“No, just the phone number. I called it and got the hotel operator. Then, after that when he called, the caller ID didn’t report a number, said it was outside the area or something.”

“When were the first phone calls?”

“Thursday and Friday.”

“Okay, if he calls back again, give him my cell phone number.”

“You sure? I have this creepy feeling.”

“I’m sure. He won’t know where I am.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“Everything else seems normal,” she said.

“Talk to you later, then.” He hung up and thought about the calls for a few minutes, then he dialed the number of Bob Berman, an ex-cop who sometimes undertook investigative work for him, particularly work that Stone could pretend not to know about.

“Hello,” Bob said.

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“How you doing?”

“Pretty good. I’m in Florida at the moment.”

“You’re just trying to hurt me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You up for some work?”

“Sure. What you got?”

“I’ve had a couple of phone calls that are worrying Joan. The first two came from the Brooke Hotel, on Park—she got that from caller ID. You know anybody at the Brooke? Maybe somebody in security, an ex-cop?”

“Nah, not a soul. You got a room number?”

“No.”

“Could the calls have come from a pay phone?”

“No, the number reported was the hotel’s.”

“Would the guest list for that time help?”

“Maybe,” Stone said. “How hard would it be to get it?”

“I might be able to hack into their computer,” Bob replied. “Depends on how tough their security fire wall is. My guess is, if a travel agent can get in to check availability, I can get in. I know a guy at the phone company. He can give me a list of all their lines. Probably cost five hundred, though.”

“Spend the money,” Stone said. “At least I can see if there’s a familiar name on the list.”

“What day did the guy call?”

“Thursday and Friday. I suppose the guest list for either day would do. See if you can get the home addresses of the guests, too.”

“I’m on it,” Bob said.

“Call me on my cell phone when you get something.”

“Will do.” Bob hung up.

Juanito appeared with an envelope. “A fax for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Thank you, Juanito,” Stone said, accepting the envelope. He opened it to find the fully executed agreement with the insurance company.

“And you have a telephone call,” Juanito said, handing him a cordless phone.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“This is Dan Griggs, from the Palm Beach Police Department.”

“How are you, Chief?”

“Okay, I guess. I ran a check on this Paul Manning fellow. He’s dead. He was hanged for murder on a Caribbean island called St. Marks a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Chief. I should have given you a heads up on that.”