Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“I was.”

“Tell me about the rest of the house.”

“There are six bedrooms upstairs, on three floors, and seven baths.”

“Why more baths than bedrooms?”

“There are two in the master suite.”

“Very wise.”

“Downstairs are my offices — in what used to be a dentist’s office — a small gym, and a kitchen that opens onto the common gardens out back. There’s also a garage.”

“How did you find the house?”

“It found me. It belonged to my great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister, and she left it to me. I did the renovation, except for the plumbing and electrical work.”

“You mean you did the actual work?”

“I couldn’t afford to hire a builder on a cop’s salary.”

“How did you become a lawer?”

“By studying at NYU Law, before I was a cop. When I wasn’t a cop anymore, Bill Eggers offered me a job at Woodman & Weld, if I could pass the bar. After a two-week cram course, I did.”

“And the rest is history?”

“History in the making. It occurs to me that you have me at a disadvantage. You know nearly everything about me, and I know nearly nothing about you.”

“Pretty straightforward: born and raised in an antebellum house in northwest Atlanta; Daddy a judge; Mother a college professor; educated at Agnes Scott College, in Atlanta; came to New York looking for adventure, found it, married young — big mistake; married a second time — another big mistake, but he had the grace to die and leave me his fortune. Met a nice man at a dinner party, and that brings us up-to-date.”

“I’m sure a lot fell through the cracks in that account,” Stone said.

“Then you can explore the cracks for the rest.”

Stone’s phone rang and he checked the ID. “Please excuse me, I have to take this.” He walked across the room. “Hello?”

“It’s Faith.”

“How are you feeling?”

“More and more human. I’m receiving visitors tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Night, night.” She hung up, and Stone returned to the couch and his brandy.

“Not bad news, I hope,” Edie said.

“Good news. An employee of mine is in the hospital with extensive injuries; but she’s getting better, and I can see her tomorrow.”

“How was she injured?”

“She was attacked, but her attackers are in jail, awaiting sentencing.”

“What does she do for you?”

“She’s my chief pilot — sorry, my only pilot. I bought a new airplane, and it requires two pilots; I’m the other one.”

“Will she come back to work when she recovers?”

“I certainly hope so. She’s a very good pilot.”

Edie glanced at her watch. “Goodness, is it that late?”

“I suppose it is.”

“Then I have to go home; I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Fred will drive you,” Stone said. “Dinner next week?”

“Of course, call me.”

He walked her downstairs, kissed her, and put her in the car.

As he reached his bedroom his cell rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You alone?”

“I just put her into the car.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know this one. Her name is Edith Beresford.”

“You’re right. Sounds old.”

“It only sounds that way. I have good news. Your guys can question Faith tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid she’s old news,” Dino said. “Her assailants have already pled out.”

“I heard that.”

“Still, we ought to have her on the record, so I’ll send somebody around.”

“You do that.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’ve got plans: Cilla is cooking for me.”

“Later, then.”

They hung up, and Stone went to bed.

The following morning, TV news caught up to events and reported the guilty plea from the two perpetrators at the hotel. They also reported that Mike Adams had been released.

Stone had just finished breakfast when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Swifty,” a deep voice said.

“Good morning. I must thank you for introducing me to Edith Beresford. We had a very pleasant dinner last evening.”

“Are you going to represent her?”

“She’s far too beautiful for a business relationship. I’m going to turn her over to Bill Eggers.”

“That should be fine,” Swifty said. “I want to thank you, too.”

“For what?”

“My son-in-law, my grandson, and I had lunch together yesterday, and it went well. We went back to Howard’s office and went over the plans for the renovation of the hotel, and young Mike had some good suggestions to make. He’s now the project manager on the hotel for Adams & Adams, his father’s firm.”

“That’s very good news, Swifty.”

“Not as good as the news that he’s a free man.”

“For that you can thank Herb Fisher.”

“I have, and I will be in touch with him about more work.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about Edie. She has a good head on her shoulders.”

“I always knew that, I was just playing matchmaker.”

“Nice job,” Stone said, and they said goodbye.

Stone’s cell phone buzzed while he was being driven to Bellevue by Fred. “Hello?”

“It’s Cilla, good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“We are.”

“Good. My intercom is broken. When you arrive, the desk man will have your name and send you straight up to the twelfth floor. I’ll leave the door cracked, so just let yourself in. The bar is in the living room so you can make yourself a bourbon and me a vodka on the rocks, then find the kitchen, where I’ll be up to my elbows in osso buco.”

“My favorite. See you at seven.” They hung up.

Stone arrived outside Faith’s hospital room and looked in to find two men in suits seated at her bedside, so he leaned against the jamb and listened.

“Is there anything else you can remember, Ms. Barnacle?” one of the men asked. “Anything at all?”

“No. I’m sorry to be of so little help.”

“If you remember anything else, please call me. I’ll leave my card on your bedside table. Good day.”

Stone heard the scraping of chairs on the floor, then Faith said, “Wait, I remember something.”

The two men sat down again. “What do you remember?”

“Music.”

“What kind of music?”

“Classical. On a radio, I think. There was a voice introducing the next piece.”

“Could you see the radio?”

“No, I just heard it. After that, I found my way to the window.”

The two men thanked her again, then left.

Stone went into the room and found Faith halfway sitting up in her bed, with the sheets pulled up to her neck. He kissed her on the forehead and pulled up a chair. “Feeling any better?”

“I am. The cuts still hurt, but the morphine is taking care of that. I pulled the sheets up because I don’t want anybody to see the cuts, which are unbandaged. I was told I have something like one hundred and fifty stitches.”

“Then just try to relax. Is there anything I can bring you? Books? Magazines?”

“The morphine makes it hard to concentrate on reading,” she said, “but the TV remote is taped to my hand, and I can watch.”

“What are your doctors telling you?”

“As soon as my cuts are less painful, I can get out of here; I hope I’m not addicted to morphine by then. The middle of the week, maybe. I won’t have to come back to get the stitches out; they’ll dissolve by themselves. The cuts are covered by green, transparent tape, which looks like bruising.”

“The airplane is waiting for you, when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Stone. I’m going to have to take a nap now, so will you excuse me?”