Dead in the Water (24 page)

She frowned and began thinking. "Don't hesitate, tell the truth. If he asks you such a question, it's because he already knows the answer." "Aren't you going to have some sort of structure to this questioning?" "In court, yes; but not now. I'm deliberately throwing curves at you, because I want you to be ready for anything. Don't worry about structure right now, or even if I'm Sir Winston or me; just answer each question truthfully." "All right, all right," she said irritably. "If you think this is hard, wait until the trial starts. I'll tell you again, rely on the truth, because it really can set you free. If you start striking poses the jury wilt knowt immediately. Try to think of these people as your friends, friends you wouldn't lie to, friends on whom you're, depending to do right by you, friends you trust." "Who are these people likely to be?" "They could be this island's aristocrats, or they 'could be cab-drivers and shopkeepers; we won't know until they're there, facing you. Don't look at me or Sir Winston all the time when you're being questioned; look at the jury, not as a group, but as individuals. Share your answers with them, one at a time; suck them into your story, each man of them." She nodded. "All right." "Mrs. Manning, what is the net worth of your husband's estate?" "I believe it will be around fifteen million dollars, but I won't know for sure until all the debts are paid." "Good! Mrs. Manning, why would your husband have twelve million dollars in life insurance?"

"Paul had never saved much money, although he earned a lot from the sale of his books. He knew he was a candidate for a heart attack, because his doctor had told him so, and he wanted me to be secure if he should die suddenly. Buying so much insurance was sort of a way of saving, of forcing himself to save, so there would be support for me if he died."

"Good! Answer that way--fully and completely always."

"Of course," Allison replied with assurance.

"Mrs. Manning, have you ever fired a scuba diver's spear gun?"

She reacted as if struck. "Ah, I... no."

"That's a lie. If I can spot it, so can the jury. Answer the question."

She took a deep breath and exhaled it. "Yes, of course. Paul and I went diving whenever we were near a good reef."

"Have you ever struck anything with a harpoon fired from a gun?"

She smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid not. Paul was a good shot, but I would always miss."

"Good, get a laugh out of them. How far were you standing from Paul when you fired the spear gun at him?" Her face collapsed into disbelief. "What?" "Where did the spear strike him?" "Are you crazy?"

"In the chest? In the neck? Did he fall overboard immediately, or did you have to help him?"

"Stone, goddammit!"

"Did he bleed a lot? Did sharks come when they smelled the blood?"

"Stop this!"

"Answer the questions!!!" "I never fired a spear gun at my husband, never!" she cried, furious now. "I would never have done anything to harm him!"

"Now that's better," Stone said. "That's a good time to get angry, when he does that to you." "You said not to get angry." "I misled you." "You son of a bitch." "No, I'm the sweetest guy in the world; Sir Winston Sutherland is the son of a bitch, and he'll do anything he possibly can to get you to come apart on the stand. He already knows about the spear gun."

"How do you know that?" "Because the police searched the yacht, remember? You think they wouldn't notice a lethal weapon hanging on a bulkhead in plain sight?"

"Oh," she said. "What about the other weapons? ......4 "What other weapons?" "What did they take from the, boat A pistol? A shotgun?" "We didn't have any weapons on board; Paul was very antigun."

"What about the spear gun? That was a weapon." "It was a tool; it was used for fishing," she said calmly. "What didn't they find? A nine-millimeter automatic? A riot gun? What?"

"There were no weapons aboard!" she cried.

"How many knives were aboard the yacht?" "I don't know how many..." "Think! Count them in your head!"

She thought for a moment. "Maybe eight or ten, maybe a dozen."

"Enumerate them."

"Let's see, in the galley, there was a chef's knife, a bread knife, a boning knife, and two paring knives." "How long was the chef's knife?"

"About eight inches. I could never handle the big ones."

"Is that what you used on your husband? An eight-inch chef's knife? That would do the job."

"I never harmed my husband," she said quietly. "What other knives were aboard?"

"There were a couple of rigging knives; we kept one by the main hatch and one strapped to the mast, for deck work. Paul wore another one in a scabbard, along with a marlin spike."

"Did you take the knife from his belt and stab him with it?"

"No! I never harmed him."

"So you just gave him a shove when he was pissing overboard, huh?"

"I did not!"

"Was he wearing the scabbard with the knife and marlin spike when you rolled his body overboard?" "No, I removed the belt first." "So, you did roll him overboard!" "Yes, I did; some hours after his death."

"Did you search his pockets, Mrs. Manning, for money or spare change? Was there anything you wouldn't take from him?"

She locked her eyes onto Stone's, and when she spoke she was begging him to believe her. "Please, I never, ever harmed Paul. He was dead when I buried his body at sea." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Stone went and took her in his arms. "All right," he said. "That's my girl; that's my star witness; that's my innocent victim of perverted justice."

She looked up at him and laughed. "Gotcha, didn't I?" Stone buried his face in his hands.

CHAPTER

one strode across the lawn toward the Shipwright's Arms, thinking hard about Arrington. He thought of writing to her, maybe even calling her; then he remembered that she was at Vance Calder's Palm Springs house. He didn't have any of Calder's addresses or numbers, so there was no way to get in touch with her until she got in touch with him.

He was almost to the bar when he stopped in his tracks. A man in a seersucker suit was sitting at the bar, drinking something and talking to Thomas. He was big, over six feet, and better than two hundred fifty pounds; that was obvious even when he was seated. Stone had seen only one photograph of Paul Manning, but the man seemed to look very like him, except for the absence of a beard, and he had no idea what Manning would look like without the beard. Stone suddenly had the strange feeling that the whole business was some sort of dreadful error, that Paul Manning had simply fallen overboard near the Canaries and had swum ashore, and now he had shown up in St. Marks to save AIlison's life. He approached the bar with some trepidation and sat down. "Thomas, could I have a beer?" Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. "You must be Stone Barrington," he said. "That's right," Stone replied. The man stuck out a hand. "I'm Frank Stendahl." Stone shook the hand. "How do you do?" "Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week." "I expect so. Where have you come frenn, Mr. Stendahl?" "I'm a New Englander," he said. "The Go. stOn area." "And what brings you to St. Marks?" "Vacation," the man said. "I seem to be about the only tourist around here." .. "Well, first there was the blizzard in the Northeast, then we were pretty choked up with press, and then, I guess, the bad press made St. Marks an unpopular destination." "Funny, the publicity somehow made it more attractive to me. I understand you've got a trial starting soon." "That's right." "I wonder if I could attend? Could you arrange it for me?" "I'm afraid not; I'm out of my own bailiwick here, you see." Thomas chimed in. "It's open to the public," he said. "I expect if you were there an hour before the trial you'd get a seat."

"Thanks, Thomas," Stendahl said. "Well, Stone--if I may call you that--what's your that strategy going to be?"

"I don't think I can discuss that," Stone replied, sipping his beer.

"Of course not; that was silly of me. The lady seems to be innocent, though; you going to get her off?" "I'll do my best." "Well, how will..."

Stone cut him off. "I said, I can't discuss it."

Stendahl held his hands up before him. "Hey, my fault; didn't mean to dig."

"That's all right."

"Well, now that I've cooled off, I think I'll get up to my room and change into something more tropical," Stendahl said. The man got down off his stool and lumbered toward the stairs.

"What's his story?" Stone asked Thomas.

Thomas shrugged. "He used a credit card with the right name on it, but..."

"But what?"

"There was a moment when I thought he might be a cop," Thomas said, "but after I talked with him a while, I didn't think so anymore."

"What did he want to talk about?"

"Allison, the trial, the press, anything he could find out. He was really pumping me."

"And you still don't think he could be a cop."

"A cop would have done it differently," Thomas said. "More subtly. This guy just charged straight ahead."

"You think he's just an interested tourist?" "He doesn't feel like a tourist, either." "What does he feel like?" "I think he's got an agenda, but I'm damned if I know what it is. Besides, what would an American cop be doing down here?" "I don't think I ever saw a cop wear a seersucker suit," Stone said. "Me neither." "What sort of luggage did he have?" "Hartmann leather, a suitcase and a briefcase, matching." "That doesn't sound like a cop, either; too expensive. That's a businessman's luggage." "I would have thought so." Stone shrugged. "Well, I guess businessmen, lake vacations." "Usually with their wives; he's alone." "Bachelor? Divorced?" "I guess he could be." Frank Stendahl reappeared, wearing casual clothes, exposing pasty white arms. "Think I'll walk down to the marina and have a look at the boats," he said to no one in particular. Stone and Thomas watched him as he strolled across the lawn and came to a stop at the marina gate, confronted by the two police officers on guard there. He chatted with them for a minute or so, then turned and walked back toward the inn. Halfway, he changed his mind and walked back toward the water at an angle chosen to' take him to the harbor's edge beyond the marina. A moment later, he disappeared around a point of land.

"Where will that walk take him?" Stone asked.

"To the mouth of the harbor, eventually," Thomas replied.

"I've got some work to do upstairs," Stone said. "If he comes back, see what you can find out about him, will you?"

"Sure, glad to. You think he's up to no good, Stone?"

"Right now, all I think is that he's a tourist, like he says; maybe the sort of guy who turned up at the O. J. Simpson trial. I can't think of any other reason for him to be here, can you?"

Thomas shrugged.

"See you later." Stone hopped off his barstool and headed upstairs. After what he'd been through with the press, Stendahl didn't seem to be much of a threat.

CHAPTER

n hour later, Stone came back. downstairs. Stendahl was back at the bar, sucking on a pifia co lada and across the room, Hilary Kramer of the Times and Jim Forrester of The New Yorker were sharing a table. He walked over to them. "Mind'if I join you?" he asked.

"Not at all," Hilary replied. "Sit down."

"Jim," Stone said, "did you by any chance get a good look at the man at the bar?"

Forrester looked that way. "The big guy? Nope." "I wonder if you'd do me a favor." "What?"

"Go over there and strike up a conversation with the guy, then come back and tell me what you think. Shouldn't be too difficult; he seems to be pretty outgoing."

Forrester shrugged. "Okay." He walked over to the bar, ordered a drink, and in a moment was engaged in conversation with Stendahl.

"What's that all about?" Kramer asked.

"I just want to know who the guy is," Stone replied. "He seems to have come down here just to attend the trial."

"A camp follower?"

"Maybe, but whose camp?"

"Well, Jim will worm it out of him; he's endlessly curious, a typical reporter--asks hundreds of questions, answers few."

"I haven't found him to be particularly closemouthed," Stone said. "He doesn't talk much to you, huh?"

"Maybe he's gay," Kramer said.

"Doesn't seem so, but I guess you never know for sure. Have your charms been wasted on him?"

She smiled. "Let's just say that I've told him a lot more than he's told me. I envy him one thing, though." "What's that?"

"He's got the best memory of any reporter I've ever met. Either that, or he's just too sloppy to take notes."

"Well, he's a magazine writer, been doing travel stuff," Stone said. "He's not the died-in-the-wool Front Page type, like you."

"Like me?" she asked, surprised.

"You're a regular Hildy Parks," Stone said.

She laughed again, then she looked at him sharply. "Stone, while I'm in my Hildy mode, did you really just stumble into the Allison Manning mess, or is there something more to it?"

Stone raised his right hand. "Stumbled, honest."

"You were just down here all on your own?"

"Wasn't supposed to be that way."

"How was it supposed to be?" I "Want me to cry in your beer?"

"All you want; I'm a good listener." ' '

"This isn't for publication, not even for a mention."

"It's nothing to do with the trial, then?"

"Nothing; purely personal."

"Cry away."

"My girl was supposed to meet me at the airport; we coming together. She missed the flight because of a at The New Yorker--she's a magazine writer, Jim--and before she could get on the next day's the blizzard happened." . "That was bad luck."

"It gets worse. The subject of her piece was ance She went to L.A. with him for more interviews." "Uh-oh." "You said it."

"She's not your girl anymore? ..... "Worse; she's now Mrs. Vance Calder. They were married yesterday; I got a fax." "Hoof Well, at least you lost her to somebody spectacular." Stone shrugged. "I wonder if that's better than having her run off with a CPA?" "What's her name?" "Arrington Carter." "Jesus; I know her." Kramer shook her head. "Well, a little, not much. She is very beautiful." "Don't rub it in." She started. "Does anybody know about this?"