Stuart Woods - Cold Paradise

Stone looked at Callie.

“We’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ve already got two security men in the main house.”

“You anticipate me,” Stone said.

“I try.”

“Okay, Dino, let’s go shopping.” He led the way toward where the cars were parked. A man who was obviously a security guard paid a lot of attention to them.

“You’re one of the two men on duty?” Stone asked.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Barrington. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. You armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try not to shoot anybody, if you can help it.”

“I’ll try.”

They got into the car and drove away.

“What are you shopping for?” he asked Dino.

“A dinner jacket.”

“Why don’t you ask Mary Ann to ship yours down here? There’s time.”

“That’s a question only a lifelong bachelor could ask,” Dino said. “If you’re in Palm Beach, and she’s not, you don’t call home and say, ”Honey, send my dinner jacket, will you?“ It would take too long to explain why to her, and in the end, she’d never believe you. Besides, I need a new one, anyway. Somebody threw up on the last one at a wedding last year, and the cleaners could never get it all out.”

“Where you want to shop?”

“They got an Armani here?”

“They do.”

“Giorgio always does my dinner jackets.”

Stone found a parking spot on Worth Avenue. He put the top up to keep the sun from overheating the black leather upholstery, and they walked to the shop.

Dino conferred with a salesman, and shortly, a fitter was marking up a white dinner jacket. “You like the white?” he asked Stone.

“I like. Very elegant.”

“I thought you would. I’m getting this just for you.”

“You’re sweet.”

The fitter looked at them oddly. “What about the lump, sir?” he said, nodding toward the pistol on Dino’s belt.

“Allow for that,” Dino said. “I’ll be wearing it to the party.”

“Well, this is a first for Palm Beach,” the man muttered, but he did his work.

When they returned to the car, the driver’s side window was a web of pieces, held together by the lamination.

“Looks like a golf ball hit it,” Dino said.

Stone looked up and down the street. “That’s not funny.”

“Sure it is,” Dino laughed.

“You see her anywhere?”

“No, but a silver Volvo sedan has been following us.”

“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”

“What good would it have done? It would have just ruined your day.”

“You’re right about that,” Stone said, flicking small shards of glass out of the driver’s seat.

They drove back to the house and walked to the yacht.

“A message for you, Stone,” Callie said, handing him Bob Berman’s number.

Dino glanced at the piece of paper. “What have you got Berman on?”

Stone led him into the saloon and picked up a phone. “One William Charles Danforth of Washington, D.C.”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s the passport Paul Manning is using these days.”

“Oh.”

Stone called Berman. “It’s me. You got something?”

“I got a lot,” Berman said. “You want me to FedEx it to you, or you want to hear it now?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. Mr. Danforth is all over the Internet, just like you’d expect a substantial person to be. He’s got a credit history going back only four years. It’s little stuff, credit cards, couple of department stores-Saks, Macy’s. There’s apparently no Mrs. Danforth, and there are no mortgages on the reports. He rents an apartment in the P Street house in Georgetown, has for four years.”

“So Mr. Danforth is only four years old.”

“Right.”

“What does he do?”

“He lists his occupation as business consultant.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Yeah. His credit card spending is consistent with a man making less than a hundred thousand dollars a year. I got one of the credit card statements for the past year, and he’s traveled to Europe and Florida.”

“Where, Florida?”

“Miami, twice; last time ten days ago. He rented a car there, too.”

“Okay, what else?”

“He seems pretty ordinary. His phone number is listed. Nothing jumps out at you.”

“Did you find a photograph?”

“Nope, wasn’t available from any of my sources.”

“What about a driver’s license photo?”

“I checked D.C., Virginia and Maryland. Nothing there.”

“If he rented a car, he must have a license; if he has a license, there should be a photograph on file somewhere.”

“You want me to check all the states?”

“The contiguous forty-eight will do.”

“Okay, but it’s going to take a few days. There’s no federal registry of driver’s licenses; it’s purely a state thing.”

Stone had a thought. “How about a pilot’s license? He knows something about airplanes.”

“There’s no photograph on pilots’ licenses; you ought to know that.”

“Oh, right,” Stone said, thinking of the license in his own pocket.

“You suspect this guy of being wonky in any way?” Berman asked. “There’s no criminal record.”

“Yes.”

“Well, if he’s wonky, he wouldn’t have any trouble picking up a driver’s license that would get him a rental car.”

“Good point, but do the search anyway.”

“Whatever you say, Stone.”

“Does he own a car?”

“Yes, a six-year-old BMW 320i, registered at the P Street address.”

“Strange that he has a car and a passport with that address, but no driver’s license.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want his picture taken any more than necessary. Does he know you’re looking at him?”

“Probably not, but he might guess.”

“Maybe, if he’s wonky, he figured that someday, somebody would be looking for a photograph of him.”

“He has a passport, and you need a photograph for that.”

“Yeah, but the State Department is a lot harder to get a photograph out of than a state driver’s license office.”

“Once again, you have a point.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment. Let me know about the license.”

“Will do,” Berman said.

“And, Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“Put your mind to other ways to find a photograph.”

“I already did.” Berman hung up.

Stone sat on the afterdeck and nursed a gin and tonic. “Dino,” he said finally, “when you arrested Manning that time in New York, you fingerprinted him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because that gives us a possible way to find out what Manning has been doing for the past four years to earn a living. I can’t see him doing it honestly.”

“What do you need?”

“I need for you to run his prints against unsolved crimes with no suspects.”

“Stone, you’re about to be rid of the guy. Why do you want to press this?”

“Because I have the awful feeling I’m never going to be rid of him. If he’s committed a crime somewhere in this country, and I can prove it, then I’d have something on him, something that would either keep him in line or put him in jail.”

Dino picked up a phone, called his office and asked them to run the Manning prints against unsolved crimes. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Why do you think he might have committed a crime?”

“Because he’s apparently been earning less than a hundred thousand dollars a year, and I don’t think that’s enough to keep Paul Manning in the style to which he long ago became accustomed.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.

“Mr. Barrington?”