Dead in the Water

their car.
    “How about some dinner tonight?” Dino asked.
    “Absolutely; we’ll celebrate.”
    “Elaine’s at eight-thirty?”
    “That will be great,” Stone replied.
    Alma appeared in the garage. “Is everything all right?”
    “Everything is all right,” Stone said.
     
    Late that night, Stone and Dino sat over the remains of their dinner at Elaine’s.
    “All in all,” Stone said, “it’s been a very satisfying day.”
    “Glad I could help,” Dino said. “That guy from Boston, the insurance dick, was in my office this afternoon. He’s a very happy man.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s going to get at least some of his money back from Allison Manning’s estate.”
    “He’d better not count on it.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because, unless I miss my guess, that money has disappeared into the worldwide banking system and will never be seen again. Allison moved it the day before her trial.”
    Dino looked at Stone sharply. “What was that stuff said about his wife not being dead?”
    “I think Manning is still in denial.”
    “Is she dead?”
    Stone was still trying to figure out how to answer Dino’s question when Elaine came over to the table.
    “Phone call for you, Stone,” she said, pointing at one of the two pay phones on the wall nearby.
    “Excuse me, Dino,” Stone said. He got up and went to the phone. “Hello?” he said, sticking a finger in the other ear to blot out some of the noise.
    “Stone?”
    “Yeah? Who’s this?”
    “Stone, this is Vance Calder.”
    That stopped Stone in his tracks for a minute. “Hello, Vance,” he was finally able to say. “How’d you find me here?”
    “There was no answer at your house, and I remembered that Arrington said you were at Elaine’s a lot. I took a chance.”
    “How is Arrington, Vance?”
    “That’s what I’m calling about, Stone. Arrington has disappeared.”
    “What do you mean, disappeared?”
    “Just that; she’s vanished.”
    “When?”
    “The day before yesterday.”
    “Have you been to the police?”
    “I can’t do that; the tabloids would be all over me. I need your help, Stone.”
    “Vance, you’d really be a lot better off going to the police; there’s nothing I can do about this.”
    “You can find, her, Stone; if anybody can, you can. I want you to come out here.”
    “Vance, really…”
    “The Centurion Studios jet is at Atlantic Aviation at Teterboro Airport right now, waiting for you. You can be here by morning.”
    “Vance, I appreciate your confidence in me, but…”
    “Stone, Arrington is pregnant.”
    Stone felt as if he’d been struck hard in the chest. He could count.
    “Stone? Are you still there?”
    “I’ll be at Teterboro in an hour, Vance.”
    “You’ll be met at the Santa Monica airport.”
    “Write down everything you can think of, Vance; we’ll have a lot to talk about.”
    “I will. And thank you.”
    “Don’t thank me yet,” Stone said, then hung up. He returned to the table. “You’re buying dinner, Dino,” he said. “I’m off to La-La Land.”
    “About what?” Dino asked.
    “I’ll call you,” Stone said.
    “You didn’t answer my question about Allison Manning.”
    “That will have to wait, I’m afraid.” He kissed Elaine on the cheek, then walked out of the restaurant and started looking for a cab.
     
    Key West
    February 10, 1997

“We Are Very Different People”:
Stuart Woods on Stone Barrington
An Interview by Claire E. White
    S tuart Woods was born in the small southern town of Manchester, Georgia on January 9, 1938. His mother was a church organist and his father an ex-convict who left when Stuart was two years old, when it was suggested to him that, because of his apparent participation in the burglary of a Royal Crown Cola bottling plant, he might be more comfortable in another state. He chose California, and Stuart only met him twice thereafter before his death in 1959, when Stuart was a senior in college.
    After college, Stuart spent a year in Atlanta, two months of which were spent in basic training for what he calls “the draft-dodger program” of the Air NationalGuard. He worked at a men’s’ clothing store and at Rich’s department store while he got his military obligation out of the way. Then, in the autumn of 1960, he moved to New York in search of a writing job. The magazines and newspapers weren’t hiring, so he got a job in a training program at an advertising agency, earning seventy dollars a week. “It is a measure of