“I’d like him in the East River,” Hank said.
“Believe me, so would I. We actually caught him visiting the house last night, but he disabled our vehicle, and our people couldn’t give chase.”
“What about the girl, Sherry?”
“She’s dropped off the planet. None of the girls here have heard from her. We had our chance, but Hurd and Heather blew it.”
“Didn’t they have a bug on her person?”
“It came off in Nantucket, our last sighting of her. She left in a private jet.”
“This girl can’t possibly have that kind of support at her beck and call.”
“That’s coming from Barrington.”
“Well, we can’t touch him at the moment, since we’re suing him, along with the Times and some of their people. That’s too good a motive.”
“I understand that. Our best bet is to concentrate on Van and Sherry, but we’ve been shorthanded. I’m considering pulling in Hurd and Heather from Maine, but their faces are known to Sherry.”
“I understand that Heather is adept at extracting information from women,” Hank said.
“She has gifts in that area.”
“Then let’s find Sherry and give Heather an opportunity to display her skills. Nobody will notice if Sherry disappears.”
“I agree, but she has already disappeared,” Damien pointed out.
“Surely she must have some family.”
“All dead. She didn’t even list a next of kin on her employment application. She’s apparently alone in the world.”
“From everyone except this Van character,” Hank said. “Find him, you find her. They’re a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends.”
Neither did Damien. He excused himself at the first opportunity and went back to his own office.
24
Stone was beginning his workday when his phone rang. Joan was running some errand or other, so he picked it up.
“Stone Barrington.”
“Stoney, how are you?” a booming, vaguely familiar voice said.
“Who is this?” Stone asked.
“An old friend.”
“If you were an old friend, you would know that no one has ever called me ‘Stoney’ and gotten a civil response.” He hung up.
A moment later, the phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington, I apologize for the unfamiliar familiarity,” the same voice said. “This is Senator Joseph Box, of Florida.”
“I might have known,” Stone replied, straining to be civil. “What can I do for you, Senator?”
“Well, I’m calling to share some secret news with you.”
“‘Secret news’ is an oxymoron,” Stone replied. “Kindly state your business.”
“My business is running for President of the United States,” Box replied. “And you, my friend, are the first to know.”
Stone refrained from pointing out that they were not friends.
Box anticipated him. “He who is not my enemy is my friend,” he said, “or, at least, potential friend.”
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” He immediately regretted the familiarity.
“Stone, I’m calling to ask for your support,” Box replied.
“Support for what?”
“I’m running in the New Hampshire Republican primary. In fact, I’m in New Hampshire as we speak.”
“Senator, I’m not a Republican, and I don’t vote in New Hampshire, so you should skip to the next name on your list.”
“Fortunately,” Box said, “the denizens of New Hampshire still accept American dollars for TV time and newspaper space, and you can vote with your dollars in any amount up to twelve hundred dollars.”
“Senator,” Stone said wearily, “may I give you some advice?”
“Why, that’s the thing I would value most from you, Stone, right after your dollars.”
“If you’re going to run in New Hampshire, or anywhere else for that matter, you should either take the time to read the rules, or hire a campaign manager who either already knows them or can read them to you. The maximum personal campaign contribution, under law, is sixteen hundred dollars.”
“Well, thank you for that correction, Stone. That’s going to increase my campaign income by twenty-five percent.”
“That would be by one-third, Senator. Let’s hope your campaign manager is proficient in arithmetic, as well as campaign law.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” Box said.
“It is not my opinion but that of Miss Helen Troutman, who taught me in the first grade at PS Six, and no one has yet questioned her contention that four hundred dollars is one-third of twelve hundred dollars.”
“Don’t confuse me with logic,” Box said. “Now, can I put you down for sixteen hundred dollars?”
“You may not.”
“We take checks.”
“You may not have from me a check, cash, or even postage stamps.”
“That’s all right. I’ve already leased a postage meter for our campaign quarters.”
“I won’t give it to you in quarters, either. May I ask, Joe, what on earth made you think that I would contribute to the cause of electing you president?”
“Why not?” Box asked, sounding wounded.
“Let me count the ways,” Stone said. “One, I am not a Republican, as I have already mentioned. Two, I am a good friend of your likely opponent, Holly Barker, who, I believe, introduced us. And three, I regard you as unqualified, by experience, intellect, and moral character, to hold any public office.”
“Now wait a minute, Stone. Let’s not bring morals into this. The media will root out that stuff soon enough.”
“I expect so,” Stone replied, “and I can’t wait. Are we done here, Joe?”
“How about a thousand dollars?”
“Same answer.” Jamie walked into his office. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to report this conversation to the New York Times.”
“Tell ’em to spell my name right. That’s B-O-X.”
Stone hung up.
“What was that about?” Jamie asked.
“The junior senator from Florida would like you to know that his name is spelled B-O-X.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” she replied. “Why were you talking to that buffoon?”
“Because Joan is out and therefore was unable to lie to him about my availability.”
“Why would he call you?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Stone said. “Joe Box is running for the Republican nomination for president.”
Jamie burst out laughing.
“And he wanted a campaign contribution, though he was uncertain about what the maximum legal contribution is.”
“That’s not all he’s uncertain about,” Jamie said, “though he speaks with certainty about everything.”
“Well put!”
“Well, I’m going to phone this in,” Jamie said, reaching for the phone on Stone’s desk and dialing a number. “Andy, this is Jamie Cox. I have a story for you. The junior senator from Florida, the dishonorable Joseph Box, is running for president.” She held the phone away from her ear while he roared with laughter. “I kid you not,” she said, finally. She covered the phone. “Where is Box now?”
“In New Hampshire,” Stone said, “probably in the presidential suite at Motel Six.”
“He’s already in New Hampshire, signing up,” Jamie said into the phone. “He’s a Republican, though they might wish to deny it.” She covered the phone again. “Anything else?” she asked Stone.
“He has trouble with arithmetic,” Stone replied.
“That’s all I’ve got right now, Andy. See ya.” She hung up. “That should make page sixteen of the front section,” she said. “How do you know that clown?”
“I was introduced to him in the bar of the Key West Yacht Club last fall, then he turned up a couple of evenings later at my front door, as a hurricane was rising, and begged to be let in. He was in a state of near-drowning and required half a bottle of distilled spirits to revive him. A few weeks later, he turned up in London at a dinner arranged by the CIA for the purpose of... Well, I shouldn’t talk about the purpose. Suffice it to say that when shots were fired, he dove under the table and was not seen again by me.”