Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“Did you recognize him?”

“Not exactly, but something about him made me think of Donald Clark.”

As they drove into Stone’s garage, Dino’s official SUV pulled in behind them. Stone took Dino and Art to his study, where he poured Art some bourbon and handed it to him. “I expect you need this.”

“You’re right,” Art said, taking a swig.

“I’m feeling left out,” Dino said, and Stone poured him a Scotch and himself a bourbon, then Art recited his story to Dino.

“The guy getting out of the black van looked like Donald Clark?” Dino asked.

“I didn’t say that, exactly,” Art replied, draining his glass, which was instantly refilled by Stone. “I said there was something about him that reminded me of Clark.”

“Think about it,” Dino said.

Art appeared to do so. “His build,” he said finally. “Clark is a pretty husky guy; not a lot of fat.”

“That’s a start,” Dino said. “Think about his face.”

Art tried. “Clean-shaven, sort of a pudgy nose, like a potato, but not big.”

“Eyebrows?”

“Eyebrows?” Art asked.

“Were they dark or gray or blond?”

“Dark, I think. Clark has graying hair, fairly thick, no balding, but this guy was wearing a baseball cap.”

“Anything on the cap? Product name; team name?”

“Something. Wait a minute, it was a Yankees’ cap, with the ‘NY.’”

“Anything on the jacket? A second color? An emblem of some sort?”

Art put his right hand on his left breast. “Here,” he said. “The Yankees’ lettering again.”

“I think it’s pretty safe to say that the guy is a Yankees fan,” Dino observed. “Anything in his hands? Either one?”

Art closed his eyes again. “Shiny object,” he said. “Silver.” He clapped his hands together. “Short-barreled pistol, like a snub-nosed .38. Chrome or nickel-plated. Kind of old-fashioned, not like the chunky ones you see a lot of today.”

“Glasses? Sunglasses?”

Art shook his head. “No.”

“You’re doing very well, Art,” Stone said. “How about the man behind the wheel?”

“There was a reflection in the glass,” Art said. “But I think he was short.”

“The reflection?”

“No, the guy. The upper rim of the steering wheel cut across his face. He was a little uphill from me. The van was taller than Frank’s Cherokee.”

“Hair color?” Stone asked.

“Dark, I think. Fairly long.”

“Could it have been a woman?” Dino asked.

“Possibly. Fairly thin face.”

“Skin color?”

“White, pale.”

“Hands on the steering wheel?”

“Same color.”

“Nail polish?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Any rings?”

Art thought about it. “Yes! Something chunky, here.” He led up his third finger, left hand.

“Like a class ring?”

“Right. Gold color, red stone, I think.”

“So it’s a guy,” Dino said. “A college graduate, no less. A woman wouldn’t wear a class ring on her third finger, left hand. That’s reserved for an engagement ring or a wedding band.”

“Unless she’s unmarried and not engaged,” Stone pointed out.

“Women have hope,” Dino replied. “Art, close your eyes again and think about the inside of the van. Was there a partition behind the driver’s head, or was their light coming from behind from windows?”

“It was dark, maybe a partition.”

“So, a service van, like a plumber or an electrician or a delivery van,” Dino muttered.

“Something else,” Art said. “Two things: there was an object on the dashboard, near the windshield.”

“What sort of object?”

“A book,” Art said.

“Like a novel?”

“No, like a notebook. It had a wire binder.”

“Like a steno pad?”

“Yes, but smaller.”

“Like the notebook cops keep in a pocket,” Stone said.

“Could be. And there was something hanging on the rearview mirror.”

“Handicap placard?” Dino asked.

“No, some sort of personal thing. Cube shaped.”

“I used to have something like that on my first car,” Dino said. “My girlfriend made it for me, knitted it or something.”

“Dice?” Stone asked. “I used to see big dice hanging on rearview mirrors.”

“That was it!” Dino said. “I remember, I asked her, ‘Why dice?’ She said she didn’t know why. She had a girlfriend who made them for her boyfriend’s car, so she just copied them.”

“So, it sounds like a personal vehicle,” Stone said. “Not a rental. Something the guy drove all the time. He wouldn’t have his dice in a rental.”

“Do you mind if I take a nap?” Art said. “I’m drowsy.”

“Sure, take the sofa, Art. I don’t think you ought to go back to the Lowell.”

Art moved to the sofa, shucked off his new blazer, and stretched out.

Dino motioned for Stone to leave the room with him. In the living room, he sat down, and Stone joined him.

“What do you know about Donald Clark?” Dino asked.

Stone shrugged. “He is supposedly a successful businessman of some sort. I read in a magazine that he is worth half a billion dollars.”

“Probably in the financial world,” Dino said. “You don’t make that kind of money manufacturing widgets.”

“Holly selected him as her secretary of commerce, but she withdrew the nomination after the mess at the hotel, and the sex rumors.”

“That I knew,” Dino said. He picked up his cell phone and pressed a button. “It’s Bacchetti,” he said. “I want to know everything there is to know about a Donald Clark.” He spelled it. “Yeah, that’s the one. He was going to be secretary of commerce, until he got his dick caught in his zipper. E-mail me whatever you find.” He hung up. “Let’s start treating this guy like any other suspect,” he said.

Dino got up. “I gotta run. What are you going to do with the guy on the sofa in your study?”

“I’ll have to find him a new hotel.”

“What’s wrong with one of your guest rooms?”

“We’d have a Secret Service problem there. They’d have to do a major background check, and it would annoy them that he was a suspect in a murder for a few minutes.”

“You and Holly could also trip over him on the way to bed.”

Stone nodded. “There is that, too. And we don’t need to expand the list of who knows about our arrangement. That way lies Page Six in the Post and People magazine.

“Everybody wants to get in the way of your getting laid,” Dino said.

“It seems that way sometimes.”

“Where’s Lara?”

“Out shopping. Fred is going to meet her somewhere.”

“What happens if — rather, when — Holly calls and says she’s on the way to New York?”

“There are airlines between here and L.A.”

“Suppose she doesn’t want to go?”

“Then we’ll crate her and ship her.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘we’?” Dino left, and Stone went down to his office. He buzzed Joan, and she came in.

“Yes, boss?”

“Lieutenant Jacoby is asleep on the sofa in my study. He’s had a bad experience, and we have to get him out of the Lowell and into somewhere else.”

“When?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“I’m on it.” She went back to her office.

Stone’s phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID: encrypted. “Hello?”

“Hi, there,” Holly said. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricky.”

“How tricky?”

“A dead cop outside Turnbull & Asser, and another asleep in my study that I have to get transported to a hotel, to keep him out of harm’s way.”

“Is there room for me in all that?”