Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. "You must be Stone Barrington," he said.
"That's right," Stone replied.
The man stuck out a hand. "I'm Frank Stendahl."
Stone shook the hand. "How do you do?"
"Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week."
"I expect so. Where have you come from, Mr.Stendahl?"
"I'm a New Englander," he said. "The Boston area."
"And what brings you to St.Marks?"
"Vacation," the man said. "I seem to be about the only tourist around here."
"Well, first there was the blizzard in the Northeast, then we were pretty choked up with press, and then, I guess, the bad press made St.Marks an unpopular destination."
"Funny, the publicity somehow made it more attractive to me. I understand you've got a trial starting soon."
"That's right."
"I wonder if I could attend? Could you arrange it for me?"
"I'm afraid not; I'm out of my own bailiwick here, you see."
Thomas chimed in. "It's open to the public," he said. "I expect if you were there an hour before the trial you'd get a seat."
"Thanks, Thomas," Stendahl said. "Well, Stone-if I may call you that-what's your that strategy going to be?"
"I don't think I can discuss that," Stone replied, sipping his beer.
"Of course not; that was silly of me. The lady seems to be innocent, though; you going to get her off?"
"I'll do my best."
"Well, how will…"
Stone cut him off. "I said, I can't discuss it."
Stendahl held his hands up before him. "Hey, my fault; didn't mean to dig."
"That's all right."
"Well, now that I've cooled off, I think I'll get up to my room and change into something more tropical," Stendahl said. The man got down off his stool and lumbered toward the stairs.
"What's his story?" Stone asked Thomas.
Thomas shrugged. "He used a credit card with the right name on it, but…"
"But what?"
"There was a moment when I thought he might be a cop," Thomas said, "but after I talked with him a while, I didn't think so anymore."
"What did he want to talk about?"
"Allison, the trial, the press, anything he could find out. He was really pumping me."
"And you still don't think he could be a cop."
"A cop would have done it differently," Thomas said. "More subtly. This guy just charged straight ahead."
"You think he's just an interested tourist?"
"He doesn't feel like a tourist, either."
"What does he feel like?"
"I think he's got an agenda, but I'm damned if I know what it is. Besides, what would an American cop be doing down here?"
"I don't think I ever saw a cop wear a seersucker suit," Stone said.
"Me neither."
"What sort of luggage did he have?"
"Hartmann leather, a suitcase and a briefcase, matching."
"That doesn't sound like a cop, either; too expensive. That's a businessman's luggage."
"I would have thought so."
Stone shrugged. "Well, I guess businessmen take vacations."
"Usually with their wives; he's alone."
"Bachelor? Divorced?"
"I guess he could be."
Frank Stendahl reappeared, wearing casual clothes, exposing pasty white arms. "Think I'll walk down to the marina and have a look at the boats," he said to no one in particular. Stone and Thomas watched him as he strolled across the lawn and came to a stop at the marina gate, confronted by the two police officers on guard there. He chatted with them for a minute or so, then turned and walked back toward the inn. Halfway, he changed his mind and walked back toward the water at an angle chosen to take him to the harbor's edge beyond the marina. A moment later, he disappeared around a point of land.
"Where will that walk take him?" Stone asked.
"To the mouth of the harbor, eventually," Thomas replied.
"I've got some work to do upstairs," Stone said. "If he comes back, see what you can find out about him, will you?"
"Sure, glad to. You think he's up to no good, Stone?"
"Right now, all I think is that he's a tourist, like he says; maybe the sort of guy who turned up at the O. J. Simpson trial. I can't think of any other reason for him to be here, can you?"
Thomas shrugged.
"See you later." Stone hopped off his barstool and headed upstairs. After what he'd been through with the press, Stendahl didn't seem to be much of a threat.
CHAPTER 47
An hour later, Stone came back downstairs. Stendahl was back at the bar, sucking on a pina colada and across the room, Hilary Kramer of the Times and Jim Forrester of The New Yorker were sharing a table. He walked over to them. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.
"Not at all," Hilary replied. "Sit down."
"Jim," Stone said, "did you by any chance get a good look at the man at the bar?"
Forrester looked that way. "The big guy? Nope."
"I wonder if you'd do me a favor."
"What?"
"Go over there and strike up a conversation with the guy, then come back and tell me what you think. Shouldn't be too difficult; he seems to be pretty outgoing."
Forrester shrugged. "Okay." He walked over to the bar, ordered a drink, and in a moment was engaged in conversation with Stendahl.
"What's that all about?" Kramer asked.
"I just want to know who the guy is," Stone replied. "He seems to have come down here just to attend the trial."
"A camp follower?"
"Maybe, but whose camp?"
"Well, Jim will worm it out of him; he's endlessly curious, a typical reporter-asks hundreds of questions, answers few."
"I haven't found him to be particularly closemouthed," Stone said. "He doesn't talk much to you, huh?"
"Maybe he's gay," Kramer said.
"Doesn't seem so, but I guess you never know for sure. Have your charms been wasted on him?"
She smiled. "Let's just say that I've told him a lot more than he's told me. I envy him one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"He's got the best memory of any reporter I've ever met. Either that, or he's just too sloppy to take notes."
"Well, he's a magazine writer, been doing travel stuff," Stone said. "He's not the died-in-the-wool Front Page type, like you."
"Like me?" she asked, surprised.
"You're a regular Hildy Parks," Stone said.
She laughed again, then she looked at him sharply. "Stone, while I'm in my Hildy mode, did you really just stumble into the Allison Manning mess, or is there something more to it?"
Stone raised his right hand. "Stumbled, honest."
"You were just down here all on your own?"
"Wasn't supposed to be that way."
"How was it supposed to be?"
"Want me to cry in your beer?"
"All you want; I'm a good listener."
"This isn't for publication, not even for a mention."
"It's nothing to do with the trial, then?"
"Nothing; purely personal."
"Cry away."
"My girl was supposed to meet me at the airport; we were coming together. She missed the flight because of a meeting at The New Yorker-she's a magazine writer, like Jim-and before she could get on the next day's the blizzard happened."
"That was bad luck."
"It gets worse. The subject of her piece was Vance Calder. She went to L.A. with him for more interviews."
"Uh-oh."
"You said it."
"She's not your girl anymore?"
"Worse; she's now Mrs.Vance Calder. They were married yesterday; I got a fax."
"Hoo! Well, at least you lost her to somebody spectacular."