Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

Joan came on immediately. “Dino called while you were talking. Want me to get him back for you?”

“Yes, please.”

She buzzed, and Stone picked up. “Hello again.”

“I want to read you a press release.”

“Shoot.”

“‘The New York City Police Department has conducted a thorough investigation of the assassination attempt on the secretary of state on New Year’s Eve—’”

“Wait a minute, you’ve concluded it was an assassination attempt? A few days ago you thought I was the intended victim.”

“Shut up and listen. ‘We have determined that the would-be assassin has a history of hatred of women in positions of authority and that he had several drugs in his system at the time of the shooting, including marijuana, heroin, and cocaine. We have also, after investigating his connections in prison and since his recent release, concluded that he acted alone and without the assistance of any person or organization. Although we found more than six hundred dollars in cash on his person, that is consistent with the funds withdrawn from his prison savings account upon his release. Therefore, unless new, credible evidence emerges, this investigation is now closed.’ What do you think?”

“I’m pleased that my name was not mentioned as the intended victim.”

“Don’t ever speak those words to me again,” Dino said. “This is it, as far as the department is concerned.”

“I’m sure the President and the secretary of state will be glad to hear it.”

“See ya.” Dino hung up.

So, Stone thought, Holly is now, officially, a heroine.

After lunch, Stone got a call from a reporter of his acquaintance at the New York Times .

“Hey, Stone,” Edward Petter said.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Dino just made a statement about the, ah, shooting business outside his building on New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes?”

“Let me read it to you.”

“All right.”

Petter read the whole statement. “You were there, Stone. Do you agree with his statement?”

“Entirely.”

“There was a rumor that maybe you were the intended victim and Holly Barker just got in the way.”

“I haven’t heard that. I didn’t know the shooter, and he didn’t know me.”

“Is there anybody who might want you dead, anybody who might have hired Crank Jackson?”

“No, not to my knowledge. I don’t know anybody who’s that mad at me.”

“Did you ever represent Jackson as a defendant?”

“No, and it’s been many years since I represented a criminal defendant.”

“Why did your driver shoot Jackson?”

“To keep him from shooting... somebody else.”

“You?”

“From the direction the guy was pointing his gun, Fred might have thought it was pointed at me. After all, Holly and I were walking next to each other.”

“Did you and the secretary change positions while you were walking?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, were you walking nearer the building, then changed sides?”

“I may have done that to get her out of the wind.”

“Was that the moment at which she was shot?”

“I don’t remember,” Stone said. “It all happened so fast.”

“That’s what they all say,” Petter replied. “See you around.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, hoping that was the end of it.

Peter Rule, the son of the President of the United States, Katharine Lee, by her first marriage to the late Simon Rule, a high CIA official, left his Fifth Avenue New York apartment to go car shopping. Peter was employed as chief of staff to his father-in-law, U.S. Senator Eliot Saltonstall of New York, but he had announced his candidacy for the other New York seat in the Senate, whose occupant had declined to run for reelection.

Peter owned several cars: three Mercedeses, one at each of his residences in New York, Washington, D.C., and East Hampton, New York, all the homes inherited from his father, who had been the only child of an old and wealthy New England family. Now he needed something he could be seen campaigning in, and no Mercedes would do. Peter had toured the state repeatedly on behalf of his boss and thus had a wide acquaintance among elected officials statewide, but he had always done so in rental cars. Now he needed something American-made that could be readily identified with him.

He carried a printout from a website containing classified ads for automobiles. His first stop was in Chelsea, where he looked at a six-year-old Ford Explorer; he didn’t like it. His next stop was in the West Village, where the owner, a fifty-year-old widow, walked him to a garage on the next block to see a three-year-old Chevrolet Tahoe, which he found attractive.

“My husband and I used the car to drive to our weekend place in Snedens Landing, up the Hudson,” she said. “That’s why the mileage is so low. I’ve since sold the house, so I don’t need the car.”

Peter checked the odometer: 3,700 miles. Remarkable. Apart from the garage dust, the SUV looked practically new. He offered the woman her asking price, and she accepted. She produced and signed the title, and Peter produced and signed a check, and he was the owner.

He thanked the woman and drove uptown to the garage where he kept his Mercedes S550. He made a deal on the monthly rental and gave a key to the manager. “Don’t wash it,” he said to the man. “Not ever.”

He got back to his apartment in time to have a sandwich with his wife, Celeste.

“Did you find something?”

“Something perfect,” he replied, and told her about the Tahoe. “Are you ready for a week’s campaigning?”

“I’ve already packed a bag,” she replied.

“I’ve told the garage never to wash it — it would look brand-new. I hope to get it dirtier on this trip.”

Celeste laughed. “Don’t worry, rain is forecast. You can look for some mud.”

“Should anybody ask you how long we’ve owned the car, just say it’s three years old.”

“Got it.”

Stone had Fred drive him up to the East Sixties, to a club he belonged to that was so exclusive it didn’t have a name. Its members referred to it as merely The Club, or sometimes The Place. Stone and Mike Freeman, the CEO of Strategic Services, had proposed Charles Ford — their partner in their investment firm, Triangle Partnership — for membership, and he had just been elected, so their lunch was a celebratory one.

Charley was waiting in the lobby of the large old house that was headquarters for The Club, and Stone introduced him to the manager and some staff, then they went up to the bar, where Mike Freeman awaited them. They found a table and ordered.

“I’m reading in the Times ,” Charley said, “that your friend Holly Barker is being talked about as a candidate to succeed Kate Lee.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Stone said.

“Don’t you read the Times ?” Charley asked.

“Yes, but I still don’t know anything about that, and I’m not going to.”

“I see. I think.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “I think that’s going to be a no-go subject, until Holly actually runs.”

Charley laughed. “I was getting that picture,” he said.

“There’s something you need to do,” Stone said.

“All right.”

“I want you to go through the list of companies we own or have invested in and do some weeding.”

“Everything is profitable,” Charley said.

“I’m not concerned about profits,” Stone replied, “I’m concerned about what each company does and whether that might associate me with something that Holly wouldn’t want to be associated with.”