Stuart Woods: Kisser

Stone took his own tray from the dumbwaiter and got in bed with it, adjusting the back with the remote control. “I’m glad you’re feeling better this morning,” he said. She was digging into the breakfast with enthusiasm.

“I am, and I’m starved,” she said.

Breakfast finished, he put their trays back into the dumbwaiter and sent it downstairs. He poured them both some more coffee and got back into bed. “I need to know a lot more about your ex-husband,” he said, “if I’m going to be able to help.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“How long were you married?”

“Nine years.”

“What was the character of the marriage?”

“At first, okay, then increasingly distant, then finally violent.”

“You beat him up?”

She laughed. “I got in a couple of good licks,” she said, “but I got the worst of it. I moved in with a girlfriend and got a lawyer.”

“Tell me about the settlement.”

“He wouldn’t settle, so it was really an award by the judge. I got the house on Habersham, which I sold immediately, half his brokerage account, which I put into a municipal bond fund, and one million dollars in cash, most of which I invested conservatively.”

“Did the house have a mortgage?”

“No; times were good when he bought it. He paid a million two, and I sold it for four and a half million.”

“So, you’ve got several million dollars squirreled away.”

“Winter always comes,” she said.

“What is he so mad about?” Stone asked.

“The fact that I left him and the size of the award. It amounted to half of what he had.”

“He was surprised that you divorced him after he beat you up?”

“Not surprised, I think, just angry. It made the papers, and that made him look bad. He’s angry about the award, because he wouldn’t have given me a dime, unless he had been forced to. He’s mad, too, because he knows that he could have settled for less than the judge gave me. That really got him angry. That and the fact that, in the real estate crunch, he’s lost most of what he had left.”

“Does he have anything to gain by killing you? Insurance, maybe?”

“No.”

“So, it’s just irrational anger?”

“That’s what he’s good at.”

“You said you don’t know his address in Atlanta?”

“That’s right.”

The doorbell rang on his phone, and Stone pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

“It’s Bob. I’ve got Carrie’s luggage, and the Leahys are here.”

“Take the Leahys to the kitchen. There’s coffee already made and Danish in the fridge. We’ll be down in a few minutes.” He pressed the button again and turned to Carrie. “We’d better get dressed; Bob is going to want to brief you about your security.”

THEY FOUND the three men sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and eating pastries.

“Morning, Carrie,” Cantor said. “This is Willie and Jimmy Leahy.”

The two husky men waved.

“Tell her what she needs to know,” Stone said, and they both sat down.

Bob handed Carrie his card. “Your security code is written on the back: 1357. I tried to make it easy. You’ve got a keypad in your living room, next to the front door, another in the kitchen, next to the back door, and another upstairs, next to your bed.” He handed her a bunch of keys. “I’ve changed the locks on your front and rear doors; the old ones were worthless. All the exterior windows are alarmed.”

“Got it,” she said. “Can I change the code?”

He handed her an instruction book. “Easily. The instructions are in here.”

“Thank you, Bob. Send me your bill.”

“Will do. Now, let me explain Willie and Jimmy. One of them drives the car; one sits in the back with you. The car doors will be locked at all times. When you get somewhere, say to the theater, one opens the door for you. Don’t ever, ever open your own door. He comes inside with you and remains close, while the other deals with the car and then joins you inside or just sits in the car, depending on the circumstances.

“One of them stays in your apartment at night, near the stairs up to your bedroom. They’ll take turns. They’re both armed, and they’re very good at dealing with assaults without killing the perpetrator, but they may have to. You’ll have to leave that to their judgment.”

“I’m happy to do that,” Carrie said.

“If you go to someone’s home, say a dinner party, one will stay outside their door; there’ll be no intrusion into your privacy unless it’s necessary to protect you.”

“Thank you.”

“Carrie,” Stone said, “does your husband own a handgun?”

“Yes, at least a dozen. He collects them, along with knives.”

“He’s not going to get a handgun from Atlanta to New York on an airplane,” Bob said.

“Maybe not,” Stone admitted, “but if he’s a planner, he could send one to his hotel by an overnight shipper.”

“Right,” Bob said. “We’ll keep that in mind. Any questions, Carrie?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Stone spoke up. “Bob, we need to locate Max Long in Atlanta; Carrie doesn’t know his address. You know somebody down there?” Cantor had a network of ex-cops who handled this sort of thing.

“Sure thing. Last known address?”

Carrie gave him the Habersham address.

“I want to know if somebody in Atlanta can place him in New York last night, besides Carrie,” Stone said. “Could be important later.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Carrie asked. “I can place him here.”

“You said you didn’t see his face,” Stone replied. “It wouldn’t hold up in court. We need copies of a plane ticket or a hotel reservation or a credit card record. Somebody who drove him to the airport would help.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Cantor said. “What’s your schedule like today?” he asked Carrie.

“I’ve got an accompanist coming to my place at one o’clock,” Carrie said. “I have a score to learn.”

“Willie and Jimmy are ready when you are,” Cantor replied.

“Now is good,” she said.

Stone put his keys on the counter. “You know how to get into the garage, Bob.” He turned to Carrie. “There’s a house key there, too. Remember, you’re sleeping here tonight,” Stone said, “just in case he’s still in town.”

“Her suitcase is in the living room,” Cantor said, tossing the keys to Willie, “and so is a cardboard box she wants to send to her ex-husband.”

“Bob, you keep the box for when we find out his address,” Stone said. He turned to Carrie. “I think you’re in good shape now.”

“I feel very safe,” Carrie replied. She kissed Stone and followed Cantor and the Leahys to the garage.

STONE TOOK CARRIE’S SUITCASE upstairs and put her things in a closet and chest of drawers. As he was about to get into the shower, the phone rang. He noticed that the caller ID showed the call as being from area code 404: Atlanta. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the number, then he pressed a button on the phone to have the conversation recorded.

“Hello?”

“Is this Stone Barrington?” A male voice, deep, the accent southern, the words a little slurred.

“Hello, Max,” Stone said.

There was a moment’s silence. “So you know who I am?”

“I don’t know all that many people in Atlanta. Are you back home now?”

“Maybe.”

“I have some things to send you,” Stone said. “What’s your mailing address?”

Max Long gave him a post office box number.

“No. I’m sending the package FedEx; I need the street address and phone number.”

“What are you sending?”

“Some things that Carrie thought you might like to have. She found them when she unpacked.”