Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (44 page)

“Oh, good, you made it in,” he said.

“My husband drove me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have.

Why are you wearing that suit? You'll freeze.”

“I'm off to Palm Beach.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Just back from LA a couple of days ago, and now off to Florida. Why don't I ever get to go where it's warm?”

“Someday,” he said. He looked into the envelope Thad Shames had given him; a thick stack of hundreds, at least ten thousand dollars. He counted off two thousand, stuck them in a pocket and tossed Joan the rest. “Put this in the safe for hard times.” He jotted down the address and phone number from Shames's card and handed it to her. “This is where I'll be.”

“How long?”

“Who knows? No more than a few days, I hope.”

“Have fun. Oh, I almost forgot.” She handed him a slip of paper. “A Mrs. Winston Harding the Third called this morning, wants to talk to you?”

Stone looked at the paper. “Who is she?”

“I've no idea. She sounds terribly upper class, though.

She said she needed to talk to you about an important legal matter, and that you came highly recommended.”

“Did she say by whom?”

“Nope, but she sounds like money to me. I wouldn't waste any time getting back to her.”

Stone stuffed the paper into a pocket. “I'll call her from Palm Beach.” He ran for the car.

 

At Teterboro, the car drove him up to the airstair door of a Gulfstream V, and the driver carried his bags on and stowed them.

“Mr. Barrington?” a uniformed crewman asked.

“That's me.”

“We're ready to taxi. Please find a seat and buckle up.”

Stone chose from a dozen comfortable chairs and fastened his seat belt. As the airplane started to move, the young woman he'd seen in Shames's Four Seasons suite came out of a compartment and sat down near him.

“Hi,” she said. “I'm Callie Hodges.”

“I'm Stone Barrington.” They shook hands.

“I heard you were coming to Palm Beach with us,” she said.

Stone looked around the airplane. “Who's ‘us'?”

“The pilots and me. We're all that's aboard today.”

“What do you do for Thad?” Stone asked.

“I'm his chef and party planner. I pretty much go where he goes. I'll fix you some lunch after the seat belt sign goes off.”

“Thanks, I haven't eaten.”

The big corporate jet taxied to runway 24, paused for a minute, then rolled onto the runway and started moving faster. Shortly, they were climbing into a thick overcast, and in less than five minutes they broke out into sunshine and clear skies.

Callie unbuckled her seat belt. “Would you like something to drink before lunch?”

“A glass of wine with lunch will be fine.”

“Be right back.” She disappeared into the galley.

Stone picked up a
New York Times
and leafed through it. On the front page of the business section there was an article about Shames's coming press conference, with speculation about the announcement.

Callie returned with a tray bearing a large lobster salad and a glass of white wine, then she went and got a tray for herself. “I'll join you, if you don't mind.”

“Please do. How long have you worked for Thad?”

“A little over a year,” she said. “You?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Less than three hours. I'm doing a legal investigation for him.”

“Thad's a character,” she said. “You'll like working for him.”

“I hope so. I don't know much about him, except that he's in computer software, in a pretty big way, I gather.”

She smiled. “A pretty big way, yes. The last
Forbes 400
put his net worth at five point eight billion dollars.”

Stone blinked. He had spent a lot of time around the rich, but not
that
rich. “So this new venture of his is a pretty big deal, then?”

“I hope so,” she said, “because I've got a nice little bundle of stock options.”

“So what's it like, working for the superrich?”

“Insane,” she said, “but I've gotten used to Thad's quirks.”

“He has a lot of them?”

“Thad is
all
quirk,” she laughed. “The superrich are one thing, but the
newly
superrich are something else entirely. Thad's a big child, really, and he's grown accustomed to instant gratification. Whatever you're doing for him, my advice is to do it in a hurry.”

“I'll try,” Stone said. “The salad is delicious; wonderful dressing.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Beach?”

“Oh, yes. Thad's had his place there for a couple of years, and he's mostly back and forth from there to New York. Of course, the house has been under construction for all that time, so we live on the boat.”

“That's what he told me.”

“You're staying aboard, then?”

“I am.”

“Good. I'll cook you dinner tonight.”

“Why don't I take you out?” Stone asked. “I should get to know the lay of the land.”

“I'd love that.”

“Book us at some place you like.”

“Will do.” She turned her attention to her lunch.

She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.

“Is there a phone on the airplane?” he asked her.

“In the arm of your chair,” she said. “It's a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone.” She headed for the galley.

Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs. Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.

“Hello,” a low female voice said immediately.

“May I speak with Mrs. Winston Harding, please? My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, Mr. Barrington, this is Mrs. Harding. How good of you to ring me back so promptly. You sound a little funny. Are you in a car?”

“In an airplane,” Stone said. “Tell me, where is the five-six-one area code?”

“Palm Beach, Florida,” she said.

“Oh. Oddly enough, that's where I'm flying to.”

“How convenient,” she said. “I wonder if we might meet while you're here? I'm in need of some very good legal counsel.”

“Of course. Who recommended me, may I ask?”

“No one, really. It was something I read about you once. Let's have lunch tomorrow. Do you know a restaurant called Renato's?”

“No, this will be my first visit to Palm Beach.”

“It's in the heart of town, in a little cul-de-sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.”

“I expect I can find it.”

“Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?”

“Fine. How will I recognize you?”

“I'll recognize you,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn't place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.

He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the
Times.
Soon, he dozed off.

S
TONE WAS WAKENED BY A SLIGHT JAR AND THE SCREECH of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane's windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.

“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.

“It's one of the things I do best,” he replied.

“I guess I'll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.

The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.

Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.

“Hop in,” Callie said.

Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.

“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.

“Where are we now?” Stone asked.

“We're in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we'll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn't too screwed up on the bridge. They're replacing it, and it's taking forever.”

Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.

“This your first trip here?” she asked.

“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I've ever been in Florida is Miami—twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”

She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“One who used to be a cop.”

She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I'd give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That's Mar a Lago over there—the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He's turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.

“Where is the Everglades Club?” he asked.

“Down at the end. Why do you ask?”

“I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato's, which is supposed to be across the street.”

“Here comes the Everglades Club on the left,” she said, “and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato's is at the end.”

“What's the Everglades Club?”

“Palm Beach's most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.”

“And what is your point of view?”

“It's the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can't even visit as guests, and I'm half-Jewish.”

“I didn't know that sort of thing still existed in this country.”

“You've led a sheltered life,” she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.

“This is beautiful,” he said.

“Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad's place is on Lake Worth. It's more sheltered for the boat.” Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. “Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.”

Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.

“Oh, good,” she said. “They've finished redoing the hall.” She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.

Stone looked back. “You'd never know the house was under construction,” he said.

“The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside.” They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.

Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.

“That's
Toscana,
” Callie said.

“She's glorious.”

“She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.”

“How big is she?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that's bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.”

A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.

“Stone, this is Juanito,
Toscana
's chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.”

“Welcome aboard,” Juanito said. “Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.”

“I'll show him aboard,” Callie said. “Our luggage is in the Jag.”

Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.

Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. “My God,” he said, “it might have been launched yesterday.”

“Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I'll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom.” She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. “Here you are.”

Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing it, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. “Marvelous,” he said.