Fast and Loose

2

The tender from the big yacht dropped Stone at his dock, and he walked up to the house. The door opened, and Bob, his yellow Labrador retriever, bounded out to greet him, carrying a ratty stuffed raccoon that was his favorite toy.

Stone knelt and petted him, scratched his back, then took the raccoon and tossed it into the house. Bob followed closely.

Mary, his housekeeper, was dusting the living room. “We were worried,” she said, “when you didn’t come home last night.”

“I had an accident,” Stone said.

Mary’s husband, Seth Hotchkiss, came into the room. “What kind of accident?”

“I got run down by a much larger yacht in the fog.”

“Any damage?”

“Total loss. She’s at the bottom of the bay.”

“Such a beautiful boat,” Seth said. “Very sad. You all right?”

“A slight headache is all. By the way, there’ll be two guests for dinner tonight. They’re coming at six for drinks. Two Dr. Carlssons, father and daughter.”

“Lobster?” Mary asked.

“Just fine.” She would boil it, shell it, and toss the meat in butter.

“Mr. Rawls moved out and into his place this morning,” Seth said. “I drove the stuff he’d bought over there.”

Stone’s neighbor, Ed Rawls, had had his house destroyed by fire a couple of months ago and had rebuilt. “I’m happy for him,” he said.

“Joan called already this morning.”

“I’ll call her back now.” He sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone.

“The Barrington Practice at Woodman & Weld.”

“I’m alive.”

“Mary said you didn’t come home last night. Anybody I know?”

“An accident — collision with a much larger yacht. I lost the boat.”

“Ooh! I’ll keep my picture of it as a memento.”

“Anything going on?”

“You’re still getting calls about the business with Christian St. Clair and Nelson Knott. What should I tell them?”

Christian St. Clair was a multibillionaire who had been running a TV pitchman, Nelson Knott, for President, putting lots of money behind him.

“Tell them they’re both dead, and I don’t speak for them. Tell them to call that guy, what’s his name?”

“Erik Macher.”

“That’s the one. He was St. Clair’s right-hand man in all this. They should speak to him, if he hasn’t been arrested.”

“It’s been weeks. Why don’t they leave you alone?”

“Beats me. If I talk to the media I’ll find myself in the spin zone — they’ll distort whatever I say.”

“This morning’s Times had the medical examiner’s report on St. Clair. Cause of death was a bomb in a piece of luggage that he opened. Would that be your strong case?”

“Not my strong case, Ed Rawls’s. It was taken from him at gunpoint, and he didn’t have time to tell them how to open it safely.”

“So Ed’s not to blame?”

“I would defend him on the available evidence.”

“When are you coming home? You’re due for your physical first of the week.”

“I’m dining with two eminent physicians tonight. Will that do?”

“It’s your FAA flight physical, to keep your medical certificate valid. You can’t fly without it.”

“I know, I know. I hate to come back just for that. The weather up here is gorgeous — autumn comes earlier here than in New York.”

“Lucky you. It’s like a steam bath on the streets here.”

“No calls?”

“Dino called to find out when you’re coming back. He couldn’t reach you there.”

“I’ll call him this morning. Nothing else?”

“Nope. Apparently everyone has forgotten about you.”

“Everyone but the bloody media. Don’t give them this number or my cell number.”

“Gotcha.”

“See you later.” Stone hung up and wondered what to do next. He and his clothes were already clean, so he didn’t need to bathe and dress. He called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I was sailing late yesterday afternoon, when I encountered a fog bank — couldn’t see a thing.”

“Let me guess — you were run down by a beautiful yacht sailed by a beautiful woman who rescued you and nursed you back to health.”

“That’s pretty much what happened.”

“You’re kidding. I made that up.”

“You must be psychic. The owner of the yacht is Dr. Paul Carlsson, of the Carlsson Clinic — and his daughter.”

“What happened to your yacht?”

“She lies in a watery grave at the bottom of Penobscot Bay.”

“That’s sad — pretty boat.”

“Listen, can you still hijack that police helicopter whenever you like?”

“Whenever I like, sometimes.”

“Why don’t you do that this afternoon and get them to drop you here? Weekend’s coming up, and it’s nice and cool here.”

“Put me down for a yes. I’ll check with Viv and confirm, if you’ll hang on for a moment.” He put Stone on hold, then came back. “I talked her into it, and the chopper’s available. We’ll aim for five o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you at the airstrip. The Carlssons are coming to dinner. They’re nice folks.”

“We’ll look forward to it. Bye.” Dino hung up.

Stone told Mary to order more lobsters.

Stone stood by the lovely old 1938 Ford station wagon that was the house car and watched the NYPD helicopter settle onto the runway. The copilot got out and dumped the Bacchettis’ luggage onto the tarmac, then got back in and the chopper lifted off and turned southwest, toward New York.

Stone kissed Viv, shook Dino’s hand, and the three of them loaded the bags into the wagon. As they drove away, another helicopter, one Stone recognized from a charter service at Rockland airport, set down on the runway. He didn’t see who got out.

“I hear Paul Carlsson is coming to dinner,” Viv said. “I met him at some event last year. He was charming, and he has a charming daughter, too.”

“They’re both coming,” Stone said.

“It’s about time. You’ve been without female companionship for too long.”

“You’re not going to get an argument from me about that.”