Shakeup (Stone Barrington #55) - Stuart Woods Page 0,10

to the top of her hair in silk, entered the room and slunk a hip on his desk.

“So? How do I look?”

“I can’t tell, because I can’t see you.”

“Would you like me to take it off?”

“Are you wearing anything under it?”

“Why bother?”

“Then I think you should wait until we’re upstairs, because Joan might still be in her office, or there might be a Secret Service agent wandering about.”

“No problem with them. I’ve banished them from the interior of the house. Joan, on the other hand . . .”

Stone took her hand, which was clad in a white silk glove, and walked her to the elevator. He gazed into the one open space on her body. “I think I had forgotten how lovely your eyes are,” he said. She unfastened something at her throat, revealing her face, and they kissed until the elevator door opened and he led her to the master bedroom.

“Is there a rip cord, or something?” he asked.

Apparently there was, because she did something, and the garment fell into a puddle at her feet.

Stone was able to undress quickly, because she was helping, and they fell into bed together.

“At last, a woman again,” she said, “and not a president.”

A muffled ringing noise came from somewhere in the room. “I told them not to call me, unless there was a dire emergency,” she said.

“Then you’d better answer,” Stone replied.

She got out of bed, found her handbag, got back into bed with her phone, then answered it. “This better be very, very bad or very, very good,” she said, then listened, her face a blank.

“Shoot him,” she said, then listened again for a moment. “Oblige him. Or her. Anything else? Good. Issue a statement from me and keep it cool.” She hung up.

“What?” Stone asked.

“Somehow, a man with an assault rifle got onto the White House grounds and fired several rounds at the building. No one hurt, no windows broken.”

“And you had to tell them to shoot him?”

“They think his intention may be suicide by Secret Service agent.”

“And that was what ‘oblige him’ was about?”

“Yes,” she said. “Where were we?”

Stone rapidly found his place again, and they continued.

* * *

—

Sometime later, they dozed off for a few minutes, then Holly said, “Were you planning dinner in your study?”

“Either there or here,” Stone replied. “What is your preference?”

“Here, please. It’s so much closer to you.”

Stone rang downstairs for dinner, and in due course, food was sent up on the dumbwaiter. He tasted the wine, then looked at the label. “Ah,” he said, “this is one of those beautiful reds Marcel DuBois gave me: a Château Palmer, ’61. Fit for a president.”

“Absolutely marvelous,” Holly said, sipping some. “All we have in the White House cellars are American wines, and I love them, especially the cabernets, but I miss French wines.”

They were quiet for a while, then Stone said, “Donald Clark came to see me today.”

“Whatever for?” Holly asked.

“He wanted me to conduct an investigation into his wife’s murder and proclaim him innocent of all charges.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To get stuffed. In the nicest possible way, of course.”

“How did he take that?”

“He took it somewhere else. Dino told me I was the third lawyer he’d talked to today. Apparently, the NYPD is keeping an eye on him.”

“After what you told me about his threesomes with Little Debby Myers and a girlfriend, I think it’s a good thing that I got him out the door immediately.”

“The man is a ticking time bomb,” Stone said.

“Then why won’t he just go away quietly and write his memoirs? Or hire someone to do so?”

“Maybe he thinks his life isn’t interesting enough for an autobiography.”

“Everybody thinks his—or her—life is interesting enough for an autobiography,” Holly said, “if they just had the time to write it.”

“Well, I guess Don has nothing but time, now, but all he wants is to clear his name.”

“I think he had Pat killed,” Holly said.

“Really?”

“He had motive: a bad and very expensive divorce. Means: enough money to hire an assassin. And opportunity: an alibi.”

“I missed the alibi.”

“His mother; you met her at the inaugural party, remember?”

“Now I remember,” Stone said. “I don’t think the word of one’s mother is sufficient for a credible alibi—especially one as old as the elder Mrs. Clark. She’s got to be in her nineties.”

“Ninety-seven,” she said. “At that age, there’s always dementia, or just plain forgetfulness, to consider.”

“Both my parents lived into their mid-nineties,” Stone said, “and they were as sharp as tacks, until the day they died.”

“I