Stuart Woods - Kisser

On the way back to the hotel, Stone handed Carrie her copy of the agreement. “Tell me again why I was at this meeting?” he asked.

“For bodily protection,” Carrie said, “and as a prop.”

“A prop? Like a stage prop?”

“Exactly. You were the attorney prop.”

“You mean you knew that Max would meet your demands?”

“I did.”

“How?”

“He knew that if he didn’t, I would make his life miserable until he did. I knew that he knew that it would be a whole lot easier for him if he just caved immediately, before I could think of something else to ask for.”

“You should have been a divorce lawyer,” Stone said.

“I have been, for the past year or so,” she said. “I’ve learned a lot.”

“You’re a quick study.”

“On stage and off.”

After dining at the excellent Ritz-Carlton restaurant, they made love until they were exhausted and then fell asleep.

The following morning they were driven to the airport, and as the airplane lifted off the runway, Stone relaxed. Nobody had tried to kill Carrie, and it appeared that nobody would. He was able to sleep all the way home.

When he got back to the house, there was a phone message from Mitzi Reynolds, time-stamped the afternoon before.

“Our drinks with Sharpe and Hildy have been postponed until tomorrow night,” she said. “My place at seven. We’re going to dinner afterward.”

Stone breathed a sigh of relief; he had completely forgotten their appointment of the evening before.

“I have plans for this evening,” he said to Carrie, “so I’m going to put you in a cab home.”

“Plans?” she asked.

“In connection with the police operation.”

“You’re seeing Mitzi, then?”

“I am.”

“Do I have to get used to that?”

“You do,” he said, “until we pull this thing off.”

“I’m going to pout now,” she said, pouting.

He kissed her and put her into a cab.

“Call me tomorrow,” she said.

He waved her off and went back inside, still tired from his exertions of the past two nights.

When he walked into his office his phone was ringing. He picked it up. “Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Willie Leahy.”

“Hi, Willie.”

“You’re lucky you’re not dead,” Willie said.

“Tell me why you think that.”

“You were followed from the lawyer’s office in Atlanta.”

“By whom?”

“Well, after I tapped him on the back of the neck and went through his pockets, he was identified as an Atlanta P.I. named Wallace Higgs.”

“And you think he meant us harm?”

“He was carrying a loaded Glock and a homemade silencer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But we settled everything at the lawyer’s office. Max wrote her a check for everything.”

“Tell her to cash it quick,” Willie said.

“Willie, how was it that you happened to be in Atlanta and happened to be following us?”

“I’ve been following you since LaGuardia,” Willie said. “I was in steerage, while you were drinking champagne up front.”

“Why were you doing that?”

“I like the lady. I didn’t want her to go to Atlanta, and I didn’t want anything to happen to her.”

“Willie, you can bill me for that one.”

“Don’t worry,” Willie said, and then hung up.

Stone called Carrie on her cell.

“Hey, Stone. Forget something?”

“Yes. Be sure you deposit that check the moment the bank opens tomorrow and tell them to call the Atlanta bank and ask them to put a hold on the funds.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Usually,” Stone said. “Just do it. Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up and began to go through the mail on his desk.

STONE ARRIVED AT Rita’s apartment fifteen minutes early. The elevator opened directly onto the foyer, and Mitzi met him at the door with an affectionate kiss on the lips. “Please come in,” she said.

Stone followed her into the living room and stopped to have a look around. It was a large room with a seating area that would accommodate a dozen people around the fireplace, another seating area at the west end, and a seven-foot Steinway grand piano at the east end, which wasn’t in the least crowded.

“What do you think?” Mitzi asked. “Do I have good taste?”

“Well, Ralph Lauren does,” Stone said. He nodded toward the painting over the fireplace. “Love the Hockney.”

“Isn’t it something?”

“I wish I could afford his work,” Stone said.

“There were some very nice New York scenes on your bedroom wall,” she said.

“My mother’s work.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“She thanks you.”

“Can I get anybody a drink before I disappear?”

Stone turned to see Rita entering the room. She gave him the same sort of kiss that Mitzi had, one that caused a stirring.

“Sure,” Stone said.

Rita poured the drinks from a wet bar concealed behind some paneling.

“It’s a beautiful apartment,” Stone said, “but you’d better get rid of the photographs on the piano, the ones of you and your parents.”

“Oh, God, I forgot about those,” Rita said. She scooped them up and put them in a drawer.

Mitzi ran out of the room and came back with an armful of silver frames. “I brought these from home,” she said, arranging them on the piano. “My family.”

“Good work,” Stone said. The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Yes? Send them up, please.” She hung up. “We’re on.”

“I’ll be in my room,” Rita said. “I hope I don’t hear any shooting.” She left the living room.

“Which lamps did dear old Ralph, the family friend, bring over?” Stone asked.

“The pair at each end of the sofa.”

“They’re not Lauren’s-they’re antiques,” Stone said.

“Ralph has a wonderful eye for antiques,” Mitzi replied. “And I called him yesterday and squared things.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He was delighted to hear from me, and amused by my situation and happy to help.”

The doorbell rang, and Mitzi went to answer it. She came back with Derek Sharpe and Hildy Parsons and another couple, whom Sharpe introduced as Sig and Patti Larsen. Sig looked Swedish; Patti didn’t. Drinks were offered and accepted, and a uniformed maid appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

They arranged themselves before the fireplace.

“Sig is my financial manager,” Sharpe said, “and he’s very good. Mitzi, I thought you might need some New York help in that line.”

Here was an interesting move, Stone thought. If Mitzi bit, then Sharpe would, in no time, have a complete picture of what he could steal from her.

“I’m very well taken care of in that respect,” Mitzi said. “My father has three people in his office who do nothing but handle our family’s money.”

“Perhaps I could meet with them sometime,” Sig said.

“They’re in Charleston, and they hate New York,” Mitzi said.

“You know, I’m going to be in Savannah early next week,” Sig said. “Perhaps I could pop up to Charleston and see them.”

“I’ll ask Daddy,” Mitzi said.

“I’m at your disposal,” Sig said.

“Where are we dining?” Mitzi asked.

“I’ve booked us at Sette Mezzo,” Sharpe replied. “In half an hour.”

This was interesting, Stone thought. Sette Mezzo didn’t take credit cards, only cash, unless one had a house account.

Mitzi picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Please be downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said into the instrument.

“I love your Hockney,” Hildy said, speaking for the first time. “I saw it at my father’s gallery, of course.”