Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“See you then.”

Stone hung up. “Well, ladies, you’re going to have a couple more cops on your hands shortly.”

“I’d better finish dessert,” Callie said, rising and heading toward the galley.

“What cops?” Dino asked.

Stone explained about Griggs and Lundquist, and about Paul Bartlett’s sojourn in Minneapolis.

“God, I love catching murderers,” Dino said, “don’t you?”

“Not as much as you, Dino, but I’ll admit, it’s satisfying. What I don’t like about murderers is that time after you’ve figured out what they did but before you arrest them. They tend to be touchy during that period.”

“So you think Bartlett is dangerous?”

“I certainly do. Griggs has assigned somebody to keep an eye on him, but Lundquist has asked us not to crowd him just yet.”

“I hate not crowding them,” Dino said.

Callie returned to the table, followed by Juanito carrying a tray of flaming desserts.

“Something old-fashioned,” she said. “Baked Alaska. I thought, given the weather, we could use the extra warmth.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Dino said, plunging into his. “We may keep you on here.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

Liz was toying with her dessert. “Stone,” she said, “am I ever going to be able to leave this boat again?”

“Sure you are, but right now is not a good time. Paul doesn’t know you’re here, at least not for sure.”

“We could stake her out, like a goat for a lion,” Dino said.

“Thank you, Dino,” Liz said. “That was so beautifully put.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dino said, grinning.

29

CHIEF DAN GRIGGS AND LIEUTENANT EBBE LUNDQUIST arrived, sharing a golf umbrella. They were both dripping wet.

“Sorry to get you out this late, Chief,” Stone said. “Couldn’t this have waited for better weather?”

“Lundquist, here, insisted,” Griggs replied.

Lundquist looked around at the yacht. “You live pretty well, Mr. Barrington.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but, unfortunately, the yacht is not mine. And please call me Stone.” Stone introduced everybody, and Callie got the visitors a hot toddy, while everyone else had brandy.

“It’s like this,” Lundquist said. “We dug Bartlett’s car out of a junkyard, where it was waiting to go into the compactor. Couple more days, it would have been gone. We have you to thank for that, Stone.”

Stone shrugged. “I just happened to get lucky.”

“The car was a 1991 Mercedes station wagon, and that year, a passenger-side air bag was an option, and Mrs. Bartlett, who owned the car, had not ordered the option. Everything about the car was normal, for one that had just collided with a tree, except that the seat belt latch had been tampered with.”

“Tampered with how?” Dino asked.

“There’s a steel eye that sticks up on a stalk, then there’s the receptor end that latches onto that. We opened up the receptor, and the spring inside had been deformed, compared with the driver’s side, so that it would not hook securely when fastened. Mrs. Bartlett would have heard a click when she put it on, but it would have come undone under pressure.”