Stuart Woods - Worst Fears Realized

“This way,” she said, beckoning him into a large study. Stone walked into the room and found Eduardo Bianchi sitting in a chair beside the fireplace. He got up to greet Stone.

“How good to see you again,” Bianchi said, offering his hand and indicating that Stone should sit opposite him.

Stone sat down, and Dolce brought him a drink, then perched on an ottoman.

“I understand you have bought a country house,” Bianchi said.

“That’s right; in Connecticut.”

“It’s a very good idea. One needs to get away from this city from time to time.”

“Yes,” Stone replied. He wondered if the man knew that his daughter had spent the night with him in that country house.

“I understand, too, that you are acquainted with my friends Lou Regenstein and Vance Calder.”

He knew. “Yes, that’s right. I spent some time in Los Angeles last year, and Vance arranged for me to fly out there with Lou on his studio’s airplane.”

Bianchi nodded. “I think that airplane is a dreadful extravagance, but Lou says he couldn’t hold up his head in Hollywood if he didn’t have it. I suppose such things mean something in that place.” He spread his hands. “What would I know about it?”

Stone didn’t buy that.

“Has the information Dolce obtained for you been of any help?”

“I won’t know until tomorrow,” Stone said, “but I’m very grateful for any leads in finding Mitteldorfer.”

“If there is anything else I can do to help, please let me know.”

“Actually, there may be,” Stone said.

“Tell me.”

“You may recall that the district attorney recently got a conviction of a man named Dante.”

“Salvatore Dante? I’ve heard the name, I believe.”

Stone thought he caught a hint of irony in the statement. “A prosecutor, Susan Bean, who worked on the trial was murdered, and before her death she hinted to me that there may have been some irregularity in the way Dante was prosecuted, possibly some prosecutorial misconduct.”

Bianchi’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

Stone thought he looked very interested. “I’ve just had dinner with Bill Eggers, from Woodman and Weld, and Bill tells me that the lead prosecutor on the Dante case may be making me a target of the investigation of Susan Bean’s murder, even though the police have cleared me of any involvement. He’s not concerned that I could be convicted, but he is concerned that such a move on the DA’s part could be very damaging to my reputation.”

“Which would not be good for Woodman and Weld,” Bianchi said, nodding.

“Nor would it be good for my ability to function as a lawyer,” Stone said.

“I see your problem. And you think that if you knew what was, shall we say, fishy, about the Dante prosecution, it might improve your bargaining position with the District Attorney’s Office?”

“Yes. It occurs to me that if, for instance, evidence had been fabricated, Dante would certainly know that, and so would his attorneys.”

“A reasonable supposition,” Bianchi said. “Dolce, why don’t you take Stone into the kitchen and give him something to eat?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, rising and taking Stone’s hand. She led him into the kitchen. “Papa wants to telephone,” she said. “You said you’d eaten; would you like some dessert?”

“Yes,” Stone said.

“How about a nice piece of Italian cheesecake?”

Stone wiggled his eyebrows. “Yes, please.”

Dolce laughed and removed a cheesecake from the refrigerator and cut a slice, handing it to him. “You can have the other Italian cheesecake later.”

Stone ate his cheesecake, drank some coffee, and chatted with Dolce for three-quarters of an hour, then Eduardo Bianchi came into the kitchen.

“Was the cheesecake good?” he asked.

“Absolutely delicious,” Stone said.

“Rosaria makes a wonderful cheesecake. Now. I have spoken to… certain parties and, I believe, have made some progress. It seems that the prosecution of Mr. Dante turned on what was said on some surveillance tapes made by the district attorney’s investigative division. The odd thing is that, in spite of the evidence, which was played in court for the jury, Dante denies ever having spoken the words on the tape.”

“So the tapes were doctored?”

“Mr. Dante’s lawyers, of course, had the tapes examined by experts, but they were unable to find any evidence of their being tampered with. They will have them examined again, by other experts. The parts in question, although they comprised hardly more than a minute of the tapes, were crucial to the conviction of Mr. Dante, and he still insists that he never spoke those words. Since he did not testify in his own defense, he was unable to make the denial in court, not that it would have helped.”

Stone nodded. “May I use a telephone?”

“Please use the one in the study,” Bianchi said. “I think I will have a little cheesecake.”

Stone went into the study, hoping against hope that Martin Brougham’s telephone number was not unlisted. It was not. He called the number, and when a woman answered, asked to speak to Bill Eggers, hoping he was still there. He was.

“Hello?”

“Bill, it’s Stone; listen carefully: the tapes that Marty used to convict Dante were somehow falsified by Deacon, or somebody in his division. I have this on very good authority.”

“Thank you,” Bill said. “That’s very interesting.”

“How’s it going?”

“Call me tomorrow.” He hung up.

Stone hung up and went back to the kitchen.

“This information was helpful?” Bianchi asked.

“I believe so; I won’t know for sure until tomorrow.”

“I would very much like to know the outcome of this,” Bianchi said.

“I will certainly let you know.”

“It is terrible to see such abuses of power by public officials,” Bianchi said. “To think that a man like Brougham could destroy another’s livelihood for nothing more than his own political benefit. He wants to be district attorney, of course, when the present occupant of that office finally vacates.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Perhaps it would be a public service if that could be prevented,” Bianchi said.

“Perhaps so.”

“I will give it some thought.” Bianchi looked at his watch. “Well, it is getting late; I must go. I will leave you young people to your evening.” He shook hands with Stone, and Dolce walked him to the front door.

Stone had another cup of coffee and waited for her to return.

She came in. “Now you can bring your bags up,” she said, kissing him.

Stone went to the garage for his luggage and returned.

“Your father knows we were together in Connecticut,” he said.

“He talked to Lou this morning, so that cat is out of the bag. Still, I didn’t think he would like to see you arrive with luggage.” She kissed him again. “Now, how about another slice of Italian cheesecake?”

“I’m starving,” Stone said.

Half an hour later, Dolce stroked Stone’s face. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know; just tired, I guess.” He had discovered that he could not think of Arrington and make love to Dolce at the same time.

“You’ll get over her,” Dolce whispered into his ear.

Stone pretended to fall asleep.

DINO’S DRIVER DOUBLE-PARKED THE CAR and put down the visor with the police badge. “There’s the shop,” Dino said. “You want to take the back or the front?”

“He’s not going to run, Dino,” Stone replied. “He’s a legit parolee with no violations.”

Dino looked at the paper again. “Eliot Darcy,” he said. “Murdered his wife, like Mitteldorfer, but nearly twenty years ago.”