“What did he teach, if I may ask?”
“The sort of skills that might be useful in a burglary.”
“I see.”
Bernard picked up the telephone at his side, pressed a single button, and waited. “Hello, this is Samuel Bernard,” he said. “Is he in?” He waited a moment for his party to come on the line. “Good morning, Ben,” he said. “I’d like to fax you a photograph and see if you can come up with anything on the subject. He may have had some training at The Farm; he’s been using the alias Jonathan Dryer.” He smiled. “Yes, I thought that would amuse you. I’ll send it along now, shall I? Good, see you soon, I hope.” He hung up and turned to Stone. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Barrington?” He rose and went into an adjoining room and, through the open door, Stone could see him using a fax machine. While it was working, he came back to the door and closed it.
Stone poured himself some more coffee and gazed idly out the window at the children in the park. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered in another room. Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons on the instrument next to Bernard’s chair.
Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of paper. When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself some more coffee, he looked up at Stone. “Now. You and I must understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no further, and I include the police in that admonition. In fact, you may not even say to anyone that we met. Is that understood?”
“Completely.”
“Your man’s name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old. His father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his parents are both dead. He has an electronics engineering degree from Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles, thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven. He was recruited out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a year’s training before being assigned overseas. He served in half a dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago. He was separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks. His last known address was in northern Virginia, but that was three years ago.”
“Is there an address for his brother or sister?”
Bernard scribbled down something on a pad and handed it to Stone. “A New Jersey housewife, apparently – Mrs. Randall Burch – but that address is three years old, too.”
“Thanks, I’ll check that out.”
“The brother is quite something else,” Bernard continued. “His last known address was the California correctional institution at Chino. He was serving five to seven years for – you’ll like this – burglary. He went in four years ago, and I should think it’s quite likely that he has been paroled by now. I suppose you could locate his parole officer and get his last address, but from what you’ve told me it sounds very much as though he might have left California, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Anything else?”
“Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his technical skills, but his psychological evaluation showed a propensity for violence. He was in trouble a couple of times; had to leave one Central American country after an incident with a woman.” He looked up. “That’s it,” he said. He went to the fireplace and fed the two sheets of paper into the flames.
Stone stood up. “Dr. Bernard, I can’t thank you enough. I know that what I asked you to do was irregular, and I’m very grateful to you.”
“Not at all,” Bernard said. “I hope it will help you find this man. He sounds as though he shouldn’t be on the streets.” He held up a finger. “Oh, one more thing; the sort of training he had would have included establishing false identities.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, sir. Thank you again.” The two men shook hands, and Stone found his way downstairs and out of the house. Back on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand. Rahway, New Jersey. He’d have to rent a car.
Chapter 50
By the time Stone had rented a car it was snowing steadily, and he was already across the George Washington Bridge before he realized he shouldn’t have come. The car was a small one – the only thing available – and he felt unsafe in it, sliding on patches of ice. The snowplows were doing their work, though, removing the accumulation and depositing grit, so he made it to Rahway. He asked a policeman for directions, and he found the house easily enough, in a pleasantly posh neighborhood, the kinds of houses owned by commuters who held executive positions in the city. Louise Bruce Burch lived in a two-story red brick Georgian revival house with slender columns in front; there was a BMW under the carport. He parked in front of the house, made his way up some snowy steps, wishing he’d brought galoshes, and rang the bell. Louise was, somehow, a surprise.
She was of medium height, with sandy blonde hair and a particularly taut body for a suburbanite. Lots of tennis and treadmill, he thought. She did not appear displeased to see him. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
“Mrs. Burch?”
“Louise Burch.”
“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney. I wonder if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”
“Why not?” she said gaily. “Come on back to the kitchen.”
He caught a whiff of alcohol as he followed her down a hallway, past a quite formal living room and a small library, to the kitchen, which turned out to be a very large room, with a comfortable seating area before a fireplace. There was a fire going, and a half-empty glass of some brown liquor on the coffee table. There was a stack of house design magazines on the table as well; she had obviously been going through them.
“Please have a seat,” she said, indicating the sofa. “I know it’s a little early, but I’m having a drink; can I get you one?”
Thinking that having a drink in his hand might make it a bit harder for her to throw him out when she learned why he was there, he accepted. “Bourbon, if you have it.”
“Wild Turkey okay?”
“That would be splendid; on the rocks, please.” He looked out the window at the snow. “It’s becoming a nasty day out there.”
She returned shortly with a large drink for him, then sat next to him on the sofa, turned toward him, and drew her knees up, revealing fine legs under a short skirt. “Now, whatever can I do for you, Mr…”
“Barrington. Stone.”
“Stone,” she said. “I’m Lou. You said you’re a lawyer?”
“Yes, in New York.”
“And what brings you all the way from the city on a day like today?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your brothers.”
She gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”
“I used to be.”
“And now you practice at the bar?”
“Yes. Why did you laugh when I said I was here about your brothers?”
“Well, Stone, you aren’t exactly the first,” she said. “There have been a parade of policemen through my house over the years, usually looking for Charlie. But you said ‘brothers,’ in the plural, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Funny, no one has ever come looking for Tommy before.”
Stone sipped his drink. “I was wondering if you know how I could get in touch with them? Either or both?”
“Now, why would a lawyer want to get in touch with my brothers? A cop, I could understand, but a lawyer? Do you want to sue one of them?”
“No, as a matter of fact, although I am a lawyer, I’m not here in that capacity. It’s more of a personal matter.”
“How did you get my name and address?” she asked.
“From someone in Washington who used to know Tommy.” That was technically correct. “He didn’t have a
