Insatiable Appetites Page 11

  “Not very well,” Willard said. “I’m being followed.”

  “By whom? Any ideas?”

  “Some of them are in black SUVs,” he replied. “As paranoid as that may sound.”

  “It doesn’t sound all that paranoid, when you consider that Evan Hills was run down by a black SUV. When did this start?”

  “I first noticed them around noon, when I left my place of business to have lunch at the Four Seasons Georgetown with Carla Fontana. They were still around when I left the hotel, and I thought I spotted a couple of guys on foot.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Like me,” Willard said. “Ex–Special Forces, very fit.”

  “Where did you serve?”

  “Two tours each, in Iraq and Afghanistan, and other places I can’t tell you about.”

  “Your Beretta seemed well-used.”

  “You could say that. I’m pretty well-used, myself.”

  “What brings you to New York?”

  “I don’t feel safe in D.C.,” Willard said. “You offered Evan refuge here—I hoped you might do the same for me.”

  “Of course,” Stone said. He buzzed Joan and asked her to get the apartment next door ready.

  “It’s been ready since yesterday,” she said.

  “And please make a copy of those documents I gave you earlier and bring it to me.” Stone put the phone down. “You have an antiques shop on Pennsylvania Avenue in Georgetown, is that right?”

  “Yes. It’s where I met Evan. He came in several times as a customer and we became friends. That was before he was elected to Congress.”

  “Do you live over the shop?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “I was sent a document that listed your address as what sounded like the shop.”

  “I have a duplex apartment upstairs and another that I rent.”

  “Let me explain about the weapon,” Stone said. “New York City has a very tough weapons law, and it’s almost impossible for an ordinary citizen to get a carry permit, unless he can prove he’s routinely transporting large amounts of cash or jewelry. Possession is a serious matter and carries a prison sentence. The police don’t look kindly upon visitors to the city who arrive armed.”

  “I understand. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Did you fly here?”

  “No, I rented a car and returned it here. I thought I might be less likely to be followed, and I didn’t notice anyone on my tail.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about Evan—and you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How long ago did you meet?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “When did you become more than just friends?”

  “About three months after we met. Evan was very paranoid about being gay. He had worked in politics for years and had given large donations to his party, but he knew he’d be ostracized if he came out or was discovered. He wouldn’t visit me more than once a week, and when he did, he always bought some object or picture and left carrying it. His house is full of things he bought from me, and they were, without exception, the finest pieces I had to offer. He was my best customer—our relationship apart—and his taste was superb.”

  Joan came in with the copies Stone had asked for.

  Stone handed the letter from Hills to Willard. “He left this here on his visit yesterday.”

  Willard read the letter carefully, then read it again.

  Stone handed him the will. “And this.”

  Willard read it and began to cry.

  Stone was taken aback; Willard didn’t look like the sort of man who would allow himself to be seen weeping. He pushed a box of tissues across the desk, and Willard took a handful, dabbed at his face, and blew his nose noisily.

  “I’m sorry for my conduct,” he said.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Stone replied.

  “You see, Evan knew that the income from the shop and the apartment kept me operating pretty close to the line. All I have beyond that is my disability pension from the military.” He held up the will. “This changes everything for me.”

  “I expect it does,” Stone said, handing him Hills’s financial statement.

  Willard read it and began to weep again.

  Stone was in his study watching the news when Joan came in. “Is Mr. Willard all settled in?”

  “Yes. Helene is making him some dinner. What a very nice man he is!”

  “He charmed you pretty quickly, didn’t he?”

  “He certainly did. He’s also very handsome.”

  “I wouldn’t let that go to your head.”

  “Oh, I know he’s gay. I could tell, but women love gay men.”

  “Because they’re harmless?”

  “Because, in my experience, they’re sympathetic and understanding,” she said. “He’s quite broken up over his loss, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I hope you were sympathetic.”

  “Of course I was. I offered my condolences and gave him tissues.”

  “Did you really?”

  “And shelter from his enemies.”

  “Who are his enemies?”

  “That has not yet been determined.”

  “Has it been determined whether his enemies are real or imagined?”

  “If Evan Hills was run down deliberately, he has enemies. If he wasn’t, he may still have enemies, real ones.”

  There was a tap at the door, and Stone looked up to see Bruce Willard standing there.

  “Come in, Bruce. May I call you that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’m Stone. Would you like a drink?”

  “I could use one.” Willard took a seat on the sofa.

  “Joan? As long as you’re here?”

  “I’ll drink some of that awful whiskey you like so much.”

  Stone went to the bar. “One Knob Creek, coming up. Bruce?”

  “The same, please, rocks.”

  Stone poured and distributed the drinks.

  “Sit down, Joan.”

  She sat, taking the other end of the sofa from where Willard sat.

  “I understand you have an antiques shop, Bruce,” she said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you have a specialty?”

  “It’s pretty eclectic. I do very well with Georgian silver.”

  “I love Georgian silver.”

  Maybe I should leave the two of them alone, Stone thought. The phone rang. “Stone Barrington.”

  “It’s Carla.”

  “Hi, there.”

  “I had a very nice lunch with Bruce Willard.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “We’re having a drink at my house now.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “We’d be delighted. Where are you?”

  “In a cab from the airport.”

  “Then come straight here. We’ll have dinner here, too.”

  “See you in twenty.” She hung up.

  “That was Carla. She’s coming here. Why don’t we all have dinner?”

  “Thank you,” Willard said.

  “Joan, will you call Helene and tell her we’ll be four? And would you please bring me that tape I was going to send to Carla?”

  Joan went to the phone on the desk and called downstairs. “Helene wants to know what you’d like.”

  “Something Greek,” Stone said.

  “Something Greek,” Joan said into the phone. “Got it.” She hung up. “Forty-five minutes—she was already halfway there.” Joan left the room and came back with the tape.

  Carla arrived in time for a second round. “Fancy meeting you here,”
she said to Bruce, accepting a martini from Stone.

  “Small world,” he replied.

  “I have news,” Carla said. “We’re running in the Sunday paper, and it’s a spread in Section A.”

  “Great,” Stone said.

  “I hope so,” Bruce replied.

  Stone gave Carla the tape. “Here it is.”

  “Good, now we can publish quotes. There’s still time to get some in, we don’t close until tomorrow night.”

  “I suppose I should be relieved,” Bruce sighed.

  “Look at it this way, Bruce,” Stone said. “After the story runs, no one will be trying to stop you from saying whatever you were going to say. No one will feel any need to harm you.”

  “Then it’s a pity it didn’t run sooner,” Bruce said. “Evan might still be alive.”

  They had finished dinner and were on coffee and brandy when Carla’s cell phone went off, and she excused herself from the table.

  “There must be some problem with publication,” Bruce said.

  Carla returned. “The publisher got a call from a billionaire fund-raiser, he wouldn’t say who, trying to talk him out of publishing our piece. Somebody has talked about our pub date.”

  “Oh, God,” Bruce said, “this is never going to end.”

  “He told the man in no uncertain terms that he was publishing,” she said, “and they’re sending a messenger over here for the tape. Stop worrying, Bruce, my paper doesn’t get pushed around.”

  “Would this be the same billionaire who hosted the infamous meeting?” Stone asked.

  “That’s my supposition,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask for permission to publish the name of the caller, and I’m likely to get it.”

  Bruce polished off his brandy and set his glass down. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day, and I’m going to turn in.”

  “Tomorrow morning, dial three on the phone and ask Helene for breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” he said, rising, “and good night to you all.”

  The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Yes? Someone will be right there.” He hung up. “Carla, that’s your messenger at the door.”

  Carla grabbed her purse and went upstairs.

  “I think that’s my cue to go home,” Joan said.

  “Sleep well.”

  “I always do. A clear conscience will do that for you.” She left the table and went upstairs.

  Stone followed her and ran into Carla.

  “That’s done,” she said. “May I use your phone? I forgot to call my usual hotel.”

  “This is practically a hotel,” Stone said. “Take a guest room.” Before she could protest, he got her bag from the study and led her to the elevator, then he installed her in a bedroom.

  “I’m just down the hall, if you need anything,” he said. “And dial three for breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Stone.” She kissed him on the cheek, brushing the corner of his mouth.

  “There are robes in the closet,” he said. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to the master suite. He undressed, got into bed, and turned on the eleven o’clock news. A couple of reports in, a photograph of a black SUV with a smashed front fender came onto the screen.

  “A vehicle police said was involved in a Manhattan hit-and-run yesterday has been found parked on a public street in Newark, New Jersey,” the anchorwoman said. “It was registered to a Washington, D.C., security firm called Integral Security and was reported stolen by that firm last night. Police sources tell us it had been wiped clean of fingerprints.”

  Stone switched off the TV and fell asleep.

  Stone was sleeping soundly on his side when a fingernail ran down his spine, causing him to jump.

  “I’d say I was sorry to wake you, but I’m not,” Carla said.

  Stone turned over, and she came into his arms, naked.

  “You can ask me to leave, and I will,” she said. “But I hope you won’t.”

  Stone began to feel receptive. “As a matter of policy,” he said, “I never kick a beautiful, naked woman out of bed.”

  “I’m glad I qualify.”

  “On both counts.”

  Another hour passed before they fell asleep.

  When Stone awoke he could hear the shower running. He called Helene and ordered breakfast, then turned on Morning Joe. Shortly, Carla appeared in a guest robe, her hair wet. She climbed into bed, and he used the remote to sit them up.

  “Breakfast is on the way,” he said.

  “Do I have time to dry my hair?”

  “If it doesn’t take long.”

  She ran back to the bathroom, and he heard the dryer running. By the time she came back, the tray was out of the dumbwaiter and on the bed between them.

  “It’s scrambled eggs with cheese, and applewood smoked bacon,” he said. “I hope it’s not too much.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m starved!” She tossed aside the cover and dug in.

  Somebody on Morning Joe was talking. “There’s a rumor that the New York Times is running a major investigative piece on Sunday that may be tied to the death of Congressman Evan Hills, Republican of Pennsylvania.”

  Carla sat up straight. “How can they possibly know that?” she asked. “This is getting annoying.”

  “He said it’s a rumor,” Stone pointed out.

  “Anybody heard anything?” the journalist asked.

  “Only what you’ve heard,” somebody said.

  “Then I guess we’ll have to wait for the paper to land on the doorstep.”

  “Oh, God,” Carla said. “That scared me for a minute.”

  “Be happy,” Stone said, “you just got a big plug from a program the Washington establishment watches every morning, and it didn’t blow your story.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I think I’m almost as nervous as Bruce.”

  Stone took the tray back to the dumbwaiter, and by the time he had rejoined Carla, she was naked again.

  “I’ve got half an hour before I have to get dressed,” she said, reaching for him.

  “Then let’s make the most of it,” Stone said, joining her.

  Stone arrived at his desk pretty much on time, and Joan came in. “We’ve got a little problem,” she said, “and you need to make a call.”

  “What problem?”

  “I called Frank Campbell’s Funeral Parlor for Bruce about picking up Evan Hills’s body and sending it to Philadelphia, but they need a death certificate and permission of a relative.”

  Stone called Dino.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, there. I need your help.”

  “Officially?”

  “This time, yes. Will you call the ME and have him issue a death certificate for Evan Hills and release that and the body to Frank Campbell’s?”

  “At whose request?”

  “Mine. I’m Hills’s executor.”

  “That’ll do. I’ll call him right now.” Dino hung up.

  Stone buzzed Joan.

  “Taken care of?”

  “Yes, you can tell Campbell’s to go ahead. Where is the body being sent?”

  “To a Philadelphia funeral director suggested by Campbell’s. Bruce didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Okay.”

  A few minutes later, Bruce knocked on the door and came in. “Good morning, Stone.”

  “Good morning, Bruce.”

  “Thank you for helping with the funeral home. I’ve called Evan’s father’s number twice but haven’t been able to reach him.”

  “Does he know who you are?”

  “Very unlikely.”

  “May I have the father’s number?”

  Bruce handed it to him. “His name is E
lton Hills.” Stone dialed the number but got only a beep.

  “Mr. Hills,” he said, “my name is Stone Barrington. I’m an attorney in New York, and I’m the executor of your son Evan’s estate. I would be grateful if you would contact me regarding funeral arrangements.” Stone left his number and hung up. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Thanks, I did.”

  Joan buzzed. “I have Mr. Elton Hills on one.”

  “That was fast.” Stone pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

  “This is Elton Hills, and I got your message. Are you telling me my son is dead?”

  “Mr. Hills, I regret to have to tell you that he is. I’m sorry if my message shocked you. I had thought you would have already heard.”

  “I don’t keep up with the news much. How did he die?”

  “In what appears to have been a traffic accident in New York. He was struck by a car while crossing the street.”

  “When?”

  “The day before yesterday. A friend of Evan’s arranged for a New York funeral parlor, Frank Campbell’s, to transport the body to Philadelphia, to . . .” Joan was standing in the doorway, and she handed him a slip of paper. He read the name of the funeral home to Elton Hills.

  “That’s fine, they’re reliable people. I’ll take it from there. You said in your message that you are Evan’s executor?”

  “That’s correct. I’ll be glad to send you his letter appointing me and a copy of his will. He hand-delivered it to my office a few hours before his death.”

  Hills gave him a fax number, and Stone handed it to Joan.

  “You should have the fax in five minutes,” Stone said. “Please call me if you have any questions.”

  “Does Evan owe you any money?”

  “He gave me a retainer along with his will. That should cover everything. Please let me know if I can be of further help.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Hills said. “Thank you.” He hung up.

  “How did he sound?” Bruce asked.

  “Matter-of-fact. Not upset.”

  “Evan said he was a pretty cold customer.”