“Oh,” Stone said. “I guess that lets him out.”
“Not necessarily,” Griggs said. “He had owned the firm for only two years when he sold it, and I haven’t been able to find out anything about him before that, which is unusual.”
“I thought I’d take Mrs. Harding over to his hotel this morning and see if we can spot him. She thinks she can identify Paul Manning.”
“It’s a nice thought, but he checked out this morning; said he was going back to Minneapolis on business.”
“He doesn’t have a business,” Stone pointed out.
“I’m checking with the airlines to see if he was on any outbound flight this morning,” Griggs said. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
“Thanks, Dan,” Stone said and hung up.
Liz was still going through the guest list. “I haven’t come across anything else yet,” she said.
“Paul Bartlett has checked out of his hotel,” Stone said. “Said he was returning to Minneapolis on business. Did Paul Manning have any connection with Minneapolis?”
“No, but he wouldn’t have settled in a place where anybody knew him.”
“How recognizable would he have been to his readers? Did he do a lot of book signings? Have his photograph on the book jackets?”
“The only photograph of Paul that ever appeared on a book jacket or in a press release from his publishers would have been one taken when he was very heavy and had a full beard. He would be completely unrecognizable to any reader now.”
“Bartlett recently sold a graphic design business. Did Paul have any design inclinations?”
“He was a fine arts major at Syracuse,” Liz said. “He drew and painted quite well.”
“Did he take any design courses? Anything that would give him the skills he would need for graphic design?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “He didn’t talk about college all that much.”
Callie appeared on deck. “What are you two doing?” she asked.
Stone explained the stack of paper.
“And how did you get the guest list of a New York hotel?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Juanito came back with the phone for Stone.
“Hello.”
“It’s Dan Griggs. Paul Bartlett didn’t take any flight out this morning, and he didn’t charter any aircraft on the field, but he did turn in his rental car at Hertz, at the airport.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Stone said. “Why would he drive to the airport and turn in his car, then not fly out? How would he leave the airport without transportation?”
“I’ll check the local cab companies and see if a driver picked up anyone answering his description,” Griggs said.
“You might check if he rented a car from another company, too, and if so, what kind and what license number. Might be nice to get his driver’s license info from Hertz, too.”
“I got that. It lists a Minneapolis address.”
“Issued when?”
“Two years, three months ago.”
“Can you check with the Minnesota motor vehicle department and find out if it was a renewal or a new license, and if he turned in a license from another state?”
“Sure, that’s pretty easy.”
“Oh, and what’s his date of birth on the license?”
Griggs told him, and he repeated it to Liz.
“Eighteen months younger than Paul,” she said.
“Keep me posted,” Stone said to Griggs, and hung up.
Liz was still going through the hotel list.
“Anything at all?” Stone asked.
“Just Garland so far," she said. ”Pity the hotel doesn’t photograph its guests.“
“I’ll bet it won’t be long before they start that,” Stone said. “That’ll make it easier to track fugitives.”
“And errant husbands,” Liz said. “I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Bartlett.”
“He said she died last year.”
“Might be interesting to check with the Minneapolis police department and find out if that’s true and, if so, how she died,” Liz said.
“You know something, Mrs. Harding,” Stone said. “You’d make a good cop.” He picked up the phone and called Dan Griggs.
“It’s Stone. Bartlett said his wife died last year. Can you check with the Minneapolis PD and see if there was foul play suspected?”
“Sure can do that,” Griggs said. “Bartlett’s driver’s license was issued after a driving test, not swapped for another state’s.”
“Now that’s really interesting,” Stone said. “How many middle-aged men take driving tests?”
“Only those who learned to drive late in life, and that’s not likely- and those who haven’t driven for a long time or who’ve been out of the country long enough for their licenses to expire.”
“And people who need new identities.”
“Right. Something else: I talked with the Hertz clerk at the airport, and she said Bartlett was picked up by somebody in a BMW. She could see the curb from her desk.”
“So he could still be in town.”
“Or on a road trip.”
“Yeah. Dan, could you check with an outfit called Golden Gate Publishing in San Francisco and find out if their employee Donald Garland matches Bartlett’s description?”
“Okay. They open in an hour out there. How’d you get onto this Garland?”
“You’d rather not know, but there’s an outside chance he could be Manning.”
“I’ll get somebody on it.”
“Thanks.” Stone hung up and gazed across Lake Worth.
“What?” Liz asked.
“Somebody picked up Bartlett at the airport. I wonder why.”
Callie was leafing through the hotel guest list.
“Callie? Where do the Wilkeses live?”
“On North County Road.”
“Let’s go see them.”
21
“Tell me about the Wilkeses,” Stone said. “What are their first names?” They were driving up North County Road. To their right, usually behind high hedges, were houses that fronted the beach.
“Frank and Margaret,” she said. “He founded a chain of fast-food restaurants in the midwest, and later, he bought some other companies. He’s very rich.” She pointed. “The house is the next one.”
Stone pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, which was tightly shut. A section of hedge prevented the house from being seen from the street.
“I think I’m uncomfortable just ringing the bell,” Callie said.
Stone handed her his cell phone. “Tell them we’re in the neighborhood, and we’re calling at the suggestion of Thad Shames.”
Callie made the call, chatted brightly with Mrs. Wilkes for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “Okay,” she said, “they’ll see us.”
Stone pulled up to the gates, reached out the window, rang the bell and the gates opened. The driveway was longer than Stone had expected, and they emerged in a cobblestoned circle with a fountain in its center. The house was an old one, in the Florida Spanish style, and appeared to have been carefully restored. Stone and Callie got out of the car and rang the front doorbell.
The door was answered by Margaret Wilkes, dressed for golf in a plaid skirt and polo shirt. “Callie, come in,” she said. “How nice to see you.”
“Mrs. Wilkes, this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Thad’s.”
“How do you do?” Stone said, and shook her extended hand.
“Please come back to the terrace,” she said. A houseman appeared from the rear of the house. “Bobby, please bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”
Frank Wilkes rose from a wicker sofa on the rear terrace to greet them, and introductions were made. The terrace overlooked a large pool and a garden, with the Atlantic beyond. Both the Wilkeses were charming and unpretentious.
After the lemonade had been served, Stone got to the point. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes…”
“Please, Frank and Margaret,” Wilkes said.
“Thank you. I’m here, on Thad Shames’s behalf, to inquire about a Mr. Paul Bartlett, of Minneapolis. You know him, I believe.”
“Yes, of course,” Wilkes replied. “For several years.”