“Thanks, I did.”
Joan buzzed. “I have Mr. Elton Hills on one.”
“That was fast.” Stone pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”
“This is Elton Hills, and I got your message. Are you telling me my son is dead?”
“Mr. Hills, I regret to have to tell you that he is. I’m sorry if my message shocked you. I had thought you would have already heard.”
“I don’t keep up with the news much. How did he die?”
“In what appears to have been a traffic accident in New York. He was struck by a car while crossing the street.”
“When?”
“The day before yesterday. A friend of Evan’s arranged for a New York funeral parlor, Frank Campbell’s, to transport the body to Philadelphia, to...” Joan was standing in the doorway, and she handed him a slip of paper. He read the name of the funeral home to Elton Hills.
“That’s fine, they’re reliable people. I’ll take it from there. You said in your message that you are Evan’s executor?”
“That’s correct. I’ll be glad to send you his letter appointing me and a copy of his will. He hand-delivered it to my office a few hours before his death.”
Hills gave him a fax number, and Stone handed it to Joan.
“You should have the fax in five minutes,” Stone said. “Please call me if you have any questions.”
“Does Evan owe you any money?”
“He gave me a retainer along with his will. That should cover everything. Please let me know if I can be of further help.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Hills said. “Thank you.” He hung up.
“How did he sound?” Bruce asked.
“Matter-of-fact. Not upset.”
“Evan said he was a pretty cold customer.”
“Are you going to Philadelphia?” Stone asked.
“I want to, but not if I’m unwelcome.”
Joan buzzed. “Mr. Elton Hills again.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Yes, Mr. Hills?”
“Who the hell is Bruce Willard?”
“He’s a retired army officer who lives in Washington. He was your son’s closest friend. He’s in my office now, and he’d like to come to Philadelphia for the funeral.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“As I said, he was your son’s closest friend. Would you like his phone number?”
“Yes.”
Stone covered the phone. “Your number.”
Bruce gave him his cell number, and Stone gave it to Elton Hills. “May he expect to hear from you?”
“Let me speak to him.”
Stone handed the phone to Bruce. “He wants to talk.”
“Hello, Mr. Hills. This is Bruce Willard.” He listened, then made writing motions to Stone, who pushed over a pad and pen. “Yes, sir, I’ve got that. I’ll come on Sunday morning. Noon should be fine. Thank you, sir, and please accept my condolences. Evan was a fine man.” He handed the phone back to Stone. “He hung up.”
“He invited you?”
“To lunch on Sunday. He said the service would be at graveside and private, just him and me.”
“Perhaps you’d better take a copy of the Sunday Times with you. He said he didn’t hear much news. I’ll send him a fax, warning him that it’s coming.”
36
Carla got back to Stone’s house in the early evening, as he was watching the news. She flopped down on the sofa and requested a martini.
Stone poured the drink. “Is all well?” he asked.
“We closed. All is well.”
“Did you find out who called your publisher?”
“Harley David. The meeting was at his house, remember?”
“I remember.”
“I added the phone call at the end of the story. It made a good coda.” She opened her large bag and withdrew an envelope. “Here’s a proof of the piece. Guard it with your life.”
Stone opened the envelope, took out some newsprint, and spread it on his desk. “Wow!” he said. “This is impressive.”
“It got more column inches than any investigative piece I’ve ever worked on. There’ll be a lead editorial on the subject, too, but I haven’t seen that yet.” She took a smaller envelope from her bag and handed it to him. “This is Evan Hills’s obit.”
“Do you mind if I send all this to his father? He won’t receive it until Saturday morning.”
“Do you know his father?”
“No, but I spoke to him on the phone this morning. He didn’t know his son was dead.”
“The old man has a reputation for being reclusive. How did he take the news?”
“Hard to say. Calmly, not to say coldly. He invited Bruce down to lunch on Sunday. The two of them will bury Evan that afternoon.”
“No funeral for a sitting congressman?”
“Apparently not. Once Washington has seen your piece, I doubt if there’ll be a memorial service at the National Cathedral, either.”
“Not unless the Democrats arrange it.”
“I suppose that, once your story breaks, there’ll be a lot of questions about how Hills died.”
“And a lot of inferences drawn, too, I imagine. Have you heard anything from the police about that?”
“No, I haven’t talked to Dino today. The news last night said they had found the offending SUV in New Jersey and that it had been wiped clean of fingerprints.”
“I saw that on the AP website,” she said. “It was owned by a D.C. security firm.”
“Integral Security. Do you know anything about them?”
“Not a thing.”
“Have you ever heard of a man called Creed Harker?”
“A lobbyist, I think,” Carla said. “I’ve seen him in the Capitol building. Creepy-looking guy.”
“Bruce said he saw Harker in the Four Seasons dining room when you two were having lunch.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Bruce thought he was followed to and from your lunch. That’s why he’s here. He got scared, rented a car, and ran.”
“Is he still here?”
“No, he got the shuttle back to D.C. this afternoon, said he had to pack a suit for the funeral on Sunday.”
“I liked him. I hope nobody hurts him.”
“Oh, damn it, I forgot to give him back his gun.”
“Gun?”
“He arrived here packing. I put it in my safe. I’ll send it to him.”
“You can send guns?”
“Sure, just as you can send anything else.”
“I hope he doesn’t need it.”
“So do I.”
The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. Dinner?”
“Are you batching it again?”
“About every other night.”
“Mind if I bring a friend?”
“As long as she’s beautiful.”
“Never fear.”
“The Writing Room at eight? I’ll book.”
“Right.” Stone hung up. “That was my friend the cop. He’s invited us to dinner.”
“I’m game, but I want a shower and a change of clothes.”
“Go do that. I’ll watch the news.”
They arrived on time at the Writing Room, and Dino was already there. Stone introduced Carla. “Does she qualify?”
“Sure, she does,” Dino said, holding her chair.
“Stone, you didn’t tell me your cop friend was the police commissioner.”
“We go way back,” Stone said.
“We were partners about two hundred years ago,” Dino said. “I taught him everything.”
“Hah!” Stone ejected.
“Anything new on the Hills hit-and-run?” Stone asked.
“I expect you heard we found the car.”
“Yep. Anything in it?”