Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“That’s a depressing thought,” Stone said.

As if on cue, Dan Griggs called back. “I’ve had a whole squad calling around to the hotels,” he said, “and there’s no Frederick James registered anywhere.”

“Thanks for your help again, Dan. I won’t bother you unless we turn up something concrete.” Stone hung up, and the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Berman.”

“Anything?”

“Mr. James has an American Express card, and that’s it—no debts, not even a bank account.”

“American Express wouldn’t give somebody a card who had no credit record,” Stone said.

“Then he must have applied under a name that does have a record, then asked them to put another name on the card. By the way, I have a friend at American Express. I called him and he looked up James’s address.”

“Great! What is it?”

“One Vanderbilt Avenue, New York City.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up. “Another dead end.”

“You got any other ideas?” Dino asked.

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well, we’re just going to have to wait until he has another go at Liz,” Stone said.

38

EVERYBODY SEEMED TO BE TAKING A NAP, EXCEPT DINO. “I need some things from the drugstore,” Stone said. “You want to come?”

“Nope,” Dino replied. “Married men don’t need things from the drugstore.”

“Toothpaste and dental floss,” Stone said.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour, if anybody calls.”

“See ya.”

Stone walked to the parking lot and got into his borrowed Mercedes convertible, putting the top down. He pulled out of the driveway, behind a passing Ford, which was driving rather slowly. Stone edged up behind the car, hoping to pass, when, suddenly, the Ford came to a screeching halt, and Stone plowed into it with a crash.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud. Now he had smashed up Thad’s car, and it was his own fault. He got out of the car and walked toward the Ford. As he did, a man got out of the Ford, and to Stone’s surprise, he was smiling.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Stone said, “but why did you slam on your brakes like that?”

The man looked like a salesman of some sort. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and necktie, and his shirt pocket contained a plastic pen guard and several writing instruments. “Don’t worry about it,” the man said, and very quickly, there was a gun in his hand.

Stone looked over his shoulder for some way out of this, but as he did, a silver Lincoln Town Car with darkly tinted windows screeched to a halt beside him.

The man with the gun opened the rear door. “Inside,” he said, “and don’t let’s get blood on this pretty street.”

Stone got in, followed by the man with the gun, and the car moved forward, leaving the other two cars stopped in the middle of the street. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds, he figured, and more disturbing than the gun in the man’s hand was the fact that he was wearing rubber gloves. “What’s this about?” he asked.