“Carrie,” Stone said, “does your husband own a handgun?”
“Yes, at least a dozen. He collects them, along with knives.”
“He’s not going to get a handgun from Atlanta to New York on an airplane,” Bob said.
“Maybe not,” Stone admitted, “but if he’s a planner, he could send one to his hotel by an overnight shipper.”
“Right,” Bob said. “We’ll keep that in mind. Any questions, Carrie?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Stone spoke up. “Bob, we need to locate Max Long in Atlanta; Carrie doesn’t know his address. You know somebody down there?” Cantor had a network of ex-cops who handled this sort of thing.
“Sure thing. Last known address?”
Carrie gave him the Habersham address.
“I want to know if somebody in Atlanta can place him in New York last night, besides Carrie,” Stone said. “Could be important later.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Carrie asked. “I can place him here.”
“You said you didn’t see his face,” Stone replied. “It wouldn’t hold up in court. We need copies of a plane ticket or a hotel reservation or a credit card record. Somebody who drove him to the airport would help.”
“I’ll deal with it,” Cantor said. “What’s your schedule like today?” he asked Carrie.
“I’ve got an accompanist coming to my place at one o’clock,” Carrie said. “I have a score to learn.”
“Willie and Jimmy are ready when you are,” Cantor replied.
“Now is good,” she said.
Stone put his keys on the counter. “You know how to get into the garage, Bob.” He turned to Carrie. “There’s a house key there, too. Remember, you’re sleeping here tonight,” Stone said, “just in case he’s still in town.”
“Her suitcase is in the living room,” Cantor said, tossing the keys to Willie, “and so is a cardboard box she wants to send to her ex-husband.”
“Bob, you keep the box for when we find out his address,” Stone said. He turned to Carrie. “I think you’re in good shape now.”
“I feel very safe,” Carrie replied. She kissed Stone and followed Cantor and the Leahys to the garage.
8
STONE TOOK CARRIE’S SUITCASE upstairs and put her things in a closet and chest of drawers. As he was about to get into the shower, the phone rang. He noticed that the caller ID showed the call as being from area code 404: Atlanta. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the number, then he pressed a button on the phone to have the conversation recorded.
“Hello?”
“Is this Stone Barrington?” A male voice, deep, the accent southern, the words a little slurred.
“Hello, Max,” Stone said.
There was a moment’s silence. “So you know who I am?”
“I don’t know all that many people in Atlanta. Are you back home now?”
“Maybe.”
“I have some things to send you,” Stone said. “What’s your mailing address?”
Max Long gave him a post office box number.