Stuart Woods - Insatiable Appetites

Carla got back to Stone’s house in the early evening, as he was watching the news. She flopped down on the sofa and requested a martini.

Stone poured the drink. “Is all well?” he asked.

“We closed. All is well.”

“Did you find out who called your publisher?”

“Harley David. The meeting was at his house, remember?”

“I remember.”

“I added the phone call at the end of the story. It made a good coda.” She opened her large bag and withdrew an envelope. “Here’s a proof of the piece. Guard it with your life.”

Stone opened the envelope, took out some newsprint, and spread it on his desk. “Wow!” he said. “This is impressive.”

“It got more column inches than any investigative piece I’ve ever worked on. There’ll be a lead editorial on the subject, too, but I haven’t seen that yet.” She took a smaller envelope from her bag and handed it to him. “This is Evan Hills’s obit.”

“Do you mind if I send all this to his father? He won’t receive it until Saturday morning.”

“Do you know his father?”

“No, but I spoke to him on the phone this morning. He didn’t know his son was dead.”

“The old man has a reputation for being reclusive. How did he take the news?”

“Hard to say. Calmly, not to say coldly. He invited Bruce down to lunch on Sunday. The two of them will bury Evan that afternoon.”

“No funeral for a sitting congressman?”

“Apparently not. Once Washington has seen your piece, I doubt if there’ll be a memorial service at the National Cathedral, either.”

“Not unless the Democrats arrange it.”

“I suppose that, once your story breaks, there’ll be a lot of questions about how Hills died.”

“And a lot of inferences drawn, too, I imagine. Have you heard anything from the police about that?”

“No, I haven’t talked to Dino today. The news last night said they had found the offending SUV in New Jersey and that it had been wiped clean of fingerprints.”

“I saw that on the AP website,” she said. “It was owned by a D.C. security firm.”

“Integral Security. Do you know anything about them?”

“Not a thing.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called Creed Harker?”

“A lobbyist, I think,” Carla said. “I’ve seen him in the Capitol building. Creepy-looking guy.”

“Bruce said he saw Harker in the Four Seasons dining room when you two were having lunch.”

“He didn’t mention it.”

“Bruce thought he was followed to and from your lunch. That’s why he’s here. He got scared, rented a car, and ran.”

“Is he still here?”

“No, he got the shuttle back to D.C. this afternoon, said he had to pack a suit for the funeral on Sunday.”

“I liked him. I hope nobody hurts him.”

“Oh, damn it, I forgot to give him back his gun.”

“Gun?”

“He arrived here packing. I put it in my safe. I’ll send it to him.”

“You can send guns?”

“Sure, just as you can send anything else.”

“I hope he doesn’t need it.”

“So do I.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. Dinner?”

“Are you batching it again?”

“About every other night.”

“Mind if I bring a friend?”

“As long as she’s beautiful.”

“Never fear.”

“The Writing Room at eight? I’ll book.”

“Right.” Stone hung up. “That was my friend the cop. He’s invited us to dinner.”

“I’m game, but I want a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Go do that. I’ll watch the news.”

They arrived on time at the Writing Room, and Dino was already there. Stone introduced Carla. “Does she qualify?”

“Sure, she does,” Dino said, holding her chair.

“Stone, you didn’t tell me your cop friend was the police commissioner.”

“We go way back,” Stone said.

“We were partners about two hundred years ago,” Dino said. “I taught him everything.”

“Hah!” Stone ejected.

“Anything new on the Hills hit-and-run?” Stone asked.

“I expect you heard we found the car.”

“Yep. Anything in it?”

“Clean as a hound’s tooth — not even a registration, let alone a print. I’m told it smelled of Windex.”

“So the driver’s conscience is not clear.”

“Nope.”

“I wonder if the owner’s is.”

“It’s a small security firm, Integral Security, based in McLean, Virginia.”

“Across the Potomac from D.C.,” Carla said. “Lot of retired intelligence and military types live there.”

“Not a big firm,” Dino said, “only five cars registered to them, four Range Rovers and a Mercedes S-type.”

“Sounds like a fairly elegant outfit,” Carla said. “Are you investigating them further?”

“Not yet,” Dino said. “Their car may well have been stolen, who knows? If we get anything contradictory about that, we’ll take another look. Stone, do you know how Evan Hills traveled from D.C. to New York?”

“He didn’t say,” Stone replied. “I assume the shuttle or the train. His friend rented a car and drove up — he thought it was safer,” Stone said. “I wonder if Evan did the same.”

Dino stepped away from the table and made a call, then came back. “What friend?” he asked.

Stone explained about Bruce Willard. Then they had dinner, and the subject changed. They were on coffee when Dino’s phone rang, and he answered. He listened, mostly, then hung up.

“Evan Hills drove his own car, a Cadillac CSX, to New York. His hotel said it was parked at a garage a couple of blocks away. A team is on the way over there now with a flatbed. We’ll take it in and have a look at it.”

Carla’s cell rang, and she listened. “Any idea how they got it?” She hung up. “Four of the congressmen at the meeting have issued statements denying they were there: the Speaker, Thomas Rhea; Robin Ringler, Texas; Nikki Seybold, Ohio; and Gail Barley, Arizona.”

“How could they have found out about the story?” Stone asked.

“Who knows?”

“It’s a shame we don’t have photographs,” Stone said.

The following morning Stone called Elton Hills and left a message: “Mr. Hills, it’s Stone Barrington. I’m faxing you two stories that will run in Sunday’s New York Times . One of them is Evan’s obituary, the other is a very important story about a meeting he attended. I thought you should know about it in advance, since it may result in your getting some calls from the media for comment.” He asked Joan to cut the big spread into manageable pieces and fax everything.

Dino called. “We pulled in Evan Hills’s Cadillac last night and found that the car had been broken into at the garage.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“No idea. The registration, an insurance card, and the owner’s manuals are all that’s there. No prints, either. Smelled of Windex.”

“So are you going to treat his death as a homicide?”

“We’ve never treated it any other way.”

“Have you still got his iPhone?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Check for photographs on it, will you?”

“Okay.”

“When you’re done with it, you can release it to me. The car, too.”

“Okay. I liked your journalist friend.”

“I thought you would.”

“But she’s based in Washington, right?”

“Right.”

“So now you’ve got two girlfriends in D.C. and none up here.”

“That’s a depressing way to put it. Carla gets up here fairly often, it seems.”

“Speaking of girlfriends, what do you hear from Dolce?”

“Not a thing, and I hope that continues.”