Stuart Woods: Cold Paradise

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Callie Hodges.”

“I’m Stone Barrington.” They shook hands.

“I heard you were coming to Palm Beach with us,” she said.

Stone looked around the airplane. “Who’s ‘us’?”

“The pilots and me. We’re all that’s aboard today.”

“What do you do for Thad?” Stone asked.

“I’m his chef and party planner. I pretty much go where he goes. I’ll fix you some lunch after the seat belt sign goes off.”

“Thanks, I haven’t eaten.”

The big corporate jet taxied to runway 24, paused for a minute, then rolled onto the runway and started moving faster. Shortly, they were climbing into a thick overcast, and in less than five minutes they broke out into sunshine and clear skies.

Callie unbuckled her seat belt. “Would you like something to drink before lunch?”

“A glass of wine with lunch will be fine.”

“Be right back.” She disappeared into the galley.

Stone picked up a New York Times and leafed through it. On the front page of the business section there was an article about Shames’s coming press conference, with speculation about the announcement.

Callie returned with a tray bearing a large lobster salad and a glass of white wine, then she went and got a tray for herself. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do. How long have you worked for Thad?”

“A little over four years,” she said. “You?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Less than three hours. I’m doing a legal investigation for him.”

“Thad’s a character,” she said. “You’ll like working for him.”

“I hope so. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s in computer software, in a pretty big way, I gather.”

She smiled. “A pretty big way, yes. The last Forbes 400 put his net worth at five point eight billion dollars.”

Stone blinked. He had spent a lot of time around the rich, but not that rich. “So this new venture of his is a pretty big deal, then?”

“I hope so,” she said, “because I’ve got a nice little bundle of stock options.”

“So what’s it like, working for the superrich?”

“Insane,” she said, “but I’ve gotten used to Thad’s quirks.”

“He has a lot of them?”

“Thad is all quirk,” she laughed. “The superrich are one thing, but the newly superrich are something else entirely. Thad’s a big child, really, and he’s grown accustomed to instant gratification. Whatever you’re doing for him, my advice is to do it in a hurry.”

“I’ll try,” Stone said. “The salad is delicious; wonderful dressing.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Beach?”

“Oh, yes. Thad’s had his place there for a couple of years, and he’s mostly back and forth from there to New York. Of course, the house has been under construction for all that time, so we live on the boat.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“You’re staying aboard, then?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll cook you dinner tonight.”

“Why don’t I take you out?” Stone asked. “I should get to know the lay of the land.”

“I’d love that.”

“Book us at some place you like.”

“Will do.” She turned her attention to her lunch.

She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.

“Is there a phone on the airplane?” he asked her.

“In the arm of your chair,” she said. “It’s a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone.” She headed for the galley.

Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs.Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.

“Hello,” a low female voice said immediately.

“May I speak with Mrs.Winston Harding, please? My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, Mr. Barrington, this is Mrs. Harding. How good of you to ring me back so promptly. You sound a little funny. Are you in a car?”

“In an airplane,” Stone said. “Tell me, where is the five-six-one area code?”

“Palm Beach, Florida,” she said.

“Oh. Oddly enough, that’s where I’m flying to.”

“How convenient,” she said. “I wonder if we might meet while you’re here? I’m in need of some very good legal counsel.”

“Of course. Who recommended me, may I ask?”

“No one, really. It was something I read about you once. Let’s have lunch tomorrow. Do you know a restaurant called Renato’s?”

“No, this will be my first visit to Palm Beach.”

“It’s in the heart of town, in a little cul de sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.”

“I expect I can find it.”

“Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?”

“Fine. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll recognize you,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn’t place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.

He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the Times. Soon, he dozed off.

Stone was wakened by a slight jar and the screech of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane’s windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.

“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.

“It’s one of the things I do best,” he replied.

“I guess I’ll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.

The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.

Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.

“Hop in,” Callie said.

Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.

“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.

“Where are we now?” Stone asked.

“We’re in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we’ll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn’t too screwed up on the bridge. They’re replacing it, and it’s taking forever.”

Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.

“This your first trip here?” she asked.

“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I’ve ever been in Florida is Miami- twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”

She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“One who used to be a cop.”

She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I’d give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That’s Mar a Lago over there- the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He’s turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.