Cold Paradise

49

Stone sat on the afterdeck and nursed a gin and tonic. “Dino,” he said finally, “when you arrested Manning that time in New York, you fingerprinted him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because that gives us a possible way to find out what Manning has been doing for the past four years to earn a living. I can’t see him doing it honestly.”

“What do you need?”

“I need for you to run his prints against unsolved crimes with no suspects.”

“Stone, you’re about to be rid of the guy. Why do you want to press this?”

“Because I have the awful feeling I’m never going to be rid of him. If he’s committed a crime somewhere in this country, and I can prove it, then I’d have something on him, something that would either keep him in line or put him in jail.”

Dino picked up a phone, called his office and asked them to run the Manning prints against unsolved crimes. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Why do you think he might have committed a crime?”

“Because he’s apparently been earning less than a hundred thousand dollars a year, and I don’t think that’s enough to keep Paul Manning in the style to which he long ago became accustomed.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Fred Williamson. Somebody in Bill Eggers’s office at Woodman and Weld in New York asked me to call you about some divorce work.”

“Yes, of course. How do you do, Fred?”

“Very well, thanks, and divorce is a specialty of mine.”

“Glad to hear it. What I’ve got here is a petition from a Mrs. Allison Manning against Paul Manning. Mr. Manning has already waived a response, and we have a signed property settlement.”

“Where do the Mannings live?”

“In Palm Beach.” Stone gave him Liz’s West Indies Drive address.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, then. It’ll probably take a month to get it heard.”

“Do the Mannings have to appear?”

“Not necessary, as long as they’re in agreement on the terms and they’re both represented by counsel. Who’s his lawyer?”

“Edward Ginsky, of New York, but he’s licensed to practice in Florida.” Stone gave him Ginsky’s address and phone number.

“I’ll call him and get us on the court calendar.”

“Fred, is there any way to get this heard right away? And in chambers, if possible? I don’t want it to make the papers, even in the legal notices.”

“I know a judge who might hear it in chambers sooner, rather than later,” Williamson said.

“I’d appreciate it if you could handle it that way. Ginsky has his own jet. I’m sure he could appear on short notice, or appoint someone local to do it.”

“Who’s got the paperwork?”

“I have. Can you send a messenger for it?”

“Sure. Where?”

Stone gave him the address.

“I’ll have somebody there inside an hour.”

“Thanks, Fred. Call me if you need any further information.” Stone hung up. He went to his briefcase, extracted the documents, stuffed them into a manila envelope, wrote Williamson’s name on it and gave it to Juanito to leave with the security man guarding the front door.

“Maybe I can get them divorced before Sunday,” Stone said.

“Would that make you feel better?” Dino asked.

“Yes, indeed. I’m uncomfortable about witnessing a client-two clients, in this case-committing bigamy in front of the crumbs of Palm Beach’s upper crust.”

“When they get to that part about ‘if anybody can show just cause why these two people shouldn’t get married,” shouldn’t you, as an officer of the court, stand up and yell, “It’s bigamy!”?“

“Probably, but this lawyer says he might be able to get it heard quickly.”

The phone rang again, and this time it was for Dino. “Hello? Yeah, this is Bacchetti. Hang on, let me get something to write with.” He motioned to Stone for a pen.

Stone handed him one, and a pad.

“Yeah, yeah. Where? How many? And there’s no other clue? Why the hell didn’t this match pop up before? Oh, yeah, I see. Thanks. I don’t know yet. Sit on it until I get back to you.” He hung up.

“What?” Stone asked.

“You were right, pal. Our Mr. Manning knocked over a branch bank in Arlington, Virginia, four years ago.”

“I knew it!” Stone said.

“He left a thumbprint on a note that he handed a teller.”

“Why didn’t the match turn up at the time?”

“I asked about that. It seems that when we printed the guy at the Nineteenth, whoever did it didn’t put the prints into the system because he figured, what the hell, the guy’s being prosecuted in another country. It was stupid, but it happens.”

“This is wonderful,” Stone said, meaning it.

“It gets better. A man answering the description-at least height and weight-knocked over three other branches within fifty miles of D.C. Two in Maryland and one more in Virginia. He was smart enough not to leave any prints on those jobs.”

“What sort of money did he get?”

“Between a hundred and a hundred and fifty thousand at each bank; never more than that. Still, he had to do some planning or have some inside information to get that much out of a walk-in-and-hand-the-teller-a-note job. Usually those bring more like twenty-five or thirty grand a pop, and the banks don’t even bother to prosecute if there was no violence involved.” Dino stopped and looked at Stone.

“Why the smug little smile?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I just have this warm fuzzy feeling inside.”

“You’ve got the guy by the balls.”

“You bet your sweet ass I have,” Stone said with satisfaction.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get Liz and Manning divorced and see her and Thad married, then I’m going to call the FBI and sic them on Paul Manning, and I’m going to take the greatest pleasure in doing it.”

“I hope it’s that easy, pal,” Dino replied.