Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“He would be grateful if you would call on him at his home at three o’clock this afternoon. He’s at 740 Park Avenue.”

“Any idea what he wants?”

“That was the entire message. He didn’t ask that you call and confirm, either.”

“That was pretty confident,” Stone said.

“I guess he’s not accustomed to people saying no.”

“I guess not.” As Stone hung up, his cell phone started vibrating. “Hello?”

The voice was a hoarse whisper. “It’s Faith. I’m so sorry.”

“Listen, you need rest. You don’t have to talk now, not even to the police.”

“I’m going to be all right. I’ll call tomorrow. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” She hung up.

—

740 Park Avenue was the grandest and, legend had it, the most expensive apartment building in New York. It was built at the dawn of the Great Depression by Jacqueline Kennedy’s grandfather and was made up almost entirely of large duplexes and triplexes, one of which was occupied by John D. Rockefeller, Jr., from the mid-1930s. Some of the apartments had been described as “country houses in the city.” Stone knew a couple of people who lived there, but he had never visited Mikeford Whitehorn’s apartment.

He was admitted by a uniformed butler, seated in a large, paneled library stocked with leather-bound volumes on two levels that were joined by a spiral staircase, and asked if he would like a drink.

“No, thank you,” Stone said and was left alone.

A moment later Mikeford Whitehorn entered the room as a bull might enter the ring in Madrid. He was six feet, six inches tall and weighed, probably, two-fifty pounds — his slim weight. He had been an all-American football player at Harvard, back when that school had still produced all-Americans, and was known to intimates — but no one else — as “Swifty.”

Whitehorn enveloped Stone’s hand in a brief handshake, then he took a chair and ordered a large Laphroaig, a single-malt scotch whisky, neat. Stone reconsidered and ordered a Knob Creek.

“I remember our conversation at that dinner party a while back,” Whitehorn said.

That surprised Stone because it had hardly been a conversation: he had just listened while Whitehorn rattled on about whatever crossed his mind. “I remember it, too, Mr. Secretary,” Stone replied, “but I don’t remember talking much.”

Whitehorn laughed. “Maybe not, but you asked the right questions.”

“I was surprised to hear from you, Mr. Secretary. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I need some advice from a person of your background,” Whitehorn said. “The police thing, you know.”

“I used to be a police detective,” Stone said.

“Exactly. I don’t want to ask my grandson’s lawyer about this.”

Stone had not known that Whitehorn had a grandson. “I see,” he said.

“My grandson is named Michael Adams,” he said. “My daughter’s boy. He has never amounted to much of anything. He has what I consider to be a menial job, and he is supported by a trust fund I set up for him at his birth.”

“Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“He has been arrested, and it looks as though he may be charged as an accomplice in an attempted murder.”

“What are the circumstances?”

“He is a night clerk at a fairly seedy hotel on Lexington Avenue in the Forties, and it appears that at least one of his colleagues, the janitor there, is a suspect in half a dozen murders.”

“Let me stop you there for a moment, Mr. Secretary, while I declare a conflict.”

“A confict?”

“A young woman I employ as an aircraft pilot is a victim in this case, although she did not die.”

“How is that a conflict?”

“I can’t represent your grandson and advise the young lady simultaneously.”

“I’m not asking you to represent my grandson. He already has a competent attorney. I’m asking you to advise me, not him.”

“Well, as long as it’s only informal advice, not actual representation, I suppose we can talk about it.”

“Good. Now, my grandson’s attorney is urging him to accept a plea deal, guilty, in exchange for a five-year sentence, but Mike maintains his innocence and doesn’t want to do it.”

“I know that there are three suspects,” Stone said, “and that the police feel the chief among them is the janitor. However, they don’t believe he could have pulled off these murders without help, and that leaves the elevator operator and your grandson in a bind, I’m afraid.”

“What do you think the boy should do?”

“I think that if he continues to maintain his innocence, he should instruct his attorney to ask for immunity from prosecution, in exchange for Mike testifying to everything — absolutely everything — he knows about the attack on my employee and a number of previous murders, which seem to have been perpetrated by the same person or persons. I should warn you that this is not going to work unless he actually has information that would help convict the janitor and maybe the elevator operator, too, and that once he agrees to help, he must withhold nothing from the police, nothing at all.”

“Is that his only option?”

“No, he can refuse to answer any questions, which I’m sure his attorney has already instructed him to do, and go to trial. Whether he does that would, of course, depend on the strength of the prosecution’s case, as determined by his attorneys. If he should go to trial, he will need the best criminal defense attorney available, who may not necessarily be his current attorney.”

“Can you recommend someone?”

“One of my law partners, at Woodman & Weld, Herbert Fisher, is an excellent trial attorney, and I recommend him unreservedly. However, I must ask you not to use my name as a referer, if you call him, or mention me to anyone else, for the reason of the possible conflict, which I have already expressed.”

“I understand,” Whitehorn said. “You may rely on my discretion.”

Stone nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Whitehorn tossed back his scotch and stood up.

Stone stood as well, leaving half of his bourbon in the glass.

“Can you come to dinner here on Saturday evening?” Whitehorn asked unexpectedly. “I usually entertain on Saturdays, which often causes my invitees to have to choose between my table and others, which sort of tells me who my friends are.”

“Thank you, I’d be delighted.”

“It’s black tie, six-thirty for seven-thirty, and — are you married or have a regular woman in your life?”

“No on both counts.”

“Then come alone. I need an extra man.”

They shook hands.

“Thank you for your advice. May I call you Stone?”

“Of course, Mr. Secretary.”

“Good. Call me Swifty, all my friends do.”

“As you wish.”

The butler appeared as if by magic and escorted Stone to the door.

Stone checked his watch: he had been there no more than fifteen minutes. Swifty was nothing if not efficient with his time.

Stone was halfway home when his cell went off. “Hello?”

“It’s Faith.” She sounded stronger and spoke more confidently.

“It sounds as though you’re getting better fast,” Stone said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, fast. This morning I hurt all over, but they’ve given me morphine for that, so I can relax. I’m going to take a nap shortly, and I thought maybe you could tell Dino something for me, so his cops won’t have to come and question me. I’m not up for that.”

“Of course. What would you like me to tell him?”

“Tell him I remember going into Caswell-Massey and buying some soap and walking out the door to Lexington, but absolutely nothing else until I woke up in that room. I had a bag over my head, but I could see out a little through a hole, and I saw the stool and window across the room. I heard the elevator coming, and I decided I’d rather die quickly than slowly, so I used the stool as a running step and went headfirst through the window. I remember cold air, then nothing, until I woke up in the hospital. That’s it, that’s everything.”