Stuart Woods - Dirt

“Yes, darling, I understand,” Amanda was saying. “Not a word to anyone until you’re ready, and I do appreciate your confiding in me alone. It is me alone, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll see you soon.” She hung up the phone and gave him a wide smile. “So, you found your way to my aerie.”

“I did, and it’s a very cozy working arrangement, even nicer than I’d imagined.”

“You know the joys of working at home, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, what would you like to see here?”

“Your diary page for yesterday,” Stone replied.

She laughed, then handed it over.

Opposite four o’clock was written, “Stone Barrington, investigator,” and his address. He handed back the diary. “To whom did you speak between the time you left my house and, say, eight-thirty last night?”

“Everybody?”

“Let’s start with those you saw face to face.”

“Well, there’s Paul, my driver, of course, then I returned here and saw the doorman and the lobby man, then came upstairs in time to see Martha and my two other people before they left for the day.”

“Did you say to any of them that you’d seen me?”

“No, but Martha knew I had, of course. Martha knows all.”

“Anybody else before eight-thirty?”

“No, I was home alone until nine, when I left for a dinner party.”

“Do your employees commonly come into your office when you’re out?”

“Yes, I suppose; they leave me notes or copy to read.”

“Do you ordinarily leave your diary open on your desk?”

“Ahhhh,” she said. “Yes, I do.” She produced the scandal sheet with the mention of his assignment. “Have you seen this?”

“I saw it at eight-thirty last night. When did you write my name in your diary?”

“When I made the appointment with you, earlier yesterday.”

“Do any outside people come into your offices?”

“Messengers, visitors.”

“Did you have any visitors yesterday?”

“No.”

“Messengers?”

“There’s a constant stream of them, but there’s no way Martha would have let one of them into my office.”

“Does Martha keep a duplicate diary of your day?”

“Yes, in her middle desk drawer.”

“Does she ever leave it on her desk?”

“Possibly. I could ask her. You think, then, that someone saw your name in my diary?”

“So far, it seems the only possible way that anyone could have known you brought me into this.”

“You think it’s one of my people, then?”

“Not necessarily, but it’s a possibility to keep in mind. Who cleans your offices?”

“My live-in maid, Gloria; she does my apartment, too.”

“Could she have leaked the information?”

“She wouldn’t have come into the office until this morning.”

“What about yesterday afternoon?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I’ll ask Martha.”

“I think you should ask Martha to keep a log of every person who comes into your offices, no matter how briefly – messengers, repairmen, anybody.”

“All right.”

Stone reached into his briefcase and took out a black plastic box. “Do your phones have the Caller ID feature that the phone company sells?”

“Yes; I don’t know how we ever did without it.”

“On the fax line, too?”

“I’ll have to ask Martha.”

“If you don’t already have it for that line, ask Martha to arrange it, then plug this unit into the line between the wall socket and the fax machine. Let’s see if we can see where this… newsletter is being faxed from.”

“An excellent idea,” Amanda said.

“Among your three employees, who is married?”

“None of them; Barry is gay, Helen is divorced, and Martha is single.”

“Does any of them have a regular companion?”

“Helen sees somebody, I believe; Barry, who knows? Martha doesn’t seem to have a social life, except vicariously, through me.”

“I’d like to know who Helen sees and, to the extent possible, who Barry’s closer friends are.”

Amanda frowned. “I don’t see how I can learn that without tipping them off, if one of them is involved.”

“Give me their addresses and phone numbers, then; I’ll have it checked out.”

“Discreetly, I hope.”

“Of course.”

Amanda flipped through her address book and wrote down Helen’s and Barry’s addresses. “I really don’t believe that either of them could have anything to do with this; they’ve too much to lose.”

“Then it will be best if we can eliminate them as suspects. We have to be sure.”

“You know best,” she said, handing over the addresses.

He looked at them. “What about Martha?” he asked.

“Oh.” She scribbled down the information and handed it over. “But believe me, investigating her would be a waste of your time.”

“Then I won’t bother until I’ve exhausted any other possibilities.”

Martha appeared in the doorway, clutching a sheet of paper. “Excuse me for interrupting, Amanda, but I thought you’d want to see this.” She handed her boss the paper.

Amanda read it quickly and handed it to Stone.

DIRT

Greetings, earthlings! Check out our dear Allan Peebles in the snaps below! Nice to know, isn’t it, that the fellow who has outed so many folks over the past couple of years is now out himself! This little photo op occurred in Allan’s backyard only last evening. The “rider” was booked by a very discreet Beverly Hills service that provides company for the lonely in the guise of pizza deliveries after dark. Word is, you can order just about any combination of goodies your little hearts desire!

Allan, who’s been playing the part of a divorced gentleman and father, was married to the boss’s daughter, you know. We hear that in order to get pregnant the lady had to very carefully calculate her moment, then wear a sailor suit to arouse dear Allan’s interest long enough for a transfer of seed!

Let’s see if this makes the front page of this week’s Infiltrator !

“Well,” Stone said, “it looks as if this little sheet has coast-to-coast coverage, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Amanda said, taking back the fax and staring at the photographs, which made her want to vomit, because they were so similar in nature to the one of her that had appeared in the sheet. “Mind you, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“What does this do for your investigation?” she asked.

“Broadens it considerably, I should think,” he replied.

Arnie Millman waddled into Stone’s office and plopped into a chair. Arnie had been retired from the force for fifteen years, and he looked like half a million elderly Jewish retirees in New York City, making him ideal for surveillance.

“You putting on weight, Arnie?” Stone asked.

“Always. It’s my wife’s cheesecake; I can’t help myself.”

“You up for a little work?”

“Why not? The money I can use.”

Stone handed him a sheet of paper. “Two people: Helen Charlson and Barry White. They both work for a client of mine, a gossip columnist type, and some confidential information is leaking out of the client’s office. The girl has a boyfriend, I’m told, and the guy is gay; don’t know who he sees. I want you to find out who their principal social contacts are and run brief checks on those people – employment particularly. I’m especially interested in anybody working in the media, especially entertainment.”

“When you need it?” Arnie asked, making notes.

“Soonest; a week, outside.”

Arnie nodded. “You want me to wire them?”

“Arnie, I’ve still got a license to practice law, and I want to keep it.”