Stone Barrington 06-11

Paul doesn’t know you’re alive.”
    She slumped. “I’m afraid he does. Sir Leslie let it slip.”
    “Good God. Where is Paul?”
    “I don’t know, but he was in Easthampton last weekend.”
    “You saw him?”
    “I was in a shop on Sunday afternoon, and he passed by in the street.”
    “You’re sure it was Paul?”
    “Absolutely sure. He’s kept all that weight off, and he’s had a nose job, but I recognized him just by the way he walked.”
    “Did he see you?”
    “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Still, I got the hell out of the Hamptons, and as soon as I got to Palm Beach, I changed my hair color. What can I do about this, Stone?”
    “It’s the money he wants, isn’t it? You could try buying him off.”
    “Will you deal with that for me?”
    “Well, there are two problems with that. First, I don’t know where to find him. Second, the last time he saw me, he wanted to kill me, and since I got him arrested, imprisoned and nearly hanged in St. Marks, I doubt if he feels any more kindly toward me. In fact, it makes me nervous just knowing he’s out there somewhere.”
    “Apparently, he wants to kill me, too,” she said. “At least, that’s what he told Sir Leslie.”
    “Grateful, isn’t he?”
    “Stone, what am I going to do?”
    “Well, Allison—excuse me, Liz —since we don’t know how to find him, I suppose we’re going to have to wait for him to find you.”
    She nodded. “Or you.”

8
    A FTER LUNCH, WHEN ALLISON, NOW LIZ, HAD LEFT him, Stone took a drive around Palm Beach before returning to the yacht. He thought about Paul Manning and how he would not like to renew his acquaintance with the man. During his career as a police officer, Stone had known a number of people who would have preferred to see him dead, rather than alive, but all of them were either dead themselves, or safely locked away in prison. Except Paul Manning. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed his office number.
    “Stone Barrington’s office,” Joan said.
    “Hi, it’s me.”
    “Hi. How’s Palm Beach?”
    “Sunny and warm.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    Stone laughed. “Joan, have you told anyone I’m in Palm Beach?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Has anybody inquired about my whereabouts?”
    “I don’t think anybody cares,” she said archly.
    “Thanks. Will you check my old files for one on the Boston Mutual Insurance Company? There’s an investigator there I’d like to speak to, and I can’t remember his name.”
    “You want to hold? I’ve got most of that stuff scanned into the computer.”
    “Go ahead and look.” Stone made a couple of turns. He was now in a handsome residential neighborhood off North County Road, which pretty much served as Palm Beach’s main street.
    “I’ve got it,” she said. “He’s the chief investigative officer for Boston Mutual.”
    “That’s the guy. Name and phone number?” He pulled to the curb and got out his notebook.
    “Frank Stendahl.” She gave him the number.
    Stone wrote it down. “Any other calls?”
    She read him a short list, and he gave her instructions on handling them, then he hung up and dialed Frank Stendahl’s number. He had met Stendahl in St. Marks, when the man had come to investigate the claim on Paul Manning’s insurance policy and had ended up testifying at Allison’s trial. Stone had involved him in the capture of Paul Manning later, but the murder charges against Manning had taken precedence over Boston Mutual’s insurance fraud charges, and, since Allison had made their twelve million dollars disappear before she was “hanged,” Manning had had no money left for them to go after.
    “Stendahl,” a gruff voice said.
    “Frank, it’s Stone Barrington.”
    Stendahl’s voice warmed. “Stone, how are you?”
    “Very well, thanks. How’s the weather in Boston?”
    “Don’t ask.”
    “I won’t. Tell me, Frank, how do you think your company would feel about getting back some of the money you paid out on the Paul Manning policy?”
    “You planning to reimburse us, Stone?” Suspicion had crept into the investigator’s voice.
    “Certainly not,” Stone replied. “But it might be possible to recover a part of the sum.”
    “How?”
    “Let’s just say that I have a client who is interested in clearing up the matter. Not the whole twelve million, of course, but a decent fraction.”
    “How decent a fraction?”
    “How about a million dollars?”
    “How about six million?”
    “It’s not going to happen,