Stuart Woods: Family Jewels

“That was a misunderstanding, quickly cleared up.”

“What sort of misunderstanding?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. But Carrie Fiske matters, I can promise you that.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Barrington.” He hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Tell Dino, if that wasn’t long enough for him to trace, he’s fired.”

Joan buzzed. “Ms. Tiffany Baldwin to see you.”

“Show her in, and remember what I said.”

A blond head was stuck around his doorjamb. “Knock, knock?”

“Come in, Tiffany,” he said, extending a hand to be shaken.

She brushed it aside and came into his arms. “Hello, cutie,” she said, rubbing herself against his crotch.

Behind her, Joan produced a coughing fit. Tiffany turned and glared at her.

“Take the sofa, Tiffany, Joan can take the chair.” He picked up her folder and pretended to study it while she decided what to do. Finally, she sat down. Joan was ready with her steno pad.

“I don’t want to keep you from the business of the nation for too long, so let’s get started.” He glanced at the folder. “Columbia undergraduate and Columbia Law School, assistant district attorney under the esteemed Robert Morgenthau for eight years, then chief prosecutor — a fairly meteoric rise, I’d say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” she said archly.

“Then assistant U.S. attorney for another six, and lo and behold, you’re appointed to the big job — United States attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

“That is correct, as you well know.”

“What would you say is the hallmark of your time in that office?”

“Fighting crime — decimating organized crime in my jurisdiction.”

“Did you deal much with constitutional issues, as opposed to criminal prosecutions?”

“Whenever those issues arose.”

“Lifelong Democrat?”

“No, I was a Republican until I went to work for Mr. Morgenthau. He showed me the error of my ways.”

“Good for Mr. Morgenthau. Tell me, what would the President be surprised to hear about you?”

Her eyebrows went up. “You could tell her as well as I.”

Joan coughed again and pretended to write down something.

“Anything more apropos to the occasion?”

“She might be surprised by my liberal bent on the bench.”

“But you’ve never served on any bench. Would you say you’ve been a liberal prosecutor?”

“The law doesn’t allow for political preferences, it’s just enforced.”

“Good point. Is there anything you would not like to come up during the vetting process?”

“My personal life,” she said. “Or yours.”

That sounded like a threat to Stone. “My life doesn’t enter into it.”

“I’m sure you would prefer that it didn’t.”

“Is there anything more the President should know about your background?”

“My life is an open book.”

I certainly hope not, Stone thought. “I’ll tell her you said so. Is there anything else you’d like to include in our conversation?”

“Not in the present company,” she replied, her eyes drilling through Joan. “Perhaps if we could meet alone.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stone said. “That completes the interview.” He stood up, and so did Joan. “Joan, will you show Ms. Baldwin out, please?” He offered his hand again, this time with the coffee table between them. “Good to see you, Tiffany.”

Joan managed to keep herself between Stone and his guest as she showed the woman to the door. Stone heard her lock it behind Tiffany, then she returned.

“That woman is a piece of work,” she said. “I thought she was going to jump you right here in front of me.”

“Thank you, Joan, that will be all. Oh, get me Dino, will you, please?” He settled behind his desk and waited for the phone to buzz, which it did. “Good morning. I hope we gave your people enough time to trace that call.”

“Oh, yes, plenty of time,” Dino said. “He was driving down Park Avenue, presumably in a cab. He got off at Forty-fourth Street.”

“No luck, then?”

“None.”

“Well, I got luckier, I think.”

“You think? Don’t you know when you get lucky?”

“He told me his real name — his girlfriend’s, too. He says they’re not married.”

“I’ve got a pencil.”

“He says his name is Daryl Barnes, and hers is Annie Allen. To hear him tell it they were childhood sweethearts in a small town in Georgia called Delano, in Meriwether County.”

“What makes you think he told you his real name?”

“He wanted me to represent him. By the way, he denied all knowledge of Carrie’s murder, until I told him we had his voice on her iPhone and the photograph of him at the scene. Then he came over all quiet.”

“I would have been happier if a DA had surprised him with that information.”

“I was trying to get his real name.”

“Hang on a minute.” Dino made typing noises. “Nothing on him,” he said.

“He told me he’d never been arrested before, that whatever happened in Palm Beach was a misunderstanding, quickly resolved.”

“Wait a minute, we’ve got a bite on an Ann Allen. She was picked up in an Atlanta hotel fifteen years ago for running the badger game on an undercover cop. Her partner got away clean, and since she didn’t have a record, she got a thousand-dollar fine and a year, suspended. Her fine was paid by a Daryl Jones, in cash. We’ve got nothing on a Daryl Jones.”

“So maybe his name is Daryl Barnes — maybe he changed it for the occasion.”

“Sounds that way to me.”

“You want me to run Daryl Barnes through a computer program I know about?”

“You mean the computer program I’ve never heard of?”

“That’s the one.”

“I can’t stop you.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Stone called Bob Cantor and waited while he ran the name against hotel registrants.

“Nothing,” Cantor said.

“See you.” Stone hung up and called Dino. “No Daryl Barnes registered at any New York hotel.”

“Well, shit. If you’re going to use an illegal means of search, you might at least try to use one that works.”

“Dino, that makes as much sense as anything you’ve ever said to me.” Stone hung up.

Joan came into Stone’s office bearing an envelope. “This just arrived by messenger from Sotheby’s.”

Stone opened the envelope and found another. Inside that was an invitation printed on heavy cream paper:

The Board of Directors of Sotheby’s requests the pleasure of your company at a private showing of jewelry from the estate of Carrie Fiske, to include the first sight in three-quarters of a century of the diamond-and-ruby necklace worn by Adele Bloch-Bauer in the Gold painting by Gustav Klimt

The date and time were for three days hence. Stone had a sudden thought. He called Jamie Niven at Sotheby’s.

“Good afternoon, Stone. I trust you received your invitation to the private showing.”

“I did, thank you, and I am responding. I will attend with pleasure.”

“This is going to be a real do. Have you seen any of the publicity?”

“Everywhere and constantly. Jamie, you’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Jamie, I assume that you have a computerized list of the people Sotheby’s does business with.”

“We have.”

“Would you search a name for me, please?”

“Of course.

“Daryl Barnes.” Stone spelled it for him.

Clicking of keys. “Yes, we do. He’s never bought anything, but he requested to be notified of important jewelry sales.”