“You understand there’s a four-hour minimum on the rental?”
“Yes.”
Don hopped out of the airplane, and Stone taxied back to the runway and repeated his takeoff. He climbed to a thousand feet, listened again to the recorded weather, then called the PBI tower. “Palm Beach Tower, this is November One-two-three Tango Foxtrot,” he said, reading the airplane’s registration number from a plaque on the instrument panel. “I’m ten miles to the northwest, VFR, looking for landing instructions. I have the ATIS.”
The tower called back. “Enter a right base for runway niner. Traffic’s light today. You’re cleared to land.”
Stone followed the instructions and ten minutes later he was taxiing up to Signature Aviation, between a Gulfstream III and a G-IV. He wondered how long it had been since anything as small as his rental had parked here.
He got out of the airplane. “The brakes are off,” he told the lineman, knowing they wouldn’t leave it where it was. “No fuel. I’ll be about an hour.”
He went inside the handsome lobby and walked up to the huge desk. “I’m looking for Mr. Frederick James,” he said to the young lady behind it.
“Oh, yes, you must be Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Mr. James and his associate are in the conference room, right over there.” She pointed. “You won’t be disturbed.”
“Thank you.” He walked across the reception room to the door and knocked on it.
“Come in,” a man’s voice said.
Stone opened the door and entered the room. A man, who had been seated alone at the conference table, stood up to greet him. Stone recognized him immediately.
“Mr. Barrington, I’m Edward Ginsky,” he said, offering his hand. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored, double-breasted blue blazer and white linen slacks, his shirt open at the collar.
Stone shook it. “Of course. I’m glad to meet you.” Ginsky was a famous New York lawyer, known mostly for his expertise in representing women in divorce cases. He had handled a number of high-profile divorces, and his clients had always done very well from his representation.
“I’ve heard of you, too,” Ginsky said, sitting down and motioning Stone to a chair. “Bill Eggers speaks well of you, in fact.”
“That’s kind of Bill,” Stone said.
“Well,” Ginsky said, “enough chitchat. Shall we get to it?”
“Let’s,” Stone replied.
“I trust that now you won’t need the identification you requested.”
“No, not for you, but for your client.”
“Ah, yes. Trust me when I tell you that, before our meeting is concluded, you will have adequate proof that I represent Paul Manning. May we proceed on that basis?”
“For the moment,” Stone said, “but I should tell you that I will not come to any agreement until I am satisfied who I am dealing with.”
“Understood,” Ginsky said. “Now, what do you have to propose?”
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Manning’s activities with regard to the island of St. Marks some years ago?”
“I believe I have all the relevant facts.”
“Then you will know that your client and mine were married at that time and, in the absence of a divorce, still are.”
“You could put that light on it,” Ginsky said.
“I hardly know what other light to put on it.”
“I think you are aware that my client is, if not dead, then no longer legally alive.”
“You could put that light on it,” Stone said.
Ginsky allowed himself a smile.