Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(2)

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EVERYBODY MET in the outdoor living room, which was covered with an awning, in case of showers. There was no rain, and Stone tended bar, also making a couple of bottles of vodka gimlets and putting them in the freezer. In the process he found steaks and groceries in the outdoor kitchen fridge.

“I could live here,” Viv said, settling into a sofa with a gimlet.

“If only it were in New York City,” Dino responded, “on top of a tall building, maybe.”

“Oh,” Stone said, “there’s a little house next to the back door that used to be free-standing, but a previous owner moved it over, bolted it to the main house, and made room for the driveway. A caretaker lives there. He keeps the place running and feeds the koi.”

As if on cue a large, well-built man appeared and introduced himself as George. “Let me know if you need help with the electronics or anything else,” he said, then he declined a drink, excused himself, and returned to his little house.

“There’ll be a housekeeper, too, tomorrow morning.” Stone looked at another sheet of paper. “The property was originally three small houses on three lots. Somebody bought them all and made them into the property you see now.”

“Smart move,” Dino said. “And you’re playing golf tomorrow?”

“Arthur hustled me into playing in his tournament, and I haven’t touched a club for more than a year.”

“Then you’ll lose,” Dino pointed out.

“I think that’s what Arthur has in mind,” Stone replied.

“Oh,” Viv said suddenly, putting a hand to a cheek.

“What?” Stone asked.

“I just had a premonition.”

“A premonition of what?”

“I don’t know, but something bad.”

Dino waved an arm. “Bad? What bad could happen here?”

“As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”





2




Stone was up early and found a housekeeper cleaning up their dishes and the grill from the night before. She introduced herself as Anna, then went back to work.

When she was done with the kitchen, Stone scrambled himself some eggs, microwaved some bacon, and toasted a Wolferman’s English muffin, the sourdough flavor he liked. Joan, his secretary, had briefed somebody well.

He left Dino and Viv to sleep as late as they liked, then he recorded the Sunday political shows on the DVR, got the golf invitation from his briefcase, and followed the directions to the golf club. Somebody took his clubs from the trunk and carried them to the practice tee, and Arthur Steele greeted him there, his nose already sunburned.

“You’ll be in my foursome with Arthur Junior and Meg Harmon, both new board members,” Arthur said.

“I’d better hit a few to find out if I still can,” Stone said.

He teed up a ball and made a big swing with his driver, then watched it slice fifty yards into a swamp. “Nothing’s changed,” he muttered, and he hit a bucket of balls, working on his swing until it began to straighten out a little.

Arthur Jr. was a clone of his old man, and Meg Harmon was a thirty-five-ish blonde, slim and fit-looking. She, Stone knew, had started a Silicon Valley software company in her early twenties and had recently sold it to a syndicate, with the Steele Group as a partner, for $1.5 billion. She teed up, and her drive went straight for better than two hundred yards. Arthur Jr. was next, and he drove about the same distance, but hooked it into the rough, muttering under his breath. Big Arthur hit one straight for two hundred and fifty yards.

“You’ve been practicing, Arthur,” Stone said. “That’s cheating.” He teed up and sliced into the rough, but he was long and he still had a shot to the green, if his lie was good.

They were walking back to their carts when Stone heard a single crack, and he immediately thought: rifle! A man in the next foursome, waiting to tee off, made a loud noise and was knocked down.

“Everybody on the ground!” Stone shouted as he ran to the man, who had a bleeding shoulder wound. Stone looked around him and from the way the man had fallen, thought the shot had come from a swampy area to his right. He heard a vehicle door slam and gravel spraying beyond the trees. “From over there,” he said, getting to his feet.

A club employee came running up. “Call nine-one-one,” Stone said, “and tell them a man’s down with a gunshot wound. Ask for an ambulance and the police.”

Arthur walked over, dusting himself off. “That’s Al Harris,” he said, nodding at the man on the ground. He knelt. “How are you feeling, Al?” He got a grunt for an answer. “Hang on, help is on the way.”

Stone looked around him at everyone’s position. From where people had been standing when he heard the shot, he calculated that the shooter could have been aiming at Meg or Arthur, and with a miss, Al Harris had caught the stray bullet. It could, Stone thought, also have been aimed at himself.



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THE AMBULANCE arrived first, the hospital being nearby, and two detectives were next by a couple of minutes. Stone greeted them and introduced himself, then he told them his theory of where the shot had come from and where it had been aimed.