The Ditto List (32 page)

There were few purchases by Stone individually, conservative issues mostly, utilities and blue chips, bought at moderate prices and held, D.T. wagered, yet today. If he took any chances at all, Chas Stone took them only with other people's money.

D.T. thumbed quickly through a further batch. One of them, and then another, leaped at him from the thicket. Buy orders, executed on behalf of a customer named Nathaniel Preston. D.T. sighed heavily. God did deal in grace, he just dealt it rather late. He finally had a nail. Then he remembered his promise to Rita Holloway, and realized he no longer had a client to be his hammer.

D.T. looked at the trade orders once again. The stocks were in companies he had never heard of. Electronics, by the sound of the names. Two hundred shares of one, three hundred of another. Total investment of a little over five thousand dollars. Made during the final year of Preston's marriage to Esther. Not specifically disclosed in the property settlement agreement Esther Preston had showed him. D.T. pawed quickly through the rest of the papers to see if there were any further transactions on behalf of Nathaniel Preston or any sales of the two stocks Preston had purchased. He found neither.

He looked at his watch. It was not yet seven. No ordinary business would be open, but it was ten on the East Coast and the market was about to open. Any stock broker worth his salt would be on duty. D.T. called the one he had used as an expert witness the few times when the past or future value of securities had become an issue.

“Green and Hastings.”

“Paul Brashman, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Say it's D. T. Jones.”

“One moment.”

D.T. drained his third cup of coffee as he waited, feeling his brain begin to curdle from its impact. His eyes seemed salted. He wanted badly to lie down.

“D.T.? How goes it?”

“At a snail's pace, Paul. How about yourself?”

“Great. Volume's at an all-time high and so is the Dow. Nowhere to go but up, if interest rates stay down. You're in early.”

“Out late. I need a favor.”

“Testimony?”

“Research.”

“We're the best in the business. What have you got? Hot tip, I suppose.”

“Two companies. Clifford Microdata and East Jersey Instruments. Ever hear of them?”

“Nope. Not big board. Are they public?”

“I think so. Or at least they were. Over-the-counter.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Just what has happened to them since 1965. In other words, how much an investment of a hundred shares in each of them in that year would be worth today.”

“Hmm. May take a while.”

“How long?”

“Three, four hours.”

“No problem. Give me a call.”

“Will do. Tape's kicking in so I got to run. Let's play golf.”

“I get three a side.”

D.T. hung up on the broker's curse of protest and went over to the couch and stretched out, masking his eyes with his arm. Should he try to persuade Esther Preston to file suit after all? What if the stock were worth a fortune? He'd told her, what, a 25 percent contingency? He could use 25 percent of almost anything. The problem was her safety. But surely she could be protected. Rita Holloway. Toledo. The cops, if necessary. And hell, it was probably coincidental anyway. A kid had moved the ramp as a prank. The glass and oil were merely spills, the walker defective. Even Vivaldi and Doris Day movies seem ominous at three a.m. Maybe he should go ahead and sue.

The next thing he knew Bobby E. Lee was shaking his shoulder. “You have to be in court in half an hour,” he said. “I thought I'd better wake you.”

“Right, right.”

“The Stone transcript came in.”

“Send it to Mrs. Stone by messenger, with a note for her to read it right away.”

D.T. stumbled to his feet and went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up as best he could, then, smelling of Scope and Noxzema, he donned the shirt and tie and coat he kept at the office for such contingencies and went out to Bobby E. Lee's desk. “What have I got?”

“Jensen. Motion to compel further answers to interrogatories and production of documents.”

“Where's the file?”

“Here.”

“Magistrate?”

“Yes.”

“See you.”

D.T. headed toward the door and then turned back. “Sorry about last night.”

“It's all right.”

“I had to know.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I won't have to do anything with it.”

“Maybe so.”

D.T. went to court to waste his time and his client's money, playing the games that judges let lawyers play despite a thousand reasons not to. When he was finished he drove to the hospital. The nurse on the orthopedic ward asked if he was a relative of Mrs. Preston. He told her he was better than her relative, he was her lawyer. The nurse sniffed and frowned and consulted her chart. “She has suffered a concussion and many contusions,” she said stiffly. “She still has much discomfort.”

“You mean pain.”

“I mean what I say, young man.”

“I'll only be a minute.”

The nurse scratched her cheek. She seemed to have a beard. “I see Rita Holloway has listed you as an authorized visitor.”

“Do you know Miss Holloway?”

“She was formerly on staff.” From her look she and Rita Holloway were engaged in a blood feud.

“Which room?” D.T. asked.

“Four-nineteen.”

“I'll find it.”

He took a right, then a left, and pushed open a heavy numbered door. The first bed was entirely shrouded by an orange curtain that hung like a slice of the sun from a circular track in the ceiling. He peeked beyond the curtain and saw Esther Preston in the second bed.

He had expected a cast or traction or some other by-product of trauma, but she was unencumbered, asleep, propped up by the tilted end of the bed. Her hospital gown was imprinted with little pink flowers, her flesh was as thin and substanceless as tissue. When he approached her bed she opened her eyes.

“Mr. Jones. How nice.”

“How are you, Mrs. Preston?”

“I've been better, I must admit.”

“I imagine.”

“But they tell me I was quite fortunate, it could have been much worse. But then that can be said of anything, can't it?”

“Have you talked to Miss Holloway?”

“Briefly. She was here just after I got out of X ray.”

“Did she say anything about how you came to fall?”

“I know how I fell, Mr. Jones. I was careless.”

“It may be more than that, Mrs. Preston.”

She frowned, and grimaced from what he hoped was a source of pain other than himself. “How do you mean?”

“Have you heard from your husband lately, by any chance?”

She raised her brows. “Oddly enough, I have. What makes you ask?”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me to leave him alone, was, I believe, the way he put it. It was more a directive than a request.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I had left him alone for fifteen years and I would be happy to continue doing so. But what does this have to do with my falling in the bathroom?”

“I think your husband may have left you some reminders, Mrs. Preston.”

“What sort of reminders?”

He told her what he and Rita Holloway had found, and what they suspected. “Are you certain of this?” she asked when he had finished.

“Not completely, no. It could all be coincidental.”

“Is there a way to prove whether or not Nat did it?”

“I doubt it. Certainly not without calling in the police.”

“I see.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. Her thin chest rose and fell beneath the bedclothes. Somewhere down the hall an operatic laugh rang out, then ceased abruptly. D.T. wondered if there was anyone in the next bed, and what they had that needed to be hidden. “Mr. Jones?” Her voice was faint.

“What?”

“What does the D.T. stand for? If you don't mind my asking.”

“Dog Tired,” he said.

She sighed and smiled.

“I don't think you ought to stay alone for a while, Mrs. Preston. After you leave here, I mean.”

She opened her eyes. “You think he'll keep on trying to frighten me?”

“He may. It'll take time to get word to him that we're not going to file any kind of suit.”

“But I never intended to sue him.”

“I know. This whole thing is my fault. I did some investigating and in the process word got to him that I was checking him out. He didn't like it, apparently.”

“What on earth do you think he's afraid of?” she asked, her voice high in wonderment. “How could I possibly be a danger to him?”

“I wish I knew,” D.T. said truthfully. “The only thing I can think of is a malpractice case that somehow stayed hidden all these years.”

“But how is that possible?”

“Well, if the victim doesn't realize he or she has a claim, then the statute of limitations doesn't begin to run. So if your husband screwed up, and someone eventually died or was badly injured, and there was no reasonable way for that person to know at the time that it was your husband's fault, he could be sued today even though it's years after he saw the patient. Is there anything at all you can think of like that? A patient who was misdiagnosed? A problem delivery he messed up? A miscarriage caused by something he prescribed? Anything?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“How about drugs? Was he a user? Or maybe he sold uppers to the kids on the block?”

“I'm sure not.”

“Was he an abortionist? It was illegal in those days, I think.”

“No. Not that I know of. I'm sorry, but there's nothing at all like that. Of course, I wasn't at his office. I suppose all kinds of things could have gone on without my knowledge.”

“Well, I know you must be tired. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Preston. If you need anything, just call. And don't worry. I'll calm your husband's nerves and you won't have any more trouble with him. And Miss Holloway and Toledo will stay with you for a while, just to make sure.”

Her lips grew taut. “I had some other plan in mind, Mr. Jones.”

“What?”

Her expression was as uncommon as a mask. “I think we ought to sue the sucker. Can we?” Her lips could have cut wood.

D.T. paused to think and wiped his brow. His face grew warm from his quick desire to abet her folly. “We can sue anybody for anything,” he said.

“Can we win?”

He thought about the stocks and decided not to mention them just yet. “I doubt it. A small amount, if anything.”

“Will you do it anyway?”

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“I am.”

“What about the danger?”

She smiled happily. “One advantage of the afflicted is that we can feign a rather flashy courage. Will you do it, Mr. Jones? Please?”

He sighed, suddenly disliking both of them for what she made him do. “I'll file the complaint, and I'll try the case if it gets that far. But that's it. I can't afford to do much more than that with it. Discovery costs money.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Let's do this. I'll go back to the office and draft the complaint. You think it over. I'll send my secretary out here with the original for you to sign. If you change your mind you tell him so and that'll be it. No problem. And in fact that's what I strongly advise you to do, Mrs. Preston. Forget it.”

“Oh, I would have, Mr. Jones. If he hadn't done
this
.” She gestured at her surroundings. “He's made me dependent again, and afraid the way I used to be during the days when I first learned I had sclerosis. I can't forgive him for that.”

“Well, you think it over,” D.T. repeated. “By the way, Dr. Haskell says hello.”

“Goodness, I haven't seen him in years. How is he?”

“Emaciated.”

She laughed. “He would be. Why were you meeting with him?”

“To talk about your husband.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“That he was a complete and total bastard.”

“Yes. I suppose that just about covers it.” Esther Preston giggled.

“I only wish there was a law against it,” D.T. said, then said goodbye.

As he left the hospital and walked toward the parking lot he heard his name called. Rita Holloway was trotting toward him, carrying a small handbag in one hand. “Did you see her?” she asked breathlessly. “I brought her things.”

D.T. nodded. “Thanks for leaving my name.”

“How is she?”

“Fine. She wants to sue the bastard.”

“You must be joking. Did you tell her what he did?”

“Yep. That's what made her mad enough to do it.”

“But what if he tries to scare her again? Or worse?”

“You're going to have to stop him.”

“Me?”

“I don't think he'd try anything with another person around the house. And there are ways to let you know if someone has been inside while you're gone. So don't worry. We'll figure it out.”

Rita Holloway shook her head. “My God. I can't
believe
she wants to go ahead.”

“Sure you can.”

She looked at him. “I guess I can at that,” she said, then started to move around him toward the hospital.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Have you had breakfast?”

She raised a brow and cocked her head. “No. I haven't.”

“Why don't you drop off Mrs. Preston's things, then let me buy you a pancake or something.”

Rita Holloway frowned, eyed him oddly, then scratched her nose. “I have to get out of these clothes. I reek.”

“I'll meet you at your place. You can change, then we'll hit a little bistro I frequent upon occasion.”

“Not the Walrus, I hope.”