“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”
“What good would it have done? It would have just ruined your day.”
“You’re right about that,” Stone said, flicking small shards of glass out of the driver’s seat.
They drove back to the house and walked to the yacht.
“A message for you, Stone,” Callie said, handing him Bob Berman’s number.
Dino glanced at the piece of paper. “What have you got Berman on?”
Stone led him into the saloon and picked up a phone. “One William Charles Danforth of Washington, D.C.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s the passport Paul Manning is using these days.”
“Oh.”
Stone called Berman. “It’s me. You got something?”
“I got a lot,” Berman said. “You want me to FedEx it to you, or you want to hear it now?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Okay. Mr. Danforth is all over the Internet, just like you’d expect a substantial person to be. He’s got a credit history going back only four years. It’s little stuff, credit cards, couple of department stores-Saks, Macy’s. There’s apparently no Mrs. Danforth, and there are no mortgages on the reports. He rents an apartment in the P Street house in Georgetown, has for four years.”
“So Mr. Danforth is only four years old.”
“Right.”
“What does he do?”
“He lists his occupation as business consultant.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Yeah. His credit card spending is consistent with a man making less than a hundred thousand dollars a year. I got one of the credit card statements for the past year, and he’s traveled to Europe and Florida.”
“Where, Florida?”
“Miami, twice; last time ten days ago. He rented a car there, too.”
“Okay, what else?”
“He seems pretty ordinary. His phone number is listed. Nothing jumps out at you.”
“Did you find a photograph?”
“Nope, wasn’t available from any of my sources.”
“What about a driver’s license photo?”
“I checked D.C., Virginia and Maryland. Nothing there.”
“If he rented a car, he must have a license; if he has a license, there should be a photograph on file somewhere.”
“You want me to check all the states?”
“The contiguous forty-eight will do.”
“Okay, but it’s going to take a few days. There’s no federal registry of driver’s licenses; it’s purely a state thing.”
Stone had a thought. “How about a pilot’s license? He knows something about airplanes.”
“There’s no photograph on pilots’ licenses; you ought to know that.”
“Oh, right,” Stone said, thinking of the license in his own pocket.
“You suspect this guy of being wonky in any way?” Berman asked. “There’s no criminal record.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if he’s wonky, he wouldn’t have any trouble picking up a driver’s license that would get him a rental car.”
“Good point, but do the search anyway.”
“Whatever you say, Stone.”
“Does he own a car?”
“Yes, a six-year-old BMW 320i, registered at the P Street address.”
“Strange that he has a car and a passport with that address, but no driver’s license.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want his picture taken any more than necessary. Does he know you’re looking at him?”
“Probably not, but he might guess.”
“Maybe, if he’s wonky, he figured that someday, somebody would be looking for a photograph of him.”
“He has a passport, and you need a photograph for that.”
“Yeah, but the State Department is a lot harder to get a photograph out of than a state driver’s license office.”
“Once again, you have a point.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment. Let me know about the license.”
“Will do,” Berman said.
“And, Bob?”
“Yeah?”
“Put your mind to other ways to find a photograph.”
“I already did.” Berman hung up.
49
Stone sat on the afterdeck and nursed a gin and tonic. “Dino,” he said finally, “when you arrested Manning that time in New York, you fingerprinted him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because that gives us a possible way to find out what Manning has been doing for the past four years to earn a living. I can’t see him doing it honestly.”
“What do you need?”
“I need for you to run his prints against unsolved crimes with no suspects.”
“Stone, you’re about to be rid of the guy. Why do you want to press this?”
“Because I have the awful feeling I’m never going to be rid of him. If he’s committed a crime somewhere in this country, and I can prove it, then I’d have something on him, something that would either keep him in line or put him in jail.”
Dino picked up a phone, called his office and asked them to run the Manning prints against unsolved crimes. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Why do you think he might have committed a crime?”
“Because he’s apparently been earning less than a hundred thousand dollars a year, and I don’t think that’s enough to keep Paul Manning in the style to which he long ago became accustomed.”
The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Fred Williamson. Somebody in Bill Eggers’s office at Woodman and Weld in New York asked me to call you about some divorce work.”
“Yes, of course. How do you do, Fred?”
“Very well, thanks, and divorce is a specialty of mine.”
“Glad to hear it. What I’ve got here is a petition from a Mrs. Allison Manning against Paul Manning. Mr. Manning has already waived a response, and we have a signed property settlement.”
“Where do the Mannings live?”
“In Palm Beach.” Stone gave him Liz’s West Indies Drive address.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, then. It’ll probably take a month to get it heard.”
“Do the Mannings have to appear?”
“Not necessary, as long as they’re in agreement on the terms and they’re both represented by counsel. Who’s his lawyer?”
“Edward Ginsky, of New York, but he’s licensed to practice in Florida.” Stone gave him Ginsky’s address and phone number.
“I’ll call him and get us on the court calendar.”
“Fred, is there any way to get this heard right away? And in chambers, if possible? I don’t want it to make the papers, even in the legal notices.”
“I know a judge who might hear it in chambers sooner, rather than later,” Williamson said.
“I’d appreciate it if you could handle it that way. Ginsky has his own jet. I’m sure he could appear on short notice, or appoint someone local to do it.”
“Who’s got the paperwork?”
“I have. Can you send a messenger for it?”
“Sure. Where?”
Stone gave him the address.
“I’ll have somebody there inside an hour.”
“Thanks, Fred. Call me if you need any further information.” Stone hung up. He went to his briefcase, extracted the documents, stuffed them into a manila envelope, wrote Williamson’s name on it and gave it to Juanito to leave with the security man guarding the front door.
“Maybe I can get them divorced before Sunday,” Stone said.
“Would that make you feel better?” Dino asked.
“Yes, indeed. I’m uncomfortable about witnessing a client-two clients, in this case-committing bigamy in front of the crumbs of Palm Beach’s upper crust.”
“When they get to that part about ‘if anybody can show just cause why these two people shouldn’t get married,” shouldn’t you, as an officer of the court, stand up and yell, “It’s bigamy!”?“
“Probably, but this lawyer says he might be able to get it heard quickly.”
The phone rang again, and this time it was for Dino. “Hello? Yeah, this is Bacchetti. Hang on, let me get something to write with.” He motioned to Stone for a pen.
Stone handed him one, and a pad.
“Yeah, yeah. Where? How many? And there’s no other clue? Why the hell didn’t this match pop up before? Oh, yeah, I see. Thanks. I don’t know yet. Sit on it until I get back to you.” He hung up.