Chapter 32
On Thursday morning, Bronsky left the InterContinental Hotel a little before eight a.m.
Dressed in a utilitarian gray business suit, with black-framed glasses, a false mustache, a matching brown wig, and a black messenger bag swinging by his side, he looked like just another mid-level businessman on this way to his work.
When he arrived four hours later, he made a stop in one of the station’s restrooms. There, he discarded the suit, mustache, and wig, and changed into a faded blue T-shirt, gray jeans, and a Boston Red Sox hat.
The messenger bag was reversible. He flipped it inside out so that it was now tan colored and had a flap that closed with a clasp rather than the previous zipper.
He exited South Station onto Atlantic Avenue and found a car with an Uber logo in the window and a license plate number that matched the one he’d been given.
“Mr. Weeks?” the driver asked through the open passenger-side window.
“Yes,” Bronsky said. “You’re Frank?”
“That’s me,” the driver said, then nodded toward the back seat. “Hop in.”
Bronsky did so.
Once they were underway, Frank—who had never worked a day for Uber in his life—said, “Settle in. We’ll be on the road for a while.”
Bronsky grunted. He’d already been warned the drive could take up to five hours.
If he had flown, he would have been in Maine already, but doing so would have put him at risk of being spotted and thrown into a holding room until the FBI came for him. While he thought that extremely unlikely, he knew it was best to be cautious.
He leaned his head against the window, and before the car had even left the Boston area, he was asleep, his mind filled with dreams of his triumphant return to Moscow.
After a breakfast meeting with a client on Thursday morning, Stone popped into the Woodman & Weld offices in the Seagram Building to pay Bill Eggers a visit.
Bill’s door was ajar, and his assistant was nowhere to be seen, so Stone rapped on the jamb and stuck his head inside. “Got a moment?”
Bill looked up. “Hello, Stone. I do, but not much more than that.”
Stone approached Bill’s desk.
“I just met with Randall Westley,” he said. “He’s ready to move all of Westley Dynamics’ business to us.”
Randall Westley was the company’s CEO, founder, and chairman of the board.
Westley Dynamics had started out making airplane parts for Boeing, before venturing into computer chips.
The latter business had done so well that, a decade ago, the company had sold off its aeronautics division to concentrate on the chips.
Two years earlier, they’d come out with one of the most advanced central processing units on the market, solidifying their position as an industry leader.
“All of it?” Bill said, surprised.
Stone nodded. “That’s what he told me. Apparently, they had a falling out with their former firm, Willard, Donovan & Cole.”
Bill winced. “What kind of falling out?”
“One involving a partner’s son, gross incompetence, and the unwillingness to take responsibility.”
“Ouch! Please tell me Westley doesn’t want us to get involved in any suit against them.”
“He does not. He was very clear that he wants to keep any actions the company takes against Willard separate from the day-to-day handling of the company’s business.”
“Thank God for that. What are we looking at in fees?”
“Last year they paid out over twenty million.”
“Twenty?”
“Randall said it will likely be more this year.”
“We’re going to have to hire a few more attorneys.”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
Stone turned to go.
“Wait,” Bill said. “I have something for you.”
He grabbed a manila envelope off his desk and carried it to where Stone now stood.
“Terry Adams sent over copies of everything he received from Cory Whittaker.”
Stone took the envelope. “Thanks, Bill. And please let Terry know I appreciate it.”
Stone waited until he returned to his Turtle Bay office to open the envelope.
Inside was a letter and a copy of the lawsuit for pain and suffering. As Bill had told him at lunch on Friday, the plaintiffs of the lawsuit consisted of the three surviving crew members.
At the top of the other document was the letterhead for the Law Offices of Cory Whittaker.
In the letter, Whittaker wrote that his clients had no intention of settling for less than they deserved, which he determined to be twenty million dollars each.
Next, he mentioned the wrongful death suit he planned to file on behalf of the families of the missing and presumed dead crew members.
Attached to the letter was a handwritten note from Terry Adams.
Bill mentioned you were curious about which family Whittaker isn’t yet repping for the potential wrongful death suit. I’ve been told by someone I trust it’s that of Samuel Jones, one of the stewards.
Stone pulled up Whittaker’s website. It featured a picture of the lawyer grinning and holding up a stuffed bag with bundles of money sticking out. Just below Whittaker’s logo was the lawyer’s ubiquitous slogan: Get What You De$erve.
Stone took a deep breath, then made the call.
He was answered by an automated voice that directed him to push one if he’d been in an accident, two if he’d been a victim of unfair workplace practices, three if he’d suffered a different type of personal injury, and four for existing clients. There were no other options.
He pressed four and was presented with another set of choices. Three minutes and several button pushes later, he finally reached a real person.
“Cory Whittaker Attorneys-at-Law. This is Ann.”
“My name is Stone Barrington. I’d like to speak to Mr. Whittaker, please.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Whittaker is unavailable. May I take a—”
“Tell him I’m calling about the Amanda Jae incident. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me.”
“Can I have a callback number?” she asked, annoyed.
“I’ll hold,” Stone said.
“Sir, Mr. Whittaker is a very busy man. I highly doubt he’s going to drop everything to talk to you.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed. “What did you say your name was?”
“Stone Barrington.”
“One moment.”
The “hold” music lasted less than half a minute before it cut out and a male voice said, “This is Cory Whittaker.”
“Mr. Whittaker, Stone Barrington, Woodman & Weld,” Stone said.
“I’m honored, Mr. Barrington. I’m a big fan. How can I help you?”
“I’m calling about the Amanda Jae.”
It sounded to Stone like Whittaker actually gasped.
“Don’t tell me that you want to be named as one of the plaintiffs in my lawsuit?” Whittaker asked, barely containing his glee. “I can absolutely do that. The only reason I didn’t reach out to you earlier is I thought you might want to—”
“Actually, my question concerns the wrongful death suit you intend to file.”
“Oh,” Whittaker said, sounding both confused and disappointed. “What about it?”
“It’s my understanding that Samuel Jones’s family is holding out.”
Whittaker’s tone turned defensive. “Where did you hear that?”
“Is my information wrong?”
Whittaker was silent for several seconds before saying, “Why are you asking? Are you planning on finding them and getting in on the action yourself?”
“No. That’s not the kind of law I practice.”
“Phew. For a second there, I—” Whittaker stopped himself. “Wait, was that a dig at me?”
“It was merely a statement of fact.”
“Ah, okay,” Whittaker said, relieved. “Yeah, they haven’t signed on yet, but only because we haven’t been able to find anyone related to him.”
“No one?”
“No one.” Whittaker paused. “Listen, if you happen to have a lead on somebody who is, do me a favor and send them my way. I’ll pay you a finder’s fee.” He paused again. “Only if we win, of course.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Thanks. And in case you change your mind, I’m serious about adding you to the pain and suffering suit. Just say the word.”
Stone considered mentioning that the Coast Guard would soon be raising the Amanda Jae, which would prove that M. Booth Yachts had nothing to do with the accident, but the lawyer would find that out soon enough.
Instead, Stone just said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Whittaker,” and hung up, feeling like he needed to take a shower.
He called Trenton Sidney’s personal assistant, who was staying on until the estate was settled.
“Kevin Larson,” the man said.
“Kevin, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, thank God.”
That was not the reaction Stone had been expecting. “Is something wrong?”
In a whisper, Kevin said, “Aaron’s here and demanding to be let into his father’s office.”
“I see. Is he near enough that if you put me on speaker, he’ll hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Then please do so.”
After a click, Kevin said, “You’re on speaker.”
“Aaron?” Stone said.
“Who is that?” Aaron said.
Before Kevin could answer him, Stone said, “It’s Stone Barrington.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“To let you know that unless you leave immediately, the police will be called, and you will be forcibly removed from the premises.”
Aaron snorted. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and I will. You are not an employee of your father’s business and therefore have no reason to be there.”
“This is my business now, and I can do whatever I want.”
“You seem to have forgotten that as executor of your father’s will, it is my job to determine the distribution of his assets. And that has not happened yet.”
“That’ll change when I have that sham of a will thrown out in court.”
“Thank you for confirming my point.”
“What?”
“At this time, the will has not been thrown out, so until that highly unlikely event occurs, you have no say in your father’s business.”
“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
“Shall I call the police? Or will you show yourself out?”
After several seconds, Aaron said, “I can’t wait to see your face when I win.”
Stone heard something break, then receding heavy footsteps.
When those faded away, Kevin said, “He’s gone.”
“What was that crashing sound?”
“He swept one of Mr. Sidney’s Tiffany vases onto the floor.”
“I’ll send you contact info for a good friend I have at Sotheby’s. She can give you an up-to-date replacement cost. Then create a bill for that and your time cleaning up and send it to me. I’ll make sure Aaron gets it.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Actions have consequences.”
“Oh, I like you, Mr. Barrington.”
“Why, thank you, Kevin,” Stone said.
“I just remembered you called me,” Kevin said, a bit embarrassed. “Is there something you need?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
Ten minutes later, an email arrived from Kevin, with a copy of Samuel Jones’s personnel file attached, which included a headshot of the steward.
Stone recognized him immediately. Jones had served him multiple times during the voyage.
Stone cocked his head as he recalled a memory of Jones bringing drinks to Trenton and him on the deck. Had that been on the night the boat went down? If so, it must have happened right before the other memory he’d had of him and Trenton.
He tried to remember anything that would connect the two events, but whatever else happened remained elusive.
He looked up Jones’s address. Instead of an apartment building like Stone expected, the address belonged to a mailbox business in Queens.
He called Dino.
“Yes,” Dino said.
“Yes, what?” Stone asked.
“I’m free for dinner.”
“Good to know. I’m not.”
“Then why did you call?”
Stone told him about Whittaker’s failure to find any of Jones’s family.
“You think he might be the pro?” Dino asked.
“I have no idea, but he seems to be a better bet than anyone else at the moment.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“I do.”
“Send it to me. I’ll run it through the FBI system and see if I get a hit.”
“Thanks. I was hoping you’d say that.”
“You can thank me by buying me dinner next time. That makes three you owe me.”
“Three?”
“The dinner you were supposed to buy me that you slept through. The dinner I brought you because you were sleeping. And now this.”
“Do you write this stuff down?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I must have made up for at least one of them by now.”
“Let me check.” After a pause, Dino said, “Nope. Not yet.”
“You do have a list!”
“Whether I do or don’t doesn’t absolve you from your obligations.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow night.”
“We’ll be having Mary’s lobster in Maine tomorrow night.”
“And who’s paying for the lobster?”
“Hmmm. I suppose I can let you get away with that.”
“How very kind of you.”
“Send me the picture.”
“Doing it now.”
An hour later, Stone’s phone rang.
“Dino on two,” Joan said.
Stone switched lines. “Hi, Dino.”
“You found your pro.”
“You got a hit on the photo?”
“I did. His real name is Andre Parker. He trained in explosives in the army. After he was discharged, he’s suspected of becoming a freelance hitman.”
“Only suspected?”
“He’s covered his tracks well enough that no one’s been able to pin anything to him. Until now, that is. If you hadn’t found a way to get a look at the wreck, what happened to the Amanda Jae would have been considered an accident, and no one would have checked the crew.”
“I can’t imagine this guy would have gone down with the ship,” Stone says.
“He didn’t.”
“You seem very confident.”
“Unless he has an identical twin that no one knows about, Parker was ticketed for running a red in Midtown, a week ago yesterday.”
“Does that mean you know where he lives?”
“It means we have the address he provided to the DMV.”
“Let me guess. It’s for a mailbox rental place.”
“Bingo.”
“Queens?”
“No, Brooklyn. Why did you think Queens?”
Stone told him about the Queens address Parker had used for his Samuel Jones identity.
“Same method, different borough.”
“So, you have no idea where he is.”
“I sent someone to keep an eye on the mailbox place, in case he shows up, but I doubt it’ll pay off. If I were Parker, I would have left the city for a couple months.”
Stone frowned, thinking it was what he would have done, too. Then a thought hit him.
“What day did you say he got the ticket?”
“Wednesday last week.”
“What time?”
“Hold on.” After a few seconds, Dino said, “Three-fourteen p.m.”
“And you said in happened in Midtown, right?”
“Yes. Only a few blocks from your place, as a matter of fact.”
“That was the same afternoon I held the reading of Trenton’s will.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I have no idea. But if he was working with one of the beneficiaries, it wouldn’t be out of the question that they’d meet after the reading.” Stone paused. “What if—”
“They were caught on CCTV?” Dino finished.
“It’s like you’re reading my mind.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’ll have someone check, but it’s a pretty large area.”
“Thanks, Dino. I’ll buy you dinner on Saturday, too.”
“Which Mary will also be making.”
“Can’t get anything by you, can I?”