Stuart Woods - Son of Stone

“Nobody actually saw him there, did they?” Peter asked.

“No.”

“And his fingerprints weren’t on the shotgun.”

“No.”

“So what evidence do they have against him?”

“It sounds as though it would be circumstantial.”

“Does that mean there’s less of a chance of conviction?”

“Not necessarily. The man did run, after all, and took all his money with him. That’s damning. If he did it, he won’t have an alibi, unless someone is willing to lie for him.”

“Would someone do that?”

“It sometimes happens,” Stone said.

David Rutledge got home from work and found Kelli sitting at the dining table, tapping away on her laptop. She had been living with him since they got back from Virginia.

“How’s your piece going?” he asked, kissing the top of her head.

“It’s practically writing itself,” she said.

“Drink?”

“Please. Scotch.”

David went to the built-in bar and poured them both one. He brought the drinks back to the table and set them down. “Good news. We had to pull a piece, so we’re running the Virginia spread in the next issue.”

“The one that closed today?”

“Yep.”

“That’s wonderful!”

The phone rang. David walked into the living area and picked up the extension on the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Listen carefully,” a familiar voice said. “Are you alone?”

“No,” David replied.

“I’m around the corner from your apartment in a bar. You know the place?”

David identified the voice now. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to come in. Be there in ten.” He hung up.

“Be where?” Kelli asked.

“At the office. I forgot to check some pages before I left, and we have to go to press tonight. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“You want me to cook dinner?” she asked.

“Can you actually do that?” he asked back. She never had before.

“I can make very respectable spaghetti Bolognese,” she said.

“Okay, I’m game,” he said, putting his coat on. “I’ll pick up some Alka-Seltzer on the way home.”

She threw a pencil at him.

“You need anything else?”

“You can pick up a head of romaine lettuce and some bread,” she said.

“Okay.” He closed the door behind him and got on the big freight elevator.

David walked into the bar and spotted the back of his cousin’s head immediately, in a booth at the rear. He shucked off his coat, hung it on a hook, and sat down. “Hello, Tim,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

A waitress came, and David ordered a scotch. “You’re running, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t do it,” Tim said.

David said nothing.

“They’re trying to hang it on me, though.”

“Who’s trying?”

“The sheriff, the university-everybody.”

“If you didn’t do it, why did you run?”

“I didn’t have a chance. I got a call from somebody who told me she was dead. It was the first I knew of it.”

“Who called you?”

“You don’t want to know that,” Tim replied. “It’s better if you don’t.”

“All right.”

“Will you help me, David? You’re all I’ve got.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Can you put me up for a few days, until things cool down and I can move around more freely?”

“I can’t, Tim; my girlfriend has moved in with me, and she works for the New York Post.”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t tell her anything, then.”

“I don’t know anything,” David said. “Do you need money?”

“No, I’m okay there.”

“Then I suggest you move into a hotel. Not near here, please; uptown somewhere.”

“Can you suggest a place?”

“No, I’m not going to suggest anything, Tim. I won’t go to jail for you.”

“I just got into town; I haven’t found a place yet. Do you know a hotel called-”

David stopped him with an upraised hand. “I don’t want to know the name,” he said.

Tim took a cell phone from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “I bought two of these,” he said. “They’re untraceable.” He handed David a card. “Here’s my number.”

David looked at the phone for a long moment, then he put it and the card into a pocket.

“It’s set on vibrate, and the voice mail is already set up, so we can leave messages.”

“Do you know a lawyer in Virginia, Tim? A criminal lawyer?”

“No. I mean, I have an attorney, but he doesn’t have a criminal practice.”

“Call him on your new cell phone and ask him to recommend one, then go back to Virginia and let him turn you in to the sheriff. That’s your best move, Tim, believe me.”

Tim nodded. “I’ll do that in a few days,” he said. “There’s something else I have to do first, then I’ll go back to Charlottesville.”

“What do you have to do here?” David asked, curious in spite of himself.

“It’s better you don’t know,” Tim said, setting down his glass. “I’ll leave first; finish your drink before you go home.” He put a twenty on the table, got up, got into his coat, and left.

David took ten minutes to finish his scotch, then got into his coat and went to the neighborhood deli for the lettuce and bread.

God, David thought as he walked home, I wish he hadn’t called.

K elli Keane arrived at work and immediately went to see Prunella Wheaton. She placed her manuscript and copies of the photos she wanted to use on her desk, then plopped herself down.

Prunie handed her a cup of coffee. “First draft?” she asked.

“Final draft, before I send it,” Kelli replied.

Prunie picked up the piece and began to read. Kelli finished her coffee and tiptoed around the desk for another cup, not wishing to disturb her mentor. She hadn’t expected Prunie to read the whole thing at once.

Prunie finished, and restacked the sheets on her desk.

Kelli waited, holding her breath.

“Comprehensive,” Prunie said.

Kelli flinched. That was it? She had worked her ass off on that piece.

“Concise, highly readable-in fact, unputdownable. Excellent.”

Kelli let out her breath. “What a relief!” she said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I hoped you would.”

“You’ve done an outstanding job. It covers all the bases, doesn’t criticize anybody, and, I assume, it’s accurate.”

“I can back up every statement in it.”

“I like the photographs, too, particularly the one of the corpse in the hall with a foot sticking out from under the blanket.”

“That was as close as I could get,” Kelli said.

“You didn’t quote Barrington on anything.”

“He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“And the shot of the boy and girl consoling each other was perfect. You didn’t use her name in the piece.”

“I don’t know her name,” Kelli lied, “but I’m not sure I would have run it anyway. She’s a high school kid, and I don’t think anyone will recognize her from that shot.”

“That’s very sensitive of you,” Prunie said.

“Who should I send it to at Vanity Fair? Graydon Carter?”

“No, don’t jump the line. Let me send it to a senior editor I know, and if she likes it she’ll send it to the executive literary editor, and if he likes it, he’ll send it to Graydon. That way, everybody gets credit for liking it.”

“That sounds smart.”

“I assume you have another copy?”

“In my computer.”

Prunie typed a letter to the Vanity Fair editor on her personal stationery, then wrote a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Kelli. “Messenger it over, and don’t use a Post messenger. There’s a service downstairs in the building, and keep a receipt. I assume you didn’t write any of this at your desk here?”