Стюарт Вудс - Foul Play

“Stone, are you hiding something from me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Shepherd Troutman. He won’t be available for a while.”

The following morning, after they had consumed each other and breakfast, Brooke said, “If you have the time, why don’t we chopper out to East Hampton and spend a couple of days at my place there? The weather forecast is good.”

“Why not?” Stone asked. “Will we take the service from the East Side heliport?”

“It’s my helicopter — or I’m treating it as mine, pending the completed property agreement — but we’ll fly from there.”

“Do you need to pack?”

“Everything I need is there,” she said, “but you can bring as little as you like.”

“I’ll bring a little, just in case there are unexpected visitors.”

“If there are, I’ll have security shoot them,” she said blithely.

Stone didn’t fly helicopters, but he liked the look of Brooke’s — cushy leather interior, room for six passengers. As they lifted off, Stone noticed a black chopper at the other side of the heliport, its rotors starting to turn. Crossing the East River, he noticed it seemed to be flying on their route, perhaps half a mile away and slightly behind them. He noted the tail number and memorized it. They flew low along the south coast of Long Island, and the view was increasingly beautiful as they began flying over larger, more expensive houses. He was surprised, three-quarters of an hour later, to find that they were descending. Shortly they alit on a circular spot, surrounded by low boxwoods, with a big H in the middle. “Neatly done,” he said to nobody in particular. He gathered up his overnight bag and briefcase and followed Brooke up to a very large, shingle-style house. It made the Troutman place on the Vineyard look modest by comparison.

They crossed a patio and entered the living room, greeted by a white-jacketed houseman who took Stone’s light baggage and carried it across the living room to another room, presumably the master bedroom.

“Everything we need is on this floor,” Brooke said. “It’s the guests who have to climb the stairs or use the elevator, and today, there aren’t any.”

“Oh, good.” There was a table for two set for lunch on the front porch with a pool in the foreground and an unobstructed view across dunes and a beach, of the sea beyond, very blue, since it was a cloudless day.

There were two drinks on the living room coffee table: a glass of champagne and one that turned out to be a Knob Creek on the rocks. “Good choice of bourbon,” he said, as she joined him on the sofa.

“I want you to have everything you want, just the way you want it,” she said.

“I can live with that,” Stone replied.

They lunched on a perfect lobster salad and finished her bottle of champagne. The houseman brought coffee, then she dismissed him, told him to take the remainder of the day off. When they heard the sound of his car driving away, she stood up, dropped the caftan she had been wearing and was naked.

“There’s a robe over there,” she said, pointing, “if the fire department or anyone else shows up.” Stone tossed his clothing to a spot beside the robe, then made himself comfortable in a reclining lounge for two nearby.

“There, isn’t that better?” she asked.

“Nudity looks good on you,” he said.

“On you, too.”

“As long as we aren’t interrupted.”

“We won’t be. I’ve seen to it.” She threw a leg over him and guided him inside her. “There, now we can chat. I’m comfortable, are you?”

“Supremely,” he replied.

“Now, tell me about this business with Shep Troutman.”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you: attorney-client confidentiality requires my silence on the subject.”

“You’re already obliging me,” she said, wiggling a little to remind him. “This is just a change of subject.”

“It is a subject that is verboten.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d hoped you would.”

“It is not in my nature,” she said. “I’m accustomed to hearing all the dirt, and fresh from the mud puddle.”

“You’re finding other ways to entertain yourself,” he said.

“And this is very satisfactory for the bottom end of me, but my ears are empty.”

“But not your head. You understand that lives could be endangered, if I were indiscreet.”

“I’m the soul of discretion,” she replied.

“And I will rely on you to remain so.”

“Oh, good. You’ll tell me all?”

“I’ll tell you nothing, at least, about a client’s affairs.”

“But you said...”

“Discretion is best maintained in the absence of knowledge.”

“That seems draconian.” She pouted.

“Nevertheless, it is effective.” He made a little movement of his own.

“You’re distracting me,” she said.

“I certainly hope so.”

And they put the subject of Shepherd Troutman aside for the moment.

A couple hours later Stone was awakened by the sound of a helicopter passing at low altitude. He raised his head in time to see their earlier shadow flying along the beach at about twenty feet. A man was sitting on the floor, his legs dangling from the open door, a camera with a long lens in his hands. He grabbed a beach towel and threw it over them.

“What?” Brooke said, wakening.

“An unwelcome intrusion,” Stone said.

“By whom?”

“That remains to be seen.” Stone retrieved his iPhone from his trousers, went online to the FAA website, and entered the tail number he had recognized.

He entered the number into the search engine and waited while it sifted through a long list of aircraft registered in the United States.

Search successful, appeared on the screen.

He clicked on the appropriate spot and received a message on the line below.

The aircraft was registered to McGlumphy and Whitfield. A corporate address appeared below it, then a P.O. box number in Wilmington, Delaware.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking up the registration of that helicopter,” he said. “I had hoped we might get copies of those photographs.”

As the sun was setting a little breeze sprang up, and they took shelter in Brooke’s caftan and Stone’s robe.

“What is your preference for ordered-in pizza?” Brooke asked.

“Domino’s medium Extravaganza, hold the green peppers.”

“What’s on an Extravaganza?”

“Everything, but green peppers.”

“What have you got against green peppers?”

“Too green. Also, too herbaceous.”

“I like green peppers,” she said.

“Okay, just order a medium Extravaganza, and I can pick the peppers off my half. By the way, since I’m naked under this robe, I don’t have any pockets, which means I don’t have any cash. If you can find my trousers you can rummage through them for my money clip. Tip generously.”

She was gone for longer than he thought that would take, then she came back and phoned in the pizza order.

“Did you enjoy reading through the stuff in my wallet?” he asked.

“No, it was mundane: license, pilot’s license, insurance card, like that.”

“I’m familiar,” Stone said. “What did you expect to find?”

“Oh, maybe a picture of a girl, someone to be jealous of.”

“God, I’m such a disappointment! I must start carrying more interesting ID!”

“Well, there was that card from the Central Intelligence Agency, identifying you as a special adviser. Are you really in the CIA?”

“No, not really. I’m a special adviser to the director, Lance Cabot. Which reminds me, I need to call him.”