s innocent, don’t you, Stone? I know you; you have to believe that.”

  “I do believe that,” Stone said, although Dolce was still shaking her head. “The police are trying to railroad her, because they can’t find the real perpetrator, and I can’t let that happen.”

  “Are you still in love with her, Stone?”

  “Maybe; I haven’t had time to think about that.” In truth, he’d hardly thought of anything else. “Dolce, we very nearly made a terrible mistake. Let’s both be grateful that we were spared a marriage that would never have worked.”

  “Why would it never have worked?”

  “Because we’re so different, temperamentally. We could never live with each other.”

  “Funny, I thought we had been living with each other for the past few months.”

  “Not permanently; we were playing at living together.”

  “I wasn’t playing,” she said.

  “You know what I mean. We were . . . acting our parts, that’s all. It would never have worked. I wish you hadn’t come.”

  “Stone, I’m here because you’re my husband, and you need me.”

  “Dolce, I am not your husband, and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the hotel that.”