Stuart Woods: Family Jewels

“Did you have a restraining order against him?”

“Yes, one that prevents him from coming closer to me than a hundred feet, and he never has.”

“So, you’re legally divorced, your settlement was paid, and he hasn’t violated the TRO?”

“That is correct.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do. Legally.”

“How about illegally?”

“No, no, don’t even think that. Do you have your ex-husband’s address?”

She gave him the number of an apartment building on Second Avenue. “It’s a studio,” she said. “I suppose he’s living frugally.”

“Do you have a will?”

She blinked. “Yes. I forgot. And he’s the sole heir. How could I forget that?” She slapped her forehead.

“Where is the original of the will?”

“It’s in my safe, in my apartment.”

“Well, when it’s convenient, get it to me. In the meantime, let’s draw up a new will.”

“Right now?”

“The sooner the better,” Stone said. “And we’ll send your ex-husband a copy.”

She glanced at her watch. “I can’t do it right now; I have a lunch date.”

“Don’t delay.”

“Don’t worry.”

Now,” Stone said, “do you mind having some company for a few days?”

“Are you volunteering?” she asked, a little smile on her face.

“I’m volunteering a man who works for me. His name is Fred Flicker, and he is very competent.”

“And what will his duties be?”

“To see that you move about safely, and to frighten your ex-husband.”

“Harvey was a boxing champion at Yale,” she said. “He doesn’t frighten easily.”

“He hasn’t met Fred Flicker. Shall I introduce you?”

“All right.”

Stone buzzed Joan. “Please ask Fred to join us.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be just a moment.”

A moment later Fred Flicker entered the room. “You rang, sir?” Fred Flicker would have been about five-six, if he wore heels, which he did not.

“I did, Fred. This is Ms. Fiske. I would like you to accompany her everywhere she goes for the next few days. Her ex-husband has been following her, and when given the opportunity, I would like you to persuade him to discontinue that activity.”

“How much persuasion may I use, sir?”

“You may not harm him, except in self-defense.”

“Will he be armed?”

Stone looked at Carrie and raised his eyebrows.

“He owns guns,” she said. “I don’t know if he has been walking around armed.”

“Does he have a license to do so?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I expect not. Do you mind if he is sent to prison for a while?”

“For killing me? For a very long time, please.”

“No, for carrying a gun illegally.”

“Sure, why not?”

“Fred, if you learn that Mr. Harvey Biggers — that’s his name — is carrying, take steps.”

“Quite, sir.”

“You may go and get the car, Fred. Ms. Fiske will meet you outside momentarily.”

Fred disappeared.

“You really think this is going to work?” she asked.

“Very probably. Bullies don’t like being confronted by those they have not chosen to bully.”

“Harvey is a bully, now that you mention it, but I’m not sure that little man will frighten him.”

“That little man, as you describe him, is a retired regimental sergeant of the Royal Marine Commandos. He is extraordinarily well qualified to frighten bullies.”

“I can’t wait to see this.”

“Then go somewhere today where you think Harvey might follow you. Fred is waiting outside in my car. I would like him to drive you anywhere you wish to go.”

“For how long?”

“Until Harvey vanishes.”

“Well,” she said, getting to her feet, “I guess this is worth a try. What do we do if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll cross that gutter when we come to it.” Stone shook her hand, and she left his office. He heard the outside door close behind her.

Joan came in. “What was she about?”

“About an ex-husband who won’t leave her alone.”

“Oh, one of those.”

“Yes, one of those.”

“You seem to have known a number of women with ex-husbands or boyfriends like that.”

“It has been my lot in life to know such women.”

“You attract them the way other people attract mosquitoes. How did you attract this one?”

“I forgot to ask her who recommended me.”

“She reminds me of a young Lauren Bacall.”

“Me too.”

“Don’t start thinking you’re Humphrey Bogart,” she said, then went back to her desk. A moment later she buzzed him. “Dino on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning,” he said.

“It’s not bad,” Dino replied. Back when Stone had been an NYPD detective, he and Dino had been partners. Dino had prospered and was now the New York City police commissioner.

“I wish I could say that,” Stone said. “I woke up feeling like one of the undead. Funny, though, I feel better now.”

“How’d you get over that? It’s too early in the morning for you to have met a new woman.”

“Actually,” Stone said, “it’s not.”

Fred Flicker had a good look at Ms. Fiske as he held open the door of the Bentley. Pretty good, he thought, but Fred was a harsh judge of flesh. He got into the driver’s seat.

“And where would you like to go, madam?” he asked.

“Madam? Really?”

“Would you prefer miss?”

“Infinitely.”

“Where would you like to go, miss?”

“Home?”

“Would you like to give me a hint?”

“Oh, I’m sorry — 740 Park Avenue.”

“Yes, miss.” Fred put the car in gear and drove away. Fifteen minutes later he pulled to a stop in front of her building, got out and opened the door for her.

“Thank you, Fred.”

He handed her a card. “Please call me at this number when you’re ready to go out, miss. I’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Actually,” she said, “I’d rather just go to lunch now. I’m presentable, no need to go upstairs.” She got back into the car.

Fred mounted the driver’s seat again. “Where to, miss?”

“The Boathouse in Central Park,” she said, dialing a number on her cell phone.

“Yes, miss.” Ten minutes later they were there. Fred assisted her from the car, then parked it and followed her into the restaurant. She was seated at an outside table overlooking the lake. A woman entered, they air-kissed, and the two women sat down together.

Fred stood to one side of the seating area and was approached by the headwaiter.

“May I help you?” the man asked, in a tone that sounded as if he had no wish to help.

“Security,” Fred said, nodding toward the Fiske table.

“Really?”

“Really. Trust me.”

“Oh, all right.” He stalked away.

A moment later the waiter returned to the terrace, leading a large, handsome gentleman. Fred looked him over: six-five, maybe six-six, two-twenty, chiseled features, square jaw. He was seated on the opposite side of the outdoor area from where Ms. Fiske sat. He looked at her, she looked at the man and nodded.

Fred walked over to the man’s table. “Good afternoon,” he said.

The man looked at him disdainfully. “Is it?”

“Take my word for it,” Fred replied. “I am a security person for Ms. Fiske.”

The man looked him up and down. “Really?”

“Really. She would be very grateful if you would leave the restaurant and not follow her anywhere again.”

The man stood up and approached Fred, who remained rooted to the spot. He reached out, put his hands under Fred’s arms and lifted him like a child, until they were nose to nose. “I would be very grateful if you would go away and stay away,” he said.