Stuart Woods - Family Jewels

“All right. Don’t touch anything in the house. We’re on our way.”

“I don’t think the neighbors would appreciate lights and sirens,” Stone said. “The person upstairs isn’t going anywhere, so take your time.”

“Right. Sit tight.” He hung up, and so did Stone. He addressed the little group in the living room. “Unless you want to spend a long afternoon answering the same questions over and over, you should all go back to the house now, before the police arrive, and Carrie, please take Bob with you. Did anybody touch anything?”

They all shook their heads.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“All right, everybody, let’s go home. Come on, Bob.”

“By the way, Carrie, who owns this house?”

“A friend of my ex-husband,” she replied. “His name is James Carlton.”

“Film director?”

“That’s the one. The place is for sale.”

“I didn’t see a real estate agent’s sign.”

“The people around here don’t like signs in their yards. Join us for cocktails, if you can. Dinner is at seven-thirty, and we’re dressing.”

Stone nodded, and she left. He took a seat on the living room sofa. A moment later Stone heard a snap from outside and the creak of the opening gate. Car doors slammed, and there were footsteps on the outside stairs.

A chunky police sergeant walked into the house and stopped. “Are you Barrington?”

“I am,” Stone said, rising to greet him.

“I’m Dante D’Orio,” he said, offering his hand.

Stone shook it. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you up to date.”

D’Orio took the chair opposite and prepared to listen.

When Stone had finished, he asked, “Do you know who owns this house?”

“I’m told James Carlton.”

“The movie guy?”

“Yes. Apparently the house is on the market.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since anybody was here?”

“No, but you’d think that some real estate people might have been in here. The place isn’t exactly in a condition to show.”

Other people began to arrive, some of them carrying cases and equipment.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” D’Orio said.

“Do you need me further?”

“I’d like to know how to get in touch with you.”

Stone wrote his cell number on a card and handed it to him. “I’ll be next door at the home of Carrie Fiske if you need me.”

Stone returned to the house next door.

Stone dressed in a white dinner jacket and joined the others downstairs for cocktails; everybody was one drink ahead of him. To his pleasant surprise, Rupert was able to come up with a Knob Creek on the rocks.

“So, Stone,” Nicky said, “what did the police have to say?”

“I did most of the talking,” Stone said, “just telling them what I had seen. They went to work, and I left.”

“What did you see upstairs?” Nicky asked.

“Our worst fears realized.”

“Details?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your canapés.”

“That bad, huh?”

“As bad as it gets.”

“Man or woman?”

“A woman, judging from the clothes in the room. Otherwise, it was hard to tell. Something I don’t understand — if the house is on the market, why haven’t there been real estate people in there, showing it?”

“Jim is asking thirty-five million,” Carrie said. “That tends to cut down on the foot traffic.”

“I suppose so. Do you know when he was last here?”

“I keep my house open year-round,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I read somewhere that he was making a film in London — maybe he hasn’t returned for a while.”

“Do you know who the agents are?”

“Best Hamptons Properties, Julia Fields. I saw her arrive with some people — buyers, I guess — right after New Year’s. Nobody since. Do you think the body has been there that long?”

“Bodies decay at different rates, depending on the conditions present. I’m not an expert. When I was a cop I usually saw them when they were still fresh, with a few exceptions. I’ve tried to forget those.”

“How did you go from being a cop to being a lawyer?” Nicky asked.

“My senior year at NYU Law School I did a ride-around with the police, and I was captivated. After I graduated, I joined the NYPD. I was invalided out fourteen years later, after getting shot in a knee, and I happened to bump into a law school classmate who suggested I take a cram course for the bar exam, then become of counsel to his firm.”

“What’s ‘of counsel’?”

“It just means you’re not a partner or an associate. In my case it meant that I handled cases that the firm didn’t want to be seen as handling, often things that related to my experience as a police detective.”

“I’d like to read a book about those cases,” Carrie said.

“It will never be published, unless it’s without my knowledge. Your turn on the grill, Nicky,” Stone said. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Groton and Yale, art history major.”

“That qualifies you to be a dealer, I guess.”

“It sort of qualifies me to be a collector. I’ve never had a job. I shouldn’t say that too loudly, in case my great-grandfather is listening from somewhere. From what I know of him, it wouldn’t please him. Actually, over the years I’ve sold at a profit often enough to qualify as having made a living, if not quite the living that my trust has paid for.”

“I should think not,” Carrie said. “And Nicky, when you were confessing your real estate sins, you forgot to include the house in the South of France.”

“Oh, yes, that one. You’ve caught me. Stone, I’m interested in your property in the south of England. What does it consist of?”

“Eighty acres and a Georgian-style manor house, built in the twenties.”

“What attracted you to it?”

“It’s quite beautiful. It had just undergone a thorough renovation by a good designer, and it’s on a beautiful river with easy access to the Solent, the body of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. I sail now and then. What attracted you to Palm Beach?”

“I inherited the house, and nobody would buy it.”

Everybody laughed. “Donald Trump tried, before he bought his present property, but Nicky was too much of a snob to sell it to him.”

“That’s quite true,” Nicky said. “I was and am a snob. I’m attracted to people of substance, not just money. What is the name of the law firm to which you are ‘of counsel,’ Stone?”

“Woodman & Weld. I’m a partner these days.”

“An estimable firm.”

“Thank you.”

“Was your law school friend Bill Eggers?”

“He was and is.”

“I knew him as a Yale undergrad. May I call you next week? I’m not entirely satisfied with my representation.”

“Of course.” Stone handed him a card. “I visit the office from time to time, but I mostly work out of my home. Come and see me there.”

Nicky pocketed the card. “I’ll do that.”

Rupert materialized. “Dinner is served, madam.”

And they went in.

When they came out, Sergeant D’Orio was waiting for Stone. They went out onto the deck and took a seat. It was a balmy night, with a moon rising.

“You’ve been a cop,” D’Orio said, “so you’ll understand the reason for these questions.”

“Of course.”

“When did you arrive out here?”

“About one-thirty this afternoon, in time for a Bloody Mary and lunch. Our meal was interrupted when the wind changed.”

“When were you last in the Hamptons?”

“The summer before last, in June, I believe.”

“Account for your movements for the past three months.”