Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton

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      He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.

      Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

      “Harman Kitteridge?”

      “What’s it to you?”

      So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.

      “My name is Gray Baron.”

      “I don’t want none.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”

      “I’m not a salesman, mister—”

      Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.

      “Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”

      “You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”

      “It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”

      “My what?”

      “Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”

      There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.

      “I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”

      “What do you want with my wife?”

      “I’d like to talk with her.”

      “So did that other guy, couple of weeks ago, folks tell me. Or are you gonna claim you and he don’t know about each other?”

      Gray thought about playing dumb and decided it would only heighten Kitteridge’s mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”

      “And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”

      “I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”

      “She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”

      Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.

      “Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”

      “You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”

      “No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”

      “A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”

      “Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”

      “What in hell for?”

      “I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”

      “That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”

      Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.

      “Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”

      “Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”

      “Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”

      “Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”

      Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”

      “Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

      “Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.

      Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.

      Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.

      “Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”

      Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”

      Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.

      “That’s my name.”

      He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.

      Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.

      “What’s this all about, Baron?”

      “It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”

      “What about it?”

      “Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. СКАЧАТЬ