Stuart Woods: Lucid Intervals

The law firm of Woodman & Weld, which employed him to handle cases they did not wish to be seen to handle, came to mind, but Bill Eggers, his law school friend and the managing partner of the firm, was not a ready lender, and it would be humiliating for Stone to beg.

His banker liked him, but Stone had already, with great reluctance, taken out a large loan secured by his house. He could pay some of the bills with his credit cards, but that would buy him less than a month.

There was a knock at the door, and Joan stood there, smiling. “Good morning!” she said cheerfully.

Stone looked at her suspiciously. “What’s so good about it? I read your note.”

“You’ll be happy to know that the money arrived, and I’ve paid all the bills, including the loan on the house.”

Stone stared at her, stupefied. “Have you started drinking in the mornings?”

“Of course not, silly.”

“What money are you talking about?”

“The money you were expecting.”

“Have I started drinking in the mornings?”

“Well, I don’t know. Have you?”

“Joan, I am completely baffled. Please explain this to me.”

She looked at him as if he were simple. “That nice young man said that he had retained you, and he handed me a million dollars in cash. I couldn’t get to the bank fast enough.”

“Was that nice young man named Herbie Fisher?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“You give that money back immediately,” Stone said sternly. “I have no wish to have anything to do with Herbie Fisher.”

“Get it back? Are you insane? This is a gift from God.”

“It’s a gift from hell,” Stone said. “Send it back to him.”

“Stone, this is how it works,” Joan said, as if to a child. “I get money, I deposit it in your bank account, I send a check to the IRS for the taxes, I pay off the bank loan, I write checks to everyone we owe, and I mail them immediately. How do you expect me to get the money back?”

“Stop payment on the checks.”

“You want me to stop payment on a check to the IRS? They’ll come and get you.”

“Well, stop the others, then.”

“The bank has already debited your account to pay off the loan. I can’t stop that, either. And those two payments took most of the money.”

Stone put his face in his hands and tried not to sob.

“I don’t understand,” Joan said. “All you have to do now is represent Fisher.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Stone said. “You’ve sold my soul to the Devil.”

“No, I’ve just paid your bills with money you earned or are going to earn.”

“I dread to think of what I’m going to have to do to earn it,” Stone said.

“Well, just chip away at the retainer with little jobs for Herbie.”

“A little job for Herbie has a way of becoming a minefield.”

“Well, then, tread carefully,” Joan said. She turned and flounced back down the hallway to her office. Then she stopped and came back. “I forgot to tell you that that woman was back yesterday.”

“What woman?”

“The one who stands across the street with that big man and just stares at the house. She’s been there for three of the past five days.”

“Dolce,” Stone said tonelessly.

“Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter?”

“What, didn’t you know that?”

“I’ve never seen her before,” Joan replied. “I thought she was locked in a rubber room in her father’s house. What is it with you and that woman, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stone said wearily.

“Try me.”

“All right, Dolce and I once had a… thing.”

“A thing?”

“We were very, very briefly married.”

“You? Married?” she began laughing.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s funnier than you know. I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“Neither can I,” Stone replied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until she started shooting at me.”

“That’s who shot you that time, right before I came to work for you?”

“That’s who shot me.”

“It was just a flesh wound, right?”

“It hurt a lot.”

“And after that, the old man locked her up?”

“If he hadn’t, the District Attorney would have locked her up in a much less welcoming place. I think Eduardo may have bought himself a judge to keep her out of the slammer. Come to think of it, he may have already owned a judge or two.”

“How does one own a judge?” Joan asked.

“Don’t be naïve. One buys a judge. With money.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that sort of thing still goes on.”

“It has never stopped. Only the price has changed.”

“I’ve still got that gun you gave me in my desk drawer,” Joan said. “If she crosses to this side of the street, I’m going to shoot her.”

“Joan, do not shoot her unless she shows you a gun. Then shoot her. I’ll get you off, I promise.”

“Well!” Joan said, then flounced off again.

“Get me Bob Cantor!” Stone shouted after her. He had found, over the years, that one got more respect if someone else placed one’s phone calls.

Seconds later his phone buzzed. “Cantor on line one,” Joan said.

Stone picked up the instrument. “Morning, Bob,” he said.

“To the rest of the world, it’s afternoon,” Bob replied.

“Oh, sorry. I had a late breakfast meeting.”

“I’ll bet you did,” Bob said. “What’s up?”

“Work,” Stone said. “How soon can you round up Willie and Peter Leahy and get to my office?”

“Hang on.” Bob put him on hold, and then he came back. “Half an hour. Willie and Peter are here now.”

“Half an hour is good,” Stone said.

“How long is this going to take?”

“It depends on how lucky we get,” Stone said.

“Oh, one of those.”

“Yeah, one of those,” Stone said. “See you in half an hour.”

Bob Cantor and the Leahy brothers arranged themselves in chairs around the coffee table in Stone’s office. Cantor had been a detective in the 19th Precinct squad when Stone had been on the force; the Leahys were of a later vintage, but Bob trusted them, so Stone did, too.

“What we’ve got here…” Stone began, then stopped. “No, that’s not it. I was going to say a missing person, but it’s more than that.”

“A missing person who doesn’t want to be found?” Bob asked.

“That’s a lot closer, but there’s more,” Stone said. “All I can do is tell you everything the client has told me.”

“Who’s the client?” Bob asked.

“I’m afraid I’ve signed a document that prevents me from answering your question,” Stone said. “Let’s just say it’s somebody from overseas.”

“Okay, let’s say that,” Bob replied, and the Leahys nodded as one man, as they did almost everything. The brothers were not twins but very close.

Stone handed each of the three men a copy of the photograph Felicity had given Stone. “This man used to be employed by an intelligence agency. His name used to be Stanley Whitestone.”

“How old is the photo?” Cantor asked.

“Twelve years. It was, apparently, the last picture anyone ever took of him.”

“Was he a spy?”

“I’m not sure what his duties were, but let’s assume he was. It will make it easier to understand how hard it is going to be to find him.”

Cantor shrugged. The Leahys looked sleepy.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Could you bring us a pot of coffee, please?” Stone continued. “Mr. Whitestone left his employers under very suspicious circumstances, only a day before their suspicions were confirmed. His crime was selling information to people who used it to make money.”