Stone Barrington 06-11

doorstep.
    “I’m Harold Beame,” the man said. “Marc Blumberg sent me; you Stone Barrington?”
    “Yes, come in.”
    “Marc didn’t want to come himself; he figured there’d be press at the gate, and he was right.”
    “Might they have recognized you? Marc says you’re well-known to the press.”
    “My car windows are heavily tinted, and they wouldn’t recognize the car. Where’s my subject?”
    “She’s upstairs; I’ll get her in a minute.” He led the man into the study. “Can I see your list of questions?”
    “Sure.” Beame handed over a sheaf of papers. “Marc faxed them to me.”
    Stone read through the list. They were tough questions, designed not for a milk run polygraph, but for learning the truth. Apparently, Blumberg wanted very much to know if his client was really innocent. “Fine,” Stone said. “I’ll get Mrs. Calder.” He went upstairs and found Arrington at her dressing table. She was wearing a cotton shift over her bikini and was brushing her hair.
    “Mr. Beame is downstairs in the study; he’s ready for you.”
    “I’ll be right with him.” She seemed entirely serene.
    “This is nothing to worry about; just give a truthful answer to each question.”
    “I’m not worried,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.”
    Stone walked her downstairs to the study. “Do you mind if I sit in?” he asked Beame.
    “I mind,” Beame said. “It has to be just me and my subject; I don’t want her to have any distractions.”
    Stone left the two of them alone in the study and walked out to the rear deck of the house. Beyond a carefully tended beach, the blue Pacific stretched out before him. He took off his jacket and stretched out in a lounge chair. He’d had hardly any time to himself, and he was grateful for the break.
    He thought of Dolce, and his thoughts were still angry. He felt some guilt about her, but he told himself he was now a free man. Dolce’s behavior had made him want out of the relationship; he couldn’t imagine a lifetime with a woman who behaved that way. He should have taken Dino’s advice, he thought, and he’d certainly take it now. He would have to call Dolce and tell her flatly that it was over.
    He thought of Arrington, and his thoughts were not pure. They had lived together for nearly a year, and during all that time, he had been happier than he had ever been with a woman. He had been crushed when she had married Vance Calder, a fact he had tried to hide from himself, without success. Now she was a free woman again—except, she might not be free for long. He had to get her out of this mess, and if he could, then they could see if they might still have some sort of life together. He thought about the money, and it annoyed him. Eduardo Bianchi’s money, and his casual gift of the Manhattan house, had bothered him; he was accustomed to making his own way in the world, and the thought of a wife who was half a billionaire was, somehow, disturbing. He thought of Arrington’s son, Peter. He liked the child, and he thought he could get used to being a stepfather. He might even be good at it, if he used his own father as a model. He took a deep breath and dozed off.

    Arrington was shaking him, and he opened his eyes. The sun was lower in the sky, and the air was cooler.
    “We’re all done,” she said.
    “How’d it go?”
    “You’ll have to ask Mr. Beame.”
    Stone walked into the study and found Beame packing his equipment. “Want to give me a first reaction?” Stone asked.
    “Marc said I could,” Beame replied. “I’ll send him a written report, but I can tell you now that she aced it.” He frowned. “Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever had a subject who was more relaxed, less nervous. I don’t think she was tanked up on Valium, or anything like that; I can still get good readings when they try that.”
    “I don’t think she was,” Stone said.
    “Anyway, if she can pass with me, she can pass with anybody.”
    Stone realized that his pulse had increased, and now he could relax. “Thank you; I’m glad to hear it.”
    Beame smiled. “It’s a lot easier to represent an innocent client than a guilty one, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is. When you leave, make sure that crowd at the gate doesn’t see your face. I assume your windshield isn’t blacked out.”
    “I’ll wear a hat and dark glasses, and don’t worry, the car is registered to a corporate name. If they run the plates, they’ll come up dry.”
    Stone showed Beame to