Stuart Woods - Insatiable Appetites

This was not right.

Stone could see where Carla got her beauty. Her mother, Anna, who must be in her seventies, he reckoned, was a knockout: lots of nearly white hair, beautifully coiffed; nicely made up; manicured; wearing an Armani suit.

“Good afternoon,” Anna said, offering her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fontana. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, call me Anna — even my daughter does.”

“And I’m Stone.”

“This is a nice legal nest you have here,” she said, looking around. “Are you a one-man practice?”

“No, I’m a partner in the firm of Woodman & Weld, but I prefer working here.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “Is that the journal?” she asked, nodding toward the stack of red leather volumes on Stone’s coffee table.”

“That’s it.”

“May I see the first volume?” she asked.

Stone went to the table, brought back the volume, and handed it to her.

She leafed through it. “I recognize Eduardo’s handwriting,” she said. “He wrote me many letters.”

“So you won’t have any trouble reading it?”

“Nor trouble translating it,” she said. “How many volumes are there?”

“Eight. How long do you think it would take you?”

“Let me explain how I work,” Anna said. “First, I read through the volume and make notes on particular passages, then I sit at my computer and type the manuscript in English as I read it in Italian.”

“What word processing software do you use?”

“WordPerfect. It’s not as popular as it used to be, but I’ve never used anything else.”

“Many law firms still use it, and we have it here.”

“You understand that I’d want to work at home, as I always do?”

“What do you usually charge for translating a book?” Stone asked.

“For a novel of three hundred and fifty to four hundred pages, twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars to translate the journal, but there are conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“First, you sign and keep a very strict confidentiality agreement. Second, you work in an office here — there’s an empty one next door with a computer. Third, you never remove so much as a page from this office, and you make only one backup copy and leave it here at all times.”

“May I see the office?”

Stone rose and took her down the hall to the office once used by an associate from Woodman & Weld. She looked around, sat in the chair, switched on the computer and typed a few sentences.

“Satisfactory?”

“Yes, and I like the chair so much I think I’ll get myself one.”

“How long do you think it will take you to make the translation?”

“If I work, say, six hours a day, perhaps three weeks.”

“That seems quite quick.”

“Remember, it’s a handwritten journal, not typed, so when it’s typed on the computer the number of pages will come down.”

“Are you translating anything else at the moment?”

“I just turned in a manuscript. I’ve been sent a couple of others, but I can turn them down to do this.”

“Do you accept my terms?”

“Yes, I believe they are fair. One thing, should the manuscript or any part of it ever be published, I want full credit as translator, my name on the cover, if it’s a book.”

“Agreed.”

“Then I can start tomorrow morning at ten.”

“That’s fine. I’ll have my driver run you back to Brooklyn Heights.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather take the subway — it’s faster.”

Joan came to the door and Stone introduced the two women. “Anna is going to be translating Eduardo’s journal,” Stone said. “She’ll be here every day at ten, until she’s done. Please write her a check for twenty-five thousand dollars, and when she’s done there’ll be another twenty-five thousand due. And print out a confidentiality agreement for Anna to sign.”

Joan went back to her office.

“Tell me,” Anna said, “are you and my daughter an item?”

“We first met in Paris last month, when she interviewed me. We’ve seen each other a couple of times when she has been in New York. In fact, she’ll be here this weekend.”

“What a lucky girl,” Anna said, making Stone laugh. “She’s probably going to get a Pulitzer, too. If so, it will be her second.”

“She deserves it.”

Joan came back with the check and the agreement; Anna put the check into her purse and signed the agreement. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“We’ll look forward to having you here,” Stone replied.

He helped her on with her coat and she left.

Stone went back to his office and locked the volumes of Eduardo’s journal in his safe again.

Bruce Willard got home at midday, having completed his cataloging of Elton Hills’s furniture, silver, and art. He left his bag in his apartment, then went down to his shop. His assistant, Pamela West, was at her desk in the little office.

“Everything quiet?”

“A customer in the back. He’s been in a couple of times while you were gone.”

“What’s he looking for?”

“He always says he’s just browsing.”

“I’ll have a word with him.” Bruce walked to the rear of the store and found a man closely inspecting a Georgian silver gravy boat. He was tall, slim, and bald; he turned to look at Bruce and showed a face with narrow eyes and no eyebrows.

“Good morning,” Bruce said, offering his hand. “I’m Bruce Willard. Can I help you with anything?”

The man shook it. “I’m Creed Harker,” he said with a small smile. “I’m just browsing, really.”

“Do you have a particular interest in Georgian silver?”

“I have a particular interest in beautiful things,” Harker said.

“Well, we have a shop full of those. Anything you see interest you?”

“I like the portrait hanging over there by the door,” he said. “It looks vaguely like a Sargent.”

“That’s because it is a Sargent,” Bruce said. “Or, at least, a number of people with knowledge of his work think it is. Of course, a number of people think it isn’t. It’s not signed, and it appears to be an early work, before his style was fully formed. That’s why it’s a bargain.”

“How much of a bargain?”

“Six thousand dollars.”

“Not that much of a bargain.”

“If it’s a Sargent, it’s a screaming bargain.”

“What’s its provenance?”

“Unknown. I bought it in a mixed estate sale. There are times when you have to rely on your own eye.”

“You’re a friend of Evan Hills, aren’t you?”

“I was. Perhaps you haven’t heard that he died two weeks ago.”

“I believe I had heard that.”

“He was killed in New York by a coward in a car, who then fled the scene.”

Harker flushed slightly. “How tragic,” he said.

“More than you know. There’s a large-scale police investigation, though, and they’ve already found the car, a black SUV with a Virginia registration.”

“I see.”

“It was reported stolen, after the fact. What business are you in, Mr. Harker?”

“Private security.”

“Would that be Integral Security of McLean?”

“Oh, you know us?”

“I know that your company owned the SUV in question.”

“Yes, it was stolen out of our parking lot.”

“That doesn’t speak very well for your security, does it?”

Harker’s eyes were darting about now, as if he were looking for an escape route.

“What did you think of the story in last Sunday’s Times about Evan and the meeting he attended?”

“I didn’t read it,” Harker replied.