“Two that I know of. His landlord said there were a lot of women coming to his apartment.”
“Figures,” she said. “I can really pick ’em, can’t I?”
“Your record is improving.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand. “It certainly is,” she said.
Stone’s pocket telephone rang. He dug it out and pressed a button. “Yes?”
“Stone, it’s Amanda.” Her voice was shaky.
“Hi, are you all right?”
“I’m afraid something awful has happened.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m up at the Connecticut house. Martha and I went for a walk and a picnic, and I’m afraid she strayed too close to a bluff called Steep Rock.”
“Go on.”
“She fell, and I couldn’t stop her.”
“Is she badly hurt?”
“It was a long fall, and there were rocks at the bottom.”
“I see,” he said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m still at Steep Rock; this happened only a moment ago.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No; I wanted to talk to you first. After all, you’re my lawyer.”
Stone noted the emphasis on those words. “Amanda, I want you to call nine-one-one right this minute and report what happened.”
“All right. Can you come up here?”
“I’ll have to rent a car, so it’s going to take at least two and a half, three hours.”
“All right.”
“After you’ve talked to the police, ask them to take you back to your house; I’ll meet you there. If anything else comes up, call me on this number.”
“All right. Good-bye.”
Stone hung up. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“What’s happened to her?” Arrington asked.
“Not to her, to her secretary, Martha. She’s had what sounds like a fatal accident.” Stone began to wonder if “accident” was accurate.
“You’re going to Connecticut, then?”
“Right now; I’ve got to rent a car first.”
“I’ve got a car; I’ll drive you.”