Shakeup (Stone Barrington #55) - Stuart Woods Page 0,6

Stone said.

“Stone’s a lawyer. He always says things like that,” Dino interjected.

“I can’t afford to start hiring lawyers,” Jacoby said.

“You might give some thought to that for yourself,” Stone said, “but not the same one that the girl hires.”

“See what I mean?” Dino asked.

“Look at it this way,” Stone said. “A good lawyer might get the case tossed in a hurry, especially if your mutual alibis hold up. If he can do that, he’s a bargain.”

“I don’t think she wants to talk to a lawyer any more than she wants to talk to Little Debby,” Jacoby said.

“You’re forgetting that you are her alibi,” Stone said, “just as she is yours. It’s in your mutual interests to eliminate you both as suspects as soon as possible.”

“He’s not thinking like a lawyer,” Dino said to Stone. “He’s thinking like a cop.”

“And he can go right on thinking that way, until other cops lock him up. Then he’s going to start looking for a lawyer, and the media will have already had their field day with you.”

“All right, will you represent me?”

“I’m not licensed to practice in D.C.,” Stone said, “except at the Supreme Court. But I’ll find you somebody good.”

“How soon?”

“First thing in the morning. All the lawyers I know are dining on steaks and fine wines right now. Where are you staying?”

Jacoby scribbled something on a notepad, ripped out the page, and handed it to Stone.

Stone gave him his own card. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Try to resist calling me.”

6

Dino gave Stone a ride home. “What do you think of this guy Jacoby?” Dino asked.

“I’m not sure what to think of him or his story,” Stone replied.

“I’ll check him out from our end,” Dino said.

“I also don’t know what to think of a grown man who’s never been to New York City before.”

“Weird,” Dino said.

They pulled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. As he got out of the car, he saw his front door open an inch or so, then close.

“Something wrong?”

“Yes,” Stone replied. “The Secret Service is camping out here.”

“They suspect you of something?”

“No, they have instructions to maintain watches at the Carlyle and here, on the grounds that the president will be visiting often.”

“And the bad news is that you can’t get laid in your own house with them hanging around.”

“That’s it,” Stone said. “G’night.” He closed the car door, walked up the front steps and unlocked the door.

“Evening, Mr. Barrington,” a man said.

“You’re not Jeff.”

“You’re very observant. I’m Carmichael, night shift.”

“Welcome aboard, Carmichael,” Stone said. “Now listen up, because I’m going to give you some new marching orders.”

“Sir?”

“You see that door over there?” he asked, pointing to his left.

“Yes, sir. It leads to the house next door.”

“That is correct. If you open it, the first door on the right is to a small apartment, which is unoccupied. During the hours of five PM to nine AM, you and your fellow agents are confined to that apartment—that is to say, when I’m in the house. I sometimes entertain, and I don’t want to have to explain who you are. Clear?”

“It is to me, sir. I’m not sure how clear my boss will think it is.”

“If he finds it the slightest bit foggy, tell him to call me, but not during those hours, and I’ll explain it to him in terms he will understand. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone pointed at the door. “Good night. Sleep well. There are books there, and a TV, to keep you entertained. If anything goes wrong, I’ll hit the panic button on my alarm system.” He watched Carmichael leave, then went upstairs in the elevator. He had just gotten into bed when his cell phone rang. The calling number was blocked. “Hello?”

“Hello yourself,” the president of the United States said.

“It’s nice to hear your voice. I’ve just banished your Secret Service agents to an apartment next door, during the hours of five PM to nine AM,” Stone said.

“Those are the hours when you might be, ah, entertaining,” she said.

“You never know.”

“I understand completely, and I will convey your instructions to the head of my detail, Claire Dunne.”

“Not Bill Wright?”

“Bill got kicked upstairs to assistant director of the Secret Service. After a decent interval, he might become director.”

“Congratulate him for me, after a decent interval.”

“I’ll do that. Are you feeling a little . . . shall we say, itchy?”

“Most of the time, with you way down there and me way up here.”

“Well, I may be able to get to New York next week. If