Foul Play

Forty-Three

Stone was just out of the shower when the house phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s your next-door neighbor,” she said. “How would you like to take a drive?”

“What, in a motorcade?”

“Suppose I could figure a way of doing it without an obvious motorcade?”

“How?”

“I seem to remember that you own a 1950s-era Mercedes-Benz 300S convertible.”

“The bright red one? Yes. And you think that would be less conspicuous than a motorcade?”

“I’ve worked out a plan with the Secret Service: First, they will drive ordinary-looking vehicles. Second, they will be spread out several car lengths, instead of right on the bumper. Third, the occupants will be male-female couples, wearing casual clothes.”

“Something, I hope, that will hide the machine guns and shotguns.”

“Of course.”

“And what is the purpose of this jaunt, besides inhaling extra carbon dioxide?”

“I’m thinking of buying a house in Malibu. A secret showing has been arranged.”

“Then could we just dispense with the Secret Service detail entirely, and I’ll carry something.”

“No, part of the showing is to have the house inspected by those officers to see if it can be defended. And the people showing it are offering us lunch on the deck.”

“Lunch sold me,” Stone said. “What time?”

“An hour?”

“I can do that.” They both hung up.

Stone dialed the hotel garage. “This is Stone Barrington,” he said. “You have an elderly Mercedes convertible of mine under wraps down there. Would you kindly unwrap it, make sure it will start, then wash it and deliver it to the president’s house?”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington. What time would you like it?”

“In fifty-five minutes, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Stone got himself together and, at the stroke of the hour, he spoke to the Troutmen. “I’m going out for a few hours,” he said. “Your security team is aware.”

“Can we go out?” Rod asked.

“Not unless you want to greatly increase your chances of dying today.” He walked over to the house next door, where the four-door convertible was waiting, gleaming, top down. He got behind the wheel.

A moment later, Holly came out of the house, wearing dark glasses, a head scarf, and a baby blue surgical mask. The door was opened for her, and she got in and handed Stone a plaid face mask.

“I thought most people weren’t wearing these anymore,” he said.

“I am, for obvious reasons. And you are, because I am,” she replied.

“That makes perfect sense,” he said. “Sort of.” He started the car, put it in gear, and drove off the property. The Secret Service, true to their word, kept their social distance.

“Where are we going?” Stone asked.

“I told you, Malibu. All you have to do is follow the green sedan up ahead.”

The weather was what California always promised it would be, without the fires, earthquakes, or mudslides that so frequently intruded upon the peace of its inhabitants. They drove down Sunset Boulevard, all the way to the sea, and turned right on the Pacific Coast Highway. They followed the road some miles, through Malibu proper to the handsome development called Malibu Colony. The green lead car stopped briefly at the guarded gate, then the loose motorcade was allowed through.

“The garage door should be open,” Holly said. “Drive in.”

They followed the green car, until it slowed and the passenger pointed to an open garage. Stone drove in, and the door closed behind them.

“Here we are!” Holly said cheerfully, then got out and removed her mask and scarf. Stone did the same and followed her into the house.

They entered a bright hallway that led to a large living room, blindingly lit by sunlight.

“Wow,” Holly breathed. “It’s better than the brochure.”

“Madame President,” a woman in a business suit said, walking toward her with an outstretched hand. Holly didn’t introduce Stone. They followed the woman on a tour lasting nearly an hour, while Holly inspected every nook, cranny, and cupboard in the house. The agent then led them down to the deck where a table was set for lunch, and said goodbye, leaving them alone with a couple from the Secret Service, who took chairs near the south railing.

“What do you think?” Holly asked.

“It’s lovely. And expensive.”

“The agent says they’re asking twelve million but will take ten.”

“Wow, what a bargain!” Stone said. “Can you afford it?”

“I can if I sign the book contract I’ve been offered, after my term is up.”

“Can you afford the California income taxes? Ex-presidents have to pay those, too, you know.”

“You’re trying to take the fun out of this, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just trying to cast a little sunshine on the plan. Tell me how you view yourself five years from now.”

“Try one year,” she replied.

Stone was stunned. “Are you really thinking of not running for reelection?”

“I wouldn’t be, if there weren’t two or three highly suitable candidates lined up and waiting.”

“Are you bored with the job?”

“ ‘Bored’ is too strong a word. I think it’s good for the party if some of those well-qualified candidates share the experience. What’s your opinion of all this?”

“Apart from a house in California, how would you like to also have houses in New York, London, Paris, and the English countryside, near the sea?”

“I can’t afford that.”

“You’re missing the point,” he said.

She got it. “Oh!”

“You hadn’t considered marrying me?”

“You’ve never once mentioned marriage,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”

“How about living in sin? Without benefit of clergy, as they say.”

“That sounds like a lot more fun.”

“Holly, if you really, really want this house, I’ll buy it for you today — as part of the bigger picture.”

“Sin?”

“Sin.”

“That’s very tempting.”

“That’s what sin is for. Think about it.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you like.”

They drove back to the Arrington, mostly silent.

“I’ve got to leave for Washington at six,” she said.

“Think about me.”

“That’s all I will think about.” She got out of the car and went inside.

“Well,” Stone said to himself, “I’ve made her my best offer.”