Shakeup (Stone Barrington #55) - Stuart Woods Page 0,46

line of photos. “Here’s a good one of her face,” she said.

“Is it in the same frame as the gun?”

“No,” Maren replied glumly. “You’re a lawyer, will these photos stand up in court?”

“I’ll give you a definitive answer: maybe. More important is how your witness’s testimony stands up in court. If he can convincingly say, ‘I took these photos, and they are all of Deborah Myers, including the one with the gun,’ then maybe better than maybe. Of course, her attorney will be waving his arms and shouting ‘Objection!’”

Maren’s phone rang. “Yes? Hello, Mark. Yes, I got the pictures. Unfortunately not one of them includes both the gun and a recognizable shot of Debby’s face. What’s your witness’s name? Eddie Craft? Good name for a burglar. Let me speak to him. I know he walked, Mark, but he must still be in the courtroom. He has to be processed. You mean he actually, physically walked out of the courtroom? Who processed him? Find him quick, Mark, and put him on the phone with me!” She hung up.

“Your side of that conversation did not sound satisfactory,” Stone said.

“The judge handed down a suspended sentence, and a woman stepped forward and gave Mark the phone, then he gave it to the prosecutor. Then the judge said, ‘You are free to go, Mr. Craft.’ And he went.”

“He would have to have been processed out, wouldn’t he? I mean, courts don’t function without paperwork.”

“The judge told him he was free to go, and he didn’t hesitate, he went. Nobody tried to stop him.”

“Then I think what you need is a good, old-fashioned APB, an all-points bulletin, for Eddie Craft. You need to have a heart-to-heart with him, and sooner rather than later.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, pressing a button on her phone. “Mark, issue an APB for Eddie Craft. Charge? I don’t know, loitering. I need him back long enough to depose him and get his signature on his testimony. Right, and hurry!” She hung up. “Your suggestion has been taken.”

“That makes me feel so happy,” Stone said.

“You’re being a smart-ass again.”

“It’s my nature.”

“Of course,” she said. “Well, I’m going shopping.”

“The cure-all for anxiety of every variety,” Stone said. “Don’t worry, the Justice Department can reach you at Bloomingdale’s.”

“They’d better,” Maren said. She gave him a wet kiss, then left.

* * *

—

Eddie got into the rear seat of a black Lincoln town car, right after Shelley Moss. “JFK international departures,” she said to the driver.

“Which airline?” the driver asked.

“I’ll let you know,” she said, then turned to Eddie. “How long until the flight?”

He glanced at his watch. “Two and a half hours. We should already be there,” Eddie said, nervously. “These days, it’s at the gate three hours before the flight.”

“Sweetie, we’ve got plenty of time at this hour.” She opened her handbag. “Ticket and passport and everything in the safe.”

“We can’t walk that through departure,” Eddie said.

Shelley dug into the bag and came up with a folded sheet of paper. “Sign this,” she said.

Eddie read it. It was a customs declaration for the outgoing cash. He signed it.

“We’ll get this stamped, then we’re legal all the way,” she said. “I’ll take care of it at the airport.”

“I bet you will.” He laughed.

“A little cleavage goes a long way,” she replied. “I packed your clothes; two bags and a briefcase are in the trunk. I don’t travel quite that light. Some of my stuff is on the front passenger seat. Get ready to pay for overweight.”

At the airport they got two carts, loaded them, then looked for the Virgin Atlantic check-in desk.

“Let’s take the one with the male attendant,” she said. “Upper Class.”

The young man, entranced, did not charge them for the overweight.

The line was short, then they were in. “Now, over there,” she said, toward a small sign that read U.S. CUSTOMS. “Stand by outside the door with the luggage, where they can see you. I’ll go in.” She undid another button on her blouse and strolled in.

Eddie could see her talking to the customs agent and showing him her document, among other things. He gazed at her approvingly, then stamped the document, and she returned. “We’re all legal,” she said. “Let’s take a walk through security.”

They took a look in her handbag, and she handed over the stamped document. A pat-down with the wand, a stroll through the metal detector, and they were through.

“An hour and a half to spare,” Shelley said. She pointed at the duty-free shop. “Let’s get a