5
On Monday morning the directors of the Steele Group reassembled at the golf course.
“How’s Al Harris?” Stone asked Arthur.
“On the mend. He insisted that we play today, and he swears he’ll be at the board meeting on Friday.”
“Did he have surgery?”
“Yes, and his arm will be in a sling for a bit.”
“When you speak to him, tell him I wish him well and look forward to seeing him at the board meeting.”
They had to wait five minutes for Meg to show up, and when she did it was in a taxi. Stone supposed she was saving her driverless car for its demonstration to the board, if it was working again.
“Sorry about that,” she said to Arthur. “I don’t need to warm up. I did my stretches in the backseat of the cab.”
“You have the honor,” Arthur said, ushering her onto the tee. She hit it straight for a good two hundred yards.
Stone still sliced his drive, but not into the rough. He had a shot at the green with a good lie.
Arthur’s went straight and landed a yard behind Meg’s.
Arthur Jr. hooked into the deep rough.
“I can’t get him to take lessons,” Arthur said to Stone as their cart trundled down the fairway. “He’s convinced he can teach himself, like that left-handed pro who says he’s never had a lesson. What’s his name?”
“Bubba Watson,” Stone replied.
“Tell me,” Arthur said, “how do you like your rental house?”
“It’s wonderful,” Stone said. “I’ve had to resist finding out who the owner is and making an offer.”
“That’s right, you have the house-buying disease, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid so. I did sell one, though.”
“Which one?”
“Washington, Connecticut. I just wasn’t using it.”
“Do you think you’d use a house here?” Arthur asked.
“A warm place in winter is very inviting,” Stone replied, “even if it’s only for long weekends.”
They all hit their second shots and drove on.
AT THE FINISH, Arthur reviewed their scorecards, and Meg had won it on handicap. Arthur was second, and Stone was third.
“I guess we had the lucky foursome,” Arthur said.
Stone was putting his and Meg’s clubs into the convertible when the now-familiar police detectives drove up.
“Back already?” Stone asked. “What’s new?”
“We didn’t get the Bellinis, but our guys found the weapon,” Harry Kaufelt reported. “It’s a goddamned Kalashnikov. I wonder what that means.”
“Probably nothing,” Stone said. “It was available, and the guy bought it, and it might have been a lucky thing for us. A lot of those weapons are old and war-worn, and its accuracy may have suffered.”
“Did you hear more than one shot?” Harry asked.
“No, I think that’s all there was. Have you located the vehicle?”
“Got that, too, stolen and abandoned near the airport, and it was cleaned of any evidence. We got Bellini’s phone number in California and called it. A housekeeper said the Bellinis are on vacation in Europe, and she doesn’t know when they’ll be back.”
“They’ve certainly had time to get to Europe,” Stone said.
“I’m just glad nobody’s dead,” Harry said. “Visitors here get hurt a lot—motor scooter accidents, scuba diving, bikes hit by cars—and about once a year some drunken spring-breaker will take a dive off the end of the White Street Pier into three feet of water and break his neck, never mind all the shallow-water-no-diving signs. But this is the first time I can remember when a sniper took a shot at somebody, and it rankles. The only hired killers we’ve ever dealt with were brought in by drug dealers to kill other drug dealers, and their practice is to walk up behind a guy and shoot him twice in the head.”
“Is that still happening?”
“No, the drug trade here is pretty much small-time, now. Oh, once in a while a few bales of marijuana wash up on a beach or a fisherman is found with a fish stuffed with a few kilos of cocaine, but that’s about it.”
“Anything Dino or I can do to help?”
“No, I just thought I’d tell you about the weapon and the car.”
“Thanks, Harry, I’m glad to hear how it’s going.” Stone got into his car, where Meg was waiting, and told her what Harry had said.
“Maybe it wasn’t Bellini,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t me the shooter was aiming at.”
“That’s possible, but when I take you back to New York, we’re going to pretend you’re in terrible danger.”
“Are you taking me back to New York?”
“You said you wanted to look at apartments, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, so I should consider this an invitation?”
“Unless you want me to just throw a sack over your head, sling you over my shoulder, and carry you onto the airplane.”
“As romantic as that sounds, I think I’ll just accept your invitation.”
“Good idea,” Stone said.