Insatiable Appetites

32

Stone was tidying up his desk at the end of the day when he heard the doorbell ring, and Joan buzzed him.

“There’s a Mr. Bruce Willard to see you,” she said. “He says you know him.”

Stone sat back down. “Send him in,” he said.

A solidly built man of around six feet, with salt-and-pepper, closely cropped hair, appeared in the doorway, shucking off a sheepskin coat for Joan to take.

“Come in, Mr. Willard,” Stone said, catching a glimpse of hardware under the man’s tweed jacket. “Have a seat, and please give me the handgun you’re wearing. We don’t permit weapons in our offices, except those of law enforcement officers.”

Willard produced a 9mm Beretta, of the type used as a military sidearm, and handed it to Stone across his desk. Stone popped the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber onto his desktop, then he opened the small safe in his desk and secured the weapon. Finally, he offered his hand to Willard, who shook it with an iron grip. “How do you do?”

“Not very well,” Willard said. “I’m being followed.”

“By whom? Any ideas?”

“Some of them are in black SUVs,” he replied. “As paranoid as that may sound.”

“It doesn’t sound all that paranoid, when you consider that Evan Hills was run down by a black SUV. When did this start?”

“I first noticed them around noon, when I left my place of business to have lunch at the Four Seasons Georgetown with Carla Fontana. They were still around when I left the hotel, and I thought I spotted a couple of guys on foot.”

“What did they look like?”

“Like me,” Willard said. “Ex — Special Forces, very fit.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Two tours each, in Iraq and Afghanistan, and other places I can’t tell you about.”

“Your Beretta seemed well-used.”

“You could say that. I’m pretty well-used, myself.”

“What brings you to New York?”

“I don’t feel safe in D.C.,” Willard said. “You offered Evan refuge here — I hoped you might do the same for me.”

“Of course,” Stone said. He buzzed Joan and asked her to get the apartment next door ready.

“It’s been ready since yesterday,” she said.

“And please make a copy of those documents I gave you earlier and bring it to me.” Stone put the phone down. “You have an antiques shop on Pennsylvania Avenue in Georgetown, is that right?”

“Yes. It’s where I met Evan. He came in several times as a customer and we became friends. That was before he was elected to Congress.”

“Do you live over the shop?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“I was sent a document that listed your address as what sounded like the shop.”

“I have a duplex apartment upstairs and another that I rent.”

“Let me explain about the weapon,” Stone said. “New York City has a very tough weapons law, and it’s almost impossible for an ordinary citizen to get a carry permit, unless he can prove he’s routinely transporting large amounts of cash or jewelry. Possession is a serious matter and carries a prison sentence. The police don’t look kindly upon visitors to the city who arrive armed.”

“I understand. Thank you for telling me.”

“Did you fly here?”

“No, I rented a car and returned it here. I thought I might be less likely to be followed, and I didn’t notice anyone on my tail.”

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions about Evan — and you?”

“Not at all.”

“How long ago did you meet?”

“About three years ago.”

“When did you become more than just friends?”

“About three months after we met. Evan was very paranoid about being gay. He had worked in politics for years and had given large donations to his party, but he knew he’d be ostracized if he came out or was discovered. He wouldn’t visit me more than once a week, and when he did, he always bought some object or picture and left carrying it. His house is full of things he bought from me, and they were, without exception, the finest pieces I had to offer. He was my best customer — our relationship apart — and his taste was superb.”

Joan came in with the copies Stone had asked for.

Stone handed the letter from Hills to Willard. “He left this here on his visit yesterday.”

Willard read the letter carefully, then read it again.

Stone handed him the will. “And this.”

Willard read it and began to cry.

Stone was taken aback; Willard didn’t look like the sort of man who would allow himself to be seen weeping. He pushed a box of tissues across the desk, and Willard took a handful, dabbed at his face, and blew his nose noisily.

“I’m sorry for my conduct,” he said.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Stone replied.

“You see, Evan knew that the income from the shop and the apartment kept me operating pretty close to the line. All I have beyond that is my disability pension from the military.” He held up the will. “This changes everything for me.”

“I expect it does,” Stone said, handing him Hills’s financial statement.

Willard read it and began to weep again.