Dead in the Water

no good, Stone?”
    “Right now, all I think is that he’s a tourist, like he says; maybe the sort of guy who turned up at the O. J. Simpson trial. I can’t think of any other reason for him to be here, can you?”
    Thomas shrugged.
    “See you later.” Stone hopped off his barstool and headed upstairs. After what he’d been through with the press, Stendahl didn’t seem to be much of a threat.

Chapter
47
    A n hour later, Stone came back downstairs. Stendahl was back at the bar, sucking on a piña colada, and across the room, Hilary Kramer of the Times and Jim Forrester of The New Yorker were sharing a table. He walked over to them. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
    “Not at all,” Hilary replied. “Sit down.”
    “Jim,” Stone said, “did you by any chance get a good look at the man at the bar?”
    Forrester looked that way. “The big guy? Nope.”
    “I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”
    “What?”
    “Go over there and strike up a conversation with the guy, then come back and tell me what you think. Shouldn’t be too difficult; he seems to be pretty outgoing.”
    Forrester shrugged. “Okay.” He walked over to thebar, ordered a drink, and in a moment was engaged in conversation with Stendahl.
    “What’s that all about?” Kramer asked.
    “I just want to know who the guy is,” Stone replied. “He seems to have come down here just to attend the trial.”
    “A camp follower?”
    “Maybe, but whose camp?”
    “Well, Jim will worm it out of him; he’s endlessly curious, a typical reporter—asks hundreds of questions, answers few.”
    “I haven’t found him to be particularly closemouthed,” Stone said. “He doesn’t talk much to you, huh?”
    “Maybe he’s gay,” Kramer said.
    “Doesn’t seem so, but I guess you never know for sure. Have your charms been wasted on him?”
    She smiled. “Let’s just say that I’ve told him a lot more than he’s told me. I envy him one thing, though.”
    “What’s that?”
    “He’s got the best memory of any reporter I’ve ever met. Either that, or he’s just too sloppy to take notes.”
    “Well, he’s a magazine writer, been doing travel stuff,” Stone said. “He’s not the died-in-the-wool Front Page type, like you.”
    “Like me?” she asked, surprised.
    “You’re a regular Hildy Parks,” Stone said.
    She laughed again, then she looked at him sharply. “Stone, while I’m in my Hildy mode, did you really just stumble into the Allison Manning mess, or is there something more to it?”
    Stone raised his right hand. “Stumbled, honest.”
    “You were just down here all on your own?”
    “Wasn’t supposed to be that way.”
    “How was it supposed to be?”
    “Want me to cry in your beer?”
    “All you want; I’m a good listener.”
    “This isn’t for publication, not even for a mention.”
    “It’s nothing to do with the trial, then?”
    “Nothing; purely personal.”
    “Cry away.”
    “My girl was supposed to meet me at the airport; we were coming together. She missed the flight because of a meeting at The New Yorker —she’s a magazine writer, like Jim—and before she could get on the next day’s flight, the blizzard happened.”
    “That was bad luck.”
    “It gets worse. The subject of her piece was Vance Calder. She went to L.A. with him for more interviews.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “You said it.”
    “She’s not your girl anymore?”
    “Worse; she’s now Mrs. Vance Calder. They were married yesterday; I got a fax.”
    “Hoo! Well, at least you lost her to somebody spectacular.”
    Stone shrugged. “I wonder if that’s better than having her run off with a CPA?”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Arrington Carter.”
    “Jesus; I know her.” Kramer shook her head. “Well, a little, not much. She is very beautiful.”
    “Don’t rub it in.”
    She started. “Does anybody know about this?”
    “Just you and me.”
    She looked at her watch. “I wonder if I can still make tomorrow’s paper.”
    “Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said.
    Kramer fell back into her chair. “Oh, shit, I promised, didn’t I?”
    “You promised. Anyway, it’s not your kind of story, is it?”
    “No, but it would have been nice for the Chronicle column, which is the nearest thing the Times has to gossip, and nobody would have believed that I could get the beat on the story.”
    “Leave the Calders in peace,” Stone said. “They’re holed up, hoping that somebody like you won’t find them until they’re ready to