Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(57)

“You didn’t say that.”

“There I go thinking again. Please ignore my brain.”

“Well, if I thought it would help, I’d drive around the city rear-ending people until he took a shot at me, but it seems a little haphazard.”

“Not so much as you’d think. There’s a lot of road rage out there. These days, you could probably get yourself shot inside of half an hour, even if by the wrong shooter.”

“I think I had in mind something both more productive and more specific, in terms of the shooter.”

“I can see how you might feel that way. I’ll keep you posted.” Dino hung up.

“Dino?” Jenna said.

“Dino. Larkin shot two more innocent people last night.”

“Don’t look so dejected, Stone.”

“Why not? I got two citizens shot to death on the West Side Highway.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Why not? When disasters surrounding me get people killed, it’s usually my fault.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, and please don’t try to make it better. You’ll just depress us both even more.”

Stone shrugged, because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Jenna threw off the covers. “I’m going to take a shower and go to work.”

“Breakfast?”

“I’ll grab a bite somewhere.”

Stone rang for his usual. When Jenna came out of the bathroom, all clean and perky, she grabbed half of his English muffin, heaped some scrambled egg onto it, and was eating it when she walked out with an airy wave.

“That was half my breakfast!” Stone called after her.

“Reorder!” she called back and closed the door behind her a little too firmly.

When Stone got downstairs, there was a wrapped hot roll from a nearby deli on his desk, and he had it with his second cup of coffee. It was delicious. Then he saw the note in the bag.

    Just got a call from my office, and they insist they can’t get along without me any longer. I’ve asked Joan to book me on a flight home; ask her to send my bag, will you? It was great fun; let’s do it again! And again, and again!



Her address and phone number were on the note, and he asked Joan to deal with the reservation and the bag.





46


Stone had just finished his roll when Joan buzzed him. “A Mr. Gunderson from the First Plains Bank and Trust Company of Ames, Iowa.”

“Didn’t you tell him he had a wrong number?”

“No, he knew exactly who he wanted to talk to, and that is you.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Mr. Gunderson, what can I do for you?” he asked quickly, as if he had been on another line.

“Well, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “you can tell me where all this money came from.”

“What money is that, Mr. Gunderson?”

“The money that was mentioned in her will, some 847, 500 dollars of it. I know it didn’t belong to Frances, because I loaned her ten thousand dollars a coupla weeks ago, jah? So’s she could eat something and pay her rent.”

“Jah, if you say so, Mr. Gunderson.” Stone was beginning to feel that he had stepped into a scene from the movie Fargo.

“I recall that a sum of money was mentioned in her will, but I don’t recall a number.”

“Well, we been readin’ about this feller, Larkin, who she got herself tangled up with, and our bank don’t take no funds from dubious sources.”

“Mr. Gunderson, a last will and testament is not a dubious source, and it was properly signed, sworn, and attested to by the appropriate number of witnesses, as is often done in hospitals in these parts.” He clamped his hand over his mouth to prevent further Midwestern colloquialisms from escaping.

“It’s the source of the funds we’re talkin’ about here,” Gunderson said. “This Sig Larkin sounds dubious to me.”

“Be that as it may,” Stone said, “it sounds like a number to me, and that’s what banks deal in, as I recall. Now, my suggestion would be to accept the funds into her account and to wait for a while in case somebody asks for some or all of it back. At that time, you can assess the validity of the claim and pay, or not pay, accordingly.”

“How long is ‘for a while’?” Gunderson asked.

“You get to decide that.”

“Reason I ask is, somebody has already requested some—strike that—all of it.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“It would be a New York lawyer,” Gunderson said, “and I expect you can imagine what folks in these parts might think of that.”

“Well, Mr. Gunderson, you’re talkin’ to a New York lawyer right now, and we don’t take kindly to insults from west of the Mississippi. Nor east of that river, neither. Now, why did you call me, instead of him?” God help me, Stone thought, I’m locked into this lingo!

“Frances mentioned you in a note. Well, I hardly know what to do next,” Gunderson confessed.

Then the penny dropped. “Why don’t you begin by telling me the lawyer’s name and phone number, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Would that service be gratis?” Gunderson asked.