“Oh, I’m sticking it out,” Stone said, “and it has turned interesting.”
“How so?”
Stone went through the whole story once again.
“You know,” Eggers said when Stone had finished, “being a partner in this firm is not nearly as interesting as what you do.”
“Probably not. By the way, I sat next to one of your clients at dinner last night—a Lila Baldwin.”
“Oh, God,” Eggers groaned. “Be careful around her. Once, during a discussion of estate tax avoidance, she grabbed my crotch.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I was, I can tell you.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life.”
“Right, and I’d better get back to it. Call me if you need any backup.”
“Will do.”
Stone had hardly hung up when the phone rang. He punched a button. “Shames residence.”
“May I speak with a Mr. Stone Barrington, please?” A male voice.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Barrington, my name is Ebbe Lundquist. I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department.”
“How are you?”
“Okay. Earlier this morning I had a very interesting conversation with Chief Griggs of the Palm Beach PD.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, and I immediately checked our records on Mrs. Frances Bartlett.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found that the smashup was handled as an accident by the traffic division of the sheriff’s department, and since they didn’t suspect foul play, we were never brought into it. Apart from reading about it in the papers, this was the first I’ve known about it.”
“I’m glad Dan Griggs enlightened you.”
“He said that you enlightened him. You’re ex-NYPD, right?”
“Right.”
“Ever work homicide?”
“For many years.”
“You think this was a homicide?”
“It has that distinct odor.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Griggs told you about Bartlett’s little identity problem?”