Wheaton got the signal from her producer; she turned back to Allison. “Allison, how much life insurance did your husband have?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Allison replied. “Ashore, the division of our lives was pretty much the same as at sea. He handled the business, I handled the house. I never made an investment, bought a life insurance policy, or even wrote a check, unless it was for groceries or clothes. Paul had people who handled the business end of his career, and they’re sorting out the estate now, I guess, and when they tell me where I stand, then I’ll know. I’m told it will be some weeks before it’s all figured out. I do know from what Paul said in passing that although he owned an expensive house and boat, they both have large mortgages on them, so I don’t know yet what will be left when everything is settled.”
“Are you going to keep the big house in Greenwich and this beautiful yacht?”
Allison shrugged. “The house was always too big for even the two of us, since we didn’t have any kids, and I don’t know if I would want to live there alone; I just haven’t thought that far ahead. As far as the boat is concerned, what would I do with it? Anyway, the memories are too painful; I don’t think I could ever sail on her again without Paul.” She brushed away a tear.
Perfect, Stone thought.
There were two more changes of tape before the interview ended, but Allison kept going. Apart from an occasional sip of orange juice, she never paused. Finally, they were done, and the crew began to pack up their equipment. Allison chatted idly with Chris Wheaton and Jim Forrester, answering questions about her yacht.
“It’s nice to see you again, Jim,” Allison said. “Paul and I enjoyed your company in Las Palmas, and we were sorry not to know you were in Puerto Rico until we saw you as we were leaving port.”
“I was sorry, too, Allison,” the journalist replied. “Do you think we could get together later today or early tomorrow for a few minutes? I have some more things to ask you.”
“I’m sure we can,” she replied. “Let me talk to Stone about my schedule, and I’ll get back to you. Where are you staying?”
“At the Shipwright’s Arms.”
“Good. I’ll call you.”
Wheaton and Burrows thanked her for her time and, with Jim Forrester, left the boat. As they were walking up the pontoon, Chris Wheaton stopped and spoke quietly to Stone. “That was some performance,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I’m glad it went well,” Stone replied. “You should be able to get an awfully good segment out of that.”
“You bet I will,” Wheaton said, then she looked back at Allison, who was standing in the cockpit, looking out over the harbor, sipping her orange juice. “She’s really something,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble getting her off.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Stone said, “but from what I’ve seen so far, I think the odds are heavily against her. Sir Winston Sutherland wants her neck in a noose, for whatever reason, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop him.”
Wheaton looked at him closely. “Jesus,” she said with wonder, “you really think she’s innocent, don’t you?”
Stone looked at her in amazement. “Of course I do; after all that questioning, don’t you?”
“Not for a minute,” Wheaton replied. “Listen, over the years I’ve interviewed a couple of hundred people who were either accused of murder or who had just been convicted or acquitted; I learned to tell the guilty from the innocent, and let me tell you, not more than ten of them were innocent.” She pointed her chin at Allison. “And she’s not one of them.”
“Show me one hole in her story,” Stone said.
“There isn’t one. But she’s guilty just the same. Call it a woman-to-woman thing, if you like, but I look in those beautiful blue eyes and I know.”
“Is that what you’re going to say on 60 Minutes?”
“Are you kidding? I’d be fired out of hand. No sir, I’m going to play it straight, let her answers speak for themselves, and ninety-nine percent of the audience is going to be outraged that this beautiful, innocent young woman could be charged with murder. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, that’s what I want.”
“Well, relax, because that’s what you’re going to get.” She paused and looked across the harbor at the boats. “Unless I can dig up something new between now and Sunday.” She turned and walked up the pontoon toward the pub. Then she stopped, turned, and walked back. “One more thing,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy, Stone, so let me give you some free advice: don’t fall in love with her; don’t even fuck her, if you haven’t already. Allison Manning is a dangerous woman.”
Stone was speechless. He watched her walk away.
Chapter
19
Stone was having lunch with Hilary Kramer from the New York Times at the Shipwright’s Arms when Thomas Hardy waved him to the bar, pointing at the phone. Stone excused himself, got up, and went to the bar.
“It’s somebody named Cantor,” Thomas said, handing Stone the telephone. “By the way, Chester called from the airport, too; says he’s loaded down with media folk all afternoon.”
“Right,” Stone said, taking the phone. “I’d like to have a press conference here Friday morning at ten, if that’s okay.”