Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Not me, pal,” Trask said. “You can call my car service, Carey, and ask them.”

“No,” Calabrese said, “you didn’t use them. You called Phoenix Limos and paid cash. Your driver recognized your description.”

Trask shook his head. “Not me. A case of mistaken identity.”

“And no one at Clarke’s could put you there for a burger and a beer,” Muldoon added. “Not a single person. Imagine that.”

“All of which means nothing,” Trask said. “Now, I’m all through with this. If you want to speak to me again, call my attorney. Goodbye.” He went back to packing his files.

Back in the car, Muldoon let loose on Calabrese. “Listen, numbnuts, you just blew everything in about a minute. Now Trask knows everything we’ve got!”

“Did you see his face when you told him about the will? He had no idea. His world just fell apart.”

“Yeah, but the look on his face is not admissible evidence that could help us. Now we’re back where we started! And that was Terry Barnes on the phone, telling him he forgot to tell him about the will being changed. So we won’t get another shot at him on that!”

Calabrese’s face was red, and he turned his attention back to his driving. “I like Barrington for it, anyway,” he said.

“I’m caring less and less about what you like,” Muldoon said. “Until you get a fresh idea, keep it to yourself, and if you get one, tell only me.”

“Yes, boss,” Calabrese replied acidly.

“You’re goddamned right!” Muldoon said.

Midweek, Stone and Fred went to Bellevue to bring Faith home. A nurse brought a wheelchair, and Faith got herself out of bed, walked the few steps to it, and sat down.

“Not too bad,” she said. “They’ve had me walking for two days.”

They wheeled her downstairs and got her into the rear seat of the car with Stone. “Have you... ” he began.

“No, I haven’t — not a thing. Well, one thing: I think the music I heard was high-quality sound, good bass and nice midtones. It wasn’t tinny, like from a portable.”

“But you didn’t see the radio.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The new information might be helpful,” Stone said. “I’ll pass it on.”

“I’d appreciate that. I got tired of talking to cops very early on.”

Back in the garage they got her into the elevator and upstairs and unlocked her front door. She walked in and looked around. “Wow,” she said, “this beats a hospital room every time.”

“Make yourself at home,” Stone said. “Helene will bring you some lunch. Any requests?”

“Something very unlike hospital food,” she replied.

Stone went to his office and asked Joan to pass that on. He called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. We got Faith home from the hospital; she seems to be doing real well.”

“Swell.”

“She remembered something else,” Stone said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s not much, but the music she heard was high quality, good bass, very clear midrange. It sounds like one of those small, high-fidelity FM radios you see advertised in the Times .”

“You’re right, it’s not much,” Dino replied, “but I’ll mention it. How does Faith look?”

“Much better. The bruising on her face is pretty much gone, or can be covered with makeup. Her cuts will take a while to heal, but they don’t seem to be slowing her down.”

“I’m happy for her. Can I go now?”

“Make yourself happy.”

Dino hung up.

Stone dealt with his correspondence and phone messages, then Joan buzzed. “Edith Beresford, on one.”

Stone picked it up. “Hello, there,” he said, with as much cheer as he could manage.

“You don’t sound so good,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“It hasn’t been a good week so far.”

“Don’t tell me the jealous ex-husband is still around. Has he hurt you?”

“He murdered his wife,” Stone said.

“What? Is he in jail?”

“The police don’t have enough to put him away. In fact, there’s an opinion in the NYPD that I’m a better candidate.”

“Nonsense! You wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“I’ve hurt many flies in my day and a few criminals, too, but you’re right. It’s just that I arrived at her apartment for dinner and discovered her body. Homicide detectives tend to consider whoever discovers the body a suspect, and now that they haven’t been able to nail the obvious killer, the ex-husband, they’re looking at me askance.”

“Well, you tell them I said to stop it! I won’t have it!”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along during my next third degree, right after they employ the rubber hose.”

“What you need is to go out to dinner with me. I’ll cheer you up.”

“I may not be cheerable for a few more days.”

“Come to me. I’ll cook you dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I could handle that twice in one week.”

“Oh, God, I can’t believe I said that.”

“Let me get through the funeral, which should be later this week. I’ll call, I promise.”

“If you don’t, I’ll just come and get you.” She hung up.

Stone called Herb Fisher.

“Hey. How you doing?” Herb asked.

“So-so. Who’s planning the funeral?”

“A cousin of Cilla’s. It’ll be Saturday at a little church in Greenwich, you should get a note about it.”

“I won’t count on that, but if I do, I’ll accept.”

“Yeah, I heard the cops are looking at you a little too closely.”

“I guess they’ve got to do something with their time,” Stone said.

“At least Trask won’t get a penny out of her death. I drew her a new will, as you suggested, and I told his attorney.”

“I know.”

“Let me know if you need a good lawyer.”

“You know somebody?” Stone asked.

“Just call. I gotta run.”

Joan came in with an envelope. “This was just delivered.”

He opened it.

Dear Mr. Barrington,

I know that you and Cilla were good friends, and I hope you can join us for her service this weekend. The information and RSVP number are below.

Yours,

Stone handed it to Joan. “Please tell them I’ll be there.”

“Are you sure you want to go?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He wasn’t all that sure, but he was just going to have to tough it out.

The church wasn’t very large, and it was packed. Stone sat a couple of rows behind the family seats and paid close attention to everything that was said.

The service ended, and a woman caught up with him. “Mr. Barrington,” she said, “I’m Mary, Cilla’s cousin.”

Stone shook her hand. “She was a lovely person. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She took his arm and walked out with him. “Did you see Donald?”

“No,” Stone said. “He had the nerve to come?”

“He did, though I certainly didn’t invite him. He sat in the back row and got out as quickly as he could.”

On the front steps, Stone looked around the parking lot.

“That’s his car,” she said, nodding toward a black Mercedes SUV driving away.

“I’ll remember it,” Stone said.

Stone said his goodbyes and got into his car. “Let’s go home, Fred,” he said, “and keep an eye out for a black Mercedes SUV.”

“Anybody we know?” Fred asked.

“Somebody I’d rather not know, who’s probably still limping from the last time he met you.”

“Ah, that gentleman. I’d love to meet him again.”

“If you do, he’ll be armed. Remember that.”

The following day Stone called Edie Beresford.

“Hello, you. How did the funeral go?”