Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"Sam can give you a better idea, but I should think something on the order of seven hundred thousand to a million a year."

"That much?"

"Believe me, it isn't as much as it sounds. You're going to get hit hard by taxes, you know. I suggest you sit down with Sam and work out some sort of budget, so much put into your checking account each month, enough to cover your basic expenses. Sam will give you good business advice, too." He laughed. "I don't know why I'm give you fatherly advice about money; you've always been as tight with a buck as anybody I've ever known. I think you get it from your grandfather."

"Maybe I do; seems to come naturally."

"By the way, I'd like to invest in your business idea; I think it will do very well, indeed."

"Maybe I can work you in," Angus said, grinning.

They reached the car dealership, and spent an hour choosing a car and placing an order for European delivery. Then Angus said he wanted to drive a car, and Sandy excused himself.

"One last thing," Sandy said to his son. "While you're gone I want to be the only person who knows how to get in touch with you-except for Sam Warren, of course."

"Why?" Angus asked.

"Never mind why. Send all the postcards you like, but don't give anybody else an itinerary but Sam and me. Give me your word."

"This seems very mysterious to me, Dad."

"Trust me."

"Okay, you have my word; nobody knows my whereabouts but you and Sam Warren. And Maggie, of course; the girl I told you about."

"Angus, Maggie is going to be with you."

"You really think she'll come?"

"If she won't accept an offer like that, then you've chosen the wrong girl; keep looking."

"I'll tell her you said that."

"Good." Sandy hugged his son, an uncommon gesture of affection between the two of them, then he left the car dealer's and walked back toward his office.

Step one. He'd put his son out of reach of Peter Martindale. Step two was next.

Sandy stood under the portico at the Ritz-Carlton and watched the Lincoln come to a stop. Martindale gave him a little wave; he was wearing a chauffeur's cap and dark glasses. Sandy got in.

"How are you, Sandy?" Martindale asked cheerfully as they drove away.

"I'm here; what's going on, Peter?"

"We're going to take a little drive," Martindale replied, "and then all will be revealed. Cheer up, your obligation is nearly at an end."

Sandy rested his head against the bolster and closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't want anything revealed; he wanted to be free of this maniac, free of any debt to him. Am I ungrateful? he asked himself. After all, Martindale had a great deal to do with where I am today. No, he didn't, he thought, contradicting himself. Jock had done it all in his will. All but Joan's inheritance, he remembered reluctantly.

"Here we are," Martindale said.

Sandy opened his eyes. They were turning into the parking garage of a tall office building. Martindale was collecting a ticket from a machine, and the barrier was lifting. He drove down an incline, and the sunlight disappeared. It was like every other parking garage, dimly lit, lots of reinforced concrete.

"Pay attention," Martindale said. "Right, then left, then down a level, making a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, then left again. Please note the elevators on your right."

"Why are we here, Peter?"

"Patience, Sandy, patience. Now, watch." Martindale stopped at a barrier, took a plastic card from his pocket and inserted it into a box mounted on a steel post. The barrier rose, and Martindale drove into a separate parking lot and pulled into a parking space. "A carpark within a carpark, you see," he said, "reserved for members of the law firm, Winthrop and Keyes, and their clients. It rises automatically when a car departs."

"I see," Sandy said. "Why do I care?"

"One more thing to note," Martindale said, "and then I'll tell you. Look over there." He pointed.

"The telephone booth?" Sandy said.

"Correct; the firm has generously supplied an old-fashioned telephone booth for the convenience of its people. You don't see actual telephone booths much any more."

"What of it?"

"It's very conveniently located. Tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty, Sandy, my wife will attend a deposition at Winthrop and Keyes. Helena has, you see, filed for divorce. She will arrive on time-she always arrives on time-in a red Mercedes 500SL convertible, a shiny new one, bought for her with my hard-earned money. The car wears a vanity license plate-DEALER, it says. She will stop at the entrance to the private carpark, give her name to the receptionist upstairs, be admitted, and park her car. She will proceed to the elevators, ride upstairs, and give her sworn testimony. When she is finished, probably in less than an hour, she will return to her car and drive away. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"But she will not drive away, for you will be waiting in the telephone booth I have just shown you. You will arrive here between two forty-five and three o'clock. If you leave the door of the booth ajar, the light inside will not go on; if someone other than Helena comes along, you will be talking on the telephone; if someone seems to be waiting for the telephone, you call out that you will be a long while on the phone, and he will go away. You will see Helena as she enters her car. You will check to see that no one is about, then you will leave the telephone booth. Here, take this." He handed something wrapped in a handkerchief over the seat to Sandy.

Sandy took it and unwrapped the handkerchief. It was a short-barreled pistol, and Sandy had been to enough movies to know that the extension of the barrel was a silencer. "Where on earth did you get this?" he demanded. "It's illegal, isn't it?"

Martindale laughed. "Sandy, really; it's not necessary or advisable for you to know. Of course, it's illegal," Martindale said. "It's a thirty-eight; two in the head should do it. Take her handbag, keep any cash, then dump the bag in the waste receptacle over there," he said, pointing to a trash can, "where it will surely be found, thus establishing a motive of robbery." Martindale handed a key to Sandy. "Then, get into this car, which will be parked here, put on the cap and dark glasses and drive out of the lot. Drive slowly, cautiously. Drive the car to my gallery. There is a carpark across the street; park it there, leave the key in the glove box, and lock the car with the button on the door handle, here." He pointed to his left, then he looked back and smiled broadly at Sandy. "Then go and sin no more."

"Where will you be?" Sandy asked.

"In Tucson, where I will have gone to an opening of an artist I represent. I will take part in the deposition by telephone, then attend the opening, thus establishing, beyond doubt, my presence in another city."

Sandy was silent.

"Is this simple enough for you, Sandy?"

"How will I know it's your wife?" Sandy asked. "Last time, I thought the other woman was Helena."

"By her bright blonde hair," Martindale said, "and by the car, which I have described."

"The other woman had bright blonde hair," Sandy said.

"The other woman is, tragically, dead," Martindale replied. "Incidentally, don't touch the gun for any reason; wear gloves and some sort of coat when you fire it, and discard both as soon as possible. Certain residues are left on clothing when a gun is fired."

"I see," Sandy said.

"Is everything perfectly clear?" Martindale asked.

"Yes."

"Repeat your instructions as I've told you."

Sandy repeated what he was to do.

"Perfect. You really are a quick study, Sandy."

"And when this is done, Peter, it's over."

"Absolutely. When it's done, you and I will never again see each other, or even speak. Unless, of course, we happen to be seated next to each other on an airplane." He chuckled.