“Same thing.”
“Anyway, it’s my client he wants to kill.”
“Young Troutman?”
“Yes.”
“I knew his father. He fell off the perch recently, did he not?”
“Not. He wished it to be seen that way, so he undertook to disappear. I’m helping.”
“By withholding the patents?”
“Why do you need me? You already know everything.”
“Perhaps so, but there are things you don’t know.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Each of the patented machines has an internal clock and calendar. When the license for the patent runs out, the machine turns off and can only be restarted by activating a code in its software. The licensee pays for that code, which gives him access to the machine for another five or ten or whatever days, months, or years.”
“I’m not sure my client is aware of that.”
“He must be aware, or he could not have been operating his machinery for all these years.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “I believe I’ll have to bring it to his attention and ask why he’s never told me that.”
“What would you have done differently, if you had known?”
“Well, I would have...”
“Complete that sentence, please.”
“I don’t know what I would have done differently.”
“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t bothered to tell you.”
“That could be — annoyingly — true.”
“How else may I be of service to you, Stone?”
“Let’s start by telling me why you phoned me at five am.”
“It is six am, but let’s not quibble.”
“Never mind, I’m going back to sleep. You may phone me after nine am, California time.” Stone hung up and fell back on the bed, falling asleep almost immediately.
The doorbell rang. Stone looked at the bedside clock. Seven am. “What?”
“Your breakfast, sir. You ordered it for seven.”
Stone groaned. “Come in!”
A waiter struggled in and placed a silver tray on his lap. “May I pour you some coffee, sir?”
“Thank you, no. I always have coffee after breakfast.”
“As you wish sir.” He placed copies of the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times on the bed and left.
It surprised Stone how hungry he became when he saw the scrambled eggs and sausages. He ate them greedily, washed down by orange juice, then poured himself some coffee and shook out the New York Times.
A headline in the lower left-hand corner of the front page caught his eye. RASH OF HOUSE FIRES IN MARTHA’S VINEYARD, it read. Stone read quickly, then turned to the inside page to finish:
Three large beachfront houses burned to the ground last night along a stretch of highly desirable beachfront on this tony isle, each of them valued north of ten million dollars. Police and fire chiefs assume arson, but have no suspects.
“Well, I have a suspect,” Stone said aloud to himself.
“What?” someone said.
Stone turned and found Shep Troutman standing in the open doorway.
“Bad news,” Stone said.
“I’ve already read the Times piece.”
“I suspect that the time clock has run out on Kronk’s machines,” Stone said.
“How do you know about the time clocks?” Shep asked.
“Well, I sure didn’t hear it from you,” Stone said, hotly.
“What good would it have done if I had mentioned it?”
“We’ll never know, will we? On the other hand, if you had mentioned that time was running out immediately, we might have beefed up security or otherwise anticipated his actions.”
“You could have done that anyway.”
“Protect empty houses that were not under threat? I’m not psychic, and I wasn’t hired to protect empty houses. I think you’d better scare up some local security in Lenox for the family manse. That’s all the advice I have to offer at the moment. Close the door on your way downstairs to explain this to your father. And by the way, you might pass the news on to your neighbors.”
“My neighbors?”
“The owners of the other two houses that burned. You’d better call your insurance company, too. Those people may tend to blame you.”
“I am the owner of the other two houses,” Shep said. “And when I became very, very wealthy, I canceled all such insurance and self-insured.”
“So, you rolled the dice and came up snake eyes, I believe the expression is?”
“I did, and I did,” Shep said. “And now I’ll rebuild them without a second thought for what they cost me.” He turned and went downstairs.
Stone continued with the newspaper, and switched on CNN as well. The arson on the Vineyard was now getting national, perhaps worldwide attention. He switched it off.
Then, from downstairs, he heard a deep-throated shouting. “You canceled the goddamned insurance on the houses? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Self-insurance is a good way to save money, if you can afford it!” Shep yelled back. “I was just unlucky!”
“Self-insurance and unlucky is a bad combination!” Rod yelled.
Stone turned on the TV again.
Forty-Three
Stone was just out of the shower when the house phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s your next-door neighbor,” she said. “How would you like to take a drive?”
“What, in a motorcade?”
“Suppose I could figure a way of doing it without an obvious motorcade?”
“How?”
“I seem to remember that you own a 1950s-era Mercedes-Benz 300S convertible.”
“The bright red one? Yes. And you think that would be less conspicuous than a motorcade?”
“I’ve worked out a plan with the Secret Service: First, they will drive ordinary-looking vehicles. Second, they will be spread out several car lengths, instead of right on the bumper. Third, the occupants will be male-female couples, wearing casual clothes.”
“Something, I hope, that will hide the machine guns and shotguns.”
“Of course.”
“And what is the purpose of this jaunt, besides inhaling extra carbon dioxide?”
“I’m thinking of buying a house in Malibu. A secret showing has been arranged.”
“Then could we just dispense with the Secret Service detail entirely, and I’ll carry something.”
“No, part of the showing is to have the house inspected by those officers to see if it can be defended. And the people showing it are offering us lunch on the deck.”
“Lunch sold me,” Stone said. “What time?”
“An hour?”
“I can do that.” They both hung up.
Stone dialed the hotel garage. “This is Stone Barrington,” he said. “You have an elderly Mercedes convertible of mine under wraps down there. Would you kindly unwrap it, make sure it will start, then wash it and deliver it to the president’s house?”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington. What time would you like it?”
“In fifty-five minutes, please.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Stone got himself together and, at the stroke of the hour, he spoke to the Troutmen. “I’m going out for a few hours,” he said. “Your security team is aware.”
“Can we go out?” Rod asked.
“Not unless you want to greatly increase your chances of dying today.” He walked over to the house next door, where the four-door convertible was waiting, gleaming, top down. He got behind the wheel.
A moment later, Holly came out of the house, wearing dark glasses, a head scarf, and a baby blue surgical mask. The door was opened for her, and she got in and handed Stone a plaid face mask.
“I thought most people weren’t wearing these anymore,” he said.