Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“I’ll do that.”

“Seen any more of Al Dix?”

“Neither hide nor hair. He hasn’t turned up at the Lame Duck, either.”

“He must be on the wagon.”

Stone was sifting through his messages and junk mail when Joan buzzed. “Roberta Calder on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Good afternoon.”

“And to you. How was L.A.?”

“It was L.A.,” Stone replied.

“I had lunch with Herb Fisher, and I liked him. Thank you for setting that up.”

“I’m sure he’ll have your husband — what’s his name?”

“Randy Hedger. He prefers Randall. That’s why I call him Randy. His sobriquet at school was Randy Randall, and nothing has changed.”

“I’m sure Herb will have him served in no time.”

“In no time is right. I met Herb at the Grill, and while I was in the ladies’, Randy approached him, and Herb served him on the spot. And the TRO is in effect.”

“Excellent. Do you feel the need for protection?”

“I feel the need for insertion,” she replied.

Stone laughed. “Then we should attend to that right after dinner this evening.”

“Do I have to wait that long?”

“If we have dinner here, that will shorten the wait time. Six-thirty?”

“See you then.” They both hung up.

Stone buzzed her in at the stroke of six-thirty. She made her way to the study and joined him there, shucking off her trench coat. She was clad in a short black dress that concealed little.

“I like the dress,” he said, kissing her.

“It’s not a dress,” she replied, “it’s a slip.”

Stone reached around her and encountered a bare cheek peeping from the hem. “So it is,” he said. “How convenient.”

She shucked it off and disported herself on the sofa. “Quick, too,” she said.

“I should tell you that Fred is likely to enter the room at any moment to serve us drinks.”

“Yikes!” she said, bouncing off the sofa and back into her slip. “There, decent again.”

“Almost,” he said, tugging on her hem.

She smoothed everything down just in time for Fred to make his entrance.

“May I serve you and Ms. Calder something, Mr. Barrington?”

“As long as you’re here, Fred, a...”

“Gimlet,” she said.

“A gimlet and a Knob Creek.”

Fred performed the task, offered the drinks from a small silver tray, then backed out. “Helene says dinner is in twenty-three minutes.”

They clinked glasses and sipped.

“Is that long enough?” she asked.

“Not nearly. And we could be interrupted again.”

“Sounds like it’s time for some staff retraining,” she said.

“They’re more finely attuned to privacy after the dishes have been taken away,” Stone said.

“Not even time for your lips between my legs?”

“As tasty as that would be, no. Drink.”

She did.

“Has Randy’s attorney responded to your suit?”

“Suit?”

“That’s what a divorce is: a lawsuit.”

“Oh, not that I’ve heard.”

“I’m sure Herb would have put a time limit on that. If they don’t respond, he’ll move for a final decree.”

“Will he get it?”

“No, the judge will grant an extention, but then Randy and his attorney will know you’re serious.”

“What could hold it up?”

“Well, Randy could ask for conditions.”

“What sort of conditions?”

“Alimony, perhaps. There are no children, so no child support.”

“He knows I don’t want alimony.”

“Not from him, from you.”

“Me, pay Randy alimony?”

“He can ask. That doesn’t mean he’ll get it, but such a move would put him to a lot of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He would have to demonstrate need, which means tax returns, business records, bank statements, etc.”

“He needs from time to time,” she said, “but I’ve put a stop to it.”

“Good luck with that. Has Randy ever contributed to your upkeep?”

“Never. It was the other way around.”

“You have canceled checks?”

“For some of it, not all.”

“Hasn’t Herb asked you these questions?”

“Yes, but I want to hear them from you.”

“I’m sorry, but you only get one lawyer under these circumstances, and it is not I. Conversation closed.”

“All conversation? What will we do with our time?”

Fred entered with a rolling tray.

“Dine,” Stone replied.

After the main course, Stone asked, “Has Randy ever heard my name from you?”

“Are you worried about being named a— What is it? Co-something.”

“Corespondent. No. I just want to know if there’s an angry husband out there somewhere.”

“He hasn’t heard your name from me,” she said.

“Has he ever mentioned my name to you?”

“Why would he do that? He doesn’t know you.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“My lips are sealed,” she said, “but not my other orifices.”

“Good to know,” Stone said, “but dessert is on the way.”

She sighed. “The longer I wait, the more ravenous I’ll be.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fred appeared with dessert, and she was quiet for a while. Coffee appeared, and Fred poured them cognac.

“What a good dinner!” Robbie said.

“Helene is a very good cook.”

“She certainly is. And Fred is very attentive.”

“Perhaps we can avoid his further attentions by taking our brandy upstairs.”

“I can’t wait,” she replied, standing and scooping up her coat, her purse, and her cognac.

“I’ll follow you,” Stone said. “I like the view.”

Al Dix’s jet-engine iPhone alarm woke him while it was still dark. He got dressed, had some breakfast, poured his coffee into a thermos and an aluminum to-go cup, and grabbed his flight bag, then drove up the Keys. He turned off at the appointed mile-marker and drove to the end of the road, where a little grass landing strip awaited. Parked at one end was a new-looking Cessna Stationair, with floats.

Dix parked his car near some high bushes and walked over to the airplane. He opened the pilot’s door and looked inside. It was equipped with the Garmin 1000 glass cockpit, two large screens onto which much information could be displayed. He turned on the master switch, waited for the computer to boot up, then checked the fuel gauges. Topped off. There was a fifty-gallon soft plastic ferry tank strapped to the rear seat, and he removed the cap and ascertained that it was full. He found the checklist for the airplane and began doing a very careful preflight inspection, starting with the outside and, in particular, checking the fuel tanks for any sign of a leak.

Finally, he unbuttoned his shirt and unwound the elastic bandage that held his arm against his chest, then he removed the sling. Gingerly, he moved his left arm, not overdoing it, and found that he had a reasonable, pain-free range of movement.

That done, he returned to the cockpit, closed the door, buckled his seat belt, and put on a headset. The engine was fuel-injected, so he didn’t need to prime it; he turned on the switches and cranked the engine. It started immediately and ran smoothly.

While it warmed up, he checked the Garmin’s flight plan page and determined that his routing had already been entered. He ran through the cockpit checklist, then, finally, he was ready to go. There was enough runway to take off on the little wheels attached to the floats, but it would be noisy, and he didn’t want the neighbors to notice what time he departed. The sky was brightening as he advanced the throttle just enough to get him moving. Toward the end of the runway he pushed in more power as he rolled into the water. A little more, and he had steerage with the rudder pedals.