“All through the power of the written word,” Stone said. “Remarkable.”
“Do you still sell the porn stuff?” Reuben wanted to know.
“Uh, Douglas, I need to look at my things, in the space Caleb arranged for me to use,” Stone said quietly.
Douglas’ face paled and he swallowed nervously. “Oh, of course, of course. Go right ahead. And if you want anything, just ask. In fact, we have some very fine cappuccino and wonderful scones today. It’s on the house, as always.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Douglas hugged Stone again and then hurried off to help a woman who’d entered the shop dressed in a full-length fur coat despite the balmy weather.
Reuben looked around at all the books. “Most of these writers probably died penniless, and he’s buying condos and boats and 401(k)s off their sweat.”
Stone didn’t answer. He opened a small door set off to the side of the shop’s entryway and led the way down a narrow staircase that emptied into the basement area. He headed along a short corridor and through an old wooden door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” He closed the door behind them and turned left down another hall. Then Stone took an old-fashioned key from his pocket and used it to open an arched door at the end of this hall, and they entered a small room that was paneled in very old wood. He flicked on a light and went over to a large fireplace that sat against one wall. While Reuben watched, Stone knelt down, reached his hand up into the inside of the fireplace and pulled on a small piece of metal attached to a short wire hanging there. There was an audible click, and a panel of the wall next to the fireplace swung open.
“Gotta love those priest’s holes,” Reuben said as he gripped the exposed panel and swung it all the way open.
Inside was a room about eight feet deep and six feet wide and tall enough for even Reuben to easily stand up in. Stone pulled a small penlight from his pocket and stepped in. Bookshelves lined all three walls. On each of these shelves were neatly stacked journals and notebooks, a few locked metal boxes and numerous cardboard boxes taped shut.
While Stone looked through the journals and notebooks, Reuben had a sudden thought. “How come you don’t keep all this stuff at your cottage?”
“This place has an alarm system. All I have guarding my cottage are dead people.”
“Well, how can you be sure that old Douglas doesn’t come down here and poke through your stuff when you’re not here?”
Stone kept examining the journals as he talked. “I told him that I’d booby-trapped this room and that no one other than myself could open it safely without threat of instant death.”
“And you think he believed you?”
“It doesn’t really matter. He has no personal courage, so he’ll never find out for sure. Plus, at my suggestion Caleb let some hints drop to Douglas that I used to be a homicidal maniac before my release from a hospital for the criminally insane solely on a technicality. I think that’s why he hugs me every time he sees me. Either he wants to stay on my good side or he’s checking for weapons. Ah, here we are.”
Stone pulled out an old leather-bound journal and opened it. The book was filled with newspaper clippings carefully glued to the pages. He read through it as Reuben waited impatiently. Finally, Stone closed the journal and then pulled out two other large books on a shelf. Behind these books was a leather case about eighteen inches square in size. Stone put this in his knapsack along with the journal.
On the way out Reuben got three scones from the attractive young lady in black.
“I’m Reuben,” he said, towering over her and holding in his belly.
“Good for you,” she said curtly before hurrying off.
“I think that young babe in there was rather taken with me,” Reuben said proudly as they got back to the motorcycle.
“Yes, I suppose she ran off like that to tell all her friends,” Stone replied.
CHAPTER
39
IT TOOK ALEX FORD ABOUT AN hour to decide what to wear on his night out with Kate Adams. It was a humbling and embarrassing sixty minutes as he realized how long it’d been since he’d gone on a real date. He finally decided on a blue blazer, white collared shirt and khaki pants with loafers on his big feet. He combed down his hair, shaved off his five o’clock shadow, dressed, chewed a couple of breath mints and decided the big, somewhat weathered lug staring back at him in the mirror would just have to do.
D.C. traffic had reached the critical stage where there was no good time or direction to be driving, and Alex was afraid he was going to be late. However, he lucked out after skirting an accident on Interstate 66 that left a clear field ahead. He took the Key Bridge exit, crossed the Potomac, hooked a right onto M Street and soon found himself cruising up 31st Street in posh Georgetown. It was a place named after a British king, and certain elements of the area retained that regal dignity that some might equate to outright snobbery. However, on the main shopping drag of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, the tone was decidedly funky and modern with gaggles of underdressed kids crowding the narrow sidewalks yakking on their cell phones and checking each other out. Yet in the upper regions of Georgetown where Alex was heading lived famous families with enormous financial portfolios and nary a tattoo or body piercing in sight.
As Alex passed one stately mansion after another, he started growing more nervous. He had guarded some incredibly powerful people over the years, but the Service prided itself as being an elite agency with a blue-collar nature. Alex was solidly in that mold and much preferred the lunch counter at the local IHOP to a three-star restaurant in Paris. Well, there was no going back now, he told himself.
The road he was on dead-ended at R Street near the massive Dumbarton Oaks mansion. Alex hung a left and continued on down R until he found the place.
“Okay, she wasn’t kidding about the mansion status,” Alex said as he stared up at the brick and slate-roofed behemoth. He pulled into the circular driveway, got out and looked around. The grounds were formal with the bushes all cut to the same height and shape and the late summer blooms presented in all their colorful and symmetrical glory. The moss was growing lushly around the stone slabs that led to an arched wooden door that accessed the backyard. Or with palaces such as this it was probably referred to as the rear grounds, Alex thought.
He checked his watch and found he was about ten minutes early. Maybe Kate wasn’t even here yet. He was about to drive around the block to kill some time when he heard a lilting voice calling out to him.
“Yoo-hoo, are you the Secret Service man?” He turned and spotted a small, stooped woman scurrying toward him, a basket of cut flowers hooked over one arm. She had on a wide-brimmed sun hat with white cottony hair poking out, beige canvas pants and an untucked long-sleeved jeans shirt; large black sunglasses covered most of her face. She seemed shrunken with time, and he put her age at around mid-eighties or so.
“Ma’am?”
“You are tall and cute. Are you armed too? With Kate you better be.”
Alex glanced around, briefly wondering if Kate was playing a joke on him and this odd woman had been hired as part of the gag. He didn’t see anyone and turned back to the woman. “I’m Alex Ford.”
“Are you one of those Fords?”
“Sorry, afraid there’s no trust fund in my future.”
She took off her glove, stuck it in her pants pocket and put out her hand. He shook it but then she didn’t let go. She pulled him toward the house. “Kate isn’t ready yet. Come on in, have a drink and let’s talk, Alex.”
Alex allowed himself to be led along by the woman because, frankly, he didn’t know what else to do. She smelled of strong cooking spices and even stronger hair spray.
When they reached the house and went inside, she finally let go of his hand and said, “Where are my manners, I’m Lucille Whitney-Houseman.”
“Are you one of those Whitney-Housemans?” Alex said, with a grin.