Dead in the Water Page 7

  “Paul was more of a wino; I’m the authority.” She handed him a bottle of red. “For the main course; might as well open it and let it breathe.”

  “Dominus ’87. Very nice.”

  “You know wines?”

  “Enough to stay out of trouble.” He opened both bottles.

  She set the two plates of smoked salmon on the table and untied her apron. Underneath it she was dressed in a very short skirt and a white cotton blouse, unbuttoned and tied under her breasts.

  Stone remembered that the first time he had seen her she’d been wearing that sort of blouse, tied that way.

  They finished their smoked salmon, then she whipped up a chicken dish over rice, with a lovely sauce. They were both warm with the wine and laughing easily. Allison cleared the table, then pressed a button and it folded away electrically.

  “Very slick.”

  “Glad you like it.” She caught him looking at her breasts. “Any yachtsman should be able to deal with a simple square knot,” she said, knocking back the last of her wine.

  Uh-oh, Stone said to himself. But he had had nearly a bottle of wine on top of the martini, and he was feeling hurt by Arrington, feeling incautious, and feeling extremely attracted to Allison Manning.

  She went to a switch panel and lowered the lights; when she came back the knot in her shirt had been untied. She bent to kiss Stone, and her breasts fell free. “Let’s forget about the attorney–client relationship for the night,” she said.

  Stone had a decision to make, and it didn’t take long. “It’s forgotten,” he said.

  She straddled his bare legs, and he found that there was nothing under the short skirt. He shucked off his shorts, and she pulled his polo shirt over his head. A tug at a zipper and a shrug of her shoulders, and they were both naked.

  “I don’t think I can wait,” Stone said.

  “I can’t wait, either,” she said, reaching down and slipping him into her. “We’ll wait longer next time.”

  They were both very quick and very together; they finished, clutching each other and smothering their cries in each other’s flesh. When they had both stopped trembling, she stood up, took his hand, and led him toward the aft cabin.

  “Now we can start working on the next time,” she said, “and we can practice waiting.”

  Chapter

  13

  Stone woke not long after dawn as a shaft of new sunlight fell across his face; it had been a warm night, and they were both lying on top of the bedcovers. She lay on her stomach with her head turned toward him, a strand of blond hair falling to a corner of her mouth and a tiny frown on her face, as if she were trying to figure out something about a dream. The frown lent her the innocence of a little girl.

  Stone didn’t know what had motivated her to make love to him—maybe the realization that she might have no more than a week to live and the desire to make the most of it; or maybe she was just horny. For himself, he had been disappointed, angry, jealous, drunk, and, oh yes, horny. She was a client, of course, but he was a long way from the Ethics Committee of the New York State Bar Association, and he had never been any good at saying no to women. He reached over and lifted the strand of hair from her face, and, to his surprise, she smiled.

  “I was just going to do that,” she said.

  “Glad to be of service,” he replied.

  Without opening her eyes, she reached for him and ran her hand down his body until it rested on his crotch. “Speaking of service,” she said, “are you in a mood to render a little?”

  “I am now,” he replied, reaching over and running a finger lightly down the cleft between her cheeks.

  She gave a little shudder and pulled herself on top of him.

  He took her buttocks in both hands and moved them up until her pelt was in his face, then began using his tongue lightly, teasing her until she became more insistent. She came easily, as she had been doing for most of the night, then she slid down his sweaty body and returned the favor, insisting on hanging on until he was entirely spent. Then she flopped down beside him, and they panted together, laughing. Shortly they were asleep again.

  They were awakened by a sharp rapping on the hull.

  “Ahoy there, anyone aboard?” A female voice.

  “Jesus,” Stone said, “what time is it?”

  “Half past nine,” she replied, checking the bulkhead clock. She raised herself on an elbow. “Who is it?” she called out.

  “The New York Times,” the voice replied. “If you’re Allison Manning, I’d like to talk with you.”

  “I really don’t think the Times should find us like this,” Stone whispered.

  Allison grabbed a robe and left the cabin, while Stone lay low. He could hear her climbing the companionway ladder, then the two voices.

  “I’m afraid I overslept,” Allison was saying. “Could I meet you over at the Shipwright’s Arms in half an hour?”

  “I’m Hilary Kramer,” the woman said. “I’d really like to see your yacht.”

  “Maybe later in the day,” Allison said. “It’s a mess right now.”

  “All right,” the woman said, sounding disappointed. “I’ll meet you over there in half an hour.”

  Allison came back to the after cabin. “The New York Times! That I wasn’t expecting.”

  “I don’t know how she could have gotten here so soon,” Stone said. “I wasn’t expecting anybody until tomorrow, late this afternoon at the earliest. I’m certainly glad she didn’t arrive at dawn.”

  Allison burst out laughing. “That would have made quite a story, wouldn’t it?”

  “I hope I can sneak over to my boat without being seen.”

  “You’d better start sneaking.”

  “I’ll be there when you talk to her. Just be yourself, tell your story just as you told it at the coroner’s inquest.”

  “I don’t know any other way to tell it,” Allison replied.

  Stone, showered and dressed, got to the Shipwright’s Arms a little before Allison. He walked over to the table where the woman was drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said, “I’m Stone Barrington, Allison Manning’s attorney.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Hilary Kramer,” she replied, shaking his hand. “Your name is familiar.”

  Stone shrugged. “I’m a New York lawyer; I was down here on a sailing charter when Allison sailed into the harbor. I helped her at the coroner’s inquest and…well, ever since.” He sat down. “How did you hear about all this?”

  “I was vacationing on Antigua, right next door; the story moved last night on the AP wire and the paper called me late; I got a little plane over here this morning.”

  “Sorry to interrupt your vacation,” Stone said.

  “You won’t interrupt it for long, believe me. I’ll file something before noon, then I’ll be back on my beach.”

  Stone looked up. “Here comes Allison,” he said.

  “She’s cute,” Kramer said. “How did you know I was here?”

  “My boat is moored next to Allison’s; I heard talking.” He stood up. “Good morning, Allison; I think you’ve already met Hilary Kramer from the Times.”

  “I did,” Allison said, sitting down. She waved at Thomas, who had appeared at the bar. “Can I have some coffee? You, too, Stone?”

  “I’ve already had some,” he lied, “but a second cup wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Make it for two,” Allison called.

  Before the coffee arrived, Hilary Kramer was deep into her interview. She covered all the ground, most of it better than had been done at the coroner’s inquest. “So what’s your legal position now?” she asked finally.

  “Stone can explain it better than I,” Allison said, “but as I understand it, they could hang me as early as next week.”

  Kramer turned to Stone. “They want to hang her?”

  Stone nodded gravely.

  “And what do you think are their chances of doing that?”

  “Off the record, I think that will depend greatly
on what the press has to say about this. If enough pressure can be brought to bear in the media, her chances will improve a lot.”

  “Why is the government doing this, with so little incriminating evidence?” Kramer demanded.

  “Still off the record, there is a body of opinion that holds that Sir Winston Sutherland, the Minister of Justice, has an ax to grind.”

  “What sort of ax?”

  “You’ve got me. Why don’t you ask Sir Winston?”

  Thomas, who had returned with a fresh pot of coffee, piped up, “Be glad to lend you my car,” he said.

  “Thank you very much,” she replied. “Is there a phone here? I’d like to call Sir Winston’s office for an appointment.”

  “I think you’d have a much better chance of seeing him if you’d just show up at Government House,” Thomas said.

  “You might get more if he’s a little off-balance,” Stone chipped in.

  Kramer looked around the table at all of them. “Look, this is not some sort of elaborate practical joke, is it?”

  “I wish it were,” Stone said. “And before you go, I think I should enlighten you a little about the system of justice as it exists on St. Marks—all off the record, of course. If you should quote me, it might react to Allison’s detriment.”

  “Sure, off the record. Shoot.”

  When he had finished, her mouth was hanging open. “Is there someplace I can get a room for the night?” she asked, finally.

  Thomas spoke up. “I have some rooms upstairs,” he said. “We had some cancellations because of the snowstorm in New York.”

  “Great,” she said. “Can I borrow that car now?”

  “Sure.”

  “And where can I pick up a toothbrush?”

  “There are shops all around Government House.”

  “I’d like to call my office, too.”

  “There’s a phone on the bar, or in your room,” Thomas replied.

  Kramer produced a camera from her bag. “I’d like to get some pictures of both of you,” she said, beginning to snap them. “Does Federal Express know about this island?”

  “They do,” Thomas said. “They’ll pick up from here; delivery will likely take two days, though.”

  “Shit,” she said. “Allison, are there any pictures of you floating around New York?”

  “Paul’s agent has one of the two of us together,” Allison replied. “Her name is Anne Sibbald; she’s at Janklow and Nesbit.”

  “Know them well,” Kramer said, continuing to photograph. “I’ll call them right now. Thomas, will you lead the way to my room?”

  “Right this way,” Thomas replied.

  When they had gone Allison turned to Stone. “Did that go well?”

  “I think it could hardly have gone better.”

  “She’s suspicious of you and me, though; woman’s intuition. We’d better be very correct around her.”

  “We’d better be very correct everywhere, except in bed,” Stone replied. “I’d suggest we give up sex for the duration, but I don’t think I could stick to that.”

  She smiled. “Neither could I.”

  “Stop smiling at me that way,” he said, looking around.

  The smile disappeared. “I’ll be very correct,” she said.

  Chapter

  14

  Stone had just finished his breakfast when Thomas waved at him from the bar and held up the phone. “Call for you from New York; fellow named Cantor. You want to take it here or upstairs?”

  “I’ll take it down here,” Stone said, crossing to the bar and picking up the phone. “Bob?”

  “Yeah, Stone.”

  “I thought you’d be on your way to the Canaries.”

  “I’m calling from Kennedy Airport; this morning was the first flight I could make and still do your legwork in the city.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Almost nothing about Allison Manning, but quite a bit about her husband.”

  “Shoot.”

  “First, Allison; she went to some New England women’s college, then worked in advertising, then she met Paul Manning, and they got married.”

  “That much she’s told me; anything else?”

  “Not yet; I didn’t have the time to track down anybody who knows her.”

  “What about the husband, then?”

  “I got luckier there. There was an interview a couple of years ago in Publishers Weekly, the trade magazine, right after he signed his last contract, which was for four and a half million dollars for two books. Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad at all.”

  “He finished the second book just before they left on the sailing trip. He had done increasingly well over the years, but three books ago he had a big bestseller, and that got him the new contract.”

  “Pretty rich writer, huh? And I was worried about Allison financing her defense.”

  “He’s a big spender, at least since he signed that contract. He bought the place up in Greenwich; I called a friend of mine who’s in real estate in that area, and she remembered the house. Big place—six or seven bedrooms; pool, tennis court, stables, greenhouses; on about eight acres; that’s a lot of real estate in Greenwich. He paid two million eight for it, and she says it’s probably worth three and a half, four million now. Then he ordered this yacht; I gather you’ve already seen that.”

  “Yeah; you find out anything about his debts?”

  “He’s got a two-million-dollar mortgage on the house—that’s about the max you could get at that level—and he owes a million two on the boat. There’s some smaller stuff, but not that small; he’s got sixty grand in credit card debt and a line of credit secured by the equity in the house—three hundred thousand—and half that is used up.”

  “Anything about insurance?”

  “His credit report shows that Chubb ran a check on him a while back, and that sounds like he’s buying insurance.”

  “I know he had insurance; I just don’t know how much.”

  “I reckon he has a net worth of around five, six million, if you include what’s still to pay on the book contract. He’s sometimes late on bill payments, but nothing serious, never more than thirty days.”

  “In short, he lives like a prince, but he’s not all that rich.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Any criminal record?”

  “None.”

  “Ex-wives?”

  “One. He was divorced about a month before he married Allison.”

  “Alimony?”

  “I haven’t had time to dig out the court records, but the divorce happened before he hit it big, so it’s probably not too bad. They were only married a year, and it was a Florida divorce, so there’s no community property law.”

  “What else?”

  “Out of college he worked for newspapers, starting in small towns, then working his way up. His last job was on the Miami Herald, before he quit to write full time.” The sound of notebook pages being turned came down the line. “Graduated from Cornell with a degree in journalism; high school in Olean, New York; born and raised there. He was pretty much the all-American boy. Too young for Vietnam, so he was never in the service; won a couple of awards at the Herald; that’s about it for now. I gotta run, Stone; it’s last call for boarding.”

  “Get going, then; call me from Las Palmas when you’ve had a chance to pick up some more.” He hung up the phone.

  “You getting anywhere?” Thomas asked. “Sorry if I was eavesdropping.”

  “No problem. No, I’m not getting anywhere. That was just some background stuff on Paul Manning; nothing of any real help.”

  “Chester called a while ago; he’s making special runs starting this afternoon—lots of requests for seats on that little plane of his.”

  “Sounds as though the press is heeding our call.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “You know, Thomas, I think we might need a little security down at the marina when these people start arriving. I w
ouldn’t like to let them too near Allison’s yacht; she’s going to need some privacy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Thomas replied. “I’ve got two brothers on the police; they could help out and round up enough guys to stake it out around the clock, I imagine. How many you want?”

  “Say two at a time, around the clock?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “How many brothers and sisters have you got, Thomas?”

  “Six brothers and four sisters, and a whole bunch of nieces and nephews; I lose count. In those days there was less opportunity in St. Marks; it was before tourism took hold down here. Two more of my brothers left, then came back; the two on the police stayed and did all right. They’re both sergeants.”

  “What did the sisters do?”

  “They got married and had babies. Everybody’s prosperous, for St. Marks.”

  “And you most of all, huh?”

  Thomas grinned. “You could say that.” The fax machine rang, and he turned to receive whatever was coming. “Hang on, this is more likely for you than for me.” The machine spat out a single sheet; Thomas glanced at it and handed it to Stone.

  It was typed sloppily on his own letterhead. “Dear Stone,” she said, “I wanted to let you know that I’m not going to be here when you get back. Vance has to go back to L.A., and we’re not nearly finished with the piece, so I’m going with him. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be out there, but it’s going to be at least a couple of weeks. I’ll call you when you’re back in New York. Best, Arrington.”

  Best. Not love, best. He didn’t like the sound of that in the least, and he was suddenly very glad he’d fucked Allison Manning. He would do it again, every chance he had, for as long as he could.

  He tore up the fax, threw it into the wastebasket behind the bar, and trudged up the stairs to start working again on Allison’s case.

  Chapter

  15

  Stone worked on his notes for the trial and tried to come up with new ideas for Allison’s testimony, but he was depressed, and depression always made him sleepy. Soon he was stretched out on the bed and dead to the world.

  Thomas was shaking him. “Stone, wake up.”