Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Nothing but the best for us.” They sat down, and Herb ordered them another drink. Cheray always drank her first martini quickly. They ordered steaks.

“Why don’t we get business out of the way?” Cheray proposed. “I don’t want it to get in the way of... my steak.”

“Sure. All Mike Adams needs is immunity on every count of the case and protection from the other two until the trial.”

“I’ve already offered him five years,” she said. “Why should I improve on that?”

“Why would an innocent man plead guilty to something he didn’t do and serve five years for it?”

“So, he gets himself a smart lawyer, and...”

“He didn’t hire me, his grandfather did. Old Swifty must have heard about me somewhere.”

“‘Swifty’? His grandfather is Mikeford Whitehorn?”

“Oh, shit,” Herb said, slapping his forehead. “I did not say that, you hear me? The name never passed my lips.”

“Well, it passed my ears.”

“Cheray, promise me you won’t mention that name to anybody, and I mean anybody, in connection with this case.”

“Why, is he getting publicity shy?”

“Promise me, or you’ll be eating two steaks.”

“Oh, all right, I promise. Not that I couldn’t eat two steaks. Tell me, how did your relationship with this... anonymous person come about?”

Herb shrugged. “I’ve never met the man. Apparently, my reputation precedes me. So, you want to do this deal and make yourself famous overnight, without all the bother of a trial?”

“First, I want to know what your client has got on the other two that will get them to plead and take a life sentence.”

“He worked in that hotel as the night clerk with them for a year and a half. He noticed that one or the other would disappear for an hour or two — never together.”

“I’ll need more than that,” she replied.

“Suppose my client kept a journal of his evenings and noted the dates and times when one or the other was out of sight, and suppose one of them was in L.A. at the time of the copycat murder? Would that be enough to sway you to do the right thing?”

“I’d have to see the journal,” she said.

Herb unsnapped his briefcase. “What a coincidence!” he said. “I just happen to have it right here.” He handed it over. “Save time and go where the markers are.”

Cheray went through the diary, between sips of her martini. “Well, shit,” she said. “A chimpanzee could get a conviction with this.”

“Not just a conviction, a couple of confessions,” Herb said. “Save the DA the time and costs of a trial.” He extended his hand across the table. “And all that anxiety, waiting for the jury to come back with a verdict.”

Cheray thought about it for a moment, then took Herb’s hand. “Counselor, you’ve got your client a deal,” she said. “Subject to the old man’s approval, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have any problem getting that,” Herb said. He tucked the journal back into his briefcase. “You’ll get this in exchange for the written offer.”

After dinner, they went back to her place, dismissed the driver, and sealed the deal with an enthusiastic roll in the hay. Herb got back to his own apartment in time to shower and change for the office.

As Stone was finishing up his day, Joan came in. “Mr. Mikeford Whitehorn’s assistant called and asked if you’d turn up at his dinner party tonight a few minutes early. I accepted for you.”

“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” he said, glancing at his watch. He could make it. “And please tell Fred we’re leaving early.”

She returned to her office, and Stone went upstairs to shower and dress. He found a tuxedo that had recently been pressed, buttoned on the suspenders, and got into it. He chose a black tie and neatly knotted it in one smooth motion, something he had once seen Cary Grant do in a movie. He had practiced for days until he got it right, and he regretted that there was no witness to compliment him. He slipped into the waistcoat and got his gold Patek Philippe pocket watch and chain from the safe, wound the watch, attached the bar to its little buttonhole, and slipped the watch into its right pocket. The counterweight, a small gold folding knife, went into the left. He put on the jacket and selected a white silk pocket square and tucked it into the breast pocket. He put his iPhone and pen into their proper pockets and examined the result: presentable. His dowager dinner partner would be knocked out.

Fred was waiting downstairs and drove him uptown to 740 Park. The elevator opened onto a private foyer, where the butler was waiting to show him into the library. There was a Knob Creek on the rocks waiting for him on a small table between two wing chairs facing the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze burned.

Mikeford “Swifty” Whitehorn appeared almost immediately, right after his own glass of scotch. “Good evening, Stone,” he said.

Stone stood and took his hand. “Good evening, Swifty,” he replied. They sat down, raised their glasses, and sipped.

“Thank you for coming early,” Whitehorn said. “I thought, perhaps, I’d give you the news, if you haven’t heard.”

“I haven’t seen or heard any news since the Times this morning,” Stone replied.

“Well, in tomorrow morning’s Times you will learn that the district attorney has given my grandson immunity in return for his testimony, and the DA has used that news to persuade the two perpetrators to accept life terms with the possibility of parole.”

“Which they are unlikely ever to receive, because of the number and savagery of their crimes,” Stone said.

“Your Herbert Fisher wrapped up the whole thing in an afternoon, apparently sealing the bargain in the assistant district attorney’s bed, if my driver’s judgment is any good. I loaned Mr. Faber my car for the day, and he passed it on to Mr. Fisher.”

“I’m delighted to hear it went well,” Stone said. “If you’re pleased with the outcome, perhaps you might sometime direct some business Herb’s way. He’s very versatile and can handle just about anything.”

“I have already done so,” Whitehorn replied.

“On Herb’s behalf and that of Woodman & Weld, I thank you.”

“And now I’d like to do something for you,” Whitehorn said.

“That’s not necessary,” Stone replied.

“Such things are always necessary,” Whitehorn replied, “or Earth would not turn on its axis. Your dinner partner this evening will be an old friend of mine, Edith Beresford. Edie is a widow and a divorcée, the two events occurring almost simultaneously — fortunately before her ex-husband had time to change his will. So, instead of getting half his estate, she got everything, there being no children to squander it all.”

“She’s to be complimented on her timing,” Stone said.

“Edie needs a bit of help in setting her affairs in order,” Whitehorn said. “She tends to be impulsive about such things and is sometimes inclined toward people whose motives are, shall we say, questionable.”

“I suppose that’s always a danger for wealthy widows,” Stone said.

“I ran a Dun & Bradstreet on you and poked around in other places, and I’m satisfied that you don’t need her money.”

Stone didn’t think thanks were in order for Swifty’s prying, so he said nothing.

“I hope that doesn’t offend you,” Whitehorn said after a pause, “and if it does, well, tough.”

Stone laughed into his bourbon. “I’m not offended, Swifty. You’re not the first to have a look under the stones of my life.” He was already wondering who he could palm off Edith Beresford on — not Herbie Fisher — perhaps Bill Eggers, who liked old ladies with piles of money for clients.