Stuart Woods - Cold Paradise

“It’s over.”

“There is a bank’s name stamped on the back. That always happens when a check is deposited.”

“Right, there is. It’s kind of dim, though. Let me turn on a light and get my glasses.”

Stone had visions of the man sitting in a dark office strewn with empty liquor bottles.

“Okay, I can see it now. It says, 'First Cayman Bank.'”

“Swell,” Stone said.

“You like that, do you?”

“It’s no help at all, I’m afraid. Mr. Jones, imagine for a moment that you absolutely had to get in touch with Mr. James. How would you go about it?”

“I’d e-mail him,” Jones said. “I’m not much on computers, but my nephew set it up so that I can get to my e-mail without screwing it up. You want the e-mail address?”

“Thanks, but you already gave it to me.”

“I did? Well, okay. Good luck finding him.” Jones hung up.

“What?” Dino asked.

“His bank is in the Cayman Islands, well known for banking secrecy. We’re not going to find him that way.”

“What about his e-mail address? We could call his provider. Who is it? AOL or Hotmail? One of those?”

“Nope. He’s got a domain of his own: frederickjames dot com.”

“Then it’s got to be registered somehwere."

“Yeah, but even if we could track it down, we’d find that his address is One Vanderbilt, or some hotel where he stayed for a few days.”

“We could see if he has a phone number in New York.”

"If he does, it will be unlisted."

“If it’s unlisted, I can find out the number.”

“I just had a thought,” Stone said. He picked up a phone and called Dan Griggs.

“Griggs.”

“It’s Stone. How’s Lundquist doing?”

“He made it through the night, and he’s stable. The doctor says we can probably ship him home in a few days.”

“Good. Listen, Dan, we’ve got another line on Paul Manning. He may be using the name Frederick James. James is a novelist with a new, best-selling book out, and he’s something of a will-o‘-the-wisp. Can you check the local hotels and see if he’s registered?”

“Okay, Stone, but I have to tell you, I’m wearying of Mr. Manning, and I can’t keep putting resources into finding somebody who did nothing but trash somebody’s house.”

“I understand, Dan, and I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Griggs hung up.

Stone called Bob Berman. “How you doing?”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“The hotel guest list turned up the name of one Frederick James, an author. Can you do the whole skip-trace thing-address, phone number, credit report?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a Social Security number?”

“No, but hang on.” Stone dialed Jones again.

“Tom Jones.”

“Mr. Jones, I need Frederick James’s Social Security number. I know you’ve got it. You can’t pay him without it.”

“Sorry, the checks are made out to a corporation.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You didn’t ask me.” Jones laughed loudly.

“What’s the name of the corporation?”

“Frederick James, Limited; it’s a Cayman Islands firm.”

“Thanks,” Stone said, and hung up. He punched the button for Berman. “Sorry for the delay. No SSN; he deals through a Cayman Islands corporation. I don’t suppose you can get anything on that.”

“Probably not. You have any idea where the guy lives?”

“Until recently, he lived in Easthampton, New York. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

Stone hung up to see Liz appear in the doorway, holding the copy of Tumult. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve read enough of it to say that it could be Paul’s work. But you have to understand, he was something of a chameleon as a writer. He changed styles from book to book, depending on the plot and characters.”

“Thanks for trying, Liz.”

She returned to the afterdeck, leaving Stone and Dino alone.

“What’d I tell you?” Dino said. “She’s going to be useless in finding this guy.”

“I’m feeling pretty useless myself,” Stone said.

“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with the Frederick James name,” Dino said. “My guess is, he’s just using it as a pen name, that he’s living his life under an entirely different name, maybe even more than one.”

“That’s a depressing thought,” Stone said.

As if on cue, Dan Griggs called back. “I’ve had a whole squad calling around to the hotels,” he said, “and there’s no Frederick James registered anywhere.”

“Thanks for your help again, Dan. I won’t bother you unless we turn up something concrete.” Stone hung up, and the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Berman.”

“Anything?”

“Mr. James has an American Express card, and that’s it-no debts, not even a bank account.”

“American Express wouldn’t give somebody a card who had no credit record,” Stone said.

“Then he must have applied under a name that does have a record, then asked them to put another name on the card. By the way, I have a friend at American Express. I called him and he looked up James’s address.”

“Great! What is it?”

“One Vanderbilt Avenue, New York City.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up. “Another dead end.”

“You got any other ideas?” Dino asked.

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well, we’re just going to have to wait until he has another go at Liz,” Stone said.

Everybody seemed to be taking a nap, except Dino.

“I need some things from the drugstore,” Stone said. “You want to come?”

“Nope,” Dino replied. “Married men don’t need things from the drugstore.”

“Toothpaste and dental floss,” Stone said.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour, if anybody calls.”

“Seeya.”

Stone walked to the parking lot and got into his borrowed Mercedes convertible, putting the top down. He pulled out of the driveway, behind a passing Ford, which was driving rather slowly. Stone edged up behind the car, hoping to pass, when, suddenly, the Ford came to a screeching halt, and Stone plowed into it with a crash.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud. Now he had smashed up Thad’s car, and it was his own fault. He got out of the car and walked toward the Ford. As he did, a man got out of the Ford, and to Stone’s surprise, he was smiling.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Stone said, “but why did you slam on your brakes like that?”

The man looked like a salesman of some sort. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and necktie, and his shirt pocket contained a plastic pen guard and several writing instruments. “Don’t worry about it,” the man said, and very quickly, there was a gun in his hand.

Stone looked over his shoulder for some way out of this, but as he did, a silver Lincoln Town Car with darkly tinted windows screeched to a halt beside him.

The man with the gun opened the rear door. “Inside,” he said, “and don’t let’s get blood on this pretty street.”

Stone got in, followed by the man with the gun, and the car moved forward, leaving the other two cars stopped in the middle of the street. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds, he figured, and more disturbing than the gun in the man’s hand was the fact that he was wearing rubber gloves. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“First, let’s get you all secured, and then I’ll tell you,” the man said. “Get down on your knees, rest your head on the armrest and put your hands behind you.” He nudged Stone’s ribs with the gun barrel for emphasis.