Lucid Intervals (20 page)

“Don’t touch it,” she said. “We need latex gloves. I saw some in a drawer in Dick’s office. I’ll get them.” She got up, ran to the office and returned with two pairs. She handed Stone one, and they each pulled theirs on. “Now,” she said, “open the folder.”

Stone opened the folder and was presented with what appeared to be the Royal Army Reserve service record of one James Hewitt Hackett, aged twenty upon enlistment. A photograph of a young man with a very short haircut was stapled to the upper right-hand corner. The photograph, yellowed with age, appeared to be the twenty-year-old Jim Hackett, whose nose had not yet been broken. “Looks like Jim,” Stone said.

“The folder and the paperwork look well aged,” Felicity said. “I’ll have that checked into. Keep turning pages.”

Stone went very slowly through the dossier, finding reports on the initial training of the young Hackett; his marksmanship scores, all of which were at the expert level; his physical training results, which pronounced him fit and fleet; his medical records, including the setting of the broken nose suffered during training, which pronounced him hale; and his annual evaluations by his superiors, which pronounced him of good character and high intelligence. He had been steadily promoted to his final rank of company sergeant, and the dossier included a recommendation that he be sent to Sandhurst and, upon graduation, be commissioned into the Royal Army. The file ended with a copy of a letter from the regimental commander regretting Hackett’s decision to leave the army at the end of his enlistment, imploring him to reconsider and, finally, wishing him well in civilian life.

“That’s quite a record,” Stone said.

“You notice,” Felicity replied, “that this dossier and everything in it appear untouched by water, whereas all the other regimental records lie, sodden, in a warehouse in Kent?”

“That seems to be the case,” Stone admitted.

“So, if the dossier is genuine, it was removed from the regimental records before they were shipped to Kent.”

“Apparently. How long ago were they shipped?”

“That information is as damp as the files themselves,” she replied, “but we estimate the transfer as having taken place about twenty years ago, leaving Sergeant Hackett about a five-year window for the appropriation of his dossier, which is, of course, the property of the Royal Army. He could be done for that.”

“Surely there’s a statute of limitations for such a crime,” Stone said, “which doesn’t seem of any great magnitude.”

“Perhaps there is such a statute, but I assure you, the Royal Army would not look kindly upon such a theft.”

Stone picked up the FedEx box to be sure it was empty and then extracted another, folded FedEx box and a sealed envelope addressed to Dame Felicity. Stone handed her the envelope, but she motioned for him to open it. Stone did so and extracted a letter, which he read aloud:

My Dear Dame Felicity,

I hope the enclosed dossier will be of help to you and your people in your endeavors to ascertain my identity. Perhaps you are wondering if it is genuine? It is. Perhaps you are wondering how I came to possess it? Some years after leaving the regiment I visited its headquarters on Salisbury Plain for luncheon, at the invitation of my former colonel. After a good lunch, during which much wine and port were consumed, the colonel took me into the regimental offices, where many boxes of old records were being packed to be sent for storage. He instructed a corporal who was working there to unearth my dossier, which the young man did with dispatch. We then returned to the colonel’s office, where he read the dossier to me and then presented it to me as a gift, saying that, since I was now an alumnus of the regiment, they would have no further use of it.

Having read it yourself, and no doubt having copied it into your service files, I would be grateful if you would return the dossier to my New York office in the box and with the FedEx waybill provided, since I hold a sentimental attachment for the history.

Cordially,

The letter was signed “Jim.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing,” Felicity said, standing and picking up the dossier. “It’s going to be copied into our files.” She went back into the office and closed the door behind her.

41

T
hey packed a lunch, then walked down Dick Stone’s dock to where two boats awaited them: a Concordia and a Hinckley picnic boat. “Do you sail?” Stone asked.

“A little as a child, but that’s all,” she replied.

“Then we’ll take the picnic boat,” he said, stepping aboard and helping her to follow. He put their lunch in the galley, got the engine started, and Felicity cast them off. They motored slowly past the little Tarrantine Yacht Club and its dock and moorings, then Stone pressed the throttle forward and, with the warm sun on their backs, they ran across the open water of Penobscot Bay to a little cove called Pulpit Harbor, where Stone slowed the thirty-six-foot runabout and, finally, dropped anchor in the sheltered waters. Two other small sailing yachts also were anchored there, but there was room for everyone with privacy to spare.

Felicity went below for a few minutes, then brought up a tray with their sandwiches and soup while Stone opened a bottle of California chardonnay from the little fridge.

“Well,” Stone said, when they were munching away, “did the receipt of Hackett’s army service record do anything to convince you he is who he says he is?”

“Certainly not,” she replied, forking a piece of lobster into her mouth.

“Why don’t you get in touch with his old colonel and check out the story about how he got the file?”

“It’s being done as we speak,” she replied.

“So, if a retired colonel, living in a cottage somewhere in Sussex or Cornwall, declines to admit that he had too much wine at lunch one day and gave one of his old soldiers his own dossier that was about to be stored forever, Hackett is Whitestone?”

“Not necessarily. But if the story doesn’t check out, he may not be Hackett, and that’s a start.”

“God, I’m glad you’re not checking into
my
background,” he said, laughing.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” she asked coyly.

“You didn’t; you wouldn’t.”

“Let’s see: son of a West Massachusetts family who did well in the textile business in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; father disowned because he had Communist tendencies and chose to follow a career in carpentry and cabinetmaking instead of an education at Yale; mother disowned because she married your father. They moved to Greenwich Village, where your father found work as a handyman, then gradually built a business making cabinets and designing furniture; your mother became a painter of some renown, whose work is sought today in the art market. How’m I doing?”

“Couldn’t find anything juicier than that?”

“Not until you left the police, passed the bar exam and went to work for Woodman and Weld. It got a lot more interesting after that. My God, the women!”

Stone reddened. “You’re a prying woman.”

“I’d be a fool not to be, with a staff of researchers and a curious nature,” she said blithely.

“Do you pry so deeply into the backgrounds of all the men you meet?”

“All the ones I sleep with,” she said, “before I sleep with them.”

“And have you turned up any cads?”

“One cashiered army officer who embezzled his regiment’s funds,” she said. “One self-styled entrepreneur who turned out to be a bookmaker, haunting the tracks every day, and one murderer.”

“Tell me about the murderer,” Stone said.

“I had been seeing him for about a year,” she said. “I had just turned thirty and had been promoted to a position in my service that gave me access to a great deal of information. There was talk of marriage. He inherited quite a lot of money and a fine country property from his elder brother, who had died in a farming accident, and he proposed. I vetted him and found that he had been a suspect in the death of an elderly aunt in Scotland, and I brought that to the attention of the police. A few days later two detectives arrived at a restaurant where we were dining and took him away, charging him with his brother’s murder. It was revealed at the trial that he had driven a tractor over the poor fellow and then harrowed him. Tried to make it look like he’d fallen off the machine and under the harrow.”

“And you turned him in?”

“Most certainly,” she replied. “I am an upstanding subject of Her Majesty and an upholder of the law. If he’d been acquitted,” she added, “I’d have married him. As it was, he got life.”

Stone’s cell phone buzzed at his belt. He looked at it and saw Dino was calling. “Excuse me,” he said, and answered it.

“Hello, Dino.”

“Where the hell are you?” Dino asked.

“It’s a secret.”

“I can find out, you know; I’m a detective.”

“Far, far away,” Stone said.

“Well, you’d better get your ass back here,” Dino replied.

“Why?”

“Because your esteemed client, Mr. Herbert Fisher, has been arrested for the murder of his girlfriend, one Sheila Seidman. My guys say he tossed her off his penthouse; she made a mess on Park Avenue.”

“I don’t believe it,” Stone said.

“I don’t know why not,” Dino replied. “If she’d been my girlfriend I’d have offed her a long time ago. Anyway, Herbie’s back in the tank, and he won’t talk to anybody but you. What time will you be here?”

“I’m in Maine, Dino; it’ll have to be tomorrow.”

“Stay another week, for all I care. I just wanted to give you the message.”

“Tell Herbie tomorrow afternoon,” Stone said.

“Okey dokey,” Dino replied. “Felicity with you?”

“That information is classified,” Stone said.

“That means she’s with you. It wouldn’t be classified, if she weren’t.”

“You’re too smart for me, Dino.”

“I always was,” Dino replied and then hung up.

Stone put the phone back in its holster.

“So what difficulty has Mr. Fisher got himself into now?” Felicity asked.

“Apparently, Herbie’s girlfriend, an unbearable woman named Sheila, a prostitute by trade, has taken a dive from the terrace of his new penthouse, and the squad at the Nineteenth like Herbie for it. I have to go back tomorrow morning and deal with the situation, Herbie having paid me a large retainer to look after him.”

“You think he did it?” Felicity asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Stone said. “Today is going to be either the worst day or the best day of his life.”

42

T
he following morning Stone was loading their luggage into the 1938 Ford when Mary called to him from the house. “Phone for you, Mr. Stone.”

Stone went back into the living room and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s Jim Hackett,” a voice said. “When are you planning to return to New York?”

“In a matter of minutes,” Stone said. “One of my clients is in a jam, and we’re just leaving for the airport. Do you need the airplane?”

“No, no, it’s not that. I have a G-550 for long-distance travel; the Mustang is for personal pleasure. I’m calling from the Gulfstream now, on my way home. There are some things I want to discuss with you.”

“I’ll be in the city by noon,” Stone said.

“Then come and see me in my office tomorrow morning at eight,” Hackett said. “Where are you staying?”

“In my own home,” Stone replied.

“Not a good idea; the crazy lady is still on the loose. The company keeps a suite at the Plaza for important guests. Tell them I sent you, and stay there until it’s safe.”

“How will I know when it’s safe?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“All right, Jim. See you tomorrow morning.” Stone hung up and went back to the car.

At the airport, after a long preflight inspection and a careful reading of the checklist, Stone positioned the airplane at the very end of the runway, did his pre-takeoff check, then shoved the throttles to the firewall while standing on the brakes. When the instruments showed the engines were producing every drop of available power, he released the brakes and the airplane pressed him back into his seat. He kept one eye on the rapidly disappearing runway and the other on the airspeed tape until the little R landed on the pointer, then he put both hands on the yoke and pulled it back until the flight director told him he was at the correct angle for takeoff.

The airplane rose, just as it seemed there was no runway left, and climbed as it had been designed to.

“Well,” Felicity said, “it’s reassuring to know this little airplane can do that. For future reference.”

“I always knew the airplane could do that,” Stone replied, “because it’s in the flight manual.” He climbed to altitude and moved the throttles back to the cruise detent. “By the way, Jim has suggested that, since Dolce is still at large, we stay in his company’s suite at the Plaza. That okay with you, or do you want to move into the embassy?”

“I’ll stick with you,” she replied. “The ambassador’s wife drives me mad.”

“Good.”

“I’m going to need more clothes, though.”

“Give me a list, and I’ll have Joan pack a case for both of us and messenger them over to the Plaza.” Stone used the sat phone to call Joan.

“Did Dino get hold of you?” Joan asked.

“Yeah, I’ll go see Herbie this afternoon.” Stone gave her a list of what to pack for both of them.

THE PLAZA SUITE
had one bedroom and a large living room, both overlooking Central Park. Felicity approved. “No good sniper position out there,” she said, peeking through the sheer curtains.

“Are you often the victim of sniper attacks?” Stone asked.

“It’s just a standard security concern,” she said. “After a while, the handlers get you trained; makes their work easier.”

The cases Joan sent over were already in the bedroom, and Stone and Felicity unpacked. Then they lunched on room service, and Stone left Felicity, who was watching a movie on the large TV screen in the bedroom.