Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

this.”
    “I called yesterday, and a secretary told me that Mrs. Barrington is writing a book about her marriage to Vance Calder, her marriage to him and his murder, and that she will have no comment to the press until the book is published, and maybe not even then. And if that isn’t enough, she’s out of town, and the secretary wouldn’t say where or for how long.”
    “Well, at least you’ve got that little exclusive for Page Six: Arrington Calder Barrington is writing a tell-all book. Go with that. Maybe somebody will crawl out from under a rock, so make sure your byline is on the story.”
    Kelli set down her empty coffee cup. “Good idea,” she said. “Thanks for the advice.” She went back to her desk, wrote a paragraph, including the information that Arrington had, at first, been a suspect in her husband’s death, and took it to the day editor.
    “What’s your source for this business about the book?” he asked.
    “Her husband’s secretary. She gave me that as a reason for Arrington’s not speaking to me.”
    “Okay, I’ll run it at the bottom of the page, but no byline.”
    “I need the byline, because it might generate a call from somebody who knows something.”
    “Knows something about what?”
    “It’s going to take me at least fifteen minutes to bring you up to date,” Kelli said. “Have you got that much time right now?”
    “Go,” he said.
    So, she pulled up a chair and laid out everything she had.
    “Maybe it’s just a typo on the certificate,” the editor said.
    Kelli explained why she couldn’t check with the hospital. “So, there are only two people who know the truth about this: Arrington and Stone Barrington, and neither of them is talking.”
    “How about the boy?” the editor asked.
    “He was pretty young at the time.”
    “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who his father is or the circumstances of his birth. Things like that get talked about in families.”
    “I’ve already had a shot at the boy, and he cut me dead, wouldn’t even give me his name.”
    “Oh, come on, Kelli; a girl as attractive as you are shouldn’t have a problem getting an eighteen-year-old male to talk to her.”
    “Give me the byline, and I’ll give the boy another shot.”
    “Okay,” the editor said. He marked up the story and tossed it into his out basket. “Now get out of here.”

35
    S tone woke up at his usual time and reached, as he had become accustomed to, for Arrington’s ass. His hand fell on a cold sheet, and he remembered that she was in Virginia. She had called the night before to let him know she had landed safely and to speak to Peter, but that wasn’t the same as falling asleep or waking up with her. Stone felt something he wasn’t accustomed to: loneliness.
     
     
    Stone arrived at his desk without having shaken the feeling. Joan came in.
    “That woman from Page Six, Kelli Keane, called again yesterday. I gave her the story about Arrington writing a book, and I think she bought it.”
    “Actually, it’s the truth,” Stone said. “Arrington plans to do just that.”
    “Boy, I want to read that one,” Joan said, then went back to her desk. A moment later she buzzed: “Bill Eggers on line one.”
    Stone picked up. “Good morning, Bill.”
    “A better morning than you may know,” Eggers said. “Hank Hightower called a moment ago and hired us to handle Steele Security—all of it. We’ll have an agreement for him to sign before the close of business today, and he’ll have fired his previous firm by that time, so we’re getting ready to receive their files. His old firm will bombard us with irrelevant paper, and we’ll have to sort it out for ourselves.”
    “You do understand, don’t you, Bill, that I’m just terrible at that kind of work?”
    “Don’t worry, that’s what we have associates for. And speaking of associates, I think it’s time we assigned one to you.”
    “I’d appreciate that, Bill. I’m getting tired of reading all the financial paper. It would be good to have somebody prioritize what I need to know.”
    “I’m going to give you a young woman named Allison Wainwright,” Eggers said. “She’s been here a year, so she’s not green, and I think she’ll be a good fit for you.”
    “Thanks, Bill.”
    “Shall I send her over to see you?”
    “Sure; I’m here all day.”
    “You’ll find her a little . . . different.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “It’s hard to characterize. You can make your own