Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

L.A. Dead

Cold Paradise

The Short Forever

Dirty Work

Reckless Abandon

Two-Dollar Bill

Stuart Woods

Table of Contents

L.A. Dead

Cold Paradise

The Short Forever

Dirty Work

Reckless Abandon

Two-Dollar Bill

Praise for L.A. Dead

“Alive with action and humor . . . so delightfully, typically Woods, it will send his fans into paroxysms of joy. . . . Entertainment novels can’t get any better than this.”

—The Associated Press

“One of the smoothest writers in the pop-literature biz and always a pleasure to read. . . . A stylish whodunit.”

—The Detroit News

“Barrington’s fans will likely welcome the detective’s newest California-chic adventure.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] nerve-racking thriller.”

—The Stuart News/Port St. Lucie News (FL)

Praise for Stuart Woods and His Bestselling Novels

“An action-packed puzzler.”

—People

“Keeps you turning page after page.”

—The Washington Post

“A whale of a story.”

—The New York Times

“Blackmail, murder, suspense, love—what else could you want in a book?”

—Cosmopolitan

“Terrific.”

—Pat Conroy

“A fast-paced thriller.”

—Rocky Mountain News

“Another gem. . . . A book to read and get chills from on even the hottest day.”

—San Diego Union-Tribune

“Woods delivers a marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern, old-fashioned read.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

SIGNET

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Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.

First Signet Printing, September

Copyright © Stuart Woods, 2000

Excerpt from Orchid Blues copyright © Stuart Woods, 2001

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-10013-4

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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This book is for Barbara Danielson and Lewis Moore.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

One

ELAINE’S, LATE. STONE BARRINGTON AND DINO BACCHETTI sat at table number four, looking grim. Elaine joined them.

“So, what’s happening here? You two look like you’re going to start shooting any minute.”

“I’m getting married,” Stone said. “Congratulate me.”

“Congratulations,” Elaine said. “Anybody you know?”

“Hilarious,” Stone said.

“It would be, if it weren’t so insane,” Dino added.

“You and Dolce are really going to do this?” Elaine asked, incredulous.

“Now don’t you start,” Stone growled.

“He won’t listen to me,” Dino said. “I’ve been telling him for a year to stay away from her.”

“What’ve you got against your sister-in-law?” Elaine asked him.

“First of all, she’s my sister-in-law,” Dino replied. “Second, she’s evil. Her old man is the devil, and Dolce is his handmaiden.”

“Don’t start that again, Dino,” Stone said. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. We’re in love, we’re getting married, and that’s it. What’s wrong with that?”

Elaine shrugged. “You’re still in love with Arrington,” she said. “Everybody knows that.”

“What do you mean, ‘everybody’?” Stone demanded.

“Me and Dino,” Elaine replied.

“Right,” Dino chimed in.

“She’s married; she has a child,” Stone said.

“So?” Elaine queried. “So, she’s married to a movie star; nobody ever took a girl away from a movie star? Happens all the time.”

“I’m not breaking up anybody’s marriage,” Stone said, “and Arrington knows it. I’ve told her so. Anyway, there’s the boy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first kid raised by a stepfather,” Elaine said.

“I think it’s Stone’s kid, anyway,” Dino said.

“Dino, I told you, the blood test was done; I saw the lab report. The boy is Vance Calder’s, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not taking a kid away from his father. Besides, I like Vance.”

“What’s not to like?” Elaine asked. “He’s handsome; he’s the biggest star in Hollywood; he’s the most charming man I ever met.” She sipped her drink. “Present company included,” she added.

“Thanks,” Stone said. “I needed that.”

“So, when’s the happy day?” Elaine asked. “You going to be a June bride?”

“Monday,” Stone replied. “In Venice.”

“This is Thursday,” Elaine pointed out. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We’re leaving tonight,” Stone said.

“I got news for you. It’s after midnight, all the flights have departed.”

“We’re taking a private jet, belongs to some friend of Eduardo.”

“Not bad,” Elaine said, looking impressed. “That way, you get to your hotel late enough tomorrow, so you don’t have to wait for the people in your room to check out.”

“Eduardo has a palazzo,” Dino said. “We’re being forced to stay there.”

“You’re going, too?” Elaine asked, incredulous again.

“He’s my best man,” Stone said glumly.

“If I don’t go, my wife will divorce me,” Dino said.

“She’s Italian,” Elaine pointed out. “She won’t divorce you.”

“The Bianchi family has found a way around that,” Dino said. “Remember how Dolce got divorced?”

“I didn’t know she was married,” Elaine said.

“A youthful indiscretion. She married a capo in the Bonnano family when she was nineteen. It lasted less than three weeks, until she caught him in her bed with her maid of honor.”

“So she got a divorce?”

“Not for some years. When it was inconvenient for her to still be married, the guy turned up in New York dead. Took two in the back of the head, a classic hit.”

“Let me get this straight,” Elaine said, turning toward Stone. “The girl you’re marrying on Monday in Venice had her ex popped?”

“Of course not,” Stone said hotly. “That’s Dino’s theory. In the guy’s line of work, it was an occupational hazard. Anybody could have had it done.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dino said. “Funny, it didn’t get done until Dolce decided to throw a bag over Stone’s head and lead him to the altar.”

Stone glanced at his watch. “Dolce and Mary Ann are going to be here any minute. I want you to decide what you’re going to do, Dino; are you going to stand up for me, or not? And if you are, I don’t want to hear another word about Eduardo and his connections. You married into the family, too, remember?”

“Yeah, with a bun in the oven and a gun to my head. If I hadn’t married her, I’d be at the bottom of Sheepshead Bay right now, with a concrete block up my ass.”

“You love that girl, Dino,” Elaine said, “and the boy, too. You know goddamned well you do.”

Dino looked into his drink and said nothing.

“Make up your mind, Dino,” Stone said. He looked up to see Dolce and Mary Ann walk into the restaurant. “They’re here.” He stood up to greet them.

“All right, all right,” Dino said. “I guess I can’t let you go over there by yourself.”

Stone kissed the gorgeous Dolce. She was wearing a cashmere track suit and a huge smile.

“Everybody ready?” she asked. “The car’s at the curb, all the bags are in the trunk.”

“Everybody’s ready,” Stone said, shooting a warning glance at Dino.

Elaine stood up and kissed everybody. “Mazel tov,” she said. “Send me a postcard.”

“Come with us,” Stone said. “There’s room.”

“And who’d mind the store?” she asked.

“You’ve got plenty of help here.”

“They’d steal me blind. Go on, get going; send me a postcard from Venice.”

“You bet,” Stone said, hugging her.

The foursome left the restaurant. At the curb a spectacular car was waiting.

“What is this?” Stone asked, running a finger along the glossy paintwork.

“It’s a Mercedes Maybach,” Dolce replied. “The first one in the country. Papa knows somebody in Stuttgart.”

“Papa knows somebody everywhere,” Dino muttered, collecting a sharp elbow in the ribs from Mary Ann.

They piled into the spacious rear seats, facing each other, Pullman style.

“Not bad,” Dino admitted, looking around. “I don’t suppose there’s a phone? I’ve gotta check in with the cop shop.” Dino ran the detective squad at the nineteenth precinct.

“Oh, leave it, Dino,” Stone said. “They can get along without you for a week.”

Dolce handed Dino a phone, and he began dialing. “Did you pack all my stuff?” Dino asked Mary Ann.

“Everything’s in the trunk,” she replied. “I ironed your boxer shorts, too.” She winked at Dolce. “They love it when you iron their underwear.”

“I’ll remember that,” Dolce laughed.

“Gladys,” Dino said into the phone, “I’m off. You’ve got the number in Venice if anything really important comes up, otherwise I don’t want to know, got that? Good. Take care.” He hung up. “Okay, I’m cut loose,” he said to the others. “What kind of jet we going in, Dolce? I hate those little ones; this better be a G-Four or better.”

“Wait and see,” Dolce said smugly.

They drove onto the tarmac at Atlantic Aviation at Teterboro Airport, across the Hudson in New Jersey, and up to an airplane that dwarfed everything on the ramp.

“Holy shit!” Dino said as they got out of the limousine. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a BBJ,” Dolce replied, grabbing her jewelry box and cosmetics case from the backseat. The others took their hand luggage from the trunk.

“Sounds like a sandwich.”

“A Boeing Business Jet, the biggest thing in the corporate skies.”

Hank Esposito, who ran Atlantic Aviation, was at the airplane’s stair door to greet them. “You’re fueled for maximum range,” he said. “You could make it to Tokyo, if you wanted.”

“Not a bad idea,” Dino said, boarding the airplane.

“Dino . . .” Stone warned.

Esposito helped the chauffeur stow the luggage into a forward area of the interior.

The party stepped into a cabin that looked like the living room of a New York City town house.

Stone was flabbergasted. “Where’s the fireplace and the grand piano?” he asked.

An Armani-clad stewardess took their hand luggage and showed them through the airplane. Besides the big cabin, there was a conference room and, behind that, two sleeping cabins, each with its own bathroom.

Dino shook his head. “The wages of sin,” he said under his breath, avoiding Stone’s glance.

As if from a great distance, there was the sound of jet engines revving, and almost imperceptibly, the big airplane began to move.

Two

SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC, STONE STIRRED IN his sleep and turned over, bringing his chest against Dolce’s naked back. He reached over her and cupped a breast in his hand, resting his cheek on the back of her neck. With thumb and forefinger, he lightly caressed the nipple.

At that moment, a chime sounded and the soft voice of the stewardess spoke. “Ms. Bianchi, we’re two hours from our destination. If you and your party would like breakfast, it will be ready in half an hour.”

“I think we’re going to be late for breakfast,” Stone breathed into Dolce’s ear.

She turned over, put her feet on the floor, and stood up. “No, we’re not,” she said.

“You mean you’re spurning your intended?”

“I mean I’ve decided to be a virgin until we’re married.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“I can start over whenever I like,” she said, “and I’ve just started over.”

Shortly, they joined Dino and Mary Ann at the breakfast table. Scrambled eggs and smoked Italian bacon were set before them.

“That was the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had on an airplane,” Dino admitted.

“We didn’t sleep all that much,” Mary Ann rejoined, poking him in the ribs.

Stone indicated the large moving map at the front of the cabin. “We’re just crossing the Portuguese coast,” he said. “Nice tailwind; we’re doing over six hundred miles an hour.”

The moving map dissolved, and CNN International appeared on the screen.

“Turn that off,” Dolce said to the stewardess. “I don’t need news for a while.

The stewardess pressed a button, and Vivaldi came softly over hidden speakers. “Better?” she asked.

“Perfect,” Dolce said. She turned to Stone and the others. “I have a little announcement,” she said.

“Shoot,” Stone replied.

“Papa is giving us the Manhattan town house for a wedding present.”

Stone stopped eating. His fiancée was referring to a double-width brick-and-granite mansion in the East Sixties that Eduardo Bianchi had built. He took Dolce’s hand. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t accept that. It’s very generous of Eduardo, but I already have a house, and we’ll be living there.”

“Don’t I have any say in where we live?” Dolce asked.

“You’ve never asked me very much about my background,” Stone said, “so it’s time I told you about my family.”

“I know all about that,” Dolce replied.

“Only what you read in the report Eduardo had done on me. It doesn’t tell you everything.”

“So, tell me everything,” she said.

“My parents were both from wealthy textile manufacturing families in western Massachusetts, the Stones and the Barringtons; they knew each other from childhood. Neither of them liked the plans their families had made for them. When the crash came in ’twenty-nine, both families were hit hard, and both had lost their businesses and most of their fortunes by the early thirties.

“My parents used this upheaval as an opportunity to get out from under their parents’ thumbs. My mother left Mount Holyoke, where she was studying art, and my father left Yale, where he was meant to study law, although the only thing he had ever wanted to do was carpentry and woodworking; they married and moved to New York City. My father’s family disowned him, because he had joined the Communist party; my mother’s family disowned her, because she had married my father.

“They found themselves very broke and living in a Greenwich Village garret. My mother was doing charcoal drawings of tourists in Washington Square for fifty cents a shot, and my father was carrying his toolbox door to door, doing whatever handyman’s work he could find, for whatever people would pay him. He was about to go off and join the Civilian Conservation Corps, just to stay alive, when a wonderful thing happened.

“My mother’s aunt—her mother’s sister—and her new husband bought a house in Turtle Bay, and my aunt hired my father to build her husband a library. That job saved their lives, and when it was done, Aunt Mildred and her husband were so pleased with it that they also commissioned my father to design furniture for the house and my mother to paint pictures for some of the rooms. When their friends saw the house, they immediately began offering him other commissions, and before too many years had passed, both my parents had won reputations for their work. I didn’t come along for quite a long time, but by the time that accident had occurred, they could afford me.”

Dolce started to speak, but Stone stilled her with a raised hand.

“There’s more. Many years later, when Aunt Mildred died, having been preceded by her husband, she left the house to me. I was still a cop then, working with your brother-in-law, and I poured what savings I had into renovating the house, doing a great deal of the work myself, using skills learned in my father’s shop. Finally, after leaving the NYPD—by popular request—I was able to earn a good enough living as a lawyer to finish the house. So, you see, the house is not only a part of my family history, it is all I have left of my parents and the work they devoted their lives to. I have no intention of moving out of it, ever. I hope you understand, Dolce.”

Nobody moved. Stone and Dolce stared expressionlessly at each other for a very long moment. Then Dolce smiled and kissed him. “I understand,” she said, “and I won’t bring it up again. I’ll be proud to live in your house.”

“I’ll be happy to explain things to Eduardo,” Stone said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dolce replied. “I’ll explain it to him, and, I promise, he’ll understand completely.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Stone said.

“So,” Mary Ann said, changing the subject, “what’s the plan for Venice?”

“We’ll go directly from the airport to Papa’s house,” Dolce said. “We’ll have dinner with him tonight; tomorrow, Saturday, the civil ceremony will be held at the town hall, where we’ll be married by the mayor of Venice. Then, on Monday morning, a friend of Papa’s from the Vatican, a cardinal, will marry us at St. Mark’s, on the square of the same name. After that, Stone and I will go on a honeymoon, the itinerary of which I’ve kept secret even from him, and the rest of you can go to hell.”

“Sounds good,” Mary Ann said.

“Who’s the cardinal?” Dino asked.

“Bellini,” Dolce replied.

“Doesn’t he run the Vatican bank?”

“Yes, he does.”

“How like Eduardo,” Dino said, “to have his daughter married by a priest, a prince of the Church, and an international banker, all wrapped up in one.”

“Why two ceremonies?” Stone asked.

Mary Ann spoke up. “To nail you, coming and going,” she said, laughing, “so you can never be free of her. The two marriages are codependent; the civil ceremony won’t be official until the religious ceremony has taken place, and the priest—pardon me, the cardinal—has signed the marriage certificate.”

“It’s the Italian equivalent of a royal wedding,” Dino said. “It’s done these days only for the very important, and, as we all know, Eduardo . . .” He trailed off when he caught Stone’s look.

“Eat your eggs, Dino,” Mary Ann sighed.

Three

THE GLEAMING MAHOGANY MOTOR LAUNCH, THE Venetian equivalent of a limousine, glided up the Grand Canal in the bright, spring sunshine. Stone looked about him, trying to keep his mouth from dropping open. It was his first visit to the city. The four of them sat in a leather banquette at the stern of the boat, keeping quiet. Nothing they could say could burnish the glories of Venice.

The boat slowed and turned into a smaller canal, and shortly, came to a stop before a flight of stone steps, worn from centuries of footsteps. Two men dressed as gondoliers held the craft still with long boat hooks and helped the women ashore. As they reached the stone jetty, a pair of double doors ahead of them swung open, as if by magic, and Eduardo Bianchi came toward them, his arms outstretched, a smile on his handsome face. He embraced his daughters, shook hands fairly warmly with his son-in-law, then turned to Stone and placed both hands on his shoulders. “And my new son,” he said, embracing him.

“Very nearly,” Stone said. “It’s good to see you, Eduardo, and it’s very kind of you to arrange all this for us. Dolce and I are very grateful.”

“Come into the house,” Eduardo said, walking them toward the open doors. “You must be exhausted after your flight.”

“Not really; it’s hard to know how we could have been made more comfortable in the air,” Stone said. “Once again, our gratitude.”

Eduardo shrugged. “A friend insisted,” he said. “Your luggage will be taken to your rooms. Would you like to freshen up, girls?”

The girls, dismissed, followed a maid down a hallway.

“Come into the garden,” Eduardo said. “We will have lunch in a little while, but in the meantime, would you like some refreshment?”

“Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone said. Dino remained silent. Eduardo ushered them through French doors into a large, enclosed courtyard, which had been beautifully planted, and showed them to comfortable chairs. Unbidden, a servant appeared with pitchers of iced drinks, and they were served.

“First of all, I must clear the air,” Eduardo said. “I quite understand that you may be very attached to your own house; I would not impose mine on you.”

Stone was once again astonished at Eduardo’s apparently extrasensory intuition. “Thank you, Eduardo. It was a magnificent offer, but you are quite right—I am very attached to my own house. It is much caught up with my family’s history in New York. Fortunately, Dolce has consented to live there.”

“She is a smart girl,” Eduardo said, smiling slightly. “I would have been disappointed in her, if she had begun her marriage by attempting to move her husband from a home he loves.”

“I expect she will find my taste in interior decoration inadequate, and I have steeled myself for the upheaval.”

“You are smart, too,” Eduardo said. He turned to his son-in-law. “Dino, how goes it among New York’s finest?”

“Still the finest,” Dino replied.

“Are you arresting many innocent Italian-American businessmen these days?” Eduardo asked impishly.

“There aren’t many left,” Dino said. “We’ve already rehoused most of them upstate.”

Eduardo turned back to Stone. “Dino disapproves of my family’s former colleagues,” he said. “But he is an honest policeman, and there are not many of those. Many of his other colleagues have also been ‘rehoused upstate,’ as he so gracefully puts it. Dino has my respect, even if he will not accept my affection.”

“Eduardo,” Dino said, spreading his hands, “when I have retired, I will be yours to corrupt.”

Eduardo laughed aloud, something Stone had never heard him do. “Dino will always be incorruptible,” Eduardo said. “But I still have hopes of his friendship.” Eduardo glanced toward the French doors and stood up.

Stone and Dino stood with him. A tall, thin man with wavy salt-and-pepper hair was approaching. He wore a black blazer with gold buttons, gray silk trousers, and a striped shirt, open at the neck, where an ascot had been tied.

“Carmen,” Eduardo said, “may I present my son-in-law, Dino Bacchetti.”

To Stone’s astonishment, Dino bowed his head and kissed the heavy ring on the man’s right hand.

“And this is my son-in-law-to-be, Stone Barrington.”

The man extended his hand, and Stone shook it. “Your Eminence,” he said, “how do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you, Stone.” Bellini held onto Stone’s hand and stared into his face. “He has good eyes, Eduardo,” he said to Bianchi.

Stone was surprised that the cardinal spoke with an American accent.

“My son,” Bellini said to Stone, “it is my understanding that you are not a Roman Catholic.”

“I am a believer, Your Eminence,” Stone said, “but not a registered one.”

Bellini laughed and waved them to their seats. He accepted a fruit juice from the servant, then reached into an inside pocket and took out a thick, white envelope sealed with red wax, and handed it to Eduardo. “Here is the necessary dispensation,” he said. “The Holy Father sends his greetings and his blessing.”

“Thank you, Carmen,” Eduardo said, accepting the envelope.

If Stone understood this transaction correctly, he now had papal approval to marry Dolce. He was embarrassed that the necessity had never occurred to him. “Your Eminence, I am surprised that your accent is American. Did you attend university there?”

“Yes, and preparatory school and elementary school before that. I was born and raised in Brooklyn. Eduardo and I used to steal fruit together, before the Jesuits got hold of me.” He said something to Eduardo in what seemed to Stone flawless Italian, raising a chuckle. He turned back to Stone. “I understand that you are engaged in the practice of law.”

“That’s correct.”

“If I may torture the scriptures a little, it is probably easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a lawyer to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“I tread as narrow a path as my feet will follow,” Stone replied.

Bellini smiled. “I should hate to oppose this young man in court,” he said to Eduardo.

“Are you a lawyer, as well?” Stone asked.

“I was trained as such at Harvard,” Bellini replied, “and my work requires me still to employ those skills from time to time—after which I immediately visit my confessor. I should hate to die with the practice of law on my soul.”

“I understand you also dabble in banking.”

“Yes, but there is nothing so pure as money, used properly. I am required to ask you, Stone, if you have ever been married.”

“No, Your Eminence; I’ve come close, but I’ve never been in serious trouble.”

“And do you willingly consent to your wife’s devout practice of her religion?”

“Willingly, Your Eminence. To deny Dolce anything could be dangerous to my health.”

Bellini seemed to try not to laugh, but Dino couldn’t help himself.

The women arrived, and they all moved to a table set in the center of the garden, where they feasted on antipasti, a pasta with lobster sauce, and a glittering white wine, served from frosted pitchers. During most of lunch, Eduardo and the cardinal conversed seriously in Italian.

When they got up from the table, Stone sidled over to Dino. “What were Eduardo and Bellini talking about at lunch?” he asked.

“Not you, pal,” Dino said. “They were doing business.” He glanced at his father-in-law to be sure he would not be overheard. “Eduardo still doesn’t know how much Italian I understand.”

Stone and Dolce took a walk together through the narrow streets of Venice, becoming hopelessly lost. They did a little window shopping and talked happily. Stone tried to find out where they were honeymooning, but Dolce would reveal nothing.

They returned to the palazzo in the late afternoon, ready for a nap. Stone was shown to a suite—sitting room and bedroom—that overlooked the Grand Canal. He dozed off to the sounds of motorboats and of water lapping against stone.

He dreamed something that disturbed him, but when he awoke, he couldn’t remember what it was. He joined the others for cocktails with a strange sense of foreboding.

At cocktails, Eduardo’s sister, Rosaria, was present; she was a large woman who perpetually wore the black dresses of a widow. Stone had met her at Eduardo’s home in New York, where she had kept house for her brother since his wife’s death. Her younger niece was named for her, but the family had always called her Dolce.

The cardinal was now dressed in a beautifully cut black suit.

Half an hour later they were all shown aboard Eduardo’s motor launch and transported to dinner at the world-famous Harry’s Bar. Stone suspected that Eduardo’s presence alone would be cause for considerable deference from the restaurant’s staff, but the presence of a cardinal sent them into paroxysms of service. Stone had never seen so many waiters move so fast and from so crouched a position.

They dined on a variety of antipasti and thinly sliced calf ’s liver with a sherry sauce, with a saffron risotto on the side. The wines were superlative, and by the time they had been returned to the Bianchi palazzo, Stone was a little drunk, more than a little jet-lagged, and ready for bed. Dolce left him at his door with a kiss and vanished down the hallway.

Stone died for ten hours.

Four

AT NINE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE was resurrected by a servant bearing a tray of blood-red orange juice, toast, prosciutto, sliced figs, small pastries, and coffee. A corner of the huge tray held that day’s International Herald Tribune and the previous day’s New York Times. By the time he had breakfasted and done the crossword puzzle, it was after ten.

The servant knocked and entered. “Mister Bianchi requests that you be downstairs at eleven o’clock,” he said. “The civil ceremony is to be at noon.” He disappeared.

Stone shaved and showered then went to the huge cupboard where his clothes hung, all freshly pressed. He dressed in a white linen suit he had bought for the occasion, a pale yellow, Sea Island cotton shirt, a tie with muted stripes, and tan alligator oxfords. Finally, he tucked a yellow silk square into his breast pocket, stuffed his trouser pockets with the usual contents, including some lire, and consulted the mirror. It occurred to him that he might never look so good again.

The group gathered in the central hall of the palazzo. Dolce wore a dazzling white silk dress that showed a becoming amount of very fine leg and wore only a single strand of pearls for jewelry, along with the five-carat, emerald-cut diamond engagement ring supplied by a man of Stone’s acquaintance in the diamond district of New York.

“You are very beautiful,” Stone said to Dolce, kissing her.

“Funny, that’s what I was going to say about you,” Dolce replied. “I love the suit.”

“It’s my wedding dress,” Stone explained.

Dino and Mary Ann were well turned out, and to Stone’s astonishment, Aunt Rosaria wore a dress of white lace. She was, apparently, out of mourning, at least for the day.

“Is the cardinal coming?” Stone asked Dino.

“No,” Dino replied. “Cardinals don’t attend civil marriage ceremonies.”

“I suppose not,” Stone said.

They were escorted to the palazzo’s jetty where a small fleet of gondolas, garlanded with flowers, awaited, and they were rowed down a bewildering series of canals to the town hall, where the mayor awaited on the jetty.

Moments later, the party was arranged before an impossibly ornate desk in the mayor’s office. Much Italian was spoken. At one point, the mayor turned to Stone, his eyebrows lifted high.

“Say ‘sì,’ ” Dino whispered.

“Sì,” Stone said.

Dolce also said, “Sì,” then an ornate document was produced and signed by Stone and Dolce, then by the mayor and the witnesses. The mayor said something else, delivered sternly.

Dino translated. “He says, ‘Remember, you are not yet entitled to the pleasures of the marriage chamber.’ ”

Back on the jetty outside the town hall, Stone discovered that the gondolas had been replaced by Eduardo’s motor launch, and shortly, they were moving fast over open water, toward an island.

Dolce, who held fast to Stone’s arm, explained. “Papa has taken the Cipriani Hotel for lunch.”

“You mean the dining room?”

“I mean the entire hotel; Papa has many guests. There will be many people at lunch, but don’t worry about remembering their names; they don’t matter.”

Stone nodded.

The hotel occupied the entire island, and lunch was held in its garden.

“Not much chance of party crashers,” Dino commented as they walked into the garden. “Unless they swim well.” He looked around at the huge crowd of guests who were applauding their entrance—middle-aged and elderly Italians, dressed for Sunday, who were demonstratively affectionate with Dolce and who behaved toward Eduardo pretty much as if he were the Pope. Stone was introduced to each of them, but the flood of Italian names passed him by.

“Who are these people?” he asked Dolce.

“Distant relatives and business acquaintances,” she replied tersely.

Stone could not see any family resemblance. “Who are these people?” he asked Dino, when he had a chance.

“I can’t prove it,” Dino said, “but my guess is you’d have a real problem placing a bet, buying a whore, or getting a fix anywhere in Italy right now.”

“Come on, Dino.”

“You’ll notice that, although there’s a band and lots of food, there’s no photographer?”

Stone looked around and couldn’t see a camera in anybody’s hands.

“My guess is, the wedding pictures will be taken Monday, at the church, and that none of these people will be there, which is okay with me. I certainly don’t want to be photographed with any of them.”

It was late afternoon before they returned to the palazzo. Stone was told to be downstairs at eight for cocktails, then he was allowed to stagger to his room, strip, and fall facedown on the bed, until he was shaken awake by a servant and told to dress. He’d had the bad dream again, but he still couldn’t remember it.

Aunt Rosaria had prepared what Stone assumed was their wedding dinner. They ate sumptuously, then adjourned early, everyone being tired from the day’s festivities.

“Sleep as late as you like,” Eduardo said to the group. “Mass is at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Each retired to his own room. Stone, having had a three-hour nap, was not yet sleepy; he changed into a sweater and decided to go for a walk.

He was almost immediately lost. There was a dearth of signs pointing to anywhere, except St. Mark’s Square, and he didn’t want to go there. Instead, he just wandered.

An hour later, he found himself approaching what he recognized from photographs as the Rialto Bridge. As he climbed its arc, a woman’s head appeared from the opposite direction, rising as she walked backward toward him, apparently talking to someone following her. Immediately, Stone knew her.

The shining hair, the slim figure, the elegant clothes, the shape of her calves. It was Arrington. His heart did strange things in his chest, and he was suddenly overcome with the unexpected thrill of seeing her. Then he remembered that she was now Mrs. Vance Calder, of Los Angeles, Malibu, and Palm Springs, that she had borne Vance’s child, and that he had sworn her off for life.

Stone was struck heavily by the fact that his reaction to seeing her was not appropriate for a man who would be married on the morrow, and he was suddenly flooded with what had been pent-up doubts about marrying Dolce. In a second, every reservation he had ever had about marriage, in general, and Dolce, in particular, swept over him, filling him with a sickening panic.

On Arrington came, still walking backward, talking and laughing with someone who was still climbing the other side of the bridge, probably Vance Calder. Stone recovered quickly enough to place himself in her path, so that she would bump into him. She would be surprised, they would laugh, Vance would greet him warmly, and they would congratulate him, on hearing of his plans.

She ran into him harder than he had anticipated, jarring them both. Then she turned, and she wasn’t Arrington. She was American, younger, not as beautiful; the man following her up the bridge was young, too, and beefy.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Stone said to her.

Her young man arrived. “You did that on purpose.”

“I apologize,” Stone said. “I thought the lady was someone I knew.”

“Yeah, sure,” the young man said, advancing toward Stone.

“Don’t,” the girl said, grabbing at his arm. “He apologized; let it go.”

The man hesitated, then turned and followed the woman down the bridge.

Stone was embarrassed, but more important, he found himself depressed that the woman had not been Arrington. He stood at the top of the bridge, leaning against the stone railing, looking down the canal, wondering if the universe had just sent him a message.

Five

STONE WAS HAVING THE UNPLEASANT DREAM AGAIN, AND in it, someone was knocking loudly on a door. Then someone was shaking him, and he woke up this time, remembering that Arrington had been in the dream.

A servant was bending over him. “Signore Bianchi asks that you come to the library at once,” the man said. “It is not necessary to dress.”

“All right,” Stone replied sleepily. He looked at his bedside clock and saw that it was shortly before eight A.M. He found a large terry robe in the wardrobe, put it on over his bedclothes, found his slippers, and, smoothing down his hair, hurried to the central hall, where the servant directed him to the library, a room he had not yet seen.

It was a large room, the walls of which were lined from top to bottom with leather-bound volumes, leaving room for only a few pictures. Stone thought he recognized a Turner oil of the Grand Canal. Eduardo, the cardinal, and Dino, all in dressing gowns or robes, stood before the fireplace.

“Good morning,” Stone said. “Is something wrong?”

None of the men seemed to want to speak first. Finally, Eduardo spoke. “We have had some bad news from the States.” He turned to his son-in-law. “Dino?”

Dino flinched as if he had been struck, then he began. “My office called a few minutes ago: Rick Grant from the LAPD called and left a message.”

Stone knew Rick Grant; he was a detective assigned to the office of the chief of police of Los Angeles, who had been helpful to him on an earlier visit to California. “What is it?”

Dino took a deep breath. “Vance Calder is dead.”

“I am very upset about this,” Eduardo said. “Vance was my friend, too.”

Stone knew that Eduardo was a stockholder, with Vance, in Centurion Studios and had been an investor in some of Vance’s films. “How?” he asked Dino.

“He was shot. Last night, in his home.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes; shot once in the head.”

“Is Arrington all right?” He steeled himself for the answer.

“Yes; she’s in a local hospital.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No.”

“Who shot Vance?”

“That’s undetermined,” Dino said. “But when I got back to Rick, he told me he thinks Arrington might be a suspect.”

Stone found a sofa and sat down. “Jesus Christ,” he said, then remembered in whose company he was. “Forgive me, Your Eminence.”

The cardinal nodded soberly.

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in that theory,” Dino said. “You and I both know that, in cases like this, the spouse is always a suspect until cleared.”

Stone nodded. He was trying to think what to do next but not getting anywhere.

The cardinal came and sat down beside him. “Stone,” he said, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder, “I am aware of your previous relationship with Arrington. Eduardo and I have discussed this at some length, and we agree that it would be extremely unwise to go forward with the wedding until this . . . situation has been, in some way, resolved.”

Stone looked at the man but said nothing.

Eduardo came and stood next to Stone. “This is very complicated,” he said. “Both Dolce and I are friends of Vance’s, and you, of course, were very close to Arrington. There will be many emotions at work for a while, so many and so confused that to proceed with the marriage at this time would be folly.”

“Does Dolce know about this?”

Eduardo shook his head. “I am going to go and wake her now and tell her; this is my duty, not yours.”

“I will come, too,” the cardinal said. “She may need me.”

Stone nodded. “All right. Tell her we’ll talk the minute she’s ready.”

Eduardo and the cardinal left the room.

“What haven’t you told me?” Stone asked Dino.

“Rick says Arrington hasn’t made any kind of statement yet. She apparently can’t remember what happened. They’ve put her under sedation in a private clinic, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Before she went under, she was asking for you; she said she wouldn’t talk to anybody but you.”

“I’ll have to call her,” Stone said.

“I told you, she’s under sedation, and Rick didn’t know the name of the place where they’d taken her.”

“How about Peter? Where is he?”

“The servants are taking care of him; he has a nanny. Rick said his people had spoken to Arrington’s mother, and she’s on her way out there from Virginia.”

“That’s good.”

“Did Rick say anything else at all?”

“No. He was going to make some calls, and he said he’d get back to me the minute he found out anything more.”

Stone walked to the windows and looked out into the lovely garden. “Dino,” he said, “did Arrington know that Dolce and I were being married this weekend?”

“I have no idea. Did you tell her?”

Stone shook his head. “I haven’t talked with her since last summer; Dolce and I had dinner with them in Connecticut, at their place in Roxbury. It’s only a few miles from my new place in Washington.”

“And how did that go?”

“Not well. Dolce was very catty, obviously jealous. The next morning, Arrington showed up at my cottage and, well, sort of threw herself at me.”

“And how did you handle that?” Dino asked.

“I managed to keep her pretty much at arm’s length—though, God knows, that wasn’t what I wanted. I told her I wouldn’t do anything to harm her marriage, and that was pretty much that. A couple of minutes after she left, Vance showed up—I think he must have been following her. He asked if he had anything to worry about from me, and I told him he didn’t. He thanked me and left. That was the last time I saw either of them.”

“Sounds as though you handled the situation about as well as it could be handled.”

“God, I hope so; I hope none of this has anything to do with Arrington and me.”

“I hope so, too,” Dino said, “but I’m not going to count on it.”

“Come on, Dino, you don’t really think she . . .”

“I don’t know what to think,” Dino said.

Eduardo and the cardinal returned, and Dolce was with them, her face streaked with tears. She came and put her arms around Stone.

Stone had never seen her cry, and it hurt him. “I’m sorry about all this, Dolce,” he said to her.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You didn’t have any control over her.”

“Now, let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said. “We don’t know what happened yet.”

“All right, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’d better get ready to go, Stone,” Eduardo said.

“Go?”

“You’re going to Los Angeles, of course,” Eduardo said. “She asked for you, and she may not have anyone else.”

“Her mother is on the way.”

“Her mother can take care of the child, of course, but this is going to be a very difficult situation, given Vance’s fame and position in the film community.”

“Go, Stone,” Dolce said. “We can’t have this hanging over us; go and do what you can, then come back to me.”

“Come with me,” Stone said, wanting her protection from Arrington as much as her company.

“No, that wouldn’t do. You’re going to have to deal with Arrington on your own.”

“My friend’s jet is not available today,” Eduardo said, “but there’s a train at nine-thirty for Milano, and a one o’clock flight from there to Los Angeles. If you miss that, the trip will become much more complicated.”

Stone held Dolce away from him and looked into her face. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Dolce said. “I hate it, but it’s the only thing to be done; I know that.”

He hugged her again, then left and went to his room, where he found that a servant had already packed most of his things. Half an hour later, he stood on the palazzo’s jetty with Dino, Eduardo, the cardinal, and Dolce. He shook hands with Eduardo and Bellini. The cardinal gave him a card. “If I can ever be of service to you, please call me. Of course, I’ll make myself available for a service when this situation has been sorted out.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” Stone said. He turned to Dolce and kissed her silently, then motioned Dino into the launch. “Ride with me,” he said.

“Have you heard any more from Rick?” Stone asked as the launch pulled away from the jetty.

“No, but it’s the middle of the night in L.A. Where will you be staying?”

“At the Bel-Air Hotel. Oh, will you call and book me a room?”

“I’ll let Eduardo handle it; you’ll get a better room.”

A few minutes later they docked at the steps to the Venice train station. Eduardo’s butler met them there with Stone’s train and airplane tickets and took his bags. Dino walked him to the train.

“I wish you could come with me and help make some sense of this.”

Dino shook his head. “I’m due back in the office first thing Wednesday. Call me when you’ve got your feet on the ground, and I’ll help, if I can.”

The train was beginning to move, and Stone jumped on. He and Dino managed a handshake before the train pulled out of the station.

Stone found his compartment and sat down. Stress often made him drowsy, and he dozed off almost immediately.

Six

EVEN A FIRST-CLASS TRANSATLANTIC AIRLINE SEAT seemed oddly spartan after the pleasures of the Boeing Business Jet, but Stone managed to make himself comfortable. A flight attendant came around with papers; none of the English-language papers had the story yet, but he caught Vance’s name in the headlines of an Italian journal.

He managed to sleep some more and had a decent dinner, which, for him, was lunch, then the lights dimmed, and Vance Calder’s face appeared on the cabin’s movie screen. It was a report from CNN International and mentioned no more than the bare bones of the story, which Stone already knew. He’d have to wait until LAX for more news.

He thought about another flight, how if Arrington hadn’t missed it, things would have been very different. They had planned a winter sailing holiday on the island of St. Mark’s, in the Caribbean, and he had planned, once at sea, to ask her to marry him. She had called him at the airport as the flight was boarding and said she had just gotten out of an editorial meeting at The New Yorker, for which she sometimes wrote pieces. There was no way for her to make the plane, but she would be on the same flight the following day. The airplane had taken off in the first flurries of what would become a major blizzard in New York, and there was no flight the next day, or the day after that. Then he had a fax from her, saying The New Yorker wanted a profile of Vance Calder, who hadn’t given a magazine interview in twenty years. It was a huge opportunity for her, and she had begged to be allowed to miss their holiday. He had grudgingly agreed and had put the newly purchased engagement ring back into his suitcase, to await a return to New York.

Then he had been caught up in an extraordinary situation in St. Mark’s, had become involved in a murder trial, and by the time he was ready to return to the city, there was a fax from Arrington saying that, after a whirl-wind romance, she had married Vance Calder.

After that had come news of her pregnancy and her uncertainty about the identity of the father. The paternity test had come back in Vance’s favor, and that was that. Now Vance was dead, and Arrington had turned Stone’s life upside down once again.

Stone looked up at the cabin screen again. A film was starting, and it was Vance Calder’s latest and last. Stone watched it through, once again amazed at how the actor’s presence on screen held an audience, even himself, even now.

The time change was in Stone’s favor, and they reached LAX in the early evening. Stone stepped off the airplane and found Rick Grant waiting for him. The LAPD detective was in his fifties, graying, but trim-looking. They greeted each other warmly.

“Give me your baggage claim checks,” Rick said, and Stone complied. He handed them to another man. “The Bel-Air?” he asked Stone.

“Yes.”

Rick guided Stone through a doorway, down a flight of stairs, and out onto the tarmac, where an unmarked police car was waiting. Rick drove. “You all right?” he asked.

“Well, it’s three o’clock in the morning where I just came from, but after some sleep I’ll be okay. How about you? How’s the job?”

“I made captain; that’s about it.”

“How’s Barbara?” Stone had introduced Rick to Barbara Tierney, who was now his wife.

“Extremely well; in fact, she’s pregnant.”

“At your age? You dog.”

“How about that? I thought I was all through with child rearing.”

“Bring me up to date on what happened, Rick, and don’t leave anything out.”

“The Brentwood station caught the case on Saturday evening, about seven P.M. Calder’s Filipino butler called it in. There was a patrol car there in three minutes, and the detectives were there two minutes after that. Calder’s body was lying in the central hallway of the house, facedown. He’d taken one bullet here,” he tapped his own head at the right rear, “from about three feet. He was still breathing when the patrol car got there, but dead when the detectives arrived.”

“The gun?”

“Nine-millimeter automatic; Calder owned one, and it hasn’t turned up, in spite of a very thorough search.”

“Where was Arrington when it happened?”

“In the bathtub, apparently. They were going out to dinner later. The butler heard the shot and sent the maid to find her. She was still in a robe when the detectives arrived. They noted the strong smell of perfume; there was a large bottle of Chanel No. 5 on her dressing table.”

“And that made them suspicious, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“But how would Arrington know that perfume can remove the residue from the hands of someone who’s fired a gun?”

Rick shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing that pops up on the news or in a television movie. Anybody could know it.”

“Did Arrington say anything to the detectives?”

“She was distraught, of course, but she seemed willing to talk; then she fainted. By this time, an ambulance had arrived, and the EMTs revived her. When she came to, she seemed disoriented—gave her name as Arrington Carter and didn’t recognize the maid or her surroundings. The maid called her doctor, and he arrived pretty quickly. He had the EMTs load her up and take her to a toney private hospital, the Judson Clinic, in Beverly Hills. After the crime scene team arrived, they went to the clinic to question Arrington but were told she’d been sedated and would be out for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Anything missing from the house?”

“Calder’s jewelry box, which, the butler said, had half a dozen watches and some diamond jewelry in it, and the gun. None of Arrington’s stuff had been taken, according to the maid.”

“So, Calder could have interrupted a burglary and gotten shot with his own gun for his trouble.”

“That’s one scenario,” Rick said.

“And I guess another is that Arrington shot Vance during a quarrel, hid the gun and the jewelry box, scrubbed her shooting hand and arm with Chanel No. 5 and jumped into a tub, just in time to be found by the maid.”

“That’s about it.”

“Any other scenarios?”

“Nope, just the two.”

“How’s the voting going?”

Rick shrugged. “I’d say the burglar is losing, at the moment.”

“Are you serious?”

“I think the detectives would have felt better about her, if she’d kept her head and told them a convincing story. They weren’t too keen on the hysterics and fainting.”

“They think she was acting?”

“They think it’s a good possibility. I’d find her a shrink, if I were you, and a lawyer, too. A good one.”

The two men rode along in silence for a few minutes. Shortly, Rick turned off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard. A couple of minutes later he turned left onto Stone Canyon, toward the Bel-Air Hotel.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me, Stone?” Rick said. “Next time we meet, we might not be able to talk to each other so freely.”

“I can’t think of anything else right now. Any advice?”

“Yeah, get Centurion Studios involved; they’re equipped to handle something like this, and I understand that Calder was a major stockholder, as well as their biggest star.”

“I’ll call Lou Regenstein tomorrow morning,” Stone replied.

Rick turned into the hotel parking lot and stopped at the front entrance. “Good luck with this, Stone,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call, but don’t be surprised if I clam up or can’t help. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks for all you’ve done, Rick, and thanks for meeting my flight, too.”

“Your luggage will be here soon.”

Stone shook his hand and got out of the car. He walked over the bridge to the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby. “My name is Barrington,” he said to the young woman at the desk. “I believe I have a reservation.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “We’ve been expecting you.” She picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Barrington is here.”

A moment later a young man arrived at the desk. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington, and welcome back. My name is Robert Goodwood; I’m the duty manager. Did you have any luggage?”

“It’s being delivered from the airport,” Stone said.

“Then I’ll show you to your suite.”

The young man led the way outdoors and briskly up a walkway, asking about Stone’s flight and making chitchat. He turned down another walkway and arrived at a doorway hidden behind dense plantings, unlocked it and showed Stone in.

Stone was impressed with the size and beauty of the suite, but concerned about the cost.

As if anticipating him, Goodwood said, “Mr. Bianchi has insisted that your stay here is for his account.”

“Thank you,” Stone said.

“I’ll send your luggage along as soon as it arrives. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Please send me the New York and L.A. papers.”

“Of course.” Goodwood gave Stone the key and left.

Stone left the suite’s door open for the bellman, shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, sat down on a sofa, and picked up the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?” the operator said.

“Would you find the number of the Judson Clinic, which is in Beverly Hills, and ring it?” he asked.

“Of course; I’ll ring it now.”

Apparently the hotel knew of the hospital.

“The Judson Clinic,” a woman’s voice breathed into the phone.

“My name is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Arrington Calder. Can you connect me with her room, please?”

“I’m afraid we have no guest by that name or anything like it,” the woman said.

“In that case, please take my name—Stone Barrington—and tell Mrs. Calder that I’m at the Bel-Air Hotel, when she feels like calling.”

“Good night,” the woman said, and hung up.

The bellman arrived with the luggage and the papers. “Shall I unpack anything, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

“You can hang up the suits in the large case,” Stone said. The man did as he was asked, Stone tipped him, and he left.

Stone picked up the papers. Vance had made the lower-right-hand corner of The New York Times front page and the upper-right-hand corner of the Los Angeles Times. The obituary in the L.A. paper took up a whole page. There was nothing in the news report he didn’t already know.

Stone ordered an omelet from room service and ate it slowly, trying to stay awake, hoping Arrington would call. At eleven o’clock, he gave up and went to bed.

Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

Seven

THE TELEPHONE WOKE STONE. HE CHECKED THE bedside clock: just after nine A.M. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Is this Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. James Judson, of the Judson Clinic.”

“Good morning. How is Arrington?”

“She’s been asking for you. I’m sorry the woman who answered the telephone last night didn’t know that.”

“When can I see her?”

“She’s still sleeping at the moment, but why don’t you come over here around noon? If she isn’t awake by then, I’ll wake her, and the two of you can talk.”

“What is her condition?”

“Surprisingly good, but there are complications; we can talk about that when you arrive.” He gave Stone the address.

“I’ll see you at noon,” Stone said. He hung up, then pressed the button for the concierge and ordered a rental car for eleven-thirty, then he called room service and ordered a large breakfast. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he called Centurion Studios and asked for Lou Regenstein, its chairman.

“Good morning, executive offices,” a woman’s voice said.

“Lou Regenstein, please; this is Stone Barrington.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“He’ll know.” Stone had met Regenstein the year before, when he was in Los Angeles on another matter involving Vance and Arrington.

A moment later, Regenstein was on the line. “Stone, I’m so glad to hear from you; you’ve heard what’s happened, I’m sure.”

“That’s why I’m here; I got in last evening.”

“I’ve been going nuts; the police won’t tell me where Arrington is, and the coroner won’t release Vance’s body to a funeral home without her permission.”

“Arrington is in a hospital; I’m going to see her at noon today.”

“Is she all right? Was she hurt in the shooting?”

“She’s fine, from all accounts. I’ll be talking to her doctor, too.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Lou, who is the best criminal lawyer in L.A.?”

“Marc Blumberg, hands down; does Arrington need him?”

“Yes, if only to contain the situation.”

“He’s a personal friend of mine; I’ll call him right now. Where can he see Arrington?”

“I want to see her before she talks to another lawyer,” Stone said. “Tell Blumberg to expect a call from me at some point, and to deny that he’s representing Arrington, if the press should call in the meantime.”

“All right.” Regenstein gave him Blumberg’s number. “Remember, Stone, Centurion is at Arrington’s disposal—anything she needs; you, too. Look, I’ve had an idea: You’re going to need some place to get things done while you’re here. I’ll make Vance’s bungalow available to you for as long as you need it.”

“Thank you, Lou; it would be good to have some office facilities.”

“You remember Vance’s secretary, Betty Southard?”

Indeed he did; Stone and Betty had spent considerable time together during his last visit to town, much of it in bed. “Of course.”

“She’s there, holding down the fort; I’ll let her know you’re coming, and I’ll leave a pass for you at the main gate.”

“Thank you, Lou, I’ll be in touch later.” Stone hung up and called his own office, in New York.

“Stone Barrington’s office,” Joan Robertson said.

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Oh, Stone, I’m so glad you called. Have you heard about Vance Calder?”

“Yes, I’m in L.A. now, at the Bel-Air Hotel.”

“What’s going on?”

“I haven’t had time to find out, but I want you to go into our computer boilerplate, print out some documents and fax them to me soonest.”

“What do you want?”

Stone dictated a list of the documents, then hung up. Breakfast arrived and he turned on the TV news while he ate. The local channels were going nuts; the biggest star in Hollywood had been murdered, and they couldn’t find out anything. They were treading water as fast as they could, recycling what little information they had. They couldn’t find Arrington, the police wouldn’t issue anything but the most basic statement, Centurion had no comment, except to express deep loss and regret, and no friend of either Vance’s or Arrington’s would talk to the press, even off the record, not that any of them knew anything. That was good, he thought.

The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Hillary Carter, Arrington’s mother.”

“How are you, Mrs. Carter?”

“Terrible, of course, but I’m glad you’re here. Arrington badly needs someone to take charge of things.”

“Have you seen her?”

“Only for a few minutes, yesterday, and she was semiconscious. She was asking for you, though.”

“I’m seeing her at noon today.”

“Oh, good. The doctor doesn’t want her to see Peter, yet; I don’t know why.”

“I’ll see if I can find out.”

“I’m at Vance’s house, now, and the situation here is nearly out of hand. I’ve had to call the police to keep people from climbing over the fence.”

“I’ll see if I can arrange some private security.”

“That would be a very good idea, I think.”

“Is Peter all right?”

“Yes, but he wants his mother and father, and I’m having to stall him. What I’d like to do is to get him out of this zoo and take him home to Virginia with me. Arrington is quite happy for him to come with me.”

“That might be a good idea. Can I call you after I’ve seen Arrington?”

“Yes, please; I’ll give you Vance’s most secret number. The press hasn’t learned about it, yet.”

Stone wrote down the number.

“I’m so sorry we’ve never met face to face,” Mrs. Carter said. “Arrington has always spoken so well of you.”

“Mrs. Carter, do you have any objection to my taking over all of Arrington’s legal decisions and contacts with . . . everyone outside the family?”

“I’d be very grateful if you would, but of course, I’d like to be consulted about any medical treatment beyond what she’s getting now.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to you later today.” He said good-bye and hung up. There was a knock on the door, and an envelope was slid under it. Stone checked the contents and found the documents Joan had faxed to him.

He telephoned Lou Regenstein.

“Yes, Stone?”

“I’ve just spoken with Arrington’s mother, who is at Vance’s house with her grandson. She says the press there is out of hand, and she’s had to call the police. Can you arrange for some private security to take over that?”

“Of course; how many men do you want?”

“She says they’re coming over the fence, and my recollection is that they’ve got a large piece of property there.”

“Something like eight acres,” Regenstein said.

“I should think half a dozen men inside the fence, two in the house and a car patrolling the perimeter of the place, twenty-four hours a day, for the time being.”

“Consider it done; anything else?”

“Mrs. Carter wants to take Peter back to Virginia with her. Do you think you could arrange transportation?”

“The Centurion jet is at her disposal,” Regenstein said. “I’ll have a crew standing by in an hour.”

“I shouldn’t think she’d need it until later today. Is it at Burbank?”

“Yes, but the press would know that. I’ll have it moved to Santa Monica and hangared at the Supermarine terminal, until she’s ready to leave.”

“Thank you, Lou. I’ll call you later.”

There was nothing else to do, Stone reflected. Dino would be in the air, now, on his way back to New York. He checked his notebook, dialed the palazzo number in Venice, and asked for Eduardo.

“Stone?”

“Yes, Eduardo?”

“This is Carmen Bellini. Eduardo and Dolce are on their way back to New York. I’m spending a couple of more days here to rest, at his suggestion. Are you in Los Angeles?”

“Yes.” Stone told him most of what he knew so far. “If Eduardo contacts you before I reach him, please pass on that information.”

“Certainly. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Pray for Arrington,” Stone said.

He hung up, and it suddenly occurred to him that, since he had left Venice, he had not thought of Dolce once.

Eight

STONE COLLECTED HIS RENTAL CAR, A MERCEDES E430, and drove to the Judson Clinic, arriving at noon. The place was housed in what had been a residence, a very large one, on a quiet Beverly Hills street, set well back from the road. The reception desk was in the marble foyer, and Stone asked for Dr. Judson.

A moment later, a man appeared on the upstairs landing, waving him up. Stone climbed the floating staircase and was greeted by a distinguished-looking man in his sixties, wearing a well-cut suit. Stone thought he would make an impressive witness, if it came to that.

“Mr. Barrington? I’m Jim Judson.”

“Please, call me Stone.”

“Thanks. Come into my office, and let’s talk for a moment, before we see Arrington.”

Stone followed him into a large, sunny office and took a seat on a sofa, while Judson sat across from him in a comfortable chair.

“I want to tell you what I know, thus far, so that you’ll be prepared when you see Arrington,” he said.

“Please do.”

“Arrington was brought here by an ambulance on Saturday evening, at the request of her personal physician, Dr. Lansing Drake, a well-known Beverly Hills doctor. She was alternately hysterical, disoriented, and lethargic. Dr. Drake explained briefly what had occurred at her residence, and he and I agreed that she should be sedated. I injected her with twenty milligrams of Valium, and she slept peacefully through the night.

“When she awoke on Sunday morning she seemed quite calm and normal, and she immediately asked that you be contacted. She said that you were on an island in the Caribbean called St. Mark’s, and that she was supposed to meet you there. My staff made repeated attempts to contact you there, without success. I reassured her that we would find you, and she seemed to accept that. She slept much of the morning, had a good lunch. When she questioned why she was here, I said that she had collapsed at home, and that I thought it a good idea for her to remain here for observation for a day or two. She accepted that.

“Late in the afternoon, her mother arrived, having flown in from Virginia. I was in the room when they met, and it became immediately apparent that Arrington was very disoriented. She seemed not to understand that she was married to Vance Calder, saying that she was supposed to interview him, but that she had changed her mind and had decided to meet you in St. Mark’s instead. When her mother mentioned Peter, her son, she became disturbed again, but after a few moments seemed to understand that she had a son and that Calder was the father. Her mother, quite wisely, turned the conversation to trivial things, and after a few minutes she left. Arrington immediately went to sleep again.”

“And what do you make of all this?” Stone asked.

“It seems clear that Arrington is undergoing periods of anterograde amnesia, brought on by the shock of her husband’s murder. Anterograde amnesia is a condition during which the great mass of old memories, prior to a certain point, remain intact, while the subject does not have access to more recent memories, or those memories are intermittent or scrambled—this, as opposed to retrograde amnesia, during which the subject may lose memory of all prior events, even her identity.”

“Forgive me, Jim—are you a psychologist?”

“A psychiatrist. This is, primarily, a psychiatric clinic, although we do some work with patients who have substance abuse problems.”

“Is Arrington likely to recover all her memory?”

“Yes, if the basis for her amnesia is emotional, not physical, and that seems the case. Her mother had spoken with her on the previous Sunday and said that at that time she seemed perfectly normal. If she should show signs of not recovering her memory, then I think a brain scan would be in order, to rule out a physical basis for her problem.”

“Does she know that Vance is dead?”

“That’s hard to say; I haven’t asked her that, directly, and when the police came here, I refused to allow her to be questioned.”

“You did the right thing,” Stone said.

“Arrington seems to have an idea that something may be wrong, but she tends to divert the conversation if it heads in a direction she doesn’t want it to go. She may very well be, unconsciously, protecting herself emotionally from a situation that she is not yet ready to confront.”

“I see. Perhaps it’s time to explain to her what has happened.”

“Perhaps it is. She’ll have to be told sooner or later, and since she seems to have an emotional attachment to you, it might be best that she hear it from you.”

“All right. Jim, I should tell you that, for the moment, I am acting as Arrington’s attorney, as well as her friend, and that, given the circumstances, you may be asked questions by the police. Should that occur, I advise you to rest on doctor-patient confidentiality and decline to answer. At a later date, with Arrington’s concurrence, I may ask you to give a statement to the police or the district attorney.”

“I understand completely.”

“Shall we go and see Arrington, then?”

“Please follow me.” Judson led the way from his office, down a hallway to the last door on the right-hand side. He knocked softly.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice replied.

Judson opened the door. “Arrington, I’ve brought someone to see you,” he said. He stepped aside and ushered Stone into the room.

The room appeared much like a guest room in a sumptuous home, except for the elevated hospital bed. On the far side of the room, a cabinet had, apparently, once held a television set, which had been removed. Sunlight streamed through the windows, which were open above a garden at the rear of the house. Arrington sat up in bed and held out her arms. “Stone!” she cried.

Stone went to her and took her in his arms, kissing her on the cheek. To his surprise, she turned his head and gave him a wet kiss on the mouth. Stone glanced at the doctor, who evinced surprise.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Much better. For a while, all I was doing was sleeping. What took you so long to get here?”

“I had to come a great distance,” he replied. “Do you feel well enough to talk for a while?”

“Yes, I do; I feel very well, actually. I’m not quite sure why Dr. Judson is keeping me here.”

“Your mother came to see you yesterday, remember?”

“Of course. We had a very nice visit. I’m sorry to have alarmed her; it was a long way for her to come, to find me perfectly well.”

“She wanted to be sure Peter was all right without you.”

Arrington’s face clouded slightly. “Yes, she told me. I’m a little confused about that.”

“How so?”

“Well, apparently—this is very embarrassing—I had forgotten that I’m his mother.”

“That’s all right,” the doctor interjected. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Did you remember who Peter’s father is?”

“Yes, after I was prompted, I’m ashamed to say. Stone, I’m so sorry; I wanted a chance to explain to you about Vance and me. I wrote to you in St. Mark’s, but I suppose you must have already left there by the time the letter arrived. Can I explain?”

“Yes, go ahead,” Stone said, sitting on the side of the bed.

She took his hand in both of hers. “Stone, I think I knew that you were going to ask me to marry you when I arrived in St. Mark’s. Am I right, or am I being presumptuous?”

“You’re right; I was going to ask you. I had a ring, even.”

“I think I felt . . . a little panic about that, as if I weren’t really ready to be your wife. I think that may be why I missed the first flight. The snowstorm was something of a relief, I’m afraid.”

“You were a free woman,” Stone said. “You didn’t have to marry me.”

“Then Vance arrived in town, and although we’d known each other before, something was different this time.”

Stone recalled that Arrington had been with Vance, at a dinner party, when they had first been introduced.

“We spent all our time together, working on the interview, which turned into a very long conversation about everything in the world, and before I knew it, we were in love. I can’t explain it; it just happened.”

“It’s like that, sometimes,” Stone said.

“Do you hate me for it?”

“I could never hate you.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I don’t think I could be happy without you in my life—as a friend, I mean.” She blushed a little.

“I feel the same way,” Stone said. “And it’s because I’m your friend that I have to tell you some things, now.” Stone took a deep breath, looked directly into her large eyes, and told her.

Nine

ARRINGTON STARED AT STONE AS HE SPOKE, HER EYES wide and unblinking. Gradually, tears rimmed her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. She seemed unable to speak.

Stone stopped talking for a moment. “Do you remember any of this?” he asked.

She shook her head, spilling more tears.

“What’s the last thing you remember before Saturday?” Dr. Judson asked.

She closed her eyes tightly. “Someone cutting the grass,” she said.

“And what day was that?”

“I’m not sure. I had a brief conversation with . . . Geraldo, his name is. I asked him not to cut the grass quite so closely. We agreed on two inches; I remember that.”

“Do you remember what plans you and Vance had for Saturday night?” Judson asked.

She shook her head. “I’d have to look at the book.”

“What book is that?”

“The book that Vance and I keep our schedules together in. I have my own book, too, for things I don’t do with him, and he has his own book that Betty keeps.”

“And who is Betty?”

“Betty Southard, his personal assistant; she works in his office at the studio.”

“What were you doing immediately before you spoke to Geraldo?” the doctor asked.

“I was cutting flowers in the garden,” she said.

“And what did you do after you finished cutting the flowers and speaking to Geraldo?”

Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t remember. I suppose I must have gone back into the house, but I can’t remember doing it.”

“What jewelry had you planned to wear Saturday night?” Stone asked.

“Diamonds,” she replied. “It was black tie.”

“Who was the host?”

“What?”

“The host of the dinner party?”

“What dinner party?”

“The one on Saturday night.”

She looked lost. “I don’t remember.”

“Did you take your jewelry out of the safe?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is the last thing you remember Vance saying to you?” Judson asked.

“He said I should wear the diamonds. He was taking his jewelry box out of the safe; I remember that.”

“What else was in the safe?”

“I remember who was having the dinner party,” she said. “It was Lou Regenstein.”

“Did you enjoy the party?” Judson asked.

“I don’t remember the party,” she said.

“Arrington,” Stone said, “does Vance own a gun?”

“I think so,” she replied. “At least, he said he did. I’ve never seen a gun in the house.”

“Do you know how to fire a gun?” Stone asked.

“My father taught me to fire a rifle, a twenty-two, when I was sixteen.”

“Did he teach you how to fire a pistol, too?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever even held a pistol.”

“Well,” Dr. Judson said, “I think we’ve covered about enough for now.”

“Is Peter all right?” Arrington asked.

“Your mother wants to take him back to Virginia with her for a visit.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Arrington said, nodding. “I want to say good-bye to him.”

“Suppose you telephone him,” the doctor said.

“Yes, I could do that.” She turned to Stone. “Tell me the truth. I’m not crazy, and I want to know. Is Vance dead?”

“Yes,” Stone replied. “I’m afraid he is.”

She was silent, seeming to think hard. “Who’s taking care of everything?” she asked finally.

“You mean the house? The servants are there.”

“No, I mean, there has to be a funeral; things have to be done; decisions made. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I’ll help in any way I can,” Stone said. He had intended to bring this up, himself.

“Oh, would you handle things, Stone? There are legal matters, too, I’m sure.”

“Who is your lawyer?” Stone asked.

“You are, I guess; I don’t have another one. Vance has one, but I can’t think of his name.”

“Would you like me to represent you both legally and personally?” Stone asked.

“Oh, yes, please, Stone. I’d feel so much better, if I knew you were handling everything.”

“What about medical decisions?”

“I’ll make those myself,” she said. “Unless I’m not able to, then I’d like you to make those decisions, too.”

Stone opened a hotel envelope and took out a sheaf of papers. “Dr. Judson, do you believe that Arrington is capable of making decisions about her affairs?”

“I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t,” the doctor replied.

“Do you have a notary public here?”

“My secretary,” he said, picking up a phone.

The woman arrived shortly with her stamp.

Stone explained each of the documents to Arrington—a general power of attorney, a medical authorization, an agreement appointing him as her attorney, and a letter addressed, “To whom it may concern,” stating that Stone had authority to act on her behalf in all matters, business and personal. When everything had been signed, notarized, and witnessed by the doctor, Stone kissed Arrington good-bye.

“I’ll be back to see you tomorrow and bring you up to date on events,” he said. “Why don’t you call your mother now, and say good-bye to Peter?”

“All right. Stone, I’d like it very much if you would stay in our . . . my home; it would be comforting to know you are there. Manolo and the staff will make you comfortable in the guesthouse, and use the phones, the cars, anything you need.”

“Thank you, I may do that,” Stone said. “I’m going to go over there now and drive your mother and Peter to the airport. Will you tell her I’m on my way?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Is there another way to the house besides through the front gate?”

“Yes, there’s a service entrance about a hundred yards down the road, and there’s a utility service road into the back of the property; you enter it from the street behind. I’ll tell Manolo to open it for you.”

“Thanks, that would be good.” He kissed her again and left with the doctor. “What did you think, Jim?” Stone asked as they walked down the corridor.

“My diagnosis hasn’t changed. She seems to remember something about that night, the thing about the jewelry; I’d like to know exactly when the conversation with the lawn man took place.”

“So would I,” Stone said. He thanked the doctor, then drove to Vance’s house, entering through the utility road, where a servant stood waiting to close the gate behind him. He parked in a graveled area near the back door and went inside, where he was greeted by Manolo, the Filipino butler.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mr. Barrington.

“Thank you, Manolo,” Stone replied. “I wish the circumstances were different. Mrs. Calder has suggested I move into the guesthouse.”

“Yes, Mrs. Calder’s mother passed on that message,” Manolo said. “The guesthouse is all ready for you.”

“I’m going to take Arrington’s mother and Peter to the airport now, and after that I’ll go back to the Bel-Air, return my rental car, and take a cab back here. Mrs. Calder suggested I use one of her cars.”

“Of course, and I’ll give you a remote that will open the back gate, too,” Manolo said. “I’m afraid the media have the front gate staked out—permanently, it seems.”

A man approached Stone. “Are you Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Wilson; I’m commanding the security detail here.”

“Good; what kind of vehicles do you have available?”

“I’ve got a Chrysler van with blacked-out windows, and two unmarked patrol cars.”

“I’d like you to drive Mrs. Carter and the boy to Supermarine, at Santa Monica Airport. The Centurion Studios jet is waiting there to fly them to Virginia.”

Mrs. Carter appeared in the hallway, a handsome little boy of two holding her hand. “Hello, Stone,” she said. “Have you met Peter?”

Stone knelt and took the boy’s small hand. “Not since he was a baby,” he said. “Peter, you’re getting to be a big boy.”

“Yes, I am,” the boy said gravely.

There was something familiar in the child’s face, Stone thought—some characteristic of Vance or Arrington, he wasn’t sure just what. “You’re going to get to ride on a jet airplane this afternoon,” he said.

“I know,” Peter replied. “My bags are all packed.”

Two maids appeared, carrying the luggage, and everyone was bundled into the van.

“I’ll lead the way out the back,” Stone said, “and I’d like a patrol car to follow us. If necessary, I’d like that car to block the road.”

“I understand,” Wilson replied. He spoke softly into a handheld radio. “My people are assembling out back, now. Shall we go?”

“Manolo,” Stone said, “I’d like to talk with you when I get back.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” Manolo replied. “I thought you might wish to.” He handed Stone a small remote control for the rear gate.

“By the way,” Stone said, “on what days is the lawn mowed?”

“The man is here today,” the butler replied. “Ordinarily, it’s on Fridays, but he was ill last Friday.”

“When was the last time he was here?”

“A week ago Friday.”

“Do you recall Mrs. Calder having a conversation with him on that day?”

“Yes, she asked him not to cut the lawn so closely. She asked me to see that it was done.”

“A week ago Friday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Manolo. And do you recall if Mr. and Mrs. Calder went out that evening?”

Manolo looked thoughtful. “Yes, they went to Mr. Regenstein’s home for dinner. I drove them; the chauffeur was on vacation.”

“Was it a black-tie dinner?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Calder was dressed in a dinner suit.”

“And do you remember what jewelry Mrs. Calder wore?”

“She wore diamonds,” he said. “She usually does, when it’s a black-tie event.”

“Thank you, Manolo; I should be back in a couple of hours.”

“Will you be dining here, then?”

“Yes, I think I will,” Stone said.

“I’ll tell the cook.”

“Something simple, please; a steak will be fine.”

“Of course.”

Stone helped Mrs. Carter and Peter into the van, then got into his own car. They made it out the back way undetected.

Ten

STONE SAW MRS. CARTER AND PETER OFF ON THE CENTURION jet, then returned to the Bel-Air, checked out, left his rent-a-car with the parking attendant, and took a cab back to the Calder residence. He had thought of returning through the rear entrance, but he didn’t want a cabdriver to know about that, so he called Manolo and asked him to be ready to open the front gate. There was only a single television van at the gate when he arrived, and the occupants took an immediate interest in him, but before they could reach the cab with a camera, he was safely inside. Before he got out of the cab, he handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill. “That’s for not talking to the TV people about who you delivered here,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” the man said, “but I don’t know who you are, anyway.”

“Just don’t stop when you go out the gate.”

Manolo and a maid took Stone’s bags through the central hallway of the house, out the back, and around the pool to the guesthouse. Stone thought the little house was even nicer than the suite at the Bel-Air. While the maid unpacked for him and pressed his clothes, Stone walked back into the house with Manolo.

“You said you wished to speak with me, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, Manolo; it’s important that I know everything that happened here on Saturday night. Please tell me what you saw and heard.”

“I was in my quarters, a little cottage out behind the kitchen entrance, when I heard a noise.”

“How would you characterize the noise?”

“A bang. I didn’t react at first, but I was curious, so I left my quarters, entered the house through the kitchen door and walked into the central hall.” He led the way into the house.

“Which door did you come through?” Stone asked.

“That one,” Manolo replied, pointing to a door down the hall.

“And what did you see and hear?”

“I saw Mr. Calder lying right there,” he said. “He was lying. . . . He . . .”

“Can you show me?”

“Yessir.” Manolo walked to the spot and lay down on his side, then rolled partly onto his belly. “Like this,” he said. “Can I get up, now?”

“Yes, of course.”

Manolo stood up. “He had a hole in his head here,” he said, pointing to the right rear of his own head. “It was bleeding.”

“Did you think he was alive?”

“Yessir, he was. I felt his pulse in his neck.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to the phone there,” he pointed to a table, “and called nine-one-one and asked for the police and an ambulance quick.”

“What next?”

“The maid, Isabel, came into the hall from the kitchen; I told her to go and see if Mrs. Calder was all right, and she went toward the master suite, there, through the living room, and through that door.”

“How much time elapsed between the time you heard the shot and the time you found Mr. Calder?”

“I didn’t go right away; I kept listening and wondering if I had heard what I heard. I expect it may have been two or three minutes.”

“Which—two or three?”

“Closer to three, I guess. I wasn’t running.”

“Were those doors open?” Stone asked, pointing to the French doors that led to the pool, guesthouse, and gardens.

“One of them was,” Manolo said. “It was wide open, in a way it wouldn’t ordinarily be. Normally, it would either be closed, or both doors would be latched open.”

“What happened next?”

“Mrs. Calder came running into the hall with the maid; she was wearing a robe and dripping water.”

“What did she do or say?”

“She yelled out, ‘Vance!’ and then she got closer and saw the wound, and she backed away from him. She was making this noise, sort of like a scream, but not as loud, and she said, ‘No, no!’ a couple of times. I told Isabel to take her into the bedroom, that I would see to Mr. Calder and that an ambulance was on the way.”

“Manolo, when Mrs. Calder came in, did you smell anything?”

“Well, yessir, I guess she smelled real sweet, having just got out of the tub.”

Stone looked at the Saltillo tiles that formed the floor and saw a dark stain on the grout between the tiles.

“I couldn’t get that out,” Manolo said. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”

“What happened next, Manolo?”

“Two uniformed police officers arrived—they rang the bell, and I let them in the gate. They looked at Mr. Calder and felt his pulse, but they didn’t move him. One of them talked to somebody on a walkie-talkie. Not long after that, another police car arrived, this time, plainclothesmen. They went and talked to Mrs. Calder, and I followed them, but she wasn’t making any sense; she was hysterical and didn’t seem to know where she was or what had happened.”

“Show me where the master suite is, please.”

Manolo led him through the living room and through a set of double doors, then through a small foyer and into a large bedroom, which contained a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a sofa and chairs in front of a hearth. “Mrs. Calder’s dressing room and bath are through here,” he said, leading the way through a door to one side of the bed. There was another foyer, and to the left, a very large room, filled with hanging clothes, cubicles for sweaters and blouses, shoe racks, and a three-way mirror. To the right was a large bathroom with a big tub and a dressing table. On top of the dressing table was a large perfume bottle, emblazoned with the name “Chanel,” and next to that a bottle of bath oil with the same brand name. Stone smelled them both.

“Now, can I see Mr. Calder’s dressing room?” Stone asked.

“Right this way, sir.”

They walked back into the bedroom, around the bed, and through another door. The arrangement was the same but both the dressing room and bath were smaller and decorated in a more masculine style.

“Where is Mr. Calder’s safe?” Stone asked.

Manolo went to a mirror over a chest of drawers, pressed it, and it swung open to reveal a steel safe door, approximately fifteen by twenty inches, a size that would fit between the structural studs. An electronic keypad, not a combination lock, was imbedded in the door.

“Do you know the combination?” Stone asked.

“Yessir, it’s one-five-three-eight. You press the star key first, then the numbers, then the pound key, then turn that knob.”

Stone opened the safe, which was empty. “What did Mr. Calder keep in here?” he asked.

“He kept his jewelry box and a gun,” Manolo said.

“Do you know what kind of gun it was?”

“I don’t know the brand of it, but it was an automatic pistol. There was a box of ammunition, too, that said nine millimeter, but the police took that.”

“What was in the jewelry box?”

“Watches and other jewelry. Mr. Calder liked watches, and he had six or seven. There were some cuff links and studs, too; a nice selection.”

“What did the box look like?”

“It was about a foot long by, I guess, eight inches wide, and maybe three or four inches deep. Deep enough to have the watches on mounts that displayed them when you opened the box. It was made out of brown alligator skin.”

“The safe is pretty shallow,” Stone said.

“The box would just fit into it, lying flat on the shelf, there. The pistol was at the bottom, along with the box of bullets.”

Stone took one more look around. “Thank you, Manolo, that’s all I need. Where is Mr. Calder’s study? I’d like to make some phone calls.”

“The main door is off the living room,” Manolo said, “but you can get there this way, too.” He walked to a double rack of suits, took hold of the wooden frame, and pulled. The rack swung outward. Then he pressed on the wall, and a door swung open, offering entry to the study.

Stone followed the butler into the study, then watched as he swung the door shut. Closed, it was a bookcase like the others in the room.

“Mr. Calder liked little secret things like that,” Manolo said, smiling. “What time would you like dinner, Mr. Barrington?”

“Seven o’clock would be fine.”

“And how do you like your beef cooked?”

“Medium, please.”

“Would you like it served in the dining room or in the guesthouse?”

“In the guesthouse, I think.”

“We’ll see you at seven, then,” Manolo said, and left the room.

Stone turned to examine Vance Calder’s study.

Eleven

THREE ACADEMY AWARDS GAZED AT STONE FROM THE mantel of the small fireplace in the room. Stone knew that Vance had been nominated seven times and had won three. The room was paneled in antique pine that radiated a soft glow where the light struck it; there were some good pictures and many books. The room was extremely neat, as if it were about to be photographed for Architectural Digest.

Stone sat down at Calder’s desk, and as he did, the phone rang. He checked the line buttons and saw that it was the third line, the most secret number. He picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a brief silence. “Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Who’s calling?”

“Stone?”

“Dolce?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you; the Bel-Air said you had checked out.”

“I did, an hour ago. I’m staying in the Calders’ guesthouse.”

“With Arrington?”

“In the guesthouse. Arrington is in a hospital.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think I should go into that on the phone; the press, as you can imagine, is taking an intense interest in all this. I wouldn’t put it past some of the yellower journals to tap the phones.”

“So you can’t give me any information?”

“Not about Vance and Arrington, but I’m fine; I’m sure you wanted to know that.”

“I don’t like any of this, Stone.”

“Neither do I; I’d much rather be in Venice with you.”

“Sicily.”

“What?”

“I was going to take you to Sicily, to show you where my family came from. I’m there now, on our honeymoon.”

“I’m sorry to miss it; can I have a raincheck?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and there was petulance in her voice.

“Dolce, in Venice, you encouraged me to come here and help; that’s what I’m doing.”

“I had Papa and the cardinal to deal with. And exactly how are you helping?”

“I can’t go into that, for the reasons I’ve just explained. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow from another number.”

“Yes, do that.” She gave him her number and the dialing codes for Sicily.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Randy, actually. There’s a rather interesting-looking goatherd on the property; I was thinking of inviting him in for a drink.”

“I can sympathize with your feelings,” he replied. “I’d rather not be sleeping alone, myself.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “I don’t plan to.”

“I meant that I’d rather be sleeping with you.”

“You’d be my first choice, too,” she said, “but you’re not here, are you?”

Stone hardly knew what to say to that. Dolce had been mildly difficult, at times, but she had never behaved like this. He was shocked.

“No answer?”

“What can I say?”

“Say good night,” she said, then hung up.

“Well,” Stone said aloud, “that was very peculiar.” He turned his attention back to the desk and began opening drawers. The contents were pretty much the same as in his own desk, but they were much more neatly arranged. He had never seen anything quite like it, in fact; it was as if a servant had come in and arranged the contents of the desk every day. He looked around for filing cabinets, but there were none. Apparently, all business was done from Vance’s studio office.

Stone opened the center drawer, and, to his surprise, it pulled right out of the desk, into his lap. The drawer was lacking at least eight inches in what he had expected to be its depth. But why? He examined the bottom and sides of the drawer, which seemed perfectly normal, then he looked at the back. At the bottom of the rear of the drawer were two small brass hooks. Then he noticed that the drawer was slightly shallower than it might have been expected to be. He set the drawer on the desktop and looked at it for a minute. There was no apparent reason for the drawer to have hooks at its back. Unless . . . He took hold of the two drawer pulls and twisted, first to the left, then to the right. They moved clockwise for, perhaps, thirty degrees. He looked at the hooks on the back of the drawer; instead of lying flat, they were now positioned vertically.

He turned the knobs counterclockwise, and the hooks returned to their horizontal position. He reinserted the drawer all the way into the desk, turned the drawer pulls clockwise again, then opened the drawer all the way. The hooks had engaged another, smaller drawer that accounted for the missing depth, and in that drawer were some sealed envelopes, which he began opening.

The envelopes contained a copy of Vance’s will, a note to Arrington with instructions in the event of his death, and two insurance policies, with a value of five million dollars each, payable to Vance’s estate.

He placed the will on the desk and read it. There was a long list of bequests, most of them for a hundred thousand dollars or more. Two, to universities, were for a million dollars, for the establishment of chairs in the theatrical arts, and one was personal, in the same amount, to his secretary, Betty Southard. Arrington and Lou Regenstein had been appointed executors. The will was dated less than a month before. If everything else in Vance’s estate was as well organized as his will, Stone reflected, then his affairs were as neatly arranged as his desk drawers. Stone made a note of the law firm that had drawn the will, then he replaced the documents in the secret compartment, closed the drawer, turned the pulls counterclockwise, and opened it again, just to check. Everything was as before.

Stone then went to the bedroom and searched it thoroughly; he assumed that the police had done the same thing and that the maid had tidied the place after them. Maybe that was why Vance’s desk drawers were so neat. He found nothing but the ordinary detritus of wealthy married couples’ lives—keys, address books, family photographs, bedside books, remote controls. Stone realized that the room did not appear to have a television set. He pressed the power button, and the lid of an old trunk at the foot of the bed opened, and a very large TV set rose from its depths and switched on.

The local news was on, and it was about Vance. A handsome young woman gazed into the teleprompter and read: “Vance Calder’s widow has still not been questioned by the police. Greg Harrow has this report.”

The scene shifted to the Calders’ front gate, where a young man in an Italian suit spoke gravely. “Amanda, police department sources tell us that, as yet, there are no suspects in the murder of Vance Calder, and that his widow is still hospitalized, with no sign of emerging to speak. The investigating detectives want very much to talk to her, but her doctor refuses to allow her to be interviewed. Some of my colleagues in the media have been to every private hospital in the L.A./Beverly Hills area, without finding out where she is a patient. It had been suggested that she may have been taken to the Calder Palm Springs home, or to their Malibu beach house, but both those residences are dark, and during the past twenty-four hours, only one vehicle, a taxicab, has arrived here at the Calder Bel-Air home, and the driver refused to talk to the media. There was one man in the taxi, and he, apparently, remained at the house. Centurion Studios has issued a press release expressing the sorrow of everyone there at the news of Calder’s death and asking that the media leave Arrington Calder alone and allow her to rebuild her shattered life. The Calders’ only child, Peter, may still be at the Bel-Air house, cared for by the servants, but he has not been spotted here. All we have seen here is security, and plenty of it. A private service has the house and grounds completely sealed off, and no one, except the taxi, has arrived or departed today. We’ll keep you posted as details come in.”

Stone switched off the TV set, pleased with the news. He could hardly have written it better himself, but he knew the lid could not be kept on for much longer. He picked up the phone and called Rick Grant’s home number.

“Hi, Stone, how’s it going?”

“As well as can be expected,” Stone said. “Let me give you a number where you, and only you, can reach me.” He dictated the number. “You can also reach me at Vance Calder’s offices at Centurion, as of tomorrow. I’m going to work out of there.”

“Anything new?”

“Not much. Arrington is still under a doctor’s care.”

“How much longer?”

“You can tell your people that I’ll make her available at the earliest possible moment.”

“Tell them yourself,” he said. “That would be better. The lead detectives on the investigation are Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant, out of Brentwood.” He gave Stone the number.

“I’ll call them tomorrow morning.”

“These are decent guys, Stone, and Durkee, in particular, is a very good detective, but unless they start getting cooperation from Arrington, they’re going to begin leaking stuff to the media, and that would not be good for her.”

“We’re not hiding anything; Arrington really hasn’t been up to questioning, but she’s getting better.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not a thing, Rick; I’ll call Durkee tomorrow.”

“Good night, then; Barbara sends her best.”

“My best to her, too.” Stone hung up and felt a hunger pang. He walked back out to the guesthouse, where he found Manolo setting a small table and the maid hanging his clothes in the closet, having pressed them.

He sat down to his steak and half a bottle of good Cabernet and tried to forget both Arrington and Dolce as he watched a movie on television. He was unable to forget either of them.

Twelve

IT WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA MORNING, cool and sunny. Stone swam a few laps in the pool, then put on a guest’s terrycloth robe and breakfasted by the pool, looking over the Los Angeles Times and The New York Times, which had arrived with his breakfast. The Vance Calder story had been relegated to the inside pages of the New York newspaper, and was struggling to cling to the front page of the L.A. journal, but it wasn’t going to go away, he knew. The moment a fragment of new information surfaced, there would be headlines again.

He showered, shaved, dressed, and walked into the house, carrying his briefcase. He retrieved the documents from the secret compartment of Vance’s desk and put them into his briefcase, then he rang for Manolo. “I’d like to use one of the Calders’ cars,” he told the butler.

“Of course, Mr. Barrington, right this way.” He led Stone to a door that opened into the garage, which had enough room for six cars, but held only four: a Bentley Arnage; two Mercedes SL600s, one black and one white; and a Mercedes station wagon. “The nanny and I use the station wagon for household errands, unless you’d like it,” Manolo said.

The Bentley was too much, Stone thought. “No, I’ll take one of the other Mercedes—the black one, I suppose. That was Mr. Calder’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. The white one is Mrs. Calder’s. You’ll find the keys in the car.”

Stone had used the black convertible once before, when in L.A., and he recalled that it did not have vanity plates, so it would not be immediately recognized by the media. In fact, he reckoned, a black Mercedes convertible would, in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, be a practically anonymous car. He backed out of the garage, drove around the house and, using his remote, let himself out of the utility gate and onto the street beyond. He checked to be sure that he was not followed, then drove to Centurion Studios.

The guard was momentarily confused to see Vance Calder’s car arrive with a different driver, but when Stone gave his name, he was immediately issued with a studio pass.

“The one on the windshield will get this car in,” the guard said. “Use the other pass, if you drive a different car.”

“Can you direct me to Mr. Calder’s bungalow, please?” The guard gave him directions, and five minutes later, he had parked in Vance’s reserved parking spot. The bungalow was just that; it looked like one of the older, smaller Beverly Hills houses below Wilshire. Stone walked through the front door into a living room.

A panel in the wall slid open, and Betty Southard stuck her head through the opening. “I knew you’d turn up,” she said. She left her office, walked into the living room and gave him a big hug and a kiss. “I’m glad to see you again,” she said.

“I’m glad to see you, too; I’m going to need a lot of your help.”

“Lou Regenstein called and said you’d be using Vance’s office.” She waved him into a panelled study, much the same as the one at the house, but larger, with a conference table at one end. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “The phones are straightforward; you can make your own calls, or I’ll place them for you, depending on whether you want to impress somebody.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Stone said, placing his briefcase on the desk. “I have some personal news for you; have you seen Vance’s will?”

“Not the new one; he made that recently, and he hadn’t brought a copy to the office.”

“You’re a beneficiary,” Stone said. “He left you a million dollars.”

Betty’s jaw dropped, and a hand went to her mouth. “I think I’d better sit down,” she said, and she did, taking a chair by the desk. Stone sat down behind it. “You didn’t know?”

“I hadn’t a clue,” she said. “I mean, I suppose I would have expected something after fifteen years with him—I joined him at twelve, you know,” she said archly.

Stone laughed. “Now you’re a rich woman; what are you going to do?”

Betty sighed. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she said. “Lou has told me I could have my pick of jobs at the studio, but I don’t know. I might just retire. I’ve saved some money, and I’ve done well in the bull market, and there’s a studio pension, too; Vance got me fully vested in that last year, as a Christmas present.”

“Then you can be a woman of leisure.”

“A lady who lunches? I’m not sure I could handle that. Certainly, I’ll stay on long enough to help you settle Vance’s affairs—and Arrington’s, too,” she said darkly. “I’m sure she’ll have a lot to settle.”

“And what does that mean?” Stone asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess you know that Arrington and I have never gotten along too well—yes, you can call it jealousy, if you like, but there were other reasons.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Stone, tell me straight: Did Arrington shoot Vance?”

“I haven’t the slightest reason to think so,” Stone replied. “And I don’t know why it even occurred to you to ask the question.”

“As I understand it, the police have not cleared her.”

“They haven’t even talked to her, but I expect them to clear her when they do. She’s at the Judson Clinic.”

“Is she ill?”

“Not exactly, but she’s been better. When she saw Vance on the floor of their home with a bullet in his head she pretty much went to pieces.”

“Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?” Betty said with a hint of sarcasm.

Stone ignored that. “I hope she can get the police interview out of the way soon, maybe even today. It will depend on what her doctor says.”

“Look, I certainly don’t have any evidence, but—call it woman’s intuition, if you like—I think Arrington is perfectly capable of having killed Vance, then pretending to break down, just to keep from having to talk to the police.”

“Tell me why you think that.”

“Just for starters, I think Vance was miserable in the marriage. Oh, he never said so, in so many words, but I knew him as well as anybody, and I think that, in spite of his constant good humor, he was unhappy.”

“Give me some example of his unhappiness.”

“I can’t. It was just the odd comment, the raised eyebrow when Arrington was mentioned. He did love Peter, though; I’ve never seen a man love a child so much.”

“Anything more specific?”

“No, certainly nothing I could testify to under oath.”

Stone relaxed a little inside; he hadn’t realized he had become so tense. “Well, I hope you’ll keep your feelings to yourself. If you think of anything specific you can tell me, I want to hear about it, though.”

“Of course.”

Stone glanced at his watch. “Let’s get started. Will you get me Dr. James Judson at the Judson Clinic?”

Betty placed the call from the conference table phone, then left the room and closed the door.

“Good morning, Jim. it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Good morning, Stone.”

“How’s your patient this morning?”

“She’s very well, I think. I believe she’s about ready to go home.”

“Not just yet,” Stone said. “She’s going to have to talk to the police, and I’d like her to do it from a hospital bed.”

“I understand. When do you want them to see her?”

“Today, if you think it’s all right.”

“I think it should be. She’s mentioned that she expects them to come, so we may as well get it over with. I’d like to be with her when they question her, though.”

“Of course, and I will be, too. How about early afternoon?”

“All right; I’ll prepare her.”

“I’ll do some preparation, too, before they arrive. I’ll let you know the exact time, after I’ve talked to them.”

“I’ll wait to hear from you, before I tell Arrington.”

“I’m working from Mr. Calder’s office at the studio, should you need to reach me.” Stone gave him the number, then hung up. He found the intercom and buzzed Betty.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Now get me Detective Sam Durkee at the Brentwood LAPD station.”

After a short wait, Betty buzzed him, and he picked up the phone. “Detective Durkee?”

“That’s right.”

“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m handling the affairs of Mrs. Vance Calder.”

“I know your name from Rick Grant,” Durkee said. “Rick says you’re an ex-homicide detective.”

“That’s right; NYPD.”

“Then you’ll understand what we have to do.”

“Of course. I’ve just spoken to Mrs. Calder’s doctor, and he says you can interview her this afternoon. How about two o’clock at the Judson Clinic?”

“That’s good for me; I’ll bring my partner, Ted Bryant.”

“You have to understand her condition,” Stone said. “She’s been very badly shaken up, and there are some big gaps in her memory.”

“Oh? How big?”

“When I spoke with her yesterday, the last thing she could remember was a conversation with her gardener eight days before the homicide. I’ve confirmed the date with her butler.”

“So, basically, when we question her, she’s going to say she remembers nothing?”

“Her doctor says she may recover some of her memories, but I can’t promise you anything. For a while, she didn’t remember being married to Calder, but she’s gotten past that, so she may remember even more. I can tell you that she has no hesitation about talking to you; she wants her husband’s murderer caught and prosecuted.”

“Well, we’ll certainly try to make that wish come true,” Durkee said.

“There have to be some ground rules: Both her doctor and I will be present at the interview, and if either of us, for any reason, feels she shouldn’t continue, we’ll stop it.”

“Understood,” Durkee said dryly. “See you at two o’clock.”

Stone hung up and began to think about this interview. It was crucial, he knew, for Arrington to convince them she was innocent. If she couldn’t do that, her life was going to change even more dramatically than it already had.

Thirteen

STONE COULD HAVE SPOTTED THE TWO MEN AS DETECTIVES in any city in the United States. They were both middle-aged, dressed in middling suits that revealed bulges under the left arm to anyone looking for them. Sam Durkee was at least six-four and beefy in build; Stone made him as an ex-athlete. Ted Bryant was shorter, bald, and pudgy. He didn’t expect either of them to be stupid, and his plan was to be as cooperative as humanly possible, without handing them his client on a platter.

He shook their hands, then led them upstairs to Arrington’s room. She was sitting up in bed wearing cotton pajamas; Dr. Judson was at her bedside. Stone made the introductions, and everybody pulled up a chair.

Durkee took the lead. “Mrs. Calder,” he said, “first, I want to offer the department’s condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you,” Arrington said, managing a wan smile.

“I hope you understand that there are questions we must ask, if we’re to apprehend your husband’s killer; I know this won’t be pleasant, but we’ll keep it as short as we can, and we’d like the fullest answers you can give us.”

“I’ll do my best,” Arrington replied.

“What do you recall about the evening your husband was shot?”

“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid. I remember going to the hairdresser’s the day before, Friday, but I don’t remember driving home, or anything after that, until I woke up here.”

A Friday memory was progress, Stone thought.

“Are you beginning to pick up pieces of your memory?” Bryant asked.

“It seems so,” she said. “Every day, I remember a little more.”

“Are you aware that your husband owned a gun?”

“He told me so, but I never saw it.”

“Was he the sort of man who would have used a gun to defend his home?”

“He certainly was; I’m sure that’s why he owned it.”

“Do you know where he kept the gun?”

“No.”

Stone spoke up. “The butler told me that Mr. Calder kept a nine-millimeter pistol in the same safe where he kept his jewelry.”

“Thank you,” Durkee replied. “Mrs. Calder, how would you characterize your marriage?”

“As a very happy one,” Arrington replied.

“Did you and your husband ever quarrel?”

“Of course.” She smiled a little. “But our quarrels were almost always good-humored. You might call them mock quarrels. We argued about lots of things, but always with respect and affection.”

“You say your quarrels were ‘almost’ always good-humored. Did they ever become violent?”

“You mean, did Vance ever hit me? Certainly not.”

“Did you ever hit him?”

She looked down. “I can remember slapping him, once and only once. He’d said something that offended me.”

“What did he do when you slapped him?”

“He apologized, and it never happened again. My husband was a gentleman in every possible sense of the word.”

“When you argued, what did you argue about?”

“He would give me a hard time, sometimes, about how much shopping I did. Vance had a tailor, a shirt-maker, and a bootmaker; he ordered his clothes from swatches, so shopping was very simple for him. I think it both amused and horrified him to learn how women shop. He could never understand why I would buy things, then take them back the next day.”

“Any other subjects you argued about?”

“Sometimes we’d disagree on child rearing. Vance believed strongly in corporal punishment, and I didn’t. He’d been brought up that way by his parents, and in English schools, and he thought if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for his son.”

“Did he use corporal punishment often with your child?”

“Rarely, and then only a palm applied to the bottom.”

“And you disagreed with that?”

“Yes. I was never struck as a child, and I didn’t want Peter to be.”

“What else did you disagree about?”

She shrugged. “I can’t think of anything else specifically.”

“What about women?”

“There were one or two of my friends he didn’t like much, but he tolerated them for my sake.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Durkee said. “Are you aware that your husband had a reputation for sleeping with his leading ladies?”

Arrington smiled. “That was before we were married. My husband walked the straight and narrow.”

“And if you had learned that he didn’t, might that have provoked a quarrel?”

“It might have provoked a divorce,” Arrington replied. “When we married, I let him know in no uncertain terms what I expected of him in that regard.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Fidelity.”

“Were you always faithful to him?”

“Always,” she replied.

“Was there any man in your past for whom you still felt . . . affection?”

Stone was a little uncomfortable with this, but he kept a straight face and waited for her answer.

“I feel affection for a number of friends,” Arrington replied, “but I was as faithful to my husband as he was to me.”

Stone didn’t like this answer, and he saw the two detectives exchange a glance.

Arrington saw it, too. “What I mean is, I was faithful to him, and he was faithful to me.”

“Mrs. Calder, are you acquainted with a woman named Charlene Joiner?”

“Of course; she costarred with my husband in a film.”

“Were you and Ms. Joiner friends?”

“No; we met a few times, and our relationship was cordial, but I wouldn’t call us friends. The last time I saw her was when she and Vance cohosted a political fund-raiser at our house.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that your husband, while he was filming with Ms. Joiner, was spending considerable periods of time in her trailer?”

“No; I suppose they had lines to read together.”

Bryant spoke up. “Mrs. Calder, when did you become aware that your husband was having sex with Ms. Joiner?”

“I was not and am not aware of that,” she replied icily.

“Come on, Mrs. Calder,” Bryant said impatiently. “While they were filming together, your husband stopped having sex with you, didn’t he?”

They were good cop/bad copping her, and Stone hoped Arrington had the sense to realize it. He made no move to stop them.

“My husband and I had a very satisfactory sex life, and I can’t remember any period of our marriage when that wasn’t the case,” Arrington replied firmly.

“Do you not recall ever telling another woman that your husband had stopped making love to you?”

Arrington frowned. “Ah,” she said, “I think I know what you’re getting at. A friend of mine once complained to me that her husband had stopped sleeping with her, and I believe I tried to commiserate by telling her that all couples went through periods like that. I think you must have spoken with Beverly Walters.”

“Do you deny telling Mrs. Walters that your husband had stopped fucking you?” Bryant demanded.

Stone began to speak, but Arrington held up a hand and stopped him. “I think Mrs. Walters may have inferred a bit more than I meant to imply,” she said, and her color was rising.

“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said, breaking in, “if you had learned that your husband was having sex once, sometimes twice a day with Ms. Joiner in her trailer, would that have made you angry?”

“Hypothetically? Yes, I suppose it would have hurt me badly.”

“When you are hurt by a man, do you respond angrily?”

“I have a temper, Detective Durkee, but on the occasions when it comes out, I have never harmed another human being.”

“When was the last time you fired a handgun?” Bryant asked suddenly.

“I have never fired a pistol,” she replied.

“But you know how, don’t you?”

“I have never, to the best of my recollection, even held a handgun.”

“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee asked, “where is your husband’s jewelry box?”

“I’d like very much to know, Detective; I had hoped that, by now, you might be able to tell me.”

“Where did you hide the jewelry box and the pistol?”

“I didn’t hide either of them anywhere,” she replied.

“But you say you don’t remember anything about the shooting. How could you remember not hiding them?”

“To the very best of my recollection, I have not handled either my husband’s jewelry box or his gun.”

“Mrs. Calder, do you recall hearing or reading somewhere that perfume applied to the hands and arms removes any trace of having fired a weapon?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What kind of perfume do you use?”

“I use several, but my favorite is Chanel No. 5.”

“Did you use that the night your husband was shot?”

“I don’t remember the night my husband was shot.”

“Would you use perfume before taking a bath?”

Arrington looked at him as if he were mad. “No.”

“Then why would you reek of perfume on getting out of a bath?”

“I use bath oil, Detective, of the same scent as my perfume, but generally speaking, I never reek.”

Stone supressed a smile. He sensed that the two detectives were running out of questions, but he didn’t rush them.

“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said, “I have to tell you that, after investigating your husband’s murder very thoroughly, we have concluded that the two of you were alone in the house when he was shot.”

“That hardly seems possible,” Arrington replied. “Otherwise, where are the jewelry box and the gun?”

“We believe you hid them after shooting your husband.”

“Where? Have you searched our house?”

“We haven’t found them—yet,” Bryant said.

“Let me know when you do,” Arrington said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to file an insurance claim.”

Durkee stood up. “I believe that’s all for now,” he said, turning to Stone. “I want to be notified when she leaves the hospital, and I want to know where she goes.”

“I’ll give you a call,” Stone said, walking both men toward the door.

When they were outside, Bryant turned to Stone. “She killed him,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Stone said. “It’s obvious that someone got into the house. Haven’t you found any evidence of anyone else?”

The two detectives exchanged a glance.

“I want disclosure,” Stone said.

“Are you licensed to practice law in the state of California?” Bryant asked.

“No.”

“My advice is to get her a lawyer who is. I’m sure the D.A. will disclose to him.”

Stone watched as the two detectives walked to their car. He didn’t like the way this was going.

Fourteen

STONE ARRIVED BACK AT VANCE’S STUDIO BUNGALOW to find a message from Lou Regenstein, whom he’d been meaning to call anyway. He got the studio head on the phone.

“How is Arrington?” Lou asked.

“Much better. Her doctor says she can go home tomorrow.”

“Have you given any thought to funeral arrangements?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m sure the studio can do a much better job of this than I can.”

“I have a suggestion,” Lou said.

“Go ahead.”

“We have a cathedral set on our biggest sound stage right now. I’d like to hold a memorial service for Vance there and, in addition to his friends, invite many of the studio employees who have worked with Vance over the years.”

“That sounds good to me,” Stone said.

“I’d like to invite a small media pool and allow them to tape the service. I think that will go a long way toward keeping them off Arrington’s back right now.”

“Why don’t you give Arrington a call at the Judson Clinic and discuss it with her? I think she’s up to it now; she saw the police this afternoon.”

“Is Arrington facing any legal difficulties?” Lou asked.

“It’s too soon to tell, Lou; the police, not having a suspect, quite naturally look at the spouse. I think we’ll just have to wait for them to get past that.”

“Have you called Marc Blumberg, my lawyer friend, yet?”

“Not yet; I hope we won’t need him. Also, there’s a downside to calling him; if somebody in his firm leaked the call to the press, it would make it look as though we expected Arrington to be charged.”

“I understand,” Lou said. “I’ll call Arrington now.”

Stone hung up and glanced at his watch. It would be midnight in Sicily, now, and he hadn’t called Dolce yet. He knew she liked to stay up late, so he dialed the number.

It rang once, before being picked up by a machine. “I’m entertaining a guest right now,” Dolce’s voice said, “so go away.”

Stone hung up, angry, and tried to think of something else. He thought of Marc Blumberg and dialed his number.

“Mr. Blumberg’s office,” a woman said.

“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m calling Mr. Blumberg at the suggestion of Lou Regenstein.”

“And how can Mr. Blumberg help you, Mr. Barrington?”

He obviously wasn’t going to get past this woman without telling her the purpose of his call, and he had no intention of doing that. “Please ask Mr. Blumberg to call me at Centurion Studios.” He gave her the number and hung up.

Betty Southard came into the office. “I was passing and heard you mention a Blumberg. Marc Blumberg?”

Stone nodded.

“Is Arrington in that much trouble?”

“It’s just a precaution,” Stone replied. “I think it’s best to be ready for anything.”

“I suppose so,” she said. “How about some dinner tonight?”

“I’d like that,” Stone said. He hadn’t been looking forward to being sequestered at the Calder house, and Dolce’s behavior had removed any guilt he might have felt about seeing another woman. “Book us at your favorite restaurant.”

“Pick me up at seven-thirty?”

“Sure.”

“You remember the address?”

“How could I forget?”

The phone rang, and Betty picked up the one on the desk. “Mr. Calder’s bungalow.” She handed the phone to Stone. “Marc Blumberg.”

“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Blumberg,” Stone said. “Lou Regenstein has suggested we meet to discuss something very important.”

“Of course,” Blumberg said. “Tomorrow morning okay?”

Stone could hear diary pages turning. “I’d rather not come to your office, for reasons I’ll explain later. Would it be possible for you to meet me at Centurion Studios after office hours?”

“I’ll be finished here by five-thirty,” Blumberg replied. “I could be there by six, but I’ll only have about forty-five minutes; I have to get home and change for dinner.”

“Six will be fine,” Stone said. “I’ll leave instructions for you at the gate.” He hung up. “Betty,” he said, “will you have a pass and directions to the bungalow at the main gate? Blumberg is coming here at six.”

“Consider it done,” she replied.

“Do you mind if I don’t change for dinner?” he asked. “I won’t have time to go back to Vance’s.”

“No problem. When is Arrington getting out of the hospital?”

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

“Do you think you should be living at the house then?”

“You have a dirty mind.”

“You bet I do; I have two suggestions.”

“What?”

“The first is, move in with me. I managed to make you comfortable the last time you were here.”

“I think it’s best that I just move back to the Bel-Air,” Stone said. “What’s your second suggestion?”

“Vance has . . . had a place at Malibu; I think that might be enough distance between you and Arrington, and I’ve got the keys.”

“That’s a thought,” Stone said. “I’ll let you know.”

Marc Blumberg bustled into the bungalow promptly at six, a small, fit-looking, deeply tanned man of fifty in a perfectly cut suit and gleaming shoes.

Stone shook his hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m okay,” Blumberg said, taking a seat on a leather sofa. “I believe I’ve heard of you, Stone. May I call you Stone?”

Stone sat down beside him. “Of course.”

“And I’m Marc. I remember that business in St. Mark’s a few years back, when you defended the woman on a murder charge. Saw it on 60 Minutes, I think.”

“Yes, that was a difficult one.”

“Pity she was hanged.”

“Yes.”

“I remember from Lou that you’re a friend of Mrs. . . . the Calders. I take it I’m here to talk about another murder trial.”

“Let’s call this a precautionary meeting.”

“It’s always wise to take precautions. Has Arrington talked to the police yet?”

“Earlier this afternoon.”

“I should have been there for that,” Blumberg said.

“I didn’t want to appear to be running scared,” Stone said. “You’d have been happy with the way it went.” He gave Blumberg a detailed rundown of Arrington’s questioning.

“That sounds okay,” Blumberg said. “You handled it well.”

“Thank you.”

“Sounds as though they don’t have another suspect.”

“That’s how I read it. They went through the drill the night of the murder, and they didn’t come up with anything, and that disturbs them. Cops like early indications, and when they don’t find them, they look at the household.”

“Anybody in the house besides Arrington?”

“No. The butler and maid were in their quarters; the butler found Vance and called the police.”

“What was the scene like?”

“Vance was dressed in tuxedo trousers and a pleated shirt, no tie. They were going to a black-tie dinner at Lou’s house a little later. He was found lying facedown in the central hallway of the house, one bullet here.” Stone pointed at the spot.

“You used to be a cop, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got a scenario for this that doesn’t involve Arrington shooting Vance?”

“Here’s how I read it,” Stone said. “Arrington was in the bathtub; Vance was getting dressed. His safe was open, containing his jewelry box, a nine-millimeter automatic, and a box of cartridges. He either walked in on a burglary, or a burglar walked in on him, probably the former. The burglar took the jewelry box and the gun, walked Vance into the central hallway and shot him.”

“Any struggle?”

“Looks like an execution to me. My guess is, Vance saw it coming and turned away. That’s why the wound in the back of the head.” Stone stood up, held out his hands in the “no, no” position, then half turned away from his imaginary assailant.

“Makes sense,” Blumberg said.

“For Arrington to have done it, she would have to have gone to the safe, taken out the gun, cocked it, flipped off the safety, then either marched her husband out into the hall, or gone looking for him and found him there. That doesn’t fit a domestic quarrel.”

“It fits a cold-blooded, premeditated murder,” Blumberg said. “How do you figure the chances of that?”

“Unlikely in the extreme.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So what we’ve got is an innocent woman who loved her husband, who is a suspect only because the police haven’t done their job and found the real killer.”

“In a nutshell,” Stone said. “A couple of other things you should know: I got the impression from the detectives that they might have other evidence we don’t know about. They refused to disclose it to me, said they’d talk to a California lawyer.”

“We’ll get it; don’t worry. What’s the other thing?”

“The police talked to a woman named Beverly Walters, who told them Vance was screwing an actress named Charlene Joiner; they took that as Arrington’s motive for the shooting.”

“I know her; she’s a complete bitch, and she could give us trouble at a trial. Charlene Joiner, huh? If it’s true, Vance was a lucky guy.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of her pictures.”

“Tell me, Stone, what’s your role in all this?” Blumberg asked. “Family friend?”

“That, and for the moment, Arrington’s personal representative. I have her confidence and a power of attorney.”

Blumberg looked Stone in the eye. “You and Arrington ever have a thing, Stone?”

“We were living together in New York when she suddenly married Vance.”

“You want me to represent her?”

“If it becomes necessary.”

“I think you’re right about my presence being a red flag; the media would play that big. Here’s what we do. I don’t so much as even speak to Arrington, unless we find out she’s going to be arrested.”

“I might be able to get advance notice of that, if it happens.”

“Good. If you do, I surrender her to the D.A. I can arrange that. From then on, I’m her lawyer, not you; I’m running the case.”

Stone shook his head. “If it comes to that, I’ll want to be involved every step of the way.”

“That’s not how I work.”

“Then I can only thank you for your time,” Stone said.

Blumberg thought for a moment. “What do you want?”

“Second chair; partner in decision-making; no move without my agreement.”

“All right,” Blumberg said. “Are you licensed in California?”

“No.”

“I’ll deal with that. I’ll want a hundred-thousand-dollar retainer up front, against a half-million-dollar fee, the remainder payable before the trial starts.”

“To include all your expenses,” Stone said.

“Agreed. If I can stop it before it goes to trial, I’ll bill her at a thousand dollars an hour.”

“To include your associates and staff.”

“Done.” Blumberg held out his hand, and Stone shook it.

“I’ll draft a letter appointing you and get a check drawn, immediately after any arrest.”

“When is Arrington returning home?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Where are you living while you’re here?”

“In the Calders’ guesthouse.”

“I don’t want the two of you to spend so much as a single night under the same roof. Move out before she gets home.”

“All right.”

Blumberg looked at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to run,” he said.

“One thing, Marc,” Stone said. “I don’t want you to mention this to anybody—staff, wife—anybody.”

“That goes without saying,” Blumberg replied.

Stone walked him to his car. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Blumberg said breezily. “I’ll get her off.”

Stone waved good-bye, then went to his own car. You probably will, he thought, but I hope to God it doesn’t come to that.

He went back to his desk, called Dolce again and got the same message. It only made him angrier. He was glad to be having some company tonight.

Fifteen

STONE AND BETTY SAT AT A GOOD TABLE AT SPAGO BEVERLY Hills. “I remember when this was another restaurant,” he said. “I had lunch here a couple of times, in the garden.”

“I’ll give you a little Beverly Hills gossip,” Betty said. “You know why the old place failed, after many years as a success?”

“Tell me.”

“The story is, a group of prominent wives were having lunch here, when they overheard the owner make an anti-Semitic remark. They told their friends, their friends told their friends, and within two weeks, the place was empty. It went out of business not long afterward.”

“I’ll bet you’re full of Beverly Hills gossip,” Stone said.

“You bet I am.”

“Then tell me, was Vance sleeping with Charlene Joiner?”

Betty smiled. “What do you know about Charlene Joiner?”

“Just what I read in the papers during the presidential campaign. She had once had an affair with Will Lee, back when he was first running for the Senate, and the Republicans tried to make something of it.”

“Well, let me tell you: Charlene is some piece of work. She has cut a swath through the rich and powerful in this town, and she has done it very cleverly, choosing her partners carefully, as much for their discretion as for what they can do for her career.”

“Sounds like a smart girl.”

“Smart, and from what I can glean, spectacular in the sack, in a town where outstanding is ordinary.”

“But was Vance sleeping with her?”

Betty toyed with her drink.

“I don’t think it would be disloyal of you to tell me.”

“Yes, I know; Vance is dead, but sometimes I feel as though he’s just on location, or something, and that he might walk into the bungalow at any moment.”

“If you feel you’d be betraying a confidence, I understand.”

“This has something to do with Arrington, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“It might, before this is all over. It’s important that I know whether this is just a rumor, or if it’s true.”

Stone looked up to see a lush-looking brunette in her midthirties walk up to their table. She was fashionably dressed, coiffed, and made up, and Stone thought her breasts seemed too large for the rest of her.

“Hello, Betty,” the woman said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

Stone stood up.

“Hi, Beverly,” Betty replied. “Oh, Stone, this is Beverly Walters; Beverly, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Arrington’s friend?” she held out a hand. “She’s told me so much about you.”

“How do you do?” Stone said.

“How long are you in town for?”

“Not very long,” Stone replied.

She fished a card from her handbag and handed it to him. “Call me; maybe I can help.”

Stone pocketed the card. “Thank you.”

“Betty, I’m so sorry about Vance; I know how close you were.”

“Thanks, Beverly,” Betty replied, without much enthusiasm.

“Call me, if you want to bend an ear,” the woman said. She gave Stone a little wave and walked back to her table.

“Steer clear of her,” Betty said through clenched teeth.

“She’s the source of the rumor I’m trying to confirm,” Stone said. “She told the police that Vance was sleeping with Charlene Joiner.”

“She doesn’t know anything; she’s just inventing gossip.”

Their dinner arrived.

“Betty, one more time: Was Vance sleeping with her?”

“All right, I’ll tell you about Vance. It was his practice to sleep with all his leading ladies, and a lot of those in supporting roles, too.”

“Even after he was married?”

“He never wavered. He’d either have them back to the bungalow for lunch or to his trailer. You haven’t seen the trailer, have you? It is very comfortable.”

“All his leading ladies?”

“You go back and watch any film that Vance starred in, and you may wonder why the love scenes are so convincing. Well, they were convincing, because they had been very well rehearsed.”

“And how many pictures did Vance make after he was married?”

Betty counted on her fingers. “Four,” she said.

“You think Arrington knew about this?”

“I don’t think Vance was shortchanging her, if that’s what you mean.”

“This Walters woman told police that Arrington had complained to her that Vance had stopped sleeping with her, and that the reason was an affair with Charlene Joiner.”

Betty shook her head. “That just doesn’t ring true. Vance was a sexual athlete his whole life. He was in superb physical condition, and he loved sex. He could have made a very nice living doing porno movies, because he had both the equipment and the endurance for the work. It’s much more likely that Arrington would have complained of too much sex, rather than not enough.”

“How do you know about all this?”

“Because I know everything about Vance Calder. I worked for him for fifteen years, and I got the job while in bed with him. I was a script girl on one of his pictures, and we were fucking each other for most of the shoot. Toward the end of the picture, he offered me the job. He told me, quite frankly, that our little affair was going to end with the wrap, and I knew he was telling the truth. I took the job, because it was better than the one I had, and we didn’t make love again. But he never kept secrets from me. Maybe that’s why he left me the million dollars—because he knew I could make that much writing a tell-all book. I could, too.”

“I’ll bet you could.”

“So, now you know what you want to know?”

“I do.”

“Now you tell me something,” she said.

“Anything.”

“The last time you were in L.A., you and I had a rather delicious time together.”

“We certainly did.”

“Why do I get the feeling that isn’t going to happen this time?”

“Things have changed,” Stone said. He told her about Dolce and why he had been in Venice.

Betty nodded. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t like it much, but I understand.”

“Thank you for not liking it,” Stone replied.

Sixteen

STONE SLIPPED INTO THE ESTATE THROUGH THE UTILITY entrance, parked his car in back and walked to the guesthouse. He got out of yesterday’s clothes, slipped into a robe, called Manolo, and ordered breakfast. As soon as he set down the phone, it rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone?” It was Arrington, and she sounded agitated. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night—where have you been?”

“Right here,” he lied. “I was tired, so I unhooked the phone. I just plugged it in again so I could order breakfast. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling very well, thank you. The doctor says I can leave this morning. He wants to check me over once more, but I should be ready to go by ten. Will you come and get me, please?”

“Of course. I’ll be there at ten sharp.”

“Oh, good. Will you bring me some clothes? Ask Isabel, the maid, to put together an outfit—slacks and a blouse, shoes, stockings, and underwear. They brought me here practically naked, and I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Sure. I’ll call Isabel, and I’ll see you there at ten.” He started to tell her he was moving out of the house, but he thought it might be best to wait until he saw her.

“See you then, darling,” she said and hung up.

Stone called the maid and asked her to put the clothing into his car; then, as he promised he would, he called Sam Durkee at the Brentwood station.

“Durkee.”

“Morning, Sam. It’s Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Calder was leaving the clinic; it’s this morning.” He paused for a moment, native caution coming into play. “At ten-thirty.”

“Hey, Ted,” Durkee called out, “Vance Calder’s widow is getting out at ten-thirty.” His voice returned to the receiver. “Thanks for letting us know,” he said.

“Do you need to speak with her again?” Stone asked.

“Not at the moment.”

“If you do, call me at Centurion Studios, and I’ll arrange it. The operator there will find me.”

“Sure thing.”

“Good-bye.” Stone hung up, wishing he hadn’t called Durkee; he had a funny feeling about this.

At nine-fifteen, as Stone was finishing breakfast, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone? It’s Jim Judson, at the clinic.”

“Morning, Jim; is Arrington still going to be ready to leave at ten?”

“I’m not sure if you’ll want her to,” Judson replied. “As we speak, the press is gathering outside. There are three television vans with satellite dishes, and at least a dozen reporters.”

“Ah,” Stone said, once again regretting his call to Durkee. “I think this calls for a change in plans.”

“I thought you might think so.”

“Is there another way out of the building besides the front door?”

“We have a small parking lot for staff at the west end of the building. You enter it from near the front door, but the exit is around the corner. From my office, I can see media people staking that out, too, but only a handful of them.”

Stone had a look at his street map of Beverly Hills. “All right, here’s what we do,” Stone said. “Can you find a nurse’s uniform that will fit Arrington?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Get her dressed in the uniform, cap and all, and borrow a car—the older and more modest, the better—from one of your staff. Have Arrington walk out to the parking lot, get into the car, and leave by the side-street exit. Have her turn left, then take her first right. I’ll be waiting there. She’ll leave the borrowed car there for you to pick up.”

“All right. When do you want her to leave the building?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour?”

“Fine.”

“How is she this morning?”

“She’s all right, but you might still find her a little fragile. She still hasn’t remembered anything between her hair appointment the day before the murder and waking up here the day after.”

“Thanks, Jim; I’ll speak to you later, if I have any questions.” Stone hung up, then checked his map again. He’d have to pass a corner near the clinic to position himself where he wanted to be; he hoped his car would be anonymous enough. He called Manolo. “I’d like to take the station wagon today,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Barrington; I’ll have Isabel put the clothes in that car. The keys are in it.”

Stone drove out the utility exit and made his way toward the Judson Clinic. He had to stop at a traffic light on the corner half a block from the clinic, and as he waited, Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant drove past him on the cross street, toward the clinic. “You sons of bitches,” Stone muttered. The light changed and he drove straight ahead, past the exit from the employees’ parking lot, which a small group of reporters had staked out. He turned right at the next corner and pulled over, leaving the engine running.

Ten minutes passed, and, right on time, Arrington appeared, driving an elderly Honda. She parked the car, ran over to the Mercedes station wagon, and got in. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Stone,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Stone pulled out of his parking space. “Your clothes are in the backseat. Did anybody recognize you?”

“Nope; they hardly gave me a glance. I wasn’t what they were expecting, I guess.” She began undressing.

Stone tried to keep his eyes straight ahead and failed. “I don’t think we should go to the Bel-Air house,” he said.

“Shall we just check into a motel, then?” she suggested.

“How about the Malibu house?”

“I don’t have a key with me.”

“Betty gave me one; I was going to move out there today.”

“All right, let’s go to Malibu; I have clothes and everything I need out there, except maybe some groceries.”

Stone made his way to the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard and drove toward the ocean. Soon, they were on the Pacific Coast Highway.

“God!” Arrington exclaimed. “It feels so good to be out of that place.”

“Seemed like a very nice place,” Stone said.

“Oh, it is, and they were wonderful to me, but I still felt like a prisoner. Now I feel free again!” She turned to him. “Why were you going to move to the Malibu house? Weren’t you comfortable in Bel-Air?”

“Oh, yes, and Manolo was taking very good care of me. But, at the moment, it’s important that you and I not be living under the same roof.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny for a while, and having an old boyfriend living at your house would give the press just a little too much to write about.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “God, but I hate living under a microscope. How long is this going to go on?”

“Weeks, maybe months. If the police find Vance’s killer, that will help it go away. How is Peter?”

“He’s wonderful. We talked this morning, and he’s having a great time in Virginia. Mother keeps horses, and she has a pony for him. I want him to stay there until this is over.”

“That’s a good idea, I think.”

“Drive straight through the town,” she said. “The house is in the Malibu Colony, just past the little business district.”

Stone followed her instructions, and turned through a gate, where they were stopped by a security guard.

“It’s me, Steve,” she said to the man.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Calder,” he replied.

“If anybody asks, I’m not here,” she said. “This is Mr. Barrington; he’ll be coming and going.”

“I’ll put his name on the list.”

Stone followed Arrington’s directions to the house, a large stone and cedar contemporary on the beach. He gave her the key, and she opened the door and punched in the security code. He made a note of the code.

Stone went to the phone and called Betty.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’ve taken Arrington to the Malibu house; there was a mob of press at the clinic.”

“The police have called here twice.”

“Guy named Durkee?”

“That’s right.”

“If he calls again, tell him you haven’t heard from me today.”

“All right; are you coming in at all?”

“Maybe later.” He gave her his cell phone number. “You can reach me there in an emergency. If you call here, let it ring once, hang up, and call again.”

“You were wonderful last night,” she said. “This morning, too.”

“Same here,” he replied.

“Oh, she’s there, huh?”

“I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

“I want to take a bath,” Arrington said. “Join me?”

“Thanks, I’ve just showered,” he replied.

“Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?”

“You’re a grieving widow, and I’m an old family friend.”

“We’ll see.” She went upstairs.

Stone found Vance’s study and picked up the phone. It was time to call Marc Blumberg.

Seventeen

MARC BLUMBERG CAME ON THE LINE. “CONGRATULATIONS on getting her out of the Judson place,” he said. “I passed the clinic on the way to work this morning; there were a lot of disappointed TV people out on the street.”

“The cops leaked it to the media,” Stone said. “I made the mistake of giving them advance notice.”

“I saw a cop car there this morning, with Durkee in it.”

“I saw them, too; do you think they were just there to watch the fun?”

“I think they were there to arrest Arrington,” Blumberg said.

“Why do you think that?”

“I heard from a source at the LAPD that they have a witness who says Arrington expressed an interest in killing Vance.”

“I don’t believe it,” Stone said.

“I don’t believe she’d say that, either,” Blumberg replied, “but I do believe that someone might say she did.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet. I think it’s time for me to call the D.A. and express our desire to cooperate, offer to let them question Arrington.”

“They’re not going to like what she has to say. She still has a memory gap from the day before the killing until she woke up in the clinic. They’re probably going to want a polygraph, too.”

“I’ll have the usual reasons for not cooperating on that, plus there’s the memory loss; she can’t lie about what she can’t remember.”

“They’d want to ask her if she can remember,” Stone said. “If she says she can’t, and the needle jumps, they’ll be all over her.”

“I think we should consider doing a polygraph of our own,” Blumberg said.

“And leak it to the press?”

“Right.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the Malibu house; I’m with her.” Stone gave him the phone number.

“Have any funeral arrangements been made yet?”

“Lou Regenstein is handling that; he plans to do it on a sound stage at the studio.”

“Good idea; that’ll keep the public at arm’s length. Stone, I think they’re going to arrest Arrington, but I think I can hold them off, until after the funeral.”

“What do you think the charge will be?”

“If they have faith in their witness, it could be murder one.”

“Shit,” Stone said. “And that will mean no bail. I don’t want to see her in jail for weeks or months, waiting for a trial.”

“Neither do I,” Blumberg said. “There’s an outside chance that I could get house arrest, under police guard, with high bail. Can she raise it?”

“How high are we talking about?”

“At least a million; maybe as high as ten million.”

“I’ll have to talk to Vance’s lawyer and financial people about that,” Stone said. “I’ve been putting it off, hoping the situation would be resolved. There are two big insurance policies, but they’re not going to pay if Arrington is arrested.”

“Is she the beneficiary?”

“No, the estate is, but she’s the principal heir.”

“If the estate is the beneficiary, the insurance company has to pay; no way around it for them. But, of course, there’s a law against a murderer profiting from his crime, so probate would be another story. However, we could offer to sign over Arrington’s interest in the estate to secure a high bail; a judge might go for it, because until she’s convicted, she’s innocent.”

“Any precedent for that?”

“I’ll get somebody researching; we’ll do a brief.”

“Good; I’ll get on to the Calders’ financial people and see how liquid she is.”

“Okay. If the police show up there and want to arrest Arrington or take her in for questioning, tell them her doctor has ordered her to bed and to call their captain or the D.A. before proceeding.”

“Right.” Stone said good-bye and hung up. Immediately, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Betty; Manolo just called and said the police are at the Bel-Air house with a search warrant, tearing the place apart.”

“Call him back and tell him not to impede them in any way,” Stone replied. “I’ll call him later.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Did Vance have a principal financial adviser?”

“He pretty much managed his own affairs,” she replied, “but the person who would have the greatest grasp of his affairs is Marvin Kitman, his accountant. His lawyer is Bradford Crane.”

Stone jotted down both numbers. “Call both of them, and tell them I’m handling Arrington’s affairs. There’s a power of attorney in Vance’s office desk, giving me full authority; fax that to both of them.”

“All right. Are you still out of touch, if the police call again?”

“I am. I’ll talk to you later.” Stone hung up to see Arrington coming down the stairs. She was wearing a thin, silk dressing gown, and judging from the way she was lit from behind by a large window on the stair landing, nothing else.

“Ah, that’s better,” she said, heading for the bar. “Can I fix you a drink?”

“It’s a little early for me, and for you, too. Come and sit down, Arrington; we have to talk.”

“I’m having a Virgin Mary,” she said, pouring tomato cocktail over ice, “or, as Vance used to call it when he was dieting, a ‘bloody awful.’” She came and sat down beside him on the sofa, drawing a leg under her, exposing an expanse of inner thigh. “I’m here,” she said, placing her hand on his.

Stone took her hand. “I’ve got to explain your situation to you,” he said, “and you’re going to have to take what I tell you seriously.”

She withdrew her hand. “All right, go ahead.”

“I’ve retained a criminal trial lawyer to represent you, a man named Marc Blumberg.”

“I know him a little,” Arrington said. “His wife is in my yoga class. But why do I need a criminal lawyer?”

“Because there’s a good possibility that you may be charged with Vance’s murder.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” she said. “Utter nonsense!”

“I know it is, but you have to understand how the police work. They suspect you, because you were the only one in the house when Vance was shot.”

“Except the murderer,” she said.

“They think you hid the gun somewhere in the house, and they’re over there right now with a search warrant.”

“Suppose they find it? What then?”

“Then they’ll check it for your fingerprints.”

“Complete nonsense.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that you have to be prepared to be arrested and charged.”

“You mean go to jail?”

“It’s possible that, in such a case, bail could be denied by a judge, and you’d have to remain in custody until the trial was over.”

“Oh, God,” she said, bringing both hands to her face, “I don’t think I could take that.”

“Blumberg is exploring every possible option as to bail, and you might have to raise a very large sum of money. Are you acquainted enough with Vance’s financial affairs to know whether that would be readily available?”

“I only know that Vance was very well off. I mean, we lived splendidly, as you know, but I never took an interest in his finances, and he never sat me down and explained things to me.”

“I’m going to be calling his lawyer and accountant to discuss things with them. I’ll know more after that, and I can explain your situation to you then.” Stone thought for a moment. “Do you know if Vance had any life insurance?” He felt very sneaky asking this, but he wanted to know her answer.

“I’ve no idea,” she replied. “My assumption is that he was rich enough not to need life insurance.”

Stone breathed a little easier. “Did you have a joint bank account?”

“Yes, but I had my own account. Vance put money into it as necessary. There was a household account that Betty paid all our bills from—she signed the checks on that one—and we had the joint account, which Vance used pretty much as his own; I almost never signed checks on that one. I don’t know what other accounts he had, because all that sort of mail went to his office, not to the house.”

“Do you have any idea how much cash you have immediately available?”

“Vance put twenty-five thousand dollars in my account a few days before he was killed, and I probably had five or six thousand dollars in there already. So, thirty thousand, maybe? I’ve no idea what the joint account balance is.”

“I’ll check into that,” Stone said. He took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to ask you, Arrington, and I want the straightest answer you can give me.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you ever tell anyone that you were considering killing Vance?”

“Of course not!”

“Something else, and this is even more important. I have to know this: Do you think that it is within the realm of possiblity that, during the time you can’t remember, you and Vance had such a serious fight that you might have killed him?”

“Absolutely not!” she cried. “How can you even ask? Don’t you know me any better than that?”

“As a lawyer I sometimes have to ask unpleasant questions, even of people I know very well.”

She moved across the sofa, her dressing gown falling open, and put her arms around his neck, pressing herself to him. “Oh, Stone, I’m so afraid,” she said. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”

Stone could feel the familiar contours of her body against him. He should have pushed her away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “I’m here for as long as you need me,” he said, stroking her hair.

They remained like that for what seemed a long time; she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

Then the doorbell began to ring repeatedly, and someone was knocking loudly.

Eighteen

STONE OPENED THE DOOR. A STEELY-LOOKING MAN IN his sixties, carrying a large case stood on the doorstep.

“I’m Harold Beame,” the man said. “Marc Blumberg sent me; you Stone Barrington?”

“Yes, come in.”

“Marc didn’t want to come himself; he figured there’d be press at the gate, and he was right.”

“Might they have recognized you? Marc says you’re well-known to the press.”

“My car windows are heavily tinted, and they wouldn’t recognize the car. Where’s my subject?”

“She’s upstairs; I’ll get her in a minute.” He led the man into the study. “Can I see your list of questions?”

“Sure.” Beame handed over a sheaf of papers. “Marc faxed them to me.”

Stone read through the list. They were tough questions, designed not for a milk run polygraph, but for learning the truth. Apparently, Blumberg wanted very much to know if his client was really innocent. “Fine,” Stone said. “I’ll get Mrs. Calder.” He went upstairs and found Arrington at her dressing table. She was wearing a cotton shift over her bikini and was brushing her hair.

“Mr. Beame is downstairs in the study; he’s ready for you.”

“I’ll be right with him.” She seemed entirely serene.

“This is nothing to worry about; just give a truthful answer to each question.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.”

Stone walked her downstairs to the study. “Do you mind if I sit in?” he asked Beame.

“I mind,” Beame said. “It has to be just me and my subject; I don’t want her to have any distractions.”

Stone left the two of them alone in the study and walked out to the rear deck of the house. Beyond a carefully tended beach, the blue Pacific stretched out before him. He took off his jacket and stretched out in a lounge chair. He’d had hardly any time to himself, and he was grateful for the break.

He thought of Dolce, and his thoughts were still angry. He felt some guilt about her, but he told himself he was now a free man. Dolce’s behavior had made him want out of the relationship; he couldn’t imagine a lifetime with a woman who behaved that way. He should have taken Dino’s advice, he thought, and he’d certainly take it now. He would have to call Dolce and tell her flatly that it was over.

He thought of Arrington, and his thoughts were not pure. They had lived together for nearly a year, and during all that time, he had been happier than he had ever been with a woman. He had been crushed when she had married Vance Calder, a fact he had tried to hide from himself, without success. Now she was a free woman again—except, she might not be free for long. He had to get her out of this mess, and if he could, then they could see if they might still have some sort of life together. He thought about the money, and it annoyed him. Eduardo Bianchi’s money, and his casual gift of the Manhattan house, had bothered him; he was accustomed to making his own way in the world, and the thought of a wife who was half a billionaire was, somehow, disturbing. He thought of Arrington’s son, Peter. He liked the child, and he thought he could get used to being a stepfather. He might even be good at it, if he used his own father as a model. He took a deep breath and dozed off.

Arrington was shaking him, and he opened his eyes. The sun was lower in the sky, and the air was cooler.

“We’re all done,” she said.

“How’d it go?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Beame.”

Stone walked into the study and found Beame packing his equipment. “Want to give me a first reaction?” Stone asked.

“Marc said I could,” Beame replied. “I’ll send him a written report, but I can tell you now that she aced it.” He frowned. “Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever had a subject who was more relaxed, less nervous. I don’t think she was tanked up on Valium, or anything like that; I can still get good readings when they try that.”

“I don’t think she was,” Stone said.

“Anyway, if she can pass with me, she can pass with anybody.”

Stone realized that his pulse had increased, and now he could relax. “Thank you; I’m glad to hear it.”

Beame smiled. “It’s a lot easier to represent an innocent client than a guilty one, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. When you leave, make sure that crowd at the gate doesn’t see your face. I assume your windshield isn’t blacked out.”

“I’ll wear a hat and dark glasses, and don’t worry, the car is registered to a corporate name. If they run the plates, they’ll come up dry.”

Stone showed Beame to the door and thanked him. Then he went back out to the terrace. Arrington was out of the shift, now, stretched out on a lounge in her bikini, and there was a cocktail pitcher on the table next to her.

“It’s not too early for a drink now, is it?” she asked. “I made one of your favorites.”

Stone poured the drinks into two martini glasses, handed her one and stretched out on the lounge next to her. He sipped the drink. “A vodka gimlet,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Poor deprived Stone,” she said.

“I think I associated the drink with you.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you waited until now to have one.”

“You passed the polygraph with flying colors,” he said.

“I know.”

“You know? Arrington, you haven’t been taking tranquilizers, have you?”

“Of course not. You told me just to tell the truth, didn’t you?” She smiled again. “Are you relieved?”

Stone laughed. “Yes, I’m relieved.”

“There was always the possibility that I’d killed Vance, wasn’t there?”

“I never believed that,” he said truthfully.

She reached over and took his hand. “I know you didn’t; I could tell.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two and sipped their drinks.

Finally, Arrington spoke. “I told you last year I’d leave Vance for you, remember?”

“I remember.”

“You were terribly proper, and I was angry with you for not taking me up on it, but I must admit, I admired you for the way you behaved.”

Stone said nothing.

“I’m free now, Stone; I hope that makes a difference to you.”

“It does, but there’s something that troubles me, and I’m not quite sure how to deal with it.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve spoken with Vance’s accountant and lawyer, and as soon as we’re past this thing with the police and the will is probated, you’re going to be a very rich woman.”

“Well, I suppose I assumed that,” Arrington said. “How rich?”

“Half a billion dollars.”

Her jaw dropped. “Half a billion? Is that what you said?”

“That’s what I said. In fact, right now, you’re a multimillionaire. You and Vance have a joint stock account that’s currently worth more than fifteen million dollars.”

“I guess I thought that’s what the whole estate would be worth. I guess I don’t think about money, much. I don’t even pay much attention to the trust Daddy left me.”

“You don’t have to think about this right now, but you will have to later on.”

“I suppose so.” She looked at him narrowly. “Are you troubled by my newfound wealth, Stone?”

“Well, yes. I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.”

“I was wealthy before, you know. Daddy’s trust fund is a fat one, worth about twelve million, last time I checked. It never bothered you before.”

“I didn’t know the details,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were all that rich.”

“Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek.

Stone took a deep breath. “Now, there’s something about me you have to know.”

“What’s that?”

“You remember Dolce.”

“Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter? How could I forget that dinner party in Connecticut last summer?”

“Dolce and I were to have been married last weekend, in Venice.”

Arrington sat up and looked at him, surprised. “Oh?”

He started to tell her about the preliminary, but thought better of it. What did it matter? “But before it could take place, I was on a plane to L.A.”

Arrington placed a hand on her breast. “Close call,” she said. “Whew!” Then she sat back. “Are you in love with her?”

“I’m . . . a little confused about that,” Stone said.

She took his hand again. “Let me help clear your mind.”

“I’ll admit, I had misgivings, even before going to Venice, but she was pretty overwhelming.”

“I can imagine,” Arrington said tartly.

“Now, I think I must have been crazy. Dino has been telling me that since the moment I met her.”

“Dino is a very smart man,” Arrington said. “Listen to him. I know how overwhelming a moment can be; that’s how I came to marry Vance. You’re well out of that relationship.”

“I’m not exactly out of it, yet,” Stone replied. “I still have to speak to her; she’s been . . . unavailable when I’ve called her. She’s in Sicily.”

“That’s just about far enough away,” Arrington said. “That should make it easier for you.”

“I’m going to have to tell Eduardo, too.”

“I can understand how facing him might be more daunting than telling Dolce.”

“He’s been very kind to me; he made it plain that he was very happy about my becoming his son-in-law.”

“He’s a nice man, but try not to make him angry. He would make a bad enemy, from what Vance has told me about him.”

“Yes, I know; or, at least, that’s what Dino keeps telling me. God knows, I don’t want him for an enemy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let too much time pass before squaring this with both Eduardo and Dolce,” Arrington said. “It won’t get any easier.”

“I know,” Stone replied.

The phone on the table between them rang, and Arrington picked it up. “Yes? Oh, hello, Manolo; yes, I’m very well, thank you. I’ll be spending a couple of days out here.” She listened for a moment. “Did the police make much of a mess? Well, I’m sure you and Isabel can handle it. Yes, he’s right here.” She handed the phone to Stone. “Manolo wants to speak to you.”

Stone took the phone. “Hello, Manolo.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. A lady has been telephoning you here; she’s called several times. A Miss Bianchi?”

“Yes, I know her; I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“She left a number.”

Stone realized he had left Dolce’s number in Sicily at the Bel-Air house. He took out a pen and notebook. “Please give it to me.”

Manolo repeated the number; Stone thanked him and hung up.

“Dolce called?” Arrington asked.

“Yes.” He looked at his notebook. “She seems to be at the Bel-Air Hotel.”

“Why don’t you call her from the study,” Arrington said. “I don’t want to hear this conversation.”

“Good idea.” Stone went into the study and dialed the hotel number.

“Bel-Air Hotel,” the operator said.

“Miss Dolce Bianchi, please.”

“One moment. I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”

Stone was baffled for a moment; then he had a terrible thought. “Do you have a Mrs. Stone Barrington?”

“Yes, sir; I’ll connect you.”

As the phone rang, Stone gritted his teeth.

Nineteen

THE PHONE RANG AND RANG, AND FOR A MOMENT, Stone thought she’d be out. He was sighing with relief when Dolce, a little breathless, picked it up.

“Hello?”

Stone couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

“Stone, don’t you hang up on me,” she said.

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry I took so long to answer; I was in the shower.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Come on over; I’ll order dinner for us.”

“I won’t be able to stay for dinner; I have another commitment.” This was almost true.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“It’ll take me at least half an hour, depending on traffic. See you then,” he said hurriedly, before she asked where he’d be coming from. He hung up and went back out to the deck. “I’m going to go and see her now,” he said.

Arrington stood up, put her arms around him and gave him a soulful kiss. For the first time—for the first time since she’d run off with Vance—he responded the way he wanted to. Arrington stepped back and patted him on the cheek. “Poor Stone,” she said. “Don’t worry—you can handle it.” She turned him around, pointed him toward the door, and gave him a spank on the backside, like a coach sending in a quarterback with a new play. “I’ll order in some food and fix us some dinner,” she called, as he reached the door.

“Don’t start cooking until I call,” he said. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

The mob at the Colony gate had boiled down to one TV van and a photographer, and although they stared at him as he drove through, they didn’t seem to connect him with Vance Calder’s widow. A few miles down the Pacific Coast Highway, there was an accident that held up traffic for half an hour, giving Stone more time than he wanted to think.

Women, he reflected, usually broke it off with him, for lack of commitment. He had never been in the position of breaking off an engagement, and he dreaded the thought. By the time he got past the accident and made it to the hotel, he was an hour late.

Dolce opened the door and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you,” she whispered into his ear. It did not make Stone feel any better that she was naked. It seemed that women had been flaunting nakedness all day, and he had never been very good at resisting it. He pushed her into the suite and closed the door. “Please put something on; we have to talk.”

Dolce grabbed a robe and led him into the living room. Stone chose an armchair so he wouldn’t have to share the sofa with her. “I’m sorry you came here,” he said. “It was the wrong thing to do under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” she asked.

“Arrington is in trouble, and until I can get her out of it, I can’t think about anything else.”

“She killed Vance, didn’t she? I knew it.”

“She did not,” Stone said.

“I could smell it as soon as I arrived in this town. The newspapers and TV know she’s guilty, don’t they?”

“They don’t know anything, except the hints the cops are dropping.”

“The cops know she’s guilty, don’t they?”

“Dolce, she passed a lie detector test this afternoon, a tough one, by a real expert.”

“You need to think she’s innocent, don’t you, Stone? I know you; you have to believe that.”

“I do believe that,” Stone said, although Dolce was still shaking her head. “The police are trying to railroad her, because they can’t find the real perpetrator, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Are you still in love with her, Stone?”

“Maybe; I haven’t had time to think about that.” In truth, he’d hardly thought of anything else. “Dolce, we very nearly made a terrible mistake. Let’s both be grateful that we were spared a marriage that would never have worked.”

“Why would it never have worked?”

“Because we’re so different, temperamentally. We could never live with each other.”

“Funny, I thought we had been living with each other for the past few months.”

“Not permanently; we were playing at living together.”

“I wasn’t playing,” she said.

“You know what I mean. We were . . . acting our parts, that’s all. It would never have worked. I wish you hadn’t come.”

“Stone, I’m here because you’re my husband, and you need me.”

“Dolce, I am not your husband, and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the hotel that.”

“Have you forgotten that we were married last Saturday, in Venice, by the mayor of the city?”

“You know as well as I do, that ceremony is not valid without a religious ceremony to follow.”

“We took vows.”

“I said ‘sì’ when prompted; I have no idea what the mayor said to me.”

Dolce recited something in Italian. “ ’Til death us do part,” she translated.

“Well, that’s what happened with your previous husband, isn’t it?” he shot back, then immediately regretted having said it.

“And it could happen again!” Dolce spat.

“Is that what we’ve come to? You’re threatening me?”

Dolce stood up and came toward him. “Stone, let’s not do this to each other; come to bed.”

Stone stood up and backed away from her. The robe had come undone, and he fought the urge to touch her. “No, no. I have to leave, Dolce, and you should leave, too, and go back to New York or Sicily or wherever.”

“Papa is going to be very disappointed,” she said in a low voice.

That really did sound like a threat, Stone thought. “I’ll call him tomorrow and explain things.”

“Explain what? That you’re abandoning me? Leaving me at the altar? He’ll just love hearing that. You don’t know Papa as well as you think you do. He has a terrible temper, especially when someone he loves has been wronged.”

Stone was backing toward the door. “I haven’t wronged you, Dolce; I’ve just explained how I feel. I’m doing you a favor by withdrawing from this situation now, instead of later, when it would hurt us both a lot more.” He was reaching for the doorknob behind him.

“You’re my husband, Stone,” Dolce was saying, “and you always will be, for as long as you live,” she added threateningly.

“Good-bye, Dolce,” Stone said. He got the door open and hurried out, closing it carefully behind him.

He had gone only a few steps when he heard a large object crash against the door and shatter. On the way through the lobby, he stopped at the front desk. “I’m Stone Barrington,” he said to the young woman.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Are you checking in again?”

“No, and please be advised that the woman in suite 336 is Miss Dolce Bianchi, not Mrs. Stone Barrington. Will you let the telephone operator know that, please?”

“Of course,” the young woman said, looking nonplussed. “Whatever you say, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone got the station wagon from the attendant and headed back toward Malibu. Before he had even reached Sunset, the car phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone,” Arrington said, “I’m on my way back to Bel-Air.”

“Why and how?” Stone asked.

“I caught sight of a photographer on the beach with a great big lens, and I guess it just creeped me out. Manolo came and got me; he had to smuggle me past the gate in the trunk.”

“All right, I’ll meet you at the house. Tell Manolo to use the utility entrance.” He said good-bye and hung up. How long, he wondered, had that photographer been on the beach?

Twenty

STONE GOT TO THE HOUSE FIRST. HE PARKED THE CAR, went into the house and out to the guesthouse, where he started packing his clothes. He had his bags in Vance’s Mercedes by the time Arrington arrived.

She came in through the front door, took a few steps, and froze, staring down the central hallway. “That’s where he was, isn’t it?” she asked Stone, nodding toward the spot.

“You remember?” Stone asked.

She nodded again.

He turned to the butler. “Manolo, will you fix us some dinner, please? Anything will do.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the butler said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Stone took Arrington’s hand and walked her to the bedroom. He sat her on the bed and sat down beside her. “What else do you remember?” he asked. “This is important.”

Arrington wrinkled her brow. “Just Vance lying there, bleeding.”

“Do you remember anything immediately before that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you remember hearing the shot?”

She shook her head. “No. Just Vance lying there.”

“Do you remember the police and the paramedics arriving?”

“No. Nothing until I woke up in the clinic.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When is this going to be over, Stone?”

“Not for a while,” Stone replied. “We’ve still got the funeral on Friday, and on Saturday, we have to take you to the district attorney’s office.”

“Will they put me in jail?”

“I hope not; Marc Blumberg’s working on that.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She put her hand on his cheek and drew him closer, kissing him.

Stone pulled back. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “You and I cannot be seen by anybody being . . . affectionate with each other.”

“Only Manolo and Maria are here.”

“And they’d both be shocked, if they walked in here and found us kissing. If they were called to testify in court, they’d have to tell the truth. Your husband has been dead for less than a week; you have to be seen to be the grieving widow for some time to come; I cannot tell you how important that is to your future.”

She nodded. “I understand.” She took his hand. “But it’s important for you to know that I still love you. I never stopped.”

Stone squeezed her hand but could not bring himself to respond. “Go freshen up for dinner,” he said.

They dined in the smaller of the two dining rooms, on pasta and a bottle of California Chardonnay. They chatted about old times in New York, but as dinner wore on, Arrington seemed increasingly tired.

“I think you’re going to have to put me to bed,” she said finally.

Stone rang for Manolo. “We’ll get Isabel; she’ll put you to bed.”

Arrington nodded sleepily. “I wish you were coming to bed with me.”

“Shhh,” Stone said. He turned her over to Isabel, got the keys and the alarm code for the Colony house from Manolo, then drove back to Malibu. He chose the guest room nearest the kitchen, unpacked, soaked in a tub for a while, and fell asleep.

He was awakened by the telephone. Nine-thirty, he saw by the bedside clock. He had slept like a stone.

“Hello?”

“Stone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Marc Blumberg.”

“Good morning, Marc.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, there is a very nice color photograph of you and Arrington in each other’s arms, on the cover of the National Inquisitor. She’s wearing a very tiny bikini.”

“Oh, God,” Stone groaned.

“Did the two of you spend the night together?”

“No, we didn’t. I had to go into L.A., and while I was gone, Arrington spotted the photographer on the beach. Her butler came and drove her to the Bel-Air house. I met them there, we had dinner, then I moved out of the guesthouse and out here.”

“Did the media outside the gates figure out that Arrington left?”

“No, I don’t think so; she left in the trunk of the car.”

“Did any media see you return to the house last night?”

“There was a TV truck there, but they paid little attention to me.”

“So they think she’s still there, and that you spent the night together.”

“I suppose they could draw that conclusion.”

“All right, I’m going to have to hold a press conference and try to contain this.”

“I suppose that’s the right thing to do.”

“The upside is, you were fully clothed and were seen to leave after kissing her, while she remained on the deck. The photograph is a little ambiguous, too; I can claim that you were simply consoling her. The Inquisitor hasn’t figured out who you are, yet; I’ll describe you as a family friend who drove her home from the clinic.”

“All right.”

“They’re going to put all this together sooner or later, probably sooner, so be prepared for some attention. Tell me, does Vance’s bungalow at Centurion have a bedroom?”

“Yes, it does.”

“I want you to move out of the Malibu house and into the bungalow this morning.”

“All right. I’m very sorry about this, Marc. It was all very innocent.”

“Don’t worry about it; damage control is part of what I do. I’d just like there to be as little damage as possible to have to control.”

“I understand.”

“Now, listen: I don’t want you to leave by the Colony gate.”

“I’m afraid that’s the only way out, Marc.”

“Here’s what you do. Pack your bags into the car and leave it in front of the house, with the key in the ignition. Then walk south along the beach about a mile, and you’ll come to a restaurant. Walk through the building and be in the parking lot at, say, eleven o’clock. One of my people will pick up the car at the house and drive it to the restaurant.”

“All right.”

“Now, for God’s sake, don’t wear a business suit for your walk down the beach. Blend in.”

“Will do.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A black Mercedes SL600 convertible.”

“Be there at eleven. I’ll call you around noon at the studio.” Blumberg hung up.

Stone made himself some breakfast, then packed his bags, put them into the car, then showered and dressed in a guest bathing suit. He grabbed a towel and left the house by the front door. He walked down a couple of houses and cut through a yard and onto the beach.

It was a beautiful California morning, and Stone enjoyed the walk. He was passed by other people in bathing suits, joggers, and people walking their dogs. He got to the restaurant a little early, had a cup of coffee, then walked out into the parking lot. An attractive young woman was standing beside the Mercedes, waiting.

“Good morning, I’m Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.

“Hi, I’m Liz Raymond, one of Marc’s associates,” she replied.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“I’ll be picked up here,” the woman said. “Nice swimsuit.”

“Thanks, it’s borrowed.”

“See you later,” she said, as a car pulled up. She got into it and was driven away.

Stone drove to Centurion, gave the guard at the gate a wave, and drove to the bungalow. He walked inside with his bags to be greeted by an astonished Betty Southard.

“Well, now,” she said, “you’ve just topped Vance. He never walked in here in a bathing suit.”

“It’s a long story,” Stone said.

“I’ll bet, and I’ve got all day,” she replied.

Twenty-one

STONE EXPLAINED HIS APPEARANCE. THEN HE POINTED at three large canvas bags on the floor near Betty’s office door. “What are those?” he asked.

“Arrington’s mail,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“After Vance’s death, his fans kept writing. I’ve got two girls in the back room sorting it now. Those are the bags we haven’t gotten to yet.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, believe this: Right now, opinion is running about sixty-forty in favor of Arrington being a murderess.”

“ ‘Murderess.’ That has a quaint Victorian ring to it.”

“I guess I’m just a quaint, Victorian girl,” she replied.

Stone picked up his bags. “Where’s the bedroom?” he asked. “Marc Blumberg wants me to move in here.”

“Somewhere the Inquisitor can’t find you?”

“I was just hugging her,” he lied.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” She led the way down a hall and into a comfortably furnished bedroom with an adjacent bath and dressing room. “Want me to unpack for you?” she asked.

“Thanks, I can manage,” he replied, laughing. “Go back to your mail; I want to get dressed.” Betty left the room, and Stone got out of the swimsuit and into some clothes.

Betty appeared in the doorway. “Marc Blumberg’s holding a press conference on TV.” She switched on a set at the foot of the bed, and the two of them sat down to watch it as, on television, a secretary opened a set of double doors and the press poured into Blumberg’s office, where he awaited them, seated behind an impressive desk.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Blumberg said, remaining seated. “I have a brief statement for you regarding the investigation into the death of Vance Calder. Can we hold the flash cameras until I’ve finished, please?”

When everything had quieted down, Blumberg began. “I have been retained by Vance Calder’s widow, Arrington, to represent her during the investigation of her husband’s death, not because she has anything to fear from the investigation, but because she wants to be sure that the Los Angeles Police Department is leaving no stone unturned in the pursuit of her husband’s murderer.”

“What about the photograph in today’s Inquisitor?” somebody asked.

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Blumberg replied. “Now, if I may continue?” He stared the room into silence. “Good. This is what we know so far: Last Saturday night, Mr. and Mrs. Calder were getting ready to go to a dinner party at the home of Lou Regenstein, chairman of Centurion Studios. Mr. Calder was dressing, and Mrs. Calder was in the bathtub. A servant heard a loud noise, and when he investigated, found Mr. Calder lying in the central hallway of the house, near death, having received a gunshot wound to the head. The servant summoned the police and an ambulance, then sent a maid to let Mrs. Calder know what had happened.

“When Mrs. Calder saw her husband, she collapsed and had to be treated for shock by the paramedics when they arrived. Her personal physician was summoned; he sedated her and arranged for her to be moved immediately to a private clinic, where she remained until yesterday. She asked for a family friend, a New York attorney, Mr. Stone Barrington, to come to Los Angeles to handle her affairs, and Mr. Barrington was summoned from Italy, where he was on vacation.

“When Mr. Barrington arrived, he spoke with Mrs. Calder’s physician about her condition and learned that she was unable to remember anything that had happened between midafternoon last Friday and the time when she awoke in the clinic on Sunday morning. The moment Mrs. Calder was up to it, Mr. Barrington invited the police to interview her at the clinic, and yesterday, he picked her up there and took her to her Malibu home, where he hoped she might have some privacy to continue her recovery.

“Sadly, a tabloid photographer violated her privacy and photographed her with Mr. Barrington as she took the sun on a rear deck of the house. Mr. Barrington then left the house, giving her a hug before leaving, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was the photograph that was so outrageously misrepresented in the tabloid’s pages.

“I am sorry to tell you that, as of this moment, the LAPD is treating Mrs. Calder as a suspect, and that later in the week, she will be interviewed by the district attorney’s office. In anticipation of that meeting I arranged yesterday for her to receive a thorough polygraph examination from Mr. Harold Beame, formerly with the FBI, who is a renowned examiner. I am pleased to tell you that Mr. Beame has reported that, in his expert opinion, Mrs. Calder answered truthfully every question put to her. I can tell you that they were very tough questions; I know, because I wrote them myself.”

This got a laugh from the group.

“However, when we meet with the district attorney, I intend to volunteer Mrs. Calder for another polygraph, administered by a qualified examiner of his choosing. Further, at that meeting, Mrs. Calder will answer every question put to her by members of the district attorney’s office.

“Finally, Mrs. Calder has authorized me to offer a reward of $100,000 for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of her husband’s killer.” He held up a placard with a telephone number on it. “We ask that anyone with such information call both the police and this number. We wouldn’t want anything to get lost in the shuffle at the LAPD.”

Another laugh.

“That’s all I have to tell you, at the moment, and I won’t be answering any questions today. However, you may rest assured that I will be in contact with the media when there is anything of significance to report.”

With that, Blumberg got up and marched out of his office, ignoring the questions shouted by the crowd.

Betty switched off the set. “Well, I guess that puts the ball in the D.A.’s court, doesn’t it?”

“I believe it does,” Stone agreed. “That was a very impressive performance.”

“Did you approve the reward?”

“No, but I would have, if asked. I think it’s a good idea. It might turn up something and, at the very least, it will keep the police busy with leads from people who want the money.”

A phone on the bedside table rang, and Betty answered it. “It’s Marc Blumberg,” she said, handing Stone the phone.

“Hi, Marc; I saw your press conference. Very good, and you have my approval on the reward money.”

“I thought I would have,” Blumberg answered. “I want to meet with Arrington this afternoon; where shall we do it?”

“How about three o’clock at her house? You know where it is?”

“Yes, and that’s fine.”

“There’s a utility entrance at the rear of the property. . . .”

“No,” Blumberg interrupted, “I’ll go in the front way; let the press see me.”

“Whatever you think best.”

“Just keep that phrase in mind, and we’ll get along great, Stone. See you at three.” He hung up.

The phone rang again immediately, and Betty answered it. “It’s Arrington,” she said, handing Stone the phone again.

“Hi.”

“I just saw Marc Blumberg on TV; was that your idea?”

“No, it was his, but I wholeheartedly approve.”

“I haven’t seen this rag, but I take it the photographer I saw was responsible.”

“Yes; that should give you some idea of how careful you have to be. Marc Blumberg is coming to the house at three this afternoon; be ready to meet him, and don’t wear a bikini.”

She laughed. “Touché. Will you be here?”

“Yes.”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up and turned to Betty. “Will you make some notes on the tenor of the mail you’re receiving? I expect Blumberg will want to know about it.”

“Sure; I’ll go add it all up now.” Betty left the room.

Stone finished dressing. For the first time, he was beginning to feel some optimism about the way things were going. Marc Blumberg was a considerable force, when aroused, and Stone was glad to have him on Arrington’s side.

Twenty-two

HE HAD BEEN DREADING THIS CALL, BUT HE COULDN’T put it off any longer. Stone dialed Eduardo Bianchi’s private telephone number in New York. As usual, he got only the beep from an answering machine, no message.

“Eduardo, it’s Stone Barrington. I would be grateful if you could call me sometime today; there’s something important I have to talk to you about.” He left the numbers of both the bungalow and the Calder house.

Then he called Dino. He could not remember when so much time had passed without a conversation with his friend, and he knew he had been putting off this one, because he knew what Dino would say.

“She’s guilty,” Dino said, after Stone had brought him up to date.

“No, she’s not.”

“You just don’t want to believe it, because you think she killed him so she could have you.”

Stone winced at the truth. “She passed a polygraph yesterday, aced it,” he said lamely.

“Yeah, I saw Blumberg’s press conference on CNN. I don’t believe it; she must have been on drugs, or something.”

“The examiner told me drugs couldn’t fool him.” It had occurred to him that Arrington had seemed eerily calm since she had left the clinic.

“Look, Stone, I’ve been getting updates from Rick Grant, and while they may not have her cold, his people really believe she whacked her husband.”

“I’m aware of their opinion,” Stone said. “But don’t judge her so soon. I’m here, on the spot, up to my ears in this, and my instincts tell me she’s innocent.”

“Stone, nobody’s innocent, you know that. Everybody’s guilty of something.”

“Not murder; not Arrington. She doesn’t have it in her.”

“Whatever you say, pal.”

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I ended it with Dolce last night.”

“Good news, at last! What made you see the light?”

“We had a transatlantic conversation that I didn’t like the tone of, for one thing.”

“And Arrington’s free, for another thing?”

“There is that,” Stone admitted sheepishly. “It was something I hadn’t expected.”

“Have you told Eduardo?”

“I have a call in to him now.”

“That should be an interesting conversation.”

“Any advice as to how I should handle it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; how do you feel about South America?”

“Come on, Dino; how should I break it to him?”

“Right between the eyes, dead straight; he might respect that.”

“I hope so.”

“Then again, he might not. He dotes on that girl; if he thinks you’ve done her wrong, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“You might not be well for very long.”

“Dino, this isn’t Sicily.”

“To Eduardo, everywhere is Sicily.”

“I see your point,” Stone said.

“I think everything is going to depend on what Dolce says to Eduardo,” Dino said. “How pissed off was she when you broke it to her?”

“Pretty pissed off.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe she’ll cool off before she talks to the old man.”

“Maybe.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

“Thanks.”

“You want me to take some time off, come out there?”

“I don’t know what you could do, Dino, except keep me company. That, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You let me know if something comes up and you need me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I got a meeting; talk to you later.”

Stone hung up. Why did everybody think Arrington was guilty, except him? Was he completely nuts? Blinded by how he felt about her? He made himself a sandwich in the bungalow’s kitchen, then went into Betty’s office. “How’s the mail coming?”

Betty consulted a steno pad. “Nearly done,” she said, “and opinion is running about two to one against Arrington.”

“Swell,” Stone said. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run; I’m meeting Marc Blumberg at the house.”

Stone took the rear entrance, then watched through a front window as Marc Blumberg drove very slowly through the mob of press, through the gates, and up to the house. The lawyer certainly knew how to make an entrance.

Arrington appeared from the bedroom just as Blumberg entered the house. She gave Stone a peck on the cheek, then shook hands with Blumberg.

“How are you, Marc? It’s been a long time.”

“I’m terrific, Arrington, and I hope you are, too.”

“I’m all right, I guess. How is Arlene?”

“Very well.”

“Tell her I miss my yoga class with her.”

“I know she misses you, too.”

Manolo stepped up. “May I get you anything, Mr. Blumberg?”

“No, thanks,” Blumberg replied. “Let’s get down to work. Arrington, I want to talk with you alone at some length; where can we do that?”

“Vance’s study would be a good place,” she replied. “Can Stone be there?”

“Sorry, this is just you and me.” He took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to Stone. “You might take a look at this while we’re talking. We’ll be a while.”

Stone accepted the folder and watched as Arrington led Marc Blumberg into Vance’s study and closed the door. He asked Manolo for some iced tea, then went out onto the rear terrace, took a seat, and opened the folder. Inside was the medical examiner’s report on Vance Calder’s autopsy.

Manolo brought the tea and left him alone. He began to read. Death as the result of a single gunshot to the right occipital region of the head. No news there. Subject: a well-developed male of fifty-two years, seven months, six feet two, a hundred and ninety pounds. Stone’s own height and weight. Drugs present in bloodstream: Zyrtec, an antihistamine; alcohol content: .03, a drink or two.

He was surprised at the number of scars found on Vance’s body: two-inch scar over left collarbone—sutured; one-and-one-half-inch scar, inside of left wrist, unsutured, secondary tissue present; two-and-one-half-inch surgical scar, right shoulder; one-inch abdominal surgical scar; three-inch surgical scar, left knee; two-inch scar, sutured, right thigh; several small scars on both hands. X rays revealed some old broken bones—right femur, left tibia, and a broken nose. That, he reflected, had given Vance’s face additional character, kept him from looking pretty. All in all, though, it sounded as though Vance had led a rougher life than that of a pampered movie star. He noted the absence of any cosmetic surgical scars. Vance Calder had been the real thing.

More than an hour passed before Arrington and Marc Blumberg emerged from the study. Arrington looked decidedly pale and shaken, while Blumberg was his usual, cool, well-pressed self.

“I’m going to go lie down for a few minutes,” Arrington said, and went into the bedroom.

“Well,” Stone said, “do you think she’s innocent?”

“She’s my client,” Blumberg replied, “so she’s innocent.”

“Come on, Marc, I want an opinion. So far, everybody I know except me thinks she did it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blumberg said.

“It doesn’t matter?”

“Not to me, Stone; but then I’m not in love with her.”

Stone was surprised at this, but he said nothing.

“She’s innocent until proven guilty, and I’m going to keep her that way.”

“How are you going to handle the D.A. on Saturday?”

“I’m not going to handle him,” Blumberg replied. “I’m going to stay out of his way, and let him at her.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

“Listen, the D.A.’s questioning is going to be nothing, compared with what I just put her through. I dragged her back and forth across the stones of her story for an hour, and she never budged from it. The woman is a rock, and the D.A. is not going to make a dent in her. She’s a good actress, too.”

“Actress?”

“She’ll have a jury on her side from the moment she opens her mouth, and I don’t have the slightest qualm about having her testify. O.J.’s team was smart to keep him off the stand—the prosecution would have gutted him, just as happened in the civil trial, but they won’t lay a glove on Arrington, trust me.”

“You think it’ll go to trial?”

“Not unless they’ve got a lot more than I think they’ve got. We’ll find out about that on Saturday morning. What did you think of the autopsy report?”

“Pretty straightforward. He sure had a lot of scars.”

“I asked Arrington about that; he did most of his own stunt work. Over the years, it took its toll.”

“That would explain it,” Stone said. “God, I hope this doesn’t go to trial.”

“I wouldn’t mind, if it did,” Blumberg said with a small smile. “A trial would be a lot of fun.”

Twenty-three

STONE GOT OUT OF THE BENTLEY AND WENT AROUND to the other side, where Manolo was holding the rear door open for Arrington and her son, Peter, and his grandmother, who had brought him back for the service, at the insistence of Marc Blumberg.

Stone took her left hand, tucked it under his arm while she held Peter’s hand with her right, and led the little group through the open rear door of the sound stage, past a large truck with satellite dishes on top. The soft strains of a pipe organ wafted through the huge space. Schubert, he thought.

As he led them to a front pew, he took in the atmosphere, which was fragmented, and a little unreal. The cathedral set was not complete, being composed of only those parts necessary for the shooting of a scene. Everything at the rear—the choir loft, the organ and its pipes, the pulpit (or whatever it was called in a Catholic or Anglican church)—looked like the real thing, while other parts of the ceiling and stained glass windows were incomplete. A coffin of highly polished walnut rested in front of the pulpit. Stone wondered if Vance Calder’s body was really inside, or if it was just a prop.

He deposited Arrington and Peter next to her mother on the front pew, then walked to the side of the seating area and stood. From there, he had an excellent view of the crowd. Perhaps twenty pews had been placed on the concrete floor, and they were packed with Hollywood aristocracy. Stone recognized several movie stars, and he was sure that the others were the crème de la crème of producers, writers, and directors. Two pews behind Arrington he was surprised to spot Charlene Joiner, the costar of Vance’s last film, with whom he had, apparently, been sleeping. At the other end of the pew sat Dolce, accompanied by her father. Dolce pointedly ignored him, but Eduardo gave him a grave glance, and they exchanged somber nods. Eduardo had not returned his phone call.

Behind the twenty pews was a sea of folding chairs, occupied by the working folk of Centurion Studios—directors, carpenters, grips, bit players, script ladies, and all the other people who made movies happen. Stone counted four large television cameras—the studio kind, not the handheld news models, and he realized that they must be feeding to the big truck outside. A boy’s choir began to sing, and Stone turned to find that the youngsters had filed into the choir loft while he had been looking at the crowd. It took him a moment to realize that their moving lips were not in synch with the music: That was recorded, and the boys were, apparently, child actors. The organist, too, was faking it; only the choir director seemed to truly understand the music. The whole scene was gorgeously lit.

As the strains of the choir died, and the boys stopped moving their lips, a richly costumed priest (or actor?) walked onto the set and began speaking in Latin. If he was an actor, Stone reflected, he certainly had his lines down pat. Stone was glad the coffin was not open, if indeed Vance’s body was inside, because this was the first funeral service he had ever attended where he was wearing the corpse’s suit.

The clothes he had brought with him had been chosen for Venice, and Dolce had insisted on light colors. When he had confessed to Arrington that he had nothing suitable for a funeral, she had suggested he wear some of Vance’s clothes, which had turned out to fit him very well—so well, in fact, that Arrington was insisting that he have all of Vance’s clothes, the thought of which made him uncomfortable.

“Look,” she had said, “if you don’t take all these perfectly beautiful suits, jackets, and shirts, they’ll end up being sold at some ghastly celebrity auction. Please, Stone, you’d be doing me a great favor.”

So now he stood staring at the coffin, wearing the deceased’s dark blue Douglas Hayward chalk-stripe suit, his handmade, sweetly comfortable Lobb shoes, and his Turnbull & Asser silk shirt and necktie. The underwear and socks were, mercifully, his own.

The eulogies began, led by Lou Regenstein. They were kept short, and the speakers had, apparently, been chosen by occupation: There was an actor, a director, a producer, and an entertainment lawyer. Each, of course, spoke of Vance’s endearing personal qualities and gift for friendship, but his Oscars, New York Film Critics’ Awards, and his business acumen were all covered at some length, as well.

When the service ended, the coffin was opened, and Vance’s body was, indeed, inside. Those in the pews were directed past the coffin to Arrington, who stood alone, well to one side of the coffin, while those in the folding chairs to the rear were directed out the hangarlike doors at the front of the sound stage.

After speaking words of condolence, the mourners divided into two groups—some were directed toward the main doors, while the truly close friends and business associates were sent out the rear door, where their cars waited to take them to the cemetery.

Stone stood near the rear door and, shortly, Eduardo Bianchi drifted over, while Dolce remained in the line of mourners. Eduardo, dressed in a severely cut black silk suit, held out his hand and shook Stone’s warmly. “Stone, I’m sorry not to have returned your call yesterday, but I was en route to Los Angeles and did not receive your message until this morning.”

“That’s quite all right, Eduardo,” Stone replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“I expect that you called to tell me of yours and Dolce’s . . . ah, difficulties. She had, of course, already told me.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you myself,” Stone said. “This is not easy, of course, but I believe it is the best thing for Dolce. I’m not sure what it is for me.”

“I understand that these things sometimes do not work out,” Eduardo said. “People’s lives are complicated, are they not?”

“They certainly are,” Stone agreed.

“I understand that Dolce can be a difficult woman, and I know that Vance’s death has, perhaps, meant a sudden change in your life. I want you to know that I remain fond of you, Stone, in spite of all that has happened. I had hoped to have you for a son, but I will be content, if I must, to have you for a friend.”

“Thank you, Eduardo, for understanding. I will always be very pleased to be your friend and to have you as mine.” To Stone’s surprise, Eduardo embraced him, then turned and walked back to join Dolce in the receiving line.

The drive to Forest Lawn was quiet, except for Arrington’s patiently answering Peter’s questions about the service and who all the people were. Stone was glad he didn’t have to answer the questions himself.

At the brief graveside service, Stone stood to one side again, and when it was over, he was surprised to be approached by Charlene Joiner, who held out her hand and introduced herself.

“I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may,” she said.

Her accent was southern, and Stone remembered that she was from the same small Georgia town, Delano, as Betty Southard.

“This is probably not the best time,” Stone replied. “I’m staying at Vance’s bungalow at the studio. You can reach me there.”

“I’ll call over the weekend,” she said, then turned and went to her car.

After the service, Stone drove Arrington, Peter, and her mother home to Bel-Air. All the way, he wondered what Charlene Joiner could possibly have to say to him.

Later, he met Vance’s accountant at the Calders’ bank, where he signed a very large note on Arrington’s behalf and drew a number of cashier’s checks. Now he was ready for the district attorney.

Twenty-four

ON SATURDAY MORNING, STONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-Air house, entering through the utility entrance, as usual. Marc Blumberg arrived moments later, and since Arrington was not quite ready, they had a moment to talk.

“Where do we stand on bail?” Blumberg asked.

Stone took an envelope from his pocket. “First of all,” he said, handing Blumberg a check, “here is your one-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer.”

“Thank you very much,” Blumberg said, pocketing the check.

Stone displayed the remaining contents of the envelope. “I also have a cashier’s check for five million dollars, made out to the court, and five others for a million each, so we can handle any amount of bail up to ten million dollars immediately. If more is required, I can write checks on Arrington’s account for another five million.”

“I like a lawyer who comes prepared,” Blumberg said. “Now, at this meeting, I don’t want you to say anything at all.”

Stone shrugged. “All right.”

“It may get rough, and you may feel the need to come to Arrington’s rescue, but allow me to make the decision as to when that becomes necessary. If we can get through this questioning without either of us having to speak, then we’ll have won our point.”

“I understand. If they arrest her, though, she’s going to have to spend the weekend in jail. We’re not going to get a judge for a bail hearing on a Saturday.”

“Let me worry about that,” Blumberg said. “And if, for any reason, we can’t get bail, I’ll arrange for her to be segregated at the county jail.”

Arrington walked into the room, wearing a simple black suit and carrying a small suitcase. “Good morning, all,” she said, and held up the bag. “I’ve brought a few things, in case I have to stay.”

Stone was relieved that he had not had to suggest that to her.

“Let’s go, then,” Blumberg said. “I’ve hired a limo to take us all in comfort. We’ll go out the back way, and we’ll enter the courthouse through the basement parking lot.”

The three of them joined Blumberg’s associate, Liz Raymond, in the long black car and departed the property by way of the utility gate, unobserved. The ride to the courthouse was very quiet.

On reaching the courthouse, they drove into the underground garage and stopped at the elevators, where detectives Durkee and Bryant were waiting.

“Hello, Sam, Ted,” Blumberg said, shaking their hands. Stone ignored them.

The group rode upstairs in the elevator, walked down a hallway, and entered a large conference room, where the district attorney and two of his assistants, a man and a woman, awaited, along with a stenographer. Blumberg introduced the D.A., Dan Reeves, and the two A.D.A.s, Bill Marshall, who was black, and Helen Chu, who was Asian. No hands were shaken.

“Please be seated,” Reeves said, and they all sat down around the table.

“As I understand it,” Reeves said, “you are here to surrender Mrs. Calder.”

Blumberg held up a hand. “Before any charge is made, I request that you question my client. It’s my belief that, when you are done, you will see that an arrest is unnecessary.”

“All right; do you have any objection to a steno-graphic record being made?”

“None whatsoever. I’d also like to volunteer my client for a polygraph; you choose the examiner.”

“Yes, I saw your press conference,” Reeves said dryly. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means.”

Reeves dictated the names of those present and started to ask his first question, but Blumberg interrupted.

“I’d like the record to show that my client is here voluntarily and is willing to answer all questions.”

“So noted,” the D.A. said. “Mrs. Calder, you understand you are here because you are a suspect in the murder of your husband, Vance Calder?”

“I understand it, but I don’t understand it,” Arrington replied in a calm voice.

“Beg pardon?”

“I mean, I accept your characterization of my visit here, but I don’t understand why I’m a suspect.”

“That will become apparent as we proceed,” Reeves said. “Mrs. Calder, please recount the events as you recall them on the evening of your husband’s death.”

“I have only one memory of that evening,” Arrington said. “I remember being shown my husband’s body as it lay on the floor of the central hallway of our house. Apart from that single image, I have no recollection of anything between midafternoon the previous day and the following morning, when I woke up at the Judson Clinic.”

Blumberg spoke up. “For the record, Dr. James Judson, an eminent psychiatrist, is available to testify that Mrs. Calder is suffering from a kind of amnesia, brought on by the shock of her husband’s violent death.”

“So you have no recollection of shooting your husband?” Reeves asked.

“I would never have shot my husband,” Arrington replied, “but I have no recollection of the events of that evening.”

“So you don’t know if you shot him?”

“I know that I would never do such a thing.”

“But you don’t know.”

“Asked and answered,” Blumberg said. “Perfectly clear.”

“Mrs. Calder, is it possible that, while delusional, you might have shot your husband?”

“I have never been delusional,” Arrington replied. “My doctor has explained to me that my amnesia has nothing to do with delusion.”

“Have you ever threatened to kill your husband?”

“Certainly not.”

Reeves took a small tape recorder from a credenza behind him and placed it on the table. “This is an excerpt from an interview with a friend of yours, Mrs. Beverly Walters.”

“An acquaintance, not a friend,” Arrington replied.

Reeves pressed a button.

“I told Arrington,” Beverly Walters’s voice said, “that I had it on good authority that Vance, during the filming of his last picture, was sleeping with his costar, Charlene Joiner, on a regular basis. She pooh-poohed this. I asked her if she would divorce Vance, if she found out that it was true. She replied, and these are her exact words, ‘I wouldn’t divorce him. I’d shoot him.’ And this was two days before Vance was killed.”

Reeves stopped the machine. “Do you recall this conversation with Mrs. Walters?”

“Yes, I do,” Arrington replied.

“So you admit having said that you would not divorce your husband on learning of his adultery, but shoot him, instead?”

“I spoke those words in jest, and Mrs. Walters took them as such. We both had a good laugh about it.”

“But you don’t deny having said that you would shoot your husband?”

“Mr. Reeves, how many times have you said, in jest, that you would kill somebody, maybe even your wife? This is common parlance, and we all do it. I had no evidence of adultery on my husband’s part. I regarded him at that time, and still do, as a faithful husband.”

“But Mrs. Walters had just told you that she, quote, had it on good authority, unquote, that your husband was actually committing adultery with his costar, Ms. Joiner.”

“Mr. Reeves, I would never accept Beverly Walters’s word about such a thing. She is an inveterate and vicious gossip, who enjoys stirring up trouble, and that is why she is an acquaintance, and not a friend of mine. If her husband were not an occasional business associate of my husband, I would not see her at all.”

“But she said she had it on good authority.”

“‘Good authority,’ to Beverly Walters, is something she heard at the hairdresser’s or read in a scandal sheet. Did you ask her to substantiate this rumor she was spreading?”

Reeves didn’t reply.

“I assure you that if I were a murderous person, I would have been much more likely to shoot Beverly Walters than my husband.”

Stone had to suppress a smile.

“Mrs. Calder, did you and your husband ever fight?”

“Occasionally—perhaps rarely would be a better choice of words.”

“Physically fight?”

“No, never.”

“I will reserve the right to present evidence to the contrary at a later date,” Reeves said. “That concludes the questioning,” he said to the stenographer. “Thank you; you may leave us now.”

The stenographer took her machine and left the room.

Stone was surprised that Arrington’s questioning had been so brief, and that no further evidence against her had been offered.

“Mrs. Calder,” the district attorney said, “you are under arrest on a charge of second-degree murder. Please stand up.”

Arrington stood, and the two police detectives began to handcuff her.

Twenty-five

ON SUNDAY MORNING, STONE GOT UP AND WENT OUT for the papers. He’d have to arrange daily delivery, he thought. The studio, ordinarily a hive of activity, was dead on a Sunday. He drove through the empty streets, inquired of the guard at the gate where to get a paper, and for his trouble was rewarded with a New York Times and a Los Angeles Times.

“We get a few delivered for folks who are working over the weekend,” the guard said.

Stone returned to the bungalow, and as he entered, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Charlene Joiner.”

“Good morning.”

“As I mentioned at the funeral, I’d like to get together with you; I have some information you might find interesting.”

“All right,” Stone said.

“Why don’t you come to lunch? There’ll be some other people here, but we can find a moment to talk.”

“Thank you, I will,” Stone replied.

“Do you know the Malibu Colony?”

“Yes, I’ve been to the Calder house there.”

“I’m six doors down,” she said. She gave him the house number. “One o’clock, and California casual.”

“See you then.” He hung up, wondering what information she might have for him and what “California casual” meant.

Betty had left Danish pastries in the fridge for him; he made himself some coffee and spent the morning reading the papers. The L.A. paper had a front-page story about Arrington’s arrest, while the New York paper had a blurb on the front page and an inside story—this seemed to be the standard coverage. Marc Blumberg had issued a press release, detailing Arrington’s willingness to answer all questions. “I don’t expect this to go to trial,” he said, “if the LAPD does its job, but should it do so, Mrs. Calder will testify without fear of any question.”

Stone thought that was immoderate; things might change before the trial, and they might not want her to testify. Still, it sounded good now, and helped create the impression that Arrington had nothing to fear from a trial. He was troubled by the D.A.’s reluctance to disclose the evidence against her. Normally, they would use the press to reinforce the idea that they had a strong case.

He passed through the Malibu Colony gate a little after one, then drove to Charlene Joiner’s house. A uniformed maid opened the door for him and took him out to a rear terrace. Charlene and another woman were sitting beside the pool, talking, both wearing swimsuits. Charlene stood up, wrapped a colorful sarong skirt around her lower body, and came to greet him, hand out.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the other woman. “This is Ilsa Berends,” she said.

Stone recognized the actress from her films. She was in her early forties, he thought, but in wonderful shape. “How do you do, Miss Berends,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed your work in films.” He turned to Charlene. “Yours, too. In fact I saw one on the airplane from Milan.”

“You were in Milan recently?” Berends asked.

“Venice, really; I flew out of Milan.”

“Vacation?” Charlene asked.

“Sort of,” Stone replied. He turned to see another woman arriving, and she was another recognizable actress, though he could not remember her name. Five minutes later, two more arrived.

Charlene introduced everyone. “I’m afraid you’re going to be in the middle of a hen party,” she said. “You’re our only man.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Stone replied. A houseman brought everyone mimosas, and half an hour later, they sat down to lunch.

The conversation was about L.A. matters—films, gossip, and shopping.

“I understand you’re a friend of Arrington Calder,” Ilsa Berends said to Stone.

It was the first question addressed to him by anyone. “That’s right,” Stone said.

“I also hear you used to live together,” the actress said. This got everyone’s attention.

“I think I’ll stand on attorney-client privilege,” Stone replied.

Everyone laughed.

“Were you there when Arrington was arrested?” another woman asked.

“I was at the meeting at the D.A.’s office, where Arrington had voluntarily appeared and answered questions.”

“I think she did it,” the youngest woman, who could only have been in her early twenties, said.

“Certainly not,” Stone replied.

“The loyal attorney,” Berends said.

“So far, the district attorney seems to have no evidence against her.”

“Except Beverly Walters’s statement,” Charlene said.

Stone was astonished. “How did you know about that?” he asked.

Everybody laughed.

“Because Beverly has told everyone she knows about it,” Charlene replied. “She would never be involved in anything like this without telling all of Beverly Hills.”

“Well, I can tell you that her version of the conversation is different from Arrington’s. It was an entirely innocent remark.”

“Innocent, that she said she was going to kill her husband?” Berends asked.

“Haven’t you ever said you were going to kill somebody?”

“No, not seriously.”

“Neither has Arrington—seriously.”

“You’re sweet, standing up for her like that. You really think she’s innocent?”

“I really do,” Stone said. “Or I wouldn’t say so.”

“So, what’s your strategy going to be at trial?” somebody asked.

“That will be for Marc Blumberg to decide; he’s the lead attorney in the case. I’m just helping out when I can and handling Arrington’s personal affairs.”

“Oh, so Arrington had affairs, too?” someone asked.

“Her business affairs,” Stone said, wagging a finger at her. “There’s an estate to settle and a lot of other things to be taken care of.”

“Didn’t Vance have a lawyer?”

“Yes, but Arrington is entitled to her own representation.”

“So, what have you handled for her?”

“Ladies, you’ll have to forgive me; I’ve said about all I can.”

“Oh, shoot,” Berends said. “And there was so much I wanted to know.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Stone said.

The absence of further information seemed to cast a pall over the luncheon, and soon the women began leaving. Finally, Stone was left alone with Charlene Joiner.

“Thank you, Ramon,” she said to the houseman, who was clearing the dishes. “Just put those things in the dishwasher, and you and Reba can go. Thank you for coming in today.” She watched the man go into the kitchen, then turned to Stone. “Alone at last,” she said, standing up and slipping out of the sarong. “I hope you don’t mind if I get some sun.”

“Not at all,” Stone said. To his surprise, she didn’t stop with the sarong; she unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts, and shucked off the bikini bottom. He noted that there were no sun lines on her body.

She stretched like a cat. She was tall and slender, and she obviously took very good care of herself. Her legs were long, her hips were narrow, and her breasts were impressive.

“They’re original equipment,” she said, catching Stone’s glance.

Stone laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. You said you had some information for me.” He tried to keep his tone light and his breathing regular.

She settled on the chaise beside his, turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Yes, I do. It may not be important, but I thought you ought to know about it.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Vance and I use the same gardening service, which takes care of the grounds of both his Malibu and Bel-Air houses. The man, whose name is Felipe, was due here on Monday morning to cut the grass and do some gardening work, and he didn’t show up. I called the service, and they sent somebody else that afternoon.”

Stone waited for this to become relevant. “Go on.”

“The man who came in the afternoon didn’t do a very good job, so I called his boss and asked when Felipe would be back. He said he had called Felipe’s house—he apparently lived with a sister—and was told that he had returned to Mexico over the weekend, and he didn’t know when he’d be back.”

“Did Felipe also work at the Calders’ house?”

“Yes; he worked there last Friday and on Saturday, the day Vance was killed.”

“And he suddenly went back to Mexico on the Sunday?”

“On the Saturday night, according to his boss.”

“So he couldn’t have been questioned by the police,” Stone said. “That is interesting.”

“I thought you might think so. The man did good work, but once I caught him in my house. He said he was looking for a drink of water, but he wasn’t in the kitchen; he was in the living room.”

“Did he know where the kitchen was?”

“Yes, he had been in there before. I think he fancied Reba, my maid.”

“You think he might have stolen something?”

“I think he would have, left to his own devices. I told him not to come into the house again. If he wanted water, he was to ask Reba to bring it to him. There’s a staff toilet off the kitchen he could use. His full name is Felipe Cordova; his boss says he’s from Tijuana.”

“Thank you for telling me this,” Stone said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you; it’s a rude question, but I’d appreciate a straight answer.”

“Was I fucking Vance Calder?” she asked.

“That’s the question.”

She laughed. “Sweetie, all of the women here today have fucked Vance, at one time or another.”

“All of them?”

“Every one of them is a member of the I Fucked Vance Calder Club. The club is bigger than that, of course; we’re only the tip of the nipple.”

“Let’s get back to my original question.”

“You bet I was fucking him, and loving it.” She smiled. “So was he.”

“Where did these meetings take place?”

“You mean where did we fuck? I hate euphemisms. In his bungalow at the studio; in his trailer, when we were on location; in his Colony house just down the street; and here. Right up until the day before his death.”

“How often did this happen?”

“Every day we could manage it; sometimes twice a day. Vance was always ready,” she said, “and so was I.” She turned toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “In fact,” she said, “I’m ready right now.”

Stone patted her hand. “That’s a kind thought,” he said, “but it’s very likely that you’re going to be called as a witness for the prosecution at Arrington’s trial, and . . .”

“I’ll bet you could get me to say whatever you wanted me to,” Charlene said, getting up and sitting on the edge of his chaise.

“That would be suborning perjury,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice calm. “My advice to you is to tell the truth.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, and her hand went smoothly to his crotch. “I want you right now, and,” she squeezed gently, “I can tell you want me.”

“I’m afraid . . .”

She squeezed harder. “Stone,” she said, “you don’t want to turn down the best piece of ass on the North American continent, do you?”

Stone got to his feet, and his condition was something of an embarrassment. She got up, too. “Charlene,” he said, “I don’t doubt you for a moment, but, believe me, it could mean big trouble for both of us.”

“It might be worth it,” she said, rubbing her body against his.

Stone was backing away, but he could not bring himself to disagree. “I have to leave,” he said, turning for the door.

“All right,” she sighed, “but when this trial is over, you call me, you hear?”

Stone waved and walked quickly through the house and to his car. When he was finally behind the wheel, he noticed that he was breathing harder than the effort had required.

Twenty-six

STONE DROVE SLOWLY BACK TO THE STUDIO, TOP DOWN, trying to enjoy the California weather, instead of thinking about Charlene Joiner. He had read the newspaper accounts of her long-ago affair with the senator and presidential candidate Will Lee, and he had every sympathy for the senator. She was extraordinarily beautiful, all over, and, if Betty Southard’s account of her prowess in bed was true, the senator was lucky to get out with his scalp.

He could not make the randiness go away. Just when he thought he had it under control, he passed the public beach area near Sunset, and a girl walking along the sand in a bikini got him going again. Stone sighed and tried to think pure thoughts.

As he walked into the studio bungalow, the phone was ringing, and Betty answered it.

“It’s for you,” she said.

Stone went into the study and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Rick Grant.”

“Hi, Rick. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I heard about the scene at the D.A.’s office. Blumberg pulled that one out of the fire.”

“At least, temporarily.”

“It was a shitty thing for the D.A. to do—try to make her spend the weekend in jail.”

“Do I detect a sympathetic note?”

“Sort of.”

“Rick, what have they got on her that they’re not telling us?”

“I can’t get into that,” Rick replied, “but there is something I can tell you.”

“Please do.”

“They found a good footprint outside the French doors leading to the pool. A Nike, size twelve.”

“That’s interesting.”

“The guy had walked through some sprinkler-dampened dirt, or something; there was only one good one, but they got a photograph of it.”

“I learned something else,” Stone said.

“Tell me.”

“There was a Mexican gardener there, on both the Friday and Saturday, but he left the country Saturday night, went back to Tijuana, so he couldn’t have been questioned by Durkee and Bryant.”

“That’s very interesting,” Rick admitted.

“What’s more, another customer of the same gardening service caught the guy in her living room, once. She thought he would have stolen something, left to his own devices.”

“Pretty good; now you’ve got another suspect. That should take some of the heat off Arrington.”

“It will, if Durkee and Bryant investigate—find the guy and bring him back.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Rick said. “Getting somebody back from the Mexicans almost never happens. Unless he comes back across the border voluntarily, well, you’re not going to see him. Do you know his name?”

“Felipe Cordova, and he’s from Tijuana. Had you heard about this guy from your people?”

“No, and that’s puzzling; I’ll check into it. I’ll pass this on to Durkee, and we’ll see what happens.”

“I’ll tell you what I think, Rick: I think Durkee and Bryant, and now the D.A., have the hots for Arrington as a suspect, and they don’t want to know anything that points to anybody else.”

“Could be,” Rick admitted. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

“Happens all the time,” Stone said. “In New York, and everywhere else. The path of least resistance, never mind who really did it; nail somebody.”

“We’ve all seen that.”

“And the high profile of this case has got them salivating for a high-profile perp.”

“Could be.”

“I think it’s the O.J. thing,” Stone said. “They lost that one, and now they want a big conviction to salvage their reputations.”

“Possibly.”

“Will you let me know what you hear about the Mexican gardener?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Talk to you later,” Stone said into the phone, and hung up. He walked into Betty’s office, but she was not at her desk. He felt the need for a shower and went into the bedroom. He undressed and stretched out on the bed, thinking to relax for a few minutes. Then Betty came out of the bathroom, and she was naked.

“Oh!” she said. “Sorry, I thought you’d be on the phone for a while.”

“It’s okay, Betty,” he said, getting up. “It’s not the first time we’ve seen each other in the buff.”

She walked over and put her arms around him. “I just want to see if this feels as good as I remember. It does.”

“It certainly does,” Stone agreed. Then, before he could get into trouble, he held her off a few inches. “If I’m not careful, you’ll seduce me,” he said.

Betty laughed.

Then there was a blinding flash of light, followed by another. Stone and Betty both turned toward the door, astonished. The flash came again, then there was the sound of running feet leaving the cottage.

Stone blinked, trying to regain his vision.

“What the hell was that?” Betty cried.

“I don’t know; what’s the number for the main gate?”

Betty dialed the number and handed the phone to Stone.

“Main gate,” the guard said.

“This is Stone Barrington; we’ve had an intruder in Mr. Calder’s bungalow. Who’s come in this morning?”

“In the last half hour, only Mrs. Barrington,” the man replied.

“There is no Mrs. Barrington!” Stone yelled. “Don’t let her in here again!” He hung up and turned to Betty. “I’m sorry, it was Dolce; I didn’t even know she was still in town.”

“Well,” Betty said, “ask her if I can have a set of prints.”

“That would be funny, if I weren’t so pissed off.”

“Where were we?” Betty asked.

But Stone was already dressing.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to put a stop to this thing with Dolce.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Lotsa luck,” Betty said. “Looks to me as though you’re past talking.”

Twenty-seven

STONE PARKED VANCE CALDER’S MERCEDES IN THE upper parking lot of the Bel-Air Hotel and walked quickly to Dolce’s suite. He was going to have to have this out with her, once and for all. He rapped sharply on the door and waited.

A moment later the door was opened by a white-haired woman in her sixties, dressed in a hotel robe. “Yes?” she said, looking at him suspiciously.

“May I see Miss Bianchi, please?”

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong room,” the woman replied, starting to close the door.

“May I ask, when did you check in?”

“About noon,” she replied and firmly shut the door.

Stone walked down to the lobby and the front desk. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?” the young woman at the desk said. “Are you checking in again?”

“No, I’m looking for Miss Dolce Bianchi. Has she changed rooms?”

“Let me check,” the woman said, tapping some computer keys. “I’m afraid I don’t see a Miss Bianchi.”

“Try Mrs. Stone Barrington,” Stone said, through clenched teeth.

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Barrington checked out last night.”

“And her forwarding address?”

She checked the computer screen and read off the address of Eduardo’s house in Manhattan.

“Thank you,” Stone said.

“Of course,” she replied. “We’re always happy to see you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Thank you, and by the way, would you inform the management that there is no Mrs. Stone Barrington? The woman’s name is Dolce Bianchi, and should she check in again, I would be grateful if you would not allow her to use my name in the hotel.”

“I’ll speak to the manager about it,” the woman replied, looking baffled.

“Thank you very much,” Stone said, managing a smile for the woman. He walked back to the parking lot, switched on the ignition, and called the Bianchi house in Manhattan. He got an answering machine for his trouble. Frustrated, he called Dino’s number at home.

“Hello?” Mary Ann, Dino’s wife, answered.

“Hi, Mary Ann, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, Stone,” she said cheerfully, then her voice took on a sympathetic tone. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out in Venice.”

“Thank you, but I think it was for the best.”

“Well, since you’re not too broken up about it, I don’t mind telling you, I think you’re lucky to be out of that relationship. I mean, Dolce’s my sister, and I love her, but you’re far too nice a guy to have to put up with her.”

“She registered at the Bel-Air as Mrs. Stone Barrington,” he said.

“Oh, Jesus,” Mary Ann breathed. “That’s just like her.”

“She checked out yesterday and said she was returning to New York, but there’s no answer at the Manhattan house. Have you heard from her? I want to talk to her.”

“Not a word; I knew she went to Vance Calder’s funeral, and I thought she was still in L.A. Hang on, Dino wants to speak to you.”

“So how’s the bridegroom?” Dino asked.

“Don’t start. She checked into the Bel-Air as Mrs. Stone Barrington. Are you sure that civil ceremony has no force in law?”

“That’s my understanding, but I’m not an Italian lawyer,” Dino replied. “Is Dolce giving you a hard time?”

“I’m staying at Vance Calder’s cottage at Centurion Studios, and she barged in there this afternoon with a camera and caught me in bed with Betty Southard, Vance’s secretary.”

Dino began laughing.

Stone held the phone away from his ear for a moment. “It’s not funny, Dino. I can’t have her going around pretending to be Mrs. Barrington and behaving like a wronged wife.”

“Listen, pal, you’re talking to the guy who warned you off her, remember?”

“Don’t rub it in. What am I going to do about her?”

“I guess you could talk to Eduardo; you two are such good buddies. Maybe he’ll spank her, or something.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I can’t think of anybody else who could handle her.”

“Neither can I.”

“You got the Brooklyn number?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I’d do, in your shoes—that, and talk to an Italian lawyer.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” Stone punched off, and it occurred to him that he knew an Italian lawyer. He dug out his wallet and found the cardinal’s card. He looked at his watch; it would be early evening in Italy. He called the operator, got the dialing code for Rome, and punched in the number.

“Pronto,” a deep voice said.

“Good evening,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington; may I speak with Cardinal Bellini, please?”

“Stone, how good to hear from you,” Bellini said, switching to English.

“Thank you; I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some advice regarding Italian law, and I didn’t know anyone else to call.”

“Of course; how can I help you?”

“You’ll recall that, before my sudden departure from Venice, Dolce and I went through some sort of civil ceremony at the mayor’s office.”

“I do.”

“But I had to leave Venice before the ceremony at St. Mark’s.”

“Yes, yes.”

“My question is, does the civil ceremony, without the church ceremony, have any legal force?”

“Not in the eyes of the church,” Bellini replied.

“How about in the eyes of the Italian government?”

“Well, it is possible to be legally married in Italy in a civil ceremony.”

Stone’s heart sank.

“Can you tell me what this is about, Stone? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t want to burden you with this, Your Eminence,” Stone said.

“Not at all,” the cardinal replied. “I have plenty of time.”

Stone poured it all out—Arrington; Arrington and Vance Calder; Dolce; everything.

“Well,” the cardinal said when he had finished, “it seems you’ve reconsidered your intentions toward Dolce.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been forced to.”

“Then it’s fortunate that this occurred before you took vows in the church.”

“Yes, it is. However, I’m concerned about my marital status under Italian law. Is it possible that I am legally married?”

“Yes, it is possible.”

Stone groaned.

“I can see how, given the circumstances, this might concern you, Stone. Before I can give you any sort of definitive answer, I’d like to do a bit of research. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow morning for a meeting in Paris, and it may be a few days, perhaps longer, before I can look into this. Let’s leave it that I’ll phone you as soon as I have more information.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Stone gave him the Centurion number, thanked him again, and hung up.

He started the car and drove slowly back to the studio. When he reached the cottage it was dark, except for a lamp in the window. Betty had gone.

Stone rarely drank alone, but he went to the bar and poured himself a stiff bourbon. What had he gotten himself into? Was he married? If so, the Italians didn’t have divorce, did they? He had not wanted to question a cardinal of the Church about a divorce. He collapsed in a chair and pulled at the bourbon. For a while, he allowed himself a wallow in self-pity.

Twenty-eight

STONE WAS SIGNING DOCUMENTS FAXED TO HIM FROM New York by his secretary when Betty buzzed him.

“Rick Grant on line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Hi, Rick.”

“Good morning, Stone. I had a chat with Durkee about this missing Mexican gardener, and I have to tell you that he and his partner don’t seem to have the slightest interest in him.”

“I suppose they’re not interested in the footprint they found outside the house, either.”

“Not much. It’s a Nike athletic shoe, size twelve, right foot, with a cut across the heel. I got that much out of Durkee.”

“Can you get me a copy of the photograph of the footprint?”

“I think you’re better off asking for that in discovery.”

Rick obviously didn’t want to get more involved than he already was. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I thought of something, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I told you how tough it was to get suspects out of Mexico, but there might be something you can do.”

“Tell me.”

“I know a guy named Brandy Garcia. Brandy is a Latino hustler, does a little of everything to make a buck. He’s been a coyote, running illegals across the border, he’s run an employment agency for recently arrived Latinos, he may even have smuggled some drugs in his time, I don’t know. But he’s well connected below the border, especially in Tijuana, where he’s from, and he might be able to find this guy, Felipe Cordova, for you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Trouble is, Cordova is not a suspect, so even if you found him and the Mexicans were willing to extradite him, nobody would arrest him.”

“That’s discouraging,” Stone replied.

“I know. But you might try to talk to him, if Brandy can find him.”

“How do I get hold of Brandy Garcia?”

“I left a message on an answering machine, giving him your number. He may or may not call; I don’t know if he’s even in the country.”

“Okay, I’ll wait to hear from him.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, Rick.” Stone hung up.

Twenty minutes later Betty buzzed him. “There’s somebody on the phone, who says his name is Brandy Garcia; says Rick Grant told him to call.”

“Put him through,” Stone said. There was a click. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Brandy Garcia; Rick Grant said I might be of some service to you.” The accent was slight.

“Yes, I spoke to Rick. Can we meet someplace?”

“You free for lunch?”

“How about a drink?”

“Okay: the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel at twelve-thirty?”

“All right.”

“See you then.” Garcia hung up.

Stone opened his briefcase, found a bank envelope, and counted out some money.

Stone drove up to the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel and turned his car over to the valet. Walking inside, he thought that the place looked very fresh and new. It was the first time he’d visited the hotel since its multimillion-dollar renovation by its owner, the Sultan of Brunei.

He walked into the Polo Lounge and looked around, seeing nobody who fit the name of Brandy Garcia. The headwaiter approached.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’m to meet a Mr. Garcia here,” Stone said.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“Come this way, please.” He led Stone through the restaurant, out into the garden, and to a table in a shady spot near the rear hedge. A man stood up to greet him.

“Brandy Garcia,” he said, extending a hand.

“Stone Barrington,” Stone replied, shaking it. Garcia was slightly flashily dressed, in the California style, and perfectly barbered, with a well-trimmed moustache. He bore a striking resemblance to the old-time Mexican movie actor Gilbert Roland.

Garcia indicated a seat. “Please,” he said.

“I don’t think I’ll have time for lunch,” Stone said.

Garcia shrugged. “Have a drink, then; I’ll have lunch.”

They both sat down. There was a large snifter of cognac already before Garcia. “So you’re a friend of Rick’s?” Garcia asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ve known Rick a long time; good guy. Rick was the first person to tell me I look like Gilbert Roland.” He appeared to be cultivating the resemblance.

“Oh,” Stone said.

“You think I look like him?”

“Yes, I think you do.”

This seemed to please Garcia. The waiter brought them a menu. “Please. Order something. It would please me.”

Stone suppressed a sigh. “All right. I’ll have the lobster salad and a glass of the house chardonnay.”

“Same here,” Garcia said, ogling two good-looking women as they were seated at the next table, “but I’ll stick with brandy. So,” he said, finally, “Rick says you’re looking for somebody.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What is his name?”

“Felipe Cordova.”

Garcia shook his head slowly. “I don’t know him,” he said, as if this were surprising.

“I’m told he’s from Tijuana,” Stone said.

“My hometown!” Garcia said, looking pleased.

“He was working as a gardener in Los Angeles until recently.” Stone tore a page from his notebook. “He was living with his sister; this is her name and address. He suddenly left L.A. on a Saturday night, the same night a murder was committed.”

Garcia’s eyebrows went up. “The Vance Calder murder?”

“Yes,” Stone admitted. He had not wanted to share this information.

“I read the papers, I watch TV,” Garcia said. “Your name was familiar to me.”

“I want to find Cordova, talk to him.”

“Not arrest him?”

Stone shook his head. “The police don’t consider him a suspect. I just want to find out what he knows about that night.”

Garcia nodded sagely. “There are some difficulties here,” he said.

The waiter arrived with their lunch.

“What difficulties?” Stone asked.

“Tijuana is a difficult place, even for someone with my connections. And maybe Señor Cordova doesn’t want to talk to you. That would make him harder to find.”

Stone read this as a nudge for more money. “Can you find him?”

“Probably, but it will take time and effort.”

“I’m quite willing to pay for your time,” Stone said.

Garcia pushed a huge forkful of lobster into his mouth and chewed reflectively. Finally, he swallowed. “And if I find him, then what?”

“Arrange a meeting,” Stone said.

Garcia chuckled. “You mean a nice lunch, like this?” He waved a hand.

“I just want an hour with the man.”

“How, ah, hard do you wish to talk to him?”

“I don’t want to beat answers out of him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you willing to pay him to sit still for this, ah, conversation, then?”

“Yes, within reason.”

“I am not reasonable,” Garcia said. “I will require five thousand dollars for my services, half now and half when you see Cordova.”

“I don’t have twenty-five hundred dollars on me,” Stone said. “I can give you a thousand now and the rest in cash when we meet Cordova.”

Garcia nodded gravely. “For a friend of Rick’s that is agreeable.”

Stone took a stack of ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, folded them and slipped them under Garcia’s napkin. “When?”

“Within a week or so, I think,” Garcia replied, pocketing the money.

“You have my number.”

Garcia suddenly looked at his wristwatch. “Oh, I have to run,” he said, standing up. “I will be in touch.” He turned and walked back into the hotel without another word.

Stone finished his lunch and paid the check.

Twenty-nine

AS STONE WALKED BACK INTO THE CALDER BUNGALOW at Centurion, he could see Betty in her office, leaning back in her chair and waving the phone. “It’s Joan Robertson, in New York,” she called out.

Stone went to Vance’s office, picked up the phone, and spoke to his secretary. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Oh, Stone, I’m so glad I got you,” Joan said breathlessly. “Water is coming down the stairs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the main stairs of the house look like a tributary of the Hudson River. It’s been raining hard here for three days.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said. When he had inherited the house, the roof had seemed the one thing that didn’t need renovating. It was old, but it was of slate, which could last a hundred years or more. Now it occurred to Stone that the house was over a hundred years old, and so was the roof. “Here’s what you do,” he said. “Call a guy named Billy Foote; he’s in my phone book. Billy was my helper when I was renovating the house, and he can do almost anything. Tell him to buy a whole lot of plastic sheeting and to get up on the roof and tack it down everywhere. That’ll stop the worst of it.”

“Okay, then what?” Joan asked sensibly.

Stone realized he didn’t know a roofer, let alone one qualified to tackle a slate roof. “Let me think for a minute,” he said.

“Listen, Stone, I think you ought to get back here. There are clients you need to see, instead of just talking on the phone, and there’s going to be damage to the house as a result of all the water coming in. Please come back.”

Stone knew she was right. “I’ll be home as soon as humanly possible,” he said. “Call Billy, and tell him to hire whatever help he can and to start asking around about roofers who can deal with slate.”

“All right,” she said, then hung up.

Stone buzzed Betty.

“Yes?”

“Get me on the red-eye,” he said. “I’ve got to go back to New York for a few days.”

“Right; you want a car to meet you at the airport?”

“Good idea. I’m going over to Arrington’s; you can reach me there, if you need me.”

“Okay.”

Stone packed his bags and loaded them into Vance’s car.

Betty came out of the bungalow. “When are you coming back?” Betty asked.

“As soon as I can,” Stone replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Stone, I think I’m going to be getting out of here pretty soon. Do you think you’ll need me much longer?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d hang around at least until I get back from New York.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up Vance’s affairs for you, and I’ll find somebody to do the job for Arrington when I’m gone. Now you get back to New York, and I’ll see you when I see you.” She gave him a sharp slap on the rump to send him on his way, and went back to her office.

All the way to Arrington’s he thought about his house, how he loved it, and what must be happening to it. He called Joan on the car phone.

“Yes, Stone?”

“You’d better call Chubb Insurance and have them get somebody over there in a hurry. Tell them I need a recommendation for a roofer.”

“Will do.”

He entered the Calder property through the utility entrance, as had become his habit. Arrington heard the car pull up and met him at the back door.

She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I missed you,” she said.

“How are you?”

“Bored rigid, as a matter of fact.” She kissed him again. “And randy.”

“Now, now, now, now . . .” Stone said, holding her away from him. “We can’t allow ourselves to think that way, you know that.”

“Come on in, and let me fix you a drink.”

“I could use one,” he replied. They settled in the little sitting room off the master suite. “I have to go back to New York for a little while,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she replied. “You’re all I’ve got right now, Stone.”

Stone explained about the roof and his impatient clients. “If there’s as much water as Joan says there is, then it’s going to take me some time to get things sorted out.”

“But what will I do without you here?”

“Marc Blumberg is in charge of your case, anyway; I’m just an adviser.”

“Marc is good, but he’s no smarter than you are,” she said.

“Thank you, but we’re on his turf, and he knows it a lot better than I do. Who else could have gotten you bail on a Saturday?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll call every day,” he said.

“You getting the red-eye?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s have some dinner before you go, then.” She picked up a phone, buzzed Manolo, and ordered food. “And after dinner, will you please drive Mr. Barrington to the airport?” She thanked him and hung up. “I don’t know what I would have done without Manolo,” she said. “He’s the most intensely loyal person I’ve ever met, besides you. Do you know that as soon as Vance was buried, he started getting offers from people, some of them my friends? And he turned down every one of them. He and Maria have just been wonderful.”

“You’re lucky to have them,” Stone agreed. “On the subject of loyal help, Betty Southard told me this afternoon that she’s going to leave as soon as Vance’s affairs are settled, probably move to Hawaii.”

“I don’t blame her,” Arrington said. “She’s never liked me, particularly, so maybe it’s best.”

“She said she’d find somebody to work for you.”

“Good.”

“I’d like to wash up before dinner; will you excuse me?”

“Use Vance’s bathroom; it’s the closest,” she said, pointing to the hallway.

Stone left her and found the bathroom. As he came back up the hallway, past Vance’s dressing room, he thought something was odd, but he wasn’t sure what. He walked back to the bathroom and looked at the wall backing up onto the dressing room, then he walked down the hallway and looked at the dressing room. There was something wrong with the proportions, but the bourbon he had just had on an empty stomach was keeping him from figuring it out. He went back and joined Arrington.

“How old is this house?” he asked.

“It was built during the twenties,” she said, “but when Vance bought it in the seventies, he gutted it and started over.”

“Did he make a lot of changes?”

“He changed everything; he might as well have torn it down and started over, but Vance was too keen on costs to waste the shell of a perfectly good house. After we were married, I redecorated the master suite, with his approval on fabrics and so forth.”

“Did you tear down any walls then?”

“No, the space was already divided as you see it. Even though Vance was a bachelor when he rebuilt the house, he provided for what he called ‘the putative woman.’ ”

Stone laughed.

They had dinner in the small dining room and talked about old times, which weren’t really that old, Stone reflected. A lot had happened in the few years they had known each other.

“I think I’d go back to Virginia, if I were allowed to leave town,” Arrington said, “and just spend a few weeks or months. Do a lot of riding. I miss that.”

“You’ve got room for horses here,” Stone said.

“You’re right; there’s actually an old stable on the property, and there are still riding trails in the neighborhood. Did you know that the Bel-Air Hotel is built on property where Robert Young used to own a riding stable?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Maybe when this is all over, I’ll buy a couple of horses. Do you ride?”

“You’re talking to a city kid, you know. I mean, I rode a little at summer camp as a boy, but that was about it.”

“I’m going to redecorate this house, too,” she said. “I don’t want to sell it; it’s unique, and I love it so. I didn’t do a lot about the place, except for the master suite, when I moved in, and I’m tired of even that. You did such a good job on your house; will you consult?”

“I’ll consult, when I get back,” Stone said. He thought it was good that she was looking past the trial, instead of obsessing about it. He wanted her optimistic; otherwise, she’d come apart.

They talked on into the evening, easily, the way people do who know each other well. Then Manolo brought the Bentley around, with Stone’s luggage already in the trunk.

“Don’t stay any longer than you have to,” Arrington said, kissing him lightly. “And by the way, it’s time you sent me a bill. I can’t have you devoting all your working time to me, and after all, I’m a rich woman.”

“I’ll probably overcharge you,” Stone said.

“That would not be possible,” she said, kissing him again, this time more longingly.

Stone allowed himself to enjoy it, and the drive to the airport passed in a haze of good wine and rekindled desire.

He checked his luggage, got to the gate, and boarded with only a couple of minutes to spare. The flight attendant was closing the door to the airplane, when she suddenly reopened it and stepped back.

Dolce got onto the airplane, and the flight attendant closed the door behind her.

Thirty

STONE WAS SITTING IN THE FIRST-ROW WINDOW SEAT OF the first-class section, and he watched like a trapped rabbit, as Dolce, cobralike, glided past, ignoring him, and took a seat somewhere behind him.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Barrington?” the attendant asked.

“A Wild Turkey on the rocks,” he replied without hesitation, “and make it a double.” When the drink arrived, he drank it more quickly than he usually would have, and by the time the flight reached its cruising altitude, he had fallen asleep.

Sometime in the night he awoke, needing the bathroom. On the way back to his seat, he looked toward the rear of the compartment and saw Dolce, sitting on the aisle three rows behind his seat, gazing unblinkingly at him. It was unnerving, he thought. He slept only fitfully for the rest of the flight.

When the door opened at the gate, Stone was the first off the airplane, nearly running up the ramp into the terminal. His bags were among the first to be seen in baggage claim, and a driver stood by with his name written on a shirt cardboard. He pointed at the bags and followed the driver to the waiting car.

He felt hungover from having the bourbon so close to bedtime, and the weather did not improve his mood. It was still raining heavily, the result of a close brush from a tropical storm off the coast, and even though the driver handled his bags, he got very wet between the car and his front door.

He tipped the driver generously, opened the door, and stepped inside his house, shoving his bags ahead of him. He tapped the security code into the keypad and looked around. The stairs had been stripped of their runner, which was piled on the living room floor, on top of a fine old oriental carpet that had come with the house, both of them sodden. A smell of dampness permeated the place.

He put his bags on the elevator and pressed the button, then he walked up the stairs slowly, surveying the damage, which, if not catastrophic, was still awful. Thank God for insurance, he thought. He walked into his upstairs sitting room, where there was more wet carpet, and watermarks on the wall next to the stairs, where the water from the breached roof had run down. At least it had stopped, he thought, though it was still raining hard outside. Billy Foote must have gotten the plastic cover over the roof. His beautiful house, nearly ruined. He thought about how hard he had worked to restore it. Now a few days’ rain . . .

The security system beeped, signaling that Joan was arriving for work. He picked up a phone and buzzed her.

“Hi. Was your flight okay?”

“As okay as could be expected. Thanks for getting Billy over here.”

“He did a good job. The insurance adjustor got here in a hurry, and he’s sending a roofer to bid for the job as soon as it stops raining, if it ever does, and the carpet cleaners are coming this morning to take away all the wet rugs.”

Stone looked around his bedroom. “Tell them to throw away the carpet up here,” he said. “It’s time to replace it, I think, and the stairway runner, too. I do want to save the oriental in the living room, though.”

“Okay.”

“Any calls?”

“None that can’t wait until this afternoon,” she said. “You probably need some sleep.”

“That’s true. I’ll check with you later.” He hung up, got undressed, went into a guest room, where the carpets were still dry, and got into bed.

He woke up around noon, showered, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs, where his housekeeper, Helene, had left a sandwich for him. He had just finished it when the front doorbell rang. That would be the carpet people, he thought, and instead of using the intercom, he went to the front door and opened it. Eduardo Bianchi stood on his doorstep, glumly holding an umbrella. The Mercedes Maybach idled at the curb.

“Eduardo!” Stone said, surprised. He had almost never seen the man anywhere except on his own turf. “Come in.”

“Thank you, Stone. I’m sorry to barge in, but I heard you were back from California, and I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”

“Of course,” Stone said, taking the umbrella, and helping the older man off with his coat. “Come on back to my study. Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you, yes,” Eduardo replied, rubbing his hands together briskly. “It’s terrible out there.”

Stone settled him in a chair in his study, then made some espresso and brought in a pot and two cups on a tray.

“So, you’re back in New York for a while, I hope?” Eduardo asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Stone said. He explained the problem with the roof. “I have some clients to see, too, then I have to get back to L.A. I’m afraid Arrington still needs me there.”

“Ah, Arrington,” Eduardo said slowly. “A most unfortunate situation for her. Do you think she will be acquitted?”

“I think she’s innocent, and I’ll do everything I can to see that she is. Marc Blumberg, an L.A. lawyer, is her lead counsel; I’m just advising.”

Eduardo nodded. “I know Marc; he’s a good man, right for this.”

Stone was not surprised, since Eduardo seemed to know everybody on both coasts. He waited for his near-father-in-law to come to the point of his visit.

“Dolce is back, too,” he said.

“I know,” Stone replied. “I caught a glimpse of her on the airplane, but we didn’t talk.”

Eduardo shook his head. “This is all very sad,” he said. “I do not like seeing her so upset.”

“I’m very sorry for upsetting her,” Stone said, “but I could not do otherwise under the circumstances.”

“What are your intentions toward Arrington?” Eduardo asked, as if he had the right to.

“Quite frankly, I don’t know,” Stone said. “She has some serious difficulties to overcome, and, if Blumberg and I are successful in defending her, I don’t know what her plans are after that. I’m not sure she knows, either.”

“And your plans?”

“I haven’t made any. Every time I do, it all seems to come back to Arrington, one way or another.”

“You are in love with her, then?”

Stone sighed. He had been avoiding the question. “I think I have to finally face the fact that I have been for a long time.”

“Why did you not marry her when you had the opportunity?” Eduardo asked.

“I intended to,” Stone replied. “We were going on a sailing holiday together in the islands. I had planned to pop the question down there. She was delayed in joining me, because she had been asked to write a magazine piece about Vance. The next thing I knew, they were married.”

Eduardo nodded. “Vance could do that,” he said. “He was a very powerful personality, difficult for a young woman to resist.” Eduardo set down his coffee cup and crossed his legs. “Now we come to Dolce,” he said. “My daughter is very unhappy. What are your intentions toward her?”

Stone took a deep breath. “Dolce and I have talked about this,” he said. “I’ve told her that I think it would be a terrible mistake for both of us, should we marry.”

“Why?” Eduardo asked, and his eyes had narrowed.

“This business with Arrington has taught me that I’m not free of her,” Stone replied, “as I thought I was. Vance’s sudden death was a great shock, and not just because I liked him.”

“Arrington is once again available, then?”

“Well, she’s no longer married.”

“Has she expressed an interest in rekindling your relationship with her?”

“Yes,” Stone said, surprising himself with his willingness to discuss this with Eduardo.

“And there is the child,” Eduardo said.

“Yes; there was a time when we both thought he might be mine, but the blood tests . . .”

“And who conducted these tests?” Eduardo asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Indulge me, please.”

Stone went to his desk and rummaged in a bottom drawer. The report was still there. He handed it to Eduardo.

Eduardo read the document carefully. “This would seem conclusive,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Who employed these ‘Hemolab’ people?” he asked, reading the name of the laboratory from the letterhead.

“Arrington, I suppose.”

Eduardo nodded and handed back the document and stood up. “I am sorry to have taken your time, Stone,” he said, “but I had to explore this with you in order to know what to do.”

Stone wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “You are always welcome here, Eduardo.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Stone followed him to the door, helped him on with his coat, and handed him his umbrella.

“Dolce is ill, you know,” Eduardo said suddenly.

“What? What’s wrong with her?”

“Her heart is ill; it has always been so, I think. I had hoped you could make her well, but I see, now, that it will not happen.”

“What can I do to help, Eduardo?”

“Nothing, I think, short of marrying her, and after what you have told me today, I think that would destroy both of you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Eduardo turned and looked at Stone, and his eyes were ineffably sad. “You can only keep away from her,” he said. “I think she may be . . . dangerous.” Then, without another word, he turned and walked down the steps and back to his car.

Stone watched as the limousine moved off down the street, and the shiver that ran through him was not caused by the dampness.

Thirty-one

STONE MET WITH HIS ANXIOUS CLIENTS AND SOOTHED their nerves. He spoke to the insurance agent and got approval to begin repairs, then, because he could not bear to look at his damaged house, he went downtown to ABC Carpets and picked out new ones, arranging for their people to measure and install them. As he got in and out of taxicabs, he caught himself looking around to see if he had unwanted company, but he did not see Dolce.

At half past eight he was at Elaine’s, giving her a kiss on arrival and being shown to his usual table.

Elaine sat down for a minute. “So,” she said, “you’re up to your ass in this Vance Calder thing.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I always liked Arrington,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought she could kill anybody.”

“I don’t think she did.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I guess the only way I can prove that is by proving somebody else did it. Otherwise, even if she’s tried and acquitted, too many people will believe she’s guilty, and a smart lawyer got her off.”

“I hear she’s got a smart lawyer—besides you, I mean.”

“That’s right; he’s doing a good job, so far.”

“Stone.” She looked at him sadly.

“Yes?”

“Sometimes people do things you wouldn’t think they could do. People get stressed, you know, and the cork pops.”

Stone nodded.

“If you want to get through this okay, you’d better get used to the idea that you may be wrong about her.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“Protect yourself; don’t tear out your guts hoping.”

It was the first advice he’d ever gotten from her. “I’ll try,” he said. He looked up to see Dino and Mary Ann coming through the door. He especially wanted to see Mary Ann.

Everybody hugged, kissed, sat down, and ordered drinks.

“You got a little sun,” Dino said, inspecting him.

“Out there, you get it just walking around.”

Elaine got up to greet some customers, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she left.

“What was that?” Dino asked.

“Encouragement,” Stone replied. “I think she thinks Arrington did it.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Dino asked.

“Do you?”

“Let’s put it this way: I think I’m probably more objective about it than you are.”

“Oh.”

“Let me ask you something, Stone: If you all of a sudden found out for sure that she did it, would you try to get her off, anyway?”

“That’s my job.”

“You’re not her lawyer; Blumberg is.”

Stone looked into his drink. “It’s still my job.”

“Oh,” Dino said, “it’s like that.”

“Well!” Mary Ann interjected. “Isn’t it nice to all be together again, and right here at home!”

“Don’t try to cheer him up,” Dino said to his wife. “It won’t work.”

Michael, the headwaiter, brought menus, and they studied them silently for a minute, then ordered. Stone ordered another drink, too.

“Two before dinner,” Dino said.

“He’s entitled,” Mary Ann pointed out.

They chatted in a desultory manner until dinner arrived, then ate, mostly in silence.

“Mary Ann,” Stone said, when the dishes had been taken away, “your father came to see me this afternoon.”

“He did?” she asked, surprised. “Where?”

“At my house.”

“That’s interesting,” she said. “He doesn’t do much calling on people. What did he want?”

“To know my intentions toward Arrington and Dolce.”

“Is that all? What did you tell him?”

“That I don’t know what my intentions are toward Arrington, but that Dolce and I are not getting married.”

“That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, I’m sure.”

“I know, but I had to be honest with him.”

“That’s always the best policy with Papa.”

“When he left, he said something that scared me a little.”

Dino spoke up. “That’s what he does best.”

“What did he say?” Mary Ann asked.

“He said Dolce is ill, and that she might be dangerous.”

“Oh,” Mary Ann said quietly.

“What did he mean by that?”

Mary Ann didn’t seem to be able to look at him.

“I think Stone needs to know, honey,” Dino said. “Answer his question.”

Mary Ann sighed. “When Dolce doesn’t get what she wants, she . . . reacts badly.”

“Now, there’s news,” Dino snorted.

“Exactly how does she react badly?” Stone asked.

“She, ah, breaks things,” Mary Ann said slowly. “People, too.”

“Go on.”

“When she was, I guess, six, Papa gave her a puppy. She tried to train it, but it wouldn’t do what she told it to. It was like she expected it to understand complete sentences, you know? Well, she . . . I don’t want to say what she did.”

“She broke the puppy?” Dino asked.

“Sort of,” Mary Ann replied. Her face made it clear she wasn’t going to say any more.

“I think she’s been stalking me,” Stone said.

“What?” Mary Ann said.

“She’s shown up in a couple of places where I was. Unexpectedly, you might say. She registered at the Bel-Air as Mrs. Stone Barrington. She was on my flight home last night.”

“Oh, shit,” Dino breathed.

“I thought about trying to talk to her again, but I don’t even want to be in the same room with her.”

“That’s a good policy,” Dino said.

“I don’t know what to do,” Stone admitted.

“I’d watch my back, if I were you,” Dino said. “Remember what happened to the husband . . .”

“Oh, shut up, Dino,” Mary Ann spat. “She’s my sister; don’t talk that way about her.”

“I’m sorry, hon, but Stone’s in a jam, here, and we’ve got to help him figure this out.”

“Well, you’re not helping by . . . what you’re saying.”

“Are you carrying?” Dino asked.

“Dino!” his wife nearly shouted.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Dolce is,” Dino continued, ignoring her.

“No, I’m not,” Stone said. “I don’t think it’s come to that.”

“Listen, Stone,” Dino said. “At the point when it comes to that, it’s going to be too late to go home and get a piece.”

Their waiter stepped up with a dessert tray.

“Nothing for me,” Stone said.

“I’ll have the cheesecake,” Dino said.

“Nothing for him,” Mary Ann said, pointing a thumb at her husband. “Especially not the cheesecake.”

Dino sighed.

“Nothing for anybody,” Mary Ann said to the waiter.

They got a check, and declined the offer of an after-dinner drink from Elaine. Dino grabbed the check and signed it, before Stone could react.

“That’s completely out of character, Dino,” Stone said, chuckling.

“Who knows how many more opportunities I’ll have,” Dino replied, getting an elbow in the ribs from Mary Ann for his trouble.

They made their farewells to Elaine and started out of the restaurant. As they shuffled toward the door, Stone felt Dino slip something fairly heavy into his coat pocket.

“Don’t leave home without it,” Dino whispered.

Thirty-two

STONE REACHED INTO HIS COAT POCKET, TOOK OUT THE pistol, and placed it on the bedside table. It was a little .32 automatic, not a service weapon, but the kind of small gun a cop might keep in an ankle holster, as a backup.

He undressed, got into bed, and tried to watch the late news, but finally turned it off. He was still groggy from the sleep upset of taking the red-eye, and the conversation at dinner had depressed him.

He drifted off immediately and fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed, and something was out of place in his dream—a high-pitched squeal, as if from a great distance. Then the squeal stopped.

Stone sat straight up in bed, wide awake. The squeal was the sound the security system made to warn that it was about to go off; it stopped only when the proper four-digit code was entered, and it had stopped. Then he remembered that Dolce knew the code.

He got out of bed as silently as he could and rearranged the pillows under the duvet, to give the impression he was still in bed, then he picked up Dino’s pistol, tiptoed to his dressing room, and stood just inside the door. There was enough light coming through the windows to let him see the bed.

He heard the light footsteps on the stairs, which were now bare of the carpet runner. They approached slowly, quietly, until they reached the bedroom, where they stopped. She was letting her eyes become accustomed to the nearly dark room. Then she began to move forward again, and she came into Stone’s view.

She was wearing a black raincoat with the hood up, so her face was still in darkness, and Stone thought she looked like the angel of death; she carried a short, thick club in her right hand. She reached the bed and stopped, then, holding the club at her side, she reached out with her left hand and began to pull back the covers.

“Freeze!” Stone said. “There’s a gun pointed at your head.”

She turned slowly to face him, but the shadow of the hood still obscured her face.

“Drop what’s in your hand,” he said.

She released the club, and it fell to the bare wood floor with a soft thud.

“Now, reach behind you and turn on the lamp, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

She turned away and switched on the lamp, then turned back toward him, brushing off the hood. Instead of the black, Sicilian coif Stone had expected, honey-colored hair fell around her shoulders.

“Why are you pointing a gun at me, Stone?” she asked.

Stone’s mouth fell open. “Arrington! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Could you point the gun somewhere else before we continue this conversation?”

Stone put the pistol on the dressing room chest of drawers and turned back to her.

She looked down, amused. “You’re still pointing something at me,” she said, unbuckling her belt and shucking off the raincoat. She was wearing black slacks and a soft, gray cashmere sweater. At her feet, on the floor, was the folding umbrella she had dropped.

Stone grabbed a cotton robe from the dressing room and slipped into it.

“Aw,” she said, disappointed, “I liked you as you were. Don’t I get a kiss?”

Stone crossed the room and gave her a small kiss, then held her at arm’s length. “I’ll ask you again: What the hell are you doing here?”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Of course not! You’ve jumped bail, for God’s sake, don’t you understand that? The judge confined you to your house!”

“Don’t worry—he’ll never miss me.”

“Arrington, let me explain this to you. As of this moment, you’ve forfeited two million dollars in bail.”

“It’s worth it to see you,” she said. “I missed you.”

“You could be arrested at any moment, and if you are, you won’t get bail again; you’ll have to stay in jail until the trial.”

“Nobody’s going to arrest me,” she said. “Nobody knows I’m out of the house, except Manolo and Isabel, and certainly nobody knows I’m in New York. Manolo has instructions to tell anyone who calls that I’m not feeling well, and to take a message. I can return any calls from here.”

Stone sat down on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. “I’m an officer of the court,” he moaned. “I’m supposed to call the police or arrest you myself.”

“Oooooo, arrest me,” she purred.

Stone heard the sound of a zipper and looked up. She was stepping out of her slacks, and she had already shucked off the sweater, leaving only her panties.

She looked around, hands on her hips. “Now where are those pesky handcuffs? You must have some around here somewhere, being an ex-cop, and all.”

Stone put his face back in his hands, and a moment later he felt her slip into the bed. Her fingernails moved down his back, and he started to get up, but she grabbed the belt of his robe and pulled him back onto the bed.

“I know Marc Blumberg said we couldn’t be alone together in my house, but now we’re alone together in your house, aren’t we? So we’re playing by the rules.” She reached around him and tugged the belt loose, then pulled the robe off his shoulders. She dug her fingers into his hair, pulled him back onto the bed, and ran a fingernail along his penis, which responded with a jerk. “I knew you’d be glad to see me!” she said, then she pulled his face to hers and kissed him softly.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Stone said, when he could free his lips for a moment.

She pulled his body toward hers. “Well, if I’m going to be arrested and carted off to jail, it seems only fair that I should have a last meal.” She bent over him and kissed the tip of his penis. “I believe I’m entitled to have anything I want to eat, isn’t that the tradition?” Then she began to concentrate on her repast.

Stone stood it for as long as he could, which was a little while; then he pulled her up beside him. She curled a leg over his body, opening herself to him. He slid inside her and, lying face-to-face, they began to make love, slowly.

“It’s been way, way too long,” Arrington said, moving with him and kissing his face.

“You’re right,” Stone breathed, admitting it as much to himself as to her.

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Tell me you’ve missed this.”

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this,” he moaned. “There are no words.”

“Then show me,” she said.

And he did.

Thirty-three

STONE LAY, NAKED, ON HIS BACK, DRAINED AND WEIRDLY happy, for a lawyer whose client seemed to be trying to go to jail. It was a little after ten A.M., and they had made love twice since sunup. He heard the shower go on in his bathroom and the sound of the glass door closing. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t; he was faced with the problem of how to get Arrington back into the Los Angeles jurisdiction without getting her arrested and himself into very deep trouble.

A moment later, she came back, wearing his robe and rubbing her wet hair with a towel. “Good morning!” she said, as happy as if she were a free woman.

“Good morning.” He managed a smile.

She sat down on the bed, took his wilted penis in her hand, and kissed it. “Aw,” she said. “Did it die?”

“For the moment,” he admitted. “Tell me, how did you get here? Exactly, I mean; I want a blow-by-blow account.”

“Well, let’s see: First I called the airline and made a reservation, then I put a few things into that little bag over there,” she said, pointing to the top of the stairs, where she had left it, “then I left a note for Manolo, got into my car, left the house by the utility gate, which you have come to know and love, and I drove to the airport. I parked the car, walked into the terminal, gave the young lady at the ticket counter my credit card—the one that’s still in my maiden name—and she gave me a ticket. Then I got on the plane, and when I arrived in New York, I took a cab here. Did I leave out anything?”

“Yes; your picture has been all over the L.A. and New York papers and People magazine, for Christ’s sake; why didn’t anyone recognize you?”

“I wore a disguise,” she said. She went to her bag, unzipped it, and took out a silk Hermes scarf and a pair of dark glasses; she wrapped the scarf tightly around her head and put on the shades. “With this and no makeup, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Why so few clothes?” he asked.

“I have a wardrobe in our apartment at the Carlyle,” she said. “I was going to send you up there to get me a few things. I thought it would be foolish to dally in baggage claim, so I traveled light.”

Stone sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Well, you were certainly right not to do anything foolish.”

“Was that sarcasm I heard?”

“Irony.”

“Oh. Shall I fix you some breakfast?”

“Oh, no; Helene will be downstairs by now; she can fix it. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

“Then I shall be served in bed,” she said, sitting cross-legged among the pillows.

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Betty.”

“Good morning; you’re up early.”

“Yep. When I got into the office, there was a message from someone named Brandy Garcia; ring a bell?”

“Yes; what was the message?”

“He said he’d found what you wanted, and he’d call again.”

“If he does, tell him to call me at this number.”

“Will do. How’s New York?”

“It is as ever.”

“Good; when are you coming back?”

“As soon as . . .” he stopped. The Centurion airplane, he thought. “Can you switch me to Lou Regenstein’s office?”

“I could, but he wouldn’t be in this early, and anyway, he’s in New York.”

“He is? Where?”

“I don’t know, but I could ask his secretary when she gets in.”

“Hang on.” He covered the phone and turned to Arrington. “Do you have any idea where Lou Regenstein stays when he’s in the city?”

“At the Carlyle,” she said. “He has an apartment there, too.”

“Never mind,” he said to Betty. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

“You want to call Lou?”

“Yes; what’s the number of the Carlyle?”

She found her handbag and her address book. “Here’s the private line to his apartment.” She read it to him as he dialed.

“Hello,” Lou Regenstein’s voice said.

“Lou, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, Stone, what’s up?”

“How long are you in New York for?”

“About thirty seconds; I was on the way out the door to Teterboro Airport when you called.”

“You going back to L.A.?”

“Yep. Where are you?”

“I’m in New York. Can you give, ah, a friend and me a lift?”

“Sure; how fast can you get to Teterboro?”

“Is an hour fast enough?”

“That’s fine; see you there.”

“Lou, will there be anyone else on the airplane?”

“Nope, just you and me—and your friend. Anybody I know?”

“I’ll surprise you,” Stone said. “See you in an hour.” He hung up and turned to Arrington. “Get dressed,” he said, “and put on your disguise.”

“I’ll have to dry my hair,” she said.

“Then do it fast.” He picked up the phone and buzzed Joan Robertson. “Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“I’ve got to leave for L.A. in half an hour; I want to drive, so will you come along and drive the car back?”

“Sure; I’ll put the answering machine on.”

“See you downstairs in a few minutes.”

While Arrington dried her hair, Stone packed, put his bags in the elevator, and pressed the down button. Then he grabbed a quick shower and shave and threw on some casual clothes. “Ready?” he asked Arrington.

“Ready,” she said, getting into her raincoat, wrapping the scarf around her head and slipping on her dark glasses.

They took the stairs to the ground floor. Stone led her through the door to the garage, put their bags into the trunk of the car, and opened a rear door for her. “You wait here while I get Joan, and don’t talk on the way to the airport; I don’t want her to know who you are.”

Arrington shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She got into the car and closed the door.

Stone went to his office, signed a couple of letters, and brought Joan back to the car. “There’s someone in the backseat,” he said. “Please don’t look, and please don’t ask any questions.”

“Okay,” Joan replied.

He opened the passenger door. “You sit up here; I’ll drive.”

Stone pressed the remote button on the sun visor and started the car, all in one motion. He had visions of Dolce waiting for him in the street, and he wasn’t going to give her time to react. He reversed out of the garage, across the sidewalk, and into the street, causing a cabby to slam on his brakes and blow his horn. He pressed the remote button again, put the car into gear and was off, checking his mirrors. He thought for a moment that he saw a dark-haired woman across the street from his house, but he wasn’t sure it was Dolce. He made the light and crossed Third Avenue. He would take the tunnel.

The car was something special—a Mercedes E55, which was an E-Class sedan with a souped-up big V-8, a special suspension, and the acceleration of an aircraft carrier catapult launcher. Something else for which he was grateful, at the moment: The car had been manufactured with a level of armor that would repel small-arms fire. He had been car shopping when it was delivered to the show-room and had bought it in five minutes, on a whim, at another time in his life when he feared that somebody might be shooting at him.

Rush hour was over, and he made it to the Atlantic Aviation terminal in twenty-five minutes, without getting arrested, all the while dictating a stream of instructions to Joan about what had to be done in the way of repairing the house.

At the chain-link gate to the ramp, he buzzed the intercom and gave the tail number of the Centurion jet. The gate slid open and he drove onto the ramp and to the big Gulfstream Four. He parked at the bottom of the airstair door, gave the bags to the second officer, who was waiting for them, and gave Joan a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for not asking any questions,” he said. “One of these days, I’ll explain.”

Joan leaned forward and whispered, “She’s just as beautiful as her pictures.” Then she took the keys, got into the car, and headed for the gate.

Stone led Arrington up the stairs and into the airplane. Lou Regenstein was sitting on a couch, reading The New York Times. He looked up as Arrington took off her glasses and scarf. “Holy shit,” he said. “What are you . . .”

Stone held up a hand. “Don’t ask. You have not seen what you’re seeing.”

“Well,” Lou said, standing up and hugging Arrington. “You’re the nicest-looking invisible lady I’ve ever seen.”

The airplane began to move, and Stone began to breathe again.

Thirty-four

WITH THE TIME CHANGE IN THEIR FAVOR, IT WAS LATE afternoon when the G-IV touched down at Santa Monica airport. There was a short taxi to Supermarine, where Lou Regenstein’s stretch Mercedes limousine was waiting at the bottom of the airstair when the engines stopped. It took a minute to load their luggage, then they were headed toward the freeway.

“May I use your phone, Lou?” Arrington asked. “I want to call home.”

“Of course.”

She dialed the number. “Hello, Manolo, I’m . . .” She stopped and held her hand over the phone. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Manolo just called me, ‘sir.’ ”

Stone took the phone. “Manolo, it’s Mr. Barrington; is there someone there?”

“Yes, sir,” Manolo said smoothly. “I’m afraid she’s resting at the moment. Can I have her call you back? There are some gentlemen waiting to see her now.”

“Gentlemen? The police?”

“Yes, sir,” Manolo said, sounding relieved that Stone had caught on.

“Just arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do this: Go and knock on Mrs. Calder’s bedroom door and pretend to speak to her, then put the policemen in Mr. Calder’s study, and tell them she’s getting dressed, and she’ll be a few minutes. Give them some coffee to keep them occupied.”

“Yes, Mr. Regenstein, I’ll tell her you called,” Manolo said, then hung up.

Stone put the phone back in its cradle.

“Trouble?” Lou asked.

Stone nodded. “Tell your driver to get moving; the cops are at the house.”

Lou picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Get us to the Calder place pronto,” he said.

Stone took the phone and told the driver how to find the utility gate.

Arrington looked out the window. She seemed finally to have grasped what a difficult position she had put herself in.

Ten hair-raising minutes later, the limousine pulled into the rear drive and stopped at the gate.

“We’ll walk from here, Lou,” Stone said. “Please ask your driver to leave our bags at Vance’s bungalow.” He shook hands with Lou, grabbed Arrington’s hand and practically dragged her from the car.

“I don’t have the remote control for the gate with me,” he said. “Is there some other way to open it?”

“Not that I know of,” Arrington said, jogging to keep up with him.

“We’ll have to go over the fence, then.” He hustled her into the woods beside the gate and made a stirrup with his hands, then practically threw her over the fence. She landed in a pile of leaves, and a moment later, he joined her. She was laughing.

“I’m sorry, this is so ridiculous,” she said.

“We’ll laugh about it later,” Stone said, taking her hand and starting to run. They made it to the rear of the house, and Stone looked into the living room. “All clear,” he said. “Now here’s what you do: Go into your room, brush your hair, then go into Vance’s study, looking ill. You don’t feel well at all. Let me do the talking.”

She nodded, then ran into the house and through the living room, toward the master suite.

Stone took a couple of deep breaths, made sure there were no leaves stuck to his clothes, then went into the study. Durkee and Bryant were drinking coffee and looking at Vance’s Oscars, while Manolo stood, watching them.

“Afternoon, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

“We’re here to see Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

Manolo spoke up. “I let Mrs. Calder know the gentlemen are here, Mr. Barrington. She’ll be out shortly.”

“Thank you, Manolo. That’s all.” He took a chair. “So, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

“We just want to see Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

“She won’t be answering any questions,” Stone replied. “Surely, you knew that.”

“We had a tip that she was in New York,” Durkee said. “Show her to me; I’m getting tired of waiting.”

Arrington chose that moment to enter the room. “Stone,” she said drowsily, “what’s this about? I was asleep.”

“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said.

“Are you satisfied?” Stone asked.

“I guess so.”

Stone turned Arrington around and led her to the bedroom door. “You can go back to bed,” he said. “Are you going to want dinner later, or do you want to just sleep?”

“I want to sleep,” she said.

“Do you want Dr. Drake?”

“No, I think I’ll be all right in the morning.” She left the room, and Stone closed the door behind her.

He turned back to the two cops. “A tip? What kind of tip?”

“An anonymous call,” Durkee said. “A woman. Said the lady had jumped bail.”

Stone shook his head. “As long as you’re here, tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Why haven’t you interviewed the gardener, Cordova?”

“We have no reason to,” Durkee said. “He’s not a suspect.”

“Do you think he might be connected to the footprint you found outside the back door to the house?”

Durkee and Bryant exchanged a glance. “Nah,” Durkee said. “Anybody could have made it.”

“A size twelve Nike, and anybody could have made it?”

“Our investigation has not found the footprint or the gardener to be relevant,” Durkee said. “Anyway, Cordova’s in Mexico, and we’d never find him there.”

“Have you made any effort?” Stone demanded.

“I told you, he’s not relevant to our investigation. The murderer is in that bedroom.”

Bryant spoke up. “Let’s get out of here.”

“By the way, Mr. Barrington, what are you doing here?” Durkee asked, with a smirk.

“I was working in the guesthouse,” Stone replied. “I’m one of her lawyers.”

“Nice work, if you can get it,” Bryant said.

Stone opened the door to the study. “Manolo,” he called, “show these officers the door, please.” He turned to the two detectives. “And don’t come back here again, without a warrant. You won’t be let in.”

The detectives left, and when Stone was sure they were off the property, he went into the bedroom and found Arrington at her dressing table, applying makeup. “Why are you putting on makeup?” he asked. “I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere.”

“Why don’t we go to Spago for dinner?” she asked archly.

“Do you have any idea how lucky you just were?”

“Don’t, Stone; I’m converted. I’m sorry I gave you a bad time.” She smiled. “Not very sorry, though. I enjoyed my trip to New York.”

“Give me your car keys,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got to get it back from the airport. Manolo can drive me.”

She dug into her purse. “I took Vance’s car,” she said. “It’s in short-term parking; the ticket is over the sun visor.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“Won’t you come back for dinner?” she asked, disappointed.

“I’m beat; I hardly got any sleep last night, remember?”

She smiled. “I remember.” She stood up and kissed him. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

“Neither will I,” he said, kissing her. Then he went to find Manolo, and they headed for LAX.

It was getting dark by the time he got back to the bungalow at Centurion. He checked the answering machine on Betty’s desk, saw the red light blinking, and pressed the button.

“Mr. Barrington,” Brandy Garcia’s voice said, sounding exasperated. “I call here, and the lady says call New York; then I call New York, and the lady says to call here. I’ve got the item you want, and I’m going to call just one more time.”

Then, as Stone stood there, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes. Brandy?”

“Hey, Stone; I found your man.”

“Where is he?”

“In Tijuana, of course.”

“All right, you found him; now how do I find him?”

“You come to Tijuana.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon; it’s not a bad drive, three to four hours, depending on traffic. What kind of car will you be in?”

“A Mercedes convertible, black.”

“No, no, you don’t want to be driving around Tijuana in that. You park your car at the border, and walk across; I’ll have somebody meet you.”

“All right, what time?”

“Say three o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wear a red baseball cap, so my man will know you.”

“All right.”

“Cordova wants a thousand dollars to meet with you.”

“For as long as I want?”

“How long do you want?”

“Maybe an hour, maybe more.”

“He’ll do that, and Stone?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget the rest of my money, too.”

“See you at three o’clock.”

Thirty-five

STONE TOOK THE FREEWAY TO SAN DIEGO AND MADE IT in three and a half hours. He had some lunch at a taco joint near the border, then put the money and his little dictating recorder into his pockets, put on the red baseball cap he’d bought at the Centurion Studios shop, parked the car, and walked to the border crossing. He was questioned by a uniformed officer.

“What’s the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” the man asked.

“A business meeting.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Stone replied. “I’m interviewing a witness.”

“Let’s see some ID.”

Stone showed his U.S. passport.

“Are you carrying more than five thousand dollars in cash or negotiable instruments?”

Stone was not about to lie about this. “Yes.”

“How much?”

“About seven thousand.”

The man handed him a declaration. “What’s the money for?”

“I have to pay the man who located the witness for me.”

“Fill out the form.”

Stone did as he was told, handed it over, and was waved across the border.

“You better be careful, carrying that much money,” the officer said.

“Thanks, I will.” Stone walked slowly down the busy street, waiting for somebody to recognize him. He saw no one, and no one seemed to take note of him. He had never been to Mexico before, and he was nervous. Everything he had read about the place in the newspapers had led him to believe that the country was a vast criminal enterprise, with drug dealers and kidnappers on every corner and a corrupt police force. So far, he didn’t like it.

A block from the border, he sat down at one of two tables outside a little restaurant. A waiter appeared. “Cerveza,” Stone said, exhausting his Spanish. A moment later, he was drinking an icy Carta Blanca, the only thing he intended to allow past his lips on this trip. He had finished the beer and was wondering if he had come on a fool’s errand when a small boy dressed in ragged jeans and sneakers ran up to him.

“Señor Stone?” the boy asked.

Stone nodded.

The boy beckoned him to come.

Stone left five dollars on the table and followed the boy. They turned a corner and came to a Lincoln Continental of a fifties vintage, a giant, four-door land yacht of an automobile. Brandy Garcia sat at the wheel and beckoned him to the passenger side.

“Give the boy something,” Garcia said.

Stone gave the boy five dollars and stuck the red baseball cap on his head.

The boy turned the cap backward, grinned, and disappeared into the street crowd.

Stone got into the car and waited for Garcia to drive off, but he simply sat there. “Well?”

“I want the rest of my money, first,” Garcia said.

Stone took a precounted thousand dollars from a pocket and handed it over. “The rest when I’m sitting down with Cordova.”

“Fair enough,” Brandy said, and put the car into gear. “Pretty nice buggy, eh?”

“Nicely restored,” Stone admitted. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

Garcia turned a corner and sped down the street, oblivious of the pedestrians diving out of his way. “I got three more beauties at my house,” he said. “I got a Stingray Corvette, a ’57 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with the big V-8, and a ’52 Caddy convertible, yellow. All mint.”

“Well,” Stone said, “I guess the Lincoln is the closest thing we’re going to get to inconspicuous.”

Garcia laughed and turned another corner. “Everybody knows me in Tijuana,” he said. “Why be inconspicuous?”

Soon they were leaving the busy part of town and driving down a dirt street. The houses were getting farther apart, and after a while there were very few houses. Garcia slowed and turned down a dirt road; a mile later, he turned into a driveway and drove a hundred yards to a little stucco house in a grove of trees, with an oversized garage to one side.

“Here we are,” Garcia said, parking next to a beat-up Volkswagen and getting out of the car. “Cordova is already here; that’s his car,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the VW. Stone quickly memorized the license plate number before he followed Garcia into the house.

“How’s Cordova’s English?” Stone asked, as they walked through a tiled living room and out onto a patio.

“Ask him yourself,” Garcia said, nodding toward a large man seated at a patio table next to a small swimming pool, hunched over a beer. “That’s Felipe Cordova, and you owe me another three grand.”

Stone handed him the money, then walked to the table and took a seat opposite the man, getting a look at his shoes on the way. He saw the swoosh logo. “Felipe Cordova?”

The man nodded.

Stone offered his hand. “My name is Barrington.”

Cordova shook it limply, saying nothing.

“You have any problem with English, or you want Brandy to translate?”

Cordova looked at Garcia, who was stepping back into the house, and Stone took the opportunity to switch on the little recorder in his shirt pocket.

“English is okay,” he said, “but I got another problem—a thousand bucks.”

Stone counted out five hundred and placed it on the table. “The rest when we’re finished, and if you tell me the truth, there might be a bonus.”

“What you want to know?” Cordova asked.

“You work for a gardening service in L.A.?”

“Yeah.”

“You work sometimes for Charlene Joiner, in Malibu?”

Cordova smiled a little. “Oh, yeah.”

“You work for Mr. and Mrs. Calder, in Bel-Air?”

“Yeah.”

“You were at their house the day Mr. Calder was shot.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Cordova said.

“Thanks for your time,” Stone said. “You can leave.”

Cordova didn’t move. “What about my other five hundred?”

“If you want that, you’ll have to start earning it,” Stone said.

Cordova glared at him for a moment. “I didn’t cut the grass that day.”

“No, you were there to burgle the place.”

Cordova chuckled. “Shit, man,” he said.

“I’m not here to arrest you; I think you know the cops aren’t going to find you here. They’re not even looking for you.”

“What makes you think I’m a burglar?” Cordova asked.

“Those Nikes you’re wearing cost a hundred and eighty bucks,” Stone said. “You didn’t buy them cutting grass.”

“Shit, man . . .”

Stone slammed his hand on the table. “Shit is right,” he said. “That’s all I’m getting from you.”

“Okay, okay, so what do you want to know?”

“Did Calder catch you in the house?”

“I never got into the house,” Cordova replied.

“You were right outside the door; you were seen,” Stone lied.

“By who?”

“By Manolo’s wife; you didn’t see her.”

“Then you know I didn’t get in the house. I only got as far as the back door. I went in through a little gate where we take the equipment in.”

“And what did you see at the back door?”

“First, I heard something.”

“Like what?”

“Like a gun going off.”

“How many times?”

“Once. I was almost to the back door when I heard it. I took a few more steps, and I looked through the door. It was a glass door, you know? With panes?”

“I know. What did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Calder lying on the floor in the hall, and blood was coming out of his head.”

“What else did you see?”

“I saw the gun on the floor beside Mr. Calder.”

“What kind of gun?”

“An automatic; I don’t know what kind.”

“What color?”

“Silver.”

“What else did you see?”

“I saw a woman running down the hall.”

Stone’s stomach suddenly felt hollow, and he couldn’t speak.

Cordova went on. “She was wearing one of them robes made out of that towel stuff.” He rubbed his fingers together.

“Terrycloth?”

“Yeah. It had this . . .” He moved his hands around his head.

“Hood?”

“Yeah, a hood. She was barefoot; I don’t think she had nothing on, except the robe.”

“Could you see her body?”

“No, just her feet.”

“Did you see her face?” Stone held his breath.

“No.”

Stone let out the breath.

“But it was Mrs. Calder.”

Stone’s stomach flip-flopped. “If you didn’t see her face, how do you know it was Mrs. Calder?”

“C’mon, man, who else would it be, naked and in a robe in the Calders’ house?”

“But you didn’t see her face.”

“No, but it was her. Same size and everything; same ass, you know?”

“Which way was she running?”

“Away from me—that’s all I know, man; I got the hell out of there, you know? I was over that fence and out of there in a big hurry.”

Stone took him through it again, made him repeat every statement, but nothing changed. Finally, there was nothing else to ask. He shelled out another five hundred, and Cordova put it in his pocket.

“You want to make another three hundred?” Stone asked.

“Sure.”

Stone put the money on the table. “Sell me your shoes.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll give you three hundred dollars for your shoes.”

Cordova grinned. “Sure, man.” He shucked off the Nikes and put them on the table. They were dirty, beat up, and huge. He put the money in his pocket, gave a little wave, and lumbered toward the house, padding along in his stocking feet.

Garcia came out of the house. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“Great,” Stone said. “Just great. Get me back to the border.”

“I see you got yourself some shoes.” He held his nose.

“Just get me back, Brandy,” Stone said, feeling sick.

Thirty-six

STONE DROVE BACK TOWARD LOS ANGELES IN A FOG, torn between what he had believed had happened to Vance Calder and what Felipe Cordova had told him. He had thought Cordova had murdered Vance, but every instinct he had developed as a cop, interrogating witnesses, told him that Cordova had told him the truth in their interview.

“I’ve been fooled before,” he said aloud to himself. Cordova still could have done it; maybe he was a better liar than Stone had thought. The only good thing about Cordova was that the LAPD had not questioned him, didn’t want to. He would not like to see the Mexican on the stand, testifying against Arrington.

The car phone rang. Stone punched the send button, so he could talk hands free. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Betty. Joan called from New York, said to tell you that everything was in hand with the house. The roofer is going to start in a couple of days, and it will take him a week to finish.”

“Good news,” Stone said.

“She also said that Dolce was waiting at the house when she got back from Teterboro, and that she told her that you’d returned to L.A. Does that mean we can expect more candid snaps?”

“I certainly hope not. I’ve already told the guard at the gate not to let her into the studio again, but maybe you’d better call and reinforce that.”

“Will do.”

“Any other calls?”

“Marc Blumberg called, said he just wanted to catch up with you. He’s at his Palm Springs house; you want the number?”

Stone fished a pen and his notebook out of his pocket. “Shoot.”

Betty dictated the number, and he jotted it down, careful to keep the car on track.

“Your bags are piled up in the entrance hall; want me to unpack for you?”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. I was too tired to bother last night.”

“I’ll send your laundry out, too.”

“Thanks again.”

“Stone you sound funny—depressed.”

“I’m just tired,” he replied. “The round-trip cross-country flight messed with my internal clock.”

“Want to have dinner tonight?”

He knew what that meant. “Give me a rain check, if you will; I just want to get some rest.”

“Okay, call if you need anything.”

Stone punched the end button, then dialed Marc Blumberg’s Palm Springs number and punched the send button again.

“Hello?”

“Marc, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, there, you in the car?”

“Yeah, I’m just north of San Diego.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I’ve been to Tijuana to meet with Felipe Cordova, of Nike footprint fame.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“It’s a long story; why don’t we get together when you’re back in L.A.?”

“Why don’t you come here, instead? I’ll give you some dinner and put you up for the night. You could be here in a couple of hours.”

“Okay, why not?”

“You got a map?”

“Yes.”

“Take I-15 to just short of Temecula, then cut east over the mountains.”

“Okay, what’s the address?”

Blumberg gave him the street and number and directions to the house.

“See you in a while.” He hung up, then saw a sign for I-15 just in time to make the turn.

He found the turnoff for Palm Springs and followed the curving mountain road, enjoying the drive. His head began to clear, and almost without effort, things started to line up in his mind. First of all, he still believed Arrington was innocent; second, he felt that Cordova was the best suspect; third, he was going to do whatever it took to get Arrington out of this. He forced himself to consider the possibility that Arrington had shot Vance. If so, he rationalized, it must somehow have been self-defense. He could not let her be convicted, especially after what had happened in New York. He was in her thrall again, if he had ever been out of it, and all he wanted at the moment was a future with Arrington in it. By the time he had found Marc Blumberg’s house, his ducks were all in a row.

The house was a large contemporary, sculpted of native stone and big timbers, on several acres of desert. Marc greeted him warmly and led him out to the pool. The sun was low in the sky, and the desert air was growing cool. A tall, very beautiful woman was stretched out on a chaise next to the outside bar.

“This is Vanessa Pike,” Marc said. “Vanessa, meet Stone Barrington.”

The two shook hands. It was difficult for Stone not to appreciate her beauty, especially since she was wearing only the bottom of her bikini.

“What’ll you drink?” Marc asked them both.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Vanessa replied.

“So will I,” Stone echoed.

Marc motioned him to a chair opposite Vanessa, who showed no inclination to cover herself, soaking up the waning rays of afternoon sun.

“Aren’t you getting chilly?” Stone asked.

“I’m rarely chilly,” she replied, with a level gaze.

“I believe you,” Stone said.

Marc came back with the drinks and joined them. “So, how’d you ever find Cordova?”

“A friend at the LAPD put me in touch with a guy named Brandy Garcia, who knows the territory down there.”

“I’ve heard about him,” Blumberg said. “A real hustler.”

“Took him less than a week to find Cordova.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“At Garcia’s house. He seems to be doing very well for himself.”

“I don’t get it; why would Cordova talk to you?”

“Because I paid him a thousand dollars, plus another three hundred for his shoes.”

“You got the Nikes?”

“I did.”

“Was there a cut on the sole?”

“There was; they’re in my car; they’ll match the photograph the cops took.”

“Now that is great! What did Cordova say?”

Stone took a deep breath and told the lie. “Denied everything; wasn’t at the house that day, went to Mexico, because somebody in the family was sick.”

“You couldn’t shake his story?”

Stone shook his head. “No way to disprove it, without telling him about the footprint, and I didn’t want to tip him off about that.”

“You think there’s any way of getting him back, so the cops can question him?”

“No, short of arranging another meeting and kidnapping him, and I don’t think a judge would look kindly on that, not even a judge you play golf with.”

“You’re right about that.”

“He’s not coming back to L.A. anytime soon; he’s gone to ground, and I doubt if we’ll ever see him again.”

“Well, we’ve got the shoes,” Blumberg said.

“You think that’s enough to win a motion to dismiss?”

“Maybe; I’d like to think about that. I’d really like to have more.”

“Like a confession from Cordova?”

Marc grinned. “That would do it, I think.”

Stone got serious. “We can’t let this go to trial, Marc.”

“Oh, I think I could win it,” Marc replied cockily.

“Probably, but I don’t want to take the chance, and I don’t want Arrington to have to live with half the world thinking she murdered her husband.”

“We’ll go for the motion to dismiss, when I’m ready,” Marc said, “and we’ll play it big in the press, sow some doubt amongst the jury pool. Even if we lose, we can do ourselves some good.”

“Let’s don’t lose,” Stone said.

A Latino in a white jacket came out of the house. “Dinner is served, whenever you’re ready, Mr. Blumberg.”

“Thank you, Pedro,” Marc said. “We’ll be right in.”

“May I use a phone?” Stone asked.

“Sure; go into my study, first door on your left.” Marc pointed the way.

Stone went into the study, closed the door behind him, and picked up the phone on the desk. He checked his notebook and dialed the number for Brandy Garcia.

“Buenos dias,” Garcia’s voice said. “Leave me a message, okay?” There was a beep.

“Give your friend in Tijuana a message,” Stone said. “Tell him there’s a warrant out for him. Tell him to go where even you can’t find him.” He hung up the phone and went in to dinner.

Vanessa was sitting at a small table alone. She patted a chair next to her.

Stone was relieved that she had put on a sweater. He sat down. “Where’s Marc?”

“He’s down in the wine cellar, getting us something to drink.”

Marc returned with a bottle of claret, opened it, tasted it, poured them each a glass, and sat down. He raised his glass. “To motions to dismiss,” he said, “and to Vanessa.”

“I’ll drink to both,” Stone said, raising his glass.

Thirty-seven

WHEN STONE CAME DOWN TO BREAKFAST, MARC WAS just finishing his coffee. Stone took a seat, and Pedro came and took his order for bacon and eggs.

“Sleep well?” Marc asked.

“Probably better than you did,” Stone replied, trying not to smirk. “Where’s Vanessa?”

“Still asleep. Tired.” Marc smirked.

“I see.”

“You should give Vanessa a call sometime,” Marc said. “There’s nothing serious between the two of us, and she’s really a very nice girl.”

“It’s a thought,” Stone said noncommitally.

“I wouldn’t like to see you all alone in L.A. Might affect your work on the case, that sort of frustration. And since Arrington is off limits . . .”

“You’re too kind, Marc.”

“I certainly am.”

“Listen, Marc, I was thinking last night: Instead of making an announcement to the press about Cordova, why don’t you just leak it a little at a time. Do you know a reporter you can trust not to reveal his sources?”

“You have a point: If the press gets wind of a suspect that the police have ignored, then the cops will look bad, and we won’t appear to have had anything to do with it. I like it, and I know just the reporter at the L.A. Times.”

“Our judge, whoever he turns out to be, will probably hear about it, too, and when we demonstrate in court that the rumors of another suspect are true . . .”

“That is delightfully Machiavellian, Stone,” Marc said. “You surprise me.”

Stone didn’t know how to reply to that. His breakfast arrived, and he enjoyed it, while Blumberg talked about golf in Palm Springs.

“You play? I’ll give you a game this morning.”

“I’ve hit a few balls; that’s about it.”

“You should take some lessons; that’s how to get started.”

“Golf in Manhattan is tough,” Stone said. “I think you pretty much have to drive to Westchester, and that’s if you can get into a club.”

“Why do I have the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth about Felipe Cordova?” Marc asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“I don’t know, Marc,” Stone replied, surprised. “Why do you feel that way?”

“You think Cordova didn’t kill Vance, don’t you?”

“He told a very convincing story.”

“But you want the LAPD and the D.A. and a judge to think he did it.”

“Just that he’s a viable suspect, and the cops have ignored him. Shows a lack of good faith on their part.”

“Let me ask you this: What happens if I get the charges against Arrington dismissed, then the cops find Cordova?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever see Cordova again; he’s too scared.”

“You said he denied everything, and you didn’t contradict him by telling him about the shoeprint at Vance’s house.”

“That’s right.”

“So what happens to his story when the cops tell him about the shoeprint?”

“First, they have to find him; he’s in Mexico, probably not in Tijuana anymore. You know the problems with finding somebody down there, not to mention the difficulties of getting a suspect extradited.”

“I’m talking worst case, here, Stone; I have to protect myself. If, by some miracle, the cops find Cordova in Mexico, or, more likely, he comes back to this country and gets arrested for speeding, or something. I have to know what he’s going to say.”

“My guess is, he’ll try to implicate Arrington. He knows about the murder, knows she’s been charged. He’ll do everything he can to see that she takes the fall. That’s my guess.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Marc said. “You know, I’ve tried a lot of cases in my time, and a lot of them murders, too, but I don’t think I’ve ever tried one where my second chair was in love with the defendant.”

Stone kept eating his eggs.

“You’re a bright guy, Stone, and I suspect a very good lawyer, so I’m going to rely on you not to do anything that will get me hung.”

“I would never do anything like that,” Stone replied truthfully.

“I can see how you might not want to tell me everything you know, to save Arrington’s very beautiful ass, how you might even lie to me. That’s okay, as long as it doesn’t interfere with how I handle my case, and as long as it doesn’t get me disbarred or damage my credibility with the D.A. and the judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable asset I have in defending a client, and I don’t want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.”

“Perfectly clear, Marc,” Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. “Well, I think I’d better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality.”

Marc stood up and shook his hand. “And don’t forget, if you get horny, call Vanessa; don’t go sneaking into Arrington’s bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all.” He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa’s number scrawled on the back.

Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. “I take your point.” He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova’s Nikes, and headed back toward L.A.

He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.

“I’ve just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation,” she said. “Actually, it was more of a tirade.”

“Oh, God; what did she say?”

“She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, ‘touch him again.’ She means you, I believe.”

“I’m sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really.”

“That’s not the impression I got,” Betty said. “Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I’m scared.”

“Tell you what,” Stone said. “Why don’t you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A.”

Betty brightened. “You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that.”

Stone laughed. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll manage.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Betty said. “I’ll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent.” She headed for her office.

“Any other calls?” he asked.

“Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message.”

“I’ve no idea what that means,” he replied, covering his ass.

“Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you’re to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o’clock.”

“She’s in L.A.?”

“Yep. And she said, ‘Tell him to be there without fail, or I’ll get mad.’ ”

Stone gave a low moan.

Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. “Try to keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?” she called to him.

“I wish I could reverse our roles,” Stone replied.

Thirty-eight

STONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR ON TIME AND WITH trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.

He wasn’t sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden café, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.

“Oh hello, Mr. Barrington,” the headwaiter said as he approached. “Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?”

Stone leaned over and spoke quietly, but with conviction. “There is no Mrs. Barrington,” he said. “The lady’s name is Miss Bianchi.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, a little flustered. “Whatever you say.” He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.

“Hello, my darling,” she purred.

“Good afternoon, Dolce.”

“I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Los Angeles.”

“I can’t say that I am,” he replied, looking at the menu.

“Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek. “Maybe it’s time to go back home to New York—yet again.”

“Not for a while.”

“But what’s to keep us here?” she asked, all innocence.

“Business is keeping me here,” he replied.

The waiter appeared. Dolce ordered a lobster salad and a glass of chardonnay, and Stone, the taco soup and iced tea.

“Why are you in L.A.?” he asked, hoping for a rational answer. She began rummaging in a large handbag for something, and Stone leaned away from her, fearing she might come up with a weapon.

She came up with a lipstick and began applying it. “I want to be with my husband,” she said, consulting a compact mirror.

“Your husband is dead,” Stone said through clenched teeth.

“You look perfectly well to me,” she replied, gazing levelly at him.

“Dolce . . .”

“And how is the murderess, Mrs. Calder?”

“Dolce . . .”

“I think I will be quite happy when they put her away.”

“Dolce . . .”

“Vance was such a lovely man, and we were such good friends. I think it would be terribly unfair if she got away with it.”

“Dolce, stop it!”

“My goodness, Stone, keep your voice down. We don’t want a public scene, do we?”

Stone decided to treat this as a negotiation. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. “What I want? Why, I want whatever my darling husband wants. What do you want, dear?”

“I want to end this little charade of yours; I want us to go our separate ways in an amicable manner.” He paused and decided to fire the last arrow in his quiver. “I want to be with Arrington.”

Her eyebrows dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “Believe me when I tell you, my darling, that I will never, ever allow that to happen, and you had better get used to the idea now.”

Stone felt his gorge rising, but the waiter appeared with their lunch, allowing him to cool down for a moment before continuing. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“You asked me to marry you, did you not?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And I married you, in Venice, did I not?”

“That wasn’t a legal marriage.”

“Oh, Stone, now you’re beginning to sound like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer, and I know when I’m married and when I’m not.”

“I’m afraid not, sweetie,” she said, attacking her lobster salad. “You seem unable to face reality; you’re in complete denial.”

Stone nearly choked on his soup.

“I am in denial?”

“A serious case of denial, I fear.”

“Let’s talk about denial, Dolce. I’ve explained to you, in the clearest possible terms, that I no longer wish to continue my relationship with you. I’ve explained why.”

“I seem to remember your saying something about that, but I hardly took you seriously,” she said.

This was maddening. “Dolce, I do not love you; I thought I did for a while, but now I realize I don’t.”

She laughed. “And I suppose you think you love Arrington?”

“Yes, I do.” Funny, he hadn’t said that to Arrington.

“But Stone, how can you love a woman who has murdered her husband? How do you know you won’t be next?”

“That’s a very strange thing for you to say,” Stone said under his breath, trying to control his temper. “I seem to remember that you once had a husband who is now dead of extremely unnatural causes.”

“That was the business he chose, if I may paraphrase Don Corleone, and he had to live with it.” She speared a chunk of lobster. “Or die with it. You might remember that.”

“I chose a different business, and I am choosing a different woman.” My God, he thought, what do I have to say to get through to her?

Dolce shook her head. “No, Stone; you haven’t yet come to the point where you have to make a real choice.” She chewed her lobster. “But you will.”

“Is that some sort of threat, Dolce?”

“Call it a prediction, but take it any way you like.”

“Why would you want a man who doesn’t want you?” he demanded. “Why do you demean yourself?”

She put down her fork, and her eyes narrowed again. “You do not know me as well as you will after a while,” she said, “but when you do come to know me, you will look back on that remark as dangerous folly.”

“That’s it,” Stone said, putting down his spoon. “One last time, for the record: I do not love you; I will not marry you; I have not married you. I love another woman, and I believe I always will. I want nothing more to do with you, ever. I cannot make it any clearer than that.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Dolce.”

“No, my darling,” she replied smoothly, “merely au revoir.”

“Dolce,” he said, “California has a very strong law against stalking; don’t make me publicly humiliate you.” He turned and walked out of the café.

All the way back to the studio he ran the conversation through his head, over and over. It had been like talking to a marble sculpture, except that a sculpture does not make threats. Or had she made threats? Was there anything in her words that could be used against her? He admitted there was not. What was he going to do? How could he get this woman off his back? More important, how could he get her off his back without grievously offending her father, whom he did not want for an enemy?

He parked in front of the bungalow and, finding it locked, used his key. On Betty’s desk there was a note, stuck to a package.

“I’ve taken your advice, lover; I’m on a late afternoon plane. I’ll call you in a couple of days to see how you’re making out. A girl from the pool will be in tomorrow morning to do for you, although she probably won’t do for you as I do. Take care of yourself.”

He turned to the package, which was an overnight air envelope with a Rome return address. He opened it, and two sheets of paper fell out. The top one was a heavy sheet of cream-colored writing paper. Stone read the handwritten letter:

The Vatican

Rome

Dear Stone,

I have made the investigations I told you I would, speaking personally to the mayor of Venice. I have concluded that you and Dolce are legally married in Italy, and that the proper documents, which you both signed, have been duly registered. The marriage would be considered valid anywhere in the world.

I know this was not the news you wanted. I would offer advice on an annulment, but you are not a Catholic, and, you surely understand, I cannot offer advice on divorce.

You remain in my thoughts and prayers. If there is any other help I can give you, please let me know.

Warmly,

Bellini

Stone looked at the other piece of paper. It was printed in Italian, bore his and Dolce’s names, and appeared to be a certificate of marriage.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

Thirty-nine

STONE CALLED DINO. “DO YOU REMEMBER TELLING ME, on the way to Italy, that there would be two marriage ceremonies, a civil one and a religious one?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“You remember telling me that the civil ceremony wasn’t legal until the religious ceremony had been performed?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Where did you get that information?”

“Which information?”

“The information that one ceremony didn’t count without the other?”

“I said one wouldn’t be legal, without the other. I didn’t say it wouldn’t count.”

“Where did you get that information?”

“From Mary Ann.”

“Is Mary Ann an authority on Italian marital law?”

“All women are authorities on marital law, in any country.”

“Do you know where Mary Ann got that information?”

“No, why?”

“Because I want to strangle the person who gave it to her.”

“My guess is, that would be Dolce. Good luck on strangling her without getting offed yourself. What the fuck is this about, Stone?”

“I called Bellini to ask him about this. I just got a letter from him, along with a copy of my marriage certificate.”

“You mean the ceremony is valid, legally?”

“Yes.”

Dino began giggling. “Oh, Jesus!” he managed to get out.

“This isn’t funny, Dino. I just had lunch with Dolce, where I made it as clear as possible that I was not married to her and didn’t intend to be.”

“Let me guess: She didn’t buy that.”

“You could put it that way. She as much as said she’d kill me or, maybe, Arrington if I continue to deny the marriage.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d take the threat seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously.”

“What’s your next move? I’m dying to hear.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Want a suggestion?”

“If it’s a serious one.”

“First, I’d see a divorce lawyer; then I’d watch my ass. Arrington’s, too, which isn’t too much of a chore, if I correctly recall her ass.”

“Do you have any idea what it takes to get a divorce in Italy?”

“Nope; that’s why I suggested a divorce lawyer. Listen, pal, be thankful you didn’t get married in the Italian church. Then you’d really be in deep shit.”

“Dino, I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

“Thanked me for what?”

“For advising me to stay away from Dolce.”

“You didn’t take my advice; why are you thanking me?”

“It was good advice, even if I didn’t take it.”

“Well, I’m glad you remember; saves me from saying I told you so.”

“I’m happy to save you the trouble.”

“Listen, Stone, this isn’t all bad, you know?”

“It isn’t? What’s not all bad about it?”

“You’ve got the perfect means of staying single now. Every time some broad presses you to marry her, all you’ve got to say is, that you’re already married, and your wife won’t give you a divorce.” Dino suppressed a laugh, but not well. “And you’ll be telling the truth. Millions of guys would envy you!”

“You don’t happen to know an Italian divorce lawyer, do you?”

“Nope, and can you imagine what will happen if you get one, and then he finds out who you’re trying to divorce?”

“What?”

“Come on, Stone, Eduardo is probably better known to Italian lawyers than to American ones.”

“You really know how to make a guy’s day, Dino.”

“Always happy to spread a little cheer.”

“See you around.”

“Bye.”

Stone hung up, looked at his watch, then called Marc Blumberg’s office.

“Yeah, Stone?”

“Marc, I’m glad you’re back from Palm Springs. Can I come and see you? I need some legal advice, on a subject not connected to our present case.”

“Sure, come on over; I’ll make time.”

Stone was surprised to find Vanessa Pike in Marc’s office, and relieved to see her fully dressed. “Hi, Vanessa,” he said.

“I was going to run Vanessa home, as soon as I made a couple of calls,” Marc said. “What can I do for you?” He looked at Stone, then at Vanessa. “Honey, can you go powder your nose?”

Vanessa got up, opened a door in the corner of Blumberg’s large office, and closed it behind her.

“What’s up?” Marc asked.

“You do divorce work, don’t you?”

“Who are we talking about getting divorced?”

“Me.”

“Sure, I do divorce work, but first the client has to be married.”

Stone placed the letter from Bellini and the marriage certificate on Marc’s desk.

Marc read the letter. “Wow,” he said. “You’re pals with Cardinal Bellini?”

“He was supposed to officiate at my wedding, in Venice. We had a civil ceremony on a Saturday, and it was my understanding that it wasn’t valid until we had the religious ceremony. The call came about Vance’s death before that could take place, and the next thing I knew, I was on a plane for L.A.”

“This Bellini is a real heavyweight, you know,” Marc said, and there was awe in his voice.

“Marc, focus, please! This is a marriage in name only; it wasn’t even consummated—at least, after the ceremony.”

“And who is”—he looked at the marriage certificate—“Rosaria Bianchi?” His face fell. “She’s not . . . She couldn’t be . . .”

Stone nodded dumbly.

“Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter?” His eyebrows went up. “Stone, I’m looking at you in a whole new light, here.”

“I want out of this so-called marriage, Marc. How do I go about that?”

“Before we go into that, Stone, let me ask you something, something serious.”

“What?”

“Are you looking to piss off Eduardo Bianchi? I assume you know exactly who he is.”

“I know who he is, and I like him. He likes me, I think, or he did when he thought I was going to be his son-in-law.”

“Have you told him about this?”

“He was at the ceremony, Marc.”

“I mean, have you told him you want a divorce from his daughter?”

“I don’t think he even knows the marriage is valid, but he knows that Dolce and I are no longer together. He was pretty understanding about it.”

“Well, for your sake, I hope to hell he’s going to be understanding about it. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, if he decides not to be understanding.”

“Marc, what am I going to do? How do I get out of this?”

“Well, assuming that you can find a way to stay alive, the situation shouldn’t be all that bad. I once worked with an attorney in Milan on a divorce case.” He looked at his watch. “It’s too late there to call him now, but I’ll call him in the morning, and we can see where we stand. I’m assuming Ms. Bianchi wants out, too.”

“Don’t assume that,” Stone said.

“What should I assume?”

“Assume the worst.”

Vanessa came out of the powder room. “May I reappear now?”

“Sure, honey,” Marc said, “we’re done, for the moment.”

Stone got up to leave.

“Oh, Stone,” Marc said, “would you mind giving Vanessa a lift home? I’ve still got some work here.”

“Sure.”

“If it’s not out of your way,” Vanessa said.

Stone shrugged. “I don’t know where I’m going, anyway.”

Forty

STONE FOLLOWED VANESSA’S INSTRUCTIONS TO A QUIET street up in the Hollywood Hills, above Sunset Boulevard, where they turned into the driveway of a pretty, New England-style, shingled cottage. They had been quiet all the way.

“You all right?” she asked, when they had stopped.

“Yes, sure,” Stone said.

“Tell you what: Why don’t you come in, and I’ll fix you some dinner?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Vanessa.”

“I gotta eat, you gotta eat,” she replied.

“Okay.” He got out of the car, followed her to the front door and waited while she unlocked it and entered the security system code. The house was larger than it had seemed from the outside, and prettily decorated and furnished.

“There’s a wet bar over there,” she said, pointing to a cabinet. “Fix us a drink; I’ll have a Johnny Walker Black on the rocks.”

Stone opened the cabinet, found the scotch, and found a bottle of Wild Turkey, too. He poured the drinks and followed her into the kitchen. There was a counter separating the cooking area from a sitting room, and he took a stool there. He wondered if she would now strip to the waist and walk around as she had in Palm Springs.

Vanessa turned out to be something of a mind reader. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not going to take any clothes off. That was Marc’s idea, in Palm Springs.”

“Marc’s idea? Why would he ask you to do that?”

“Oh, I was already fairly naked; he just asked me not to get dressed. Marc is concerned about you.”

“Concerned how?”

“He thinks you need . . . companionship.” She began rummaging in the refrigerator.

“Oh.”

“Marc is a very kind man; I owe him a lot.”

“Why?”

“I was in the middle of an awful divorce, and my lawyer was intimidated by my ex’s lawyer. I ran into Marc at a cocktail party and complained about it, and he said he’d fix it. He did. He renegotiated my settlement, got me the Bel-Air house and a lot of money. I sold that house, bought this place, and invested the difference. If not for Marc, I’d probably be working as a secretary somewhere. As it is, I’m well fixed.”

“Good for him,” Stone said.

“He thinks that if you’re fucking Arrington, it could hurt his case.”

“He has made that point,” Stone said.

“You two were an item before she married Vance, weren’t you?”

“Yes, we were.”

“Will you be again, assuming she doesn’t go to prison?”

“Hard to say,” Stone replied.

“Is that what you want?”

“Sometimes I do; other times, I don’t know,” he admitted.

Vanessa smiled. “I think it’s what you want.” She switched on the gas grill of the restaurant-style stove and put the steaks on, then started to make a salad.

Stone watched her move expertly around the kitchen. She was beautiful, smart, and, he did not doubt, affectionate. But Arrington was on his mind, and he could not get that out of the way.

They had finished dinner and were sipping a brandy before the living room fireplace.

“I’m having a tough time making a decision,” Vanessa said.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“I’m in something of an ethical quandary. I’ve promised a friend to keep something in confidence, but to do that might harm someone else.”

“That’s a tough one,” Stone said.

“The person who might be harmed is not a particular friend, though I have nothing against this person.”

“Then why are you having so much trouble keeping your promise to your friend?”

“Because it might help Marc—and you—if I told you about it.”

“Is there some way you can give me a hint without breaking your word to your friend?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps if I tell you a little about it without revealing the friend’s identity?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Marc says that he’s worried that the police might have more on Arrington than he knows about.”

“I’ve been worried about that, too.”

“Well, you’re both right to be worried.”

Stone sucked in a breath. “Can you tell me any more?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I can.” She sipped her brandy. “It’s just that there may very well have been a witness to what happened that night.”

“You mean the Mexican gardener?”

“No, someone else. That’s all I can say.”

“Have you told Marc about this?”

“No, he’d just browbeat it out of me, and I’d feel terrible. I don’t think you would try to do that.”

Funny, Stone thought, he had been thinking about doing just that. “Well,” Stone said, “if you can ever see your way clear to tell me more, I’d like to hear it.”

“I think that’s unlikely,” she replied.

Stone looked at his watch. “I’d better go; it’s getting late.”

She walked him to the door, and he gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner,” he said, “and for the good company. I needed it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” she said.

“You’ve at least confirmed our suspicions,” Stone said, “and that’s a help.” He waved and started toward his car. She waited until he had backed out of the drive before closing the door.

The street was dark, and there were a few cars parked along the curb. As Stone put the car into gear and drove away, he noticed headlights appear in his rearview mirror. Funny, he thought, he hadn’t seen a car coming when he’d backed out. He watched the lights in the mirror until he reached Sunset, then lost them in the traffic.

Forty-one

STONE WAS WAKENED BY THE SOUND OF SOMEONE entering the bungalow. Since Betty was now in Hawaii, he wasn’t expecting anybody, so he got into a robe and padded into the front room in his bare feet.

A young woman was seated at Betty’s desk; she looked up, startled. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’m here,” Stone said. “But why are you?”

“I’m Louise Bremen, from the secretarial pool; Betty wanted a temp while she’s on vacation.”

“Oh, of course; I’d forgotten. I’m Stone Barrington.” He walked over and shook her hand.

“Anything special you want done?” she asked.

“Just sort the Calder mail and separate the bills. Betty uses a computer program to pay them.”

“Quicken? I know that.”

“Good; you can write the checks, and I’ll sign them. I’m a signatory on the Calder accounts.”

“Sure; can I make you some coffee?”

“I’ll do it, as soon as I’ve had a shower,” Stone said. He went back to his bedroom, showered, shaved, and returned to the kitchenette. He was having breakfast when the phone rang, and Louise called out, “Marc Blumberg for you.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Marc?”

“Yes, I . . .”

“I’m glad you called. I had dinner with Vanessa last night, and she pretty much confirmed our suspicion that the police have something on Arrington they haven’t disclosed. Seems there was another witness to what happened when Vance was shot.”

“And who was that?”

“She wouldn’t say; she said she had been told in confidence.”

“And why didn’t she tell me that? She certainly had plenty of opportunity.”

“She said she was afraid you’d browbeat the name out of her. She seemed very serious about keeping the confidence. I think you ought to take her to lunch and press the point.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Marc?”

“You haven’t been watching television this morning, have you?”

“No; I guess I slept a little late. I’m having breakfast now.”

“Vanessa is dead.”

“What?”

“Her house burned to the ground last night. TV says the cops haven’t ruled out arson.”

“But I was with her; we had dinner.”

“Must have been later than that. It’s the husband. I know it is.”

“She told me about the divorce; was he that angry?”

“As angry as I’ve seen a husband in thirty years of practice. I got her a terrific settlement, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d taken a shot at me.”

Stone found a kitchen stool and sat down. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Was she all right when you left her?”

“She was fine; she cooked dinner, and . . .”

“How late were you there?”

“I guess I left a little before eleven.”

“You’d better talk to the cops, I guess.”

“I suppose so, though I can’t really tell them much.”

“Did Vanessa give any hint at all about who her friend, the witness, might be?”

“No; in fact, she went to the trouble of avoiding mention of even the gender.”

“It’s bound to be a woman; Vanessa doesn’t . . . didn’t have men friends, except for me.”

“Do you know who her female friends were?”

“She ran around with a group that hung around with Charlene Joiner. I don’t know who the others were. You think you could look into that?”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to.”

“I’ve got to go; what with Vanessa’s affairs to handle, I’ve got a lot on my desk this morning.”

“Thanks, Marc; I’ll get back to you if I find out anything.” Stone hung up and wolfed down the rest of his muffin, while dialing Rick Grant.

“Captain Grant.”

“Rick, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Morning, Stone; what’s up?”

“I’ve just heard from Marc Blumberg that a woman I was with last evening died in a fire last night.”

“That thing in the Hollywood Hills?”

“Yes; Vanessa Pike was her name.”

“Looks like a murder, from what I hear.”

“I thought I should talk to the investigating officers.”

“Yes, you should. Hang on a minute.”

Stone waited on hold while he finished his coffee.

Rick came back on the line. “You know where the house is?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me there in, say, forty-five minutes.”

“All right.”

They hung up, and Stone went to his desk and signed the checks Louise had printed out, then he got into his car and drove to Vanessa’s house.

He smelled it before he saw it, the odor of burning wood, not at all unpleasant. He saw Rick Grant getting out of a car ahead of him and parked behind him.

The two men shook hands, and Rick led Stone through the police tape. The house was nothing more than a smoking ruin. Rick went to two men in suits who were standing on the front lawn, talking to a fire department captain in uniform.

“Morning, Al, Bruce,” Rick said. “Stone, these are detectives Alvino Rivera and Bruce Goldman. This is a former NYPD detective, Stone Barrington.”

Stone shook hands and he and Rick were introduced to the fireman, whose name was Hinson.

“Stone, tell Al and Rick about last night.”

Stone gave a brief account of his evening with Vanessa.

“Did she say anything about her husband?” Goldman asked, when Stone had finished.

“She told me about the divorce and her settlement. I gathered it wasn’t an amiable thing. Her lawyer, Marc Blumberg, who introduced me to her, said the man was very angry about what he had to give her.”

“She show any signs of stress or nervousness when talking about her husband?” Rivera asked.

“No, it seemed to be in the past, at least, to her.”

“Does the husband look good for this?” Rick asked.

“Maybe. We questioned him this morning at his house. We still have to check out his alibi, but it sounds tight. If he’s responsible, then he probably hired a pro.”

The fireman spoke up. “The fire was started with gasoline near the master bedroom windows,” he said. “We found a can, apparently from the victim’s own garage. The perp had wheeled over a gas grill next to the house, and when the fire got going, the propane tank exploded. It must have been full, or nearly so, because it did a lot of damage. The explosion probably killed the woman.”

“We haven’t heard from the M.E. yet,” Goldman said, “but that sounds right.”

“You’re a lawyer, right?” Rivera said to Stone.

“Right.”

“You’re in town about the Calder thing?”

“Right.”

“When you left last night, did you notice anybody hanging around the street?”

“When I backed out of the driveway, there were no moving cars visible on the street, just parked ones, but as I drove down the block toward Sunset, I saw some headlights in my rearview mirror. My guess is, somebody was waiting in the street, then started up and followed me to Sunset. I lost the car after I turned.”

“Any idea of what kind of car?”

“No, all I saw was headlights.”

“So the guy was hanging around, waiting for you to leave and for her to go to sleep.”

“Could be. I didn’t notice anybody following when we drove to the house, but I wasn’t watching my mirror especially.”

“What was your relationship to Mrs. Pike?” Goldman asked.

“I met her the day before yesterday in Palm Springs, at Marc Blumberg’s house. Late yesterday afternoon, I had a meeting with Blumberg in his office, right after he returned from the Springs, and she was there. He asked me to give her a lift home, and she invited me to stay for dinner. That was it.”

“Did you have sex with her?” Rivera asked.

“No.”

“Ever met the husband?”

“No; I don’t even know his name.”

“Daniel Pike; big-time producer/director.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“You know any of her friends?”

“Blumberg says she’s friendly with a group that hangs around with Charlene Joiner.”

“Joiner, the movie star?”

“One and the same.”

“We’ll talk to her.”

Rick spoke up. “Anything else you fellows require of Stone?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You can reach me through the switchboard at Centurion Studios,” Stone said. “I’ve got a temporary office there, and here’s my New York number.” He handed them his card.

“You here for long?”

“Until the Calder thing is done.”

“Good luck on that one,” Goldman said. “I hear the wife is toast.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Stone said.

He and Rick turned and walked back to their cars.

“Thanks for coming over here, Rick,” Stone said. “They might not have been as nice, if you hadn’t been here.”

“Glad to do it. Stone, do you know something you didn’t tell those guys?”

“No, that’s everything.”

“Good,” Rick said, shaking hands. He got into his car and drove away.

Stone got back into his car. Well, almost everything, he thought. He had one other thought, but it was completely crazy, and he dismissed it.

Forty-two

BACK AT THE STUDIO BUNGALOW, STONE CALLED THE Centurion switchboard. “Good morning, this is Stone Barrington, at the Vance Calder bungalow.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” a woman replied, “how can I help you?”

“Can you tell me if Charlene Joiner is working on the lot today?”

“Yes, she is; shall I connect you to her dressing room?”

“Thank you, yes.”

The phone rang, and an answering machine picked up. Charlene’s honeyed southern voice said, “Hey. I’m shooting, or something, at the moment, but I’ll get back to you, if you’re worth getting back to.” A beep followed.

“Charlene, this is Stone Barrington. I’d like to see you sometime today, if you have a moment. You can reach me at Vance’s bungalow. By the way, you should expect a call from the police, too, about Vanessa Pike’s death.” He hung up.

Louise Bremen came and knocked on the door. “Mrs. Barrington called,” she said.

“Louise, there is no Mrs. Barrington,” Stone replied, keeping his tone light. “Just a woman who claims to be that. Her name is Dolce Bianchi; what’s her number?”

“She didn’t leave a number,” Louise said. “She just said you’d be hearing from her, and she kind of chuckled.”

“Call the Bel-Air Hotel, and see if there’s anybody registered under either name. If so, buzz me, and I’ll talk to her.”

“All right. Oh, and Mrs. Calder called, too.”

“I’ll return the call after I’ve spoken to Miss Bianchi.”

A couple of minutes passed, and the phone buzzed. Stone picked it up. “Dolce?”

“No, Mr. Barrington,” Louise said. “The Bel-Air says she’s not registered there.”

“Thanks, Louise. Try the Beverly Hills and the dozen best hotels after that, too. Ask about both names.” He hung up the phone and thought for a minute. Actually, he admitted to himself, Dolce did have a right to call herself Mrs. Barrington, given the latest news from Italy, but it grated on him to hear her do it. Now he allowed himself to think about whether Dolce might have had anything to do with the torching of Vanessa’s house and her death in the fire. Crazy, it certainly was, and he could not bring himself to believe that Dolce would have had anything to do with it, based simply on the fact of his visit there. He thought of mentioning it to the police, but dismissed the idea. He had no evidence whatsoever, and it might seem to the police like an attempt on his part to use them to rid himself of a troublesome woman. Still, he had to consider: If Dolce had been involved in Vanessa’s death, might she try to harm Arrington? All the extra security he had arranged to guard the Calder estate was gone, since the press had lost some interest in her. Then he had a thought. He dialed Arrington’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Where are you? I’ve missed you.”

“Same here, but I’ve been busy. I’m at the bungalow at the moment. Tell me, you’re awfully alone there; how would you like some houseguests? The judge didn’t bar that.”

“I’d like you for a houseguest,” she replied.

“I was thinking of Dino and Mary Ann, if I can get them out here.”

“Oh, I’d love to see them! I’ve got cabin fever in a big way, and since you’re being so standoffish, their company would be very welcome.”

“I don’t feel standoffish,” Stone said. “Circumstances are keeping us apart.”

“Would you visit me, if Dino and Mary Ann were here?”

“I think that would be perfectly kosher.”

“Then, by all means, invite them!”

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up and dialed Dino’s office.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“Dino, it’s Stone.”

“How’s sunny California?”

“You said you had some time off coming; why don’t you come out here and see for yourself? And bring Mary Ann?”

“You in some kind of trouble, pal?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Dolce?”

“Possibly. A woman I had dinner with, somebody I’d met twice, died in a fire last night, not long after I left her house. It was arson, and they suspect her ex-husband, but . . .”

“And how can Mary Ann and I help?”

“You can come and stay at Arrington’s.”

“As extra security?”

“As houseguests. She says she’d love to see you both. She’s been stuck alone in the house for too long, and cabin fever is setting in. There’s a wonderful guesthouse, and some acreage; Mary Ann would love it.”

“Hang on,” Dino said, and put Stone on hold.

Stone tapped his fingers, waiting. He was beginning to feel a little cabin feverish, himself, even if he wasn’t confined to quarters, and he missed his dinners with Dino at Elaine’s.

“I’m back,” Dino said. “Mary Ann’s on board; we’ll be out there tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s great,” Stone said. “I’ll arrange for Arrington’s butler to meet you at the airport, and we’ll all have dinner together. The butler’s name is Manolo; call Arrington’s and leave your flight time with either him or her.”

“Will do.”

“Tell Mary Ann not to bring a lot of clothes; she can buy everything she needs on Rodeo Drive.”

“Yeah, sure. If you mention that, I’ll shoot you.”

“Speaking of shooting, bring something, and will you stop by my house and bring me the Walther from my safe? Joan will open it for you; give her a call. And that little piece you loaned me is on my bedside table.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Arrington and told her the news.

“I’ll have Isabel plan something special for dinner,” she said.

“Sounds great. Dino will let you know their flight time.”

“Why don’t you and I have dinner tonight?”

“Behave yourself.”

“Oh, all right; just be here at seven tomorrow evening.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Stone said good-bye and hung up. Almost immediately, the phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Charlene Joiner on line one.”

He punched the button. “Hello, Charlene, how are you?”

“Terrible,” she replied. “I’m very upset about Vanessa.”

“It was a very bad thing.”

“Did you know her, Stone?”

“I met her at Marc Blumberg’s Palm Springs place a couple of days ago.”

“You were right about the police; they’re on their way over here now. Maybe you and I should talk before I meet them.”

“No, you don’t need a lawyer; just answer their questions truthfully. If we met first, it might make them think I’m involving myself in their case even more than I’m already involved.”

“How are you already involved?”

“I had dinner at Vanessa’s house last night; apparently, I was the last person to see her alive.”

“Lucky Vanessa! At least she went with a smile on her face.”

“It wasn’t like that, Charlene,” Stone said. “When can we get together?”

“Why don’t you come over here for lunch? I’ll be done with the police by then, say one o’clock, and I don’t have to be back on the set until three.”

“All right, where are you?”

“In the biggest fucking RV you ever saw,” she said, “parked at the rear of sound stage six. It’s got ‘Georgia Peach’ painted on the side.”

“I’ll find it. See you at one.”

“I’ll look forward.”

Forty-three

STONE FOUND THE RV AT THE BACK OF THE SOUND stage, and Charlene had not overstated its size. It looked as long as a Greyhound bus, and it, indeed, had “Georgia Peach” painted on the side. Stone was about to get out of his car when he saw the two policemen, Rivera and Goldman, leaving the big vehicle. He waited until they had driven away before getting out of his car.

He knocked on the RV door and, a moment later, it was opened by a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses, with a pencil stuck in her hair.

“You Barrington?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Sheila, come on in.” She sat down at a desk behind the driver’s seat and pointed at a door a few feet away. “Charlene’s expecting you.”

Stone rapped on the door.

“Come on in, Stone,” came the voice through the door.

Stone opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly well-furnished room. It contained a sofa, coffee table and a couple of comfortable chairs, a desk, a dressing table, and a king-size bed. Charlene’s voice came from what Stone presumed to be the bathroom, the door of which was ajar. “Have a seat,” she called. “I’m just getting undressed.”

“What?”

“Sit down. You want a drink?”

“I’m okay at the moment.”

Charlene stuck her head out the door. “You don’t mind if I’m naked, do you?” It was a rhetorical question. Before Stone could reply, she stepped into the room, and, unlike the last time he had seen her, she was not even wearing her bikini bottom. “I hope you’re not too, too shy,” she said, “but I’m shooting a nude scene this afternoon, and I can’t have any marks on my body from clothes or underwear.”

Stone sat down on the sofa. “I won’t complain,” he said, but he felt like complaining. Why were women always walking around naked in front of him just when he was trying to be good? He was struck anew at how beautiful she was—tall, slender, with breasts that were original equipment, not options, and she was a lovely, tawny color. “Did you greet the cops this way?”

“For them, I put on a robe, but it left this little mark where I tied it around the waist, see?” She pointed at a slightly red spot.

“Can’t have that, can we?” Stone said lamely.

“The director would go nuts,” she said. “Once I turned up with pantie marks and he shut down production until the next day, and I got a call from Lou Regenstein about it. You sure you don’t want something to drink? Some iced tea, maybe?”

“All right, that would be nice.”

She went to a small fridge, opened the door, and bent over, presenting a backside for the ages.

Stone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was not a hint of fat or cellulite anywhere. How did Hollywood do it?

She came back with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses, then poured them both one and sat down on the sofa.

She pulled a leg under her, and Stone could not help but notice that she had recently experienced a clever bikini wax.

“The fuzz were very nice,” she said.

“I’ll bet.”

She giggled. “I don’t think they’d ever seen a movie star up close before. I mean, not this close, but close. You’re by way of being an old acquaintance, so I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said truthfully.

“Vanessa’s death really shook me up,” she said, but she didn’t look shaken. “People my age are not supposed to die.”

“You think the ex-husband did it?”

“I can’t think of anybody else with a motive,” she replied, shaking her head. “Vanessa was a sweet girl. You said you were with her last night?”

“Yes, I gave her a lift home from Marc Blumberg’s office, and she asked me to stay for dinner.”

“Oh, speaking of food, it should be here in a minute.” As if on cue, there was a rap on the door, and Charlene got up and went into the bathroom. “You let them in, sugar; I don’t want to give the waiter a coronary.”

“You don’t seem to mind giving me one,” Stone said, walking to the door. He heard a giggle from the bathroom.

Two waiters came in and, in a flash, had arranged two lobster salads and a bottle of chardonnay on the coffee table. They were gone just as quickly, and Charlene returned, just as naked.

“I’m starved!” she said, sitting down and attacking the lobster.

Stone poured them both a glass of wine. “Charlene, who were Vanessa’s best friends?”

“You met most of them at my house,” Charlene replied. “The ladies who lunch? The whole group was there, except for Vanessa and Beverly.”

“Beverly Walters?”

“Yep. You know her?”

“I met her briefly in a restaurant once.”

“Beverly’s all right, I guess, but she wouldn’t be in the group, if it hadn’t been for Vanessa.”

“What’s Beverly’s story?”

Charlene shrugged. “She’s a Beverly Hills housewife, I guess. She came out here to be an actress and ended up giving blow jobs for walk-ons. Her husband saved her from that; now all she does is have lunch and shop.”

Stone tried the lobster; it was perfect, tender, and sweet. “Where’d the food come from?” he asked.

“From the studio commissary; have you been there, yet?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to come with me, sometime, sugar; that would do wonders for your reputation around here.”

“You’re not exactly shy, are you, Charlene?”

“You ever noticed anything shy about me, sugar?”

“No, I haven’t. Tell me, was this group of ladies with you on the day Vance was shot?”

“Was it a Saturday? Yes, it was. I remember now. Sure, they were all there that day; we have a regular Saturday thing at my house.”

“How late?”

“Later than usual, as I recall. Everybody’s mostly gone by five or six, but a couple of people stayed right through dinner. I think it’s cleansing to have dinner without a man occasionally.”

“What time did Vanessa leave?”

“She didn’t stay for dinner. I remember, they left, because Beverly had a dinner party to go to that night, and she had to get home and change. I don’t know what Vanessa was doing.”

“They left together?”

“Yes, they came and left in Vanessa’s car.”

“That’s promising,” Stone said, half to himself.

“Promising? How do you mean?”

“Sorry. I was thinking aloud.”

Charlene, having eaten a third of her lunch, grabbed her wineglass and half reclined on the sofa, resting her feet in Stone’s lap.

The view was transfixing, Stone thought, trying to concentrate on his lobster instead. “Are you and Beverly close at all?” he asked.

“Not very. Like I said, she’s not my favorite person.”

“I understand that Beverly is . . . talkative.”

“Well, that’s an understatement! We had to listen to every detail of every affair she had.”

“Did she ever sleep with Vance?”

“Sugar, if Vance had ever had a social disease, half of Beverly Hills would have come down with it.”

“I mean, did she ever talk about having an affair with him?”

“She tried, but she was late to the party; the rest of us had already had Vance.”

“Vanessa, too?”

“Sure, and before she was divorced. Vance didn’t discriminate against married women.”

“Who is Beverly married to?”

“A producer on the lot here: Gordon Walters. That’s her entree around town; if she were ever divorced, she’d never get asked to dinner. Gordy’s a sweetheart, but Beverly isn’t all that popular. Everybody knows you can’t tell her anything. It would be like putting it on a loudspeaker at Spago.”

“Charlene, I wonder if you’d do a favor for me.”

“Sugar,” she said, poking him in the crotch with a toe. “I’ve been trying.”

“Another kind of favor.”

“Sure, if I can.”

“Have lunch with Beverly Walters; see if you can find out what happened after she and Vanessa left your house that Saturday.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You can’t share this with the ladies,” Stone said.

She made a little cross with a long fingernail on her left breast.

“Beverly is a witness against Arrington, in this shooting thing. She’s testified that Arrington told her she wanted to kill Vance. Arrington was joking, of course.”

“Of course,” Charlene said dryly.

“It’s possible that Beverly might have been at Vance’s house that evening, and that she might have seen something. I can’t let Arrington go into court without knowing what Beverly saw. Do you think you could worm that out of her?”

“Shoot, Stone, I could worm Beverly’s genetic code out of her, if she knew it.”

“Vanessa said something about this to me, and I wouldn’t like for Beverly to know that. Vanessa felt she was breaking a confidence, just by mentioning the possibility.”

“That sounds like Vanessa,” Charlene said, looking misty for a moment. “She’d be true blue, even to Beverly.”

“When do you think you could see her?”

“She’ll be over at the house on Saturday, with the others, I’m sure; we’ll have some commiserating to do over Vanessa.”

“I’d appreciate any help you could give me.”

Charlene smiled a small smile. “How much would you appreciate it?”

“A lot,” Stone said.

“I don’t believe you,” Charlene replied. “It’s Arrington, isn’t it? She’s why I can’t get you in the sack.”

“We’re old and good friends,” Stone said.

Charlene laughed. “Well, at least you didn’t say you were just good friends. I don’t blame you, Stone; she’s perfectly gorgeous. I’d hop into bed with her in a minute.”

Stone laughed, put down his fork, and stood up. “I’ll tell her you said so, if the occasion should ever arise. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the lunch, and, especially, for your help.”

Charlene put down her wineglass, arose, and came toward Stone. She snaked one arm around his neck, hooked one leg around his and kissed him, long and deep.

Stone enjoyed the moment.

“Just you remember,” she said, “you owe me one.”

Stone released himself and made his way out of the RV. On the short drive back to the bungalow, Stone made a concerted effort to forget how Charlene Joiner had looked naked, and failed.

Forty-four

STONE SPENT THE EVENING ALONE IN VANCE’S BUNGALOW, heating a frozen dinner and watching one of Vance’s movies from a selection of videotapes in the study. It turned out to be one in which Charlene Joiner had costarred, and that didn’t help him think pure thoughts. Her ability as an actress actually lived up to her beauty, which surprised him, though it was not the first of her movies he had seen.

He slept fitfully, then devoted the following day to a combination of Calder Estate business and correspondence FedExed by Joan from New York, which kept his mind off naked women, living and dead. The noon news said that Daniel Pike was not a suspect in his ex-wife’s death, but he didn’t believe it. The police had probably leaked that information to make Pike think he was safe. He’d done the same thing, himself, in his time.

Arrington called early in the afternoon. “Dino and Mary Ann are arriving at three,” she said, “and Manolo is meeting them. I can’t wait to see them!”

“Same here,” Stone said, and he meant it. Cut off from Arrington most of the time, he craved affectionate company.

“You be here at seven,” she said.

“Can I bring anything?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you’ll share, in your present mood.”

“When this is over, I’ll share until you cry for mercy.”

“Promises, promises! Bye.” She hung up.

Stone left the studio at six-thirty, which would make him fashionably late to Arrington’s. Then, after no more than a mile, the car’s steering felt funny, and he pulled over. The rear tire was flat. He thought of changing it himself, but there was a gas station a block away, and he didn’t want to get his fresh clothes dirty, so he hiked down there and brought back a mechanic to do the work. As a result, he was half an hour late to dinner.

He entered through the front gate, for a change, and noted that there were no TV vans or reporters about. Manolo let him in and escorted him into the living room where Arrington, Dino, and Mary Ann sat on sofas before the fireplace. Another woman was there, too, but her back was to him.

He hugged Dino and Mary Ann, but when he went to embrace Arrington, she kept an elbow between them. “And look who else is here!” she cried, waving a hand toward the sofa. The other woman turned around.

“Dolce,” Stone said weakly. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Well, you can reach me now,” Dolce replied, patting the sofa next to her.

Stone started to take another seat, but Arrington took his arm tightly and guided him next to Dolce. “Dolce has told me your wonderful news!” Arrington said brightly, showing lots of teeth. “Let me congratulate you!”

Stone looked at Dino and Mary Ann, both of whom looked extremely uncomfortable. He sat down next to Dolce and submitted to a kiss on the cheek.

“My darling,” she said, “how handsome you look tonight.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Stone said to Arrington, ignoring Dolce. “I had a flat tire on the way.”

“Of course you did, Stone,” she replied, as if he were lying.

Manolo brought him a Wild Turkey on the rocks, and Stone sipped it. This whole thing was insane; what was Dolce doing here? He discovered that he was sweating. “How was your flight?” he asked Dino and Mary Ann.

“Pretty much the same as being moved around the Chicago Stockyards with an electric cattle prod,” Dino replied gamely, trying to hold up his end.

“Heh, heh,” Stone said, taking a big swig of the bourbon. He stole a glance at Dolce, who was smiling broadly. He hoped she wasn’t armed.

Across the coffee table, on the sofa opposite, Arrington was smiling just as broadly. She emptied a martini glass and motioned to Manolo for another. “Well, isn’t this fun!” she said. “Old friends together again. How long has it been?”

“A long time,” Mary Ann replied, as if it had not been long enough.

“Oh, Stone,” Dino said, standing up. “I brought you something; come out to the guesthouse for a minute.”

“Excuse me,” Stone said to Arrington.

“Hurry back, now!” she replied.

Stone followed Dino out the back door and toward the guesthouse. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

“How should I know?” Dino replied. “I didn’t know Dolce was coming until she got here, ten minutes before you did. Mary Ann must have invited her, but she didn’t say a goddamned thing to me about it.” He opened the door to the guesthouse and led the way in.

“And she told Arrington we were married in Venice?”

“You bet she did, pal, and she laid it on thick. Arrington was smiling a lot, but she would have killed her, if there had been anything sharp lying around.” Dino went to his suitcase and handed Stone his little Walther automatic, in its chamois shoulder holster.

“What am I going to do with this now?” Stone asked.

“I’d wear it if I were you,” Dino replied. “You might need it before the evening is over.”

Stone shucked off his jacket and slipped into the shoulder holster.

“My thirty-two automatic wasn’t on your bedside table, where you said it would be, and it wasn’t in your safe, either.”

“That’s weird,” Stone said. “Helene wouldn’t have touched it when she was cleaning; she hates guns, and Joan wouldn’t have had any reason to be upstairs.”

“I asked Joan about it, and she said she hadn’t seen it.”

Stone checked the Walther; it was loaded. He put the safety on and returned it to the holster.

“You’re going to need a local permit for that, aren’t you?” Dino asked.

“Rick Grant got me one last year when I was out here; it’s in my pocket. Can you think of some way to get Dolce out of here? I’ve got to explain to Arrington what’s going on.”

“I thought you would have explained it to her a long time ago,” Dino said. “That girl is really pissed off.”

“I realize I should have,” Stone said, “but I just didn’t want to bring up Dolce while Arrington is in all this trouble.”

“Well, you’re the one who’s in trouble, now, and we’d better get back in there, so you can face the music.”

They went back into the house, and found Mary Ann struggling to keep some sort of conversation going.

Manolo came into the room. “Dinner is served, Mrs. Calder,” he said.

Everyone rose and marched into the dining room.

“Now let’s see,” Arrington said, surveying the beautifully laid table. “We’ll have Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti to my left, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrington, here, to my right.”

Stone winced as if lashed. Everybody sat down, and a cold soup was served.

“This is a beautiful house,” Dino said.

“Thank you, Dino; Vance let me redo the place after we were married, so I can take full credit. Stone, where are you and Dolce going to make your home?”

Stone dropped his spoon into his soup bowl, splashing gazpacho over his jacket.

Dolce took up the slack. “Papa offered to give us his Manhattan place, but Stone has insisted that we live in his house,” she said. “I’m so looking forward to redecorating the place. It’s a little . . . seedy right now.”

Stone could not suppress a groan. Dolce knew that Arrington had had a big hand in decorating his house. The soup was taken away, before Arrington could throw it at Dolce.

“And how is your father?” Arrington asked solicitously. “And all those business associates of his? The ones with the broken noses?”

Stone stood up. “Excuse me.” He left the table.

Arrington caught up with him at the front door. “Running away, are you? You complete shit! You married that bitch?”

“I have a lot to explain to you,” Stone said. “Can we have lunch tomorrow?”

“Lunch? I don’t ever want to see you again! Not as long as I live!”

“Arrington, you’re going to have to listen to me about this.”

“The hell I do!” she hissed, then pushed him out the front door and slammed it behind him.

Stone was already in his car when he saw Dolce in his rearview mirror, coming out of the house. The gates opened for him, and he floored the accelerator.

He made a couple of quick turns, headed nowhere, just trying to be sure that Dolce wasn’t following him. He made the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard, so he could keep an eye on several blocks behind him. Sweat was pouring off him, and he was breathing rapidly. When he had to stop for a traffic light he took the opportunity to put the car’s top down, and the breeze began to cool him. His breathing slowed, and he began to feel nearly normal, except that he was numb between the ears. He did his best to drive both Dolce and Arrington out of his head, tried to think of nothing. For a while he was in a nearly semiconscious state, driving by instinct, un-caring of his direction.

When his head cleared he found himself at a traffic light in Malibu. He dug his notebook out of his pocket, looked up the number and dialed the hands-free phone.

“Hello?” she said, her voice low and inviting.

“It’s Stone; I’m in Malibu. Are you alone?”

“I sure am,” she replied.

“Not for long.” He headed for the Colony.

Forty-five

CHARLENE MET HIM AT THE DOOR, WEARING NOTHING but a short silk robe. Neither of them said a word. He kissed her, then, without stopping, lifted her off her feet.

She climbed him like a tree and locked her legs around him. “Straight ahead,” she said, removing her lips from his just long enough to speak. “Hang a right at the end of the hall.”

He followed her directions and came into a large bedroom only steps from the sand. The sliding doors to the beach were open, and a breeze billowed the sheer curtains. She unlocked her legs and dropped to the floor, tearing at his clothes. Together they got him undressed and her robe disappeared. They dived at the bed.

Stone had been erect since she’d answered the phone, and Charlene wasn’t interested in foreplay. He was inside her before they were fully on the bed, and she was already wet. They made love hungrily, rolling about on the king-size bed, he on top, then she. There were no words, only sounds—yells, bleats, cries, moans. The breeze from the Pacific blew over their bodies, drying their sweat, keeping them going. She came slowly to a climax, and Stone followed her more swiftly, penetrating her fully. More sounds, followed by gasps for breath, then they were both lying on their backs, sucking in wind.

“Good God!” she managed to say finally. “I’ve done a lot of fucking in my time, but I don’t think I ever had a running start before.”

“I was in a hurry,” he panted.

“Oh, I’m not complaining, sugar.”

He turned and reached for her. “Again,” he said.

She pushed him onto his back. “Now you take it easy,” she said. “My call for tomorrow isn’t until eleven, and you’ve got to last until then. I don’t want you to leave in an ambulance.”

Stone burst out laughing. “Oh, I feel wonderful,” he laughed. “First time in I don’t know how long.”

“You’ve been wound a little tight, haven’t you?”

“You wouldn’t believe how tight.”

“Well, I think I’ve just had a demonstration, and if it took you that long to start unwinding . . .”

“I think I may live now, if Dolce doesn’t shoot me.”

“Dolce? Is there somebody I don’t know about?”

“My wife, God help me.”

“Sugar, I believe we’ve skipped a part of your bio,” she said, rising onto one elbow and tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“Paper marriage,” he said. “Piece of paper, nothing more. Trouble is, it’s an Italian piece of paper.”

“Baby, you’re not making any sense. Did you get drunk in Vegas, or something?”

“Happened in Venice,” he panted. “The real one, not the Vegas one. Glorious place to get married.”

“Did she Shanghai you?”

“I went voluntarily, I’m afraid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“So, what’s the next level of that relationship?”

“The next level is divorce, and I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy, since it has to happen in Italy.”

“I don’t understand how . . . wait a minute; you came out here just to help Arrington, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Were you in Venice when you heard about Vance?”

“Yes. We’d had the civil ceremony; we were due for the big one, in St. Mark’s, the next day. When I heard about Vance, I dropped everything.”

“Including Dolce?”

“Turned out that way.”

“How did she take it?”

“Badly.”

“And now you think she wants to shoot you?”

“Oh, no; she’d rather have me drawn and quartered and the pieces barbecued.”

“What does she want?”

“Me, dead or alive.”

“You mean she still wants to be married to you?”

“Apparently so. She’s been introducing herself to the world as Mrs. Stone Barrington.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, oops.”

“Who is this girl?”

“Her last name is Bianchi.”

“Wait a minute: at Vance’s funeral I saw you talking to . . .”

“Her father.”

“I’ve heard a little about him,” she said. “Sounds like this could be tricky.”

“Well put. Tricky.”

She pushed his hair off his forehead with her fingers and kissed him. “I could hide you here for a few months,” she said.

“I don’t think I could survive that.”

She giggled. “Probably not, but you’d last a while. What made you show up here tonight? Where were you earlier this evening?”

“I went to Arrington’s house for dinner. Dolce was there.”

“Well, that must have been a teensy bit awkward.”

“You could say that. You could say I’m lucky I got out of there before the two of them tore me to pieces.”

“And how did this little soiree come about?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea. I arrived, and they were both there. I don’t think I’ve ever been at such a complete loss.”

“Poor baby,” she said. “I suppose you need consoling.”

“Oh, yes. Console me.”

She swapped ends and began kissing him lightly, getting an instantaneous response.

He placed a hand on her buttocks and pulled her to his face, searching with his tongue.

She took him into her mouth.

He found her.

They remained in that position for a long time.

Forty-six

STONE STOOD, HIS HANDS AGAINST THE TILE WALL OF the shower, his head under the heavy stream of water. His knees were trembling. He had no idea what time it was, except that the sun was up.

The bronzed-glass door opened, and Charlene stepped in. She grabbed a bottle of something, sprayed it on his back, and began soaping his body. “How you doing, sugar?”

“I’m shattered,” he said. “I can hardly stand up.”

“I can’t imagine how that happened,” she giggled. “All we did was make love.”

“How many times?”

“Several,” she replied. “Who’s counting?”

He leaned back against the tile and let her soap him. “I have the strange but almost certain feeling that sometime early this morning I passed some sort of physical peak in my life, and that everything from here on is downhill.”

“Sugar,” she said, “that’s the sort of peak that most men hit at eighteen. You should be pleased with yourself.”

“I’m never going to be the same again; I can hardly stand up. You may have to carry me out of here.”

She pulled him back under the shower and rinsed him, then turned off the shower. “Maybe if you hold my hand you can make it.” She led him out of the stall, dried him and herself with fat towels, and found robes for them both. “Come on, hon; breakfast is on the table.”

He followed her through the sliding doors and onto a terrace overlooking the beach. When they sat down a low wall cleverly blocked the view from the sand, but still allowed them a panorama of the sea. It was nicely private.

She removed the covers from two plates. His was eggs, home fries, sausages, and muffins; hers was a slice of melon.

“Why do I have so much and you so little?” he asked, digging in.

“Because you need your strength, and I need to keep my ass looking the way it does without surgery.”

“It looks wonderful, especially up close.”

“You should know; you were in and out of there a few times.”

Stone sneezed.

“God bless you.”

“I hope I’m not getting a cold.”

“I don’t think you can get a cold from anal sex.”

“Good point; maybe I’m just allergic to something.”

“For a while there, I thought you might be allergic to me.”

Stone shook his head. “Not in the least.”

“Then what took you so long to knock on my door?”

“Call it misplaced loyalties.”

“That’s it,” she agreed. “Neither one of them deserves you.” She smiled. “Only me. Tell me, do you always wear a gun to assignations?”

“What?”

“I seem to recall removing a shoulder holster from your body, along with everything else. Did you feel you needed a lot of protection from me?”

“A friend brought it out from New York for me. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Stone finished his eggs and poured them some coffee. “When are you going to see Beverly Walters?”

“Yesterday.”

“You’ve already talked to her?”

“Well, you didn’t give me a chance to tell you last night.”

“What did she say?”

“She was coy, which is unlike Beverly. Normally, she spills everything, usually without being asked.”

“But not yesterday?”

Charlene shook her head. “She had a secret, and she wasn’t going to tell me. I couldn’t worm it out of her.”

“She was there, I think. She must have seen what happened.”

“If I were you, I’d be worried.”

“I am.”

“What’s your next move?”

“I don’t know. We could depose her, get her under oath.”

“Why?”

“The idea is to find out what the prosecution witness knows.”

Charlene sighed. “The problem with that, Stone, is you don’t want to know.”

She had a point, he thought.

Stone got back to the studio bungalow a little before eleven. Louise Bremen, from the studio secretarial pool, was at Betty’s desk. “Good morning,” she said, handing him a phone message. It was from Dino, and the return number was at the Calder guesthouse.

“Good morning,” he replied, pocketing the message.

“Oh, you’ve spilled something on your jacket,” Louise said.

Stone had forgotten about the gazpacho from the night before.

“Take it off, and I’ll send it over to wardrobe for you; they’ll get the stain out.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. He went into the bedroom, took off the jacket, and put the Walther and its holster into a drawer. Then he took the jacket back to Louise. “Have we heard anything from Dolce Bianchi?”

“Not a peep,” she replied.

“Good.” He went into the study and called Dino.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

Dino spoke softly, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “Let’s meet for lunch,” he whispered.

“Okay, come over here, and we’ll go to the studio commissary. Borrow a car from Manolo; he’ll give you directions.”

“In an hour?”

“Good.” They both hung up. Stone buzzed Louise and asked her to arrange a studio pass for Dino.

Dino was introduced to Louise, then Stone showed him around the bungalow.

“These movie stars live pretty well, don’t they?” he said.

“Better than cops and lawyers.”

“Better than anybody. That guesthouse we’re staying in is nicer than any home I’ve ever had.”

“The pleasures of money.”

“I’m hungry; let’s eat. We can talk over lunch.”

Stone drove him slowly through the studio streets, pointing out the exterior street set and the sound stages.

“It’s like a city, isn’t it?” Dino said.

“It has just about everything a city has, except crime.”

“Yeah, that happens in Bel-Air and Beverly Hills.”

Stone parked outside the commissary, which was a brick building with a walled garden. Stone showed the hostess his VIP studio pass, and they were given a table outside, surrounded by recognizable faces.

Dino took it all in, pointing out a movie star or two, then they ordered lunch.

“All right, what happened after I left last night?” Stone asked.

“Not much. What could compare to the scene just before you left?”

“What was Dolce doing there?”

“Mary Ann invited her, with Arrington’s permission. It was an innocent thing on both their parts, I guess.”

“How innocent could it be? Mary Ann was in Venice; she knew everything.”

“She thought Arrington knew everything, too. You didn’t tell her?”

“I hadn’t found the right moment,” Stone said.

“She was pretty upset after you left, even though she tried not to show it. I tried to smooth things over, but she wouldn’t talk about you.”

“I’ve never been double-teamed like that,” Stone said.

“I felt sorry for you, but there was nothing I could do. You’re going to have to find some way to square things with Arrington.”

“As far as I’m concerned, the ball’s in her court. I was ambushed, and I didn’t like it.”

“That wasn’t her intention, Stone.”

“Maybe not, but the result was the same.”

“Fortunately, Dolce left when you did. Did you go together?”

“No, I outran her.”

“You can’t run forever.”

“What else can I do? You can’t talk to her like a normal human being. I’ve got Marc Blumberg working on an Italian divorce.”

“I have a feeling this is not going to be as easy as divorce.”

“Funny, I have the same feeling,” Stone replied.

When they got back to the bungalow, Louise came into the study. “Lou Regenstein’s secretary called. Lou would like you to come to an impromptu dinner party he’s giving for some friends at his house tonight. He says to bring somebody, if you’d like. It’s at seven-thirty.” She laid the address on his desk.

“Let me make a call,” Stone said. He found the number for Charlene’s RV and dialed it.

“Hey, sugar,” she said. “How you feeling?”

“I think I’ve recovered my health. Would you like to go to a dinner party tonight?”

“Sure, but I won’t be done here until six-thirty or seven.”

“Have you got something that you could wear? We could leave from here.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” she said. “I wore it in a scene this morning.”

“Pick you up at the RV about seven-fifteen?”

“Seven-fifteenish.”

“See you then.” He hung up. “Call Lou’s secretary and tell her I’d love to come, and I’m bringing a date.”

Louise went back to her desk to make the call.

“Who’s the date?” Dino asked.

“Charlene Joiner.”

Dino’s eyebrows went up. “You kidding me?”

“Nope,” Stone replied smugly. “She’s a new friend.”

“One of these days, you’re going to screw yourself right into the ground,” Dino said.

Forty-seven

CHARLENE KEPT STONE WAITING FOR ONLY FIFTEEN minutes. When she emerged from her dressing room she was wearing flowing cream-colored silk pants and a filmy patterned blouse. Stone noticed in a nanosecond that the blouse was so sheer that nipples were readily in view.

“So that’s what L.A. women wear to dinner parties.” He laughed, kissing her.

“They do if they have the right equipment,” Charlene replied, wrapping a light cashmere stole around her shoulders.

“You’re going to be very popular tonight,” Stone said.

“With the men, anyway. Whose house are we going to?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I love a surprise,” she said, settling into the car. “This is Vance’s car, isn’t it?”

“It is. I borrowed it.”

“Such an incestuous town,” she said.

With Charlene’s help he found the house, or rather, estate, in Holmby Hills. Stone was beginning to believe that everybody in L.A. lived on four or five acres. He stopped in the circular driveway, and a valet took the car. As they approached the house, the front door was opened by a butler, and they stepped into a large foyer. From across the living room beyond, Lou Regenstein headed toward them.

“Oh, my God,” Charlene said under her breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered.

“Stone!” Lou cried, his hand out. “And Charlene!” He looked a little panicky. “What a surprise!”

“For me too, Lou,” she replied, accepting a peck on the cheek. She whipped off the stole, handed it to the butler, and swept into the room at Stone’s side, her back arched, breasts held high.

Lou led them toward a tall, handsome woman of about fifty, who was talking to another couple. “Livia,” he said. “You haven’t met Stone.”

“How do you do?” the woman said, taking Stone’s hand. Then she turned toward Charlene, and her eyes narrowed.

“And of course, you know Charlene Joiner,” Lou said.

“Of course,” she replied icily, then turned and walked away.

There was something going on here, Stone thought, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.

Lou quickly turned to the couple Livia had been talking to. “And this is Lansing Drake and his wife, Christina.”

Stone took the man’s hand. “It’s Dr. Drake, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and your name?”

“I’m sorry,” Lou said, “this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Vance’s and Arrington’s.”

For a split second, the doctor looked as though he had been struck across the face, then he recovered. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled, then turned to Charlene. “And of course, I know you,” he said, chuckling, his eyes pointing below her shoulders.

“Of course you do,” Charlene said.

Lou’s attention was drawn to the front door, where other guests were arriving. “The bar is over there,” he said to Stone, pointing across the room. “Please excuse me.”

Dr. Drake and his wife had suddenly engaged someone else in conversation, so Stone led Charlene toward the bar.

“Pill pusher to the stars,” Charlene said.

“Yes, I’ve heard of him; he’s Arrington’s doctor. What were you talking about at the front door?”

“If you hadn’t been surprising me, I’d have warned you,” she said.

“Warned me about what?”

“Livia; she hates me with a vengeance. Poor Lou is going to get it between the shoulder blades tonight.”

“Who is she?”

“Lou’s wife.”

“I didn’t know he even had a wife. Nobody’s ever mentioned her to me.”

“Nobody ever does, least of all Lou. They’ve had an arm’s-length marriage for twenty years. Word has it they occupy different wings of this house. They’re only seen together when he entertains here, or at industry events, like the Oscars.”

“And why does she hate you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right.” They reached the bar; Charlene had a San Pellegrino, and Stone had his usual bourbon.

“Did you see the look on the doctor’s face when he met you?” Charlene asked.

“Yes; I thought he was going to break and run for a minute.”

“This is going to be a very weird evening,” Charlene said.

Stone looked toward the front door and nearly choked on his drink. “You don’t know how weird,” he said.

Charlene followed his gaze. “That, I suppose, is the fabled Dolce.”

“It is,” Stone replied, “and the man with her is her father, Eduardo.”

Charlene linked her arm in Stone’s. “Well, come on, then,” she said. “I want to be introduced.”

There was nothing else for it, Stone thought; may as well brazen it out. He walked toward the two, wishing to God he were on another continent. “Good evening, Eduardo,” he said. “Hello, Dolce.”

Eduardo took his hand, but not before a shocked glance at Charlene’s highly visible breasts. “Stone,” he managed to say.

Dolce said nothing, but shot a look at Charlene that would have set a lesser woman on fire.

“Eduardo, this is Charlene Joiner. Charlene, this is Eduardo Bianchi and his daughter, Dolce.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you both,” Charlene said, offering them a broad smile, in addition to everything else.

“Enchanted,” Eduardo said stiffly.

“Oh, yes,” Dolce said dryly, looking Charlene up and down. “Enchanted.”

“Charlene is one of Lou’s biggest stars,” Stone said, because he could not think of anything else to say.

“I never go to the pictures,” Eduardo said, “but I can certainly believe you are a star.”

“Oh, Eduardo, you’re sweet,” Charlene giggled. She turned and snaked an arm through his. “Come on, and I’ll get you a drink.” She led him away, leaving Stone suddenly with Dolce, the very last place he wanted to be.

“Alone at last,” Dolce said archly.

“Dolce, I . . .”

“Are you fucking her?”

“Now, listen. I . . .”

“Of course you are. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

“Will you listen . . .”

“I’m sure she’s very good in the sack.”

“Dolce . . .”

“Is she, Stone? Does she give good head?”

“For Christ’s sake, keep your voice . . .”

“I’ll bet she’s spent more time on her knees than Esther Williams spent in the pool.”

“Dolce, if you don’t . . .”

“Oh, good, a martini,” Dolce said, as a waiter approached with a tray. She took one, tossed it into Stone’s face, returned the glass to the tray, and walked away.

The room was suddenly silent. Then Charlene’s laugh cut through the quiet. “I don’t believe you,” she was saying to Eduardo, who, uncharacteristically, seemed to be laughing, too.

“Dinner is served!” the butler called out, and the guests began filtering toward the dining room.

Charlene came, took Stone by the arm, and turned him toward dinner.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stone said, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

“Are you kidding?” Charlene laughed, dragging him toward the dining room. “I wouldn’t miss this dinner for anything!”

Forty-eight

THERE WERE SIXTEEN AT DINNER. STONE FOUND HIMSELF near the center of the long, narrow table, on his hostess’s left. Directly across from him was Dr. Lansing Drake, who had landed with Dolce on his right and Charlene on his left. Most men, Stone reflected, would have been delighted to find themselves bracketed by two such beautiful women, but Dr. Drake looked decidedly uncomfortable, and when Stone nodded to him, he looked at his plate, then up and down the table, as if seeking an escape route.

The woman to Stone’s left seemed to be in her eighties and deaf, while the handsome and chilly Livia, to Stone’s right, seemed disinclined to acknowledge his presence. Dolce, across the table, shot him long, hostile looks whenever his eyes wandered her way. Only Charlene seemed happy. She had drawn Eduardo, to her left, and between her large eyes and her beautiful breasts, she seemed to have him mesmerized.

“How long have you known that woman?” a deep, whiskey-scarred voice asked.

Stone jerked to attention. Livia had spoken to him. “Oh, we met only recently. This is the first time we’ve been out.” That was, strictly speaking, the truth. They had done all sorts of things at home, but they had not been out.

“I would be careful, if I were you,” Livia said. “She probably has a social disease.”

“I beg your pardon?” Stone said, astonished that a hostess would say such a thing to her guest about his companion.

“More than likely, a fatal social disease,” Livia said, ignoring his reaction.

“Mrs. Regenstein . . .”

“I detest that name; call me Livia.”

“You detest your husband’s name?”

“And my husband, as well.”

“Then why are you married to him?”

“I find it convenient; I have for more than twenty years. But enough about me; let’s talk about you. What did you do to little Miss Bianchi that would invite a drink in the face?”

“My private life,” Stone said, “unlike yours, is private.”

“You’re going to be a bore, aren’t you?” she asked.

“You will probably think so.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Ah, yes, Louis has mentioned you. You’re that disreputable lawyer from New York who was screwing Arrington Calder just before she married Vance, aren’t you?”

Stone looked across the table, caught Charlene’s eye and jerked his head toward the door. Then he turned to Livia Regenstein. “Good-bye, you miserable bitch,” he said quietly; then he got up and walked out of the dining room. He waited a moment for Charlene to catch up, then led her toward the front door.

While Charlene was waiting for her wrap, and the valet was bringing Stone’s car, Lou Regenstein caught up with them. “What’s wrong, Stone? Why are you leaving?”

“Lou, I must apologize; I’m afraid I don’t have a scorecard for the games that are played in this town. I’m sorry if I made your wife and your guests uncomfortable.”

“It’s I who should apologize,” Lou said. “Livia can be hard to take.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Stone said. They shook hands, and he and Charlene left the house.

Stone put the top down. “I need some air,” he said, turning down the street. “I hope it won’t disturb your hair.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlene replied. “Well, that was quite an evening. What were you and Livia talking about, dare I ask?”

“You, mostly,” Stone said.

“Oh. I may as well tell you. For a short time Livia and I shared a lover.”

“Not Lou, I hope.”

“No, someone much younger. Soon after I came into the picture, the man stopped seeing Livia. Livia has been livid ever since.”

“This is my fault; I should have told you where we were having dinner.”

“Listen, sugar, don’t worry about it; I didn’t have half as bad a time as you.”

“What were you and Eduardo talking about?”

“The movie business, mostly.”

“He seemed fascinated.”

“I’m sure he was. He spoke well of you, too.”

“Did he?”

“He said you were a gentleman.”

“And that was just before I caused a scene by walking out of an elegant dinner party.”

“I’m sure his opinion of you hasn’t changed.”

“You know, until this week, I had never in my life walked out of any dinner party, and now, in the space of three days, I’ve walked out of two.”

“Are you upset?”

“Not really; I must be getting used to it.”

“I guess folks out here aren’t working with quite the same social graces as their counterparts in New York.”

Stone reached Sunset and turned toward the studio. “How’d you happen to come out here?”

“You want the fan magazine version, or the truth?”

“The truth will do nicely.”

“Hang a left here,” she said. “There’s a nice little restaurant down the street, and we haven’t had dinner.”

Stone followed directions. “No, we haven’t.”

The restaurant was not all that small, but it was very elegant, and the headwaiter, spotting Charlene, had them at a special table in seconds. They ordered drinks and dinner.

“Okay, now tell me your story,” he said.

“It’s a strange one,” she said. “I’m from Meriwether County, Georgia, near a little town called Delano.”

“That’s where Betty Southard, Vance’s secretary, is from.”

“True, but she was older than I, so we didn’t really know each other. Anyway, I was pretty much a country girl, and I had this boyfriend who murdered a girl, in Greenville, the county seat. The court appointed a lawyer named Will Lee to defend my boyfriend.”

“Wait a minute, is this the senator from Georgia? The presidential candidate?”

“Yes, but not at that time. Old Senator Carr, who Will worked for, had a stroke, and Will ran for his seat, but the judge wouldn’t let him out of defending Larry, my boyfriend, even though it was during the campaign. As you might imagine, the trial attracted a lot of press coverage.”

“I think I remember this vaguely,” Stone said, “but not the outcome.”

“Larry was convicted and sentenced to death. A tabloid paid me for my story, and all of a sudden, Hollywood was sniffing around. Next thing I knew I was out here, with a part in a movie. Then there was another part and another, and the rest is pulp fiction.”

“Amazing. Was the boyfriend executed?”

She shook her head. “I went to see the governor of Georgia and personally, ah, interceded on his behalf. His sentence was commuted to life without parole. We still correspond.”

“Was he guilty?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s the damnedest story I ever heard.”

“There’s more.”

“Tell me.”

“Will Lee and I had a little one-time encounter that became a side issue in the presidential race.”

“That was you?”

“I’m afraid so. When I’m old and washed up, somebody’s going to make a really bad TV movie about all this, and then I’m going to write my memoirs.”

“I’m sure it will be a hot seller.”

“You better believe it, sugar.”

After dinner, he drove her back to her car at Centurion, and they said good night.

“One thing,” he said to her.

“What’s that, baby?” she asked, putting her arms around his neck.

“Dolce has taken this whole business hard. After tonight’s events, I think you should be careful.”

“You mean, watch my back?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

She kissed him. “Sugar,” she said, “Dolce doesn’t want to mess with me.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She kissed him again. “Should I go armed?”

“Do you own a gun?”

She nodded. “All legal-like, too.”

“Try not to shoot at anybody; you might hit me.”

“I shoot what I aim at, sugar.” She kissed him again, then got into her car. “By the way,” she said, as she put the top down. “There’s going to be a kind of memorial for Vanessa tomorrow at my house. Will you come?”

Stone nodded. “Sure.”

“Just a few people. Six o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

She gave a little wave and drove away.

Forty-nine

THE MEMORIAL FOR VANESSA PIKE AT CHARLENE’S house seemed more of a memorial cocktail party, Stone reflected as he walked into the well-populated living room. Everyone had a drink, even if, in the California style, it was designer fizzy water, and there was a buffet at one end of the room laden with raw vegetables, melon, and other low-fat delicacies.

Charlene came and gave him a virtuous peck on the cheek. “I think you’ll know a few people,” she said. “Mingle while I greet.”

Stone nodded, went to the bar, and waited while the barman ransacked the house for a bottle of bourbon. He would not bear his grief in sobriety, no matter what the West Coast convention. While he waited, he surveyed the room, picking out most of the women he had met on his first visit to the house, along with Dr. Lansing Drake and his wife and, somewhat to his relief, Marc Blumberg. At least he’d have somebody to talk to. He collected his drink and joined Marc.

“What’ve you been up to?” Marc asked.

“Not much,” Stone said.

“I think it’s about time to go for a motion to dismiss,” Marc said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Stone replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I think it’s quite possible that Beverly Walters was there when Vance was shot, and she’s the prosecution’s prime witness.”

“Are you sure she was there?”

“As sure as I can be without putting her under oath and asking her.”

Marc mulled that over for a moment. “I wonder if she hates Arrington that much, that she’d testify?”

“She hates her enough to testify to a conversation in which Arrington, apparently in jest, says she’d kill Vance if she caught him with another woman.”

“You have a point,” Marc admitted.

“Have you heard anything new from the investigation into Vanessa’s death?” Stone asked.

“They’ve cleared the husband,” Marc replied, nodding toward two men across the room.

Stone followed his gaze and found the two cops he’d met after the fire at Vanessa’s. “What are they doing here?”

“They must think the murderer is present,” Marc said. “Such a person might call attention to himself by his absence.”

“Have you caught them staring at anybody?” Stone asked, glancing out the big windows toward the beach.

“They’re staring at you right now,” Marc said.

Stone looked back toward the two detectives and found that Marc was not lying. Both men gazed gravely back at him. Stone raised his glass a little and nodded; both men nodded back. “You think I’m all they’ve got?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you suppose they think my motive is?”

“Who knows?”

“I mean, I met her only twice, both times in your company. Did you notice any murderous intentions on my part?”

Marc shrugged. “Nothing obvious.”

“I suppose they’ve questioned you about those meetings.”

“In some depth.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Everybody needs a lawyer.”

Stone laughed.

“But probably not you, not yet.”

“That’s a relief; I’m not sure I could afford you.”

“Probably not.”

“Excuse me; I need the powder room.” Stone set down his glass. He left the lawyer and walked down a hallway to the first-floor half-bath. The door was ajar and he stepped inside and switched on the light. He reached behind him to close the door, but felt a pressure on it. Then he was pushed forward into the little room and someone stepped in behind him and closed the door. Stone turned to find Beverly Walters sharing the john with him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

She reached behind her and turned the lock. “Same as you; grieving for Vanessa.”

“I mean in this toilet.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“We can’t talk; you’re a witness against my client. Surely you must understand that.”

“Of course; that’s why we’re talking in here.”

“We’re not talking at all,” Stone said. “There are two police officers here, and they work for the same department that’s investigating Vance’s murder. They would certainly report it if they saw us talking.” He started around her, but she took hold of his lapels and stopped him.

“Listen to me,” she said.

“I can’t listen to you,” he replied, trying to free himself.

She clung to him. “I’m going to testify against Arrington,” she said.

“I believe I’m aware of that,” Stone replied, taking hold of her wrists and trying to disengage.

“But you don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“I’ve already heard you testify once.”

“But you didn’t hear everything. I saw Vance murdered.”

“Ms. Walters, please let me out of here.”

“I can put Arrington in prison, don’t you understand?”

“You can try,” Stone said, “but I expect to have something to say about that, and so does Marc Blumberg. You’re not going to get a free ride on the stand.”

“I want you to tell Arrington that I’m sorry. That I’m fond of her. That I don’t want to do it.”

“Don’t want to do it?” Stone asked, growing angry. “Then why did you talk to the police?”

“I felt I had to.”

“Well, you’re an admirable citizen, Ms. Walters, but now I want you to get out of my way.”

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll leave.” She turned, unlocked the door, opened it, and closed it behind her.

Stone locked the door. What the hell was wrong with the woman? He used the john, taking his time, then washed his hands and opened the door slowly. He peeked down the hall, saw no one, then left and went back to where Marc Blumberg was still standing.

“That took a long time,” Marc said. “You all right?”

“I’m extremely pissed off,” Stone said. He told Marc what had happened.

“Maybe she’s crazy,” Marc said. “Maybe that’s our approach to questioning her. I’ll put somebody on her and see if we can come up with some other erratic behavior.”

“She said she saw Vance murdered, and she’s going to testify to that.”

“Well, at least we know what she’s going to say on the stand.”

There was a clinking of a knife on glass, and they turned toward the sound. Charlene was standing on the steps to the foyer; they made a little stage. She asked for everyone’s attention, then a series of people came up and said a few words about Vanessa. They kept it light, but the crowd looked somber.

Finally, Charlene looked at Beverly Walters. “Beverly, I’m sure you’d like to say something; you and Vanessa were so close.”

Walters looked down and shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Of course,” Charlene said. “We all know how you feel. Everybody, please stay as long as you like. There’ll be a light supper in a few minutes.” She stepped down and made her way across the room toward Stone and Marc Blumberg.

“You handled that gracefully,” Stone said.

“It’s about all I can do for Vanessa,” Charlene replied.

Marc spoke up. “Is Beverly Walters usually so reticent?”

Charlene snorted. “Beverly would normally not miss a chance to be the center of attention.”

Marc nodded at the two police officers across the room. “I think she’s getting quite a lot of attention,” he said.

Stone looked at the two men, who had eyes for no one except Beverly Walters.

Fifty

STONE AND CHARLENE SAT ON THE PATIO OVERLOOKING the sea. The guests had all gone, and they were having a cold supper.

“Tell me everything you know about Beverly Walters,” he said.

“Haven’t I already?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I’d like to hear what you know about her.”

Charlene took a deep breath, swelling her lovely breasts. “Well, she came out here as an actress. She’d had a nice part on Broadway, and somebody at Centurion saw her and brought her out to test her. She had a few small parts, but she didn’t seem to be going anywhere, then she met Gordon, her husband, on a picture, and pretty soon they were married.”

“Did she screw around after she was married?”

“Sugar, you have to remember where you are. It would have been a lot more noteworthy if she hadn’t screwed around, and nobody took note of that.”

“Did she ever sleep with Vance?”

“If she did she never talked about it, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Quite apart from Vance’s talents as a lover, lots of women would have slept with him just to be able to say they did. Beverly would have been one of those.”

“But she never said she did?”

“Not to me, and I suppose, not to any woman I know, because I would have heard about it within minutes.”

“Lots of people knew Vance slept around?”

“They did before he got married, but after that, he became a lot more discreet.”

“He didn’t stop sleeping around, he just became more discreet about it?”

“That’s about right. As part of being more discreet, he might have slept with fewer women. I never discussed it with him.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but when you and Vance were sleeping together, it was after he was married?”

“Sure, you mean to pry, but I don’t mind. Yes, it was afterward.”

“Where did you meet?”

“My RV or his.”

“Ever at his bungalow?”

“Once or twice, late, after Betty had gone for the day.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted Betty to know?”

“I guess not. Word was, they once had a thing going. Maybe he thought she might be jealous.”

Stone picked at his salmon and sipped his wine.

“What are you thinking, Stone?”

“Sorry, I was just letting my mind wander. Sometimes that helps me sort things out.”

“Have you sorted something out?”

“No.”

Charlene laughed.

“Beverly did something strange tonight.”

“What did she do?”

Stone told her about the incident in the powder room.

“She was probably hoping you’d ravish her on the spot.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

Charlene shrugged. “Did you talk to Dr. Lansing Drake at all?”

“No,” Stone replied.

“He seemed to get a little skittish when I mentioned you.”

“He behaved oddly at dinner last night, too. Why might he feel uncomfortable around me?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Tell me about Dr. Drake.”

“He’s the doctor of choice in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air,” Charlene said.

“Why?”

“He’s pretty easygoing; if somebody wants a Valium prescription, he’s not going to give them a hard time about it. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, too. I’ll bet he’s cured more cases of the clap and gotten more people secretly into rehab than any doctor in town.”

“Is he a decent doctor?”

“There are jokes about that, but I’ve never heard anybody say he really screwed up on something. I mean, he hasn’t killed anybody that I know of. I think his principal talent is that he knows when to refer somebody to a specialist. That’s his motto: When in doubt, refer. He can’t get into too much trouble that way.”

“I gather he’s pretty social.”

“Oh, he doesn’t miss too many parties. He’s not on everybody’s A list, but he probably makes most B-plus lists. I think that’s where he gets most of his business. People sidle up to him at a party and ask him about a rash, or something, and the next thing you know they’re his patients. He’s very charming.”

“Did Vance go to him?”

“Oh, Vance thought he was Albert fucking Schweitzer. I’ve heard him talk about Lansing in the most glowing terms.”

“So Vance trusted him.”

“Implicitly.”

“Is he your doctor?”

“For anything up to and including a skinned knee. I’ve got a gynecologist who gets most of my business. I’m a healthy girl; I’ve never really been sick with anything worse than the flu.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m feeling particularly healthy tonight. You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?”

“I’m happy where I am,” he replied.

She stood up, took him by the hand, and led him into the house and toward her bedroom. Once there, she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor.

“Promise you won’t ruin my health,” he said.

“Sugar,” she replied, working on his buttons, “I’m not making any such promise.”

“Be gentle,” he said.

“Maybe,” she replied, leading him toward the bed, and not by the hand.

Fifty-one

STONE MADE IT BACK TO THE CENTURION BUNGALOW, tired but happy, around ten A.M. Louise was at her desk, and she handed him a message from Brandy Garcia.

“He works from an answering machine,” Stone said to the secretary. “Call and leave a message that he can reach me now.”

“Dino Bacchetti called, too. He said you have the number.”

“Right, I’ll call him.” Stone shaved and changed into fresh clothes, then went into the study. He was about to call Dino when Louise buzzed him.

“Brandy Garcia on line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Hello?”

Garcia wasted no time on pleasantries. “I thought you should know that our mutual acquaintance from Tijuana is back in town.”

“What?”

“Apparently, his sister—the one he lived with when he was here—is sick, and he’s taking care of her kids.”

“I thought you told him to lose himself.”

“I did, my friend, but I can’t follow him all over Mexico to make sure he stays down there.”

“Do you have a number for his sister’s house?”

“Got a pencil?”

“Shoot.” Stone jotted down the number. “Call him and tell him to keep his head down.”

“Will do, Chief.” Garcia hung up.

Stone sighed. It was bad enough that Beverly Walters was going to testify, but if Cordova appeared in court, he might lend credence to her story. He called Marc Blumberg.

“Morning, Stone. Where’d you sleep last night?”

“None of your business,” Stone replied.

Blumberg laughed. “You seemed to be hanging back when everybody else was leaving.”

“We had dinner, and that’s all you need to know.”

“Okay, okay, what’s up?”

“Our friend Cordova has turned up in L.A. again.”

“That’s bad,” Blumberg replied. “I filed a motion to dismiss this morning. I hope we can get a hearing scheduled before the police find him.”

“The one thing we’ve got going for us is that the police aren’t looking for Cordova, although he doesn’t know that.”

“Do you know where to find him?”

“Yes. I can get a message to him if the police suddenly get interested.”

“You want to prep Arrington, or shall I?”

“You’d better do it; she’s not speaking to me at the moment.”

“Oh? What went wrong?”

“It’s too complicated to go into. Let’s just say that she got angry about something she didn’t have a good reason to be angry about.”

“Stone, you are the only man I know whose relations with women are more complicated than mine.”

“That’s not how I planned it, believe me. Will you call Arrington?”

“Okay, whatever you say.”

“How are you planning to handle Beverly Walters?”

“I’m planning to shred her on the stand.”

“She may have been sleeping with Vance; I’m still working on finding out.”

“Even if she wasn’t, I think I’ll ask her anyway. Several times, maybe. Anything we can do to damage her credibility puts us one step closer to getting Arrington out of this.”

“I think you’re right. Let me make another call to see if I can find out more.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“See you later.” Stone hung up and buzzed Louise. “What time is it in Hawaii?” he asked.

“Three or four hours earlier than here, I think.”

“You’ve got Betty Southard’s hotel number, haven’t you?”

“She’s moved to a rented cottage, and I have the number.”

“Go ahead and get her on the phone, and let’s hope she’s an early riser.”

“I’ll buzz you.”

Stone sat thinking about Beverly Walters and Felipe Cordova and what they could mean to the charges against Arrington. The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Betty?”

“Aloha, stranger,” she said.

“Hope I didn’t get you up.”

“You know I’m an early riser,” she said. “Wish you were here to get my heart started in the morning.”

“A pleasant thought, but I’m still needed here. You enjoying yourself?”

“So much that I’m thinking of making a permanent move here. Will you come see me?”

“When you least expect it.”

“Why’d you call? Surely not just to wake me up.”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Beverly Walters. Did she and Vance ever have a thing?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because she’s the key prosecution witness against Arrington, and I need to know as much as possible about her.”

“Vance didn’t keep much from me, but he never mentioned Beverly in those terms. Anyway, he was pretty tight with her husband, Gordon.”

“If he was sleeping with her, where do you think it might have happened?”

“In his RV, more than likely, but just about any place that was convenient.”

“Did he ever bring her to the bungalow?”

“Not when I was around, but he didn’t do that with his women, except maybe after hours. A few mornings there were signs in the bungalow that someone had been there.”

“When was the last time you can remember?”

“No more than a day or two before he was shot.”

“Did you ever find anything in the bungalow belonging to a woman?”

“Once or twice—a lipstick or a scarf. When I did, I just left it on Vance’s desk and said nothing about it.”

“Anything that you could identify as belonging to Walters?”

“Come to think of it, the lipstick I found was one I’ve seen her wear, but I suppose that’s a pretty tenuous connection, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Nothing else?”

“Nothing I can think of. I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. It could be important.”

“How’s Arrington bearing up?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. She’s not communicating with me at the moment.”

“Uh-oh; I don’t want to know about that.”

“Good, because I’m not going to tell you about it. What do you have planned for the day?”

“The beach, of course. Can’t you hear the surf over the phone?”

“You know, I think I can.”

“That’s all you need to know about my day.”

“You take care, then.”

“Bye-bye.”

Stone hung up. That had been a disappointment. He called Dino.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. How’s it going?”

“I’m having a lovely time sitting around the pool, while Mary Ann and Arrington talk and giggle.”

“Any thaw there?”

“A little, maybe; I’ll have to pump Mary Ann. My guess is, though, if you want her to talk to you, you’re going to have to make the first move.”

“What did I do?”

“Nothing, nothing, just got married. That seems to have disappointed her.”

“But . . .”

“Listen, Stone, you don’t have to convince me. She’s behaved badly and won’t admit it. I’m just saying that you’re going to have to make the first move, whether it’s logical or not. It’s how women work.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I shouldn’t have to. What’s up with you? Anything happening?”

“Marc Blumberg has filed for a motion to dismiss the charges against Arrington, so he’ll probably turn up over there pretty soon to prep her for her testimony.”

“What are the chances of shutting this thing down early?”

“In my view? Two: slim and very slim.”

“I guess you’ve got to make the effort.”

“You bet. I don’t want to hang around L.A. for another six months waiting for this to come to trial. I’m getting homesick for a little New York grit in my teeth, you know?”

“Yeah? Funny, I’m getting to like it here. Think the LAPD could use another detective?”

“You wouldn’t last a month out here, Dino. It’s all too easy; you’re a New Yorker; you like things tough.”

“Call Arrington and make nice, then maybe we can all have dinner together.”

“Without Dolce?”

“Without Mrs. Barrington.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Call her.”

“Okay; see you later.” Stone hung up and stared at the phone. He might as well get it over with.

Fifty-two

MANOLO ANSWERED THE PHONE. “GOOD MORNING, Manolo,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. May I speak with Mrs. Calder?”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington; it’s good to hear from you. I’ll see if she’s in.”

She’d damned well better be in, Stone thought. Next time she decamps I’ll let her wait out the trial in jail. “Thank you.”

She kept him waiting for a long time. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Yes?” she said finally, coldly.

“Good morning.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You can be civil, for a start.”

“I’m listening; what do you want?”

“I invited Dino and Mary Ann out here as much for me as for you. I’d like to see them. Shall we try dinner again?”

“Oh, I do hope Mrs. Barrington can make it.”

“I hope not. And she’s Mrs. Barrington only in her own mind, nowhere else.”

“How did that happen, Stone? Did you get drunk and wake up married?”

“I could ask you the same question, but I think we should do our best to put our respective marriages behind us and get on with our lives.”

Long silence. “You have a point,” she admitted finally.

“If it makes any difference, I was on the rebound,” he said.

There was another silence while she thought about that. “Come for dinner at seven,” she said, then hung up.

Stone chose his clothes carefully—a tan tropical wool suit, brown alligator loafers, and a pale yellow silk shirt, open at the collar, as a concession to L.A. Arrington had always responded to well-dressed men, and he wanted very much for her to respond. He entered through the front gate, the TV crew having departed for more sordid pastures, and parked in front of the house.

Manolo greeted him, beaming. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “It’s good to see you back here.” There was relief in his voice, as if he’d feared that Stone might never be allowed in the house again.

“Good evening, Manolo,” Stone said.

“They’re having drinks out by the pool; shall I pour you a Wild Turkey?”

“I feel like something breezier,” Stone said. “How about a vodka gimlet, straight up?”

“Of course.”

Stone followed Manolo down the broad central hallway, past the spot where Vance Calder had bled out his life on the tiles, and emerged into the garden, past the spot where Felipe Cordova had left his big shoeprint. Where had Beverly Walters stood? he wondered.

Dino waved from a seat near the pool bar, where he, Mary Ann, and Arrington sat in thickly cushioned bamboo chairs around a coffee table. He gave Dino a wave and pecked the two women on the cheek as if there had never been a scene at their last meeting. Manolo went behind the bar and expertly mixed Stone’s drink, then brought it to him in a frosty glass on a silver tray.

“Thank you, Manolo,” he said.

“That looks good,” Arrington said. She pulled his hand toward her and sipped from his drink. “Oh, a vodka gimlet. Let’s all have one, Manolo.” Manolo went back to work while, at the other end of the pool, Isabel set a table for dinner.

“I thought we’d dine outside,” Arrington said. “Such a perfect California evening.”

“It certainly is,” Stone agreed. This was going well, and he was relieved.

“You know, before I married Vance I had always hated L.A., but evenings like this changed my mind. I mean, there’s smog and traffic, and everybody talks about nothing but the business, but on evenings like this, you could almost forgive them.”

“I think Dino has caught the L.A. bug, too,” Stone said, smiling. “He was inquiring only today whether the LAPD would have him.”

“What?” Mary Ann said. “Dino live out here? He wouldn’t last a month.”

“My very words to him.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to cop for a living,” Dino said. “Maybe I’d become an actor. I could do all those parts Joe Pesci does, and better, too.”

“You know, Dino, I believe you could,” Arrington laughed. “Want me to call Lou Regenstein at Centurion and get you a screen test?”

“Nah, I don’t test, and I don’t audition,” Dino said, waving a hand. “My agent would never let me do that . . . if I had an agent.”

“That’s it, Dino,” Arrington said. “Play hard to get. Movie people want most the things they can’t have. Your price would double.”

Then, it seemed to Stone, the clock began to run backward, and they all became the people they had been before all this had happened. They were old friends, easy together, enjoying the evening and each other. The gimlets seemed to help, too. Soon they were laughing loudly at small jokes. Then Manolo called them to dinner.

No soup this time, Stone reflected; nothing to be dumped in his lap, and no Dolce to screw up their evening. They began with seared foie gras, crisp on the outside, melting inside, with a cold Château Coutet, a sweet, white Bordeaux. That was followed by a thick, perfect veal chop and a bottle of Beringer Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. Dessert was an orange crème brûlée and more of the Coutet.

Coffee was served in Vance’s study, before a fire, as the desert night had become chilly. The women excused themselves, and Stone and Dino declined Manolo’s offer of Vance’s cigars.

“Looks like the bloom is back on the rose,” Dino said.

“The atmosphere is certainly warmer,” Stone agreed.

“Arrington and Mary Ann spent the afternoon talking about you, I think. Mary Ann probably told her how lost you were without her, and how when Dolce came along, you were ripe for the picking.”

“That’s embarrassingly close to the truth,” Stone said. “Have you heard anything from Dolce?”

“She and Mary Ann had breakfast together at the Bel-Air this morning.”

“Is that where she’s staying?”

“She’s been cagey about where she’s staying. I don’t like it, frankly; I don’t think this is over.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you carrying?”

“No, and I don’t know why I asked you to bring a weapon out here. A moment of paranoia, I guess.”

“If Dolce is mad at you, it’s not paranoid to go armed. If I were you, I wouldn’t leave home without it.”

“I’d feel a fool, wearing a gun these days,” Stone said. “It took some getting used to when I was on the force, but now . . . well, it just seems, I don’t know, belligerent.”

“You’ve never liked guns, have you?”

“No, I guess not. I mean, I admire a well-made tool, and I guess that’s what a gun is. Some of them are beautiful things, like the Walther, but I never liked the Glocks; they’re ugly.”

The women came back, and Manolo poured their coffee.

“Did Marc Blumberg see you today?” Stone asked Arrington.

“He came in time for lunch, and by the time he left, I was ‘prepped,’ as he put it. Sounds as though someone had shaved my pubic hair and painted my belly orange.”

Dino made a face. “Such imagery! Only a woman could put it that way.”

“Men are such babies,” Mary Ann said. “So easily shocked. Dino, you couldn’t make it as a woman for a single day.”

“And I wouldn’t want to try,” Dino said.

They chatted for another hour, then Stone rose and announced his departure. Dino was stifling yawns by this time, too, and he and Mary Ann departed for the guesthouse.

Arrington walked Stone to the door. “I’m sorry about my behavior last time,” she said. “I realize now that it wasn’t your fault, that you were the victim.”

“Hardly that,” Stone said. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said at the door, resting her head on his shoulder. “You never do.”

Stone put a finger under her chin, raised her head, and kissed her lightly. “I’m glad you and I are all right again.”

“So am I.”

“If it’s any help, I’m already working on an Italian divorce.”

“Any kind will do.”

“I’d better go.”

“Good night, sweet prince.”

“And angels sing me to my rest? Not just yet, I hope.”

He walked toward the car, then he stopped and turned. She was still standing in the doorway. “Arrington?”

“Yes?”

“I seem to recall that you never wore terrycloth robes.”

“What a good memory you have. I always liked plain cotton or silk. What an odd thing to remember.”

“Oh, I remember a lot more,” he said, as he waved good night and got into the car.

All the way back to Centurion he thought about what she used to wear.

Fifty-three

THE FOLLOWING MORNING MARC BLUMBERG CALLED and asked Stone to come to his office to discuss the motion to dismiss. Stone left Centurion and on his way passed the spot where he’d had the flat tire, reminding him that he had left the damaged tire at a service station for repair. He stopped to pick it up, and as he opened the trunk he saw Felipe Cordova’s Nikes. He’d completely forgotten about them.

He arrived at Blumberg’s office and was shown in and given coffee, while Marc finished a meeting in his conference room. Shortly, the lawyer came into his office and sat down at his desk.

“So,” said Stone, “what’s your plan? Who are we going to call?”

“Nobody,” Marc replied. “That’s my plan.”

“Come again?”

“My plan is to cross-examine the prosecution’s witnesses to within an inch of their lives. After all, it’s they who have to make a case, not we.”

“You don’t think we ought to try?” Stone asked doubtfully.

“Let me ask you something, Stone: Can we prove Arrington didn’t shoot Vance?”

“Maybe not.”

“If we could prove she didn’t do it, we’d be home free, but we can’t. So we’re going to have to cast so much doubt on the prosecution’s case that the judge will throw it out.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Stone asked.

“I know Beverly Walters better than you,” Marc replied.

“How well, Marc?”

“Well enough, trust me.”

“All right, I’ll trust you.”

“Have you got any other ideas about how we might proceed?”

Stone took a deep breath. “I think we ought to call Felipe Cordova.”

“I thought he was lost in darkest Mexico.”

“He was, but he’s back in L.A. Brandy Garcia gave me a heads up.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that the prosecution would call Cordova, if they knew what we knew about his actions that night?”

“No.”

“Stone, we’re going to have Beverly Walters on the stand saying she saw Arrington shoot Vance, while Arrington doesn’t remember what she did or didn’t do. Cordova is just going to back up Beverly’s story, isn’t he?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said.

“And why not?”

“A couple of reasons. First, Vanessa Pike told me she drove Beverly to the Calder house, and that Beverly saw what happened from the rear of the house, at the doors to the pool.”

“Wait a minute. What Vanessa told you was that she drove somebody to Vance’s; she didn’t say who.”

“But we know it was Beverly.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because Charlene Joiner says that the two of them left her house together that evening, after a day lying around the pool.”

“At what time?”

“At just about the time it would have taken for them to drive to the Calder house and arrive at the time Vance was being shot.”

“Will Charlene testify to that?”

“Yes, to that and more.”

“What else?”

“She’ll testify that Beverly was wearing a terrycloth robe over a bathing suit when she left her house.”

“So?”

“Cordova says he saw a woman next to Vance’s body, and she was wearing a terrycloth robe.”

“Did he see her face?”

“No.”

“Then it could have been Arrington.”

“Arrington doesn’t wear terrycloth robes. She likes plain cotton or silk.”

“Can we prove that?”

“We can call her maid, who would know her wardrobe intimately, and who got her out of the tub and into a robe.”

“I like it,” Blumberg said. “But how are we going to put Beverly in the house?”

“I think she’ll admit being outside, and it’s a short step from the back door into the hallway where Vance died. And there’s this, Marc: I’d be willing to bet that Cordova is not mentioned in Beverly’s story, because she didn’t see him.”

“Yeah, but can Cordova prove he was there?”

“The police can; they’ve got a photograph of his shoeprint.”

“But you have the shoe.”

“Yes, it’s in the trunk of my car. I bought the shoes from Cordova in Mexico.”

“Nikes, weren’t they?”

“Right.”

“There are millions of pairs of Nikes out there.”

“There aren’t millions of size twelves, and remember, Cordova’s have a cut across the heel of the sole that shows up in the photograph.”

“You know, Stone, I think we’re awfully close to being able to prove that Arrington didn’t kill Vance.”

“Close but not quite there. Cordova didn’t see Beverly shoot him.”

“And we don’t have a motive.”

“Or the weapon.”

“Shit!” Blumberg said. “What could her motive be?”

“I think they were sleeping together. It could be that he told her to get lost, and she reacted badly.”

“Could be, but how do we prove that?”

“I wish Vanessa were still alive; she could probably tell us.”

“I’d give a million bucks for that gun with her prints on it.”

“So would I,” Stone agreed, “but it doesn’t look as though we’re ever going to find it.”

“I’d give a lot for a witness who could put Beverly in the sack with Vance, too.”

“Oddly enough, Beverly is known among her friends as a blabbermouth, but apparently, she never blabbed about a relationship with Vance.”

“Except maybe to Vanessa.”

“Maybe, but we’ll never know.”

Marc suddenly stood up. “Jesus,” he said, “I just thought of something. Vanessa kept a diary.”

“How do you know that?”

“She kept it in her handbag, and she’d write in it at odd moments. I tried to read it once, but it was one of those things like high school girls have, with a tiny lock on it.”

“I know the kind you mean,” Stone said.

Marc sat down again. “But it must have been in the house with her; it would have burned.”

“I think I can find out about that,” Stone said.

“How? From the investigating officer?”

“I have a friend in the department.”

“Use my phone,” Marc said, pointing across the room to a phone on a coffee table.

Stone went to the phone and dialed Rick Grant’s direct line.

“Captain Grant.”

“Rick, it’s Stone Barrington. Can we meet somewhere?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stone.”

“Why not?”

“You’re defending Arrington Calder, and, I have to tell you, the investigators on the Vanessa Pike case are looking at you funny.”

“All right, then will you do this for me? Call those officers and ask them if they found Vanessa’s diary in their search of the premises after the fire.”

“Why?”

“Because, if it still exists, it may have some information about Vance Calder’s murder.”

“If that’s true, then it would have to go to Durkee and his partner, too.”

“All I want is a copy. We could subpoena it, if we have to.”

“All right, I’ll check on it and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Rick.” He hung up and turned back to Marc. “If we hit paydirt in the diary, then we can demand that the cops get a search warrant for Beverly’s house. Maybe the gun is there.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Blumberg said.

Stone stood up suddenly.

“Where are you going?”

“To Vanessa’s house. I don’t think I feel comfortable with the cops seeing that diary before we do.”

“Let me know what you find.”

Stone headed for the door.

Fifty-four

STONE DROVE SLOWLY UP VANESSA’S STREET AND DOWN again, making sure that nobody from the police or fire departments was at the site. Satisfied, he parked across the street and got out of the car.

The house was a sad shell, with most of the roof gone and with large gaps in the walls. He ducked under the yellow police tape and stepped through one of the gaps into what had been the living room. The acrid smell of burned dwelling filled his nostrils, and with a shudder, he thought he detected a faint whiff of seared meat. A few charred sticks of what had been furniture remained in the room and the remains of the sofa were recognizable. He recalled that he and Vanessa had sat there, sipping their drinks and talking, no more than an hour before she had died.

He walked on a runner of plastic sheeting that had been placed there like a sidewalk by the fire department investigators, to avoid disturbing evidence. As he moved through the rooms he noticed that the ash around him had a smooth surface, and telltale marks showed that the debris had been raked, in search of evidence. If anything were left of Vanessa’s diary, which he doubted, then the investigators would surely have found it. His trip here had been for naught. Her purse and the diary had probably been in the kitchen, and there was no longer a kitchen.

Then he turned and saw something he hadn’t seen before: the garage. He hadn’t seen it, because on his last visit, the house had been in the way, but now he could look through a giant, charred hole and see the little building. It seemed older than the house, or maybe it had just not been updated over the years, the way the house had been. It looked like something out of the twenties, a meager, clapboard structure with two doors, the old-fashioned kind that featured a brass handle in the middle of the door. One turned the handle, lifted, and the door rose. Surely electric openers would have been added by this time.

He tried the doors. The first didn’t move, but the second operated as it had been designed to. It took some effort, but he got the door halfway open and stepped under it. He tried a light switch on the wall, but nothing happened. The power had either been interrupted by the fire or turned off by the fire department.

A single car, a Mazda Miata, was in the garage. It was red, small, and cute, and he reflected that Vanessa would have looked good in it, her hair blowing in the wind. The top was up, and he tried the passenger door: locked. He walked around the car and tried the driver’s door, with success. He found the trunk release and popped the lid. There was a spare, flat, and the jack, and an old pair of sneakers—nothing else.

He went back to the driver’s door and tried to sit in the seat, but found himself jammed, until he could locate the release and move the seat backward. The courtesy lights illuminated the interior, and he looked around.

Women made a terrible mess of cars, he thought. The most fastidious woman seemed unable to avoid the buildup of used Kleenex, fast-food wrappers, and old paper cups in her automobile. He checked the tiny glove compartment, which held only a couple of parking tickets and a lipstick tube. There were some road maps in a door pocket, and nothing behind the sun visors. He got out of the car, and as he did, moved the driver’s seat forward and checked behind it. Nothing there. He reached across and felt behind the passenger seat, and he came in contact with something made of canvas.

He reached over, unlocked the passenger door from the inside, then walked around the car and opened the door. He moved the seat forward and extracted a beat-up canvas carryall bearing the logo of a bookstore chain. He set it on top of the car and checked its contents. Inside was a thick book on interior design, a wrinkled bikini, a bottle of suntan lotion, and a leather-covered book with a binding flap that ended in a brass tip secured by a tiny lock. Stamped on the front of the book, in gilded letters, was “My Diary.” If the cops had thought to search the car, they had done a lousy job, Stone thought. He tried opening it, but the lock held.

He put the carryall back where he had found it, closed the car doors, returned the garage door to its original position, and walked back to his car. He was tempted to try to open the diary here, but he decided it might be best to do it elsewhere. He drove back to Marc Blumberg’s building.

He walked into Marc’s office, smiling, holding up the leather diary.

Marc took it and turned it over in his hands. “It’s not burned at all,” he said.

“It wasn’t in the house,” Stone replied. “I found it in her car, in the garage.”

“Can you pick a lock, or shall I pry it open?” Marc asked.

“Hang on a minute; what’s our legal position? I took this from her car with nobody’s permission. Given that, do we want to break into it?”

“We can open it with the permission of her executor,” Marc said.

“Do you know who he is?”

Marc grinned. “You’re looking at him. Here’s a paper clip.”

Stone straightened the wire and began probing the lock. It was simple; one turn and it was open. He set the diary on Marc’s desk and began flipping pages, while the two of them bent over it.

“Funny, I don’t recognize any names,” Marc said. “We knew a lot of the same people.”

“Maybe she’s giving people code names; if somebody got into the diary, it might save embarrassment.”

“Let’s start at the end and work backward,” Marc said. They began reading; Vanessa had written in a small, but very legible, hand.

“Look, in the last entry she says she’s going to Palm Springs to ‘Herbert’s’ house. I wonder why she called me Herbert?”

“I guess you just look like a Herbert, Marc.”

“Yeah.” He flipped back farther in the book. “There’s mention here of a Hilda, quite often. Think that could be Beverly?”

“We need a context to figure this out,” Stone said, turning pages. “Here, the pages are dated; this is the day Vance was shot. There’s mention of Hilda, Magda, and Jake.”

“Jake was Vance’s character in one of his recent movies,” Marc said. “Fear Everything, I think.”

“She mentions lunch around the pool at Magda’s. That must be Charlene Joiner. Here we go!” He began reading aloud. “‘When we left Magda’s, Hilda insisted on going to Jake’s house, which I thought was nuts. She knew about this service entrance at the rear of the property. I wouldn’t get out of the car, but Hilda, bold as brass, walked to the house. Hilda has admitted screwing Jake, but, Jesus, I never thought she’d have the guts to go to his house. She must have been gone ten minutes, then there was a noise, and a minute later, she came running back, breathless, and told me to get the hell out of there. She wouldn’t say what happened but I’d be willing to bet that she ran into Mrs. Jake. God, that must have been embarrassing! She was still breathing hard when I dropped her off at her house. I’ve never seen her so discombobulated. I know I’ll eventually hear about this from somebody else, even though she won’t discuss it. Hilda can never keep her mouth shut for long—she’ll either brag about this, or try for sympathy. Jesus, I’m so glad I didn’t go with her!’”

“Well, that’s pretty clear,” Marc said, “but I’d feel a lot better if she had just said that she’d watched Beverly shoot Vance.”

“All we’ve really got here is what Vanessa told me.”

“Yeah, we’ve got to get Beverly to admit that she’s Hilda, or get corroboration from Charlene on the stand that they were at her house that day.”

Stone was flipping forward through the pages, looking at the dates after Vance’s murder. “Look at this,” he said. “‘Hilda keeps trying to tell me something, but she can’t get it out. She seems very guilty about something. Having seen the papers, it’s not hard to figure out that Jake was killed while we were at his house, but Hilda won’t tell me what she saw there. I keep thinking maybe I should go to the police. I’ve got to ask Herbert about this, but how am I going to do that without betraying Hilda’s confidence?’”

“I wish to God she had asked me,” Marc said. “Maybe I could have done something to prevent her death.”

“Wait a minute,” Stone said, “are you thinking that Beverly set the fire at Vanessa’s, because she knew too much?”

“It wouldn’t be the first murder that was committed to cover up another murder,” Marc said.

Stone sat down heavily, feeling enormously relieved.

“You look kind of funny, Stone,” Marc commented. “Was it something I said?”

“Yes, it was,” Stone replied. “I had never connected Beverly with Vanessa’s death, but what you’re saying makes perfectly good sense. I’m afraid that I thought someone else . . .” He stopped himself.

“That someone else murdered Vanessa?”

Stone nodded.

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say. If you’re right, then it doesn’t make any difference.”

“I guess not.” Marc picked up the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“The D.A. I want him to see this diary. If we’re lucky, maybe we won’t need the motion hearing.”

“Marc,” Stone said? “we don’t have anything we didn’t before. Beverly has obviously already told the D.A. that she was at Vance’s that night; otherwise, how else could she be a witness?”

“You’re right, but I have to turn this over to either the D.A. or the police, anyway, and it at least independently establishes that Beverly was there. She won’t know what’s in the diary, so maybe I can use it to rattle her at the hearing.”

“Call the D.A.,” Stone said.

Fifty-five

THE CAB CRAWLED UP THE STREET. FROM THE REAR seat Stone checked the house numbers, but most of them were missing, like a lot of other things in this neighborhood. Stone had taken a taxi, because he did not want to park a Mercedes SL600 on this block.

As it turned out, the house number was unnecessary, because Felipe Cordova was sitting on his sister’s front porch, drinking from a large beer bottle, while two small children played on the patchy front lawn.

“Wait for me,” Stone said to the driver.

“How long you going to be?” the driver asked. “I don’t like it around here.”

“A couple of minutes; I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay, mister, but hurry, okay?”

Stone got out of the cab, let himself through the chain-link front gate, and approached the house.

Cordova watched him come, curious at first, until he recognized Stone. “Hey, Mr. Lawyer,” he said, raising the quart in salute. “You back to see me again?”

Stone pulled up a rickety porch chair and sat down. “Yes, Felipe, and I’ve brought good news.”

“I always like good news,” Felipe replied happily.

“The police are no longer looking for you,” Stone said.

“Hey, that is good news.”

“But you and I have a little official business.”

Cordova’s eyes narrowed. “Official?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Stone said, taking the subpoena from his pocket and handing it to the man. “I just need you to testify in court.”

Cordova examined the document. “The day after tomorrow?”

“That’s right. Ten A.M.; the address is there.” He pointed.

“What’s this about?”

“I just want you to answer the same questions I asked you in Mexico. And I want the same answers.”

“How much do I get paid?”

“That’s the bad news, Felipe; I can’t pay a witness. That could get us both put in jail.”

Cordova frowned. “I’m going to have expenses, man.”

“You can send a bill for your expenses, your reasonable expenses, like cab fare and lunch, to this lawyer.” He handed Cordova Marc Blumberg’s card. “See that it doesn’t come to more than a hundred bucks.”

“Suppose I don’t want to testify?”

“Then the police will be looking for you, and if you leave the country, you won’t be able to come back. The border patrol will have you in their computer, and you don’t want that, do you?”

Cordova shook his head.

“Relax, Felipe; there’s nothing to this. When you get to the courthouse, you sit on a bench outside the courtroom until you’re called, and then you take the stand, swear the oath on the Bible, and you answer questions.”

“Just like on Perry Mason?”

“Just like that, except on Perry Mason, the witness is always the murderer. We know you’re not the murderer; we just want you to tell about the woman you saw in the house, the one in the terrycloth bathrobe.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Stone stood up. “Be sure you remember that word, Felipe: terrycloth. I’ll see you there at ten A.M. the day after tomorrow, and remember, that document means you have to testify or be arrested. You understand?”

Cordova nodded.

Stone patted him on the back and went back to his cab. “Okay,” he said, “back to Centurion Studios.” He took out his cell phone and called Marc Blumberg. “He’s been served.”

“You think he’ll show, or should I send somebody out there?”

“He’ll show.”

When Stone arrived at the studio bungalow, Dino and Mary Ann were waiting for him.

“So this was Vance’s cottage?” Mary Ann asked while being shown around.

“This was his office and dressing room,” Stone replied. “Of course, he had an RV that served as a dressing room, too. All the stars seem to have them.”

A young man pulled a golf cart to the front door and got out.

“Here’s your tour guide,” Stone said.

“Dino, don’t you want to go?”

“I’ve already seen enough; I’ll hang out with Stone,” Dino replied.

“Then we’ll get some dinner,” Stone said. The phone rang, and Louise answered it.

“Stone, it’s for you; the lady sounds upset.”

Stone went into the study and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Charlene,” she whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Somebody just took a shot at me.”

“Where are you?”

“At home. Somebody fired right through the sliding doors to the pool.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Call nine-one-one. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Hurry.”

Stone hung up the phone. “Come on,” he said to Dino. “I’ll explain on the way. Louise, when Mrs. Bacchetti gets back, tell her we’ll be back soon, all right?”

“Sure.”

Stone grabbed the Walther automatic and its shoulder holster from a desk drawer, then ran for the car with Dino right behind him.

“What’s this about?” Dino asked as they cleared the front gate and turned into the boulevard.

“You’re about to meet a movie star,” Stone said.

When they pulled up in front of the Malibu Colony house, there were no police cars in sight. Stone wondered about that, but he was relieved that there was no ambulance, either.

The front door was ajar, and Stone walked in cautiously, stopping to listen. He heard nothing. It was getting dark outside, and there were no lights on in the house. “Charlene?” he called out.

“Stone?” her voice came from somewhere at the back of the house.

Stone walked quickly down the hallway, followed by Dino. “In here,” Charlene’s voice said from somewhere to the right.

They turned into the sitting room of the master suite. Charlene was crouched behind the little bar, and she had a nine-millimeter automatic pistol in her hand. She rushed to Stone and threw an arm around him. She was naked. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, the gun at her side.

“This is my friend Dino Bacchetti,” Stone said.

“Nice to meet you,” Dino said, looking her up and down. He reached out and took the pistol from her, removed the clip, and ejected a cartridge from the chamber.

“Why don’t you get into some clothes?” Stone said.

She ran into the bedroom.

Stone looked around. The big glass door to the pool side patio had shattered, and glass was everywhere.

Charlene returned, tying the sash on a dressing gown and wearing shoes.

“Where are the police?” Stone asked. “Surely they’ve had time to get here.”

“I didn’t call the police,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I called you, instead.”

“Start at the beginning, and tell me what happened.”

“I was lying on the sofa there, reading a script, when I heard two shots. The glass door shattered, and I rolled off the sofa onto the floor and crawled over to the bar as fast as I could. My gun was in a drawer there.”

“Dino, will you take a look around out back?”

“Sure.”

“Wait a minute,” Charlene said. She went to a wall switch and turned on the lights around the pool. “That’ll help.”

Dino slapped the clip back into Charlene’s gun, worked the action, then went outside, the pistol hanging at his side.

“Do you think this was a serious attempt on your life?” Stone asked.

“Come here,” Charlene replied, leading him around the sofa and pointing.

Stone looked at the two neat holes halfway down the back cushion.

“My head was right under the holes,” Charlene said.

“You should have called the police immediately; they should be trying to find out who did this.”

“I know who did it,” Charlene said. “I saw her.”

Stone’s innards froze. “Her?”

“I believe these days she calls herself Mrs. Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stone said.

Fifty-six

STONE FOUND A PARING KNIFE BEHIND THE BAR AND cut into the sofa, just as Dino returned from the pool area.

“It’s clear out there,” he said. “The guy must have come up from the beach, since no traffic passed us on the way in here.” He looked at what Stone was doing. “Whatcha got there?”

“Two slugs,” Stone said, holding them up. “And it wasn’t a guy.”

Dino took the two lumps and looked closely at them. “Holy shit,” he said.

“What?”

“These are mine.” He held one up and pointed. “See? I made a mark there on each one, so if I ever got involved in a shootout, I’d know which slugs came from my weapon. These came from the thirty-two automatic I loaned you, Stone. How’d that happen?”

“It seems that Dolce took the gun from my house.”

Dino groaned. “Are the cops coming?”

“I didn’t call them,” Charlene said.

“Why not?” Stone asked. “I told you to call nine-one-one.”

“Two reasons: First, the tabloids would make my life hell if they found out that somebody shot up my house; second, I know who her father is.”

Stone nodded. “All right.”

“Also, once I had the Beretta in my hand, I figured I could handle her.”

“Yeah, I thought I could handle her, too,” Stone said. He turned to Dino. “Is Eduardo still in L.A.?”

Dino nodded. “At the Bel-Air.”

Stone turned back to Charlene. “You want to come with us? Maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said. “I’ll sleep at the studio in my RV; let me get some things.” She disappeared into the bedroom again.

Stone picked up the phone, dialed the Bel-Air, and asked for Eduardo.

“Yes?”

“Eduardo, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Good evening, Stone.”

“It’s important that I come and see you right away.”

“Of course; I’ll be here.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“I’ll order something.”

“Thank you.” He hung up as Charlene emerged from her bedroom, wearing jeans and a sweater and carrying a small duffel.

They drove into town, not talking much, Charlene wedged into the space behind the two front seats. Stone dropped Dino at the bungalow. “Tell Mary Ann I’m sorry I can’t have dinner, but don’t tell her what’s happened.”

“I’ll send her back to Arrington’s with the car,” Dino said. “I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to, Dino.”

“I’m coming.”

“I’ll be right back.” He drove Charlene to her RV and got her settled there. “Will you be all right here?”

“Sure, I will. The fridge is full; I’ll eat something and watch TV. Will you come back later?”

“Probably not,” Stone said. “I have to take care of this.”

“I understand.”

“And thanks for not calling the police.”

She gave him a little kiss. “Go safely.” She held up the Beretta. “You want this?”

“Thanks, I have my own.” He left her and drove back to the bungalow for Dino. Mary Ann was about to leave in Arrington’s station wagon, and Stone traded cars with her.

“Don’t hurt her, Stone,” Mary Ann said.

“I don’t intend to,” Stone replied.

Stone drove to the upper end of the Bel-Air Hotel complex and parked the station wagon. Followed by Dino, he found the upstairs suite and rang the bell. Eduardo, wearing a cashmere dressing gown, opened the door and ushered them in.

“Good evening, Stone, Dino,” he said.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Eduardo,” Stone replied.

“Not at all. Come and have an aperitif; dinner will be here soon.” He pointed at the bar in the living room. “Please help yourselves; I’ll have a Strega.” He picked up the phone and told room service there would be three for dinner, then he joined Stone and Dino.

Stone poured three Stregas and handed two of them to Eduardo and Dino. They raised their glasses and sipped.

“Come, sit,” Eduardo said, motioning them to a sofa. “Why have you come to see me?” he asked when they were settled.

“Eduardo,” Stone said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but about two hours ago, Dolce attempted to kill Charlene Joiner, the actress you met the other evening at the Regensteins’.”

Eduardo winced, and his hand went to his forehead. His face showed no incredulity, simply painful resignation. “How did this occur?”

“Dolce apparently drove out to Malibu, parked her car, and approached Charlene’s house from the beach. She fired two bullets through a sliding-glass door at Charlene, who was lying on a sofa, reading.”

“Was Miss Joiner harmed?”

“No, only frightened.”

“Do you think Dolce seriously tried to kill her?”

“I’m afraid I do, and she came very close.”

“Where would Dolce have gotten a gun out here?” Eduardo asked. He seemed to be thinking quickly.

“Apparently, she took it from my house in New York without my knowledge. The gun belonged to Dino; he had loaned it to me.”

“Does she still have the gun?”

Dino spoke up. “I saw no sign of it outside Miss Joiner’s house, so I assume she does.”

“Are the police involved?”

“No,” Stone replied. “Charlene called me, instead of the police, and she has no intention of involving them.”

“Thank God for that,” Eduardo said. “This would have been so much more difficult.”

“It’s difficult enough,” Stone said. “I feel responsible.”

Eduardo shook his head. “No, no, Stone; something like this has been coming for a long time. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else.”

“Why do you say that, Eduardo?” Dino asked. “Has she ever done anything like this before?”

Eduardo shrugged. “Since she was a little girl she always reacted violently if denied something she wanted.”

The doorbell rang, and Dino jumped up. “I’ll get it,” he said.

“Dolce is all right most of the time,” Eduardo said to Stone. “But she occasionally has these . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. “I had hoped that if she were happily married, she might be all right.” He stopped talking while the waiter set the dining table, then he motioned for his guests to take seats.

He poured them some wine and waited until they had begun to eat their pasta before continuing. “She’s seen a psychiatrist from time to time, but she always discontinued treatment after a few sessions. Her doctor advised me at one point to have her hospitalized for a while, but instead I took her to Sicily, and after some time there, she seemed better.”

“What can I do to help?” Stone asked.

“I’ll have to ask her doctor to recommend some place out here where she can be treated,” Eduardo replied.

“I believe I know a good place,” Stone said. He told Eduardo about the Judson Clinic and Arrington’s stay there. “Would you like me to call Dr. Judson?”

“I would be very grateful if you would do so,” Eduardo replied.

Stone left the table, called the clinic, and asked them to get in touch with Judson and have him telephone him at the Bel-Air. “I’m sure they’ll be able to find him,” he said when he had returned. “I was very impressed with Judson,” he told Eduardo.

“Good,” Eduardo said. “I’ll get in touch with her own doctor and ask him to come out here and consult.”

“I expect that, after treatment, she’ll be all right,” Stone said.

“I hope so,” Eduardo replied, but he did not sound hopeful.

The phone rang and Stone answered it. “Hello?”

“May I speak with Stone Barrington, please?”

“Speaking.”

“Stone, this is Jim Judson, returning your call.”

Stone briefly explained the circumstances. “Do you think you could admit her to your clinic? Her father will be in touch with her doctor in New York and ask him to come out here.”

“Of course,” Judson replied. “When can you bring her to the clinic?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “We have to find her.”

“Is she likely to be violent?”

“That’s a possibility, but I don’t really know.”

“I’ll have my people prepare, then. When you’re ready to bring her here, just call the main number. I’ll alert the front desk. If you need an ambulance or restraints, just let them know.”

“Thank you, Jim; I’ll be in touch.” Stone hung up and returned to the table. “Dr. Judson will admit her,” he said.

“But now we have to find her,” Dino said. “Where do we look?”

Eduardo sighed. “I know where she is,” he said sadly. “She’s at the home of some friends of mine who are out of the country. We’ll go there together.”

Stone shook his head. “Dino and I can do this, Eduardo. Dolce is already angry with me; let’s not make her angry with you, too.”

Eduardo nodded. He found a pad, wrote down the address, and handed it to Stone. “I know I don’t have to ask you to be gentle with her.”

“Of course, I will be.”

“But be careful,” Eduardo said. “Don’t allow her to endanger you or Dino.”

Stone nodded and shook Eduardo’s hand. “When this is done,” Eduardo said, “there’s something else I must talk with you about. Please call me.”

“I’ll call you as soon as we get Dolce to the clinic.” He and Dino left before dessert arrived.

Fifty-seven

WITH DINO NAVIGATING, STONE FOUND THE HOUSE. It was on Mulholland Drive, high above the city, a contemporary structure anchored to the mountainside by a cradle of steel beams. The front door was at street level, but the rear deck, Stone noticed, was high above the rocky hillside. The house was dark, but there was a sedan with a Hertz sticker on the bumper parked in the carport.

Stone parked on the roadside and headed for the front door, but Dino stopped him.

“Give me a couple of minutes to get around back,” he said.

“Dino, the back of the house is at least fifty feet off the ground.”

“Just give me a couple of minutes.”

Stone stood at the roadside and looked out at what was nearly an aerial view of Los Angeles—a carpet of lights arranged in a neat grid, disappearing into a distant bank of smog, with a new moon hanging overhead. The air seemed clearer up here, he thought, taking a deep breath of mountain air. How had it come to this? he wondered. What had started as a passionate affair and had ripened into something even better was now broken into many pieces, ruined by Dolce’s obsession with him and his own bond with Arrington. He didn’t know where this would all end, but nothing looked promising. He glanced at his watch, then started up the driveway to the house.

The house’s entry was dark, but as he approached, his feet crunching on gravel, he saw that the front door was ajar. He stopped and listened for a moment. Music was coming from somewhere in the interior of the house—a Mozart symphony, he thought, though he couldn’t place it. Some instinct told him not to ring the doorbell. He pushed the door open a little and stepped inside into a foyer. He could hear the music better now. It seemed to be coming from the living room, beyond. He moved forward. A little moon and starlight came through the sliding-glass doors to the deck, on the other side of the living room. He walked down a couple of steps. He could see the dim outlines of furniture. Then the silence was broken.

“I knew you’d come, Stone,” Dolce said.

Stone jumped and looked around, but he couldn’t find her. “Do you mind if we turn on a light?”

“I prefer the dark,” she said. “It’s better for what I have to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Dolce,” he said. “Just relax; let’s sit down and talk for a little while.”

“Talking’s over,” she said. “We’re way beyond talk, now.”

“No, we can always talk.”

The sound of two light pistol shots cracked the silence, and Stone dove for the floor, but not before the muzzle flash illuminated her, standing with her back to the fireplace, holding the pistol in both hands, combat-style.

“Stop it, Dolce!” he shouted. “Don’t make things worse.” He crawled behind a sofa, while wondering why his own gun was not in his hand.

She fired again, and he felt the thud against the sofa. “Things can always get worse,” she said. Then he heard a sharp thud, and something large made of glass shattered against the stone floor.

“Stone?” It was Dino’s voice. “Are you hit?”

“No,” Stone replied. “Can I stand up?”

“Yes. She’s out.”

Stone stood up, found a lamp at the end of the sofa and switched it on. Dino stood before the fireplace, a short-barreled .38 in his hand, looking down. Stone came around the sofa and saw Dolce crumpled on the floor among the shards of the glass coffee table. Dino was standing on the hand that held the .32 automatic. Stone went to her and gently turned her over. “What did you hit her with?” he asked.

“The edge of my hand, across the back of the neck. I’m sure I didn’t hurt her.” He picked up the .32, removed the clip, worked the action, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Stone picked up the ejected cartridge and handed it to Dino. “We’d better find the spent shells,” he said. “Otherwise, when the owners return home they’ll be calling the police.”

Dino rummaged around the broken glass and recovered the shell casings. “I’ve got three,” he said. “There was only one more, in the breech.”

Stone found a phone and called the clinic. “This is Stone Barrington,” he said to the woman who answered.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington, we’ve been expecting your call.”

“We’re on our way there.”

“Will you require any sort of restraints?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Best be ready, though.”

“We’ll expect you shortly. Do you know how to get into the garage?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be met there and brought up in the elevator.”

“Good.” Stone hung up, got his arms under Dolce, and picked her up. “Let’s get her to the car,” he said.

Dino closed the front door behind them, then got into the rear seat of the station wagon, helping Stone move Dolce’s unconscious form into the car, then Stone went around to the driver’s side.

“I hope to God we can get out of here before the cops show up,” Dino said. “Some neighbor must have heard the shots.”

Stone started the car and headed down Mulholland. “They’ll find an empty house,” he said.

“And a mess. Eduardo had better send somebody up there to clean up.”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

They got as far as Sunset Boulevard before Dolce began to come to.

“Easy, Dolce,” Stone said. “You just lie here and rest.”

“Stone?” she said.

“I’m here, Dolce,” he said from the front seat. “Just lie quietly. We’ll have you home soon.” He turned up Sunset and began making his way toward the Judson Clinic.

“Where’s home?” she asked dreamily.

It was a good question, Stone thought, and he didn’t have an answer.

There were two beefy men in orderlies’ uniforms waiting in the garage with a gurney. Stone stopped the car, got out, and helped Dino remove Dolce.

“Where are we?” she asked. Her hand went to the back of her neck. “I’ve got a headache.”

“We’ll get you something for that,” one of the orderlies said. “Why don’t you hop up here and we’ll get you upstairs and to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed,” she said, looking around the garage. “It’s early, and I’m a late person.”

“We won’t need the gurney,” Stone said. “Come on, Dolce, let’s go upstairs and get you something for your headache.” He reached for her arm, but she stiffened and tried to pull away.

Dino stepped up and helped hold her as they got her onto the elevator.

An orderly pressed a button. “We’ve got a room ready,” he said.

“What hotel is this?” Dolce asked.

“The Judson,” an orderly replied.

“Never heard of it. I want to go to the Bel-Air.”

“The Bel-Air is full,” Stone said.

“Never mind, Papa keeps a suite there; I want to go to the Bel-Air.”

“Eduardo said to take you here,” Stone said. “He’ll come and see you in the morning.”

The elevator stopped, and the party moved down the hallway, with Stone and Dino holding tightly onto Dolce. They got her into a room, where a nurse was waiting.

“Oh, no,” Dolce said, struggling. “I know this place. I’ve been to a place like this.”

The nurse came forward, a syringe in her hand.

Stone turned Dolce’s face toward him. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

She whirled, when she felt the needle in her arm, but Stone and Dino held her tightly.

“Oh, no,” Dolce said again. “I don’t want to . . .”

“Put her on the bed,” the nurse said to the two orderlies, and in a moment they had her stretched out. She turned to Stone and Dino. “She’ll be out in a minute, and she’ll sleep for twelve hours.”

Stone stood at the bedside and held her hand until her eyes had closed and she was breathing deeply.

A few minutes later Stone and Dino took the elevator back to the garage and got into the car.

“I don’t ever want to have to do that again,” Stone said.

“Then you’d better get a divorce,” Dino replied.

Fifty-eight

STONE LOOKED IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR; HE DID NOT much like himself this morning. Watching Dolce being sedated had shaken him badly, and later, explaining to Eduardo what had happened had not improved his state of mind. He had not slept much, and he was due at Marc Blumberg’s office to prepare for tomorrow’s hearing. He got into a hot shower and let the water run. The phone was buzzing when he got out.

It was Eduardo. “I saw her early this morning,” he said.

“How was she?”

“Still sleeping; I just sat and looked at her. Her own doctor will be here today.”

“Is there anything I can do, Eduardo?”

“Everything is being done that can be done. Later, if her doctor thinks you could be helpful, perhaps you could see her.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to take her to New York as soon as she is able to travel. Dr. Judson said he would consult with her doctor about that. If possible, I will take her home to Brooklyn and have her treated there.”

“Perhaps she would be happier there,” Stone said, not knowing what else to say.

“Stone, there is something else I must tell you about.”

“What is it, Eduardo?”

“When I was at your house in New York we talked about the blood tests you took when Arrington’s child was born.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The tests were conducted by a laboratory here, in Los Angeles, called Hemolab.”

“Yes.”

“I think you should know that tests conducted by this company have, in the past, been known to be . . . manipulated. I cannot go into any detail about this, and I cannot discuss my reasons. Suffice it to say that this information is not just my opinion, but more substantial.”

Again, Stone didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know if, in your case, the results were accurate or not, and I have no way of investigating. You might wish to have the tests repeated by another laboratory.”

“Thank you, Eduardo; I’ll give that some thought.” He would certainly do that.

“I must go now.”

“I’ll call you tonight to hear about Dolce.”

“Thank you; I’ll be in my suite all evening. Good-bye.”

Stone hung up and sat on the bed, rattled by what Eduardo had said. He looked at the bedside clock: nearly eight; he was due at Marc Blumberg’s office at nine to prepare for the hearing the following day. He shaved and dressed, then he called Dino.

“How you doing, pal?” Dino asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“What do you need?” Dino could always read him.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d do something for me.”

“Name it.”

“Wait until midafternoon, then call the office of a Dr. Lansing Drake, in Beverly Hills. Tell him Arrington recommended him, that you’re having abdominal pains, and that you’d like to see him late this afternoon. Then call me at Marc Blumberg’s office and tell me what time he’ll see you.”

“You want me to go and fake it with this doctor?”

“No, no; I just want you to make the appointment, so that if he calls back to confirm who you are, he won’t get me on the phone instead.”

“Okay, I can do that. Dinner tonight?”

“Sure, if I don’t have too much homework to do.”

“Talk to you this afternoon, then.”

“Bye.” Stone was about to leave when the phone buzzed again. “Yes, Louise?”

“Brandy Garcia is on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Yes, Brandy?”

“Stone, what’s going on with Felipe Cordova? He called me last night, and he was upset.”

“I subpoenaed him to testify at a hearing, that’s all. He’s at no risk by doing that.”

“Yeah, but yesterday afternoon, he got another subpoena for the same time and place, this one from the D.A. And they searched his house, too. He didn’t know what they were looking for.”

Stone thought about that for a moment. “Somebody’s got his wires crossed, that’s all. There’s nothing for him to worry about.”

“He doesn’t like this, Stone. I think he might bolt.”

“Brandy, there’s a thousand bucks in it for you if you can see that he shows up for that hearing.”

“What am I going to tell him?”

“Tell him nobody’s going to put him in jail; tell him anything you like, just have him there. Lead him by the hand.”

“Okay, I’ll do it for the grand. What are you going to give him?”

“I’ve already told him that I can’t pay him to testify.”

“I could give him a couple hundred, though?”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that; must be trouble on the line. Have him there, Brandy.”

“You got it.”

Stone sat in Marc Blumberg’s office.

“I don’t like this much,” Marc was saying.

“What’s the difference who he’s testifying for? We know what he’s going to say.”

“Do we?”

“I think so. It might be more effective to let the D.A. get his story into the record, then bring out our points on cross.”

“Okay, I buy that. Now, let’s get started.”

They worked through lunch, and at midafternoon, Dino called.

“Hi.”

“Hi. I’ve got an appointment.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can get there.”

“Thanks, Dino.”

“Dinner?”

“Meet me at the studio at seven.”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up and turned to Marc. “Are we about done? There’s somewhere I have to be.”

“Go ahead; I’ll see you at the courthouse tomorrow morning.”

Stone looked up Drake’s address in the phone book.

“My name is Bacchetti,” Stone said to the receptionist.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Bacchetti,” she replied. “Will you wait in examination room B, down the hall? And undress down to your shorts.”

Stone found the room, which contained an examination table, a sink, and a cabinet for supplies. He did not undress; he sat down in the only chair and waited. A couple of minutes later, Dr. Lansing Drake entered the room, preoccupied with a clipboard in his hand.

“Mr. Bacchetti,” he said, not looking up. “Just a moment, please.” He went to the sink, washed his hands, then turned around. “Now, what seems to be . . .” His jaw dropped.

“I’m Stone Barrington, Dr. Drake; we met recently at Lou Regenstein’s.”

“I don’t understand,” Drake said nervously, looking toward the exit.

Stone got up and leaned on the door. “I won’t keep you long, Doctor. My name will be familiar to you, because a while back, you submitted a sample of my blood, along with one from Vance Calder, to a company called Hemolab, for a paternity test.”

“I don’t recall,” the doctor replied.

“Oh, I think you do,” Stone said.

“Vance Calder was my patient,” Drake said. “I have to respect his confidence.”

“Vance is dead, Doctor, and now you have to deal with me. You can do it here, quietly, or you can do it in court. What’s it going to be?”

Drake sagged against the examination table. “If Arrington should learn of this conversation . . .”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. What I want to know, quite simply, is if the tests were run again by another laboratory, would the results be the same?”

Drake gazed out the window. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Do you deny altering the test results?”

Drake looked back at him. “I most certainly do.” He looked away again. “That is, I don’t know if the results were tampered with.”

“And why don’t you know?”

Drake sighed. “Vance came to me and said it was essential that the test prove that he was the father of the child. I conveyed that to someone at Hemolab.”

“So I’m the child’s father?”

“I said I don’t know. I simply made Vance’s wishes known. For all I know, he was the father. I suppose it could have gone either way, or there would have been no need for the test.”

“Yes,” Stone said, “it could have gone either way. I want to see the original test results.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible. At Vance’s request, once the report was issued, the blood samples and the records were destroyed. The lab never knew who he was; the two subjects were simply labeled A and B.”

“Then you knew when you saw the results.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t care, really. I wrote a letter saying that Vance was the father, that’s all. I don’t know if he was or not.”

“So, the test was just to have something to show Arrington?”

“I suppose. But if you ever tell her that, I’ll deny even speaking to you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Stone said. He left the office and went back to his car.

Dino looked across the dinner table at Stone. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course, I want to know; wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Dino replied. “Under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

Dino shrugged. “The present circumstances.”

Stone thought about that. Arrington might still go to prison. In that case, he’d want to raise the boy—if he was the father. But if she were freed, then what? He and Arrington and their son would live happily ever after? That is, if the boy was, indeed, his son and not Vance’s.

“If you’ve got to know, then here’s what you have to do,” Dino said. “You and Arrington and the boy have to go together to have blood drawn, two samples of both yours and the boy’s. She sends one set to a lab, and you send them to another. Then you compare results, and you’ll know.”

“Yes, I suppose we would.”

“But if the news of the test should get out, well, you’d have a tabloid shitstorm on your hands.”

“Yes, we would.”

“I think you need to do some more thinking.”

“I think you’re right.

Fifty-nine

MANOLO DROVE STONE, ARRINGTON, AND ISABEL TO the courthouse, while Dino and Mary Ann followed in the station wagon. This time, they could not avoid the press, since the hearing had been placed on the court calendar, which was public. Even the underground garage was covered by the TV cameras, and it took both Stone and Manolo to keep them from following the group into the elevator.

There was another gauntlet to run, between the elevator and the courtroom, but Stone was relieved to see Felipe Cordova sitting outside the courtroom, with Brandy Garcia at his side. Brandy winked at him as they passed. Stone told Isabel to wait to be called, then he took Arrington into the courtroom, where Marc Blumberg met them at the defense table. Dino and Mary Ann found seats. Stone set down his briefcase and a shopping bag he had been carrying.

“Okay, we’ve been over this,” Marc said to Arrington. “You’ll testify as before, unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Arrington asked.

“Unless you’ve regained your memory.”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything after that Friday night, until I woke up in the clinic.”

“Just checking,” Marc said.

The judge entered, and the bailiff called the court to order.

“I’m hearing a motion to dismiss this morning, I believe,” the judge said.

Marc Blumberg rose. “Yes, Your Honor. I would ask that the District Attorney’s office present its witnesses, followed by defense witnesses.”

The judge turned to the prosecution table. “Ms. Chu?”

The young woman rose. “The District Attorney calls Detective Sam Durkee.”

Durkee took the stand, and under questioning, established that the murder had taken place.

When it was Marc Blumberg’s turn, he rose. “Detective, you’ve testified that Mr. Calder was shot with a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.”

“Yes.”

“Did you find the weapon?”

“No.”

“Did you search the Calder house and grounds thoroughly?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Three, over two days.”

“And no weapon?”

“No.”

“Did you search any other house for the weapon?”

“Yes, we searched the home of Felipe Cordova, the Calders’ gardener.”

“Oh? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“I’m glad you got around to it. Did you find the weapon?”

“No.”

“Did you search the house or grounds of Beverly Walters?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s not a suspect.”

“I see. You say you searched the Calder house thoroughly. In your search, did you find a white terrycloth robe?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking for one.”

“When you arrived at the Calder house and first saw Mrs. Calder, what was she wearing?”

“A bathrobe, or a dressing gown, I guess you could call it.”

“What was it made of?”

“I’m not sure; some sort of smooth fabric.”

“Could it have been either cotton or silk?”

“Yes, I suppose it could have been.”

“Could it have been terrycloth?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“What color was it?”

“It was some sort of floral pattern, brightly colored.”

“No further questions.”

The D.A. called the medical examiner and elicited testimony on the autopsy results, then, “Your Honor, the District Attorney calls Beverly Walters.”

Beverly Walters appeared through a side door and was sworn. Chu began by taking her through her previous story of having heard Arrington threaten to kill her husband, then she continued. “Ms. Walters, where were you on the afternoon of the evening Vance Calder was murdered?”

“I was at the home of a friend, at a swimming party.”

“And after you left the party, where did you go?”

“I went to Vance Calder’s home.”

“And how did you enter the grounds?”

“Through a rear entrance.”

“Did you ring the doorbell?”

“No, I entered through the door to the pool and sneaked into Mr. Calder’s dressing room.”

“Was Mr. Calder present?”

“Yes.”

“Where was Mrs. Calder?”

“She was taking a bath, I believe. That was what Mr. Calder told me when I spoke with him earlier.”

“Having reached the dressing room, what did you do?”

“Mr. Calder and I made love.”

“In his dressing room?”

“On a sofa in his dressing room.”

“Was this the first time you and Mr. Calder had made love?”

“No, we had done so on a number of occasions.”

“And where did these trysts take place?”

“In his trailer at Centurion Studios, in his bungalow there, and at his home, always in his dressing room.”

“On the earlier occasions, when you made love in the dressing room, was Mrs. Calder present in the house?”

“Yes. We timed the meetings for when Arrington was in the tub. When they went out in the evenings, she was as regular as clockwork; she’d spend half an hour in the bath.”

“Why did you take these risks?”

“Vance found it exciting, knowing that Arrington was in the house. He loved taking chances.”

“After you had made love that evening, what did you do?”

“When we had finished, Vance began getting dressed and said I should leave, that Arrington—Mrs. Calder—would be getting out of her bath soon.”

“And did you leave?”

“Yes, I left through the same door I had entered by.”

“And after leaving, did you have occasion to return to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“How did you know it was a gunshot?”

“I didn’t, at first, but when I peeked back through the glass doors, I saw Mr. Calder lying on the floor of the hallway. Mrs. Calder was standing next to him, holding a gun in her hand.”

“She was just standing there? Was she doing anything else?”

“She was screaming at him.”

“What was she saying?”

“I don’t know exactly; it was pretty garbled. I did hear her say ‘son of a bitch.’”

“Was Mrs. Calder directing this abuse at Mr. Calder?”

“Yes. There was no one else there.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran back to the car. I didn’t want Arrington to shoot me, too.”

Stone glanced at Arrington. Her face had reddened.

Sixty

CHU TURNED TO THE DEFENSE TABLE. “YOUR WITNESS, Mr. Blumberg.”

Marc stood. “Mrs. Walters—it is Mrs. Walters, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied, her mouth turning down.

“What were you wearing on this occasion?”

“I wasn’t wearing anything,” Walters replied. There was a titter among the reporters present.

“I mean when you arrived at the Calder residence. What were you wearing then?”

“I was wearing a robe. I had removed my swimsuit in the car.”

“What sort of a robe?”

“A terrycloth robe.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“Did the robe have a hood?”

“Yes.”

“When you left Mr. Calder’s dressing room, you were wearing the white terrycloth robe with the hood?”

“Yes.”

“Was the hood up?”

“Yes, my hair was still wet.”

“You and Vance Calder argued on that occasion, didn’t you?”

She looked startled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He was all finished with you, wasn’t he? And he told you so?”

“No, I told him we were finished.”

“And he didn’t like that?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“So you did argue.”

Walters flushed. “If you could call it that.”

“No further questions,” Marc said. “I ask that the witness be instructed to remain available; I may wish to recall her.”

“The witness will remain available,” the judge said.

Chu stood again. “The District Attorney calls Felipe Cordova.”

The bailiff brought Cordova into the courtroom; he was sworn and took the stand.

“Mr. Cordova,” Chu said, “you were gardener to the Calders?”

“I cut the grass every week.”

“Were you present at the Calder residence on the evening Mr. Calder was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“I was looking to steal something, if I could.” He didn’t appear to be embarrassed by this answer.

“Did you have occasion to approach the rear door of the house and look inside?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I heard a noise, like a gun.”

“When you looked inside, what did you see?”

“I saw Mr. Calder, lying on the floor bleeding, and Mrs. Calder standing there, and a gun was on the floor.”

“And what did you do?”

“I ran. I didn’t want to be caught there.”

“Your witness,” Chu said to Blumberg.

Marc stood. “Mr. Cordova, you say you saw Mrs. Calder standing next to Mr. Calder’s body?”

“Yes.”

“How was she dressed?”

“In a bathrobe.”

“What kind of bathrobe?”

“You know, the terry kind.”

“Terrycloth?”

“Yes.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“Did the robe have a hood?”

“Yes, she was wearing the hood.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Not exactly.”

“Was she facing you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, if you didn’t see her face, how do you know it was Mrs. Calder?”

“I seen her before, you know, and I recognized her shape.” He made a female shape with his hands, and the courtroom tittered again.

“Since you never saw her face, is it possible that the woman you saw was not Mrs. Calder, but another woman?”

Cordova shrugged. “Maybe.”

Marc turned to the judge. “Your Honor, could we have Mrs. Walters back for a moment to try something?”

The judge waved both lawyers forward. “Just what do you want to try, Mr. Blumberg?”

“I’d like for Mrs. Walters to try on a robe for Mr. Cordova.”

“I’ve no objection, Your Honor,” Ms. Chu said.

“Go ahead. Bailiff, bring Mrs. Walters back to the courtroom.”

Beverly Walters returned, looking wary.

“Mrs. Walters,” the judge said, “I’d like you to put on a bathrobe for the court.”

Walters nodded, and Stone handed Marc a white terrycloth robe. He held it for the woman, and she put it on.

“Please put up the hood, step out of your shoes, and face the rear of the courtroom, Mrs. Walters,” Marc said. She followed his instructions, and he turned to Cordova. “What about it, Mr. Cordova? Could this be the woman you saw?” He made the woman shape with his hands.

“Yeah, she could be,” Cordova said.

“No further questions,” Marc said.

Ms. Chu was on her feet. “Your Honor, now I’d like for Mrs. Calder to try on the robe for Mr. Cordova.”

“Any objection, Mr. Blumberg?” the judge asked.

“None whatsoever, Your Honor.”

The courtroom watched as Arrington slipped into the white robe and turned her back on Cordova.

“Mr. Cordova,” Chu said, “could this be the woman you saw?”

Cordova nodded. “Yeah. I guess it could be either one of them; they look pretty much the same.”

“No further questions, Your Honor. That concludes the District Attorney’s presentation.”

“Mr. Blumberg,” the judge said, “do you have any witnesses?”

“Your Honor, we call Isabel Sanchez.”

Isabel came into the courtroom, was sworn, and took the stand.

“Your Honor, my colleague, Mr. Stone Barrington of the New York Bar, will question this witness.”

The judge nodded assent.

“Mrs. Sanchez,” Stone began, “are you and your husband employed by Mrs. Arrington Calder?”

“Yes, we are,” Isabel replied.

“How long have you worked for her?”

“Since she married Mr. Calder. We worked for fifteen years for him before they married.”

“Do you, personally, perform the duties of a maid in the household?”

“Yes.”

“Do your duties require you to deal with Mrs. Calder’s wardrobe?”

“Yes, I do her laundry—her underthings and washables—and I gather things to be sent to the dry cleaners and an outside laundry.”

“Would you say that you are familiar with Mrs. Calder’s wardrobe?”

“Oh, yes, very familiar. I know her clothes as well as I know my own.”

“Tell me, does Mrs. Calder own a terrycloth robe?”

“Yes, she does. She has terrycloth robes for the guesthouse, four of them, for the two bedrooms.”

“What color are the guesthouse robes?”

“They are bright yellow.”

Stone held up the white robe. “Is this Mrs. Calder’s robe?”

“No.”

“Of course not, since it was bought yesterday at the gift shop of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Does she own one like it?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Stone went to the shopping bag and pulled out a bright yellow robe. “Is this the color of the guesthouse robes?”

“Yes.”

He handed her the robe. “Take a look at it. Is this one of the guesthouse robes?”

Isabel examined the robe and its label. “Yes, it is.”

He held up the two robes together. “These robes are very different colors, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Could you mistake one of these robes for the other?”

“No, they’re different colors.”

Stone held up the white robe. “Does Mrs. Calder own a robe this color?”

“No, she does not. And Mrs. Calder never wears terrycloth, even around the pool.”

“Do you know why?”

“She doesn’t like it; she likes Sea Island cotton or silk. I’ve never once seen her wear a terrycloth robe.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Stone said. “And that concludes our presentation of witnesses.”

“Ms. Chu, closing?”

Chu stood, looking chastened. “We have nothing further, Judge.”

“Mr. Blumberg?”

“I believe the evidence speaks for itself, Your Honor. The District Attorney’s own witnesses have exonerated my client.”

“Mr. Blumberg, I believe you are correct. Your motion for dismissal of charges is granted, with prejudice.” He turned to the D.A.’s table. “Ms. Chu, I believe you and the police may wish to speak further with Mrs. Walters.” He rapped his gavel. “Mrs. Calder, you are free to go, with the court’s apologies. Court is adjourned.”

Arrington stood and turned to Marc and Stone. “What does ‘with prejudice’ mean?”

“It means the D.A. can’t bring these charges against you again. You’re a free woman.”

“If it’s all right,” she said, “I’d like to leave by the front door.”

“I’ll tell Manolo to bring the car around front,” Stone said.

She grabbed Stone’s hand, and they made their way through the crowd of press. He passed Dino. “Follow Manolo in your car,” he said. Dino nodded and, with Mary Ann, made his way from the courtroom.

“Mrs. Calder will have a statement on the front steps of the courthouse,” Marc shouted over the din, and the press dutifully followed them outside. Microphones were set up on the steps, and Marc shouted for silence.

He faced the reporters, apparently relishing the moment. “Justice has been done,” he said. “Arrington Calder is a free woman, and I only wish the police and the District Attorney’s office had done their work earlier, instead of waiting for us to do it for them. Now Mrs. Calder would like to say a few words.”

Arrington stepped up to the microphones. “I want to thank my attorneys, Marc Blumberg and Stone Barrington,” she said. “But I have no thanks whatsoever for the media, who have made my life a living hell these past weeks. These are the last words I will ever speak to a camera or a reporter. Good-bye!” She stepped back.

Suddenly, a reporter in the front of the group held up a tabloid newspaper. “Mr. Barrington!” he shouted.

Stone, who had been about to lead Arrington away, turned and looked at the paper. What he saw was himself and Betty Southard quite naked, covering half the page. Both were looking at the camera, and black bars covered strategic areas of their bodies.

“Oh, shit,” Stone said involuntarily.

Sixty-one

ARRINGTON TOOK ONE LOOK AT THE PAPER AND stalked off. Stone followed her as quickly as he could, with reporters shouting questions at him from both sides. He got Arrington into the rear seat of the Bentley, but before he could climb in, she slammed the door and hammered down the lock button. Stone was left on the sidewalk, surrounded by cameras and screaming reporters.

Marc Blumberg grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the curb as Dino and Mary Ann drove up in the Mercedes station wagon, and they both got into the rear seat. Dino drove away, while reporters scattered from his path.

“You can drop me at the garage entrance around the corner,” Marc said.

Dino glanced back at him. “Congratulations; you sure nailed Beverly Walters. How did you know she and Vance had an argument?”

“I figured he dumped her. Everybody dumps Beverly, sooner or later, and I figured she didn’t like it. At least she admitted to an argument.” Marc turned to Stone. “By the way, I had a call early this morning from my attorney friend in Milan, about the possibility of divorce.”

“And?” Stone asked.

“The news isn’t good. In order to get a civil divorce in Italy, the two of you have to appear before a magistrate and mutually request the action.”

“Can’t I sue?”

“Yes, but in a contested divorce, you’d have to subpoena her, and you can’t do that in the United States. You’d have to serve her in Italy.”

Stone winced. “Good God.”

The car stopped at the entrance to the garage, and at that moment, there was a ringing noise.

Marc took a small cell phone from an inside pocket. “Yes?”

He smiled broadly. “Sure, I’ll see her. I’ll go right now.” He closed the phone and stuck it back into his pocket. “That was my office,” he said. “Beverly Walters has been arrested for Vance’s murder, and she wants me to represent her.”

“Are you going to?” Stone asked.

“Sure, why not? Since the charges against Arrington were dismissed with prejudice, there’s no conflict. Anyway, it’s an easy acquittal.”

Mary Ann turned around. “Acquittal? After what was said in court today?”

“Sure. My guess is that, since she wasn’t a suspect, she was never Mirandized, so everything she told the police and everything she said in court is inadmissible. The only testimony against her is Cordova’s, and he’s already admitted that he couldn’t distinguish between Beverly and Arrington in the robe.”

“What about Vanessa Pike’s murder?” Stone asked.

“There’s no evidence against her,” Marc replied, “or they would already have arrested her. Anyway, she may not have murdered Vanessa.”

That was true, Stone thought, and the other possible suspect was in a mental hospital.

Marc opened the car door and offered Stone his hand. “Thanks for the fun,” he said. “Now I’ve gotta go see my new client.”

“And thank you, Marc. I’ll get you a check tomorrow.”

Dino drove away and pointed the car toward Bel-Air. “Hey, what was all that crowd of reporters after you about?”

Stone sighed and told them what had happened.

“Did Arrington see the paper?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

They arrived back at the Calder house to find Manolo loading suitcases into the Bentley.

“Manolo,” Stone asked, “is Mrs. Calder going somewhere?”

“Yes, sir,” Manolo replied. “But you better ask her about that.”

“She certainly packed fast,” Stone said.

“Oh, she packed before we went to court,” Manolo said. “And on the way home, she called Mr. Regenstein from the car. The Centurion airplane is waiting for her at Santa Monica.”

Stone went into the house, followed by Dino and Mary Ann. Arrington was coming out of the bedroom. He stopped her. “Can we talk?” he asked.

“I don’t think we have anything to talk about,” she said. “I’m going to Virginia to be with Peter and my mother, and I don’t know when I’m coming back. Why don’t you join Betty Southard in Hawaii? The two of you were made for each other. Or, perhaps, you could move in with Charlene Joiner.”

He took her arm, but she snatched it away.

“Good-bye, Dino, Mary Ann,” she said, kissing them both. “I’m sorry your stay wasn’t as pleasant as it might have been.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dino replied.

“Something I want to know,” Stone said. “The amnesia: Was it real?”

“It was at first. After I came home from the clinic, everything gradually came back to me.”

“So what happened that evening?”

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” she said. “You still think I might have killed Vance, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Sure you do, Stone. Anyway, you’ll never know for sure, will you?” And with that she turned and walked out of the house. A moment later, the Bentley could be heard driving away.

Isabel came into the room. “Lunch is served out by the pool,” she said.

Dino took Stone’s arm. “Come on, pal. You could use some lunch, and probably a drink, too.”

Stone followed him outside, and the three of them sat down. Isabel brought a large Caesar salad with chunks of chicken and served them.

“You did very well this morning, Isabel,” Stone said. “Thank you very much.”

“All I did was tell the truth,” Isabel replied. She opened a bottle of chardonnay and left them to their lunch.

They chatted in a desultory way about the events of the past weeks, and Stone felt depressed. He finished his salad and tossed off the remainder of his wine. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, getting up. “I have to make a phone call.”

“There’s a phone,” Dino said, pointing at the pool bar.

“This one is private,” Stone replied. “I’ll go inside.” He went into the living room and looked around for a phone, but didn’t see one, so he went into Vance’s study and sat at the desk. Someone had left the bookcase/door to the dressing room open. He got out his notebook and dialed.

“Hello?”

“Betty, it’s Stone.”

“Well, hello there. I heard about the court thing this morning on the news. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, but Marc Blumberg carried most of the water. Listen, I called about something else, something you have to know about.”

“Dolce’s dirty pictures? I probably saw them before you did; it’s earlier here, remember?”

“I’m so sorry about that, Betty.”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s made me a lot more interesting to people here. I’ve already had three dinner invitations this morning.”

Stone laughed. “You’re amazing.”

“I don’t imagine the pictures went down quite as well for you. They must have caused problems.”

“Well, what can I do about it?”

“Treasure the photographs, sweetie; I will. Bye, now.”

Stone hung up laughing. Then he noticed that something seemed to have changed in the dressing room. He got up and walked through the doorway. The dressing room was empty of all Vance’s clothes; only bare racks were left. The chesterfield sofa, where Vance’s trysts with Beverly Walters had occurred, was all that was left in the room.

He was about to turn and go back outside to join Dino and Mary Ann, when he remembered something. He walked to Vance’s bathroom, looked inside, then down the little hallway that separated it from the dressing room. He had noticed something odd here before and had forgotten about it.

He went into the bathroom and, with his outstretched arms, measured the distance to the door from the wall of the bathroom that backed onto the dressing room. Holding out his arms, he walked into the hallway and held his arms up to the wall of the little corridor. Then he measured the distance from the wall containing the dressing room safe to the door, and marked that off on the corridor wall. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, he thought, but with his experience of remodeling his own house, he had. The wall containing the safe appeared to be about eighteen inches deep, instead of the usual four or six inches.

He went back into the dressing room, trying to remember the combination to the safe. “One-five-three-eight,” he said aloud, then tapped the number into the keypad and opened the door. The safe was about four and a half inches deep; it was the kind meant to be installed in a standard-depth wall between the studs. Or it appeared to be. He rapped on the sides of the safe, which made a shallow metallic noise, then he rapped on the rear wall of the safe, which made a deeper, hollower sound. Something was very odd here.

He rapped harder, and the rear wall of the safe seemed to move a little. Then, with his fingertips, he pressed hard on the rear wall. It gave an eighth of an inch. Then there was a click, and the seemingly fixed steel plate swung outward an inch. Stone hooked a finger around the plate and pulled it toward him, revealing a twelve-inch-deep second compartment in the safe. Inside, Stone saw two things: Vance Calder’s jewelry box and a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.

“My God!” he said aloud. “Arrington killed him.” Then from behind him, a male voice spoke.

“I thought so, too.”

Stone turned to find Manolo standing there. “What?”

“When I found Mr. Calder dead, I thought Mrs. Calder had shot him. They had had a big argument about something earlier; there was lots of shouting and screaming. It wasn’t their first.”

“What have you done, Manolo?”

“When I heard the shot and found Mr. Calder, the gun was on the floor beside him, where whoever shot him had dropped it. I thought Mrs. Calder had done it, and my immediate thought—I’m not sure why—was to protect her. So I took the gun and put it in the hidden compartment of the safe, and, so the police would think it was a robbery, I put his jewelry box in there, too, and closed it. They never figured it out.”

Stone took a pen from his pocket, stuck it through the trigger guard of the pistol and lifted it from the safe. “Then it will have the fingerprints of the killer on it. Now we’ll know for sure who killed Vance.”

Manolo shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Barrington; I wiped the gun clean before I hid it. I was so sure that Mrs. Calder had done it. Of course, after this morning in court, I don’t think so anymore.”

“Does Arrington know you hid the pistol?”

“No. I never told her.”

Stone put the pistol on top of the chest of drawers, then, weak at the knees, sat down on the sofa. “So we’ll never know for sure.”

“I know,” Manolo said. “I’m a little surprised that you don’t, Mr. Barrington.” He picked up the pistol by the trigger guard, put it back in the safe’s rear compartment, and closed it.

“I’ll leave it there for a while; then I’ll get rid of it and send the jewelry box to Mrs. Calder.”

Stone was beyond arguing with him.

Sixty-two

STONE STAYED IN L.A. FOR A COUPLE OF MORE DAYS, paying the last of the bills to come to the bungalow and seeing that Vance Calder’s estate was released to Arrington.

After he had packed his bags and was ready to leave the bungalow, Lou Regenstein came into Vance’s study.

“Good morning, Lou.”

“You on your way home, Stone?”

“Yes, I’m done here. Louise can pack up Vance’s things and send them to the house. Manolo and Isabel are still there.”

“Have you talked to Arrington?”

“No, she isn’t speaking to me.”

“I should think she’d be grateful to you for everything you’ve done for her.”

“Maybe, but there are other things she’s not grateful to me for.”

“The business in the tabloid?”

Stone nodded. “Among other things.”

“Well, I want you to know that I am certainly grateful to you. Arrington is now the second-largest stockholder in Centurion, after me, and together, the two of us control the company. If she’d gone to prison, God knows what would have happened here.”

“I’m glad it worked out all right.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Stone?”

“You can have someone drive Vance’s car back to the house,” he said, holding out the keys.

Lou accepted the keys. “I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.” Lou picked up the phone and gave the order. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

Stone looked around. “What will happen to Vance’s bungalow?”

“Charlene Joiner is moving in, as soon as we’ve redecorated it to her specifications. She’s Centurion’s biggest star now.”

“She deserves it.”

They chatted for a few minutes, then Lou’s chauffeur knocked at the door. “Shall I take your bags, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, thank you.” He shook hands with Lou. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Stone, you’ll always have friends at Centurion. If there’s ever anything, anything at all, we can do for you, just let me know.”

“When you speak to Arrington, tell her I’m thinking of her.”

“Of course.”

Stone left the bungalow and was about to get into Lou’s limousine, when Charlene drove up in a convertible.

“Leaving without saying good-bye?” she called out.

Stone walked over to the car. “It’s been a weird couple of days; I was going to call you from New York.”

“I get to New York once in a while. Shall I call you?”

He gave her his card. “I’d be hurt, if you didn’t.” He leaned over and kissed her, then she drove away. Before she turned the corner, she waved, without looking back.

Stone got into the limo and settled into the deep-cushioned seat. He’d be home by bedtime.

Back in Turtle Bay, he let himself into the house. Joan had left for the day, but there was a note on the table in the foyer.

“A shipment arrived for you yesterday,” she wrote. “It’s in the living room. And there was an envelope delivered by messenger this morning.”

Stone saw the envelope on the table and tucked it under his arm. He picked up his suitcases and started for the elevator, then he looked into the living room and set down the cases. Standing in the center of the living room was a clothes rack, and on it hung at least twenty suits. He walked into the room and looked around. On the floor were half a dozen large boxes filled with Vance Calder’s Turnbull & Asser shirts and ties. Then he noticed a note pinned to one of the suits.

You would do me a great favor by accepting these. Or you can just send them to the Goodwill.

I love you,

Arrington

His heart gave a little leap, but then he saw that the note was dated a week before their parting scene, and it sank again.

He’d think about this later. Right now, he was tired from the trip. He picked up the suitcases, got into the elevator, and rode up to the master suite. Once there, he unpacked, then undressed and got into a nightshirt. Then he remembered the envelope.

He sat down on the bed and opened it. There were some papers and a cover letter, in a neat hand, on Eduardo Bianchi’s personal letterhead.

I thought you might like to have these. This ends the matter. I hope to see you soon.

Eduardo

Stone set the letter aside and looked at the papers. There were only two: One was the original of the marriage certificate he and Dolce had signed in Venice; the other was the page from the ledger they and their witnesses had signed in the mayor’s office. These made up the whole record of his brief, disastrous marriage.

He took them to the fireplace, struck a match, and watched until they had been consumed. Then he got into bed, and with a profound sense of relief, tinged with sorrow, Stone fell asleep.

Acknowledgments

I AM GRATEFUL TO MY NEW EDITOR, DAVID HIGHFILL, AND my new publisher, Phyllis Grann, for their enthusiasm and hard work on this book. I look forward to working with them both in the future.

I must thank my agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, for their continuing fine management of my career and their meticulous attention to every detail of my business affairs.

I must also thank my wife, Chris, who reads every manuscript, for her good judgment and acute insight, as well as for her love.

Author’s Note

I AM HAPPY TO HEAR FROM READERS, BUT YOU SHOULD know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my Web site at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are one among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail return address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail me, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing list for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: The Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious fold who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my Web site, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Putnam, address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

All my novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

Praise for Cold Paradise

“A delightful tale of sex and violence among the very rich . . . a delicious climax . . . a Sopranos-style shoot-out . . . slick, sophisticated fun.”

—The Washington Post

“Roller-coaster plotting.”

—The Denver Post

“Follows an honorable whodunit tradition. . . . All villains fall before him, and all beautiful women find him irresistible.”

—Forth Worth Star-Telegram

“Plenty of action plus a surprise ending. Replete with lavish homes, gourmet meals, sleek yachts, and willing women—this is an entertaining thriller.”

—The Stuart News/Port St. Lucie News (FL)

“It is Woods’s talent—taking an elementary formula and building a rapidly evolving plot—that differentiates much of his work from the genre’s time-worn conventions. . . . Fans of the Stone Barrington series will find Cold Paradise a requisite read.”

—Dayton Daily News

Praise for L.A. Dead

“Scrumptious!”

—The New York Times

“Alive with action . . . so delightfully, typically Woods, it will send his fans into paroxysms of joy. . . . Entertainment novels can’t get any better than this.”

—The Associated Press

“The best novel in the series. With an exclamation point, Stuart Woods makes it evident that he is a force in the mystery genre.”

—Midwest Book Review

“One of the smoothest writers in the pop-literature biz and always a pleasure to read. . . . A stylish whodunit.”

—The Detroit News

“Barrington’s fans will likely welcome the detective’s newest California-chic adventure.”—Publishers Weekly

“An exciting story, and Stuart Woods tells it well.”

—Winston-Salem Journal

“[A] nerve-racking thriller.”

—The Stuart News/Port St. Lucie News (FL)

Praise for Stuart Woods and His Bestselling Novels

“An action-packed puzzler.”

—People

“Keeps you turning page after page.”

—The Washington Post

“A whale of a story.”

—The New York Times

“Blackmail, murder, suspense, love—what else could you want in a book?”—

Cosmopolitan

“Terrific.”

—Pat Conroy

“A fast-paced thriller.”

—Rocky Mountain News

“Another gem. . . . A book to read and get chills from on even the hottest day.”

—The San Diego Union-Tribune

“Woods delivers a marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern, old-fashioned read.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

SIGNET

Published by New American Library, a division of

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Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.

First Signet Printing, April 2002

Copyright © Stuart Woods, 2001

Excerpt from The Short Fovever copyright © Stuart Woods, 2002

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-10012-7

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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This book is for Marvin and Rita Ginsky.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Acknowledgements

1

ELAINE’S, LATE.

Stone Barrington finished his osso buco as Elaine wandered over from another table and sat down.

“So?” she asked.

“ ‘So?’ What kind of question is that?”

“It means, ‘tell me everything.’”

Stone looked up to see Dino struggling to shut the front door behind him. Dino was his former partner, now a lieutenant, head of the detective squad at the 19th Precinct.

Dino came over, sloughing off a heavy topcoat. “Jesus,” he said, hanging up his coat, muffler and hat. “There’s already six inches of snow out there, and there’s at least thirty knots of wind.”

“How are we going to get home?” Stone wondered aloud.

“Don’t worry. My driver’s out there now, putting the chains on the car.” Dino now rated a car and driver from the NYPD.

Stone shook his head. “Poor bastard. It’s tough enough being a cop without drawing you for a boss.”

“What do you mean?” Dino demanded, offended. “The kid’s getting an education working for me. They don’t teach this stuff at the academy.”

“What, how to put chains on a lieutenant’s car?”

“All he has to do is watch me, and he learns.”

Stone rolled his eyes, but let this pass. They drank their champagne in silence for a moment.

“So?” Dino asked, finally.

“That’s what I just asked him,” Elaine said.

“So, I’m back.” Stone had returned from an extended stay in LA a few days before.

“I knew that,” Dino said. “So?”

“Can’t either of you speak in complete sentences?”

“So,” Dino said, “how’s Mrs. Barrington?”

“Dino,” Stone said, “if you’re going to start calling her that, I’m going to start carrying a gun.”

“I heard,” Elaine said.

“I’m not surprised,” Stone replied. “Dino has a big mouth.”

“So, how is she?” Dino demanded.

“I talked to Eduardo today,” Stone said. “Her shrink doesn’t want me to see her. Not for a while.”

“That’s convenient,” Dino said.

“You bet it is,” Stone agreed.

“You feeling guilty, Stone?” Elaine asked.

“Sure he is,” Dino said. “If he had just taken my advice . . .”

“Mine, too,” Elaine echoed.

“All right, all right,” Stone said. “If I had only taken your advice.”

“Arrington is for you,” Elaine said.

“Arrington isn’t exactly speaking to me,” Stone said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if I call her, she’s civil, but if I try to reason with her, she excuses herself and hangs up.”

“How’s the boy?” Dino asked.

“Peter’s fine.”

“Does he know who his father is yet?”

“Look, Dino, I don’t know who his father is. It could just as well have been Vance as me. Not even Arrington knows. Nobody will, until we do the DNA testing.”

“And when does that happen?”

“Arrington won’t discuss it.”

“Keep after her.”

“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Stone said wearily. “I’m not sure it would make any difference.”

“Give her time,” Dino said. “She’ll come around.”

“You’re a font of wisdom, Dino. Know any other relationship clichés?”

“Every eligible man in the country is going to be after her,” Elaine said.

“What?” Stone asked.

“She’s Vance Calder’s widow, dummy, and as such, she’s very, very rich. Not to mention gorgeous. You’d better get your ass down to Virginia and win her back.”

“She knows where to find me,” Stone said.

Elaine rolled her eyes.

Another blast of frigid air blew into the room as the front door opened again.

“It’s your pal Eggers,” Dino said, nodding toward the door.

Bill Eggers came over to the table. He didn’t unbutton his coat. “Hi, Elaine, hi, Dino,” he said, then he turned to Stone. “I’ve been calling you all evening. I should have known I’d find you here.” Bill Eggers was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the extremely prestigious law firm with which Stone was associated, in a very quiet way.

“My home away from home,” Stone said. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a client in the car that you have to see tomorrow morning.”

“Bring him in. I’ll buy him a drink.”

“He won’t come in.”

“Who is he?”

“No names, for the moment.”

“You have secrets from us, Bill?” Elaine asked.

“You bet I do,” Eggers replied. “Ten o’clock sharp, Stone?”

“Ten o’clock is fine; sharp depends on the snow. Your office?”

“Penthouse One, at the Four Seasons. He doesn’t want to be seen with you.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Stone said.

“Stone,” Eggers said, “get this thing done and get it done right, and you could end up a rich man.”

“Ten o’clock, sharp,” Stone said.

2

STONE LEFT HIS HOUSE IN TURTLE BAY EARLY. EIGHTEEN inches of snow had fallen the night before, and the city was a mess. Cabs were few, and he would have to hoof it to 57th Street and the Four Seasons Hotel.

He was clad in a sheepskin coat, cashmere-lined gloves, a soft, felt hat and rubber boots over his shoes. The sidewalks on his block had not been cleared, but the street had been plowed, and he walked up the middle of it all the way to Park Avenue, unmolested by any traffic. The city was peculiarly quiet, the silence punctuated only by the occasional blast of a taxi’s horn and, twice, the sound of car striking car. He made it to the Four Seasons ten minutes early.

It was said to be the most expensive hotel in the city, a soaring, very modern skyscraper set on the broad, crosstown street between Madison and Park. A gust of wind propelled him into the lobby, and he was immediately too warm. He found a checkroom and unburdened himself of his outer clothing, and shortly, the elevator deposited him on a high floor. He rang the bell beside the double doors and, immediately, a uniformed butler opened the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“My name is Barrington. I’m expected.”

“Of course, sir, please come in.”

Stone was ushered through a foyer into a huge living room with a spectacular view of the city looking south, or what would have been a spectacular view if not for the clouds enveloping the tops of the taller buildings.

Bill Eggers came off a sofa by the windows and shook his hand. “Sit down,” he said, “and let me brief you.”

Stone sat down, and immediately he heard another man’s voice coming from an adjoining room through an open door. “Bill?” the voice said. “Come on in.”

Eggers stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said to Stone, “but there’s no time. Just listen a lot and follow my lead. Say yes to anything he says.”

“Not if he propositions me,” Stone said, but Eggers was already leading the way into the next room. Stone followed, and a very tall, very slender man in his mid-thirties came around a desk and shook Eggers’s hand. “How are you, Bill?”

“Very well, Thad,” Eggers replied. “Let me introduce a colleague of mine. This is Stone Barrington. Stone, this is Thad Shames.”

“How do you do?” Stone said, shaking the man’s hand. He knew just enough about him to know who he was, but no more than that. Software came into the equation, and multimillions. Stone didn’t follow finance or business very closely.

“Good to meet you, Stone,” Shames said. “Bill says you can solve my problem?”

Stone glanced at Eggers. “Yes,” he said, more confidently than he felt. Shames was dressed in a nicely cut dark suit, but his shirt seemed to have been laundered but not pressed. His tie was loose, and the button-down collar’s tips were not buttoned. Shames waved them both to a pair of facing sofas and, as he sat down and crossed his legs, revealed that he was also wearing a battered pair of suede Mephisto’s, a French athletic shoe. His blond, nearly pink hair was curly and tousled and had not been cut for months. He was clean-shaven, but Stone doubted that he could raise a beard.

“I’ve got a press conference at the Waldorf in an hour,” Shames said, “so I’ll make this as quick as I can.”

Stone and Eggers nodded automatically, like mechanical birds.

“I’ve met this spectacular woman,” Shames said, then waited for a reaction.

“Good,” Eggers replied.

“Yes,” Stone said.

“I think I’m in love.”

The two lawyers nodded gravely.

“Congratulations,” Eggers said.

“Yes,” Stone echoed.

“This is a lot more important than I’m making it sound,” Shames said, grinning. “I’ve never been married, and, well . . .”

Not getting laid, Stone thought. Horny. Vulnerable rich guy.

“Anyway, she’s just spectacular. I feel so lucky.”

He doesn’t realize yet she’s taken him, Stone thought.

“What’s her name?” Eggers asked.

“That’s just the thing,” Shames said, blushing. “I’m not sure I know.”

“When did you meet her?” Eggers asked.

“Last weekend.”

“Where?”

“In the Hamptons.”

“At this time of the year?”

“Oh, it’s getting awfully chic out there in winter, now,” Shames replied. “All the most interesting people go out there on winter weekends. You don’t have to put up with the summer tourists and all their traffic.”

“Sounds great,” Eggers said. “Who introduced you to, ah, her?”

“Nobody, actually. We met at this big party at some movie guy’s house—I get those guys mixed up—and after talking for a few minutes, we got the hell out of there and went to Jerry Della Femina’s for dinner. We had a great time.”

“Good,” Eggers replied.

“Yes,” Stone said.

“She said her name was Liz,” Shames said.

“Maybe that’s her name,” Stone chanced, but shut up at a glare from Eggers.

“I’m not sure,” Shames said.

“Do you have some reason to think her name might not be Liz?” Eggers asked.

“Not really, just a feeling. She wouldn’t give me a last name or even tell me where she lives.”

“How can Stone and I help, Thad?”

“I want you to find her for me.”

This time, Stone glared at Eggers, but Eggers avoided the look.

The butler appeared at the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Shames, but your office is on line one.”

Shames stood up. “I’d better take this in the other room,” he said. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He left, closing the door behind him.

“I know you have some questions,” Eggers said.

“Just one,” Stone replied. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Now, Stone . . .”

“What am I, some seedy shamus, tracking down women for rich men?”

“Stone . . .”

Stone stood up. “Call me when you’ve got something of substance, Bill.”

Eggers didn’t move. “The press conference he’s holding is to announce an initial public offering of stock in a new company he’s started. Shames has taken two other companies public in the past eight years, and they’re both multibillion-dollar, worldwide corporations now. How would you like to have ten thousand shares of the new company at the opening price?”

Stone looked at him warily. “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know all that much, except that it’s supposed to be an astonishing new technology for the Internet, and that Thaddeus Shames is doing it.”

Stone knew enough to know how spectacular a lot of Internet stocks had been in the market. “What’s it going to open at?”

“The price hasn’t been set yet; probably around twenty dollars a share. Last week an Internet IPO happened, and the stock went up eight hundred percent the first day.”

Stone sat down.

Shames returned to the room, and Eggers stood up.

“Thad, Stone is going to take this on. I’ve got a meeting back at the office, so I’ll leave the two of you to continue.” He shook hands with Shames and Stone and left.

“Bill told you about my new IPO?” Shames asked.

“Yes,” Stone said. You bet he did. Stone had already calculated how much of his portfolio he’d have to liquidate to buy the new stock.

“This girl is really wonderful,” Shames said.

“I’ll help you in any way I can,” Stone said.

“Walk me to the car, and I’ll tell you everything I know on the way.”

I’ll bet we’ll have time left over, Stone thought. “Sure. And, Thad?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you let me walk you across the street and get you a new shirt for this press conference.”

“Across the street?”

“Turnbull and Asser is right across from the hotel. Won’t take a minute.”

Shames looked down at his shirt. “Guess it couldn’t hurt,” he said.

“They have shoes, too.”

3

AS THEY PASSED THROUGH THE LIVING ROOM OF THE huge suite, a woman’s voice rang out.

“Thad?”

Shames and Stone stopped and turned. An attractive young woman wearing a chef’s smock was waving from the adjacent dining room.

“Yes, Callie?” Shames replied.

“Do you have any idea how many for lunch, yet? I’m turning it over to the caterers, and they’d sure like to know.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Tell them to plan for a hundred. If there are leftovers we can donate them to a good cause.”

“Right,” she said. “See you in PB.”

Shames rang for the elevator. “Now, about Liz,” he said to Stone. “What do you want to know?”

“Describe her appearance.”

Shames held a hand across his chest. “She comes up to about here.”

“Five-five, five-six?”

“I guess.”

“Was she wearing heels?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Hair color?”

“A dark brunette.”

“Long? Short?”

“To her shoulders; maybe a bit longer.”

“How old was she?”

“Thirtyish, I guess.”

“Weight?”

“Mediumish, I suppose.”

“Body?”

“Attractive.”

“Anything else distinctive about her appearance? Nose?”

“Turned up.”

“Eyes?”

“Blue, I think.”

Jesus, Stone thought, I’m glad the girl didn’t commit a crime; she’d get away with it.

The elevator arrived, and they got on.

“Let’s talk about her name again, Thad. What made you think that Liz might not be her real name?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Try to remember if she said anything specific about her name.”

“I asked her, ‘What’s your name?’ And she said, ‘Liz will do.’ And I said, ‘What’s your last name?’ And she said, ‘Just Liz.’”

“Well, she’s pretty cagey. Do you think she knew who you were?”

“If she did, she didn’t give any sign of it. She asked me what I did, and I told her.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said I was a software entrepreneur. She said, ‘Like Bill Gates?’ And I said, ‘Well, not quite on that scale.’ That was the only time we talked about work.”

“You didn’t ask her what she did?”

“Oh, yeah, I did. She said, ‘I’m retired.’ And I said, ‘From what?’ And she said, ‘From marriage.’”

“So she divorced well?”

“I guess.”

“How was she dressed?”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and they went to the checkroom.

“She was wearing this sort of dress.”

“Did it look expensive?”

“I guess. I mean, she looked beautiful in it, and it was a pretty expensive crowd at the party.”

“How about jewelry?”

“I think she was wearing earrings. Yes, diamond earrings. Those little stud things, you know? Except they weren’t all that little.”

“Wedding or engagement ring?”

“A big diamond, but not on her left hand.”

“So she didn’t return her engagement ring after the divorce.”

“I guess not.”

“Necklace? Bracelet?”

“A gold necklace and a gold bracelet, I think with diamonds. Nothing flashy, though.”

“How about her speech; any sort of accent? Southern? Midwestern?”

“American. No accent that caught my attention.”

Stone got into his coat, and they left the hotel. “Right across the street, there,” he said, pointing to the shop. He led the way, avoiding ice patches and slush in the gutters. “Don’t you have a coat?” he asked.

“It’s in the car,” Shames said, nodding at a stretched black Mercedes that was making a U-turn, following them.

Stone held the shop door open for Shames, then pointed the way upstairs. They emerged onto the second floor and went into the shirt and tie room.

“Gosh!” Shames said. “I’ve never seen so many colors. You pick out something for me.”

“What size?”

“Sixteen. The sleeves usually aren’t long enough for me.”

“These will be pretty long,” Stone said. A salesman showed them the sixteens. Stone riffled through them and picked out a blue-and-white narrow-striped shirt. “How about this?”

“Fine.”

Stone picked out a tie and a complementary silk pocket square and handed them to a saleslady. “Send these down to the shoe shop, please.” He led the way back downstairs to the shoe shop.

“This is a really nice place,” Shames said, looking around.

“You’d never heard of it?”

“No, and it’s right across the street from the hotel, too.”

A salesman approached, and Stone helped the man choose some dignified oxfords and some socks.

Shames handed the man a credit card.

“There’s a dressing room,” Stone said, pointing. “Why don’t you put those things on?” He waited, and when Shames returned, he had made a mess of tying the tie. Stone retied it for him and stuffed the silk handkerchief into his breast pocket. “You could pass for a captain of industry,” Stone said. “That’s a really nice suit.”

“I had it made in London. This is the only time I’ve worn it.” Shames signed the credit card chit and checked himself out in a mirror. “Something doesn’t look quite right,” he said. “What is it?”

“There’s a barbershop at the Waldorf,” Stone replied, glancing at his watch. “Make the crowd wait for you.”

“Okay, I guess I could use a trim.”

They stepped back into the street, where the Mercedes was waiting. “Ride down to the Waldorf with me,” Shames said. “You can drop me, and the car will take you to your place to pack and then to the airport.”

“Sorry?” Stone said, getting into the car. He wasn’t sure he had understood.

“To Teterboro. My airplane is out there.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you’ll have to go to Palm Beach.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where she is. Didn’t I mention that?”

“I don’t believe you did,” Stone said. “Why do you think she’s in Palm Beach?”

“I ran into a guy I know at dinner last night who was at the party in the Hamptons. He recognized her at LaGuardia yesterday. She was boarding a flight for Palm Beach.”

“You think she lives in Palm Beach?”

“I’ve no idea.”

They drove down Park Avenue, then the driver made a U-turn and stopped in front of the Waldorf.

“Oh,” Shames said, reaching into an inside pocket and extracting an envelope. “Here’s some expense money.”

Stone took the envelope. “Thanks.”

“You can stay at my place down there,” Shames said, handing him a card. “Not in the house; the house is being renovated, and it’s a complete mess.”

“Guesthouse?” Stone asked.

“No, my boat is moored out back. You can stay aboard. There’s some crew aboard, I think. They’ll get you settled. Anything else I can tell you?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Stone said. “If you think of something, please call me.”

“Okay. You can reach me through my office. The number’s on the other side of the card. I’ll be down to Palm Beach in a few days. See you then.” He offered Stone his hand, grabbed a ratty-looking overcoat from the front seat, got out of the car and walked into the Waldorf.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

Stone gave him the address. “I have to pack some clothes. Then I guess we’re going to Teterboro. Jesus, I didn’t ask him where in Teterboro.”

“Atlantic Aviation,” the driver replied.

“Thanks,” Stone said. He wished he’d had time to find Shames an overcoat. His had been awful.

He sat back in the seat and thought about his first move when he got to Palm Beach. All he could think of at the moment was to stop every thirtyish brunette he saw and ask if her name was Liz and if she had had dinner in the Hamptons last weekend with an extremely tall geek. Stone sighed.

4

WHEN HE GOT HOME, STONE RAN UPSTAIRS AND started packing. He’d never been to Palm Beach before, but he assumed it would be warm, so he took tropical-weight suits and jackets. He thought about a dinner jacket and threw it in, just in case. He changed into a lightweight suit, took his bags back downstairs, opened the door and waved the driver to come and get them, then he went downstairs to his office. His secretary, Joan Robertson, was working at her desk.

“Oh, good, you made it in,” he said.

“My husband drove me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have.

Why are you wearing that suit? You’ll freeze.”

“I’m off to Palm Beach.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Just back from LA a couple of days ago, and now off to Florida. Why don’t I ever get to go where it’s warm?”

“Someday,” he said. He looked into the envelope Thad Shames had given him; a thick stack of hundreds, at least ten thousand dollars. He counted off two thousand, stuck them in a pocket and tossed Joan the rest. “Put this in the safe for hard times.” He jotted down the address and phone number from Shames’s card and handed it to her. “This is where I’ll be.”

“How long?”

“Who knows? No more than a few days, I hope.”

“Have fun. Oh, I almost forgot.” She handed him a slip of paper. “A Mrs. Winston Harding the Third called this morning, wants to talk to you?”

Stone looked at the paper. “Who is she?”

“I’ve no idea. She sounds terribly upper class, though.

She said she needed to talk to you about an important legal matter, and that you came highly recommended.”

“Did she say by whom?”

“Nope, but she sounds like money to me. I wouldn’t waste any time getting back to her.”

Stone stuffed the paper into a pocket. “I’ll call her from Palm Beach.” He ran for the car.

At Teterboro, the car drove him up to the airstair door of a Gulfstream V, and the driver carried his bags on and stowed them.

“Mr. Barrington?” a uniformed crewman asked.

“That’s me.”

“We’re ready to taxi. Please find a seat and buckle up.”

Stone chose from a dozen comfortable chairs and fastened his seat belt. As the airplane started to move, the young woman he’d seen in Shames’s Four Seasons suite came out of a compartment and sat down near him.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Callie Hodges.”

“I’m Stone Barrington.” They shook hands.

“I heard you were coming to Palm Beach with us,” she said.

Stone looked around the airplane. “Who’s ‘us’?”

“The pilots and me. We’re all that’s aboard today.”

“What do you do for Thad?” Stone asked.

“I’m his chef and party planner. I pretty much go where he goes. I’ll fix you some lunch after the seat belt sign goes off.”

“Thanks, I haven’t eaten.”

The big corporate jet taxied to runway 24, paused for a minute, then rolled onto the runway and started moving faster. Shortly, they were climbing into a thick overcast, and in less than five minutes they broke out into sunshine and clear skies.

Callie unbuckled her seat belt. “Would you like something to drink before lunch?”

“A glass of wine with lunch will be fine.”

“Be right back.” She disappeared into the galley.

Stone picked up a New York Times and leafed through it. On the front page of the business section there was an article about Shames’s coming press conference, with speculation about the announcement.

Callie returned with a tray bearing a large lobster salad and a glass of white wine, then she went and got a tray for herself. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do. How long have you worked for Thad?”

“A little over a year,” she said. “You?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Less than three hours. I’m doing a legal investigation for him.”

“Thad’s a character,” she said. “You’ll like working for him.”

“I hope so. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s in computer software, in a pretty big way, I gather.”

She smiled. “A pretty big way, yes. The last Forbes 400 put his net worth at five point eight billion dollars.”

Stone blinked. He had spent a lot of time around the rich, but not that rich. “So this new venture of his is a pretty big deal, then?”

“I hope so,” she said, “because I’ve got a nice little bundle of stock options.”

“So what’s it like, working for the superrich?”

“Insane,” she said, “but I’ve gotten used to Thad’s quirks.”

“He has a lot of them?”

“Thad is all quirk,” she laughed. “The superrich are one thing, but the newly superrich are something else entirely. Thad’s a big child, really, and he’s grown accustomed to instant gratification. Whatever you’re doing for him, my advice is to do it in a hurry.”

“I’ll try,” Stone said. “The salad is delicious; wonderful dressing.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Beach?”

“Oh, yes. Thad’s had his place there for a couple of years, and he’s mostly back and forth from there to New York. Of course, the house has been under construction for all that time, so we live on the boat.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“You’re staying aboard, then?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll cook you dinner tonight.”

“Why don’t I take you out?” Stone asked. “I should get to know the lay of the land.”

“I’d love that.”

“Book us at some place you like.”

“Will do.” She turned her attention to her lunch.

She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.

“Is there a phone on the airplane?” he asked her.

“In the arm of your chair,” she said. “It’s a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone.” She headed for the galley.

Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs. Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.

“Hello,” a low female voice said immediately.

“May I speak with Mrs. Winston Harding, please? My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, Mr. Barrington, this is Mrs. Harding. How good of you to ring me back so promptly. You sound a little funny. Are you in a car?”

“In an airplane,” Stone said. “Tell me, where is the five-six-one area code?”

“Palm Beach, Florida,” she said.

“Oh. Oddly enough, that’s where I’m flying to.”

“How convenient,” she said. “I wonder if we might meet while you’re here? I’m in need of some very good legal counsel.”

“Of course. Who recommended me, may I ask?”

“No one, really. It was something I read about you once. Let’s have lunch tomorrow. Do you know a restaurant called Renato’s?”

“No, this will be my first visit to Palm Beach.”

“It’s in the heart of town, in a little cul-de-sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.”

“I expect I can find it.”

“Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?”

“Fine. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll recognize you,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn’t place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.

He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the Times. Soon, he dozed off.

5

STONE WAS WAKENED BY A SLIGHT JAR AND THE SCREECH of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane’s windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.

“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.

“It’s one of the things I do best,” he replied.

“I guess I’ll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.

The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.

Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.

“Hop in,” Callie said.

Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.

“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.

“Where are we now?” Stone asked.

“We’re in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we’ll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn’t too screwed up on the bridge. They’re replacing it, and it’s taking forever.”

Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.

“This your first trip here?” she asked.

“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I’ve ever been in Florida is Miami—twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”

She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“One who used to be a cop.”

She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I’d give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That’s Mar a Lago over there—the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He’s turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.

“Where is the Everglades Club?” he asked.

“Down at the end. Why do you ask?”

“I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato’s, which is supposed to be across the street.”

“Here comes the Everglades Club on the left,” she said, “and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato’s is at the end.”

“What’s the Everglades Club?”

“Palm Beach’s most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.”

“And what is your point of view?”

“It’s the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can’t even visit as guests, and I’m half-Jewish.”

“I didn’t know that sort of thing still existed in this country.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life,” she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.

“This is beautiful,” he said.

“Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad’s place is on Lake Worth. It’s more sheltered for the boat.” Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. “Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.”

Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.

“Oh, good,” she said. “They’ve finished redoing the hall.” She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.

Stone looked back. “You’d never know the house was under construction,” he said.

“The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside.” They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.

Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.

“That’s Toscana,” Callie said.

“She’s glorious.”

“She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.”

“How big is she?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that’s bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.”

A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.

“Stone, this is Juanito, Toscana’s chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.”

“Welcome aboard,” Juanito said. “Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.”

“I’ll show him aboard,” Callie said. “Our luggage is in the Jag.”

Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.

Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. “My God,” he said, “it might have been launched yesterday.”

“Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I’ll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom.” She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. “Here you are.”

Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing it, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Your bath is in here,” Callie said, switching on a light.

More marble, with a large tub and a separate shower stall. “I’ve never seen anything like this vessel,” Stone said, “although I once sank a yacht nearly as large.”

“Run her on the rocks?”

“No, I was just angry with her owner.”

Callie looked at him, unsure whether he was serious. “I wouldn’t mention that to Thad,” she said. “You might make him nervous.”

Juanito appeared with Stone’s luggage. “May I unpack for you, Mr. Barrington?”

“Thank you, Juanito, yes.”

“And would you like your suits pressed?”

“Thank you again.”

“My cabin is down the hall,” Callie said, grabbing the single small duffel that had accompanied her. “Why don’t you poke around, take a look at Toscana? Dinner at eight all right? I booked from the airplane.”

“Fine. How are we dressing?”

“It’s an elegant place, and the crowd will be elegantly dressed, at least, as they define elegant.”

“See you a little before eight,” Stone said. He left Juanito to do his work and began to explore the big yacht. There were two other cabins on the starboard side, and another three on the port side. Stone took a narrow staircase up a deck and emerged under a broad awning covering an expanse of teak decking. The superstructure was forward, and a set of doors led to what he suspected was the master stateroom. He took another staircase and came to the bridge, where a man in his mid-thirties, wearing the same white uniform as Juanito, except with more stripes on his shoulder boards, was sitting at the chart table.

“G’day,” the young man said with an Australian twang. “You must be Mr. Barrington.”

“That’s right,” Stone said, offering his hand.

“I’m Gary Stringfellow, the captain,” he said.

“Good to meet you.”

“Juanito show you to your cabin?”

“Yes, I’m just having a look around. This is quite some bridge.” It was all mahogany and brass.

“Yes. In the rebuilding, we tried to keep it much as it was when the yacht was built, except, of course, we have every piece of modern gear known to man.”

“I can see that.”

“Wander at will,” Gary said. “I have some work to do. Just let Juanito know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, I will.” Stone continued his tour, working his way forward to the stem, then aft to a broad sundeck, where he shucked off his coat, loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair.

Juanito appeared, as if by magic, bearing a silver tray and a frosty glass. “I thought you might like a gin and tonic,” he said.

“Thank you, Juanito. You’re psychic.” Stone took the drink, and Juanito disappeared, only to return a moment later with a cordless phone.

“A call for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

Stone accepted the instrument. “Hello?”

“It’s Bill. How was your flight?”

“You’re full of surprises, Bill, I’ll give you that.”

“I had meant to brief you before you met Thad, but there was no time. I take it you understand his problem?”

“Yes, it’s sort of like being back in high school—the geek wants to date the beauty queen.”

“Thad is impulsive, but he takes these things seriously. Do the best job for him you can, and it will react to your benefit.”

“It already has,” Stone said. “After all, I’m sitting on a yacht in Palm Beach with a gin and tonic frozen to my fist, while you’re in New York, freezing your ass off.”

“That was unkind.”

“It’s no fun being in Florida in winter if you can’t gloat a little.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, Stone, take this assignment seriously, all right? Thad is very important to the firm. We’re doing all the legal work on his IPO, and I’m his personal attorney. Clients don’t get any bigger than Thad Shames.”

“I get the picture,” Stone replied.

“Keep me posted,” Eggers said, “and don’t let anything go wrong.” He hung up.

Stone put his feet up, sipped his drink and watched the yachts sail by. This was wonderful. Tomorrow he’d find the girl and she and Shames would live happily ever after. What could possibly go wrong?

6

STONE REAPPEARED ON THE AFTERDECK JUST BEFORE eight, showered, shaved and wearing a gray linen suit, a cream-colored silk shirt, a yellow tie and black alligator shoes. He took a long look at the lights of West Palm, and then he was joined by Callie.

“Good evening,” she said.

He turned to look at her and was stunned by the transformation. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight-fitting, short dress of a dark brown espresso color. It was cut fairly low, showing off handsome breasts and a good tan. When she smiled, her teeth practically glowed in the dark. “Good evening,” he said, when he got his breath back.

“Shall we go?” She led him back through the gardens, their way lighted by low lamps along the path, through the house and to the car. “Would you like to drive?” She held out the keys.

Stone took them. “Sure. I haven’t driven one of these.” He opened the door for her, then went around to the driver’s side. The engine purred, rather than roared, to life, and he pulled into the lamplit street and accelerated. “Nice. What kind of power?”

“A two-hundred-and-ninety-horsepower V-eight.”

“Very smooth, too. Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

“Cooking must pay better than I thought.”

“Well, I don’t have rent, utilities or any other household expenses to worry about, and it helps when your boss gives you an interest-free loan.”

“Sounds as though you’ve made yourself important to Thad.”

“I try.” She directed him through a number of turns and shortly they pulled up before a restaurant called Cafe L’Europe. A valet took the car.

“I would have thought the ‘el, apostrophe’ was a little much,” Stone said as they entered.

“A great deal about Palm Beach is a little much,” she said.

They were shown to a table near the center of the room. “What would you like to drink?” Stone asked.

“A Tanqueray martini, please.”

“And a vodka gimlet,” Stone told the waiter. “This is a very good table,” he said to her.

“I booked it in Thad’s name,” she replied.

“Smart move.” Menus and a wine list were brought.

Callie closed her menu. “I’m sick of thinking about food,” she said. “Order for me.”

“Anything you don’t eat?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

The waiter returned. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “We’ll start with the beluga caviar and iced Absolut Citron,” he said. “For the main course, the rack of lamb, medium rare.” He opened the wine list. “And a bottle of the Phelps Insignia ’ninety-one.”

“Very good, sir.” He went away.

They sat back and sipped their drinks until the caviar came, then they ate it slowly, sipping the lemon vodka and making it all last. A couple came into the restaurant, the young woman wearing a sleeveless sweater with the name “Chanel” emblazoned across her chest, in two-inch-high letters.

“A billboard,” Stone said.

“Typical of Palm Beach,” Callie replied.

“Eurotrash?”

“Just trash. There’s a lot of it about. Oh, there are still some old-line families around, living quietly, if grandly, but mostly it’s what you see here—people who somehow got ahold of a lot of money and want everybody to know it. They’ve bid up the real estate out of sight. A nice little house on a couple of acres is now three million bucks, and last week I saw an ad for what was advertised as the last vacant beachfront lot in Palm Beach—all one and a half acres of it—and they’re asking eight and a half million.”

Stone nearly choked on his vodka.

The waiter had just taken away the dishes when three people, two women and a man, entered the restaurant and were shown to a table by the street windows. Stone followed their progress closely. One of the women, a redhead, had something very familiar about her.

Callie kicked him under the table. “I thought that in this dress, I might get your undivided attention.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “but I think I know one of the women. Except she’s a redhead, and the woman I knew was a blonde, like you. Well, not as beautiful as you.”

“She must have been important,” Callie said. “Tell me about her.”

“It’s not a short story,” Stone said. “More of a novella.”

“I’ve got all night.”

“All right.”

Dinner arrived, and Stone tasted the wine. “Decant it, please,” he said to the waiter.

When that was done, Callie said, “Continue.”

“Oh, yes. A few years back I scheduled a sailing charter out of St. Marks. You know it?”

“Yes, we’ve been in there on Toscana.”

“My girlfriend was supposed to follow, but she got snowed into New York, then she got a magazine assignment to interview Vance Calder.”

“Lucky girl,” she said. “My favorite movie star.”

“Everybody’s favorite. That’s why she couldn’t turn it down. Anyway, I was stuck there alone, and one morning I was having breakfast in the cockpit of the boat, and something odd happened. A yacht of about fifty feet sailed into the harbor, the mainsail ripped, and nobody aboard but a beautiful blonde. After customs had cleared the boat, the police came and took her away.

“The following day I was passing the town hall and there was some sort of hearing under way, and I went in. Turned out to be an inquest. The girl, whose name was Allison Manning, had been sailing across the Atlantic with her husband, who was the writer Paul Manning . . .”

“I’ve read his stuff,” she said. “He’s good.”

“Yes. Anyway, her testimony is that they’re halfway across, and he winches her up the mast to fix something, then cleats the line. She finishes the job and looks down to find him lying in the cockpit, turning blue. She’s stuck at the top of the mast, but eventually she manages to shinny down. He’s dead, probably of a heart attack. He’s the sailor, and she’s the cook and bottle-washer, and now she’s in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, alone, her husband starting to rot in the heat. She buries him at sea and, in a considerable act of seamanship for somebody who isn’t a sailor, manages to get the yacht across the Atlantic to St. Marks.”

“This is beginning to sound familiar. Wasn’t there something about it on Sixty Minutes a while back?”

“Then you know the story?”

“No, go on. Tell me everything.”

“St. Marks’s Minister of Justice doesn’t buy her story, and he charges her with murdering her husband. Stone to the rescue. I offer to help. She’s tried. With the help of a local barrister, I represent her. Long story short, she’s convicted and sentenced to hang.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes. I call New York and pull out all the stops on publicity. Sixty Minutes shows up, and many telegrams are sent to the prime minister, demanding she be released. On the day of the execution, fully expecting a pardon, I and the barrister and a priest visit her in her cell. Suddenly she’s taken out, and the three of us are locked in. A minute later, we hear the trap sprung on the gallows.”

“That’s horrible,” she said. “I don’t think I knew the end of the story. I must have been traveling at the time.”

“There’s more. Turns out her husband wasn’t dead; it was all an insurance scam. He’d lost a ton of weight and shaved off a beard and was unrecognizable, and he was there, in St. Marks, posing as a magazine writer covering the story.”

“And he didn’t stop the hanging?”

“No. What’s more, in order to cover up his new identity, he engineered a light airplane crash in which his ex-wife and two others died.”

“And he got away with it?”

“Fortunately, no. He turned up in New York a few weeks later, demanding his yacht.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I mention that Allison, by way of my fee, gave me the yacht?”

“No.”

“Well, she did.”

“And now Paul Manning wanted it back?”

“He did.”

“What did you do?”

“I’d been expecting him to show up, so I made a phone call, and the police came and took him away. He was extradited to St. Marks, where he was tried, then hanged for the three murders.”

“God, what a story. And what made you think of it tonight?”

“I thought of it because Allison Manning is sitting right over there by the windows.”

Callie’s head spun around.

Stone tapped her on the arm. “Don’t stare. I don’t want her to see me.”

“You’re sure?”

“She’s dyed her hair red, but that is Allison in the flesh, and very nice flesh it is.”

“How could she possibly be here if she was hanged in St. Marks?”

“I didn’t finish my story. Unbeknownst to me, Allison had, through the local barrister, arranged to deliver a cashier’s check for one million dollars into the prime minister’s hands. Accordingly, the execution was faked, and Allison departed the island in a fast yacht she had chartered for the purpose.”

“That didn’t make it into the Sixty Minutes report, did it?”

“It did not. And I may have violated attorney-client confidentiality by telling you.”

“Where did Allison get a million dollars?”

“Paul Manning had been insured for twelve million dollars, and the insurance company had already paid.”

“So she skipped St. Marks with all that money?”

“Much to the annoyance of her husband.”

“But he got his comeuppance.”

“He did.”

“And you got the yacht.”

“I did.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No. I sold it in Fort Lauderdale.”

“You said you’d never been anywhere in Florida except Miami.”

“I forgot about Lauderdale.”

“How much did you get for the yacht?”

“A million, six.”

“And what did you do with it?”

“I gave the IRS a large chunk, and the rest is in a sock, under my mattress.”

She threw back her head and laughed. When she had recovered herself, she asked, “Why do you suppose Allison Manning is in Palm Beach?”

“I have no idea.”

They got back to Toscana around eleven and stood on the afterdeck, watching the moon come up.

“If you will forgive me,” she said, “I’m going to turn in. It was a long day, and I’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I’m hurt,” he replied, “but I’ll get over it.”

She leaned into him and kissed him, just long enough to be interesting; creamy lips, warm tongue. “Sleep well.”

“Now I won’t sleep at all,” Stone said.

“Oh, good,” she replied, then walked off toward her cabin.

7

LATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE BORROWED Callie’s Jaguar, drove downtown and found a parking space on Worth Avenue. He arrived at Renato’s five minutes early and presented himself to the headwaiter. “I’m meeting a Mrs. Harding,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” the man replied. “We have you in the garden.” He led Stone to a table under overhanging bougainvillea and left a pair of menus. Stone sipped some mineral water and waited for Mrs. Winston Harding to appear. When she arrived, Stone choked on his mineral water. This, he had not been expecting.

She was only fashionably late, wearing blue slacks and a matching cashmere sweater, pearls at the neck, the very picture of the fashionable young matron. He tended to remember her in short shorts, with a shirt tied below her breasts, revealing an enticing midsection, and he tried to make the adjustment.

Stone stood to greet her. “Hello, Allison,” he said.

“Shhh,” she whispered, hugging him, her breasts pressing against him for an extra moment. “We don’t use that name here.”

He held her chair and ordered a cosmopolitan for her. “Brad,” she said to the headwaiter, “this is Stone Barrington. I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of him.”

The headwaiter shook Stone’s hand, then went to get her drink.

“So what is this Mrs. Winston Harding business?”

“That, my love, is my name these days. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, leaning forward to allow her breasts to be seen down the V-necked sweater.

“And you,” he said. “You disappeared over the horizon in that rented yacht, and I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve often wondered where you got to.”

“Oh, all over,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen the world since last I saw you. I started with a cruise in the Pacific and the Far East, and I just kept going. A year later, I met Winston Harding in London, and a few weeks later we were married in Houston, his home. Winston was a property developer.”

“Was?”

“I’m a widow now.”

“My condolences. Was there insurance involved?”

She blushed a little. “That was an evil thing to say. He died of a heart attack. He was fifty-five.”

“My apologies.”

“But there was insurance involved, and a great deal else. Let’s order.”

She chose the poached salmon, and Stone the rigatoni with a sauce of wild boar sausage and cream. He ordered a bottle of Frascati.

“Well, Palm Beach must be the perfect spot for a wealthy widow,” Stone said.

“We bought the house the year after we were married,” she replied. “I hardly chose it for widowhood; it just worked out that way. Funny, it’s worth three times what Winston paid for it.”

“I’ve heard the market is hot.”

“And so am I,” she said. She stopped talking while their lunch was served. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, when the waiter had left.

“I should think you would have cooled off considerably,” Stone said. “After all, you’re dead.”

“Being dead has its advantages,” she said, “but if you run into someone you used to know, it can come as a shock to them.”

“Has that happened to you?”

“From time to time, but I’ve always managed to duck out before we came face-to-face.”

“I think I prefer you as a blonde, though.”

She laughed. “I’m probably the only redhead in Palm Beach with blond roots.”

“So you’re finding it a strain, being dead?”

“I’d rather be alive.”

“Well, there is the insurance company,” Stone said.

“That’s why I called you. I want you to represent me in squaring things with those people.”

Stone blinked. “You mean you want to give them back their twelve million dollars?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Well, not all of it. I thought you might negotiate a settlement. What do you think the chances are of that?”

“I think the insurance company would be very surprised to get any of their money back.”

“How little do you think I could give them?”

“Who knows? After they get over their initial shock, they’ll probably begin to wonder who wants to give it to them. After all, both the culprits are dead.”

“I read about your part in sending Paul back to St. Marks,” she said.

“I hope you derived some satisfaction from that,” Stone replied. “After all, he could have stopped your ‘execution’ at any time, and he didn’t.”

She shrugged. “Well, that’s all in the past, isn’t it?”

“Apparently not, if you’re still suffering the after-effects.”

“Stone, I’ve always been an honest person. You mustn’t think I’m some sort of career criminal.”

“I don’t. I’ve always thought it was Paul’s idea to screw the insurance company.”

“It was. Of course, I went along with it, after he’d spent a few months persuading me. Who knew it would end the way it did?”

“Did you love him?”

“Oh, God, did I love him, and for years! It had begun to wear off, though, by the time we hatched the plot. My plan was to take half the money and kiss Paul goodbye.” She smiled. “That’s when I fell into your bed.”

“As I recall, it was your bed, but it hardly matters. I had just had the shock of my girl running off with somebody else, so I was easy.”

“Yes, you were,” she said, her voice low. “Maybe, now that I’m going to be legal again, we could see something of each other.”

Stone shook his head. “For the moment, all I can do is represent you in trying to put things right with the insurance company. If I spend any more time with you than that, then I’m a part of a criminal conspiracy.”

“But once I’m legal again . . .”

“That’s different.”

“I mean, I don’t want to start using my old name again, or anything like that. I just want to know that I can cross a border without popping up in some computer.”

“Not much chance of that, since you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I still have my old passport. I used it, until I married Winston. Then I used my old birth certificate to get a new one.”

“Did he know about your past?”

She shook her head. “Not the bad part. I reinvented my life without Paul Manning, and he believed me. He was a dear soul. He never doubted me.”

“Well, I think you’re right to want to settle this thing with the insurance company. How high will you go?”

She looked thoughtful. “Five million?”

“I should think they’d be delighted to get that much back. They wrote off the money a long time ago. Can you afford it?”

“Oh, yes. I still had ten million when I met Winston, and he had a considerable estate. Also, the market has been very kind to me.”

“You’d need to square things with the IRS.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, maybe file an amended return. Get a good accountant and let him handle it. It’s worth the money to be righteous again.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, Allison . . . I’m sorry, what do you call yourself these days?”

“Elizabeth.”

“That’s nice. I . . .” Stone stopped. No, it couldn’t be.

“I’ve had to be so wary all the time. Only last weekend, I met the most interesting man, but he’s apparently pretty well known, and I just didn’t want to get into anything like that until I had my life in order, so I got all nervous and just walked away from him.”

Yes, it could be. “And where were you last weekend?”

“In Easthampton.”

“Did you dine at Jerry Della Femina’s?”

Her jaw dropped. “How could you know that?”

“You’re Liz,” he said.

“You know Thad, what’s his name?”

“Shames.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Not if I can square things with the insurance company.” Stone got out his cell phone and notebook and dialed a number. “This is Stone Barrington. Is he available?”

“Who are you calling?” she asked.

“Yes, tell him it’s important.”

Shames came onto the line. “Stone? Anything to report?”

“There’s someone here who’d like to speak with you,” Stone said. He handed the phone to Liz.

She took it, baffled. “Hello? Yes, this is Liz. Oh, it’s you! We were just talking about you. Well, yes, I’d like to see you again. Saturday? I believe I’m free. All right, I’ll look forward to seeing you then.” She handed the phone back to Stone.

“Stone, bring her to the party on Saturday night, aboard Toscana. Seven o’clock.”

“All right.”

“See you then. Gotta run.”

Stone returned the cell phone to his pocket.

“So, you’re a matchmaker, as well?”

“Glad to be of service.”

“He is well known, isn’t he?”

“Yes, in the worlds of computer software and Wall Street, he’s something of a celebrity.”

“I don’t know about these things. I never read the Wall Street Journal.”

“Neither do I.”

She frowned.

“Anything wrong?”

“There is something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Paul Manning.”

“He’s dead.”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not.”

“But he went back to St. Marks and was . . .” Stone stopped. “You bought him out, didn’t you?”

She nodded sheepishly. “I called Sir Leslie, the barrister, remember?”

“Oh, yes. How much did it cost you?”

“Half a million.”

“You got a volume discount?”

“Stone, I couldn’t just let him be hanged.”

“Why not? He’s a triple murderer. And, when he thought you were going to be executed, he didn’t lift a hand to save you from the gallows.”

“That’s true, of course, but still . . .”

A terrible thought struck Stone. “Please tell me Paul doesn’t know you’re alive.”

She slumped. “I’m afraid he does. Sir Leslie let it slip.”

“Good God. Where is Paul?”

“I don’t know, but he was in Easthampton last weekend.”

“You saw him?”

“I was in a shop on Sunday afternoon, and he passed by in the street.”

“You’re sure it was Paul?”

“Absolutely sure. He’s kept all that weight off, and he’s had a nose job, but I recognized him just by the way he walked.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Still, I got the hell out of the Hamptons, and as soon as I got to Palm Beach, I changed my hair color. What can I do about this, Stone?”

“It’s the money he wants, isn’t it? You could try buying him off.”

“Will you deal with that for me?”

“Well, there are two problems with that. First, I don’t know where to find him. Second, the last time he saw me, he wanted to kill me, and since I got him arrested, imprisoned and nearly hanged in St. Marks, I doubt if he feels any more kindly toward me. In fact, it makes me nervous just knowing he’s out there somewhere.”

“Apparently, he wants to kill me, too,” she said. “At least, that’s what he told Sir Leslie.”

“Grateful, isn’t he?”

“Stone, what am I going to do?”

“Well, Allison—excuse me, Liz—since we don’t know how to find him, I suppose we’re going to have to wait for him to find you.”

She nodded. “Or you.”

8

AFTER LUNCH, WHEN ALLISON, NOW LIZ, HAD LEFT him, Stone took a drive around Palm Beach before returning to the yacht. He thought about Paul Manning and how he would not like to renew his acquaintance with the man. During his career as a police officer, Stone had known a number of people who would have preferred to see him dead, rather than alive, but all of them were either dead themselves, or safely locked away in prison. Except Paul Manning. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed his office number.

“Stone Barrington’s office,” Joan said.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi. How’s Palm Beach?”

“Sunny and warm.”

“Oh, shit.”

Stone laughed. “Joan, have you told anyone I’m in Palm Beach?”

“No,” she said.

“Has anybody inquired about my whereabouts?”

“I don’t think anybody cares,” she said archly.

“Thanks. Will you check my old files for one on the Boston Mutual Insurance Company? There’s an investigator there I’d like to speak to, and I can’t remember his name.”

“You want to hold? I’ve got most of that stuff scanned into the computer.”

“Go ahead and look.” Stone made a couple of turns. He was now in a handsome residential neighborhood off North County Road, which pretty much served as Palm Beach’s main street.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “He’s the chief investigative officer for Boston Mutual.”

“That’s the guy. Name and phone number?” He pulled to the curb and got out his notebook.

“Frank Stendahl.” She gave him the number.

Stone wrote it down. “Any other calls?”

She read him a short list, and he gave her instructions on handling them, then he hung up and dialed Frank Stendahl’s number. He had met Stendahl in St. Marks, when the man had come to investigate the claim on Paul Manning’s insurance policy and had ended up testifying at Allison’s trial. Stone had involved him in the capture of Paul Manning later, but the murder charges against Manning had taken precedence over Boston Mutual’s insurance fraud charges, and, since Allison had made their twelve million dollars disappear before she was “hanged,” Manning had had no money left for them to go after.

“Stendahl,” a gruff voice said.

“Frank, it’s Stone Barrington.”

Stendahl’s voice warmed. “Stone, how are you?”

“Very well, thanks. How’s the weather in Boston?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I won’t. Tell me, Frank, how do you think your company would feel about getting back some of the money you paid out on the Paul Manning policy?”

“You planning to reimburse us, Stone?” Suspicion had crept into the investigator’s voice.

“Certainly not,” Stone replied. “But it might be possible to recover a part of the sum.”

“How?”

“Let’s just say that I have a client who is interested in clearing up the matter. Not the whole twelve million, of course, but a decent fraction.”

“How decent a fraction?”

“How about a million dollars?”

“How about six million?”

“It’s not going to happen, Frank.”

“And what do we have to do to get this money?”

“Nothing, really. Just agree to a settlement and sign a release.”

“Releasing who from what?”

“Releasing anybody from any liability connected with the fraud.”

Stendahl was silent.

“Frank?”

“I’m just trying to figure this out,” he said. “Who’s your client?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential and will have to remain so.”

“I just don’t get it, Stone,” Stendahl said. “Both the people responsible for the fraud are dead, and the money vanished into thin air, or at least into some offshore account we could never find. Who would want to give us a million bucks out of the goodness of his heart?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Frank. I was contacted and instructed to contact your company and make the offer. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I just don’t get it,” Stendahl said again.

“You want me to tell my client you said no?”

“Of course not,” Stendahl nearly shouted. “I’ll have to take this upstairs, see what they have to say.”

“I can have the money in your account twenty-four hours after I receive the release.”

“I’ll tell them that.”

“And, Frank, it’s going to be an iron-clad release—broad and deep, covering anything anybody could ever have done to Boston Mutual in the matter of this policy.”

“Stone, do you have any idea how hard it would be for an insurance executive ever to sign such a document? It would turn his liver to rock candy.”

“Maybe a million dollars would melt it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

Stone gave him the cell phone number. “I’m in Florida,” he said.

Stendahl groaned and hung up.

Stone called his office again and dictated a release. “Type that up, leaving the amount blank, and have it ready to fax to Stendahl,” he said.

“Will do,” Joan replied.

Stone pulled back into traffic. On the way back to the yacht, he passed West Indies Drive, where Elizabeth Harding’s house was. He was going to have to get used to that name.

“Liz,” he said aloud. “Liz, Liz, Liz.” He thought about the nights he had spent with her aboard the yacht in St. Marks, and the memory stirred more in him than he was comfortable with. After all, he was pimping—well, that was too strong a word—representing Thad Shames in the matter of Liz Harding, and sleeping with the woman his client was chasing would probably violate some canon of legal ethics.

He was back on board Toscana, sipping a rum and tonic on the afterdeck, when his cell phone rang.

“Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Stendahl. I’m with our CEO and CFO, and I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.”

“Okay.”

Stendahl’s voice became hollow. “Now, Stone, our people are not willing to enter into this transaction without knowing more about your client and his reasons for making this offer.”

“Frank, gentlemen, client-attorney confidentiality prevents me from telling you any more than I already have about my client’s identity or motives. This is a very simple proposition: I will wire-transfer one million dollars into Boston Mutual’s account in return for a release of criminal and civil liability in the matter of the Paul Manning policy for anyone who ever had anything to do with it.”

Another voice spoke. “This is Morrison, CFO of the company,” it said. “Five million, and that’s our best offer.”

“Mr. Morrison,” Stone said, “I’m doing the offering, and while I’m at it, I’ll give you our last, best offer to settle this matter. One million, five hundred thousand dollars, and that’s it. You have only to accept or reject, but I must tell you, that if you reject this offer, when this phone call is over, you will never hear of this matter again. You simply have to decide whether you’d rather be out twelve million dollars or ten million, five.” Stone stopped talking and waited.

“Hang on,” Stendahl said, and the call went on hold.

Stone waited, tapping his fingers against his glass. If they stood firm, he could always come back with five million later. After all, that’s what Liz Harding had said she would pay.

“We’re back,” Stendahl said.

“This is Shanklin, the CEO of the company,” a new voice said. “We accept, pending a legal review of the form of the release.”

“Give me a fax number,” Stone said, then wrote it down. “Gentlemen, you’ll have the release in five minutes. Sign and fax it to my office, along with your bank account number, and FedEx the original. Upon receipt of the original, I will wire-transfer the funds to your account.”

“We’re waiting,” Stendahl said.

Stone punched off and speed-dialed his office. When Joan answered, he said, “Insert the amount of one million five hundred thousand dollars in the document, print it out and fax it to Stendahl pronto; he’s waiting for it.” He gave her the number, then hung up.

Stone sat and sipped his drink, watching the afternoon grow later. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Joan. They signed the document and faxed it back to us.”

“Great,” Stone said. He found Juanito, got the yacht’s fax number, gave it to Joan and asked her to fax the document to him, then he called Liz Harding.

“It’s Stone,” he said when she had answered. “I have news.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Boston Mutual has accepted an offer of one point five million to settle the matter and release you from any civil or criminal liability.”

“Oh, Stone,” she gushed. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to hear that.”

“Now listen,” he said. “It’s three-thirty. I want you to call or fax your bank right this minute and instruct them to wire-transfer the funds to my firm’s trust account in New York. It’s too late for them to do it today, but instruct them to wire the funds immediately upon opening on Monday morning. That way, I can have the funds wired to Boston the same day, and this transaction will be complete.”

“Then I’m a free woman?”

“I’ve no doubt that you’re a very expensive woman, but you’ll be free when that money hits their bank account. I have a copy of the release being faxed to me, and I’ll give it to you tomorrow night, when I pick you up. And I want you to fax a copy of the instructions to your bank to me aboard the yacht.” He gave her the fax number. “Now get moving.”

“Okay!”

Half an hour later, he had both faxes in hand. He took a long swig of his drink and reflected on a good day’s work. There was some small doubt tickling the back of his brain, but before he could summon it up, the rum flushed it away.

9

STONE WAS TAKING A NAP IN HIS CABIN WHEN THERE WAS a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door opened and Callie Hodges stuck her head in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stone sat up on his elbows. “It’s all right. How are you?”

“I’m good. You free for dinner?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll cook for you, then.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Find the galley when you’re awake,” she said. “I’ll be the one in the apron.”

“Be there shortly,” he said. “I’d like to grab a shower.”

“Half an hour is fine,” she said, then closed the door.

Stone went into the bathroom, a little groggy, and inspected his face. The shave was okay. He stripped and got into the shower, and by the time he emerged, he was awake again. He dried his hair, slipped into a polo shirt and chinos and made his way forward. He found the galley a deck below the bridge, off the dining room. Callie was, indeed, wearing an apron, and, it appeared, nothing else.

“Hi,” she said. “Make us a drink?” She pointed to the butler’s pantry, and when she turned back to the stove he was a little disappointed to see that she was wearing a strapless top and shorts under her apron.

“What would you like?” Stone asked.

“You were drinking vodka gimlets last night, weren’t you?”

“That’s right. Would you like to try one?”

“Love to.”

Stone measured the vodka and Rose’s sweetened lime juice into a shaker, shook the liquid cold and strained it into two martini glasses. He took them back into the galley and handed one to Callie. “Try that.”

She sipped the icy drink. “Mmmm . . . perfect!”

“What are you cooking?”

“Risotto,” she said, stirring a pot with her free hand. “It has to be constantly stirred until it’s done.”

“I love risotto,” he said.

“Any kind of food you don’t love?”

“I never eat raw animals,” he said, “or anything that might still be alive, like an oyster.”

“You don’t like oysters? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Last time I saw somebody eat oysters, he squeezed some lemon juice onto them, and they flinched. I never eat anything that can still flinch.”

“Anything else?”

Stone thought. “Celery and green peppers. I think that’s it.”

“There’s a bottle of chardonnay in the little wine fridge, there,” she said, nodding. “Will you open it? This is almost ready.”

Stone found a bottle of Ferarri-Carano Reserve and opened it. “Where are we dining?”

She was spooning risotto onto two large plates. “Follow me,” she said, picking them up. She led the way through a swinging door into a small dining room, where a table was set for two. “The big dining room is through that door,” she said. “We can seat up to sixteen in there.”

“This is lovely,” Stone said, sliding her chair under her and taking his own. He tasted the wine and poured two glasses.

“Dig in,” she said. “Don’t let it get cold.”

Stone tasted the risotto, which contained fresh shrimp and asparagus. “Superb. Where’d you learn to cook?”

“At my father’s knee,” she said. “My mother preferred his cooking to hers, so she never entered the kitchen if she could help it. Later, I did a course at Cordon Bleu, in London, and I worked for a while for Prudence Leith, who has a London restaurant and catering service there. I learned a lot from Prue.”

“How’d you come to work for Thad Shames?”

“Last summer I was cooking for a movie producer and his wife in the Hamptons, and Thad came to dinner. The producer was a real shit. He enjoyed ordering me around and complaining about my attitude.”

“Did you have an attitude?”

“Probably. Anyway, he was particularly bad that night, complaining about the food, when everyone else was complimenting it. Finally, I’d had enough. I put dessert on the table and told him I was quitting, and he could do the dishes, then I walked out. I went to my room and packed my suitcase and started walking toward the village, up the dark road. Then Thad pulled up in a car and offered me a lift. He asked where I was going, and I said I didn’t know. He offered me a job cooking for him, drove me back to his place, installed me in the guesthouse, and I’ve worked for him ever since. The job has grown to include lots of other duties, and I’ve enjoyed it.”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t working for Thad?” Stone asked.

“Probably working in a restaurant and hating it. I don’t like a big kitchen, and you have no social life at all. This job is perfect for me. You aren’t married, are you?”

“No.”

“Ever married?”

“No. Well, once for about fifteen minutes. It was sort of annulled.”

“And where is the ex-wife today?”

“Under full-time psychiatric care. I have that effect on women.”

She laughed. “I won’t pry. I just wanted to know if you were free before . . .”

“Before what?”

“Before I seduced you.”

“If I weren’t free, would it matter?”

“It certainly would,” she said. “I’ve learned not to get involved with married men.”

“I won’t ask how. Where are you from?”

“I was born in a small town in Georgia, called Delano, but I grew up mostly in Kent, Connecticut.”

“I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut.”

“Nice town.”

“Your folks still there?”

“Both dead. Daddy was a small-town lawyer and banker; my mother wrote short stories and poetry, sometimes for The New Yorker.”

“One of them was Jewish, you said?”

“Mother. She was a New York girl through and through. They met in the city at a party, and she married him and moved to Connecticut with him. She always missed living in New York. How about you?”

“Born and bred in the city. My father was a cabinet and furniture maker, my mother, a painter.”

“Were they good at it?”

“They were. Dad has work in some of the city’s better houses and apartments; Mother has two pictures in the permanent collection of the Metropolitan Museum. Mother and Dad are both gone, now.”

“So we’re both orphans?”

“We are, I guess.”

They finished the risotto, and Callie served them a salad, then dessert—old-fashioned chocolate cake.

They took their coffee onto the afterdeck and settled into the banquette that ran around the stern railing.

“So, did you have a productive day?”

“I did.”

“How did your lunch with the dead lady go?”

“Very well. I believe I solved her problem.”

Callie set down her coffee cup. “Now,” she said, “how do I go about seducing you? Do I just stick my tongue in your ear, or what?”

“It’s easier than that.” Stone took her face in his hands and kissed her for quite a long time. Their temperatures rose quickly.

“There may be crew about,” she breathed between kisses. “We’d better go to your cabin.”

“Oh, yes,” Stone said.

She took his hand and led him forward. In less than a minute they were standing at the end of his bed, undressing each other. In Callie’s case, it was quick; she was wearing only the two pieces. She sat on the bed and watched him peel off his clothes.

He knelt before her and began kissing the inside of her thighs, as she ran her fingers through his hair. He pushed her back on the bed and explored her delta, kissing the soft, blond fur at the edges. She gave a little shudder as he took her into his mouth. It took only a minute for her to come, and when she was finished, she pulled him onto her by his ears and felt for him, guiding him in.

“I love the first time,” she said, as they made love. “It’s always so . . .”

“So new,” Stone panted.

“And exciting.”

“Sometimes it gets better as it goes along,” he said, thrusting.

She thrust back. “We’ll see,” she said, and they both came together.

10

WHEN STONE AWOKE HIS CABIN WAS FILLED WITH SUNSHINE, and it was past eleven o’clock. He never slept that late, and he was surprised. Callie was gone, and her side of the bed had been made. He shaved and showered, got into some slacks and a polo shirt and, since the palms outside were moving with the breeze, tied a light cashmere sweater around his shoulders.

He found Callie on the afterdeck in a bikini, reading a novel.

“Good morning,” he said, kissing her.

She kissed him back. “You slept late,” she said.

“Something I rarely do. I must have been tired.”

She chuckled. “I should hope so.”

“You look awfully fresh,” he said.

“I’ve only been up for half an hour.”

“Good book?”

“Starts really well. A writer I haven’t read before, but I saw a good review in the Times Book Review last week. Fellow named . . .” She looked at the cover. “Frederick James.”

“I don’t know him, either.”

“A first novel, the review said. You had breakfast?”

“No, I was considering waiting for lunch.”

“How about brunch? I’ll take you to the Breakers.”

“Isn’t that a hotel?”

“Yes, and it has a nice beach club.”

“Am I dressed properly?”

“Very.” She stood up. “I’ll get into some real clothes.” She put down the book and walked off toward her cabin.

Stone sat down and picked up the book. He read a couple of pages, and by the time she returned, he had read thirty. “You’re right,” he said. “It starts well.” He looked up at her. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you, sir.” She was wearing a yellow shift that set off her tan.

They walked through the main house, and as they were about to get into her car, a small procession of Mercedes convertibles pulled into the driveway behind them, and a man got out of one and came toward them, carrying a clipboard.

“Where could I find Mr. Shames?” he asked.

“He’s on his way to Palm Beach, but he won’t be arriving until this afternoon.”

“Are you Ms. Hodges?”

“I am.”

“Oh, good. You can sign for the cars.”

She looked at the three convertibles. “Sign for them?”

“I’m delivering them from the dealer,” the man said. “Mr. Shames ordered them some time ago.”

“Sure, I’ll sign,” Callie said, and did so. “Just leave the keys in them.”

“They’re all registered. You want me to show you how everything works?”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, getting into her car. She pulled out of the drive and headed toward the beach.

“Thad has bought three Mercedes convertibles?”

“He does things like that. Come to think of it, he mentioned this a few weeks ago, and I had forgotten. He bought them for himself and the guests on the yacht to use.”

“I’m unaccustomed to people who buy expensive cars three at a time.”

“Well, if you’re going to work for Thad, you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

“Actually, my work here is nearly done,” Stone said. “I thought I’d fly home tomorrow.”

She glanced at him. “Whatever your work was, it seems to have been conducted in restaurants. You haven’t been anywhere else here, have you?”

“I guess I haven’t,” Stone replied, “and you’re right.”

“Can you tell me about it now?”

“Afraid not.”

“This is all very mysterious.”

“It isn’t, really, or at least, it wasn’t until I got here.”

“This has to have something to do with the lady in the restaurant the other night.”

“Could be.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Elizabeth Harding.”

“That wasn’t what you told me the other night. It was Alice, or something like that.”

“Allison. Allison Manning.”

“Oh, yeah, Paul Manning’s wife.”

“Widow.” Then it occurred to Stone that she wasn’t Manning’s widow, since he was still alive. He made a mental note to think about that later.

A guard let them through a gate and they drove down a narrow road beside a golf course.

“The Breakers has golf, tennis, the beach, the works,” Callie said. She parked the car. “Come on, I’ll show you the inside of the place before we eat.” She led the way into a huge, twin-towered building and into a lobby that looked like some part of an Italianate cathedral.

“Jesus,” Stone said.

“Yeah. It was built by Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate, who seems to have built just about everything on the east coast of Florida. Come on, let’s get some lunch.” She led him out of the hotel and through another security gate, where she flashed a photo ID. A minute later, they were seated on a broad terrace, overlooking a huge swimming pool and the sea.

The sun shone brightly, but the breeze made it cool, and Stone put on his sweater.

“You dress well,” she said.

“Thanks. So do you.”

“Are your suits, by any chance, made by Doug Hayward?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I’ve met a number of men who go to him, and I dragged Thad in there once and made him have a suit made. Doug’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

“I’ve never met him.”

“Oh? How can he make your clothes without meeting you?”

“I inherited a lot of stuff from a friend who died last year. It was all from Hayward.”

They ordered lunch.

“Nice friend,” she said.

“Well, I’ve known his wife for a while. She insisted I take the clothes. In fact, she just shipped them to me and said I could send them to the Goodwill, if I didn’t want them. She was afraid they’d end up in some celebrity auction.”

“Celebrity? Who was he?”

“Your favorite movie star, Vance Calder.”

“Holy mackerel. I’ve been dining with Vance Calder’s clothes?”

“You have, indeed.”

“Who killed Vance Calder, anyway?”

“Good question. There were suspects, but no conviction.”

Their lunch came, and Stone dove into a chicken Caesar salad. “How much time do you spend here?” Stone asked.

“Quite a lot, it seems. Thad does more entertaining here than in New York, so I’ve just camped out on the yacht.”

“Does he have a New York apartment?”

“He keeps that suite you saw at the Four Seasons.”

Stone shook his head.

“Yes, I know, it’s a lot of money. Thad would really prefer to live in hotels full-time, but he thought he ought to have a home somewhere, so he bought the Palm Beach house. I think he bought it as much for dockage for the yacht as for the house, but he’s got a big-time designer doing the place up. There’s a warehouse in West Palm already bursting with stuff that’s ready to move in, as soon as the builders are gone.”

“Which is when?”

“Shouldn’t be long, now. What will happen is, the painters will finish, and the next day a parade of moving vans will arrive, and by nightfall, the place will be furnished.”

Stone laughed. “When I think of how long it took me to get settled in my house.”

“And where is your house?”

“I inherited one in Turtle Bay from a great-aunt, and I spent a couple of years renovating it. Did a lot of the work myself.”

“You seem to inherit everything—clothes, houses.”

“Just those things, nothing else.”

“What sort of work did you do on your house?”

“Carpentry, mostly, but a little of everything.”

“And where did you learn to be a carpenter?”

“Same place you learned to cook: at my father’s knee.”

“Oh, right, I forgot; he was a cabinetmaker.”

“He was more than that, really; he was a kind of artist in wood.”

Somewhere, a cell phone rang. Callie picked up her straw handbag and rummaged in it, finally coming up with a phone. “Hello? Oh, hi. Where are you? Okay, I’ll be back at the house by the time you get there. Oh, and the cars came. The Mercedes convertibles? Remember? See you shortly.” She hung up. “That was Thad. He’s just landed.” She laughed. “He’d forgotten all about ordering the cars. Come on, eat up and let’s get back.”

Stone ate up, wondering about the kind of man who could order three Mercedeses, then forget about it. The longer he hung around Thad Shames, the more bizarre things got.

11

STONE AND CALLIE ARRIVED BACK AT THE HOUSE SIMULTANEOUSLY with Thad Shames, who climbed out of the back of a limo and tossed two briefcases to Juanito.

“Hey, Callie, hey, Stone!” Shames called out.

“Hey, boss,” Callie said. She pointed at the convertibles. “There are your cars.”

Shames looked them over. “Nice,” he said. He bent over, removed the keys and tossed them to Stone. “Use it while you’re here,” he said.

Stone walked along with him toward the house. “Actually, I was hoping to get a lift back to New York with you on Sunday,” Stone said. “Not much more I can do here.”

“Sorry. I’m headed to the Coast on Sunday,” Shames replied. “Why don’t you stick around for a few days and relax a bit? Callie could use the company, and I can tell she likes you. You got anything urgent waiting for you in New York?”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait a few days, I guess,” Stone admitted.

“It’s settled, then.”

They walked through the house, and Shames inspected the work done on the central hallway. “Oh,” he said to Callie, “I think we’ll have cocktails and dinner in the house. Big buffet, okay?”

“But Thad, the house isn’t finished being painted,” Callie replied.

“It will be by morning,” he said.

“But there’s no furniture.”

“It’s on its way; I called from the airplane. The painters will work straight through the night, the furniture comes at eight A.M., and tomorrow evening we’ll turn our party into a housewarming.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“It’s black tie, right?”

“That’s what I put on the invitations.”

“How many acceptances?”

“Fifty couples, give or take.”

“Nice-sized group. Feed them well.”

“I thought Maine lobster, a bourride—that’s a garlicky French fish stew—and tenderloin of beef for the carnivores. Lots of other stuff, too.”

“Whatever you say, Callie.” They had reached the yacht, and Shames led the way aboard, followed by Juanito with the two briefcases. He had apparently brought no other luggage. “Let’s talk a minute, Stone,” Shames said, beckoning to him to follow.

Stone followed him to the owner’s cabin, the first time he had seen it. They walked into a large, gorgeously furnished sitting room. Juanito deposited the two briefcases on a big desk and left.

“What do you think of Toscana?” Shames asked.

“She’s a dream,” Stone replied. “I’ve never seen anything like her.”

“Neither has anybody else,” Shames laughed. “She’s my favorite thing. If I had to give up everything but one, I’d keep her.”

“I can understand that.”

“I wish we had time for a cruise out to the Bahamas this weekend, but I really do have to be on the Coast by Sunday night. We’re having another announcement shindig out there on Monday morning.”

“Just what is this new technology your company is going to make?” Stone asked.

“It consists of a circuitboard that replaces the modem in a computer, plus some extraordinary software we’re developing for both e-companies and users that gives every customer what very nearly amounts to a T-1 Internet connection over ordinary telephone lines, twenty-four hours a day, for a monthly fee of less than fifty dollars.”

Stone knew that a T-1 was the fastest Internet connection, and that it required a special phone line to be installed. “That’s very impressive,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already allocated your shares. Bill Eggers will buy them for you the day before the initial public offering.”

“Thank you, Thad. That’s very generous.”

“You’ll be tempted to sell them the first week, but don’t; hang on to them.”

“I’ll take your advice.”

Juanito appeared with two frosty gin and tonics. They touched glasses and drank.

“Now,” Shames said, “tell me about Liz.”

“I had lunch with her yesterday,” Stone replied. “She was apologetic about rushing away from Easthampton, but she had to come back here.”

“She lives here?”

“Here and in Houston. She’s a widow, not a divorcée.”

“How long?”

“Last year sometime. She seems excited about seeing you again.”

Shames grinned like a schoolboy. “That sounds good.”

“Thad, I have a lot else to tell you about Liz Harding,” Stone said, adopting a serious mien.

“That sounds bad.”

“It’s not, necessarily, but there are things that, since you’re my client, I have to tell you about her.”

“I’ll just shut up and listen,” Shames said.

Stone started at the beginning and told Shames the story of Allison/Liz—all of it, leaving out nothing except his own affair with Allison. When he had finished, he polished off the rest of his drink, sat back and waited for questions. There weren’t any.

“That’s extraordinary,” Shames said. He got to his feet. “I think I’ll have a nap before dinner. Will you excuse me?”

Stone got up. “Of course. Thad, I want to be sure you understand about the husband, Paul Manning.”

“Ex-husband, isn’t he?”

“Ex-Paul Manning. She doesn’t know what he’s calling himself these days.”

“Well, if he’s legally dead, she’s twice-widowed, isn’t she?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m not sure what the legal ramifications are. I’ve never run into anything quite like this before.”

“She considers herself single?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Then as far as I’m concerned, she’s single, and that’s an end to it.”

“It is,” Stone said, “unless Paul Manning turns up. I think you have to consider him a dangerous man.”

“Well, he doesn’t sound stupid, so I don’t think he’s dangerous. He’s gotten away with a triple murder and major insurance fraud, so I think he has to count himself lucky, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t worry about Manning, Stone. He’s not going to risk screwing up his life by exposing his own past.”

“I hope you’re right,” Stone said.

“You will pick up Liz tomorrow night? I have a lot on my plate, what with all these guests coming.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Shames disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Stone went back to his own cabin. Thad was right, of course. Paul Manning wasn’t stupid, and, if Stone could just find him and talk to him, he’d be a rich man from the settlement Allison/Liz wanted to make with him. And then, he thought, sighing, he’d be free of this whole business, Thad Shames would have the girl of his dreams, and everybody could get on with the business of living happily ever after.

Sometime after midnight, Stone was wakened from a deep sleep by someone crawling into bed with him. He had been dreaming, and what was happening seemed an extension of his dream.

“Arrington?” he said sleepily.

“Whoa!” Callie said, sitting up and crossing her legs.

Stone shook himself fully awake. “Callie? What’s happening?”

“You were about to get made love to,” she said, “but you spoke to the wrong girl.”

“I’m sorry. I was dreaming. I thought you were . . . somebody else at first.”

“Stone, I know very well that Arrington is Vance Calder’s wife—rather, widow. The whole world knows. Why would you be dreaming of her crawling into bed with you?”

“I don’t remember exactly what I was dreaming,” Stone said, sitting up in bed and dragging a couple of pillows behind him.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said. “But if it’s none of my business, tell me so, and I’ll get out of here.”

“No, no,” he said, stroking her hair. “Arrington and I were . . . close, before she married Vance. We don’t have a relationship now, at least not a very good one.”

“You’re sure about this? I don’t want to intrude where I’m not wanted.”

He pulled her head down onto his shoulder, and she stretched out beside him. “You’re wanted,” he said.

She ran a hand down his belly until it stopped at his penis. She held it in her hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s alive!”

“Alive and well,” he replied.

She rolled on top of him, sat up and guided him inside her. She bent down and put her lips close to his ear. “You’d better be telling the truth about Arrington Calder,” she whispered, “or this will never happen again.”

12

STONE WAS AWAKENED BY CONFLICTING SMELLS—ONE chemical, one culinary. He sat up in bed in time to see Callie enter his cabin, bearing a covered tray, kicking the door shut behind her.

“Smells good,” he said. “But what’s the other odor?”

“Paint,” she replied. “The painters finished their work last night, and all the windows in the house are open. The decorators and moving people are in there now, working like beavers.” She set the tray on the bed between them and whipped off the cover. “Voilà!” she said. “Brie omelettes!”

Stone picked up a plate and dug in. “Fantastic!” He sipped some orange juice.

“We’ve got the yacht to ourselves this morning,” she said. “Thad has already made a lot of phone calls and had a business breakfast aboard and has taken a party into town for some shopping.”

“I can’t believe he’s putting that house together in a day,” Stone said.

“Oh, he’s had the designers shopping for a year. They’ve planned out every room, right down to the pictures on the walls.”

“It took me a year to get my house to that state.”

“You must not have been newly superrich,” she said.

“Good guess.”

“What are your plans for today?”

“Plans? Me? I never have plans. I just sit back and let you and Thad do it for me. I don’t think I’ve made a decision of any kind since I met the two of you. What do you have planned for me today?”

“Absolutely nothing. I plan to get some sun, do some reading and rest up for tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re going to be pretty busy, aren’t you?”

“Not if the caterers don’t want to get fired. They’re turning up at five, and I’ll show them the kitchens and where to set up. After that, they’d better not bother me because I’ll be partying.”

“Well, I think your plan for the day sounds good. I’ll join you, if that’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “By the way, do you need to rent a dinner jacket? I know a place.”

“Nope. I brought one, just in case.”

“Always prepared, aren’t you?” She finished off her omelette, took his plate, poured him a large mug of coffee and stood up. “I’ll get this stuff back to the galley, and I’ll see you on the afterdeck later.”

“Okay.” Stone watched her go, then he got up, showered, put on a swimsuit, grabbed a terry robe from the closet and walked back to the fantail. Callie was already stretched out on a chaise, wearing only her bikini bottom, reading.

“Hi, want something good to read?”

“Sure.”

She tossed him a book. “I just finished it. It’s great.”

Stone looked at the book: Tumult by Frederick James. “Oh, yes, I read some pages yesterday. Starts well.”

“Ends well, too. Enjoy.”

Stone read through the morning, broke for sandwiches and closed the book at five.

“Good?”

“Good.”

“Thad liked it, too. He had me send the author an invitation to the party tonight, but we never heard from him. I guess his publisher didn’t forward it.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get over to the house and brief the caterers,” she said. “I’ll see you at the party.”

“Think I’ll have a nap,” Stone said. He went back to his cabin and slept for half an hour, then he shaved, showered and dressed in Vance Calder’s ecru raw silk dinner jacket, a silk evening shirt and a black tie. He walked back to the house and through the central hallway, dodging frantic caterers and decorators, got into his borrowed Mercedes E430 convertible and drove into town. Shortly, he pulled up in front of Liz Harding’s house. He walked across the driveway, his evening shoes crunching on the pea gravel. The doorbell was set in an intercom box. He pressed it and it made a noise like a telephone ringing.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone.”

“Oh, Stone. The door’s unlocked; let yourself in, and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” She clicked off, and Stone opened the door and walked into the house. It was quite beautiful, Queen Anne in style, not terribly large, but made of good materials—marble floors, walnut paneling, beautiful moldings. He found the living room and continued to explore, ending up in a handsome little library with many leather-bound volumes. A small bar had been set up on a butler’s tray, and he poured himself some chilled mineral water, then he wandered around the room. A collection of silver-framed photographs rested on the mantel, and Stone inspected them. They were all of Liz Harding with a handsome, silver-haired man, clearly Winston Harding, taken in various cities and on various beaches.

“He was handsome, wasn’t he?” she said.

Stone turned and found her standing in the doorway, wearing a white silk dress and a gorgeous diamond necklace, with matching earrings. Her hair was blond again.

“Yes, he was, and you are very beautiful,” Stone said.

She came and gave him a little hug, careful not to muss her makeup. “And so are you,” she said. “That’s the most beautiful dinner jacket I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” Stone replied. He decided to stop telling people that the clothes were Vance Calder’s, and to start taking credit himself.

“Would you like a drink before we go?” she asked.

“I think we’re already fashionably late,” he replied. “Why don’t we just go to the party?”

She took his arm, and he led her out to the car.

“Drive slowly,” she said. “The hair.”

“I like it blond.”

“So do I. It’s my natural color.”

“I remember.”

“Stone!” she said, laughing and blushing.

“That wasn’t what I meant, but I remember that, too.”

“You’re awful.”

“I know.”

“Still, we had some good times, didn’t we? You were getting over a girl, as I recall.”

“And you were helping.”

“I did what I could,” she said.

Stone drove slowly through the town and finally turned into the driveway of Thad Shames’s house. Or tried to; there were half a dozen cars ahead of him. Music wafted through the open windows. Finally, he gave the keys to a valet and extracted Liz from the car. He was beginning to think of her as Liz by now. They walked through the open doors of the house and into the living room. A big band was playing Rodgers & Hart at the other end, and people were dancing.

“How spectacular!” Liz said. “I mean, in spectacular good taste!”

“It certainly is,” Stone agreed. “Would you believe that twenty-four hours ago, this was an empty, unpainted house?”

“No, I would not,” she replied. She sniffed the air. “Still, there is that faint odor.”

Stone spotted Thad Shames across the room, towering over his guests. “I think there’s someone over there who’d like to see you,” he said, taking her arm and leading her across the room.

Shames spotted them coming and went to meet them, or rather, Liz.

“Well, hello,” he said, taking both her hands and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Will you excuse me?” Stone asked. They didn’t seem to notice, so he left them and made his way across the large room to where the bar had been set up on a long table. “A gin and tonic,” Stone said to the bartender.

“Coming up,” the bartender replied.

Stone saw Callie across the room and waved to her. She waved back, but seemed to have no interest in joining him.

“Here you are,” the bartender said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied, accepting the drink.

“You know,” a voice behind him said, “I think you may look better in that dinner jacket than the original owner did.”

Stone turned around and found Arrington Carter Calder standing there, looking gorgeous. Before she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, he could see, over her shoulder, Callie Hodges making her way toward them.

13

HER LIPS MELTED INTO STONE’S, AND HER BODY WAS against his, and only the thought of Callie approaching made him take hold of Arrington’s shoulders and hold her back. He smiled broadly for effect. “It’s good to see you, Arrington.”

Then Callie was upon them. “Well, Stone,” she said, “who’s this?”

“Callie, I’d like you to meet Arrington Calder,” Stone said, trying not to dab at his lips.

“Well, clearly, you two have met before tonight,” Callie said. “How do you do, Arrington?”

“Very well, Callie. I believe we talked on the phone this morning.”

“Yes. Thad very much wanted to have you here. Have you seen him yet?”

“Yes, when I arrived.”

“I hope your room is comfortable.”

“It is, indeed, though it smells a little of paint.”

“We apologize,” Callie said. “I understand you and Stone know each other.”

“We’re old friends,” Arrington said.

“Yes,” Stone echoed, wanting somehow to guide this conversation, if he could. “And how did you manage to get Arrington here so quickly, Callie?”

“We sent the airplane for her this morning,” Callie said sweetly.

“Twenty-four hours ago,” Arrington said, “who knew I’d be in Palm Beach tonight?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, casting a sharp glance at Callie. “Who knew?”

Callie suddenly seemed flustered. “Please excuse me, I have to welcome somebody,” she said. She had not even glanced at the door, but she made off in that direction.

“And how do you know Thad Shames?” Stone asked.

“Vance and I met him in Los Angeles early last year. Vance was an early investor in some of his companies. And how do you happen to be here, Stone?”

“I’ve been doing some work for Thad, which involved coming to Palm Beach.”

“What sort of work?”

“I’m afraid it’s confidential.”

“Show me around the house, will you?” she said.

“We’ll explore together,” Stone said. “This is the first time I’ve been inside, except for the central hallway. I’m staying on the yacht, out back.”

“Then follow me,” Arrington said, taking his hand and starting out. She led him among handsome couples of various ages, beautifully dressed and coiffed. They walked across the central hall and into a large, two-story library, stocked with matched sets of books, some of them, apparently, quite old.

They found the dining room, which had been set up for a buffet, then climbed the central stairs to the second floor.

“Where are we going?” Stone asked.

“Just exploring,” Arrington replied, towing him along. “That must be the master suite,” she said, pointing at a large set of doors. They walked on farther. “Let’s see what a bedroom looks like,” she said, suddenly opening a door, tugging him inside and closing it behind her.

They were in a large, sumptuously furnished room with a huge, canopied bed, elaborate draperies and antique furniture. Stone saw a stack of luggage in a corner, and as they walked toward the windows, he saw the initials ACC stamped on the cases. “This is your room?” he asked.

“Oh, look, there’s the yacht,” she said, standing at the window. The moon was coming up and a streak of its light fell on the vessel. In the foreground, the gardens were lit with Japanese lanterns. She turned, took Stone’s face in her hands and kissed him again.

Stone felt her against him, the familiar curves of her body, the cool tips of her fingers against his skin, and he responded appropriately.

“Oh, I can feel you,” she whispered, moving her hips forward. She tugged at his bow tie, and it came undone.

Suddenly, Stone was uncomfortable, and he held her away. “I can’t do this,” he said, “not with the way things have been between us.”

“I’d like for things to be as they were,” she said.

“A lot has happened since then.”

“Most of it to me,” she said.

“I’m aware of that. But every time something happens to you, it seems to happen to me, too.”

“Poor baby,” she cooed.

“Which brings up the matter of Peter,” Stone said.

She stepped back from him. “Do we have to talk about that now?”

“Now is as good a time as any, and better than most.”

“Why do you have to be certain who Peter’s father is?” she asked. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I don’t understand that, but I’m sure you can understand why I want to know,” Stone said. “If you put your mind to it.”

She turned away from him. “Men!”

“Do you find it so odd that a man would want to know if he had a son?”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said. “Let’s go back downstairs.” She headed for the door.

Stone followed close behind her. Two couples were coming down the hall toward them, apparently touring the house. They smiled knowingly at Stone as they passed. What the hell was that about? he wondered, then he realized that his tie was untied and hurriedly retied it. He ran down the stairs after Arrington, caught up with her on the landing overlooking the living room and stopped her.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You and I cannot have a normal relationship until we settle the question of Peter.”

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” she said. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Then you don’t want to know me,” Stone replied.

She ran down the stairs, and he followed more slowly. People were looking up at them, among the crowd, Callie. Stone let Arrington make her way across the room, and he turned toward the bar and ordered another drink.

A moment later, Callie appeared at his side. “Oh, your tie is all mussed,” she said. “Let me fix it for you.” She tugged at the bow until she was satisfied. “Well, it didn’t take the two of you long, did it?”

“What?” Stone asked, distracted, then he caught her meaning. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Am I being ridiculous?” she asked. “A woman scorned, I suppose.”

“Scorned? You invited her here, didn’t you? Not Thad.”

“I suggested it to Thad,” she said. “I wanted to know where I stood.”

“If you wanted to know where you stood, you could have simply asked me,” Stone said, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “There was no need to send a jet to Virginia and haul her down here; no need to pull the scabs off old wounds.”

“I’m sorry,” Callie said sheepishly.

“You should be. You shouldn’t interfere in other people’s lives, especially when you don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

“Listen, Stone,” Callie said, now sounding angry herself. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t sleep casually with people, especially when there’s something else going on in their lives. If you and Arrington are in love with each other, I’d rather know it now, not later.”

“I didn’t bring her down here,” Stone said, “you did. I’d be grateful if you’d stop meddling in my life.” He set down his drink, turned and walked out of the room. He made his way past couples in the gardens, then to the yacht, where he made himself a large drink at the bar in the saloon and sat on the afterdeck, drinking it, watching the moonlight on the water, trying to banish the thought of both Arrington and Callie from his mind.

Later, the music stopped and the sound of slamming car doors and diminishing voices told him the party was ending. He knew he couldn’t sleep for a while, so he made himself another drink.

Then Juanito was at his elbow with a cordless phone. “Mr. Barrington, Mr. Thad is calling for you,” he said.

Stone took the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, please come over to Liz’s house right away,” Shames said. “I’ve already called the police.”

Stone started to ask why, but Shames had already hung up.

14

STONE DROVE QUICKLY, BUT NOT TOO QUICKLY, THROUGH the streets of Palm Beach. It was well after midnight, now, and traffic was light, but he did not wish to attract the attention of a traffic cop at this moment. He swung into West Indies Drive and, shortly, into the driveway of Liz’s house. One of Thad Shames’s Mercedes convertibles was parked outside and, beside it, what was obviously an unmarked police car. The front door of the house stood wide open.

Stone walked quickly inside and looked around. No one was in sight. “Hello!” he called out.

“In here,” came a man’s voice through the living room and to his left. Stone followed the sound and arrived in the study. Shames and Liz, who appeared to be unharmed, and a man in a police officer’s uniform with stars on the shoulders stood in the center of the room, which was a mess. All the pictures on the mantel had been swept onto the floor, a large mirror on one wall had been shattered and much of the furniture had been overturned, reducing some small porcelain figurines to shards.

“What’s happened?” Stone asked.

“We’re not sure,” Shames replied. “Stone, this is Chief Dan Griggs of the Palm Beach Police Department. Chief, this is my and Mrs. Harding’s attorney, Stone Barrington.”

The chief offered his hand. “I thought I knew all the attorneys in town,” he said. “Good to meet you, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone shook the man’s hand. “And you, Chief. I’m based in New York; that’s why we haven’t met. What’s happened here tonight?”

Shames spoke up. “Liz and I arrived to find the front door open and the place a mess.”

“The whole place? The living room looked all right.”

“I’ve had a look around,” the chief said. “This is the only room that was disturbed.”

“Anything missing?” Stone asked.

Liz spoke up. “I can’t find anything gone, just broken.”

“What about the door? Was it forced?”

Griggs shook his head. “Either it wasn’t locked, or somebody had a key.”

“I’m afraid it may not have been locked,” Liz said sheepishly. “I tend to forget. Anyway, Chief Griggs and his men take such good care of us all that it hardly seems necessary.”

“I thank you, Mrs. Harding,” the chief said, obviously pleased, “but we’d really prefer you to lock your doors.”

“I’ll make a point of it from now on.”

“So this is vandalism?” Stone asked.

“Looks that way to me,” Griggs replied. “Nothing taken, only this room messed up; nothing else to call it.”

“Chief, have you had other incidents like this in town?”

Griggs shook his head. “We might get some spray paint on a building or a bridge sometimes—teenagers, you know—but I can’t recall an incident of vandalism in a private home, unless it was connected to a burglary.”

“No known perpetrators of this sort of thing around town?”

“None in our files.”

“Chief, why don’t you and I take a walk through the house. Liz, Thad, will you excuse us for a couple of minutes?”

“Of course,” they said together.

Stone and the chief left the room, and Stone led him toward the stairs. “Let’s take a look up here.”

Griggs followed him, but at the top, stopped. “I’ve already walked through here with Mrs. Harding,” he said.

“I know,” Stone replied, “but I wanted to make you aware of a situation.”

“Go right ahead,” Griggs said.

“Mrs. Harding was formerly married to a man named Paul Manning, a well-known writer. Her name was Allison Manning, at the time.”

“Why’d she change it to Elizabeth?”

“To get away from Manning.”

“And you think he did this?”

“Very possibly. The photographs on the mantel were of Mrs. Harding and her late husband. Looks like a jealous rage to me.”

Griggs nodded and wrote something in his notebook. “Mr. Barrington, your name is familiar. Were you ever on the police force in New York?”

Stone nodded. “For fourteen years.”

“I’ve got it,” the chief said. “The Sasha Nijinsky case.”

“That’s right. I retired about that time; disability.”

“You look pretty healthy to me.”

“Bullet in the knee.”

“Hope you got the son of a bitch.”

“My partner did.”

“Allison Manning,” the chief mused. “Something about an island?”

“That’s right. She was accused of murdering her husband, but, of course, he wasn’t dead.”

“Saw something about it on Sixty Minutes.”

“Yes. It got a lot of press at the time.”

“You’re a pretty high-profile lawyer up there, aren’t you?”

“Not when I can help it.”

“You got a card?”

Stone handed him one, and he pocketed it. “About this Paul Manning. You think we’re going to hear from him again?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You think he might harm Mrs. Harding?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Chief, I hope you’ll keep all this background information in confidence. I’m sure Mrs. Harding wouldn’t want people to connect her with a past incident that was very traumatic for her.”

“We have a lot of well-known people in Palm Beach, and I run a very discreet department,” Griggs said.

“I’m sure you do, and I appreciate your discretion.”

“Can we go back downstairs, now?”

“Yes, I just wanted to discuss all this with you privately.”

They started down the stairs.

“Tell you what,” Griggs said. “I’ll put a man on the house for a while. Nobody’ll notice him, not even Mrs. Harding.”

“I’d be grateful for that,” Stone said.

“Of course, I can’t keep people on this forever, if nothing happens.”

“I understand completely. I’m going to suggest to Mr. Shames that he invite Mrs. Harding to stay at his house. He’s going out of town for a while, but I’m sure his staff could make her comfortable there.”

“Good idea,” Griggs said.

“Maybe your man could stay in the house?”

“With Mrs. Harding’s permission, sure.”

“I’ll have a word with her.”

They reached the study.

“Liz is going to come back to the house with me,” Shames said. “She’ll stay with us, at least until I get back from the Coast.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “Liz, the chief would like to have one of his men stay in the house. Is that all right?”

“Oh, yes,” Liz said. “That would be wonderful.” She went to a desk drawer, found a spare key and gave it to the chief, along with the alarm code.

“Well, if you folks don’t need me anymore, I’ll be going,” the chief said. “I’ll have a man here in half an hour.”

Hands were shaken all around, and the chief departed.

“I’d better pack some things,” Liz said, and left the room.

Shames turned to Stone. “It’s this Manning guy, isn’t it?”

“Very likely,” Stone said. “This has none of the markings of a random crime—nothing taken, only one room disturbed.”

“So, he’s tracked her down.”

“It looks that way.”

“I’m glad you’re staying on for a while, Stone. I feel better knowing you’re here to take care of her.”

“I’ll let Woodman and Weld know.”

“I’ll call Bill Eggers and arrange everything.”

“Thank you.”

Shames was quiet for a moment. “Stone,” he said finally, “you think he’s going to try to kill her?”

“I think if that’s what he had in mind, he’d already have tried. This was obviously to frighten her.”

“It worked,” Thad said. “She was a mess for a few minutes after we got here. There are some guns on the boat. I’ll have Juanito make them available to you.”

“I hope I won’t need a gun,” Stone said. “But you never know.”

Stone followed Thad and Liz back to the house, and when they were safely inside, he walked back to the yacht and his cabin. His adrenaline was still a little high, and he got out of his dinner jacket and the rest of his clothes and into a hot shower. He was drying himself when he heard a soft knock at the cabin door. He got into a robe and went to answer it.

He opened the door to find Callie Hodges standing there, in a silk dressing gown, holding a 9mm automatic pistol.

15

STONE STARED AT THE ARMED YOUNG WOMAN. “MY money or my life?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, handing him the gun. “Thad wanted you to have this. I can’t imagine why. What’s happened?”

“Nothing serious,” he replied. He checked that the safety was on, then tossed the gun onto the bed.

“May I come in for a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.” He stood back and allowed her to enter.

She went and sat on the sofa before the fireplace. “Would you like a fire?” she asked. “It’s cool tonight.”

“All right.” He went and sat on the sofa beside her, keeping some distance between them.

She found a box of long matches, checked to be sure the flue was open and lit the fire. The kindling caught, and the fire blazed cheerily. She switched off the ceiling light and sat down on the sofa again. “I want to apologize to you for my behavior today.”

Stone didn’t say anything. He was still annoyed with her.

“I was interfering in your life without any idea of the consequences. I hope having Arrington here didn’t make things worse between you.”

“They were already pretty bad,” he replied. “I suppose I had a chance to make it up with her, but I didn’t like the terms.”

“You accept my apology?”

“I do,” he said, his voice softening, “and I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. I don’t have the right to ask.”

“I’ll explain anyway,” Stone said. “I told you about my trip to the islands, where I met Allison Manning, now Liz Harding, but I didn’t tell you that, at the time, Arrington and I were living together in New York. We were supposed to fly down together, but she was delayed and missed the flight, and then there was a snowstorm, and she was stuck there for another day. She was a magazine writer, and The New Yorker asked her to do a profile of Vance Calder, whom she already knew. She accepted, and the next thing I knew, she had gone back to California with him, and they were married, almost overnight.”

“That must have come as a shock.”

“It did. A bigger shock came later, when she told me she was pregnant.”

“With your child or Vance’s?”

“She didn’t know. It could have been either of us. In due course, she had the child, I supplied a blood sample, and so did Vance. She called to say that the boy was Vance’s, and that was that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s more. When Vance died, I went out to help Arrington handle the situation, and in so doing, I learned that Vance may have been in control of the test results.”

“So, you’re the father?”

“It may be that the results showed that Vance really was, but if not, he could have had the report changed.”

“So you may be the father and you may not?”

“Right.”

“So why don’t you do the test again?”

“Arrington doesn’t want it done.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d think she’d want to know for sure who the father of the child is.”

“You’d think.”

“Who does he look like?”

“He looks like both Vance and my father.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry, but it’s a little . . .”

“Yes, I know, funny.” He smiled himself.

“So that’s how you left it with Arrington?”

“That’s it.”

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “If the test were done, and the child turned out to be yours, what would you want to do about it?”

“I’m not sure, except I’d want him to know, eventually, and I’d like to have some part in his life.”

“What about Arrington? Wouldn’t you want her back?”

“Arrington and I seem to be . . . I think the expression is ‘star-crossed.’ She’s a volatile person, and every time we have seemed to be getting close to each other again, something happens to blow it up.”

“And that’s what happened tonight?”

“I told her that if she didn’t want to know who the boy’s father is, then she didn’t want to know me.”

“Then how, may I ask, did your tie get mussed up?”

Stone laughed. “Arrington had just pulled it loose when I made my little speech, and she stalked out.”

“Out of where?”

“Out of her room.”

“And how did you get to her room?”

“On foot.”

Callie laughed again.

“I thought we were touring the house. I didn’t know where her room was.”

“So you were led down the garden path?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Callie stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Poor Stone,” she said. “Between Arrington and me, you’ve had a rough time tonight, haven’t you?”

“Beset from all sides,” Stone said, kissing her fingertips.

“Can I make it up to you?” she asked, sliding across the sofa toward him.

“You can try,” Stone said.

She put her hand on his leg under the robe and slid it up his thigh. “How’s this?” she asked.

“It’s a start,” he replied.

She untied his robe and took it away, then untied her own robe, letting it drop to the floor. She pressed him back on the sofa, knelt beside him and kissed his penis.

Stone made a little noise.

She took him into her mouth and played gently with him, rubbing a nipple, getting the response she wanted at both ends. She held his testicles in one hand, doing inventive things with her tongue, then she stopped for a moment. “This is just for you,” she said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I want you now,” Stone said, panting a little.

“Maybe later,” she said, taking him into her mouth again. She pushed his legs apart and pulled his knees up, then began exploring the cleft of his buttocks with her fingers.

“I’m going to explode soon,” Stone said.

“Not yet,” she replied, then began again. She moved her head slowly up and down, beginning with the tip, then pressing until nearly the whole length of him had disappeared.

Stone couldn’t find words, only noises.

Then Stone exploded, and she stayed with him for another minute, prolonging the orgasm, keeping him going until he could only cry out and collapse back onto the sofa.

Finally, cradling his testicles in a hand, she laid her head on his belly and kissed it softly. “How are you?” she asked.

“I can’t make a fist,” he replied.

“You hardly need to,” she laughed.

They remained that way for a moment, then she climbed onto the sofa with him and lay on top of him, nestling her head into his shoulder.

“There’s something else I should tell you,” he said, “just so you won’t think I’m keeping anything from you.”

“I’m listening.”

“When I heard about Arrington and Vance—I was on the island of St. Marks, at the time—Allison Manning and I had . . .”

She raised her head. “Each other?”

“Yes. I was angry with Arrington, and Allison . . .”

“Was there?”

“Yes.”

She laid her head back down. “Well, Allison is somewhere down the road, and I’m here, so just stay away from her.”

“That may be difficult,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody broke into her house this evening and trashed a room. Thad has brought her back here. He’s asked me to look after her while he’s on the Coast.”

She raised her head again. “Where’s that gun?”

He pulled her head back down. “Not to worry.”

“How do I know that?”

“Let me show you,” he said. He rolled her onto her back and knelt beside the sofa, the way she had. With his tongue, he explored her soft fur. “How’s that for reassurance?” he asked.

She pulled his head back into her lap. “It’s a start,” she said.

16

STONE WAS STILL SLEEPING SOUNDLY WHEN HE WAS awakened by the sound of his cabin door opening. He lifted his head and saw Callie approaching with a breakfast tray. She was fully dressed.

He sat up on his elbows. “What time is it?”

“A little after nine,” she said, setting the tray down on the bed. “I’ve been up since six, seeing that everybody got breakfast before Thad and Arrington left for the Coast.”

“They’re gone?”

“Half an hour ago. After our conversation of last night I didn’t think you’d want to get up early to say goodbye.”

Stone laughed. “After our, ah, ‘conversation’ of last night, I don’t know that I could have gotten up. I may spend the day in bed.”

“I’d spend it with you, but there are some odds and ends with the painters and builders that I have to deal with. And, by the way, your friend Allison—sorry, Liz—is moving onto the yacht, into Thad’s cabin.”

“Why?”

“She complained that the odor of drying paint gave her a headache. I’d like to give her a permanent one.”

“What have you got against Liz Harding?”

“Her past with you, of course, and now she’ll be right down the corridor. See that your door is securely locked before retiring, please.”

“Then how will you get in?”

“I have a key,” she said smugly, “and I know how to use it.”

“Fear not—you’ve rendered me incapable with another woman. I’m not sure I can walk.”

“Don’t walk, eat,” she said, stuffing a croissant into his mouth. She walked to the door, then turned back. “You’re going to need your strength,” she said. “See you tonight.”

Stone bit off a bite of the croissant and lay back on the bed, chewing.

At midmorning, showered, shaved and dressed, Stone ventured out of his cabin and found Liz Harding sitting on an afterdeck sofa, reading a book about Palm Beach.

“Good morning,” he said. “Feeling better today?”

“Feeling safer,” she said, “since I’m here with you.” Her voice was kittenish.

“You’re not here with me,” he said. “You’re here with Thad.”

“But you’ll protect me while he’s gone.”

“Yes, but I’m not expecting anything untoward to happen. Are you?”

She closed her book and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I don’t know anymore,” she said. “It took me a year after I left St. Marks before I began to relax, and the marriage to Winston before I felt really safe. But after last night . . .”

“It may just have been some teenaged vandal,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I hope you’re right,” she replied. “Now, I want to do some shopping, and I don’t think I’d feel safe unless you were with me.”

“All right, I’ll tag along. Since I’m staying longer than I’d planned, I could probably use a few things myself.”

“I’ll get my purse,” she said.

They found a parking spot on Worth Avenue and strolled slowly down the street. Stone glanced around occasionally, looking for anyone resembling Paul Manning. Liz had said he’d had a nose job, so Stone concentrated on tall men. Manning was at least six-three, he remembered. Everyone he saw was comfortingly short.

He sat in the husband’s chair in a shop as Liz tried on dresses. He flipped idly through one of several Palm Beach magazines, which featured grinning people in lavish clothes, photographed at parties, and many shots of overdecorated interiors of huge houses. There were ads for Rolls-Royces and Ferraris and many for jewelry.

They went into the Polo Ralph Lauren shop, where Stone bought some extra underwear and socks, along with a spare cashmere sweater for the cool evenings he had not anticipated.

He followed Liz into a jewelry shop and looked at a Cartier Tank Francaise wristwatch, while she tried on a diamond bracelet.

“You like?” she asked, holding out her wrist.

“I like.”

“I like your watch, too.”

Stone gave it back to the saleslady. “It’s beautiful, but . . .” The “but” was twenty grand, he thought.

Liz bought the bracelet, which came to nearly thirty thousand dollars, Stone noted. “I’ll wear it for Thad, when he comes back,” she said.

“When is he coming back? He didn’t tell me.”

“Tomorrow or the next day, depending on how his business goes.”

“Don’t forget to call your insurance company to put the bracelet on your policy.”

“Thank you. I would have forgotten. I did call my bank about the settlement with the life insurance company. The funds will be wired to your bank today.”

“Good. I’d like to get that settled as soon as possible.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“I’ll call my office when we get back to the yacht.” As he spoke, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, answering it. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Joan.”

“How are things in the big city?”

“Running smoothly. The bank called. Mrs. Harding’s money is in your trust account. You want me to complete the transaction with the insurance company?”

“Please.”

“I’ll get the wire off now, and we should have a confirmation today, I expect.”

“Great. What else is happening?”

“One or two calls; I put them off. When are you coming back?”

“Thad Shames has asked me to stay on a few days. I’ll let you know later in the week.”

“Okay. Remember, sunshine causes skin cancer.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” He punched off and turned to Liz. “The money’s on its way to the insurance company.”

“Wonderful. Can I buy you lunch to celebrate? We can go back to Renato’s.”

“Sure. I liked it there.”

They ate pasta and chatted. “Now that you’re going to be a truly free woman, what are your plans?” he asked.

“Well, I think that depends on how it goes with Thad,” she said. “So far, so good. He’s very sweet . . . and virile.” She smiled.

Stone laughed. “He’d have to be to keep up with you, as I recall.”

“We were quite something for a short time, weren’t we?”

“I guess we were, at that.”

“You were the first man I’d slept with besides Paul for a very long time, and I found the experience, well, liberating.”

“I’m glad.”

“I have the distinct impression that you’re liberating Callie Hodges, at the moment.”

“I didn’t say that,” he blustered.

“You didn’t have to. I took one look at her this morning—or rather she took one look at me—and I knew. She knows we slept together, doesn’t she?”

Stone nodded and sipped his wine. “I thought it best to tell her.”

“You getting serious about this girl?”

“Too soon to say,” Stone said, uncomfortable.

She placed her hand on his. “I’m sorry to embarrass you, Stone. It’s just that I think I envy her a little. Maybe more than a little.”

Stone didn’t know what to say.

“But,” Liz said, “we must learn to be content with our lot, mustn’t we? Lord knows, I have no complaints. I was just feeling a little greedy.”

“I’m flattered,” Stone said.

They walked back to the car, and as Stone opened the door for Liz, he noticed that the rear tire on the curb side had gone flat. He squatted and examined it. There was a large hole in the tread, too big a hole for a slow leak. It was as if somebody had plunged a knife into it.

Stone shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into the rear seat. “I’m afraid we’ve got a flat,” he said. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes to change.”

“Why don’t you call the Mercedes service people?” she asked. “They’ll come and change it.”

“It’ll only take a minute.” He opened the trunk and went to work. He thought about it as he cranked the jack. Was somebody really crazy enough to slash a tire in broad daylight in the middle of Worth Avenue?

17

STONE SPENT THE AFTERNOON READING, AND LATE IN THE day Joan Robertson called from New York.

“We’ve closed with the insurance company,” she said,

“and I’ve wired the funds. Want me to fax you a fully executed copy of the document?”

“Please,” Stone replied. “I expect Mrs. Harding would like to have it.”

“Right away.” She paused. “Stone?”

“Yes?”

“There’s something I think I ought to mention. It seemed like nothing, really, but I just have a feeling . . .”

“What is it?”

“You’ve had some phone calls the last few days, from a man who wouldn’t give his name.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to speak to you; then, when I told him you were away, he wanted to know where you were.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No, I felt uneasy about it. I just told him that I’d have you call him, but he wouldn’t leave a number.”

“How did he sound?”

“Nice, at first, then insistent. He was very annoyed that I wouldn’t tell him where you were.”

“And he wouldn’t leave a number?”

“No, but I nailed him on caller ID. The first two times he called from the Brooke Hotel, on Park Avenue.”

“Did the readout give a room number?”

“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.”

“You knew he was dead?” The chief sounded annoyed.

“He’s not dead. St. Marks is a small, independent nation with a strange justice system and a greedy prime minister. He was bought out.”

“Bought out of a hanging?”

“For half a million dollars.”

“I never heard of anything like that,” Griggs said.

“There are some places where it happens.”

“So you think we might have a murderer loose around here?”

“It’s possible. I still don’t have any concrete evidence of that, but if I come across any, I’ll let you know.”

“How many people did he kill?”

“Three.”

“Well, I think I’d like to see him in my jail.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to arrest him for, yet,” Stone said.

“Three murders isn’t enough? Isn’t there any evidence against him?”

“It happened in another country, and my guess is the evidence no longer exists. According to the record, he was tried, convicted and executed, so, in a legal sense, he’s not only protected by the law on double jeopardy, he no longer exists.”

“Except he does.”

“He does.”

“You got a description of this man? I’d like to distribute it to my people.”

“Tall, six-three or -four, on the slender side when I knew him, although he used to be a lot heavier, I’m told. Hair could be any color. He had a prominent nose when I knew him, though he’s apparently had a nose job, so I’m not sure I’d recognize him on sight.”

“So, tall is all we’ve got?”

“That’s about it. He might have gotten heavier, but I doubt if he’s gotten any shorter.”

The chief laughed. “I guess not. Okay, he’s tall and dead. I’ll let my people know.”

“I’ll call you if I learn anything else,” Stone said. The two men said goodbye and hung up.

Liz appeared on the afterdeck in a bikini, looking fetching.

“I’ve got something for you,” Stone said, handing her the envelope.

She took out the agreement and read it swiftly. “My get-out-of-jail-free pass,” she said, smiling.

“Well, not exactly free,” Stone reminded her.

“It’s worth every penny.” She put her arms around him and gave him a big kiss, reminding him, for a moment, how much he had enjoyed her embrace in the past.

Stone looked over her shoulder and saw Callie coming up the gangplank. “All in a day’s work,” he said, gently removing her arms from his neck.

She tucked the document into her purse. “I’m going up on the top deck and catch some sun,” she said.

“See you later.” He watched her climb the stairs, then turned to greet Callie.

“I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” she said, poking him in the ribs.

“Just her sincere thanks for a job well done,” he replied.

“What kind of job?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

“A professional job,” he said, giving her a kiss.

“If she does it again, I’m going to do a professional job on her,” Callie said.

“Say, have you, by any chance, seen a tall man hanging around the house or the neighborhood?”

“No, but . . .”

“But what?”

“There was a tall man at the party I didn’t know and didn’t invite.”

“How tall?”

“Real tall; taller than you.”

“Hair color?”

“Dark, going gray.”

“Nose?”

“Straight. Rather nice-looking man. I started to work my way over to him to find out if he was a crasher, but at that moment you arrived with Liz, which distracted me, and when I looked for him again, he was gone.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yes.”

“If you see him again—anywhere—I want to know about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “But why?”

“Let’s just say that I’d like to speak with him.”

18

CALLIE COOKED DINNER FOR THE THREE OF THEM, TAKING her time about it, and it was nearly ten when they sat down.

“You’re a superb cook, Callie,” Liz said, tasting her sweetbreads.

“Thank you, Liz,” Callie replied. She turned to Stone. “Compliments, please.”

“Wonderful,” Stone said. “Everything is wonderful.”

“A little quicker about it next time, if you want to continue to dine so well.”

“I could not be more grateful,” Stone said, tugging an imaginary forelock.

“Praise accepted,” Callie replied.

They ate in silence for a while, not even bothering with desultory conversation. Callie finished, got up and went for dessert.

“Callie is very attractive,” Liz said.

“Yes, she is.”

“I think I’m a little jealous. I had an awfully good time in your bed—or rather, in mine—and I haven’t forgotten a moment of it.”

“Neither have I,” Stone said, “but if quoted, I’ll deny I said that.”

“She’s very attractive,” Liz said, looking across the room at Callie.

“You said that before.”

“Why don’t we try . . .” She stopped.

“Try what?”

“Oh, what the hell—why don’t we try a threesome?”

Stone nearly choked on his wine.

“What, do you find the idea so repulsive?”

“Hardly,” Stone said, recovering himself. “It might just be too much of a good thing.”

“Are you afraid she won’t?”

“I’ve no idea how she would react, and I’m not going to find out.”

“I’ll feel her out,” Liz said. “So to speak. Don’t worry. I’ll be subtle.”

“Now listen,” Stone said, but then he looked up to see Callie returning with dessert. He shot Liz a glance and turned to receive a warm crème brûlée. “Looks wonderful,” Stone said.

Callie sat down. “So what have you two been talking about?” she asked, looking at Liz, then at Stone.

“Sex,” Liz said.

Stone gulped.

“What about sex?”

“Are you for it, or agin’ it?”

Callie laughed. “I’m all for it,” she said.

Stone felt panic rising in his chest. This conversation was out of control—out of his control, anyway. At that moment, Juanito appeared with the cordless phone. Stone could have kissed him.

“For you, Mr. Barrington,” the steward said.

Stone took the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Dan Griggs. I’m sorry to call you so late.”

“That’s all right, Dan. What’s up?”

“One of my men—a plainclothesman—has spotted somebody matching the description of this Paul Manning.”

“Where?”

“Downtown, at a bar and restaurant called Taboo.” He gave Stone the address.

“He’s still there?”

“At the bar, talking to a woman. You want me to have him picked up?”

“No, Dan, I’ll go down there myself.”

“Okay. My man will be around if you need backup. His name is Detective Riley—short, good-looking, wears sharp suits.”

“I’ll call you later,” Stone said. He hung up and turned to the two women. “Something’s come up. I have to go downtown,” he said.

“I’ll come with you,” Callie said.

Stone had to think only for a nanosecond. He didn’t trust the two of them alone together. “All right,” he said. “Liz, do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’m going to have a brandy and turn in.”

“Let’s go,” he said to Callie. He led the way off the yacht and to the car.

“Where are we going?” Callie asked.

“You know a bar called Taboo?”

“Sure.”

“Get me there.”

“Okay, but why are we going there?”

“A man answering the description of the man you saw at the party is there. I want to know if it’s the same man.”

“Who is he?”

“I can’t really answer that until I’ve talked to Liz.”

“He’s part of the legal matter?”

“Yes.”

“Take a left, then a right,” she said.

Stone followed her directions.

“Is that why you wanted me to come along, so I could identify him?”

“Yep.”

“I got the feeling you didn’t want Liz and me talking about sex.”

“I can’t imagine how you got that idea,” Stone said.

“Well, you were obviously uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. What was Liz talking about?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to ask her, if I want to know.”

“Oh, all right,” Stone said. “She suggested that she and you and I have a threesome. I want to point out that it was she who raised the subject, and I said absolutely nothing to encourage her.”

“Turn right again,” Callie said.

Stone turned.

“So what did you tell her?”

“I didn’t tell her anything. I was too surprised.”

“What were you going to tell her, after you’d recovered from your surprise?”

“I wasn’t going to tell her anything.”

“Why? Did the idea not appeal to you?”

Stone turned and looked at her.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” she said. “And take the next left.”

Stone turned left.

“Have you ever been in a threesome?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“I have, once.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised.

“In college, with two guys. We were all good friends. It was just a one-time romp.”

“You astonish me.”

“For such a sophisticated man, you can be so . . . naive. Didn’t you think I would enjoy having two men?”

“Did you?”

“Very much, although we were all so embarrassed the next morning, we never repeated the experience.”

“Why were you embarrassed?”

“We were very young,” she said. There was a long pause. “I’m older, now, but I’ve never been in bed with a woman—in a threesome, I mean.”

“And not in a threesome?”

“Oh, sure. Most girls have tried that. It’s not such a big deal as it is with men.”

“I’ve heard other women say that.”

“So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About a threesome, with Liz and me?”

Stone looked up ahead and saw an awning, with the restaurant’s name emblazoned on it. “There’s Taboo,” he said, grateful for an excuse to avoid answering.

A valet took the car, and Stone and Callie went inside. The bar was straight ahead, and Stone saw Paul Manning immediately.

19

THE BAR WAS UP FRONT, THE RESTAURANT AT THE REAR. The place was subtly lit, and a pianist was playing quiet jazz underneath the conversation at the busy bar. Stone spotted Detective Riley leaning against the piano, holding a glass apparently filled with mineral water. Riley motioned toward the bar, but Stone was already staring at Manning’s back.

He nodded at Riley and turned to Callie. “See the tall man at the middle of the bar, talking to the brunette?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the man you saw at the party?”

“Looks like him from behind, but I can’t see his face.”

“Come on.” Stone took her arm and guided her toward the couple. The brunette, looking past her companion, flicked an eye toward them, then turned back to her conversation.

Stone stopped a pace from the couple. “Paul!” he said, loudly enough to be sure he could be heard.

The man’s head jerked around in an instantaneous reaction.

“That’s the man,” Callie whispered.

“I’m Stone Barrington. I’m sure you remember.”

The man turned fully around and regarded Stone, his brow wrinkled. His hair was longish and dark, flecked with gray. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, “but weren’t you at the Shames party the other night?”

Stone looked at him carefully. The face was thin, the nose straight. He was the right age, and there was a resemblance to the Paul Manning he had known, but the nose seemed to change everything. “Yes, I was, but we met some time ago, in St. Marks.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I put into St. Marks a few years ago on a sailing charter, but I don’t recall meeting you there.”

“I’m sure you remember your wife,” Stone said.

The brunette looked up sharply at the man.

“My wife died last year,” he said.

“Oh, longer ago than that,” Stone said.

“I think I would remember when my wife died,” the man said quietly.

The brunette spoke up. “You didn’t tell me, Paul. I’m sorry.”

“I hadn’t had time, yet, but thank you,” he said to her. He offered his hand to Stone. “I’m Paul Bartlett, and this lovely lady is Charmaine Tallman,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Stone nodded at the woman and shook the man’s hand. “Stone Barrington.”

“Do you live in Palm Beach, Stone?”

“No. How about you?”

“I arrived a couple of weeks ago.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Stone asked.

“Actually, I’m house-hunting. I sold my business late last year, and I suppose I’m taking early retirement.”

“What sort of business?”

“Graphic design.”

“Where?”

“Minneapolis. I thought I’d try somewhere with a warmer winter. Florida seemed attractive. Where are you from, Stone?”

“New York,” Stone replied. The man displayed not a hint of nerves. Could he be mistaken?

“Did you think I was another Paul?”

“Does the name Paul Manning ring a bell?”

“Writer? I read some of his stuff a few years ago, but not recently.”

“How did you come to be at the Shames party?” Callie asked.

“I came with the Wilkeses,” he said. “We just stopped by for a drink on the way to another dinner.”

“How do you know the Wilkeses?”

“From Minneapolis. I used to do a lot of his company’s design work—product packaging, mostly.”

Callie nodded.

“Does the name Allison ring a bell?” Stone asked.

“I had a secretary named Allison, once.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stone saw Detective Riley moving slowly past them. He stopped a few feet behind Paul Bartlett.

“I can’t get past the feeling that you think I’m someone else.”

“I can’t get past that, myself,” Stone replied. “What was the name of your firm?”

“Bartlett and Bishop,” he replied. “We were bought out by a New York-based firm. May I offer you a drink?”

“Thanks, but we have to be going,” Stone said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again. Where are you staying?”

“At the Chesterfield,” Bartlett replied. “Call me anytime.”

“Thanks. Ready, Callie?”

“Sure.”

Stone gave the couple a small wave and guided Callie out of the bar.

On the sidewalk, as they waited for their car to be brought around, the policeman approached them. “Mr. Barrington? I’m Dave Riley.”

Stone shook his hand. “Of course. Chief Griggs said you’d be here.”

“Was that your man?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “He’s the right size and age, but I haven’t seen him for a few years, and I’m told he’s had his nose altered. Did you hear any of our conversation?”

“I got his name and his story about the business.”

“Can you check that out? Maybe get a photograph of Paul Bartlett?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Riley said.

The car arrived. Stone thanked the detective and he and Callie got in and drove away.

“What he said about the Wilkeses rings true,” she said. “He was standing near them when I saw him, and Mr. Wilkes does have a lot of business interests in the midwest.”

“At first I was sure it was Manning,” Stone said. “But now . . . Well, let’s see what the police turn up.”

“Why are the police involved?”

Stone took a deep breath. “I’ve already told you about Allison; Manning was her husband.” He told her the story.

“And you think Manning is in Palm Beach? What evidence do you have of that?”

“Nothing concrete,” Stone said. “Just a hunch, brought on by the trashing of Liz’s study at her house.”

“Bizarre,” Callie said.

“Indeed.”

They pulled into the driveway of the Shames house, got out and walked toward the yacht.

“So,” Callie said, “what about this threesome?”

“Well, there are problems about that,” Stone said, trying to think of some.

“What sort of problems? I’m certainly not one of them. I think she’s very attractive.”

“She’s my client, and she’s the girlfriend of another client, for a start.”

“And where in the canon of legal ethics does it say you can’t sleep with a client?”

“I, ah, can’t quote you chapter and verse, but believe me, it’s inadvisable.”

“Come on, Stone, what’s the real reason? You’re a red-blooded American boy. You must harbor the fantasy of two women in bed with you—and with each other.”

“I can’t deny that,” Stone said, reaching the gangplank and helping her aboard. “I suppose the main reason is that I wouldn’t want to share you with anybody, not even another beautiful woman.”

“Now, that was the politic thing to say,” she said, smiling at him. “But is there some other reason?”

“Apart from what I’ve already said, it just doesn’t feel right,” he replied.

“Now, that’s the best reason you’ve given me,” she said. “Maybe another time.”

“You never know,” Stone replied.

“I can tell you’re interested,” Callie said.

“How?”

She rubbed the back of her hand across the front of his trousers. “Let’s just say, it shows.”

Stone laughed and pulled her to him. “Think you could be satisfied with just me?”

“I expect so,” she replied, leading him toward his cabin.

20

STONE HAD A LATE BREAKFAST THE FOLLOWING MORNING and was finishing his coffee, when Juanito came aboard from the house with a Federal Express package for Stone. He ripped it open.

Joan wrote in a note: “Bob Berman brought this by for you. He said you’d know what it is.”

Stone lifted a four-inch-thick stack of computer paper out of the box and looked at the first page. It was a computerized registration form for the Brooke Hotel in Manhattan. The fanfold paper opened to reveal what appeared to be the entire guest list for the Brooke on the previous Friday.

Liz came on deck looking fresh and new in a short linen dress. “Good morning,” she said. “What’s that?”

“I had some phone calls from a Manhattan hotel last week; fellow asked for me and wouldn’t leave a number.”

“You think it might have been Paul?”

“Maybe. It would be a big help if you would go through these registration forms and see if any of the names seems familiar to you—not just people you know, but names that Paul might have chosen for a new identity.”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to.”

“When you’ve done that, I’d like you to take a ride with me.”

“Where?”

“I met a man last night who could possibly be Paul, but I couldn’t be sure. The nose was different, as you said, and that seemed to change everything. Anyway, I haven’t seen him for some years, and I’m not sure how good I’d be at identifying him. I’d like to see if we can spot him around his hotel and let you get a look at him.”

“Okay, and I can tell you that when I saw him in Easthampton he looked very different from his old self. I spotted him as much by his walk and his body language as by his appearance.”

“What sort of hair did he have?”

“His natural dark, going gray; that hadn’t changed.”

“How long?”

“Not too long; longer than yours, though.”

“Does the name Paul Bartlett ring any bells?”

“Just the Paul. But if Paul were hiding out, I don’t think he’d use his real first name. He’s a lot smarter than that.”

“Sit down, and let’s go through this hotel list together.”

“Okay. Can I have some coffee first?”

Stone rang for Juanito and ordered the coffee, then they started through the stack of fanfold paper. They had gone through only a dozen or so names when Liz stopped. “Garland,” she said. “Donald Garland.”

“Familiar?”

“Garland was Paul’s mother’s maiden name. Donald was his father’s first name.”

“Do you know how to contact them? Maybe he’s been in touch.”

“Both dead,” Liz said.

“Mr. Garland is from San Francisco,” Stone read from the document. “Says here he’s with Golden Gate Publishing, and he lives in Pacific Heights. When it’s opening time out there, I’ll check him out.”

They continued to read through the list for a while, then Juanito appeared with the telephone. “For you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Dan Griggs.”

“Morning, Dan. I expect Dave Riley briefed you on last night’s events.”

“Yes, and we’ve checked out Mr. Bartlett. He’s from Minneapolis, as he said, and he did sell his design firm last year.”

“Oh,” Stone said. “I guess that lets him out.”

“Not necessarily,” Griggs said. “He had owned the firm for only two years when he sold it, and I haven’t been able to find out anything about him before that, which is unusual.”

“I thought I’d take Mrs. Harding over to his hotel this morning and see if we can spot him. She thinks she can identify Paul Manning.”

“It’s a nice thought, but he checked out this morning; said he was going back to Minneapolis on business.”

“He doesn’t have a business,” Stone pointed out.

“I’m checking with the airlines to see if he was on any outbound flight this morning,” Griggs said. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Stone said, and hung up.

Liz was still going through the guest list. “I haven’t come across anything else yet,” she said.

“Paul Bartlett has checked out of his hotel,” Stone said. “Said he was returning to Minneapolis on business. Did Paul Manning have any connection with Minneapolis?”

“No, but he wouldn’t have settled in a place where anybody knew him.”

“How recognizable would he have been to his readers? Did he do a lot of book signings? Have his photograph on the book jackets?”

“The only photograph of Paul that ever appeared on a book jacket or in a press release from his publishers would have been one taken when he was very heavy and had a full beard. He would be completely unrecognizable to any reader now.”

“Bartlett recently sold a graphic design business. Did Paul have any design inclinations?”

“He was a fine arts major at Syracuse,” Liz said. “He drew and painted quite well.”

“Did he take any design courses? Anything that would give him the skills he would need for graphic design?”

“I don’t really know,” she said. “He didn’t talk about college all that much.”

Callie appeared on deck. “What are you two doing?” she asked.

Stone explained the stack of paper.

“And how did you get the guest list of a New York hotel?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Juanito came back with the phone for Stone.

“Hello.”

“It’s Dan Griggs. Paul Bartlett didn’t take any flight out this morning, and he didn’t charter any aircraft on the field, but he did turn in his rental car at Hertz, at the airport.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Stone said. “Why would he drive to the airport and turn in his car, then not fly out? How would he leave the airport without transportation?”

“I’ll check the local cab companies and see if a driver picked up anyone answering his description,” Griggs said.

“You might check if he rented a car from another company, too, and if so, what kind and what license number. Might be nice to get his driver’s license info from Hertz, too.”

“I got that. It lists a Minneapolis address.”

“Issued when?”

“Two years, three months ago.”

“Can you check with the Minnesota motor vehicle department and find out if it was a renewal or a new license, and if he turned in a license from another state?”

“Sure, that’s pretty easy.”

“Oh, and what’s his date of birth on the license?”

Griggs told him, and he repeated it to Liz.

“Eighteen months younger than Paul,” she said.

“Keep me posted,” Stone said to Griggs, and hung up.

Liz was still going through the hotel list.

“Anything at all?” Stone asked.

“Just Garland so far,” she said. “Pity the hotel doesn’t photograph its guests.”

“I’ll bet it won’t be long before they start that,” Stone said. “That’ll make it easier to track fugitives.”

“And errant husbands,” Liz said. “I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Bartlett.”

“He said she died last year.”

“Might be interesting to check with the Minneapolis Police Department and find out if that’s true and, if so, how she died,” Liz said.

“You know something, Mrs. Harding,” Stone said. “You’d make a good cop.” He picked up the phone and called Dan Griggs.

“It’s Stone. Bartlett said his wife died last year. Can you check with the Minneapolis PD and see if there was foul play suspected?”

“Sure can do that,” Griggs said. “Bartlett’s driver’s license was issued after a driving test, not swapped for another state’s.”

“Now that’s really interesting,” Stone said. “How many middle-aged men take driving tests?”

“Only those who learned to drive late in life, and that’s not likely—and those who haven’t driven for a long time or who’ve been out of the country long enough for their licenses to expire.”

“And people who need new identities.”

“Right. Something else: I talked with the Hertz clerk at the airport, and she said Bartlett was picked up by somebody in a BMW. She could see the curb from her desk.”

“So he could still be in town.”

“Or on a road trip.”

“Yeah. Dan, could you check with an outfit called Golden Gate Publishing in San Francisco and find out if their employee Donald Garland matches Bartlett’s description?”

“Okay. They open in an hour out there. How’d you get onto this Garland?”

“You’d rather not know, but there’s an outside chance he could be Manning.”

“I’ll get somebody on it.”

“Thanks.” Stone hung up and gazed across Lake Worth.

“What?” Liz asked.

“Somebody picked up Bartlett at the airport. I wonder why.”

Callie was leafing through the hotel guest list.

“Callie? Where do the Wilkeses live?”

“On North County Road.”

“Let’s go see them.”

21

“TELL ME ABOUT THE WILKESES,” STONE SAID. “WHAT Tare their first names?” They were driving up North County Road. To their right, usually behind high hedges, were houses that fronted the beach.

“Frank and Margaret,” she said. “He founded a chain of fast-food restaurants in the Midwest, and later, he bought some other companies. He’s very rich.” She pointed. “The house is the next one.”

Stone pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, which was tightly shut. A section of hedge prevented the house from being seen from the street.

“I think I’m uncomfortable just ringing the bell,” Callie said.

Stone handed her his cell phone. “Tell them we’re in the neighborhood, and we’re calling at the suggestion of Thad Shames.”

Callie made the call, chatted brightly with Mrs. Wilkes for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “Okay,” she said, “they’ll see us.”

Stone pulled up to the gates, reached out the window, rang the bell and the gates opened. The driveway was longer than Stone had expected, and they emerged in a cobblestoned circle with a fountain in its center. The house was an old one, in the Florida Spanish style, and appeared to have been carefully restored. Stone and Callie got out of the car and rang the front doorbell.

The door was answered by Margaret Wilkes, dressed for golf in a plaid skirt and polo shirt. “Callie, come in,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

“Mrs. Wilkes, this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Thad’s.”

“How do you do?” Stone said, and shook her extended hand.

“Please come back to the terrace,” she said. A houseman appeared from the rear of the house. “Bobby, please bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”

Frank Wilkes rose from a wicker sofa on the rear terrace to greet them, and introductions were made. The terrace overlooked a large pool and a garden, with the Atlantic beyond. Both the Wilkeses were charming and unpretentious.

After the lemonade had been served, Stone got to the point. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes . . .”

“Please, Frank and Margaret,” Wilkes said.

“Thank you. I’m here, on Thad Shames’s behalf, to inquire about a Mr. Paul Bartlett, of Minneapolis. You know him, I believe.”

“Yes, of course,” Wilkes replied. “For several years.”

“May I ask just how many years?”

“Well, let’s see: He had a design business in Minneapolis, and he and his partner made a presentation to us, oh, a little over two years ago. That’s when we first met. We hired them to redesign all our paper products—plates, sandwich cartons, the hats for the counter people, that sort of thing. Why do you want to know about Paul? Is he in some sort of difficulties?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that he bears a resemblance to someone I used to know and that Thad is interested in. We only want to know that he’s who he says he is.”

“I see,” Wilkes said. Clearly, he did not. “Who did you think he might be?”

“Did you meet Mrs. Winston Harding at Thad Shames’s party?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Harding is a close friend of Thad’s. The man we’re interested in was someone she knew in the past, who dropped out of sight a few years ago. No one knows what happened to him, but there are indications that he might be in Palm Beach. Someone noticed that Mr. Bartlett resembled this man, whose name is Paul Manning.”

“Well, why don’t you ask Paul about this?”

“I did, last night, but he pretty much denied being Manning.”

“But you’re not convinced?”

“Thad has asked me to investigate the possibility that Bartlett and Manning are the same man.”

“Then why don’t you arrange for Paul and Mrs. Harding to meet? Surely that would answer the question.”

“I had hoped to do that, but Mrs. Harding doesn’t wish to see him. Also, Mr. Bartlett checked out of his hotel this morning.”

“That’s news to me,” Wilkes said.

“I just wondered if you had any knowledge of Bartlett’s background before you first met him.”

“I saw a résumé at the time,” Wilkes said. “He had a broad background in advertising and graphics design, worked for several places in New York, as I recall.”

“Did you check with any of his former employers for a reference?”

“No. We would ordinarily do that with a prospective employee, but we dealt with Paul as an outside contractor, and frankly, we were more interested in the presentation he prepared for us than in what he had done in the past. We were very enthusiastic about the work, and that was all that mattered.”

“Do you know anyone who has known Paul Bartlett much longer than you have?”

Wilkes thought about that for a moment. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

“Did you know Mr. Bartlett’s wife?”

Margaret Wilkes spoke up. “Oh, yes. In fact, we introduced them. Such a shame about Frances.”

“I understand she’s deceased?”

“Yes, in an accident last year. Terrible thing.”

“How did it happen?”

“She and Paul were out driving on a Sunday afternoon, and they swerved to miss hitting a deer. Frances was thrown through the windshield and killed instantly.”

“Who was driving?”

“Paul was, but he was wearing a seat belt.”

“There was no passenger-side air bag,” Wilkes said, “and apparently the buckle on Frances’s seat belt failed or was defective. I urged Paul to sue the car company, but he didn’t have the heart. He just wanted to put it behind him. That’s why he sold his company.”

“Do you know if he made a lot of money on the sale?”

“I shouldn’t think so; they were a fairly new company. I think the people who bought them wanted the talent they employed and me for a client more than anything else. Of course, Paul would be quite well fixed, though.”

“How is that?” Stone asked.

“Well, Frances was very wealthy. She’d lost her husband a few months before she and Paul met, and he’d left a considerable fortune.”

“I see,” Stone said.

“Mr. Barrington,” Margaret Wilkes said, “you’re beginning to frighten me. Are you thinking that Paul might somehow have caused Frances’s death?”

“At this moment, I have no real reason to think so, Mrs. Wilkes. I’m simply concerned with learning whether he is, or once was, Paul Manning.”

“This Manning,” Wilkes said, “what was his relationship to Mrs. Harding?”

“He was her first husband.”

“And what sort of man is he?”

“Not a very nice one, I’m afraid.”

“Was this just some domestic dispute?”

“More than that,” Stone said. “Manning murdered three people.”

“Good God!” Wilkes said. “He’s dangerous, then?”

“Manning certainly is, but please remember, I have no evidence yet that Manning and Bartlett are the same man.”

“Well, I hope to God you’ll find out!” Wilkes said.

“I know this is upsetting to you and Mrs. Wilkes,” Stone said, “and I apologize for that.”

“No, no, if Paul is this Manning, then we certainly want to know. I assume you’ll have him arrested.”

“We’ll take whatever measures are appropriate,” Stone said.

“I’ll hardly know what to say to Paul when we see him,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

“Do you expect to see him anytime soon?”

“Why, yes. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”

“Here, in this house?”

“Yes,” she said.

Wilkes spoke up. “Perhaps you’d better come, too,” he said.

22

THE THREE OF THEM STOOD ON THE AFTERDECK, STONE in black tie, Callie in a silk dress and Liz in a terry robe.

“I wish you’d come with us,” Stone said to Liz.

Liz shook her head. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.

Callie patted her small purse. “I’ve got a camera in here,” she said. “I’ll get his picture.”

“All right, let’s go,” Stone said. “I’ve no idea what time we’ll be back, but I’ve asked Juanito to keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Liz said.

Stone and Callie walked to the car and drove north.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Callie said.

“I don’t think anything will happen. I’ll contrive to stand next to Bartlett, and you’ll take our photograph, come hell or high water.”

“Have you alerted the police?”

“No. If he is Manning, he’s not charged with anything. I just want an opportunity to get him alone and to put an offer to him.”

“What sort of offer?”

“Liz is willing to pay him to go away.”

“Oh. And you think that will work?”

“I can only hope so.”

“What if he still denies being Manning?”

“I’ve got a friend in New York working on Bartlett’s background. Maybe we’ll be able to present him with some evidence that he’s not who he says he is.”

“Tonight?”

“Probably not that soon, although my friend has my cell phone number.”

“This is kind of exciting,” Callie said, giggling.

“All in a day’s work,” Stone said drily.

The gates of the Wilkes house were open, and a valet took their car. Stone and Callie walked into the house and were greeted by Frank and Margaret Wilkes in the foyer.

“Stone, Callie, welcome,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

“Thank you for asking us, Margaret,” Stone replied. “Is he here yet?”

“No. In fact, he called and said he couldn’t make it in time for drinks, but he’d be here for dinner.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. Why don’t you two go on out to the terrace and have a drink. Frank and I will be along as soon as all our guests have arrived.”

“Thank you, we will.” Stone led Callie through the house and out to the same terrace where they had sat earlier that day. A dozen couples had already arrived and were drinking and talking to the tune of a light jazz trio, which was set up beside the pool.

Callie saw some people she knew and introduced Stone. A waiter brought them drinks, and they chatted with the other guests. Soon the crowd had swelled to around fifty, and the Wilkeses joined their guests on the terrace.

Margaret Wilkes tugged at Stone’s sleeve and whispered, “I’ve arranged the place cards so that you and Paul are at the same table.”

“Thank you,” Stone said.

Conversation continued for another half hour, then they were called to dinner. The very large dining hall had been set up with tables of eight, and Stone and Callie found their place cards and Paul Bartlett’s. Callie was seated next to Bartlett, and Stone was two places away. They had barely introduced themselves to their dinner partners and sat down, when Paul Bartlett entered the dining room, stopped to kiss his hostess on the cheek, then made his way to his place.

He looked surprised to find Stone and Callie there. They shook hands. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, Stone,” he said. “How did you come to be here?”

“Callie is a friend of the Wilkeses,” Stone said. “They were kind enough to ask us.”

“Oh,” he replied, but he didn’t seem satisfied with the answer.

The first course was served, and Stone and Callie exchanged a glance and a shrug. No opportunity to get a photograph at dinner. It would have to be later.

The woman on Stone’s right was deep in conversation with Bartlett, to the exclusion of Stone, who had to occupy himself with the dinner companion on his left, a handsome woman in her seventies.

“And who are you?” she asked him, with a touch of imperiousness.

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“And how do you know the Wilkeses?” There was suspicion in the question.

“My companion for the evening is a friend of theirs,” Stone said, nodding in Callie’s direction.

“Goodness,” the woman said, taking in Callie. “One wouldn’t think she would need a walker.”

“A walker?” Stone asked.

“Isn’t that what you are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, darling. My name is Lila Baldwin. Perhaps you could give me your card, for the future?” She nodded toward her own date, a sleekly handsome man in his thirties, who sat next to Callie. “I’m afraid I’ve had about all of Carlton that I can bear for one season.”

Stone gave the woman his card, then the penny dropped. The woman thought he was for hire as an escort, maybe more. “If you should ever need an attorney, please call me,” he said.

“Attorney?” She looked at the card, holding it at arm’s length. She apparently didn’t want to be seen in her glasses.

“Woodman and Weld, in New York,” Stone said.

She looked at him more closely, squinting. “Your firm did my estate planning,” she said. “A lovely man named William Eggers.”

“I know him well,” Stone said.

“You don’t look like an estate planner,” she said, accusingly.

“No, that’s a little out of my line,” he replied. “I’m more of a generalist.”

“And what sort of problem would I hire you for?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing specific. If you should have a problem of any sort, call Bill Eggers, and he’ll know if I’m your man.”

“Oh, I think you could be my man, no matter what my problem was,” she said.

Stone was trying to come up with an answer to that when his tiny cell phone, clipped to his waistband, began to vibrate silently. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and walked toward the dining room door, fishing out the phone and opening it, but keeping it concealed in his hand until he was out in the hall.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Bob Berman said.

“Have you got something?”

“This guy’s an amateur,” Bob said. “His identity is paper thin. There’s nothing in his credit report going back more than two and a half years. His driver’s license is green as grass, and he’s only got one credit card, one of those that’s guaranteed by a savings account. No mortgage or bank loans on the record, only a car loan, from a high-interest loan company.”

“His design company must have done business with a bank.”

“Probably, but I’ll bet his partner did all the financial stuff. Bartlett would never survive even the most minimal credit check for any substantial business. There’s not even a history of other bank accounts, nothing in the New York credit bureaus, either.”

“Anything on who he really is?”

“If you can get a fingerprint on a bar glass or something, I could run that. Otherwise, I’ll need a lot more time to nail him down.”

“I’ll have a shot at it,” Stone said. “Call me if you come up with anything else.”

“Will do.”

Stone returned to his table, stopping to whisper in Callie’s ear. “It’s looking good. When dinner’s over, try to slip a glass or something with his fingerprints on it into your purse.”

“Love to,” she said.

Stone returned to his seat and the attentions of Lila Baldwin, glancing at Paul Bartlett, who seemed to be having a good time. Stone wanted to end his good time.

23

THE WOMAN SITTING BETWEEN STONE AND PAUL Bartlett got up between courses and went to the powder room, and Stone took the opportunity.

“Paul, I was out at the airport this morning. Did I see you leave in a BMW?”

Bartlett looked at him as if Stone had seriously invaded his privacy. “Were you following me?” he demanded.

“Of course not,” Stone said. “I was at the airport, and I saw you. that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Bartlett waved a hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m being paranoid.”

Stone wondered what he had to be paranoid about.

“I took my rental car back to Hertz. I bought a car this morning, and the salesman picked me up and drove me to the dealership.”

“Oh, what did you buy?”

“A Bentley.”

“Very nice.”

“Were you considering one?”

“No, the Bentley is out of my league. If you’re making that sort of investment, you must have decided to stay on in Palm Beach.”

“Well, I am looking for a house.”

Callie was on her feet, digging into her purse. “Let me get a shot of you two,” she said. “Stone, move over a seat.”

Bartlett waved her away. “No, please. I don’t enjoy being photographed.” When Callie seemed to persist, he nearly barked at her. “Sit down,” he said. “Please. I take a Muslim view of photography: It steals one’s soul.”

“If one has a soul,” Stone said.

Bartlett shot a glance at Stone, picked up a liqueur glass, downed the contents and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said.

“You’re not leaving,” Callie said.

“Terrible headache,” Bartlett replied.

“Still at the Chesterfield?” Stone asked.

“Sure, call me anytime. Good night.” He strode toward his hostess’s table, spoke to her for a moment, kissed her on the cheek and left the room.

Callie reached over, picked up the small liqueur glass, wrapped it in a tissue from her purse and dropped it into her bag. “Better than a photograph,” she said.

Stone looked up to see Frank Wilkes coming toward them. He sat down in Bartlett’s chair. “Paul has abandoned us, I see.”

“Yes, he seemed uncomfortable.”

“Stone, after speaking with him, do you think he may be the man you’re looking for?”

“I think he may be,” Stone said, “but even if he’s not, he’s not the man he says he is.”

“Then who is he?”

“I hope to know more about that soon, Frank. I’ll let you know when I find out.”

“I’d appreciate that. Margaret and I introduced him to Frances, his wife, and the thought that he might have had something to do with her death is, naturally, very disturbing to us.”

“I can understand that. Can you tell me everything you remember about the accident?”

“It was on a Sunday afternoon, I remember. Paul and I had a golf date, and Frances picked him up at the clubhouse when we had finished—must have been around six. They were on the way home when . . .” He stopped. “No, they weren’t on the way home. We played at the Manitou Ridge Golf Club, in the Minneapolis suburbs, and their house—Frances’s house—is west of there. The accident happened along the shore of White Bear Lake, which is east—no, northeast of the club. After the funeral, I remember asking Paul what they were doing out in that direction. He said Frances had wanted to go for a drive along the lake. I didn’t say anything at the time, but that seemed odd to me. I can’t explain why, exactly, but it seemed out of character for Frances to want to do something as idle as go for a drive. She was the sort of person who would never take the long way home, if there was a shorter route.”

“And what do you remember about the accident itself?”

“The papers said that they were coming around a curve when a deer jumped out of the brush, and in trying to avoid it, Paul went off the road and smashed into a tree. Frances went through the windshield and hit the tree, killing her instantly.”

“You said earlier today there was something wrong with the seat belt?”

“Yes, I remember reading that. I told Paul he should sue, but he wanted no part of that.”

“Do you remember anything else about the accident or its aftermath that struck you as odd?”

Wilkes thought about it. “A few weeks later I was playing golf with a friend of mine, Arthur Welch, who was Frances’s lawyer. He mentioned that Paul had sold Frances’s house, and that surprised me.”

“Why?”

“Well, I knew that when Frances and Paul married, she insisted on a prenuptial agreement that severely limited any inheritance for him in the event of her death. The bulk of her estate was to go to a local art museum. When Arthur told me Paul had sold the house, I mentioned the prenup, and he told me that Frances had rescinded the prenup and had made a new will.”

“When?”

“Less than a month before her death.”

“I see.”

Wilkes rubbed his forehead. “I think I see, too. I didn’t want to believe it, but now . . .”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet,” Stone said. “Let’s wait until we know more.”

Wilkes nodded. “You’re right,” he said.

“And please don’t do anything that might make Bartlett feel that your relationship with him has changed, or that you don’t want to see or talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Wilkes said. “Margaret will, too.”

As they left the party, Stone called Chief Dan Griggs.

“Dan, can you meet me at your office?” Stone asked. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure, Stone. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Stone took a minute to bring Griggs up to date on what he had learned that evening.

Griggs nodded as he heard the story. “So, if Bartlett is Manning, and if he killed his wife for her money, he has committed a crime, after all. We’d have grounds for an arrest.”

“I think you’d have to have a long talk with the Minneapolis police department before we’d know about that,” Stone said. “After all, if they’d suspected him, they’d probably have already arrested him.”

“Good point,” Griggs admitted.

“We may be able to confirm his identity anyway,” Stone said. “Callie, the glass?”

Callie removed the liqueur glass from her purse and set it on the table.

Stone picked it up by the stem and held it against the light. “There’s at least one good print on here,” he said.

Griggs picked up the phone and pressed a couple of buttons. “Sam, it’s Griggs,” he said. “I want you to lift some prints from a drinking glass and run them through the computer.” He hung up, and almost immediately, a detective came into the room, took the glass and went away with it.

“Well,” Stone said, rising, “let me know what results you get.”

“Hang on,” Griggs said. “This won’t take as long as you think.” He got up and left the office for a few minutes, then returned. “A good right thumbprint and two partials,” he said. “My guy is running them through the FBI computer now. Come on, let’s go see what he comes up with.”

Stone and Callie followed Griggs down a hallway to another office, where the detective was sitting at a computer.

“Got anything yet, Sam?” Griggs asked.

Sam hit the return key and sat back. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Hang on,” he said, “what’s this?”

The group walked around the computer and looked over the detective’s shoulder. The screen displayed a message:

ACCESS TO THIS FILE DENIED.

ENTRY REQUIRES APPROVAL

AT DIRECTOR LEVEL

UNDER PROTOCOL 1002.

“You ever seen anything like that before, Sam?”

“No, Chief, I haven’t.”

“What’s protocol ten-oh-two?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Sam said.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Griggs muttered.

“I’d really like to know that,” Stone replied.

24

THE NEXT MORNING, STONE CALLED DINO. “HOW ARE you?”

“Not bad. Where the hell are you now?”

“In Palm Beach.”

“You rotten bastard.”

“Yeah, I sure am.”

“And if I know you, you’re getting paid for it.”

“Right again.”

“Why didn’t I go to law school?”

“Listen, I want to run something by you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I’m trying to identify a guy down here who isn’t who he says he is. You remember our friend Paul Manning that you arrested for me?”

“Sure, he’s dead.”

“Nope.” Stone took Dino through what he knew about Manning/Bartlett thus far. “Then last night, I got his prints off a glass, and the local cop shop ran them for me.”

“And he turns out to be the Lindbergh baby?”

“Nope. At least, I don’t think so. But something weird happened: We’re logged on to the FBI print database, and when we transmit the print, we get a message saying access is denied without approval from the director level, and it mentions something called ‘protocol ten-oh-two.’ What it sounds like to me is some sort of national security thing, like maybe he has a CIA connection.”

“Nah,” Dino said. “I’ll tell you what I think it is, and I’ll give you five-to-one odds I’m right. The guy is in the witness protection program.”

This stopped Stone in his tracks. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Manning’s background is not that of somebody the government would want to protect. In fact, he doesn’t even exist, in a legal sense.”

“Maybe he testified against somebody in a criminal trial somewhere.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I would think that Manning would do everything he could to avoid putting himself in such a position. Also, Bob Berman checked out Bartlett, and he says the man’s identity is thin, that he has no financial background to speak of. Even his driver’s license is recent. That doesn’t sound like the kind of identity the Department of Justice would create for somebody in the program.”

“No, it doesn’t, but there’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“Let’s say that Manning or Bartlett, or whoever whatever the fuck his name is, gets involved in some criminal deal, and he gets busted and rats out his partners in return for immunity and the program.”

“Possible, but it seems unlikely.”

“Go with me, here, Stone. Anyway, they put him in the program and he finds himself stuck in Peoria or someplace, running a Burger King, and he doesn’t like it. So he bails out of the program—happens all the time. Once the government gets these people in the program, the feds run their lives, and they’ve got fuck-all to say about it. Lots of them go overboard.”

“True enough.”

“So our guy is on the street, now. Maybe he sells the business and the house the government bought him, so he’s got a few bucks. He finds someplace he likes, in this case, Minneapolis, though God knows why anybody would want to be stuck there in the winter, but he can’t use his old name because whoever he ratted on still wants to cut his heart out and eat it for dinner. So he has to make up his own new identity, and he doesn’t do the greatest job in the world. After all, he’s not Justice; he can’t call up the State Department and tell them to issue him a new passport, so he does the best he can. He gets a local driver’s license, picks up a credit card and finds a business partner who’s real and who can deal with the banks.”

“Makes sense.”

“Then he meets the rich widow, and pretty soon he’s living in a much nicer house, and he doesn’t need the business anymore, or, for that matter, the wife, so he sells one and does away with the other, and he gets away with it. Now he’s rich, footloose and fancy fucking free, and he’s house-hunting in Palm Beach and shopping for a Bentley.”

“Okay, I buy it.”

“I don’t,” Dino said. “I don’t buy it for a minute.”

“What? Why not? You just convinced me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a pushover for a good story, Stone. You always were.”

“What are you talking about, Dino? Have I missed something?”

“You usually do, pal, and this time it’s this: If Bartlett is Manning, why would he hunt down his ex—well, his previous wife and start harassing her? He risks bringing himself to the attention of the local police, which he has already done, and exposing himself—in the fully clothed sense of the expression. Why would he want to do that?”

“Because he’s pissed off at her for running off with all the money he stole, and he’s crazy as a fruit bat, and he knows how to hold a grudge.”

Dino didn’t say anything.

“Well?”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. After all, you can’t depend on criminals to behave sensibly. I got another question, though.”

“Okay.”

“He doesn’t look enough like he used to look for anybody to ID him, even you. You didn’t get a picture of the guy, so Allison can’t identify him because she won’t be in the same room with him, and the FBI won’t tell you who his prints belong to. How are you going to know, once and for all, who he is?”

“I wish you hadn’t asked that question.”

“Because you don’t know the answer?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Dino sighed deeply. “It looks like I’m going to have to come down there and straighten this out for you.”

Stone had sort of been hoping he would; he missed Dino.

“You’ll have to bring Mary Ann.”

“Nah, she won’t come while the kid’s in school.”

“How is Ben?”

“Well, his grandfather hasn’t turned him into a made man yet.”

“And how is Eduardo?”

“As mean as ever. He never gets older, just meaner.”

“And Dolce?”

“I don’t know. Mary Ann won’t talk about her. I guess she’s still nuts. Eduardo’s got her locked up in farthest Brooklyn, and I don’t see her ever getting out.”

“When can you come?”

“Tomorrow, the next day, maybe. I can get the time off, I think. Can you find me a sack?”

“Sure, and a nice one, too.”

“I’ll call you with my flight number.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you.”

“See you.”

25

THE FOLLOWING MORNING IT WAS, TO STONE’S ASTONISHMENT, raining, and raining hard. Juanito had put up clear curtains around the afterdeck, so Stone had breakfast alone there and checked with Joan for messages. He returned half a dozen calls, including one to Bill Eggers.

“I spoke to Thad yesterday,” Eggers said, “and he is one happy client. I hope you’re not thinking of coming back to New York before you clear up any remaining problems. If you do, I’ll have you hit over the head in the airport and put you on the next airplane back to Palm Beach.”

“Oh, I’m sticking it out,” Stone said, “and it has turned interesting.”

“How so?”

Stone went through the whole story once again.

“You know,” Eggers said when Stone had finished, “being a partner in this firm is not nearly as interesting as what you do.”

“Probably not. By the way, I sat next to one of your clients at dinner last night—a Lila Baldwin.”

“Oh, God,” Eggers groaned. “Be careful around her. Once, during a discussion of estate tax avoidance, she grabbed my crotch.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I was, I can tell you.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life.”

“Right, and I’d better get back to it. Call me if you need any backup.”

“Will do.”

Stone had hardly hung up when the phone rang. He punched a button. “Shames residence.”

“May I speak with a Mr. Stone Barrington, please?” A male voice.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Barrington, my name is Ebbe Lundquist. I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department.”

“How are you?”

“Okay. Earlier this morning I had a very interesting conversation with Chief Griggs of the Palm Beach PD.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, and I immediately checked our records on Mrs. Frances Bartlett.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found that the smashup was handled as an accident by the traffic division of the sheriff’s department, and since they didn’t suspect foul play, we were never brought into it. Apart from reading about it in the papers, this was the first I’ve known about it.”

“I’m glad Dan Griggs enlightened you.”

“He said that you enlightened him. You’re ex-NYPD, right?”

“Right.”

“Ever work homicide?”

“For many years.”

“You think this was a homicide?”

“It has that distinct odor.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Griggs told you about Bartlett’s little identity problem?”

“Yes, we’re looking at that now.”

“That’s a tip-off. Then there’s the fact that Mrs. Bartlett rescinded a prenuptial agreement and made a new will in Paul Bartlett’s favor less than a month before she was killed. And I understand she was very rich.”

“First I’ve heard of that,” Lundquist said. “I’ll check it out. We’re looking for the wrecked car, too. Right now, I’m not sure where it is.”

“I’d be very interested in what you learn,” Stone said.

“Tell me, what’s your interest in Paul Bartlett?”

“He may be harassing a client of mine.”

“Enough harassment to put him in jail?”

“Not yet, not unless he tries to harm her.”

“So, if we arrested him for the murder of his wife, that would be okay with you, huh?”

“Sure would. But please don’t think I’m trying to frame him for it to get my client off the hook. The information that Griggs and I passed on to you is just what I came up with, almost by accident. If he’s a murderer, I’d like to see him nailed for it, but I’m not positive he’s the guy who’s harassing my client. There’s a physical resemblance, and that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Griggs told you about the FBI hold on his fingerprint file?”

“Yeah. I’ve run into that once before. It’s not going to help.”

“I don’t see how it would hurt a homicide investigation. You can convict him as Bartlett or as John Doe; you don’t need his real identity. I’m the one who needs that, so if you come up with something along those lines, I’d really like to hear about it.”

“Can I reach you at this number?”

“Yes, and I’ll give you my cell phone number, too.” He recited the number.

“Got it. I’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you know where this guy can be found?”

“No. He checked out of the Chesterfield Hotel yesterday and didn’t leave a forwarding address. He says he’s house-hunting, and that he bought a Bentley. So far, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in leaving Palm Beach, unless he’s worried about me. I did ask him a few pointed questions.”

“Do me a favor and don’t crowd him. If we get something on him, I want him where I can find him.”

“Our interests may diverge there,” Stone said. “I have to put my client’s safety first.”

“Okay, okay, just try not to scare him out of town.”

“I won’t, unless I have to.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you.”

“Bye.” Stone hung up and greeted Callie, who was still yawning. “Sleep late?”

“It’s the rain,” she said. “It’s like a narcotic. You had breakfast?”

“Yep, but it wasn’t as good as the ones you make.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Are you going to talk to Thad today?”

“Maybe. I can, if necessary.”

“Please tell him that I’ve asked a friend, a New York City detective lieutenant, to come down here and lend a hand. I’d like to put him up on the boat.”

“I’m sure that will be all right. We’re not expecting any other guests, and anyway, the house is ready now. Who is this fellow?”

“His name is Dino Bacchetti. He and I were partners for a long time when I was on the force. He’s saved my ass more than once.”

“I must remember to thank him. Will I like him?”

“Probably. He’ll certainly like you,” Stone said.

“Should I see if I can find him some female companionship while he’s here?”

“Not unless you want his Sicilian wife to come after you with a sharp instrument.”

“I think not.”

“Don’t worry, Dino will be fine on his own. Anyway, we can pair him with Liz at dinner.”

“Does he know her?”

“He knows about her, but they’ve never met.”

“Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever met a cop before. I mean, except for you, and you’re not a cop anymore.”

“You’ll find Dino charming at times, and blunt to the point of rudeness at others.”

“I never mind bluntness in people, unless they’re insulting. Sometimes I’m not sure whether they’re trying to insult.”

“When Dino is trying, you’ll know.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“He is certainly that.”

Liz came out of her cabin and made her way aft.

“Oh, Liz,” Callie said. “Stone has got you a date.”

“Huh?” Liz asked sleepily.

“Not a date, just a dinner companion,” Stone explained.

“As long as it’s not Paul Manning,” she said, sitting down at their table.

“It’s not,” Stone said. “Callie, do you know where the Rolls-Royce dealership is in Palm Beach?”

“It’s in West Palm, on the mainland,” she said. “Hang on, I’ll show you.” She dug a map out of her purse and pointed at it. “There are a whole bunch of car dealers along this stretch of road; it’s one of those. You thinking of buying a Rolls?”

“No, but they sell Bentley, too.”

26

STONE CROSSED THE BRIDGE TO THE MAINLAND. THE heavy rain roiled the Inland Waterway, and his windshield wipers were on full blast. The Rolls-Royce showroom was on the same lot with the BMW dealership, but separate. He put up his borrowed umbrella, strolled into the showroom and began looking at the Rollses and Bentleys, new and used, on the floor. Shortly, a man whose clothes were a cut above those of the average car salesman left his glassed-in office and approached him.

“Good morning. May I answer any questions?”

“Just looking, really. What does the new Bentley sell for?”

“It starts at two hundred fifteen thousand,” the man said. “And there are some options available.”

“Very handsome car,” Stone said. “You just sold one to an acquaintance of mine—yesterday, I believe.”

The salesman wrinkled his brow. “Yesterday? And who would that be?”

“His name is Paul Bartlett.”

“Tall gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he came in and had a test drive, but he didn’t buy a car. I believe he went into the BMW showroom next door, though. Perhaps they had something rather more to his liking.”

“Maybe so,” Stone said.

“Would you like to drive a car?”

“On another occasion, perhaps. Thanks for your time.”

“Please come back,” the salesman said.

Stone left and went next door. The BMW showroom was less plush than its neighbor, and the salesmen were lined up along the window at steel desks. One of them leaped up and came toward Stone.

“Hi, there. Can I show you a car?”

“Oh, I’m just window-shopping at the moment. You sold a car to a friend of mine yesterday, though.”

“Oh? Who’s that? We sell cars every day.”

“Paul Bartlett.”

“Oh, yeah. We did the deal on the phone. I picked him up at the airport yesterday. He’s from Minneapolis.”

“That’s the one.”

“Paul got the black 750i, with the V-twelve engine. I’ve got another one on the lot. I could put you in it inside the hour. Why don’t you take a test drive?”

“Oh, I’d just be wasting your time. I’m a couple of weeks away from buying. I just wanted to have a look. Say, where is Paul staying, do you know? He was at the Chesterfield, but he’s checked out.”

“He’s at the Colony. I sent the paperwork over there yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, the Colony. Say, I don’t mean to cause you any concern, but how did Paul pay for the car?”

“He gave me a cashier’s check from a local bank.” He suddenly looked concerned. “Why? Do you think something might be wrong?”

“Not if he gave you a cashier’s check,” Stone said. “Thanks for your time.” He walked out of the showroom, put up his umbrella and ran back to his car, avoiding the deeper puddles. Well, he thought, Mr. Bartlett has lied about his residence and his car. He is obviously now watching his back. Stone sat in the car and called the Minneapolis Police Department.

“Ebbe Lundquist, in homicide,” he said to the operator.

“Homicide,” a man’s voice said.

“Ebbe Lundquist, please.”

“Lieutenant Lundquist is out of the office for a few days.”

“Might he have gone to Florida?”

“That’s right. Can someone else help you?”

“No, thanks,” Stone said. He broke the connection and called Dan Griggs.

“Hello?”

“Morning, Dan, it’s Stone Barrington. I believe you talked to a Lieutenant Lundquist yesterday?”

“Right.”

“I think he’s on the way down here.”

“He must have found out something that got him moving,” Griggs said.

“I think he wants to talk to Paul Bartlett,” Stone said. “I’ve learned that Bartlett didn’t buy a Bentley but a black BMW 750i. Also, he’s moved into the Colony Hotel. I think Lundquist might appreciate it if you put a man on him. He seems to be getting slippery.”

“I can do that.”

“Tell him not to crowd the guy. Our friend Mr. Bartlett is getting nervous, and we wouldn’t want him to bail out before Lundquist has a crack at him.”

“I’ll tell my man to work wide. Thanks, Stone.”

“And I’d appreciate a call if there are any developments.”

“Sure. You learn anything about that protocol ten-oh-two thing?”

“I talked to my old partner in New York. His guess is that Bartlett is, or rather was, in the Justice Department’s witness protection program, and that he jumped ship and set up a new identity on his own.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Griggs said. “Has he got anything to back it up?”

“No, it’s just his hunch, but I think it’s a good one. By the way, he’s coming down here soon, and I’d like for you to meet him. His name is Dino Bacchetti, and he commands the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“Love to greet him,” Griggs said.

“I’ll bring him by. Take care.” Stone hung up. He pulled into traffic and headed back toward the yacht, and his cell phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Dino said.

Stone could hear a police siren in the background. “Let me guess; you’re on the way to the airport.”

“That’s right,” Dino said. “My flight arrives at two-thirty.” He gave Stone the flight number.

“I’ll meet you. Dino, you’ve got to stop driving around with the siren on. A trip to the airport is not exactly an emergency call.”

“It is if I say it is,” Dino replied. “Traffic is hell on the FDR Drive right now.”

“And the siren helps.”

“You bet your ass it does. How’s the weather down there?”

“Gorgeous,” Stone said, peering through the driving rain at the road ahead, which was barely visible. “I hope you’re bringing a swimsuit.”

“Damn right I am—my golf clubs, too.”

“Great. How about a tennis racket?”

“You know I’m a lousy tennis player.”

“You’re a lousy golfer, too, but you’re bringing your clubs.”

“If that sonofabitch doesn’t get the fuck out of the way, ram him!” Dino shouted, apparently at his driver.

“Have you got another rookie detective at the wheel?”

“So what if I have?”

“Give the kid a break, Dino. He can’t drive over the traffic.”

“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”

“So what? You’re not going through the airport; you’re going to flash your badge and drive out onto the tarmac, right up to the airplane, aren’t you?”

“You bet your ass, but I’ve still got to move to make it.”

“So call the airline and tell them it’s a police emergency, to hold the flight.”

“Jesus, why didn’t I think of that? Get off the phone!”

“I’ll see you at Palm Beach Airport,” Stone said, and pressed the end button. He laughed aloud at the thought of Dino holding the flight for a police emergency, then arriving at the airplane carrying his golf clubs.

He called the yacht, and Callie answered.

“Hi. Where are you?”

“On the way back from the Rolls dealer.”

“Find out anything?”

“I’ll tell you later. Have you heard a weather forecast for tomorrow?”

“Rain ends late tonight; sunny all day tomorrow.”

“Thank God. Dino’s arriving this afternoon, with golf clubs. He’d shoot me if he couldn’t play. Can you find us some golf somewhere?”

“Sure. I’ll book a tee time at the Breakers. Ten o’clock okay?”

“Perfect. Dino’s bringing his own clubs. I’ll need to rent some.”

“You can use Thad’s; he won’t mind.”

“Do you play?”

“I’ve got a twelve handicap. What’s yours?”

“We’ll make it a threesome, then,” Stone said, avoiding an answer.

“Well,” she said, laughing, “I’m glad you’re interested in some kind of threesome.”

27

STONE DROVE TO THE AIRPORT, AND THE RAIN HAD STILL not let up. At times he was driving through three and four inches of water in the street, and the wind had started to get up, as well. At the airport, he parked at the curb and ran inside, and the hell with tickets.

He found Dino in baggage claim, just getting his golf clubs off the carousel.

“You didn’t tell me it was hurricane season,” Dino grumbled, handing Stone two bags and hoisting the clubs onto a shoulder. “I should have brought fucking scuba gear!”

“Oh, I just wanted you to see that Palm Beach is a city of contrasts,” Stone said, running for the car and getting soaked while stowing the bags in the trunk. The golf clubs had to go in the backseat. Finally, they were under way, with the windshield wipers trying hard to keep up with the deluge, and losing.

“I’m soaked to the skin!” Dino complained. “You might as well put the top down!”

“I don’t understand it,” Stone said. “The weather was glorious, until you decided to come.”

“Oh, right, I brought the weather with me; it’s all my fault.”

“Thank you for pointing that out. So, how are things at home?”

“Oh, just great. Dolce is out.”

Stone nearly wrecked the car. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”

“Out. She set a fire in her room, which set off the alarm, and while her nurses were preoccupied with that, she got out of the house, took one of Eduardo’s cars and vanished into the world.”

“When did this happen?”

“This morning, apparently. Mary Ann called me on my pocket phone just as I was getting on the airplane. Eduardo is going nuts.”

“She won’t get far. Eduardo will have her back in no time. What, is she running around in her nightgown?”

“She packed three bags, according to the housekeeper, who counted the luggage. I’d say she has clothes for any occasion. Dolce is nothing if not organized.”

“But she doesn’t have any money or credit cards; she can’t travel.”

“Dolce has money of her own, you know, and quite a lot of it. Eduardo settled two million bucks on each of the girls when they turned twenty-one. And she took her purse, too—credit cards, even her passport. There’s nowhere you can run.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said, his heart sinking. He dug out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button for his office.

“The Barrington Practice,” Joan said.

“Hi, it’s me. You might get a call from Dolce sometime soon. Can you recognize her voice?”

“Sure I can. I heard it less than ten minutes ago.”

“What did she want?”

“You, I expect.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were out of town.”

“Did you tell her where?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Bill Eggers told her that.”

“What?”

“As soon as she hung up I called Bill’s office, but he was on the phone. I held, and when he came on the line, he told me Dolce had called, and they’d had a nice chat. I take it Bill isn’t fully informed about Dolce’s condition.”

“Wonderful. If she calls back, try and get a number where I can reach her.”

“Okay.”

Stone hung up and punched the button for Bill Eggers’s office at Woodman & Weld.

“Bill?”

“I take it from Joan’s reaction that I did something stupid?”

“It’s not your fault, Bill, but just how stupid were you?”

“Stupid enough to tell her you were in Palm Beach, before I noticed something about her. I stopped just short of telling her where you’re staying.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Stone muttered.

“What’s the matter with her, Stone? I thought she was just sick, but she sounded . . .”

“Exactly how did she sound?”

“Well, not deranged, exactly, but sort of other-worldly.”

“Does she know I’m doing work for Thad Shames?”

“I didn’t mention that.”

“Okay, Bill, thanks, and I’ll be in touch.” Stone punched off. “She doesn’t know where I’m staying.”

“Her sister does.”

“Oh, no. Mary Ann wouldn’t . . .”

“No, of course she wouldn’t, not if she were tortured, and Dolce is perfectly capable of torturing somebody to find out where you are.”

Stone turned into the driveway of the Shames mansion.

“Hey, pretty nice,” Dino said. “Do we have it to ourselves?”

“We’re not staying in the house; we’re out back.”

“Guesthouse?”

“Not exactly.”

“Uh-oh,” Dino said.

“Come on, let’s get the car unloaded and make a run for it.”

Two minutes later they had dashed up the gangplank of Toscana and were standing, panting, on the afterdeck, while puddles formed around them. Juanito appeared with some towels and two thick terry robes, and took the luggage.

“Maybe you could change into the robes here?” he said, as he padded off toward Dino’s cabin.

Stone and Dino emptied their pockets onto the table, including Dino’s badge and gun, and stripped. They had just kicked their clothing into a sodden pile when Callie appeared.

“Well, hi there, sailors!” she said to the two naked men.

Dino grabbed for his robe.

“This must be Dino,” Callie said. “I can always recognize a naked policeman.”

“Dino, this is Callie Hodges,” Stone said, getting into his own robe.

“How do you do,” Dino said, trying to muster some dignity.

“We have a ten-thirty tee time at the Breakers tomorrow,” she said.

“Great,” Dino said. “We can go there on the boat.”

“Don’t worry—the front will pass through tonight. Tomorrow will be beautiful, I promise. The greens may be a little slow, but Palm Beach is thirsty and will soak the rain right up. I’m surprised your plane was able to land.”

“It took the pilot two tries,” Dino said. “I was ready to bust into the cockpit with my gun and order them to fly back to New York.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Callie said, smiling sweetly.

Juanito came back with a tray of steaming mugs.

“We fixed you a little toddy,” Callie said. “Figured that, with the temperature thirty degrees below normal, you might need it.”

Everybody sat down, and Stone and Dino gratefully sipped their drinks, which were laced with rum.

“Well,” Dino said to Callie, “any more at home like you?”

Callie laughed. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you a date for dinner.”

“Oh?”

“Allison Manning,” Stone said. “Although she’s called Liz Harding these days; you might remember that.”

“I’ll try,” Dino said.

“Callie, have there been any phone calls for me?”

“No.”

“If anyone besides Thad, Bill Eggers, Chief Griggs or my secretary, Joan, calls, will you tell them I’ve gone back to New York?”

“Sure. Who are you avoiding?”

“Mrs. Stone Barrington,” Dino said.

She turned and looked at Stone, and her eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Dino set down his cup. “Well, I think I’ll go get into some dry clothes.”

As soon as he was gone, Stone began explaining to Callie who Dolce was. When he had finished, he waited for a comment.

“Well,” she said finally, “hanging around you is never dull.”

28

BECAUSE OF THE WEATHER, THEY HAD DINNER IN THE yacht’s dining room, which was a symphony of mahogany and teak. Juanito had set a small table for the four of them, and candlelight gleamed on fine silver, as he served the dinner Callie had cooked for them. Dino had taken a shine not only to Callie, but to Liz as well, and they to him.

“What, exactly, do you do on the police force, Dino?” Liz asked him.

“Well, you know how on the TV cop shows there’s always these two detectives who are out there busting their balls to solve the case?”

“Yes.”

“That used to be Stone and me.”

“Oh.”

“And you know how the two detectives come back to the station house and report to their lieutenant, and he criticizes them and second-guesses them and ridicules them and sends them back out onto the street to do it all over again?”

“Yes.”

“That lieutenant is me, now.”

“Was Stone a good detective?” Callie asked.

Stone shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“He wasn’t all that bad,” Dino said, “but he was hard to keep alive. I was always having to shoot people so they wouldn’t kill him.”

“Nonsense! I was a very good detective,” Stone said, “but that second part is perfectly true, which gives you a pretty good indication of what percentage of Dino’s statements you can believe.”

“Tell us about when you saved Stone’s life,” Liz said.

Dino took a big sip of his wine. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “The first time was when we had chased this guy down in a car, and he came out shooting, got Stone in the knee. I put one in the middle of his forehead.”

“Goodness,” Callie said. Both the women were rapt.

“Then there was the time Stone had to jump out of a helicopter because people were trying to kill him. I used a shotgun that time; didn’t kill anybody. Then—oh, this is my favorite—this very strange guy had Stone strung up by his heels, naked, in this old slaughterhouse, about to cut him a few new orifices, and I put two in him.”

Liz blinked rapidly. “Strung up by his heels, naked? Whew! If I had a folding fan, this is where I’d use it.”

“And there were probably a couple of other times, but you get the idea.”

Callie spoke up. “The idea seems to be that Stone needs his hand held.” She took his hand and squeezed it.

“That’s about it,” Dino said. “Stone has good instincts, but he never listens to them. He’s so curious that he doesn’t notice when people are trying to kill him.”

“Tell us about Stone and women,” Callie said.

Dino rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

“No,” Stone said, “don’t get him started. You keep this up, Dino, and I’m going to start telling them the truth about you.”

Dino held up a hand. “Peace,” he said. “Anything else you girls want to know about Stone, you’re going to have to ask him.”

“Well, Stone,” Callie said. “Will you sit still for some personal questions?”

“As long as you don’t expect an honest answer,” Stone replied.

Juanito suddenly appeared, the cordless phone in his hands. “Miss Callie,” he said, then mouthed, “It’s for him,” pointing at Stone.

Callie took the phone. “May I help you? And who is this? I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington left this morning. I believe he was headed for California somewhere, before returning to New York. No, I’m sorry, I don’t have his schedule. Why don’t you call his New York office? Goodbye.” She punched the off button.

“Was it a woman?” Stone asked.

“No, a man. He wouldn’t give his name. He sounded a little like Paul Bartlett, but I can’t be sure about that.”

“That was a nice touch, about California,” Stone said. “I’ll have to remember what a good liar you are.”

“I was lying for a good cause,” Callie replied. “Dino needs help in keeping you alive.”

“Like Regis says, ‘I’m only one man,’” Dino said.

The phone rang again while still in Callie’s hand. “Here we go again,” she said. “Hello? Oh, yes, Chief, I’ll put him on.” She handed the phone to Stone.

“Hello, Dan.”

“Hi, Stone. Our friend from the frozen tundra, Lieutenant Lundquist, has arrived. Could we have a word with you tonight?”

“Sure,” Stone said. “Give me half an hour, then come over to the Shames house. We’re on the yacht moored out back.”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up. “Well, ladies, you’re going to have a couple more cops on your hands shortly.”

“I’d better finish dessert,” Callie said, rising and heading toward the galley.

“What cops?” Dino asked.

Stone explained about Griggs and Lundquist, and about Paul Bartlett’s sojourn in Minneapolis.

“God, I love catching murderers,” Dino said, “don’t you?”

“Not as much as you, Dino, but I’ll admit, it’s satisfying. What I don’t like about murderers is that time after you’ve figured out what they did but before you arrest them. They tend to be touchy during that period.”

“So you think Bartlett is dangerous?”

“I certainly do. Griggs has assigned somebody to keep an eye on him, but Lundquist has asked us not to crowd him just yet.”

“I hate not crowding them,” Dino said.

Callie returned to the table, followed by Juanito carrying a tray of flaming desserts.

“Something old-fashioned,” she said. “Baked Alaska. I thought, given the weather, we could use the extra warmth.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Dino said, plunging into his. “We may keep you on here.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

Liz was toying with her dessert. “Stone,” she said, “am I ever going to be able to leave this boat again?”

“Sure you are, but right now is not a good time. Paul doesn’t know you’re here, at least not for sure.”

“We could stake her out, like a goat for a lion,” Dino said.

“Thank you, Dino,” Liz said. “That was so beautifully put.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dino said, grinning.

29

CHIEF DAN GRIGGS AND LIEUTENANT EBBE LUNDQUIST arrived, sharing a golf umbrella. They were both dripping wet.

“Sorry to get you out this late, Chief,” Stone said. “Couldn’t this have waited for better weather?”

“Lundquist, here, insisted,” Griggs replied.

Lundquist looked around at the yacht. “You live pretty well, Mr. Barrington.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but, unfortunately, the yacht is not mine. And please call me Stone.” Stone introduced everybody, and Callie got the visitors a hot toddy, while everyone else had brandy.

“It’s like this,” Lundquist said. “We dug Bartlett’s car out of a junkyard, where it was waiting to go into the compactor. Couple more days, it would have been gone. We have you to thank for that, Stone.”

Stone shrugged. “I just happened to get lucky.”

“The car was a 1991 Mercedes station wagon, and that year, a passenger-side air bag was an option, and Mrs. Bartlett, who owned the car, had not ordered the option. Everything about the car was normal, for one that had just collided with a tree, except that the seat belt latch had been tampered with.”

“Tampered with how?” Dino asked.

“There’s a steel eye that sticks up on a stalk, then there’s the receptor end that latches onto that. We opened up the receptor, and the spring inside had been deformed, compared with the driver’s side, so that it would not hook securely when fastened. Mrs. Bartlett would have heard a click when she put it on, but it would have come undone under pressure.”

“And colliding with a tree would certainly be enough pressure,” Stone said.

“This guy is very clever,” Lundquist said. “That was the sort of technical thing that would have gone completely unnoticed if you hadn’t given us a heads up to look for something.”

“This same guy once rigged an airplane engine to fail, killing all three aboard,” Stone said. “He’s not stupid, and he has some skills.”

“What?” Lundquist demanded. “He’s murdered three other people?”

“If he’s who I think he is,” Stone said. He explained Paul Manning’s background, not mentioning that he had been Liz’s husband.

“So we couldn’t charge him with those three killings, then?” Lundquist asked.

“No, he was tried and convicted. Then the authorities were bought off.”

“He might even have a pardon,” Liz said.

Stone looked at her. “Was his wife pardoned?”

“In a manner of speaking. She was given a piece of paper.”

“So, Lieutenant, do you have enough evidence to arrest him?”

“I can arrest him for obtaining a Minnesota driver’s license under a false name, and I can probably get him extradited, but I’m not sure we have enough evidence to convict him of murder. Still, I’d like to get him back to Minneapolis and question him thoroughly. Maybe he’ll even cop to it.”

“Not a chance,” Stone said. “He’d lawyer up in a heartbeat. I’d be willing to bet he’s got the number in his pocket right now, just in case. And it sounds like you’d have a hell of a time proving that he tampered with the seat belt. His attorney would paint it as damaged in the accident or defectively manufactured, and Bartlett as a grieving husband.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Lundquist said, “but I’m waiting for a call from my office, and when they come up with just a little more evidence, I’m going to bust him. At the very least I can expose his false identity and let the world know who he is.”

“He’s not going to tell you who he is,” Stone said, “and that’s the only way you’re going to find out. The feds certainly aren’t going to admit that he was in their program.”

“If he’s Paul, I can identify him in court,” Liz said.

“I thought you were refusing to face him,” Stone replied.

“I won’t while he’s free, but I’d be happy to testify as to his identity, if it would help put him away.”

“I don’t know that it would,” Stone said. “Given the evidence we’ve got, I’d much rather defend him than prosecute.”

“This is very convoluted,” Dino said. “Not only do we not know if he was in the witness protection program, we don’t even know what name he was using before he went in.”

“I don’t understand,” Liz said.

“Okay, he gets out of being hanged in St. Marks, and he returns to this country. He’s not going back to using Paul Manning for a name, he’s going to pick another one. Then he gets involved in whatever ends up getting him into the program, and he gives the feds that name, not Manning. They change it to another name, then he skips out of the program and changes it again. And there may be a couple of other name changes that we don’t even know about.”

“Holy cow,” Lundquist said. “I didn’t know what I was getting into when I came down here.”

“You probably wanted a little nice weather, like me,” Dino said. He waved an arm. “And look what we got.”

Lundquist gazed through the transparent curtains as lightning lit up Lake Worth. “I might as well have stayed in Minneapolis.”

“Well,” Chief Griggs said, “if it’s any consolation, I think we’ve got enough to run him out of Palm Beach.”

“You sound like an Old West sheriff,” Callie said.

“It’s a little different,” Griggs replied. “In the Old West, I’d have threatened to shoot him if he showed his face in town again. Nowadays, I’d just make sure the local and Florida papers heard the whole story, and once everybody had heard about it and gossiped about it, he wouldn’t be able to show his face in town again. We had a guy down here a few years back that had kidnapped his young kids when a divorce didn’t go his way. Established himself here under another name and stayed for years until his wife caught up with him. Now he’s persona non grata among the people he knew best. That, I can do to Bartlett, or whatever his name is.”

“It isn’t enough,” Liz said. “He could still try to kill me.”

Lundquist turned and stared at her. “Just when I thought I had a grip on this story . . .”

“Mrs. Harding was once married to Paul Manning,” Stone said. “We didn’t mention that before.”

“Oh,” Lundquist said, tonelessly. He was massaging his temples, like someone trying to hold on to his sanity.

“Maybe your lab will come up with something else in the car,” Stone said.

“Maybe, but I’m not going to count on it,” Lundquist replied. “We do have the fact that he got his wife to cancel the prenuptial agreement and make a new will. That’s motive.”

“Oh, you have both motive and opportunity,” Stone said, “but a good lawyer would make a conviction very difficult to obtain. It’s like this: I’m his lawyer, and I stand up in front of the jury. Ladies and gentlemen, my client had no criminal intent when he changed his name. Bad people were after him, and he had to protect himself. Why, it was the government itself that changed his name first. There’s no evidence that he put pressure on his wife to change her will. No, she did that out of love and affection for my client, who is a very lovable and affectionate fellow, crushed by the loss of his bride. My client doesn’t have the technical expertise to tamper with a finely made piece of German engineering, and after all, he was in the same car; he could have been just as easily killed. And on and on like that.”

“This is very depressing,” Lundquist said.

Dino spoke up. “It might help in court if you proved he was Paul Manning, who had already murdered three other people in St. Marks, even if he got away with it.”

“I could get his past ruled out as evidence,” Stone said, “on the grounds that it was irrelevant and prejudicial, and if I couldn’t, I’d say he was railroaded by a corrupt foreign government. No, Mr. Bartlett has crafted himself a very nice little box to live in. And, Dan, if you got him run out of Palm Beach, he’d just go to Palm Springs, or some other place with an inviting climate, and establish himself all over again under another identity. And now he’s got the money to make himself credible in a place like that.”

Everybody was quiet for a while.

Finally, Dino spoke up again. “Unless we staked out Liz like a goat for a lion, then waited to see what happened.”

30

THE FOUR OF THEM GOT OUT OF THE TWO CARS AT THE Breakers Golf Club and gave three bags of clubs to the attendant. The clubhouse was modest, in comparison to the grandeur of the hotel, Stone thought. The weather, as predicted, had cleared beautifully, and it was much cooler after the front had passed through.

“But I don’t play golf,” Liz complained. “What am I doing here?”

“Playing chauffeur,” Stone said. “You can drive a cart. Also, you’re playing the goat.”

“I don’t think I like the goat idea,” she said. “Not when Paul is the lion.”

“Dino’s right,” Stone said, “as much as I hate to admit it. This is the only way to smoke him out. We’re not having much luck any other way. If we see him, you can identify him; if not, then at least we’ll be seen, and word may get back to him that you’re still around.”

“All right,” Liz said.

“This is a pretty chilly paradise you got here,” Dino said, zipping up his jacket to the neck.

“In more ways than one,” Callie said, as another group of golfers inspected them as they passed, staring hard.

They signed in at the clubhouse, then got into carts and drove to the first tee, where the starter cleared them to tee off.

The course was mostly flat and uninteresting. “It’s not the most attractive golf course I’ve ever seen,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry—they’re about to rip the whole thing up and completely rebuild it to new design,” Callie said.

“Ladies first,” Dino said, motioning Callie to drive.

Callie took a few practice swings, displaying good form, teed up a ball and struck it solidly. It flew down the middle of the fairway.

“About two hundred and twenty yards,” Stone said. He teed up and sliced his drive into the next fairway.

“Take a mulligan,” Callie said.

Stone took the mulligan and got it in the fairway, a good twenty yards short of Callie’s ball.

Dino teed up and hooked the ball into the rough. “Mulligan,” he said, teeing up another ball. He swung at that, and it landed no more than a yard from his first ball.

“Your grip is too strong,” Callie said, showing him how to turn his right hand to the left. “That should cure your hook.”

“Don’t count on it,” Stone said.

They trundled off down the fairway in their carts, playing at a good pace, now and then crossing South County Road.

“This is the most urban golf I’ve ever played,” Stone said. “Usually, on a golf course, you don’t have to worry about being hit by a car.”

“The Breakers has another course west of here,” Callie said. “Maybe we’ll play that one next time.”

They played on, occasionally running into a foursome in which Callie knew someone. Two people knew Liz and chatted with her.

“Word’s getting out,” Callie said. “You shouldn’t even try to keep a secret in this town, but we’re advertising. Liz, you’re the subject of much conversation since being seen with Thad at his party.”

“Grand,” Liz said.

They finished their round, went back to the clubhouse, had a beer, stowed their clubs in the two cars and prepared to depart the Breakers. Stone opened his cell phone and tapped in a number. “Okay, Dan, we’ve made our appearance at the Breakers, and we’re ready to move on to part two of our plan.”

“My guys are parked just down the road,” Griggs said.

“Tell them not to crowd the girls. We don’t want Bartlett picking up on cops.”

“Bartlett left the Colony half an hour ago, and he’s having lunch on Worth Avenue.”

“They’ll go shopping, then,” Stone said. “Dino and I will wait back at the yacht.”

“Right,” Griggs said.

Stone ended the call. “Okay, ladies, you are sentenced to Worth Avenue shopping for at least two hours. Liz, if you recognize Paul, don’t let on, just tell Callie so she can confirm who he is. You’ve got my cell phone number if you need to reach me.”

“I’d feel better if you and Dino came along,” Liz said.

“He knows us both, so we can’t do that. We’d just scare him off.”

“Oh, all right,” Liz said, disconsolately. She got into the car with Callie, and they drove off.

“There goes our goat,” Dino said. “But even if she makes him, Griggs isn’t going to have any grounds for an arrest.”

“Lundquist does, though. He can always bust him for the driver’s license, and that will at least get him out of our hair.”

“For the time being,” Dino said. “This guy ain’t going to go away easy.”

“You have a point,” Stone agreed.

They drove back to the yacht and waited. Dino got into a swimsuit and took up a strategic position on a chaise on the afterdeck, a rum and tonic at his elbow.

“You got anything to read?” he asked Stone.

Stone went into the saloon and came back with the novel Tumult that he had read a few days before. “Try this,” he said, handing it to Dino. “It’s very good.”

Dino was soon rapt, and Stone dozed on a nearby chaise, protecting his fair skin from the sun under an awning.

Stone woke up with Callie shaking him. “Huh?” he said, sleepily.

“We’re back,” Callie said.

Stone sat up. “Anything happen?”

“We saw him.”

“You did?”

“Coming out of Verdura, the jewelry store.”

Liz came up the gangplank.

“Liz, you saw him?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if it’s Paul.”

“But you said you recognized him in Easthampton by the way he walked and his body language.”

“It was different this time,” she said. “Anyway, I only saw him for a minute.”

“Liz,” Callie said, “you had a very good look at him. I was there; I saw him, too.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Liz said crossly, “but I just can’t swear that he’s Paul. He may be and he may not be.”

Stone’s cell phone vibrated, and he opened it. “Hello?”

“It’s Dan Griggs. The two ladies got a real good look at the guy. What does Mrs. Harding say?”

“Inconclusive,” Stone said, walking away from the group.

“How could it be inconclusive? She got a good look at him, and she used to be married to the guy.”

“All I can tell you is what she told me,” Stone said. “She seems pretty annoyed about our pressing her on it.”

“I don’t get it,” Griggs said.

“Frankly, neither do I. I thought that if we just put Bartlett in front of her, she’d make him, and that would be that.”

“You think she’s not playing this straight?”

“I honestly don’t know, Dan. She’s protected him in the past, after all.”

“But she’s supposed to be scared of the guy. You’d think she’d want to be rid of him and would help us do it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dan.”

“Well, if Mrs. Harding can’t identify the guy, and if Lundquist can’t come up with enough evidence for a murder warrant, I’m not going to be able to keep men on this. We have other problems to deal with, you know.”

“I know you do, Dan, and I don’t blame you. Has Lundquist not heard from his office?”

“He’s called them twice, but the lab is still working on the car.”

“Okay. Ask him to call me when he gets word. If he’s going to arrest Bartlett, I’d like to be there when he does it.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Stone ended the call and stood there thinking for a moment. He was getting tired of this, too. He punched 411 into the phone, asked for the number of the Colony Hotel and waited while the operator connected him.

“The Colony, good afternoon,” a woman’s voice said.

“Paul Bartlett, please.”

She connected him, and the phone rang and rang. Finally she came back on the line. “There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes, please. Ask him to . . .”

“One moment. I’ll connect you with the front desk.” She did so.

“Reception,” a man’s voice said.

“I’d like to leave a message for Paul Bartlett,” Stone said. He’d just arrange to meet the man and put Liz’s proposition to him.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Bartlett checked out just a few minutes ago, and I’m afraid he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

Stone punched the end button. “Shit,” he said aloud.

31

STONE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. HE AND DINO GOT DRESSED and into a car and drove to the Colony Hotel; he wanted to question the front desk man. As they pulled into the parking lot, he spotted Detective Riley and Lieutenant Lundquist sitting in an idling car thirty yards away. Stone walked over and rapped on the window, startling them both.

“What are you doing here, Stone?” Lundquist asked. “You’re going to spook the guy.”

“What guy?” Stone asked.

“Bartlett.”

“Bartlett has decamped.”

“What?”

“Come with me.” Stone started for the hotel lobby.

Lundquist caught up and fell into step with Stone. “What do you mean, ‘decamped’?”

“I mean, Bartlett has checked out of the hotel, and he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I telephoned him half an hour ago, and that’s what the desk clerk told me. I want to find out if it’s true, or if Bartlett simply bought the front desk man, and I want you to flash your badge at him so he’ll talk to me.”

The desk clerk stared blankly at the badge. “You’re a police officer? Where? Your badge doesn’t look familiar.”

“He’s from Minneapolis,” Stone said. “I can have a Palm Beach badge here in thirty seconds, if that will refresh your memory.”

“My memory about what?”

“First of all, has Paul Bartlett really checked out?”

“Yes, I saw him go.”

“What forwarding address did he give?”

“I’ll show you his registration card,” the clerk said, riffling through a stack of them. “Here.” He held it up. The space for a forwarding address was blank.

“Did you check him out of the hotel?”

“In a manner of speaking. He didn’t even wait for his bill, said he had to catch a plane and I should mail it to him.”

“To where?”

“To the address on the card.”

Lundquist checked the card. “It’s his Minneapolis address. The guy’s gone home.”

“How much luggage did he have?” Stone asked.

“A lot; three or four bags.”

“And where did the bellman load his car?”

“Down on the street,” the clerk said, pointing at the side door.

“That’s why he got past you,” Stone said to Lundquist. “I’d like to see his room, please.”

The man pressed a few buttons on a machine, and a plastic card was spat out. “It’s suite four-oh-four. Help yourself,” he said.

Stone led the way to the elevator and pressed four. A moment later they were standing outside the suite, and Stone got the door open.

“Easy there,” Lundquist said, pushing past Stone. “I’d better go first.”

“It’s not a crime scene,” Stone said, following him. “Unless there’s a corpse stashed under the bed.”

Lundquist looked under the bed. “Nothing.”

“No kidding?” Stone looked around. The room had already been cleaned that morning, and the bed had not been used since. He went around the room, looking in closets and opening drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Lundquist asked.

“I don’t know,” Stone replied.

“Whatever he can find,” Dino said.

Lundquist started opening drawers, too.

Stone went back into the sitting room and looked around. The place was neat as a pin, the wastebaskets were empty, and there was not so much as a trace of Paul Bartlett, or whoever he was.

“What now?” Lundquist asked.

“The airport,” Stone replied. “He told the clerk he had to catch a plane.”

The three men left the hotel, and Lundquist got into the rear seat of Stone’s convertible.

“I should be wearing sunscreen,” Lundquist said as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, that pale Scandinavian skin will fry every time,” Dino said, half to himself, chuckling. “World’s whitest white men.”

“That’s what you call me,” Stone said.

“You, too.”

At the airport, they went to the nearest ticket counter, and Lundquist flashed his badge and asked about flights to Minneapolis.

“None of the airlines flies directly to Minneapolis from Palm Beach,” the woman behind the counter said. “You’d have to change, probably in Atlanta.”

“Will you check reservations for a Paul Bartlett?” Lundquist asked.

The woman turned to her computer terminal, tapped a few keys and looked at the screen. “I’ll do a search for the name,” she said, tapping more keys. “Nope, nobody by that name.”

“Try Paul Manning,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

She tapped the keys again. “Nope, no Manning.”

“Do you recall, in the past hour or so, a tall man, six-three or -four, mid-to-late forties, dark hair going gray, fairly good-looking?”

“No, and I think I’d have noticed,” the woman said, smiling.

“Thanks for your help,” Stone said. He turned to Lundquist and Dino. “Let’s hit the charter services.”

“How do we find those?” Lundquist asked.

“There’s a big sign outside, pointing to them all,” Stone replied.

They went outside and checked the sign; there were half a dozen.

“Ebbe, you go in the car with Riley and check the north side of the field; Dino and I will check the south side.”

“Okay.” Lundquist jumped into the car with Riley.

“Well,” Dino said as they got into the Mercedes. “Lundquist isn’t the brightest tulip in the garden, is he?”

“Tulips are Dutch, not Scandinavian, and remember, he’s a lieutenant, like you.”

“Well, he can’t be all bad,” Dino said.

They checked all four companies on the south side of the field and came up with nothing. As they left the last one, Lundquist and Riley drove up.

“Nothing on the north side,” Riley said.

“Nothing over here, either,” Stone said. “Where’s the chief?”

“Probably in his office,” Riley replied.

Stone punched the number into his cell phone and asked for Griggs.

“Chief, Bartlett has checked out of the Colony.”

“Well, shit,” Griggs said. “You think he’s left town?”

“He told the desk clerk he had a plane to catch, but we’re at the airport now, and he didn’t fly out of here.”

“I guess he could have driven to Miami,” Griggs said. “It’s only an hour and a half to the airport.”

“Can you check the flights out of there for a Bartlett or Manning?”

“I’ll put somebody on it. Where do you think he went?”

“The only address we have is Minneapolis, but I don’t think he’s there.”

“Where do you think he is?”

“I think he’s still in Palm Beach. Remember, he checked out of the Chesterfield, too, without leaving a forwarding address, and he went directly to the Colony. Maybe, before you check the Miami flights, you should alert the other hotels in town to call you if he checks in.”

“Okay, Stone, I’ll do that.”

“It seems that every time we start to get a line on the guy, he changes hotels.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Stone hung up.

“You think he’s in another hotel?” Dino asked.

“That’s my guess,” Stone said. Then he thought for a moment. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Come on,” Stone said, “let’s get back to the yacht, quick.”

32

STONE DROVE AS QUICKLY AS HE COULD, WITHOUT GETTING arrested, through West Palm and across the bridge. Traffic was heavy and frustrating, and it took them nearly half an hour to reach the Shames residence. The front door stood open, and he ran quickly through the central hall and out the open back door, with Dino close on his heels.

As he came up the gangplank he was presented with an uncharacteristic sight on Toscana: a mess. Towels and books were scattered indiscriminately across the afterdeck. Normally, Juanito made a mess disappear as soon as it presented itself.

Stone turned around and was not surprised to see a gun in Dino’s hand. He put a finger to his lips, then motioned for Dino to follow him. He walked through the saloon and down the corridor toward his cabin. His cabin door was open, and so was every other door in the passageway. He went into his cabin to retrieve the 9mm automatic from under his pillow. It was gone. He went back into the passage and climbed a few steps to the bridge, and as he approached it, he could hear music. He stepped onto the bridge, ready for anything. A portable radio rested on the dash above the wheel, softly playing rock music.

Stone crossed the bridge and left it on the other side, returning along the port corridor. Again, every cabin door was open.

He heard a footstep from somewhere aft and tiptoed toward it. Dino brushed past him, the gun out in front. He was armed, and he would lead the way; there was no talk about it. Stone followed him into the saloon.

“What the hell!” a man’s voice shouted. “Who are you?”

Stone stepped around Dino to find Thad Shames standing in the saloon. “Thad,” he said. “It’s all right, Dino.”

“What’s going on here, Stone?” Shames demanded, clearly startled. “Who is this?”

“Thad, I’m sorry we frightened you. This is Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, of the New York Police Department. Dino, this is Thad Shames, our host here.”

Dino put the gun away, and the two men shook hands.

Thad collapsed onto a sofa. “Tell me what’s happened,” he said.

“I don’t know what’s happened,” Stone replied. “We came back to the yacht a few minutes ago to find it deserted, and all the cabin doors open.”

“No Callie or Liz? No crew?”

“Nobody.”

“There’s nobody in the main house, either,” Thad said, “but the front and rear doors were open.”

“I know; we just came through there.”

“Do you think Callie and Liz might have gone shopping or something?”

“I don’t think so; they did that earlier today.”

“Did you check the pool?”

“Pool? What pool?”

“There’s a pool on the property, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. It must be very well concealed.”

“Come on, let’s take a look.” Thad led the way down the gangplank and into the gardens. Instead of taking the path to the house, he turned right and appeared to be about to walk through a hedge, when he turned and disappeared.

Stone followed and discovered a gap in the hedge, concealed by a quick left turn, followed by a right. He caught up with Thad, who had stopped and, with his hands on his hips, was staring ahead.

“Isn’t that lovely?” Thad said softly.

Stone looked and saw a beautiful swimming pool, completely surrounded by the high hedge. Beside it, perhaps thirty feet away, lay two women, asleep on their backs, naked.

Thad motioned them back through the gap in the hedge. “Let’s give them a little warning,” he said. “Callie? Liz?” he called out loudly.

“Yes?” Callie’s voice replied. “We’re out here.”

Shames led them through the hedge a second time. Callie and Liz were tying robes around themselves. “There you are,” he said. “I thought you had both decamped.” He pecked Callie on the cheek, then embraced Liz at more length.

“Not likely,” Callie said. “We thought we’d be safe here.”

“Where’s the crew?” Stone asked.

“I gave them the afternoon off. We weren’t expecting you, Thad.”

“And why are all the doors on the yacht open?”

“I thought it would be good to air out the cabins; keeps the mildew down.”

“You gave us a scare,” Stone said.

Callie reached into a pocket of her robe and produced the 9mm automatic. “We’re perfectly all right,” she said, handing the weapon to Stone. “Come on, let’s go back to the yacht.”

The group returned to Toscana, and Callie got drinks for everybody, except Liz, who excused herself to change. Callie followed her.

“Oh, Callie?” Thad called after her.

She turned. “Yes, Thad?”

“Book us a table someplace gaudy tonight. We’ll celebrate my return.”

Callie nodded and went toward her cabin.

“Where have you come from?” Stone asked.

“California. I’ve been sort of barnstorming LA and San Francisco and Silicon Valley, talking up the new company.”

“I hope it went well.”

“It did. How are things going here?”

“It’s gotten complicated,” Stone said. “Let me bring you up to date.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Stone told him, in detail, everything that had happened in his absence. When he was through, he stopped talking and waited.

“And you still don’t know if this guy is really Manning?”

“No,” Stone said. “Not even Liz can be sure.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Shames said.

“So do I, but that’s the way it is. She saw him only briefly in Easthampton, and something about the way he moved made her think the man she saw was Paul Manning. But she can’t be sure that Paul Bartlett is Manning.”

“And this guy Bartlett is a friend of Frank and Margaret?”

“Yes, from Minneapolis.”

“And you think he killed his wife for her money?”

“It seems a strong possibility.”

Shames grinned. “Well, this has certainly turned out to be interesting, hasn’t it?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Stone said. “I’m sorry I don’t have any definite answers for you.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with them,” Shames said. “Well, Dino, welcome to Palm Beach. Callie told me you were coming, and I’m glad you could join us. Have you been made comfortable?”

“Yes, thanks,” Dino said. “She’s a beautiful yacht.”

“Thank you, I think so.” Thad stood up. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go to my room in the main house and have a nap. I’ve been traveling for days, and I’m a little tired. I’ll bounce back for dinner, though.” He gave a little wave and left the yacht.

“He’s a pretty easygoing guy, isn’t he?” Dino said.

“He certainly is.”

“I mean, if I’d come aboard my yacht and found a stranger with a gun, I’d have freaked out, but he didn’t.”

“I thought he behaved very well, in the circumstances,” Stone said. “Looks like our goat-and-lion plan didn’t work. If anything, we’re worse off than we were this morning.”

“Well, there’s still dinner,” Dino said. “If we’re going someplace gaudy, anybody could be there, right?”

“In Palm Beach, you’re right.”

33

CALLIE’S CHOICE OF A GAUDY RESTAURANT TURNED out to be the high-ceilinged, chandeliered, tapes-tried, velvet-seated La Reserve. Thad seemed particularly pleased with the choice, and he swept the group to a round table at the center of the single large room, slipping the maître d’ a bill on the way, then ordering a Krug champagne for everybody.

“You have beluga, of course,” Thad said to the captain.

“Of course, Mr. Shames,” the man replied. “Fifty grams each?”

“Let’s start with half a kilo for the table,” Shames said. Glasses were filled, and Thad raised his. “To this group,” he said. “I’m happy to be back with you all.” He turned to Liz at his side. “Particularly you.”

Everyone drank. A moment later, a crystal bowl of caviar arrived, and the waiter went around the table spooning large amounts onto each plate.

Dino tried his.

“Well?” Thad asked.

“Well, wonderful,” Dino replied. “We don’t see a lot of beluga at the precinct.”

“I remember once when we did,” Stone said. “Somebody on the squad busted up a smuggling outfit, and, among other things, there was a lot of caviar. Most of it disappeared immediately, but I remember a few small tins found their way to your desk and mine.”

“You’re right, Stone,” Dino said. “Funny, I remember busts involving drugs and money, but you remember caviar.”

Menus appeared and everyone pored over them. Eventually, decisions were made, and the captain took their orders. Thad lingered over the wine list. “Who’s drinking red?” he asked. Everyone’s hand went up. “Ah, good. We’ll start with a magnum of the Opus One,” he said to the sommelier. “The ’eighty-nine.”

The sommelier scurried away and returned with the big bottle. Thad tasted it. “Marvelous! Go ahead and pour us a glass so it can breathe.”

“I like your friends,” Dino said to Stone, getting a laugh.

“Ah, Dino,” Thad said, “you have to spend more time in Palm Beach. The yacht is yours whenever you want it.”

“Nobody ever said that to me before,” Dino said, drawing another laugh.

Stone thought the evening was going particularly well. Then he looked up and saw Frank and Margaret Wilkes come into the restaurant, followed closely by a woman Stone did not know, and then, by Paul Bartlett. No one else at the table had seen them, but Stone caught Dino’s eye and nodded in their direction.

Dino watched the tall man hold a chair for his companion, then sit down. “I would never have made him as Manning,” Dino whispered. “He must have done something to his face.”

Stone slipped the little cell phone off his belt, cupped it in his hand to hide it as well as possible, and dialed Dan Griggs’s direct office number, which also rang at his home.

“Yes?” Griggs said.

“Dan, it’s Stone. I’m at La Reserve, and Bartlett is here with Frank Wilkes and his wife and another woman.”

“Have you talked to Lundquist?” Griggs asked.

“No.”

“The Minneapolis Police Department arrested a known car thief and insurance scam artist who, for immunity, told them Bartlett had hired him to fix his wife’s seat belt. Apparently, they met in prison, during Bartlett’s earlier existence, and he’ll testify against Bartlett. Have they just sat down to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll get ahold of Lundquist and put some people together, and we’ll take him when they leave. I don’t want to cause a scene in the restaurant. Let me give you my portable number.”

Stone wrote it down.

“Call that number when they get their check. That way I won’t have to send people in to watch him. He’s pretty edgy; he might catch on to that.”

“I’ll do it,” Stone said. “I imagine you have a good hour and a half.”

“See you later.”

Stone put the phone away and saw Thad looking at him inquiringly. “It’s nothing,” he said.

Their dinner arrived, and everyone ate heartily, still in high spirits from the champagne. They had just finished their dessert, and their dishes were being taken away, when Stone looked up to see Lieutenant Ebbe Lundquist enter the restaurant, flash his badge at the maître d’ and take up a position at the bar. Stone looked at Bartlett. He had seen the badge and was now staring at Lundquist, who in his plaid polyester suit looked out of place in the elegant restaurant.

Stone glanced at Dino, who had already taken this in.

“That’s one really stupid cop,” Dino said quietly.

Stone looked over at Bartlett’s table and saw the waiter approaching with the check. “Excuse me a minute,” Stone said to the table. “I’ll be right back.”

He rose and made his way across the restaurant to where the Wilkeses and Bartlett were sitting.

Frank Wilkes rose to greet him. “Stone,” he said, “how good to see you.”

Stone shook his hand as Bartlett, too, rose, buttoning his jacket.

“Hello, Stone,” he said. “How are you?” He introduced his companion.

“How do you do? Good evening, Paul. Please sit down.” Stone caught sight of the bulge under Bartlett’s jacket.

“Frank, Margaret, I just wanted to thank you for such a delightful dinner the other evening,” Stone said. “It was very kind of you to ask Callie and me.”

“We were very glad to have you,” Margaret Wilkes said, “and we hope you’ll come again.”

Stone caught sight of Lundquist moving down the bar.

“I see you’re about to leave,” Stone said to Wilkes. “Please let me send over some after-dinner drinks before you go.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but summoned a nearby waiter and told him to bring the Wilkes party whatever they wanted and to send the bill to him. That would keep them in their seats for another few minutes, Stone thought. He made his goodbyes and, instead of returning to his table, walked toward the front of the restaurant and the men’s room, dialing Dan Griggs’s cell phone number on the way. He caught Dino’s eye and patted his side, where Bartlett was wearing the gun. As he passed the bar, he caught Lundquist’s eye, frowned and shook his head, whispering loudly, “Stay where you are.”

He pressed the send button on the phone as he turned a corner, out of sight of Bartlett. Griggs answered immediately.

“It’s Stone. I’ve bought them an after-dinner drink, so they’ll be a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

“But listen. I think Bartlett is armed, and he’s already seen Lundquist flash his badge. Why did you let him come in here?”

“I didn’t. He just ignored me and walked in before I could stop him. I feel like arresting him.”

“I’m going back to my table. When they leave you’d better take Bartlett quickly, before he gets to his car, and you’d better be ready to disarm him. He’s packing on the left side, at his belt.”

“Got it. Are you armed?”

“No, but Dino is. Don’t worry, he won’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay, just go back to your table, and we’ll handle it.”

“I’m on my way.” Stone punched off the phone and put it away. He stepped back into the dining room, and as he did, he was horrified to see Lundquist moving toward Bartlett’s table. He looked back at his own group, and Dino was suddenly on his feet, making his way across the room and unbuttoning his jacket. Then everything seemed to slow down.

Bartlett turned to see Lundquist coming toward him and began to rise. Lundquist, who didn’t know Bartlett was armed, had his hands at his sides, empty. Bartlett unbuttoned his jacket as he rose, and his right hand went inside it to his belt.

Stone saw his hand close around the butt of the pistol. He turned toward Dino and yelled, “Gun!” Dino stopped in his tracks, perhaps a dozen feet from the Wilkeses’ table.

Bartlett never saw Dino; his attention was riveted on Lundquist, who now began to understand what was happening and went for his own gun. Four shots came in rapid succession.

Lundquist left his feet, the gun flying from his hand and knocking over a wine bottle on a nearby table. A woman at that table screamed as Dino fired. Bartlett was hit in his left upper arm, then a second time in the side of his neck, falling backward and out of sight, knocking over his chair.

Dino began running toward the table, his gun out in front of him, yelling, “Police, Police!”

Stone began running, too.

34

PANDEMONIUM. A MASS OF DINERS ABANDONED THEIR tables and rushed for the main entrance, knocking over chairs and elaborate flower arrangements. Women were screaming, and men were shouting at them.

Stone was swept sideways toward the door. In front of him a woman fell, and Stone grabbed her and yanked her to her feet before she could be trampled in the rush. He could see Dino at the Wilkeses’ table, standing over Bartlett, who was out of sight on the floor behind the table. Dino was still pointing the gun.

He looked toward the front door and saw three uniformed Palm Beach police officers, one of them Dan Griggs, vainly trying to fight their way through the onrushing crowd. Stone grabbed a post next to the bar and hung on for dear life. Finally, when most of the crowd had fled the restaurant, he was able to make his way through the stragglers to Dino, who was now bending over Bartlett, feeling at his throat for a pulse.

Frank and Margaret Wilkes stood huddled against the wall, Frank cradling his sobbing wife’s head on his shoulder. Margaret was spattered with blood. Bartlett’s date was nowhere in sight.

“He’s dead,” Dino said, holstering his weapon.

Stone looked around the restaurant for Lundquist but did not see him. Thad and his party were standing against the opposite wall of the restaurant, having wisely not joined the panicked crowd. Thad waved and called out, “We’re okay. Do what you have to do.”

Stone resumed his search for Lundquist and found him under an overturned table. Lundquist had taken a round in the chest, and he had been trampled by the crowd. His nose was badly broken where someone had stepped on it, and there was blood everywhere, but Stone found a pulse.

Griggs and his men finally got into the restaurant and rushed toward Stone.

“We need an ambulance,” Stone said as Griggs arrived. “Lundquist is still alive, but he’s bad. Bartlett is dead. Dino shot him almost at the same time Bartlett shot Lundquist.”

“There’s an ambulance outside,” Griggs said. He spoke into a handheld radio.

“There are probably some injured people in the crowd, too,” Stone said. “It got pretty ugly.”

A pair of EMTs made their way into the ruined room, toting a stretcher and equipment, and immediately began working on Lundquist. Stone stepped away to let them do their work. He followed Griggs over to where Dino stood.

Dino handed Griggs his gun. “You’re going to want this.”

Griggs nodded and examined Bartlett closely, picking up his weapon by its trigger guard and handing both guns to one of his officers.

Stone went to the Wilkeses, picking up a stray napkin along the way. He dabbed at the blood on Margaret’s face, and she barely seemed to notice.

“I want to get her home,” Wilkes said.

Stone turned to Griggs, who had heard, and nodded.

“Chief Griggs will want to talk to you in the morning,” Stone said.

“I saw it all,” Frank said. “Paul had a gun; it was all his fault.”

“Griggs and his men were waiting outside the restaurant to arrest him quietly, but the Minneapolis cop ruined it all.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s pretty bad. His office had called to say that they have a witness who says Bartlett hired him to fix the seat belt on the car, so that Frances would be unprotected. It doesn’t matter now, of course, but he would almost certainly have been convicted.”

“We’ll go, then.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I can manage.”

Stone watched them leave, then he crossed the restaurant to where Thad, Liz and Callie waited. “Everybody all right?”

They all nodded.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“See what?” Liz said. “I didn’t see anything. I just heard a lot of noise.”

“Paul shot a Minneapolis policeman, and Dino shot Paul. The cop is alive, but Paul is dead.”

“Which Paul?” she asked.

“Aren’t they the same?” Stone asked.

“I wish I knew,” Liz said.

“Thad, why don’t you take Liz and Callie home. Dino and I will need to give statements to the Palm Beach police. We’ll probably be quite late.”

“Sure,” Thad said. “I hope to God the guy is Manning.”

“We’ll see,” Stone said.

Thad ushered the women out of the restaurant, and Stone rejoined Dino and Griggs.

Griggs righted a table and motioned for Dino and Stone to pull up a chair. “You two are the best witnesses I’ve got. We might as well do this right now, then you two can go home.” He pulled a small tape recorder from a pocket, turned it on and set it on the table.

“Okay, Stone, you first.”

Dino stood up. “I’m going to go to the john. It’s better if you interview us separately.”

“Right,” Griggs said. “All right, Stone, tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

Stone began at the beginning, and when he had finished, Dino came and took his place. Stone waited at the bar and discovered that one of Bartlett’s rounds had hit some liquor bottles and the mirror behind the bar. A cop was digging it out of the wall behind the mirror.

When Griggs had Dino’s statement, they stood up, and Stone joined them. “Frank Wilkes saw the whole thing,” he said. “He’ll back us up on what happened.”

“I’m going to let my people finish here,” Griggs said. “I’m going to the hospital to see how Lundquist is doing. I’ve got to call his department and his family, if he has one.”

“Let’s talk in the morning, then,” Stone said.

“By the way,” Griggs said, “I talked to the Minneapolis Police Department earlier this evening. The guy who rigged Bartlett’s car says the name he knew Bartlett by was Douglas Barnacle. They shared a cell in the Chicago federal detention center when they were both awaiting trial. He says Barnacle was a stockbroker in Chicago who got mixed up in a mob-backed stock scam and turned state’s evidence. That was a little over five years ago. I’m running a check on the Barnacle name now, and I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “I want to hear about it.” They shook hands and parted.

In the car on the way home Stone and Dino were both quiet for a while.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dino asked.

“Yes. If Barnacle was in jail in Chicago five years ago, he couldn’t be Paul Manning.”

“Right.”

They drove the rest of the way to the Shames house in silence.

35

ONE BY ONE, THAD SHAMES’S GUESTS STRAGGLED IN for breakfast on the afterdeck at midmorning. Stone thought everybody looked tired, maybe a little shell-shocked. Not much was said, and he didn’t feel ready to tell Thad and Liz what little he knew about Bartlett’s background. He would wait for more information.

Stone was finishing his coffee when Juanito arrived with a fax of a dozen or so pages. Stone flipped through them, with Dino looking over his shoulder, occasionally pointing out something.

“What is that?” Thad finally asked.

“It’s a copy of the criminal record of Paul Bartlett, aka Douglas Barnacle, William Wilfred, Edgar Chase and Terence Keane.”

“He was all those people?” Liz asked.

“Those and maybe more. I’ll summarize for you: He was born Robert Trent Smith, in Providence, Rhode Island, where he attended the public schools and the Rhode Island School of Design, which, incidentally, is very highly thought of. He was kicked out of school a month before graduation for running some kind of swindle that bilked nearly a hundred thousand dollars out of other students and faculty. After that, he chalked up half a dozen arrests for various confidence games. He was, apparently, a real bunco artist, and not averse to the use of violence, when he was caught. Five years ago, he got involved in a mob-backed boiler-room operation, selling worthless stocks at high prices. He ended up in jail and traded his testimony against his cohorts for his freedom and the federal witness protection program. While he was there, he shared a cell with a car thief and insurance scam artist. After that, he apparently left the program and took up a new identity as Paul Bartlett, in Minneapolis, where he eventually married a wealthy widow. Then he got his former cell mate to tamper with the seat belt on his car, and he wrecked it, killing her, but only after she changed her will in his favor.”

“Then he’s not Paul Manning?” Thad asked.

“No. Five years ago, Paul Manning and his wife were sailing in Europe, right, Liz?”

“That’s right.”

“And Bartlett was in jail at the time.”

“So Bartlett was just a waste of your time?” Callie asked.

“Not entirely,” Stone said. “At least you and I managed to get him caught for murdering his wife.”

Dino spoke up. “And I managed to save the State of Minnesota the cost of a trial.”

“I don’t want you to feel you’ve wasted my time, Stone,” Thad said. “You were perfectly right to follow that lead, and I’m glad that it came to some good.”

“But now we’re right back where we started,” Stone said. “Liz, let’s talk about this sighting of Paul Manning in Easthampton.”

“All right,” she said.

“Tell me exactly the circumstances under which you saw him.”

“I was in a shop on Main Street, pointing to something in the window for the saleslady to get for me, and I saw him outside the window.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Not entirely, just partly. I caught a glimpse of his nose, which was straight, and that threw me off for a moment. Then, as he was walking away, he did this thing with his shoulders that he used to do.” She demonstrated with a sort of shrug. “As if his jacket weren’t resting comfortably on his shoulders.”

“I remember his doing that in St. Marks,” Stone said. “What else?”

“That was it. I waited until he had gone on down the street, then I got into my car, made a U-turn and got out of there. You’re looking at me as though it were my imagination.”

“No, no,” Stone said. “I believe you. I just wanted the details.”

“And,” Thad said, “there is the matter of the vandalizing of Liz’s house.”

“Of course,” Stone said. “I know the threat is real, and I think Paul Manning is just as dangerous as Paul Bartlett was.”

“So,” Thad said, “where do we go from here?”

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Stone said. “I’d feel better if we had some bit of information that would give us a basis for a search.”

“What sort of information?” Thad asked.

“Well, for instance, a man made several phone calls to my office and wouldn’t give his name, making my secretary suspicious. Caller ID told us the calls came from a Manhattan hotel.” He pointed to the stack of computer paper that rested on a deck chair nearby. “A friend of mine managed to print out the guest list, and Liz and I went through it carefully. I was hoping a name might ring some sort of bell. One name seemed plausible, but it didn’t work out, and neither of us saw another familiar name on the list.”

“I did,” Callie said.

“You did what?” Stone asked.

“I saw a familiar name on the list.” She got up, went to the stack of paper, riffled through it and ripped off a page. “Here,” she said, handing it to Stone.

Stone looked at the sheet. “Frederick James? Does that mean anything to you, Liz?”

Liz shook her head. “No.”

“It should mean something to you, Stone, and you, too, Dino,” Callie said.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Dino said.

Callie picked up the novel Dino had been reading and tossed it to him.

“Tumult, by Frederick James,” Dino read aloud.

“I’d forgotten the name,” Stone said.

“And he’s a novelist, like Paul,” Liz said.

“Why didn’t you mention this before, Callie?”

She shrugged. “I meant to, but somebody changed the subject, and I forgot about it until you mentioned the hotel guest list just now.”

Stone looked at the sheet. “His home address is on Gin Lane, in Easthampton. That’s interesting.” Stone took the book from Dino and turned it over, opened the back cover. “No photograph. All the dust jacket says is, ‘Frederick James travels widely around the world, never staying in one place for long. This is his first novel.’”

“Usually there’s some sort of biography,” Thad said. “Who published it?”

Stone looked at the book jacket. “Hot Lead Press. Linotype machines used to use hot lead to set type. Never heard of this outfit.”

“Liz,” Dino asked, “have you read this book?”

“No.”

“Read it, or at least some of it. See if you think Paul Manning wrote it.”

Stone handed her the book.

“All right,” she said. “God knows I’ve read all of Paul’s earlier novels; I ought to know his work.”

“Well,” Stone said, “now we’ve got some information—James’s home address and his publisher’s name. We couldn’t ask for a better start. Dino, while Liz reads the book, let’s you and I make some phone calls.”

They went into the saloon, where there were two extensions. Stone was about to pick up a phone, but Dino stopped him.

“Listen, want to make a little bet?”

“About what?”

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that after Liz reads the novel she won’t be sure of whether Manning wrote it.”

“I’m not sure I’d take that bet,” Stone said. “She’s been equivocal every time she was in a position to nail something down. I mean, you’d have thought she could tell us right away that Bartlett wasn’t Manning.”

“Yeah, I would have thought that,” Dino agreed. “Of course, there could be a really strong resemblance. I mean, you knew Manning, and you weren’t much help.”

“You knew him, too, and you were no help at all, until shooting was required.”

“You saying I’m trigger happy?”

“Dino, as far as I’m concerned, you can shoot anybody anytime you feel like it, because usually, when you shoot somebody, he’s trying to shoot me.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“So, you suspect Liz of something?”

Dino shrugged. “Not yet. I’d just like to have a straight answer from her now and then.”

“So would I,” Stone said, half to himself.

36

DINO PICKED UP A PHONE. “I KNOW A GUY ON THE Easthampton force; let’s start with the home address. Maybe we won’t have to go any further.” Dino made the call and waited. “I’m on hold,” he said, then waited patiently. “Hey, yeah, I’m here.” Dino listened and asked a couple of questions, then hung up and turned to Stone. “Frederick James rented a house on Gin Lane up until a week ago. He spoke to the real estate agent, and they didn’t have a forwarding address. His address when he rented the place was a Manhattan hotel, the Brooke.”

“Dead end,” Stone said. “I’ll call the publisher.” He called New York information and was connected.

“Good morning, Hot Lead Press,” a young woman’s voice said.

“Good morning,” Stone said. “This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. I’d like to speak to the editor of Frederick James. Can you find out for me which of your editors that is?”

“That’s easy,” she replied. “We’ve only got one editor. I’ll connect you.”

This time, a man, also young: “Pete Willard.”

“Good morning, Mr. Willard. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. I’d—”

“No kidding? A real live cop?”

“That’s right. I’d—”

“Listen, I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories to tell. Have you got an agent?”

“No, and—”

“Great. And no publisher, either?”

“Mr. Willard, I’m calling on police business.”

“Oh, okay, shoot. Not really. I mean, go ahead.”

“I understand that you edit Frederick James?”

“Edit and publish. He was our first author.”

“I take it you’re new in business?”

“That’s right. Opened our doors ten months ago, and already we’ve got a bestseller. That is, this Sunday we will. Frederick James’s novel Tumult opens at number eleven on the Times list.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

“Who’s we?”

“Molly and me. And baby makes three. No, Molly is . . . Well, she does everything I don’t. And she’s my wife, and she’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations again.”

“Thanks. We’re very excited.”

Back where I started, Stone thought. “Mr. Willard, I need to get in touch with Frederick James.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re one of his cop sources. He has all kinds of sources.”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “I’d just like to find him.”

“Well, Mr. James is pretty reclusive,” Willard said. “I’m not supposed to give out any information.”

“This is a very serious police matter,” Stone said. “I’d rather not have to come down there with a search warrant.”

“Hey, just like on Law and Order, huh? Except they always screw up the warrant, and the judge throws out the evidence from the search.”

“I won’t screw up the warrant, Mr. Willard. And believe me, it will be much simpler for you just to give me Mr. James’s address and phone number than for us to come down there and start tearing your office apart.”

“Actually, I don’t have either an address or a phone number for him. I know it’s peculiar, but like I said, he’s reclusive.”

“How do you communicate with Mr. James?”

“E-mail,” Willard said. “And through his agent.”

“What’s his e-mail address?”

“FJ at frederickjames dot com.”

“And his agent’s name?”

“Tom Jones.”

“The singer or the novel?” Stone asked dryly.

“No kidding, that’s his name. I’ll give you his number.”

Stone wrote it down. “By the way, Mr. Willard, if Mr. James should communicate with you, please don’t tell him I called. It might make you a coconspirator.”

“Oh, jeez,” Willard said. “I won’t say a word.”

Stone hung up, laughing. “This is some kind of publishing house,” he said to Dino. “Just a kid and his pregnant wife. But I’ve got his agent’s name.” He dialed the number.

“Tom Jones,” a voice said—middle-aged, husky from booze and cigarettes. No operator, no secretary, just Jones.

“Mr. Jones, this is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD.”

“I didn’t do it!” Jones cackled. “She swore she was over eighteen, anyway.” He roared with laughter. It took him a moment to recover himself.

“Mr. Jones, I’m trying to find a client of yours.”

“And which client would that be?” Jones asked, clearing his throat loudly.

“Frederick James.”

“What a coincidence,” Jones said. “He’s my only client!” This time, he nearly collapsed with laughter.

The man has to be drunk, Stone thought. “Mr. Jones . . .”

Jones continued to laugh, cough and clear his throat. “Yeah?” he said finally.

“It’s very important that I see Mr. James.”

“Well, if you can do that, pal, you’re way ahead of me. I’ve never seen him.”

“He’s your client, and you’ve never seen him?”

“He’s reclusive.”

“And how do you communicate with him?”

“E-mail,” Jones said. “FJ at frederickjames dot com.”

“How about a phone number?”

“Don’t have one. I’ve never even spoken with him.”

“And how did you become his agent?”

“Manuscript came in over the transom,” he said. “Literally. I came to work one morning—I was just about to close up the shop for good—and the manuscript was lying on the floor. Tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I was all washed up as an agent. But when I read Tumult, I knew I had a winner. Trouble was, nobody in any established house would even take my calls, let alone read the manuscript. So I called my nephew, who was an editorial assistant at Simon and Schuster, and he read it and went nuts. His dad loaned him some money, and he packaged the book and got S and S to distribute it for him. He’s making out like a bandit.”

“Would that be Pete Willard?”

“That would be he.”

“Mr. Jones, did you ever know a writer named Paul Manning?”

“Sure, I knew him for twenty years; got him started and I represented him right up until his untimely death.”

“You haven’t heard from him lately, then?”

“Not likely. I don’t have those kind of connections!” Jones laughed hysterically again.

Stone waited him out. When Jones had recovered himself, Stone tried again. “Mr. Jones, how do you send Mr. James contracts to sign, checks from his publisher, that sort of thing? You must have some kind of address.”

“You promise not to tell him where you got it?”

“I promise.”

“He lives at One Vanderbilt Avenue, right here in New York.”

“Phone number?”

“Doesn’t have one; not even an unlisted one.”

“Mr. Jones, when you hear from Mr. James, it’s important that you don’t tell him I called.”

“But he’s my client. I represent him.”

“Believe me, Mr. Jones, you don’t want to get in the middle of this.”

“Has he done something wrong?”

“Not that I know of. We just want to talk to him.”

“Well, okay. Whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones, and if you do hear from him, please call me at this number.” Stone gave him the cell phone number and hung up.

“What?” Dino said.

“This looks real good,” Stone said. “This guy Jones was Manning’s agent before he ‘died.’ Jones has no idea who he is, I think.”

“Did you get an address?”

“Yep. One Vanderbilt Avenue.”

Dino looked at Stone as if he were a retarded child. “Stone, One Vanderbilt Avenue is Grand Central Station.”

“I knew that,” Stone replied.

37

DINO LOOKED THOUGHTFUL. “HAVEN’T WE RUN ACROSS One Vanderbilt Avenue as an address before? It sounds familiar.”

Stone slapped his forehead. “Mail drop! I tracked it down once, roamed around Grand Central until I found this wall of mailboxes. They’re unattended, except when somebody shows up to sort the mail. Can you call the precinct and detail a man to watch it?”

“Stone, Frederick James has committed no crime that we know of, and he’s not a suspect in any case. You trying to get me fired? Why don’t you get Bob Berman to do it?”

“That’s a thought, but I just had another one. If I were James, and I didn’t want to be located, for whatever reason, I’d rent a box at One Vanderbilt, then I’d go to the post office and have the mail forwarded to another address, and then, if I really don’t want to be found, I’d have it forwarded from that address. I might get my mail a week late, but what the hell?”

“So it would be a waste of Berman’s time.”

“Yes, it would. Mr. James has built himself a fire wall, and I can’t think of a way around it.”

“He must get paid,” Dino said.

“Yes, but the checks go to the mailbox.”

“But they have to be deposited, or the guy gets no money, right?”

“Right!” Stone said. He called Tom Jones back.

“Tom Jones.”

“This is Lieutenant Bacchetti again.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. My wife will catch on.” He roared with laughter.

Once again, Stone waited. “Mr. Jones,” he said when he could get past the laughter. “How do you pay Frederick James?”

“He takes checks,” Jones said. “If I were dealing with me, I’d demand cash!” This time it was a high-pitched giggle.

“Mr. Jones, when was the last time you paid Mr. James any money?”

“Last month, when Tumult came out. His contract calls for a payment on publication.”

“All right. Dig out your most recent bank statement.”

“It’s right here in my bottom drawer, with all my bank statements,” Jones said.

Stone heard the man struggling with a desk drawer. “Got it,” Jones said.

“Now, go through the canceled checks until you find the one to James.”

“Okay, let’s see: laundry, phone bill, liquor store—hey, that’s a big one!” More laughter. “Here it is!”

“Turn the check over.”

“It’s over.”

“There is a bank’s name stamped on the back. That always happens when a check is deposited.”

“Right, there is. It’s kind of dim, though. Let me turn on a light and get my glasses.”

Stone had visions of the man sitting in a dark office strewn with empty liquor bottles.

“Okay, I can see it now. It says, ‘First Cayman Bank.’”

“Swell,” Stone said.

“You like that, do you?”

“It’s no help at all, I’m afraid. Mr. Jones, imagine for a moment that you absolutely had to get in touch with Mr. James. How would you go about it?”

“I’d e-mail him,” Jones said. “I’m not much on computers, but my nephew set it up so that I can get to my e-mail without screwing it up. You want the e-mail address?”

“Thanks, but you already gave it to me.”

“I did? Well, okay. Good luck finding him.” Jones hung up.

“What?” Dino asked.

“His bank is in the Cayman Islands, well known for banking secrecy. We’re not going to find him that way.”

“What about his e-mail address? We could call his provider. Who is it? AOL or Hotmail? One of those?”

“Nope. He’s got a domain of his own: frederickjames dot com.”

“Then it’s got to be registered somewhere.”

“Yeah, but even if we could track it down, we’d find that his address is One Vanderbilt, or some hotel where he stayed for a few days.”

“We could see if he has a phone number in New York.”

“If he does, it will be unlisted.”

“If it’s unlisted, I can find out the number.”

“I just had a thought,” Stone said. He picked up a phone and called Dan Griggs.

“Griggs.”

“It’s Stone. How’s Lundquist doing?”

“He made it through the night, and he’s stable. The doctor says we can probably ship him home in a few days.”

“Good. Listen, Dan, we’ve got another line on Paul Manning. He may be using the name Frederick James. James is a novelist with a new, bestselling book out, and he’s something of a will-o’-the-wisp. Can you check the local hotels and see if he’s registered?”

“Okay, Stone, but I have to tell you, I’m wearying of Mr. Manning, and I can’t keep putting resources into finding somebody who did nothing but trash somebody’s house.”

“I understand, Dan, and I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Griggs hung up.

Stone called Bob Berman. “How you doing?”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“The hotel guest list turned up the name of one Frederick James, an author. Can you do the whole skip-trace thing—address, phone number, credit report?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a Social Security number?”

“No, but hang on.” Stone dialed Jones again.

“Tom Jones.”

“Mr. Jones, I need Frederick James’s Social Security number. I know you’ve got it. You can’t pay him without it.”

“Sorry. The checks are made out to a corporation.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You didn’t ask me.” Jones laughed loudly.

“What’s the name of the corporation?”

“Frederick James, Limited; it’s a Cayman Islands firm.”

“Thanks,” Stone said, and hung up. He punched the button for Berman. “Sorry for the delay. No SSN; he deals through a Cayman Islands corporation. I don’t suppose you can get anything on that.”

“Probably not. You have any idea where the guy lives?”

“Until recently, he lived in Easthampton, New York. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

Stone hung up to see Liz appear in the doorway, holding the copy of Tumult. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve read enough of it to say that it could be Paul’s work. But you have to understand, he was something of a chameleon as a writer. He changed styles from book to book, depending on the plot and characters.”

“Thanks for trying, Liz.”

She returned to the afterdeck, leaving Stone and Dino alone.

“What’d I tell you?” Dino said. “She’s going to be useless in finding this guy.”

“I’m feeling pretty useless myself,” Stone said.

“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with the Frederick James name,” Dino said. “My guess is, he’s just using it as a pen name, that he’s living his life under an entirely different name, maybe even more than one.”

“That’s a depressing thought,” Stone said.

As if on cue, Dan Griggs called back. “I’ve had a whole squad calling around to the hotels,” he said, “and there’s no Frederick James registered anywhere.”

“Thanks for your help again, Dan. I won’t bother you unless we turn up something concrete.” Stone hung up, and the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Berman.”

“Anything?”

“Mr. James has an American Express card, and that’s it—no debts, not even a bank account.”

“American Express wouldn’t give somebody a card who had no credit record,” Stone said.

“Then he must have applied under a name that does have a record, then asked them to put another name on the card. By the way, I have a friend at American Express. I called him and he looked up James’s address.”

“Great! What is it?”

“One Vanderbilt Avenue, New York City.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up. “Another dead end.”

“You got any other ideas?” Dino asked.

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well, we’re just going to have to wait until he has another go at Liz,” Stone said.

38

EVERYBODY SEEMED TO BE TAKING A NAP, EXCEPT DINO. “I need some things from the drugstore,” Stone said. “You want to come?”

“Nope,” Dino replied. “Married men don’t need things from the drugstore.”

“Toothpaste and dental floss,” Stone said.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour, if anybody calls.”

“See ya.”

Stone walked to the parking lot and got into his borrowed Mercedes convertible, putting the top down. He pulled out of the driveway, behind a passing Ford, which was driving rather slowly. Stone edged up behind the car, hoping to pass, when, suddenly, the Ford came to a screeching halt, and Stone plowed into it with a crash.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud. Now he had smashed up Thad’s car, and it was his own fault. He got out of the car and walked toward the Ford. As he did, a man got out of the Ford, and to Stone’s surprise, he was smiling.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Stone said, “but why did you slam on your brakes like that?”

The man looked like a salesman of some sort. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and necktie, and his shirt pocket contained a plastic pen guard and several writing instruments. “Don’t worry about it,” the man said, and very quickly, there was a gun in his hand.

Stone looked over his shoulder for some way out of this, but as he did, a silver Lincoln Town Car with darkly tinted windows screeched to a halt beside him.

The man with the gun opened the rear door. “Inside,” he said, “and don’t let’s get blood on this pretty street.”

Stone got in, followed by the man with the gun, and the car moved forward, leaving the other two cars stopped in the middle of the street. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds, he figured, and more disturbing than the gun in the man’s hand was the fact that he was wearing rubber gloves. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“First, let’s get you all secured, and then I’ll tell you,” the man said. “Get down on your knees, rest your head on the armrest and put your hands behind you.” He nudged Stone’s ribs with the gun barrel for emphasis.

Stone did as he was told, and in a moment, he was handcuffed.

“All right, now you can sit back up here,” the man said.

His accent was Southern, sort of educated redneck, Stone thought. “So what’s this about?” he asked again.

“First, let’s get the introductions out of the way,” the man said. “You can call me Larry, and the feller driving is Ernest. And you would be one Mr. Stone Barrington.”

“How do you do?” Stone said.

“I do pretty good,” Larry replied. “Now, as to what this is about, we’re going to take a little drive out in the country, and then we’re gonna make a phone call.” His tone was pleasant, conversational. “I don’t enjoy putting violence on folks, so I’d ’preciate it if you wouldn’t make that necessary. I can do it, if the need arises.”

“All right, I’ll behave,” Stone lied. He was going to get out of this at the first opportunity, and he was beginning to regret that he had gotten into the car without a fight. The rubber gloves were weighing heavily on his mind.

Shortly, they were in West Palm, driving west on one of its broad boulevards. “You were saying?” Stone asked.

“Oh, yeah. A friend of mine called me a couple of days ago and asked me to come down here and shoot your ass.”

“What friend is that?”

“Does it matter? He’s paying me and Ernest, here, fifty big ones to deal with you, and that’s the most I ever got for a hit.”

They stopped at a traffic light, and a police car pulled up next to them.

Larry stuck the gun in Stone’s crotch. “Don’t you even think about it,” he said. “They can’t see us, and if they hear something, then I’m going to have to do you and the cop. Besides, wouldn’t you rather die with your dick still on?”

Stone didn’t answer that. “I’d like to know who your friend is,” he said.

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name,” Larry said. “He uses a lot of them.”

“What does he look like, then?”

“Tall feller, going gray.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Manning.”

“Manning? If you say so.”

“Funny thing is, I was about to try and give Mr. Manning a whole lot of money. Tell you what: Why don’t you call him right now and tell him that? It might have an effect on the outcome of your day and mine.”

“And why would you want to give him a lot of money?” Larry asked.

“I’m a lawyer. I represent a lady he knows. She’s willing to pay a large sum to get him to go away.”

“How much money we talking about?” Larry asked, clearly interested.

“She’s willing to give him a million dollars,” Stone said, “maybe more.” But not now, Stone thought. She won’t give him a fucking penny, if I have anything to say about it.

“You really expect me to believe that.”

“You don’t have to. Just make the call, and I’ll make him believe it.”

“What’s in it for me?” Larry asked.

“How much has he paid you so far?” Stone asked.

“Twenty-five thousand,” Larry replied. “There’s another twenty-five due when he shoots you.”

“When he shoots me? I thought he hired you to do that.”

“Well, yeah, but only if you give me any trouble. He wants to do it himself, if he has the time. Something personal, I don’t know.”

“Tell you what. You make the call. If I can get him to agree to a settlement, I’ll give you another fifty, on top of the twenty-five he’s already given you.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said.

“What have you got to lose? Tell you what. Drive me to the nearest bank, and I’ll give you the fifty right now, in cash. Any bank will do. I just have to make a phone call.”

“Well, see, I’ve got a lot of problems with that,” Larry said. “You could make all sorts of trouble for me in a bank.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Stone, who had been planning on making a lot of trouble for him.

“And that wouldn’t be the honorable thing to do, see? I mean, my deal is with Doug, not with you. Word got around about that, and I’d be short of clients.”

“So, call him and let me speak to him.”

“What the hell, why not? Ernest, give me the phone.”

Ernest passed back a cell phone, and Larry dialed, mouthing the numbers from memory.

Stone heard the electronic shriek from the phone, and the announcement that the cellular customer being called was unavailable or out of the calling area.

“No luck,” Larry said.

“Try him again in a minute,” Stone replied. They were out of West Palm, now, headed west on a narrowing, increasingly empty road that seemed to be heading straight into the Everglades. He didn’t want to go there.

“Okay,” Larry said.

“You do a lot of this work?” Stone asked.

“You bet. Make a nice living at it, too.”

“How’d you get into it?”

“Fellow offered me five grand once, when I was broke, so I got myself a mail-order book that tells you how to do it and get away with it.”

“The work doesn’t bother you?”

“Naw, it’s just business. I mean, I don’t have anything against the people I hit.”

“You know, in my line of work, I have clients who sometimes have need of somebody with your skills. Maybe you should give me your number?”

Larry grinned broadly. “Well, first, let’s see how this goes, okay?”

“Why don’t you try the number again?” Stone said.

“Sure thing.” Larry punched redial, then held the phone away from his ear, so Stone could hear the recorded message again. “Hey, Ernest,” Larry said. “It’s your next left, right?”

“Right,” Ernest said, and a moment later, he turned left onto a dirt road. A moment later, they were winding down a track that ran through scrub pines. To their right, mangrove grew in swamp water. Shortly, they came to a small clearing, and Ernest made a U-turn and stopped.

“Okay, out of the car,” Larry said, opening the door and helping Stone out of the rear seat.

“Let’s try the number again,” Stone said.

Larry punched redial, and again, the dreaded message repeated.

“Well, I guess you’re just shit out of luck,” Larry said, pocketing the phone. He pushed Stone toward the mangrove. “My instructions were, if I couldn’t reach him, to do the deed and meet him tonight.”

“You’re doing this on credit, then?” Stone asked, trying not to panic.

“Don’t worry,” Larry said. “Me and Mr. Barnacle go way back. We did a little stretch together.”

Suddenly the name rang a bell. “Barnacle? Douglas Barnacle?”

“That’s his name.”

Stone realized that he was about to be murdered by a dead man. “Hang on,” he said.

“Listen, Mr. Barrington, there’s no use stretching this out. You don’t want to think about this any more than you have to.”

“Don’t you read the papers? Watch television? Listen to the radio?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear about the shoot-out in a Palm Beach restaurant last night?”

Ernest, who had gotten out of the car, walked up. “Yeah, I heard something about that,” he said.

“What shoot-out?”

“The guy you call Doug Barnacle was living in Palm Beach under the name of Paul Bartlett. The police killed him last night.”

That brought Larry up short. “Ernest, that was the name, wasn’t it? Paul Bartlett?”

“That’s what he was using yesterday,” Ernest said.

“Turn on the car radio,” Stone said. “Find an all-news station.”

“Do it, Ernest,” Larry said.

Ernest went to the car, turned on the radio and found a station. Farm report, bank robbery in West Palm, weather.

Larry looked at his watch. “Ernest, we got a plane to catch.”

“I know it,” Ernest said.

Larry turned and marched Stone back to the mangrove. He put a foot against his backside and shoved him into the swamp. Stone kept his balance and ended up thigh-deep in the black water. A large snake slithered past no more than a yard away. “Mr. Barrington, that was a real nice try. I admire it, but it’s time for you to say bye-bye.” He raised the pistol and pointed it at Stone’s forehead, no more than five feet away.

“Hey, Larry!” Ernest called.

“What?”

“Listen!” He turned up the radio.

“. . . chaotic scene at La Reserve, a Palm Beach restaurant last night, ended up with one dead, and a Minneapolis police officer seriously wounded.”

“Don’t Doug live in Minneapolis?” Ernest asked.

“Shhhh.”

“. . . have identified the police officer as Lieutenant Ebbe Lundquist, of the Minneapolis PD, and the dead suspect as Paul Bartlett, also of Minneapolis. Bartlett had been wanted in Minnesota for the murder of his wife, Frances Simms Bartlett, nearly a year ago, and Lieutenant Lundquist was trying to effect an arrest in the restaurant, backed up by the Palm Beach Police Department.”

“Well, shit,” Larry said. “You’re not lying, Mr. Barrington.”

“No,” Stone said, “I’m not.”

“I mean, you got no idea what some folks will tell you in circumstances like this, you know?”

“I’m sure. But the fact remains, Larry, that you’re not going to get paid for this one, so why do it? You’ve already got the twenty-five thousand, so you haven’t wasted your time, but Bartlett isn’t going to pay off, now.” Stone did not like standing in this swamp, with things slithering around in it.

“He’s got a point, Larry,” Ernest said.

“Maybe,” Larry said, thoughtfully.

Ernest looked at his watch. “And we haven’t got all that much time before our plane.”

Larry looked at Stone. “I don’t guess you’d really pay me the fifty grand, would you?”

“Give me your address, and I’ll send you a check,” Stone replied.

Larry burst out laughing. “Come on, Ernest, let’s get outta here!” He got into the car, and Ernest drove off, spinning the wheels and throwing mud everywhere.

Stone stood in the swamp for a minute, trying to get his heart rate down, then the snake appeared again, and he started struggling for the shore.

Once on dry land, he lay down and, with the greatest possible effort, got his handcuffed hands under his ass and finally over his feet. Now, with his hands in front of him, he was able to get to the cell phone under his sweater on his belt. He punched in the number.

“The Shames yacht,” Dino said.

“Dino,” Stone said, “I need you to come and get me, and bring your handcuffs key.”

39

DINO FOUND THE WHOLE STORY HILARIOUS. “I DON’T believe it,” he cackled. “Bartlett bites you on the ass from the grave! I wish I had been there!”

“Dino, it wouldn’t have been funny, even if you were there.”

“And you thought it was Manning who bought the hit!” He cackled again.

“And it still isn’t funny.”

Stone went to his cabin, showered and changed, retrieved his laptop computer and brought it into the saloon.

“What are you doing with that?” Dino asked.

“The only address we have for Frederick James is an e-mail address, so I’m going to e-mail him.”

“Will he be able to tell you’re in Palm Beach?”

“No. The return address will be the same as if I’d sent it from New York.”

“Okay, why not?”

Stone made some adjustments in his telephone dialing program, logged on to his Internet provider and went to e-mail.

TO: FREDERICK JAMES

FROM: STONE BARRINGTON

DEAR MR. JAMES:

I UNDERSTAND YOU HAVE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME. IF SO, YOU MAY REACH ME AT THE ABOVE E-MAIL ADDRESS, OR TELEPHONE ME AT (917) 555-1455. I THINK YOU AND I MAY HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS THAT WOULD REACT TO YOUR BENEFIT.

Stone sent the e-mail. “Let’s see if that raises him.”

“And what if it does?”

“All I want to do is buy the guy off. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”

“You think he’s interested in money?”

“I don’t think he’s interested in anything else. He’s doing this because he’s pissed off at his wife for taking all his money. I’m going to propose that she give some of it back.”

“I think the guy’s a fruitcake, Stone, and . . .”

A chime from Stone’s computer interrupted him. “You have mail,” a notice on the screen said.

“That was quick. The guy must have been working on his computer.” Stone opened the e-mail.

TO: STONE BARRINGTON

FROM: FREDERICK JAMES

DEAR MR. BARRINGTON:

WHY DO YOU THINK I AM TRYING TO GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU? I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Stone was annoyed. He immediately wrote back.

TO: PAUL MANNING

FROM: STONE BARRINGTON

PAUL:

ALLISON HAS ASKED ME TO REPRESENT HER IN COMING TO TERMS WITH YOU. SHE IS WILLING TO PART WITH A SUBSTANTIAL SUM OF MONEY IN ORDER TO AMICABLY END ALL TIES WITH YOU. LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED.

“Let’s see if that has any effect,” Stone said.

Considerable time passed while they waited. Stone and Dino chatted about nothing in particular for a while, then the computer chimed again, and Stone opened the mail.

TO: STONE BARRINGTON

FROM: FREDERICK JAMES

SIR:

YOU SEEM TO BE SUFFERING UNDER THE DELUSION THAT I AM SOMEONE ELSE. HOW DID YOU GET THIS E-MAIL ADDRESS?

Stone immediately wrote back:

PAUL, THERE IS NO POINT IN CONTINUING WITH THIS. IF YOU HAVE NO INTEREST IN A SUBSTANTIAL SETTLEMENT, THEN YOU AND ALLISON CAN GO YOUR SEPARATE WAYS, WITH YOU EMPTY-HANDED AND EXPOSED.

There was an immediate return message:

SIR:

JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU CAN EXPOSE ABOUT ME? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM.

Stone wrote back:

PAUL, OF COURSE I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. HOW ABOUT THIS: I CALL SOMEBODY I KNOW AT 60 MINUTES AND SUGGEST THEY DO A PIECE ON PAUL AND ALLISON MANNING, WHO EVERYBODY THINKS WERE HANGED IN ST. MARKS A WHILE BACK. THEY COULD INTERVIEW ALLISON, WHO COULD TELL THEM HOW SHE BRIBED GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS FOR HER OWN RELEASE AND YOURS. THEN SHE COULD TELL THEM HOW YOU ARE NOW CALLING YOURSELF FREDERICK JAMES, AND AS SOON AS THE SHOW IS OVER, EVERY JOURNALIST IN AMERICA WILL BE TRYING TO FIND YOU, WHICH SHOULD MAKE YOUR LIFE FUN. YOU SEEM TO HAVE MADE A NICE NEW LIFE FOR YOURSELF, WITH A BOOK ON THE TIMES LIST. WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE TO LIVE THAT LIFE, UNDISTURBED?

ALL WE ASK IS THAT YOU TAKE SOME MONEY AND LEAVE ALLISON UNDISTURBED. TALK TO ME.

James’s answer:

SIR: I DON’T KNOW WHAT KIND OF MANIAC YOU ARE, BUT YOU ARE FLIRTING WITH THE BIGGEST LAWSUIT YOU EVER HEARD OF, PLUS MAYBE CRIMINAL CHARGES OF EXTORTION. THIS CORRESPONDENCE IS AT AN END. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU AGAIN.

Dino, looking over Stone’s shoulder, read the e-mail. “Well, that was certainly indignant. You think he’s bluffing?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “What’s more, I think we may have smoked him out. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Mr. James.”

40

STONE WAS READING THE PAPERS THE FOLLOWING MORN ing, when Thad appeared on deck, carrying two briefcases. He gave them to Juanito. “Put these in the car, will you, please?”

“You leaving?” Stone asked.

“Yes. I’ve got to go back to New York, then back to the Coast again.”

“Thad, it might be a good idea if you took Liz with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know if or when Paul Manning is going to turn up, but if he does, it might be better if Liz weren’t here.”

“What am I going to do with her in New York, lock her in a hotel suite? I’m going to be very busy for the next week or so, and I’d have little time to spend with her. And from what she tells me, I think she’d be afraid to go out shopping or anywhere else on her own.”

“You have a point,” Stone said.

“I’d feel much better if she were here with you and Callie and Dino.”

“For how long?” Stone asked.

“For as long as you’ll stay, or until you reach some sort of accommodation with Manning.”

“Thad, I can’t stay forever, but I’ll give it another week or two. Maybe we’ll hear from this Frederick James again. If he really is Manning, I can’t think why he wouldn’t want to talk to me. After all, he’s already called my office three or four times.”

“Does James know where you are?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“You want me to hire some private security to back you up?”

“No, not at the moment. If it gets bad we can always do that.”

“If you want help, just tell Callie. She’ll know who to call.”

“All right.”

The two men shook hands, and Thad left the yacht.

Dino, who had been having breakfast during this conversation, now spoke up. “Listen, Stone, I’m beginning to think you’re taking this too seriously. I mean, all that’s happened is the lady’s house has been messed up a little. That’s kid stuff; it’s hardly a threat on her life. And if James is really Manning, then he can’t be completely a fruitcake. He’s made a life for himself, he’s writing again, and if his book is on the bestseller list, he must be doing okay at it.”

“Dino, you only met this guy when you arrested him. I got to know him a little in St. Marks, and he made this very angry scene in New York right before you picked him up. He wanted his money, and he wanted it bad. I’ve got a feeling he still does.”

“A feeling? What’s that? Your hunches were never all that good, you know.”

“Liz feels the same way, and she knows him better than anybody.”

“So now we’re operating on Liz’s hunches? Don’t get me wrong, I’m getting used to living on a big yacht and having my every wish catered to; I always knew I could. I’ll stay here until the chief of detectives sends somebody down here for me with an extradition warrant.”

“She’s not a stupid woman. She and Paul pulled off quite an insurance fraud, you know.”

“Pulled off? You think nearly getting herself hanged is pulling it off? The whole thing completely backfired on them. They’re stupid, both of them.”

“Okay, so it didn’t work out. She’s still pretty smart,” Stone said stubbornly.

“Anyway, she may not be your only problem.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t mentioned this, but yesterday we got followed around town by a car.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Somebody is tailing us.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem related to Liz and her problems.”

“And what do you think it’s related to?”

“I think it could be the former Mrs. Barrington.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said. He had nearly forgotten about Dolce. “What kind of a car?”

“Sort of an anonymous-looking sedan, probably Japanese. The windows were tinted dark. I couldn’t see who was inside.”

“Everybody’s windows are tinted dark down here; keeps out the heat.”

“I think you should take Dolce seriously.”

“You think I don’t?”

“I think you don’t take her seriously enough.”

“And how do I do that? Carry an automatic weapon at all times?”

“You could do worse. And I’m worried about Callie.”

“What about Callie?”

“If Dolce sees you with her, she could be in trouble.”

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned. “When is this going to be over?”

“As far as Dolce is concerned, it’ll be over when one of you is dead, and she might want that sooner than later.”

“You think she’s suicidal?”

“Homicidal, more likely.”

“Thanks, I needed that.”

“Anytime.”

The cell phone on Stone’s belt vibrated. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Frederick James.”

“Good morning, Mr. James,” Stone said loudly, so that Dino would get it. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again.”

“I changed my mind. I want you to answer a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you know that I know Paul Manning?”

“Let’s not be cute, Mr. James. I think you are Paul Manning.”

“Well, I’m not, but I’ve been in touch with him.”

“When?”

“Recently.”

“How recently?”

“Recently enough. I know about his past with Allison, and the business with the insurance company. Quite frankly, I know more about him than I want to know.”

“Don’t we all?”

“I got to thinking about what you said in your e-mail. Does Allison really want to buy him off?”

“Yes, she does.”

“For how much?”

“I don’t know that I can discuss that with you, since you claim not to be Paul Manning.”

“Tell me this, then. Why do you think I’ve been trying to get in touch with you?”

“You really don’t know?”

“No, I don’t, or I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“A man called my office several times and wouldn’t leave his name. I suspected it was Paul Manning. I managed to trace the call back to a Manhattan hotel, and you were the only guest whose name I recognized.”

“That’s pretty tenuous, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Wasn’t I right?”

“Actually, you may well be. Paul Manning was in my hotel suite a couple of times, and he made some phone calls.”

“Well, I’m glad you admit, at least, to being in the same room with Manning.”

“Have you ever met Manning, Mr. Barrington?”

“I got to know him rather well, but he was using another name at the time.”

“Listen to my voice. Does it sound like the voice of Paul Manning?”

Stone admitted to himself that it did not. “Manning’s is deeper,” he said.

“Exactly. I have rather a light voice, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose.”

“And Manning’s is a sort of bass-baritone.”

“Yes.”

“Does that do nothing to convince you that Manning and I are not the same person?”

“It helps. Of course, we can resolve the question of identity very easily.”

“How?”

“We can meet, face-to-face.”

“Where are you, at the moment, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I’d rather not say, too.”

“Then we might as well be on different continents.”

“We may very well be.”

“How are we going to resolve this?”

“I may be able to help you deal with Manning.”

“Deal, how?”

“You’re trying to buy him off, aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say that I’m trying to bring a difficult situation to an amicable close.”

“Then I’ll take him your offer.”

“You know how to get in touch with him?”

“How could I take him your offer, otherwise?”

“All right. Tell him that Allison wants to come to an arrangement with him to get out of her life. If he agrees in principle, then we can discuss it in more detail. Or just get him to call me.”

“I don’t think he’ll do that.”

“Why not?”

“He’s very shy these days, and he’s not fond of you.”

“Tell him I can arrange for him to live his life more openly, without fear of legal difficulties.”

“Now that might appeal to him. Can I reach you at this number?”

“Yes. How can I reach you?”

But Frederick James had hung up.

Stone turned to Dino. “You heard that?”

“I heard it.”

“What do you think?”

“I think this is getting very weird,” Dino said.

41

CALLIE CAME ON DECK. “AND WHAT HAVE YOU TWO planned for the day?” she asked Stone and Dino.

“Zip,” Dino said. “But I wouldn’t mind some golf.”

“I’ll book you a tee time at the Breakers,” she said.

“I don’t want to leave you and Liz alone,” Stone replied. “We’d better stick close.”

“Liz and I will be just fine,” Callie said. “I have your gun, and Juanito and a couple of crew members will be around. Besides, if you have to spend all your time here, you might get tired of me.”

Stone snaked an arm around her and kissed her on the neck. “Not much chance of that,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, “but unless you and Dino get out of here and allow Liz and me some girl time, I’m going to start getting sick of you both.”

Stone threw his hands up. “Golf, it is. Come on, Dino.”

The starter cleared them from the first tee. Stone drove his usual slice into the next fairway, and Dino hooked his into yet another fairway.

“How’re we going to handle the cart on this?” Dino asked, getting in.

“Well, I’m not giving it to you. You’re away, so we’ll go to your ball first.”

Dino addressed the ball with a fairway wood, took a practice swing and sent the ball two hundred yards over a stand of palm trees, back into the fairway. “Take that!” he said.

Stone drove to his own ball, took a long iron and hit it to within five yards of Dino’s ball.

“Looks like we’re back in the game,” Dino said.

“Back in the fairway, anyway.”

They both parred the hole. A bit later, as they were crossing South County Road, Dino spoke up. “You are the most unobservant person I know.”

“What brought that on?” Stone asked. “And how does being observant help my golf game?”

“Nothing can help your golf game,” Dino replied, “but if somebody had told me that my former wife and lover was hunting me down to kill me, I’d take a look around me once in a while.”

Stone tensed. “Where?”

“Over your left shoulder, parked at the curb, about two hundred yards down. Don’t look yet!”

Stone tried to keep his eyes ahead. They stopped to tee off, and he took his driver out of the bag and tried a couple of practice swings, which allowed him to look at the car. “I can’t see who’s inside,” he said.

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” Dino asked. “If she’d wanted you to see her, she could have parked twenty yards from us.”

“We’ve already made the local papers this week, as a result of the scene in the restaurant,” Stone said. “I don’t think I want to read a story that says I was shot dead on the golf course at the Breakers.”

“Don’t worry,” Dino said. “You won’t. I may, but not you.”

“How do you know she doesn’t want to kill you, too?”

“Because I never married her, then dumped her when an old girlfriend called,” Dino said. “I’ve always been nice to Dolce.”

Stone teed up and swung at the ball, hitting it straight, for a change. “I remember your telling me once that Eduardo was the devil, and that Dolce was his handmaiden. Is that what you call being nice?”

“I didn’t say it to her,” Dino pointed out. “You think I have a death wish?”

“But she must know what you think of her.”

“I don’t know how she could. I’ve certainly never told her.”

“What about Mary Ann?”

“Mary Ann and I have not yet come to the point in our marriage where she wants me dead. Someday, maybe, but not yet.” Dino drove the ball, and they got back into the cart.

“What is it with Sicilians, anyway?” Stone asked.

“Well, speaking as a scion of the more elegant north of Italy, it has always been my opinion that all Sicilians are totally batshit crazy. I mean, the vendetta thing would be counterproductive anywhere else but Sicily, but they’ve made an art of it. Do you have any idea how many more Sicilians there would be in the world, not to mention in this country, if there were no vendetta? If you took all of them who’ve been knifed, shotgunned, garroted, blown up, and poisoned, married them off and had them produce, say, four point five children each? Millions.”

“And you’re saying that’s not counterproductive?”

“Nah. It just concentrates more ill-gotten wealth in fewer hands, and it prevents a Sicilian population explosion. And that can’t be a bad thing.”

“But you married a Sicilian.”

“How do you think I know all this? It’s been an education, I can tell you.” Dino curled a thirty-foot, breaking, downhill putt into the cup.

“How’d you do that?” Stone asked, astonished.

“I just thought about how a Sicilian would do it, if the ball would kill somebody.”

Stone laughed. “How can I make it up with Dolce, without getting killed?” he asked, serious again.

“Make it up? You mean marry her again?”

“No, no, no,” Stone sputtered. “I mean just make peace with her.”

“You don’t make peace with Sicilians, unless there is a threat of death on both sides. You know, like the nuclear thing: mutually assured destruction. Where do you think the Pentagon and the Kremlin got the idea?”

“There has to be another way.”

“Eduardo could call her off.”

“Yeah? He could do that?”

“If she wasn’t crazy. Nobody can call off a crazy person, not even with a threat of death.”

“You’re such a pleasure to be around, sometimes, Dino.”

“I’m just telling you the way things are. No use kidding yourself.”

“I guess not,” Stone said glumly. They were on a tee that faced the road, now, some four hundred and fifty yards away. Stone hit his first true drive, now, two hundred and sixty yards straight down the fairway.

“Everybody gets lucky sometime,” Dino said.

“That’s the thing about this game,” Stone said, getting into the cart. “Even the worst duffer can go out and, maybe two or three times in a round, he can hit a shot that’s the equal of anything a pro could do under the circumstances. And it gives you the entirely irrational hope that, if you worked at it, you might get pretty good at this game.”

“That’s what keeps us coming back,” Dino said. He hit a good drive, too, but short of Stone’s.

“I like you keeping a respectful twenty yards back,” Stone said. “Shows a certain deference.”

Stone chunked his second shot, hitting the ground before striking the ball. It fell short, some forty yards from the green.

Dino hit the green. “Sorry about the lack of deference,” he said.

Stone got out of the cart and looked toward the green, lining up his shot. Then he saw the car, sitting and idling at the side of the road, a hundred yards away.

“What club do you want?” Dino asked, standing at the rear of the cart beside the bags.

“Give me the two-iron,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure,” Dino laughed. “You mean a wedge, don’t you?”

“Give me the two-iron,” Stone said again.

“Even you will hit the two-iron a hundred and eighty yards,” Dino said. “I’d use a lob wedge, myself, to clear the bunker.”

“Give me the two-iron,” Stone said, an edge in his voice.

Dino gave him the two-iron.

Stone took the club and lined up on his target.

“You’re aiming twenty yards to the left of the pin,” Dino said, standing behind him.

Stone took a practice swing.

“Stone, if you take a full swing, you’re going to hit the ball onto a neighboring golf course.”

“No, I’m not,” Stone said.

“Then you can kiss that ball goodbye.”

Stone lined up with the ball. He took a short back-swing and abbreviated his follow-through to keep the shot low. He connected solidly, and the ball flew straight and true, twenty yards to the left of the pin, across the road, narrowly missing a passing Rolls-Royce, and straight at the idling car with the blacked-out windows. The ball struck the driver’s window with a thwack, but it did not shatter. Instead, it cracked into a hundred pieces, held together by the safety glass and the tinting film applied to the window.

Stone hoped somebody would get out, but instead, the car sped away, its tires squealing on the pavement, leaving a puff of black smoke.

“Nice shot!” Dino yelled.

42

DINO WATCHED THE CAR SPEED AWAY AND LAUGHED aloud. “That ought to make the guy keep his distance!”

“Guy? What guy? You said it was Dolce.”

“I said I thought it was Dolce. For all I know, it may be one of your groupies.”

“I don’t have groupies,” Stone said.

“Okay, maybe it’s one of your many enemies.”

“Come on, let’s finish the round,” Stone said. “I assume you’re going to let me take a mulligan on that one.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Stone took his sand wedge, choked down on it, opened the face and flopped the ball onto the green, within three feet of the pin.

“You should have taken my advice in the first place,” Dino said.

They were driving back to the Shames estate, with Dino at the wheel, when Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“This is Frederick James.”

“Good day, Mr. James.”

“I’ve spoken with Paul, and he’s willing to deal, through me.”

“Not through you,” Stone said.

“Why not? He’s chosen me as his representative.”

“How can I trust you?” Stone asked. “You’ve already lied to me at least once.”

“When did I ever lie to you?” James asked, sounding offended.

“You told me you’d never heard of Paul Manning, and then you told me you knew him. One of those was a lie.”

“But—”

“I’ll deal directly with Manning.”

“For whatever reason, Paul doesn’t wish to deal with you.”

“Then I’ll deal with a reputable lawyer who represents him.”

James was silent for a moment. “I am Paul Manning’s attorney,” he said finally.

“You’re a novelist,” Stone said.

“So is Scott Turow, but he’s a lawyer, too.”

“I take it your name is not Frederick James, then?”

“A nom de plume.”

“What is your real name?”

“I’m not prepared to divulge that.”

“And you think I’m going to deal with somebody who says he’s an attorney but won’t tell me his name? Either get serious, or go away.”

“But I—”

“I don’t know who you are, where you are, if you’re an attorney or even if you really know Paul Manning.”

“I assure you, I do.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“What exactly do you want, Mr. Barrington?”

“I want to know that I’m dealing with the real Paul Manning and that he’s represented by an attorney whose identity I can confirm.”

“And what proof of those things would you accept?”

“Bring Manning to a meeting, and let him authorize you to represent him in my presence.”

“Paul won’t meet with you.”

“Then I’m not going to remove the threat of his arrest on insurance fraud, and I’m certainly not going to give him any of my client’s money.”

“There must be some way we can resolve this.”

“I think you understand my concerns, Mr. James. Why don’t you go away and think about it for a bit, discuss it with your client and get back to me?”

“All right,” James said and hung up.

“He’s playing games?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

“Manning’s afraid you’re going to set him up for an arrest.”

“A reasonable fear,” Stone said.

“Can you really get him off on the insurance fraud charge, or are you just blowing smoke up his ass?”

“I’ve already gotten him off,” Stone said. “But I’m not going to tell him that.”

“How did you get him off?”

“I negotiated a deal for Allison with the insurance company, whereby they agreed not to prosecute in order to get some of the money back.”

“And the deal includes Manning? Why?”

“I didn’t want to admit to them that Allison was still alive, so I wrote the agreement without reference to names. Now they can’t prosecute anybody.”

“That’s pretty slick, Stone.”

“I’m a pretty slick lawyer,” Stone replied.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Dino admitted.

They were back on the yacht, having a drink with Callie, when Stone’s phone buzzed again. “Hello?”

“It’s Frederick James.”

“What did you come up with?”

“I propose that you and I meet, in order for me to establish my credentials.”

“Okay, where?”

“Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in New York, but I have to go to Miami on business later in the week. Is there someplace between New York and Miami we can meet? Preferably in an airport?”

“I’m on the west coast of Florida,” Stone said. “How about Palm Beach International? It’s a couple of hours’ drive for me.”

“Agreed. Now, what do you need from me?”

“In what state are you licensed to practice?”

“New York.”

“Okay. Bring a copy of your New York law license, your New York driver’s license and your United States passport. Also, I’ll need a photograph of you with Paul Manning, taken no earlier than today and no later than tomorrow, and I want a copy of the day’s New York Times prominently displayed in the photograph.”

“I can do all that, I think, although Paul doesn’t like to be photographed.”

“I can imagine. Then I’ll need a copy of Manning’s U.S. passport, with his current identity recorded therein, and I want that clearly visible in the photograph, too.”

“Whoa, whoa, he’s not going to go for that.”

“I’m giving him nothing unless I’m convinced he’s who he says he is, and in order to do that, I’ll need to know who he says he is. He’s going to have to prove it to me.”

“You’re throwing in a whole lot of stuff, here,” James said.

“If you’re a lawyer, you’ll know very well that I have to protect my client, just as you have to protect yours. That’s all we’re talking about.”

“I’ll get back to you,” James said and hung up.

“Any progress?” Liz asked.

“By inches,” Stone said. “Manning is being very cautious.”

“He’s got a lot to be cautious about,” Liz replied.

An hour later, Stone’s phone vibrated again. “All right,” James said. “The day after tomorrow at one P.M., at Signature Aviation, Palm Beach International.”

“Fine,” Stone said. “I’ll see you then, but if my concerns are not met, there’ll be no discussion of terms.”

“I understand,” James said.

Stone hung up. “We’re on.”

43

LATE THAT NIGHT, AFTER A BIG DINNER AND MORE WINE than he had intended to drink, Stone fell into bed, exhausted. He had barely fallen asleep, when he was wakened by a knock on the door—at first, softly, then loudly. Annoyed, he got out of bed, put on a robe and went to the door.

“Good evening,” Dolce said. She stood there with two brandy snifters in one hand and a pistol in the other. “May I come in?” she asked, unnecessarily.

Stone looked at the gun and backed into the room. “Of course,” he said.

Dolce kicked the door shut and offered him a snifter. “I brought you a drink,” she said.

“Thanks, but I’ve already had too much to drink this evening,” he replied.

“I said, I brought you a drink,” she said, through clenched teeth.

Stone took the glass.

“Sit on the bed,” she said, “where I can see you.”

Stone sat on the bed.

Dolce lifted her glass. “To many more happy moments like this,” she said.

Stone sipped at his brandy. It had an uncharacteristically bitter taste.

“Drink it!” she said, tossing down her own drink.

Stone tossed down his own. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

Dolce smiled, revealing her startlingly white teeth against her olive skin. “A pleasure, is it? I had somehow gotten the impression that seeing your wife was no longer such a pleasure. How long has it been?”

“Too long,” Stone said. He felt dreadful; the brandy on top of everything else he had had to drink at dinner was too much. He moved to set down his glass on the bedside table, and to his astonishment, he missed the table entirely. The glass dropped to the floor, missing the rug, shattering into tiny pieces. “I’m drunk,” he said.

“Not exactly,” Dolce replied. “You’re just feeling the first effects of the Thorazine.”

“What’s Thorazine?” Stone asked, and he had to try hard to pronounce the words.

“It’s a little something that an enlightened medical profession has devised to help those of us who are—how shall I put this?—psychiatrically challenged easier to manage. Do you know that one of Papa’s doctors actually said those words to me? Psychiatrically challenged! You have no idea what those of us who do not meet society’s standards of behavior have to endure at the hands of those who wish to make our company more acceptable.” She smiled. “But you’re about to find out.”

“Huh?” Stone said, dully. His mind seemed fairly sharp—certainly, he could understand her—but there was something blocking the connection between his brain and his lips, something that slowed everything to a molasseslike flow.

“Don’t worry, my darling. It won’t last long,” she said, rising and approaching the bed. Her shoes ground the broken snifter into the floor with a loud noise. She placed a finger in the middle of Stone’s forehead and pushed gently.

Stone fell back onto the bed. It was where he had always wanted to be, here on this bed, staring at the beautifully crafted ceiling of his beautifully crafted cabin.

Dolce lifted his feet onto the bed, untied his robe, then rolled him over and stripped it off his body. She rolled him onto his back again and tucked two pillows under his head.

Stone lay there, naked, indolent to a degree he would not have dreamed possible. He had no wish to do anything except lie there and let this happen.

Dolce went back to her chair, picked up the handbag that had hung on her arm, opened it, took out a wad of something and returned to the bed. She sat down on the edge and shook the little bundle into long lengths. “You know,” she said, smoothing them out, “science has never solved the problem of what to do with old nylon stockings. There’s no recycling of them, and they seem too good to throw away. One little run, and they’re useless.” She smiled again. “Or are they?” She rolled Stone’s limp form through three hundred and sixty degrees, until he was centered on the bed, then she tied one end of a stocking to a wrist and the other end to a bedpost.

Stone watched her do it, unconcerned, and continued to watch as she tied his other hand and both feet to bedposts. He was spread-eagled, naked, on the bed, before a trickle of concern made its way from somewhere in his brain to his forehead, where it manifested itself in beads of sweat that popped out. Wait a minute, he thought. Something is wrong here. He tugged at the bedposts, but the sturdy mahogany bed would not move, and neither could he.

“Well,” Dolce said, “I believe your tiny dose of Thorazine is beginning to wear off. A psychiatric dose would have lasted much longer. It took me several months to learn to control my dosage—without the knowledge of my nurses, of course—to the point where I could manage a clear thought sooner, rather than later.” She drew back a hand and slapped him smartly across the face. “There, feel that?”

“Yes,” he said, and his lips moved better than they had a few minutes before.

“Oh, good, because I want you to be wide awake and feeling everything that is going to happen now.”

“Dolce,” Stone said, “what are you doing?”

“I thought it would be good,” she said, “if you had some personal experience of a loss of control over what happens to you, and, particularly, if you experienced a sense of loss over, oh, I don’t know, maybe a body part or two?” She opened her handbag and removed an old-fashioned straight razor.

Stone tried harder to free himself from the stockings and the bedposts, but to no avail.

“You’re wasting your time, my dearest,” she said, daubing the sweat from his brow with a corner of the sheet. “Nylon stockings make excellent restraints; they’re extremely strong, stronger than you, in fact.” She opened the razor, and the blade caught the light.

“There’s a very nice little shop in town,” she said, “that sells men’s shaving products, and they had this very beautiful example of German steelmaking.” She pulled a hair from Stone’s head and let it fall on the blade. It separated into two pieces and fell to the floor.

“It has never been used,” she said, “and it will never be sharper than it is at this moment. Just as well, too, since I didn’t manage to steal a local anesthetic from my captors, only the drug. You’ll hardly feel a thing, just the warm trickle—or rather, gush—of blood as it flows across what I believe the poets call the loins.” She reached out and took hold of the tip of his penis. “Let’s get it excited,” she said. “It makes a better target.” She drew back the hand holding the razor and swung it in a slow arc toward its destination.

Then Stone was screaming, and someone was hammering on the door.

“Stone, open the door!” a woman’s voice called.

Stone was sitting straight up in bed, still dressed in his robe. He stumbled to the door and opened it.

“What’s wrong?” Callie asked, alarmed. “You’ve been screaming at the top of your lungs.”

Dino appeared behind Callie. “You all right, Stone?”

Stone went and sat on the edge of the bed, while Callie got a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and upper body.

“I had a dream,” he panted.

“More like a nightmare,” Callie said.

“Yes, more like a nightmare.”

44

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE MADE THE CALL HE had been dreading and could no longer postpone.

“Hello, Stone,” Eduardo Bianchi said.

“Good morning, Eduardo. I hope you’re well.”

“I have been better,” Eduardo said, then was silent.

It was up to Stone. “I understand that Dolce has . . . left your house.”

“I am afraid that is so,” Eduardo replied.

“Do you have any idea of where she might be?”

“Stone, my friend, I think she would like to be wherever you are.”

“I’m in Palm Beach, Florida, on business,” Stone said. “Dino is with me, and he feels that Dolce may be in Palm Beach; that she may have been following me.”

Eduardo heaved a sigh. “I will send people at once,” he said.

“Eduardo, I cannot guarantee you that she is here. It’s just a feeling.”

“I respect what you feel, Stone, and if there is any chance at all that she is in Palm Beach, then that is where I must look for her.”

“Eduardo, speaking as an attorney, I must ask if you have taken any legal steps toward guardianship?”

“No. This is a family problem, you understand, and I have no wish to bring the courts into it.”

“I understand your feelings, but simply sending people to find her and return her could present legal difficulties that might be more invasive of your family privacy than taking steps to have her declared incompetent.”

“She is not an incompetent person,” Eduardo said stiffly.

“I’m sorry. I meant incompetent in the legal sense, not otherwise. Unless you are willing to make a case to a court that she is not currently able to account for herself and her actions, then she is legally entitled to do and go as she pleases. Removing her to New York from another state could pose problems.”

“Stone, I understand this, and I am grateful for your advice, but you must understand that, in my family, we are accustomed to solving our problems without the help of, ah, public officials. If I can locate Dolce, I can achieve the reunification I desire.”

“Of course, Eduardo. I don’t doubt for a moment that you can.”

“You say that Dino is with you? I had not heard this.”

“Dino came down to help me with another matter, one not connected to Dolce.”

“I see. Well, it is good that he is there; you may well need his help. I need hardly tell you that Dolce may be a danger to herself and to you.”

“I hope you are wrong, but I understand,” Stone said. “If I should locate Dolce, what would you have me do?”

“Simply call me, and I will do the rest,” Eduardo said. “Please don’t try to deal with her yourself. From what her doctors have told me, she could be very dangerous.”

“Eduardo, if Dolce should be traveling under a name not her own, is there a name she might choose to use?”

Eduardo was silent while he thought. “Once, when she was sixteen, she ran away after a quarrel with me. At that time, she used the name Portia Buckingham. It was a ridiculous name for a schoolgirl to choose, I know, but it was a kind of fantasy identity she made up as a child. She might possibly use it again.”

“Would you like me to make some discreet inquiries?” Stone asked.

“Only if you can do so without involving the local police,” Eduardo replied. “I do not wish for Dolce to be brought to the attention of the authorities, unless she tries to harm someone.”

“There’s not much I can do on my own,” Stone said, “but I’ll try.”

“Ask Dino for his help. She is his sister-in-law, after all.”

“I’ll do that.” Stone told Eduardo how he could be contacted.

“Goodbye, Stone, and thank you for your concern for Dolce.”

“Goodbye, Eduardo.” Stone hung up.

Dino sat down beside him. “You called Eduardo?”

“I felt I had to. He’s sending people down here.”

“Great, now we’ll have goombahs roaming the streets of this piss-elegant town.”

“Dino, you know Eduardo is more subtle than that.”

“We’ll see.”

“He wants your help in finding her.”

“What can I do?”

Stone handed him a Palm Beach classified directory. “Start calling hotels. Flash your badge. Inquire about her under her own name and under the name Portia Buckingham.”

“Portia Buckingham? Give me a break!”

“It’s a name she used to fantasize about having when she was a child, Eduardo says.”

Dino shook his head and took the phone book. “I’ll use the phone in the saloon,” he said.

“Don’t alarm anybody, just find out if she’s registered.”

“Thanks, Stone. I needed that advice.” Dino went into the saloon.

“Leave a description with the desk clerk, too,” Stone called after him.

Stone called his office. “Hi, Joan, it’s me. What’s happening?”

“Amazingly little,” she said.

“Patch me into the dictator,” he said. “I have some documents I’d like you to type up and FedEx to me today.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Here you go.”

Stone heard the beep and began to dictate. When he had finished and given Joan her instructions, he hung up and went into the saloon. Dino was just hanging up the phone.

“I need the phone book for a minute,” Stone said.

Dino tossed it to him. “I’ve called half a dozen places, starting with the Breakers.”

“No luck, I suppose?”

“She’s already checked in and out of two—the Breakers and the Brazilian Court, under Rosaria Bianchi.”

“You’re kidding. That was easy.”

“Not so easy, pal. She’s moving every day, and that’s going to make her harder to find.”

“Oh. Well, at least we know she’s really in town.”

“That, we know.”

“Will you call Eduardo and tell him that?”

“Okay, I guess.” Dino did not like dealing directly with his father-in-law, but he seemed willing to make an exception this time. He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

Stone began looking in the phone book under airports, and when he found what he was looking for made the call.

Dino finished his conversation with Eduardo. “What are you up to?” he asked Stone.

“I told our friend Mr. James that I was on the west coast of Florida, a couple of hours’ drive from the Palm Beach airport. I want him to go on thinking that until we get this settled.” He made the arrangements he required, then hung up. “There, I guess I’ve done what I can.” He picked up the phone again. “I’ll make some of the hotel calls. You don’t mind if I use your name, do you?”

“When did I ever mind?” Dino asked. “When did you ever care if I mind?”

45

AT MIDMORNING, STONE DROVE NORTH ON I-95 AND took the well-marked exit. Soon he was at North Palm Beach County airport, a small general aviation field a few miles from Palm Beach International. He found North County Aviation and parked his car.

Inside, he told the receptionist why he was there, and she made a quick phone call. “Don will be right with you,” she said. “You’re taking the Warrior, is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then if you’d like to give me a credit card we can take care of that while Don is on his way.”

Stone gave her his American Express card and watched as a Piper Warrior taxied up to the apron of North County Aviation and a young man got out and came inside.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Don. There she is.”

Stone looked at the neat little airplane. “Looks very nice.”

“Can I see your license and medical, please?”

Stone handed the man his private pilot’s license and his third-class medical certificate. They were inspected and returned to him.

“How many hours do you have in type?” Don asked.

“A little over a hundred, but it’s been a while. I did most of my private ticket training in a Warrior, and I’m real comfortable with it.”

“Come on, then, and let’s do a little checkride.”

Stone signed his credit card chit, pocketed the card and followed Don outside.

“You do the preflight,” Don said, handing him a fuel cup.

Stone put his briefcase into the airplane and walked slowly around it, running through a mental checklist. He drained some fuel from each wing and inspected it for dirt or water, checked the oil and handed Don back the fuel cup. “Looks good to me,” he said.

“Take the left seat, then.”

Stone climbed into the airplane, followed by Don. He started the engine, listened to the recorded weather from PBI, checked the wind sock and taxied to the active runway. He pulled into the run-up pad and did his final check of the airplane, then, looking for traffic, he announced his intentions over the unicom frequency and taxied onto the runway. He pushed the throttle forward and, watching his airspeed, started down the center line. At rotation speed he pulled back on the yoke and left the ground. It was a fixed-gear airplane, so he didn’t have to bother retracting the landing gear. Announcing his intentions at every turn, he climbed crosswind.

“Just stay in the pattern,” Don said, watching his every move closely.

Stone turned downwind, reduced power and prepared to land. He turned onto the base leg, then onto final and set the airplane lightly down on the runway.

“Okay,” Don said. “You can fly it. Just drop me back at the FBO, and you’re on your way. How long will you be gone?”

“Just a couple of hours,” Stone said.

“You understand there’s a four-hour minimum on the rental?”

“Yes.”

Don hopped out of the airplane, and Stone taxied back to the runway and repeated his takeoff. He climbed to a thousand feet, listened again to the recorded weather, then called the PBI tower. “Palm Beach Tower, this is November One-two-three Tango Foxtrot,” he said, reading the airplane’s registration number from a plaque on the instrument panel. “I’m ten miles to the northwest, VFR, looking for landing instructions. I have the ATIS.”

The tower called back. “Enter a right base for runway niner. Traffic’s light today. You’re cleared to land.”

Stone followed the instructions and ten minutes later he was taxiing up to Signature Aviation, between a Gulfstream III and a G-IV. He wondered how long it had been since anything as small as his rental had parked here.

He got out of the airplane. “The brakes are off,” he told the lineman, knowing they wouldn’t leave it where it was. “No fuel. I’ll be about an hour.”

He went inside the handsome lobby and walked up to the huge desk. “I’m looking for Mr. Frederick James,” he said to the young lady behind it.

“Oh, yes, you must be Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Mr. James and his associate are in the conference room, right over there.” She pointed. “You won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you.” He walked across the reception room to the door and knocked on it.

“Come in,” a man’s voice said.

Stone opened the door and entered the room. A man, who had been seated alone at the conference table, stood up to greet him. Stone recognized him immediately.

“Mr. Barrington, I’m Edward Ginsky,” he said, offering his hand. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored, double-breasted blue blazer and white linen slacks, his shirt open at the collar.

Stone shook it. “Of course. I’m glad to meet you.” Ginsky was a famous New York lawyer, known mostly for his expertise in representing women in divorce cases. He had handled a number of high-profile divorces, and his clients had always done very well from his representation.

“I’ve heard of you, too,” Ginsky said, sitting down and motioning Stone to a chair. “Bill Eggers speaks well of you, in fact.”

“That’s kind of Bill,” Stone said.

“Well,” Ginsky said, “enough chitchat. Shall we get to it?”

“Let’s,” Stone replied.

“I trust that now you won’t need the identification you requested.”

“No, not for you, but for your client.”

“Ah, yes. Trust me when I tell you that, before our meeting is concluded, you will have adequate proof that I represent Paul Manning. May we proceed on that basis?”

“For the moment,” Stone said, “but I should tell you that I will not come to any agreement until I am satisfied who I am dealing with.”

“Understood,” Ginsky said. “Now, what do you have to propose?”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Manning’s activities with regard to the island of St. Marks some years ago?”

“I believe I have all the relevant facts.”

“Then you will know that your client and mine were married at that time and, in the absence of a divorce, still are.”

“You could put that light on it,” Ginsky said.

“I hardly know what other light to put on it.”

“I think you are aware that my client is, if not dead, then no longer legally alive.”

“You could put that light on it,” Stone said.

Ginsky allowed himself a smile.

“Still, he exists, my client exists and legally, as I’m sure you’re aware, their marriage still exists.”

“I assume your client would like that marriage to end,” Ginsky said.

“You assume correctly. She wishes the marriage to end and she wishes not to see her husband again or hear from him.”

“I think that could be arranged,” Ginsky said. “Under appropriate circumstances. What is your offer?”

“My client is willing to pay your client one million dollars in cash, wire-transferred to any bank in the United States, in return for a signed property settlement to that effect and a contractual agreement that your client will never contact her again, nor knowingly inhabit the same city at the same time as my client.” Stone knew that he had already put several stumbling blocks in the way of a settlement, one by omission. The two lawyers were circling each other, metaphorically, feeling each other out.

“I see,” Ginsky said. “Of course, hardly anything you’ve said is acceptable.”

“Tell me what you’re willing to accept, and let’s go on from there.”

Ginsky threw his first punch. “Your client achieved a windfall of twelve million dollars as a result of my client’s efforts. He wants half that.”

“Your client masterminded a criminal conspiracy, and when it went wrong, left my client to hang by the neck until she was dead,” Stone parried.

“She did not hang,” Ginsky said.

“Neither did your client,” Stone reminded him. “And, when your client murdered three people and was arrested in New York and extradited for his crimes, and was sentenced to hang himself, my client interceded on his behalf, paying half a million dollars to save his life. She could have done nothing, and we would not be having this conversation.” Stone heard the door behind him close; he had not heard it open. He did not turn around. “It seems to me that your client is deeply in my client’s debt.”

“I don’t owe her a fucking thing,” Paul Manning’s deep voice said from the door. “And don’t turn around.”

Stone felt cold steel pressed to the back of his neck.

46

STONE DIDN’T MOVE, NOR DID HE ALLOW HIMSELF TO show any concern.

“Paul,” Ginsky said, “that is entirely unnecessary, and moreover, unacceptable. If you want me to represent you in this matter, put it away and sit down.”

“I’ll put it away,” Manning replied, “but I’ll stay where I am. And, Barrington, if you turn around I’ll use it on your skull.”

“Mr. Ginsky,” Stone said, “perhaps it would help if you explained your client’s tenuous position to him.”

“Let me explain something to you, Barrington,” Manning said.

“Shut up,” Stone said. “I will not deal with you, but with your attorney. If you can’t accept that, then I’ll leave now.”

“Get in your little airplane and fly away, huh? Maybe I should have a look at that airplane. You know how good I am at fixing them.”

“Paul, be quiet,” Ginsky said. “If you say another word I will withdraw from this meeting, and we’ll all be right back where we started. Mr. Barrington, you have not mentioned your previous offer to resolve any legal difficulties Mr. Manning might have.”

“No, and I won’t mention that until we are agreed on all other points, except to say that to resolve the legal difficulties is within my power.”

“Very well,” Ginsky said. “The offer on the table is for one million dollars in cash, a signed property settlement and, I assume, a divorce, and an undertaking not to see or speak to Mrs. Manning again. Is that correct?” He looked toward the door and held up a hand to stop Manning from speaking.

Ginsky had not mentioned that the transaction would take place through a U.S. bank. “You left out a couple of points, but I won’t quibble,” Stone said. “That’s substantially it.”

“The money is not enough,” Ginsky said. “Let’s cut to the chase. Make your best offer.”

“A million and a half dollars,” Stone said.

“If you will offer two million dollars, I think I can recommend the deal to my client.”

“My client has already paid half a million dollars for his benefit; that makes a total of two million.”

Ginsky looked at his client, then back at Stone. “Surely she can do better. She walked away with twelve million, tax free.”

“My client has had many expenses over the years, and she has paid her taxes.” He had advised her to, anyway.

“A U.S. bank is not acceptable for the transaction,” Ginsky said.

“Then we’ll wire it to your firm’s trust account, and you can disburse it.”

“Still not acceptable.”

“What’s the matter, doesn’t your client want to pay his taxes?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Speaking of points, you haven’t addressed all of mine,” Stone said.

“He can hardly agree not to be in the same city with her; he won’t know her movements.”

“All right, he stays out of Florida and New York City, except to change airplanes.”

Ginsky looked at his client, then back at Stone. “We won’t give you New York, but you can have Florida.”

“Let me enumerate,” Stone said, counting off on his fingers. “Two million dollars. I won’t wire it abroad, but to your trust account. You can disburse it abroad, if you want to. He stays out of Florida, or he goes to jail for contempt of court. He signs a property settlement and a document acceding to a divorce petition, here and now.”

“Let me see the papers,” Ginsky said.

Stone unlatched his briefcase, selected the set of documents with the two-million-dollar figure typed in, then slid them across the table.

There was five minutes of silence while Ginsky speed-read the documents. He looked at his client. “This is good,” he said.

“I expect there’s a notary at this FBO,” Stone said, “and I want him to sign twice, once as Manning and once as whatever his current passport says.”

Ginsky nodded.

“Let me see the passport.”

Ginsky spoke to his client. “Paul, please ask the girl at the desk to send a notary in here.”

Stone heard the door open and close.

Ginsky slid a U.S. passport across the table.

Stone opened it, anxious to see the photograph. A postage stamp covered the face. He looked up at Ginsky. “How do I know this is Paul’s passport, if I can’t see the face on the photograph?”

“Do you doubt that the man who was just in this room was Paul Manning?”

“No, I know the voice.”

“Then you don’t need to see the face for purposes of identification, do you?”

“Your client is very shy.”

“He has his reasons,” Ginsky said.

Stone copied down the information on the passport: William Charles Danforth, a Washington, D.C., address. He riffled through the visa pages and saw a number of entry and exit stamps—London, Rome, other European cities. “He’s pretty well traveled.” He slid the passport back across the table.

Manning returned with the notary, and Stone pulled out additional copies of the agreement.

“Both names,” Ginsky said to his client.

Manning signed the documents on a credenza behind Stone, and the woman notarized them.

“When do we get your client’s signature?” Ginsky asked.

“She’ll sign today, and the documents will be Fed-Exed to your New York office right away.”

Ginsky gave Stone his business card.

The notary left. “What about the money?” Manning asked.

“To be wire-transferred as soon as the judge signs the divorce decree,” Stone said.

“It’s in the documents, Paul. He’ll provide a release from the insurance company at the same time. The deal won’t be final until we’re in receipt of those two items.”

“I don’t like waiting,” Manning said.

“It can’t be helped,” Ginsky replied. “It’s how these things are done. Trust me.”

Stone heard the door open and close behind him.

“Sorry, my client’s a little edgy today,” Ginsky said.

“How’d you get mixed up in this, Ed?” Stone asked.

“I’ve known him since college. He popped up in my life only a short time ago, when he got the e-mails from you.”

“Can you make him hew to the terms of the agreement?”

“I think so. He wants out of the marriage, and he wants the insurance matter off his back.”

“I’ll tell you, off the record,” Stone said, “that if he doesn’t stick to the letter and the spirit of the agreement, I’ll take it upon myself to expose him for who he is, and in a very public way.”

“Are you threatening me, Stone?” Ginsky asked.

“No, Ed, I’m threatening Paul Manning, and I mean it. You should know that he’s a dangerous man, and my advice to you is, when this matter is concluded, to stay as far away from him as you can.”

“That may be good advice,” Ginsky admitted.

Stone put his copies of the document into his briefcase and stood up.

Ginsky stood up, too. “We saw you taxi up and get out of the airplane,” he said. “I was expecting you to drive in. Where are you flying back to?”

“I’d rather not say,” Stone said.

“I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble from Paul. Where do you want to do the divorce?”

“Anywhere in Florida will do.”

“I know a judge here in Palm Beach, and I’m licensed to practice here.”

“Fine with me. I’m not licensed here, so I’ll get Bill Eggers to find somebody. He’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll look forward to receiving the signed documents tomorrow.” Ginsky held out his hand.

Stone shook it. “Thanks for getting him to see sweet reason, Ed.”

“See you around the courts in New York, I expect.”

“I expect so.”

The two lawyers walked out of the conference room and into the lobby. Paul Manning was nowhere in sight.

They walked out to the ramp together, shook hands again, and Ginsky got into a Hawker 125, parked near the door.

Stone assumed Manning was already in it. He walked a hundred yards to where his less imposing aircraft had been parked by the lineman. He did an especially thorough preflight inspection before climbing into the airplane.

He remembered Manning’s remark about knowing how to fix airplanes, and he wanted to be sure the one he was flying would keep flying. He started the engine, and he listened to it carefully before starting to taxi.

All the way back to North County airport, he listened to the engine. It got him back safely.

47

WHEN STONE ARRIVED BACK ABOARD THE YACHT, LIZ, Callie and Dino were all waiting for him.

“Did you see him?” Liz asked.

“Not exactly,” Stone said, “but we were in the same room.”

“Did he sign the papers?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes.”

“How much am I giving him?”

“Two million dollars.”

Liz collapsed in his arms, laughing. “Oh, Stone, you are a wonder. You saved me four million dollars!”

“Don’t ever tell Paul that,” he said.

“I hope I won’t ever have to talk to him.”

“I think we can avoid a court appearance for the divorce.”

“Where will we do the divorce?”

“Here in Palm Beach. I’ll find you a Florida lawyer for that, but since we have a signed settlement, there won’t be much work for him to do. Now you have to sign the documents, and we have to find a notary.”

“I’m a notary,” Callie said. “I have to witness stuff for Thad all the time.”

“Great. Go get your seal.”

Callie left them, then returned with her seal and stamp. Stone handed Liz a pen, she signed and Callie notarized.

“That’s it,” Stone said, handing the documents to Callie, along with Ed Ginsky’s card. “Will you FedEx these to him right away?”

“Sure. I’ll call for a pickup now.” She picked up a phone.

“I have to call Thad and tell him,” Liz said, running for the phone in the saloon.

Stone sat down beside Dino.

“Is this all over, Stone?”

“I hope so,” Stone replied.

“But you’re not sure?”

“It’s not going to be over until it’s over.” He thought about that for a moment. “And maybe not even then.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is Manning. He’s still just as angry and, apparently, as nuts as he was the day you arrested him in New York. He’s got a good lawyer—Ed Ginsky—but I don’t know if Ed can control him.”

“I know who Ginsky is,” Dino said. “He’s had a lot of experience dealing with angry spouses.”

“I wonder how much experience he’s had in dealing with crazy ones?”

“Everybody who’s getting a divorce is crazy for a while,” Dino said.

Stone picked up the phone. “I’d better call Bill Eggers and find Liz a local lawyer.”

Liz came running back from the saloon. “Thad’s coming back tonight!” She ran toward her cabin.

Stone placed the call to Eggers and told him what he wanted.

“I don’t know the Florida law offhand,” Eggers said, “but it sounds pretty straightforward.”

“That’s what I think. You know somebody in Palm Beach?”

“No, but somebody here in the shop will. I’ll have somebody call you.”

“Okay.”

“How’s everything going?”

Stone gave him a recap of recent events.

“This is kind of messy, isn’t it?”

“As divorces go, yes; but we might conclude a nasty case as well.”

Thad Shames came aboard his yacht late in the afternoon in high spirits. He swept Liz into his arms, kissed her, then shook hands with Stone and Dino, then he turned back to Liz. “Right here, in front of these witnesses, I want to ask you: Will you marry me?”

“Oh, yes!” she cried, and they kissed again.

Dino glanced at Stone and rolled his eyes.

“Isn’t this romantic?” Callie asked Stone.

“Oh, yeah,” Stone replied.

“Let’s do it this weekend,” Thad said enthusiastically.

“I’d love that!” Liz said, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks.

Stone and Dino exchanged glances. Stone was horrified, Dino amused.

Liz went to repair her makeup, and Stone made Thad sit down with him and Dino.

“Thad,” Stone said seriously, “don’t you think you ought to wait until Liz is divorced before you get married?”

“Oh, that’s just paperwork,” Thad said. “You’ve already got the signed property settlement and divorce papers, and anyway, legally, she’s a widow—twice, in fact. Both deaths are a matter of public record.”

“Thad, rushing into this could make your life a lot more complicated. Why do that? I haven’t looked into the Florida law, but with signed papers and a settlement, it shouldn’t take long to get a decree. Relax and enjoy being engaged for a while.”

“Listen, Stone,” Thad said. “I’ve waited a long time for this girl, and I’m not going to let her get away. I’m not going to relax until we’re married and on our honeymoon.”

Callie came with drinks for all of them.

“Callie, we’re having a Sunday afternoon wedding,” Thad said. “Invite everybody who was at the housewarming, plus the New York list. Call the caterers—and find out how I get a marriage license and, if necessary, a blood test.”

Callie grabbed a pad and started taking notes.

“And, Stone, Dino, I want you both to stay for the wedding,” Thad said.

Stone looked at Dino, and they nodded.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dino said.

“And, Thad,” Stone said, “we’re going to need some outside security for this occasion.”

“Callie, take care of it,” Thad said. He got up. “I’m going to get a shower and change for dinner. Please book us a table somewhere, Callie.” He departed for the house.

Callie sat down next to Stone. “How much security are you going to want?”

“Let’s see,” Stone said, looking toward the house. “We’ll want two men, dressed like the car parkers, out in front of the house. There should be two men in each public room in the house, dressed as guests, four in the garden and two on the yacht. How many is that?”

“Eighteen.”

“Ask for twenty-four, and I want them to have radios.”

“Do you want them armed?”

Stone thought about that.

Dino spoke up. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea, having that many armed men in a crowd. After all, we don’t know these guys, don’t know how good they are.”

“We’ll have one armed man in each room, in the garden and on the yacht,” Stone said. “Tell them we want only their best-trained and most experienced men carrying.”

“All right,” Callie said.

“And I want them here an hour before the party, so I can brief them.”

“Okay.” She made a note of that.

“Anything else you can think of?” Stone asked Dino.

“Well, let’s see,” Dino said, “we could have a couple of machine guns mounted on the roof, and maybe a bazooka or two.”

Callie laughed.

“Why do you think he’s kidding?” Stone asked.

She laughed again. “I’d better go book us a dinner table,” Callie said, “and I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make.” She headed toward her cabin.

“Thad is completely nuts, isn’t he?” Dino asked.

“He’s nuts about Liz, no doubt about it.”

“I’ve never seen anybody move so fast.”

“It’s the money. The superrich are accustomed to having what they want, when they want it, and that usually means right now.”

“It’s a pretty short time to put together a big wedding.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised we’re not doing it tonight. But don’t worry—this is what Callie does, and she’s used to doing it Thad’s way.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be a hell of a party,” Dino said.

“Or a hell of a mess,” Stone said.

They had dinner at an Italian restaurant, Luccia, on a covered terrace, and Stone was gratified that gunfire did not break out. He did not enjoy himself very much, though. He was preoccupied with Paul Manning, and he didn’t even understand why.

Everything Manning was doing made sense. He was making money, he was removing the possibility of prosecution for insurance fraud, he was getting on with his life. So why was Stone so worried?

When he got back to the yacht that night, he started to crawl into bed with Callie, then stopped and went to the phone.

“This is Berman,” the voice said.

“Bob, it’s Stone. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah, what’s up?”

“Got a pencil?”

“Shoot.”

“I want everything you can find—and I mean everything —on a William Charles Danforth.” He read him the P Street Washington address. “I want a full bio, and I want to know how far his credit history goes back. Do a criminal record check, too, and I want a photograph. I especially want a photograph.”

“Will do. How soon?”

“Tomorrow, as early as possible.”

“I’ll call you.” Berman hung up.

Stone got into bed and snuggled up to Callie. Now that he felt he was doing something, he could pay her the proper attention.

48

DINO FINISHED HIS COFFEE. “HOW ARE WE DRESSING for this shindig on Sunday?” he asked.

“Black tie,” Callie replied.

“In the afternoon?”

“The wedding’s at six, with a small group of invited guests. Everybody else arrives at seven.”

“Oh, good, for a minute I thought we were going to be gauche and wear black tie in the afternoon.”

Callie laughed. “You gauche, Dino? Never!”

Dino gave her a sweet smile. “Stone, I gotta go shopping. You come with me.”

Stone looked at Callie.

“We’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ve already got two security men in the main house.”

“You anticipate me,” Stone said.

“I try.”

“Okay, Dino, let’s go shopping.” He led the way toward where the cars were parked. A man who was obviously a security guard paid a lot of attention to them.

“You’re one of the two men on duty?” Stone asked.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Barrington. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti, NYPD. You armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try not to shoot anybody, if you can help it.”

“I’ll try.”

They got into the car and drove away.

“What are you shopping for?” he asked Dino.

“A dinner jacket.”

“Why don’t you ask Mary Ann to ship yours down here? There’s time.”

“That’s a question only a lifelong bachelor could ask,” Dino said. “If you’re in Palm Beach, and she’s not, you don’t call home and say, ‘Honey, send my dinner jacket, will you?’ It would take too long to explain why to her, and in the end, she’d never believe you. Besides, I need a new one, anyway. Somebody threw up on the last one at a wedding last year, and the cleaners could never get it all out.”

“Where you want to shop?”

“They got an Armani here?”

“They do.”

“Giorgio always does my dinner jackets.”

Stone found a parking spot on Worth Avenue. He put the top up to keep the sun from overheating the black leather upholstery, and they walked to the shop.

Dino conferred with a salesman, and shortly, a fitter was marking up a white dinner jacket. “You like the white?” he asked Stone.

“I like. Very elegant.”

“I thought you would. I’m getting this just for you.”

“You’re sweet.”

The fitter looked at them oddly. “What about the lump, sir?” he said, nodding toward the pistol on Dino’s belt.

“Allow for that,” Dino said. “I’ll be wearing it to the party.”

“Well, this is a first for Palm Beach,” the man muttered, but he did his work.

When they returned to the car, the driver’s side window was a web of pieces, held together by the lamination.

“Looks like a golf ball hit it,” Dino said.

Stone looked up and down the street. “That’s not funny.”

“Sure it is,” Dino laughed.

“You see her anywhere?”

“No, but a silver Volvo sedan has been following us.”

“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”

“What good would it have done? It would have just ruined your day.”

“You’re right about that,” Stone said, flicking small shards of glass out of the driver’s seat.

They drove back to the house and walked to the yacht.

“A message for you, Stone,” Callie said, handing him Bob Berman’s number.

Dino glanced at the piece of paper. “What have you got Berman on?”

Stone led him into the saloon and picked up a phone. “One William Charles Danforth of Washington, D.C.”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s the passport Paul Manning is using these days.”

“Oh.”

Stone called Berman. “It’s me. You got something?”

“I got a lot,” Berman said. “You want me to FedEx it to you, or you want to hear it now?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. Mr. Danforth is all over the Internet, just like you’d expect a substantial person to be. He’s got a credit history going back only four years. It’s little stuff, credit cards, couple of department stores—Saks, Macy’s. There’s apparently no Mrs. Danforth, and there are no mortgages on the reports. He rents an apartment in the P Street house in Georgetown, has for four years.”

“So Mr. Danforth is only four years old.”

“Right.”

“What does he do?”

“He lists his occupation as business consultant.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Yeah. His credit card spending is consistent with a man making less than a hundred thousand dollars a year. I got one of the credit card statements for the past year, and he’s traveled to Europe and Florida.”

“Where in Florida?”

“Miami, twice; last time ten days ago. He rented a car there, too.”

“Okay, what else?”

“He seems pretty ordinary. His phone number is listed. Nothing jumps out at you.”

“Did you find a photograph?”

“Nope, wasn’t available from any of my sources.”

“What about a driver’s license photo?”

“I checked D.C., Virginia and Maryland. Nothing there.”

“If he rented a car, he must have a license; if he has a license, there should be a photograph on file somewhere.”

“You want me to check all the states?”

“The contiguous forty-eight will do.”

“Okay, but it’s going to take a few days. There’s no federal registry of driver’s licenses; it’s purely a state thing.”

Stone had a thought. “How about a pilot’s license? He knows something about airplanes.”

“There’s no photograph on pilots’ licenses; you ought to know that.”

“Oh, right,” Stone said, thinking of the license in his own pocket.

“You suspect this guy of being wonky in any way?” Berman asked. “There’s no criminal record.”

“Yes.”

“Well, if he’s wonky, he wouldn’t have any trouble picking up a driver’s license that would get him a rental car.”

“Good point, but do the search anyway.”

“Whatever you say, Stone.”

“Does he own a car?”

“Yes, a six-year-old BMW 320i, registered at the P Street address.”

“Strange that he has a car and a passport with that address, but no driver’s license.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want his picture taken any more than necessary. Does he know you’re looking at him?”

“Probably not, but he might guess.”

“Maybe, if he’s wonky, he figured that someday, somebody would be looking for a photograph of him.”

“He has a passport, and you need a photograph for that.”

“Yeah, but the State Department is a lot harder to get a photograph out of than a state driver’s license office.”

“Once again, you have a point.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment. Let me know about the license.”

“Will do,” Berman said.

“And, Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“Put your mind to other ways to find a photograph.”

“I already did.” Berman hung up.

49

STONE SAT ON THE AFTERDECK AND NURSED A GIN AND tonic. “Dino,” he said finally, “when you arrested Manning that time in New York, you fingerprinted him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because that gives us a possible way to find out what Manning has been doing for the past four years to earn a living. I can’t see him doing it honestly.”

“What do you need?”

“I need for you to run his prints against unsolved crimes with no suspects.”

“Stone, you’re about to be rid of the guy. Why do you want to press this?”

“Because I have the awful feeling I’m never going to be rid of him. If he’s committed a crime somewhere in this country, and I can prove it, then I’d have something on him, something that would either keep him in line or put him in jail.”

Dino picked up a phone, called his office and asked them to run the Manning prints against unsolved crimes. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Why do you think he might have committed a crime?”

“Because he’s apparently been earning less than a hundred thousand dollars a year, and I don’t think that’s enough to keep Paul Manning in the style to which he long ago became accustomed.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Fred Williamson. Somebody in Bill Eggers’s office at Woodman and Weld in New York asked me to call you about some divorce work.”

“Yes, of course. How do you do, Fred?”

“Very well, thanks, and divorce is a specialty of mine.”

“Glad to hear it. What I’ve got here is a petition from a Mrs. Allison Manning against Paul Manning. Mr. Manning has already waived a response, and we have a signed property settlement.”

“Where do the Mannings live?”

“In Palm Beach.” Stone gave him Liz’s West Indies Drive address.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, then. It’ll probably take a month to get it heard.”

“Do the Mannings have to appear?”

“Not necessary, as long as they’re in agreement on the terms and they’re both represented by counsel. Who’s his lawyer?”

“Edward Ginsky, of New York, but he’s licensed to practice in Florida.” Stone gave him Ginsky’s address and phone number.

“I’ll call him and get us on the court calendar.”

“Fred, is there any way to get this heard right away? And in chambers, if possible? I don’t want it to make the papers, even in the legal notices.”

“I know a judge who might hear it in chambers sooner, rather than later,” Williamson said.

“I’d appreciate it if you could handle it that way. Ginsky has his own jet. I’m sure he could appear on short notice, or appoint someone local to do it.”

“Who’s got the paperwork?”

“I have. Can you send a messenger for it?”

“Sure. Where?”

Stone gave him the address.

“I’ll have somebody there inside an hour.”

“Thanks, Fred. Call me if you need any further information.” Stone hung up. He went to his briefcase, extracted the documents, stuffed them into a manila envelope, wrote Williamson’s name on it and gave it to Juanito to leave with the security man guarding the front door.

“Maybe I can get them divorced before Sunday,” Stone said.

“Would that make you feel better?” Dino asked.

“Yes, indeed. I’m uncomfortable about witnessing a client—two clients, in this case—committing bigamy in front of the crumbs of Palm Beach’s upper crust.”

“When they get to that part about ‘if anybody can show just cause why these two people shouldn’t get married, ’ shouldn’t you, as an officer of the court, stand up and yell, ‘It’s bigamy!’?”

“Probably, but this lawyer says he might be able to get it heard quickly.”

The phone rang again, and this time it was for Dino.

“Hello? Yeah, this is Bacchetti. Hang on, let me get something to write with.” He motioned to Stone for a pen.

Stone handed him one, and a pad.

“Yeah, yeah. Where? How many? And there’s no other clue? Why the hell didn’t this match pop up before? Oh, yeah, I see. Thanks. I don’t know yet. Sit on it until I get back to you.” He hung up.

“What?” Stone asked.

“You were right, pal. Our Mr. Manning knocked over a branch bank in Arlington, Virginia, four years ago.”

“I knew it!” Stone said.

“He left a thumbprint on a note that he handed a teller.”

“Why didn’t the match turn up at the time?”

“I asked about that. It seems that when we printed the guy at the Nineteenth, whoever did it didn’t put the prints into the system because he figured, what the hell, the guy’s being prosecuted in another country. It was stupid, but it happens.”

“This is wonderful,” Stone said, meaning it.

“It gets better. A man answering the description—at least height and weight—knocked over three other branches within fifty miles of D.C. Two in Maryland and one more in Virginia. He was smart enough not to leave any prints on those jobs.”

“What sort of money did he get?”

“Between a hundred and a hundred and fifty thousand at each bank; never more than that. Still, he had to do some planning or have some inside information to get that much out of a walk-in-and-hand-the-teller-a-note job. Usually those bring more like twenty-five or thirty grand a pop, and the banks don’t even bother to prosecute if there was no violence involved.” Dino stopped and looked at Stone.

“Why the smug little smile?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I just have this warm fuzzy feeling inside.”

“You’ve got the guy by the balls.”

“You bet your sweet ass I have,” Stone said with satisfaction.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get Liz and Manning divorced and see her and Thad married, then I’m going to call the FBI and sic them on Paul Manning, and I’m going to take the greatest pleasure in doing it.”

“I hope it’s that easy, pal,” Dino replied.

50

STONE WAS WOKEN FROM A SOUND SLEEP BY THE PHONE next to his bed. He picked it up. “Hello,” he said, sleepily. He looked at the bedside clock. It was shortly after ten A.M.

“Stone? It’s Fred Williamson. Can you have Mrs. Manning at the courthouse at three o’clock this afternoon?”

“Why?”

“We’ve got a hearing before Judge Coronado in his chambers at that time.”

“Why does Mrs. Manning have to be there?”

“This is an unusual situation, and the judge wants to talk to the couple face-to-face.”

“But why? I thought we could do it with just their attorneys.”

“He wants to know what the big rush is, I guess; whether these people are for real.”

For real? Stone thought. They are definitely not for real. “Have you spoken to Ed Ginsky?”

“Yes. He says he can have his client there.”

“Well, okay,” Stone said. “We’ll be there.”

“The judge is going to ask some questions, like how long have the Mannings lived in Florida. You know the answer to that one?”

“I’ll have to ask Mrs. Manning.”

“This whole petition is based on the fact that they’re Florida residents. Be sure you tell her that.”

“All right. Have you told Ginsky about this?”

“Yes. He says his client will bring proof of Florida residency. The judge is going to ask these people why they want a divorce, and there shouldn’t be any disagreement between them about that.”

“You told Ginsky that, too?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

“I’ll see you at three o’clock in Judge Coronado’s chambers, which are behind courtroom A.”

“Good, see you then.”

Stone got dressed and found Liz and Thad having breakfast on deck. “Good news,” he said.

“I’m always up for good news,” Thad said.

“Liz, you’re getting divorced this afternoon.”

“Wonderful!” she nearly shouted.

“You and I have to appear in the chambers of a Judge Coronado this afternoon at three. Paul and his attorney will be there, too.”

“I don’t want to do that,” she said.

“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter,” Stone said.

“I won’t be in the same room with him.”

“Look, this is not the first divorce this judge has heard. He’s accustomed to people who aren’t speaking to each other.”

“Liz,” Thad said, “Stone has gone to a lot of trouble to get this thing resolved this week. This is only going to take a few minutes, right, Stone?”

“That’s right. I shouldn’t think it would take more than half an hour, at the most.”

“Oh, all right,” Liz said. “I don’t have to talk to him, do I?”

“No, but you’ll have to talk. The judge will ask you both some questions, and be warned, he’s not going to like it if you argue about the answers. Just don’t disagree with Paul.”

“That may be difficult,” she said.

“Liz, this is the quickest, quietest way possible to get you out of this marriage. Just do what you have to do,” Thad said.

“All right, darling,” she said, and put her hand on his.

“Can I be there?” Thad asked. “Liz might feel better.”

“Absolutely not,” Stone said. “You’re a very recognizable figure in Palm Beach, and I don’t want you anywhere near that courthouse.”

“Oh, all right,” Thad said. “Sit down and have some breakfast.”

Juanito appeared, and Stone ordered. “Now, Liz, tell me: How long have you been a Florida resident?”

“Since I married Winston, I guess. Three years. He was a Florida resident well before that, for tax reasons.”

“The judge will ask you that.”

“What about Paul? He’s not a Florida resident. At least, I don’t think he is.”

“His lawyer says he can show proof of residency. The judge will ask you things like how long you’ve been married, and he’s going to ask you why you want a divorce. What are you going to tell him?”

“That my husband led me into a life of crime and that, when he murdered three people, I didn’t want to live with him anymore.”

“No, no, no,” Stone said. “You want to be general, not specific.”

“You mean like, we just grew apart over the years?”

“That’s better. And if he asks Paul first, just go along with whatever he says. Don’t worry, he has a very good lawyer, and he will have been well briefed.”

“Whatever you say,” she said.

“That’s the right answer, too. Now, another thing. Your agreement with Paul requires you to wire-transfer the money into his lawyer’s trust account as soon as the divorce is final. What I’d like is for you to transfer the money to my trust account today, and I’ll take it from there.”

“The two million dollars?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“God, but I hate to give that son of a bitch any money.”

“Liz, get a grip. You’ve already signed an agreement to that effect. Yesterday, you were delighted to get off so cheaply.”

“Liz, honey,” Thad said, “two million dollars is small change to me. Let me take care of that.”

“I couldn’t let you do that,” Liz replied.

“No, really. I’d consider it a great favor if you’d let me do that.”

“Oh, Thad,” she said, putting her hand on his cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

Thad turned to Stone. “I’ll move the money this morning.”

“You’re sure that’s the way you want to do this?”

“Yes, I am.”

Stone watched, amazed, as they kissed.

Later, when they were driving to the golf course, Stone brought Dino up to date.

Dino’s mouth fell open. “He’s giving her two million bucks?”

“Like Thad says, it’s small change to him.”

“Holy mother! She’s good, isn’t she? She meets this guy, what, three weeks ago, and now he’s paying her ex-husband two million bucks to go away?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Well, Thad is either the sweetest guy in the world or the dumbest, or both,” Dino said.

“Don’t talk about my client that way,” Stone said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know; he pays his legal bills.”

“That’s very important,” Stone said.

“And you don’t even know if he’s really going to go away.”

“Oh, I know that,” Stone said. “When the FBI takes him away, he’ll be gone.”

“How do you know they can get a conviction?” Dino asked. “After all, when he gets Thad’s two million, he’s going to be able to afford a very good lawyer.”

“I thought you said they have his fingerprint on a note he handed a teller.”

“Sure they do,” Dino said. “Gee, I hope the FBI hasn’t misplaced it during the years that have passed since the robbery. They would never do that, would they?”

“They’ll have the tellers’ identification of Manning,” Stone said.

“How do you know? Maybe he dressed up like Ronald McDonald. And it’s been four years since the last robbery. I’d be willing to bet you that at least one of the four tellers is dead, and a couple more are retired and living in Costa Rica or someplace, and that the remaining one has come down with Alzheimer’s. And even if one of them is still around and can identify Manning, Ginsky is going to turn him inside out on the witness stand. ‘But, sir, it’s been four years since you say you saw the robber, and you also say he was wearing a red wig, a big nose and floppy shoes. How could you possibly say that man is my client?’”

“You’re starting to annoy me, Dino.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re not nearly as annoyed as you’re going to be when Manning gets off scot-free and hires somebody to put his ex-wife at the bottom of Lake Worth in a concrete bikini.”

Stone ran a red light, thinking about that.

51

STONE GOT LIZ TO THE COURTHOUSE HALF AN HOUR early. He wanted to talk to Ed Ginsky before they went into the judge’s chambers. There was too much happening this morning over which he had no control, and he didn’t like it.

They had been sitting in the empty courtroom A for ten minutes, when a balding man in his mid-thirties came in.

“Are you Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Fred Williamson.”

“Hello, Fred. This is Mrs. Manning.”

“Don’t call me that,” Liz snapped.

“Everybody’s going to call you that today, Liz. Just get used to it.”

Williamson shook her hand as if he were afraid she might bite it.

“I want to speak to Ginsky before we go into chambers,” Stone said.

“Why?” Williamson asked. “I think we’ve got all our ducks in a row.” He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handed them to Stone. “I’ve taken the liberty of making a few changes so that they more closely follow the Florida form.”

Stone flipped quickly through the papers. Ten minutes to three. Where the hell was Ed Ginsky and his client? “They look fine to me, but everybody will have to sign again. We’ll need a notary.”

“The judge’s clerk can notarize them,” Williamson said. “I’ve also written the decree for his signature. Judge Coronado is leaving on vacation today, and I don’t want to have to wait for his signature.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said. He was looking forward to seeing Paul Manning’s face at last, and he wished to hell the man would arrive.

At one minute before three, Ed Ginsky and his client strolled into the courtroom. Paul Manning looked like hell. He was wearing bandages that covered his nose and much of his face, and at the edges, both his eyes seemed blackened. Surgery, Stone thought as he stood up. He and Ginsky shook hands. “I’m glad you’re here, Ed. I want to . . .”

At that moment a door behind the bench opened and a solidly built, handsome Hispanic man stepped into the courtroom. His hair was completely white, and he was not wearing a jacket but sporting loud braces. “Everybody here, Fred?”

“Yes, Judge. All present and accounted for.” He shepherded everyone into the chambers and made the introductions. Coronado waved them all to chairs.

“Now,” the judge said, “you have a request, Fred?”

“Yes, Judge. We’re here in the matter of a divorce between Paul C. Manning and Allison S. Manning. Mr. Manning is represented by Mr. Ginsky, and I am representing Mrs. Manning, with the consultation of Mr. Barrington, who is a member of the New York bar and Mrs. Manning’s attorney in that state.” He handed the judge a stack of documents. “The parties have agreed on a property settlement. Mrs. Manning’s petition and Mr. Manning’s waiver of response are all in order. We ask for a decree based on their mutual desire for a divorce.”

The judge glanced through the papers, then returned them to his desktop and leaned back in his chair.

“Mr. Manning, are you a legal resident of the State of Florida?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Manning replied.

Ed Ginsky offered a sheet of paper. “Judge, this is a copy of Mr. Manning’s declaration of residency, filed at the Dade County courthouse two and a half years ago.”

“This seems to be in order.” The judge turned to Liz. “Mrs. Manning, are you a legal resident of the State of Florida?”

“Yes, Your Honor, for three years. I own a house in Palm Beach.”

The judge nodded. “Mrs. Manning, Mr. Manning, you’re both obviously mature adults. Mrs. Manning, is it your desire to end your marriage?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Liz replied.

“Mr. Manning?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Are you both completely satisfied with the terms of the property settlement on my desk? Mrs. Manning?”

“Yes, I am, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Manning?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I would certainly assume that you are satisfied, since you are receiving a settlement of two million dollars. Mrs. Manning, does that sum represent a part of your net worth that you can afford to part with?”

“It does, Your Honor.”

Especially since she isn’t parting with it, Stone thought.

“Has any duress been brought upon you to part with such a sum?”

“No, Your Honor,” Liz replied.

“Very well, then, I . . .” The judge stopped and looked oddly at Liz. “I beg your pardon, but have we met before, Mrs. Manning?”

“No, Your Honor,” Liz replied. “I think I would remember,” she added, flatteringly.

“Wait a minute,” the judge said. “Aren’t you Winston Harding’s widow?”

Uh-oh, Stone thought. Here’s trouble.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Liz replied, as if it were the most natural question in the world, in the circumstances.

“I’m confused,” the judge said. “Mr. Harding died only late last year, didn’t he?”

“That’s right, Your Honor,” Liz said, still not getting it.

“And when were you married to Mr. Manning?”

Stone opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Liz had no such problem. “Oh, Paul and I were married before Winston and I.” Then she realized what she had said and froze.

Stone still couldn’t think of anything to say, and Fred Williamson was looking at him in panic.

Then Paul Manning spoke up. “Your Honor, may I explain?”

“I wish to God somebody would,” the judge replied.

“Your Honor, Mrs. Manning and I were married eight years ago. Then, four years ago, I was accused of murder in a Caribbean country—unjustly, I might add. I was tried, convicted and sentenced to death. Then, at the last moment, the truth came out, and I was pardoned.”

Stone looked at Ed Ginsky and thanked God it was Ginsky’s client who was lying to the judge and not his own. Ginsky seemed, as well, to have lost the power of speech.

“Congratulations,” said the judge, but he still looked baffled.

“Mrs. Manning had already left the island, having done everything she could, and she was under the impression that I had been executed. By the time I was released, we had lost touch, and it was only recently that she learned that I was still alive. So, you see, she married Mr. Harding in good faith, believing that I was dead. In fact, she had been given a death certificate.”

The judge looked back and forth between Paul and Allison Manning as if they were escaped lunatics. “So this divorce is merely a matter of legal housekeeping. Is that what you’re telling me?”

None of the lawyers would speak, so Liz did. “Yes, Your Honor. I think you can see what a horrible series of events this was and how Paul and I, having parted long ago, would not like this hanging over our heads.”

“Yes, I can see that,” the judge said. “Fred, I hope you brought a decree for me to sign, because after today, I never want to hear about this again.”

Williamson set the decree on the desk, and the judge signed it. “I’d like your clerk to notarize the property settlement, please,” Williamson said.

The judge pressed an intercom button and spoke: “Amy, come in here, please.” A woman entered the room. “I want you to notarize some documents for these people.” He stood up and put on his jacket. “I’ve just signed a divorce decree, and I want you to see that nothing is published about it, do you understand?”

“No, Judge,” the woman said, baffled.

He handed her a copy of the decree. “Just give these people copies of this and file it, and forget you ever saw it. I intend to.” He turned to the group. “Fred, you can use my chambers to sign these papers, then get these people out of here. I don’t ever want to hear a word about this again. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Judge,” Williamson said.

The judge walked out of his chambers, slamming the door behind him.

Williamson whipped out a pen, and everybody started signing. Five minutes later, the group broke up.

As they were leaving, Paul Manning approached his ex-wife. “Well, nice knowing you, Allison.”

“There was nothing nice about it,” Allison said, and stalked away.

“Wait for me in the car,” Stone called out. He shook Fred Williamson’s hand. “Thanks, Fred, for all your help.”

“Can you tell me what the hell that was all about?” Williamson asked softly.

“Just forget it and send us your bill,” Stone said. “Ed, Paul, a moment, please?”

The two men stopped. Stone waited until Williamson had left the room. “I’ve got something to say to you, Paul, and I want to say it to you in front of your attorney.”

“Do I have to listen to this, Ed?” Manning asked.

“Give Stone a minute, Paul.”

“First of all, the two million dollars will be wired into your trust account immediately, Ed.”

“Thank you, Stone.”

Stone removed a sheet of paper from his pocket. “And this is a release from the insurance company.”

Ginsky looked at it. “Why, this is dated . . .”

“Yes, it is,” Stone said.

Manning snatched the paper and read it. “You mean, I was already . . .”

“Yes, you were, Paul, but you’re not out of the woods yet.”

“What do you mean?” Ginsky asked.

“Ed, your client participated in four transactions in Virginia and Maryland a while back that you don’t know about and don’t want to know about. But I know about them, Paul, and I’m happy to tell you that you left a fingerprint on a note you handed somebody. I’ve never expected you to adhere voluntarily to the terms of the agreement you signed, so let’s just call this insurance.”

“It sounds a lot more like blackmail,” Ginsky said.

“That’s exactly what it is, Ed. Paul, if you ever so much as speak to Allison again,” Stone said, ignoring the attorney and speaking directly to his client, “one phone call will make you a fugitive again. On the other hand, if you keep your word, you’re in no jeopardy.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about, Ed,” Manning said.

“Sure you do, Paul, and Ed shouldn’t know. But I know, and don’t you ever forget it. Ed, thanks for handling this so well. Paul, you can go fuck yourself.”

Stone turned and walked away.

52

STONE DROVE LIZ BACK TO THE YACHT, FEELING RELIEVED and relaxed for the first time since he had arrived in Palm Beach. His relief lasted only until he walked up the gangplank.

A short, stocky man with iron-gray hair, wearing slacks and some kind of Cuban or Filipino shirt, stood up from a chair, where he had been sitting next to Dino. “Are you Stone Barrington?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Stone replied.

The man didn’t offer his hand. “My name is Guido. A friend of yours sent me.” As he spoke, a puff breeze blew the loose shirt against his body, revealing the outline of a pistol at his waist.

It took Stone a second to register what the man had said and to interpret it. He looked at Dino questioningly.

“Yeah, that friend,” Dino said.

“Oh, sorry. What can I do for you, Guido?”

Guido looked around at the other people. “Can we talk?”

“Let’s go into the garden,” Stone said, leading the way off the yacht and to a bench among some flowers. “Okay,” he said, “tell me.”

“I’m here to bring the lady in question home.”

“All right,” Stone said.

“Where is she?”

“Did you talk to Dino about this?”

“He didn’t seem too interested in talking to me.”

“She’s moving from hotel to hotel, every day,” Stone said. “We know she’s already been to the Breakers and the Brazilian Court.”

“How many hotels in this burg?” Guido asked.

“Lots.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“She may be driving a silver Volvo sedan, but I can’t swear to that.”

“That ain’t much,” Guido said.

“I know, but it’s all I’ve got. Do you have any help?”

“I got a couple guys and a Lear waiting at the airport with a doctor and a nurse.”

“Good. Want some advice?”

“Why not?”

“She seems to have been following me. I suggest you follow me, too, but from a distance.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Do you know her?”

“Since she was in diapers; I used to change them.”

“She knows you, then?”

“Oh, yeah; since she’s old enough to talk she’s called me Uncle Guido.”

“Well, Guido, if she’s that fond of you, she might not be so inclined to take a shot at you.”

Guido nodded solemnly. “And she’s a hell of a shot,” he said. “I know. I taught her in her papa’s basement, when she was fourteen.”

“I noticed you’re carrying,” Stone said.

Guido threw up his hands. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to off her. Those are not my instructions.”

Stone didn’t doubt that if those were his instructions, Guido would carry them out with alacrity. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Suppose you see her? How are you going to handle this?”

“Decisively,” Guido said. “I’m not here to fuck around.”

“Are the people with you good?”

“The best. They’d do anything for the old man.”

“I suggest you lose the hardware. If I can spot it, anybody can spot it, and the local cops aren’t going to take kindly to out-of-towners packing iron on their streets.”

“What are the local cops like?” Guido asked.

“Professional. They’ve got a smart chief, and you don’t want to mess with him or any of his men.”

“We’ll play it cool, then,” Guido said.

“Guido, please don’t take this the wrong way, but on the streets of Palm Beach, you’re going to stand out.”

“Don’t worry. I tan fast.”

Stone sighed. “I’m not talking about your lack of a tan. People around here can spot an outsider in a split second, and any cop in town would make you as a foreigner from a block away.”

“I ain’t a foreigner,” Guido said hotly. “I was born in Brooklyn.”

“My point is, Guido, nobody else in Palm Beach was born in Brooklyn. And if they were, they’d have learned long ago to look like they were born on Park Avenue. I hope you’re getting my drift.”

“Yeah, I get your drift,” Guido said, “and if you were anybody but a friend of my friend I wouldn’t take it too good.”

“I’m trying to help you, Guido. Your friend would not like it if I had to bail you and your pals out of the local can, would he?”

“I guess not,” Guido admitted. “How can we fit in better here?”

Stone thought about an honest answer to that question, but thought better of giving it. “Go down to Worth Avenue, to the Polo store or Armani and buy some nice quiet sports clothes. Jackets, too, like blue blazers with brass buttons?”

Guido nodded, but he was watching Stone closely to see if he was being had. “You think that’ll do it, huh?”

Stone bit his tongue. “It can’t hurt.”

“Okay. How can I get in touch with you?”

Stone gave Guido his cell phone number. “And you? Where are you staying?”

“I don’t expect to be here that long,” Guido said, and gave Stone his own cell phone number. “Listen,” he said, looking around as if he might be overheard. “My people are not going to feel good about shedding their hardware, you know?”

“Guido, nobody in Palm Beach is going to give you a hard time, let alone shoot at you—with the possible exception of the young lady. And if that were to happen, I think you’d be better off taking a round or two than shooting her. Her father would not think well of that.”

Guido nodded. “You got a point,” he said.

“One other thing,” Stone said. “What kind of cars are you driving?”

“Cadillacs,” Guido replied.

“You might rent something more anonymous.”

“Why? Don’t nobody drive Cadillacs in Palm Beach? I thought we’d fit right in.”

“I’m not thinking about the general public, I’m thinking about the young lady. I think it will be to your advantage if you see her before she sees you.”

Guido nodded slowly. “I get you,” he said.

“Another thing,” Stone said. “There’s going to be a wedding here on Sunday evening, starting at six o’clock. There’ll probably be a couple hundred people. If you haven’t found her by then, you should probably have your people here.”

“Yeah, okay, we can do that.”

“It’s going to mean renting or buying some evening clothes.”

“You mean, like, suits?”

“I mean, like, tuxedos. It’s going to be that kind of wedding.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll look into that.”

“And tell your guys no pastel tuxedos or ruffled shirts. Keep it discreet.”

Guido looked at Stone closely. “You think we don’t know how to dress?”

“I thought we already covered that point, Guido. This is Palm Beach; it’s different.”

He nodded. “Different from Brooklyn.”

“Different from anywhere you’ve ever been before. Give me the names of your people, and I’ll get them on the guest list.”

Guido took a notebook from one of his many shirt pockets and jotted down some names, then ripped off the sheet and gave it to Stone.

Stone read them aloud: “Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, Mr. Williams and Mr. Edwards?”

“I’m Mr. Edwards,” Guido said.

“Got it.” Stone put the piece of paper into his pocket and stood up. “Thanks for checking in, Guido. I appreciate your help with this.”

“I ain’t doing it for you,” Guido said, then walked away.

Stone watched him go, then walked back to the yacht and found Callie. “Please add these names to the guest list for Sunday,” he said, handing her the paper.

Callie looked at it. “Do these people have first names?”

“No,” Stone said.

53

STONE WALKED DOWN WORTH AVENUE WITH DINO AT his side, trying not to look behind him or at the reflections in windows.

“What are we doing, Stone?” Dino asked.

“We’re trolling.”

“For Dolce?”

“Yes.”

“Which one of us is the bait on the hook?”

“I am.”

“So what am I?”

“You’re the cork.”

“I must remember to stay out of the line of fire,” Dino said.

“Don’t worry. Guido and his buddies are on the job.”

“Oh, that really makes me feel better: protection from goombahs.”

“You’re a goombah,” Stone said.

“You say that again, and I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Come on, Dino, the only thing separating your life from Guido’s and his chums’ is the entrance exam to the police academy.”

“You’re really trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”

“Can’t you take a joke?”

“I’m going to sic the Italian-American Defamation League onto your ass,” Dino said.

“Didn’t the people who ran that fine organization all get gunned down while eating clams?”

“Only some of them. Are we trolling for Paul Manning, too?”

“No, I think Mr. Manning has retired from the field.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“I explained to him that I knew about his little bank escapades, and that I could very easily cause the FBI to know about them, too, if he should annoy me.”

“And you think that will get rid of him.”

“I do.”

“I expect it pissed him off, too.”

“Oh, yes, I took some pleasure in pissing him off.”

“Stone, you don’t want to piss off crazy people with homicidal tendencies.”

“I think he’s smart enough to stay out of my way, now.”

“Smart doesn’t enter into it,” Dino said. “Revenge has a way of doing away with smart.”

Stone stopped and looked into a jewelry shop window. “See if you can spot Guido and his friends.”

Dino didn’t even turn around. “You mean the three goombahs in the red Cadillac, parked across the street?”

Stone sighed. “Tell me you’re just saying that to annoy me.”

“I’m just saying that to annoy you,” Dino said. “They’re really parked about fifty feet up the street.”

“I told him to stay well away from me,” Stone said.

“Goombahs like Guido don’t listen, unless it involves an illegal profit, or the fun of shooting somebody in the head.”

“I don’t understand why Eduardo would send people like that to do this.”

“Who else is he going to trust?” Dino asked. “They’re his people. He’s not going to ask his fellow board members at the Metropolitan Opera to come to Palm Beach and bring his crazy daughter home.”

Stone started to walk again. “Once again, you have a point, but couldn’t he have hired some private security people? Somebody with a little more discretion?”

“Then strangers would know his business,” Dino said, “and Eduardo doesn’t want anybody outside the family to know his business. To tell you the truth, I’m a little surprised he hasn’t had you capped. After all, you’re not exactly family, although you almost were.”

“I guess I dodged that bullet,” Stone said.

“Not yet, pal,” Dino replied. “But at least you’re not bound to them by a Catholic marriage and family obligations.”

“I still feel obligated to Dolce.”

“Eduardo doesn’t feel you have any obligation to her, so why do you?”

“He has been very apologetic about this,” Stone said.

“You’re lucky he’s Italian,” Dino said. “If you’d been through the same experience with the daughter of some high Episcopalian, the old man would be out there ruining your reputation, even as we speak. He wouldn’t have you shot, but you’d never get invited to dinner again by anybody with an Anglo-Saxon name, and you’d be kicked out of your clubs—if you belonged to any clubs.”

“Yeah, keep telling me how lucky I am,” Stone said. He turned into Tiffany & Company. “Come on, I’ve got to find a wedding present for Thad and Liz.”

“Listen, those people ought to be giving you a wedding present,” Dino said.

“Nevertheless.” Stone looked, first at crystal, then moved up to sterling. “What do you think of this?” he asked, holding up a handsome silver bowl.

“What would they keep in that, their money?”

“Fruit.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll take this,” Stone said to a saleslady. “Could you gift wrap it?”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I’ll just be a moment.” She vanished into a back room.

Dino went rigid. “Don’t turn around,” he said. “Dolce’s looking in the window.”

Involuntarily, Stone turned around and looked. He saw a disappearing flash of color.

“You stay right here,” Dino said. “Don’t move.” He walked quickly to the front door and outside, looking up and down the street.

Stone waited impatiently until the saleswoman returned, then waited even more impatiently while she rang up the sale and had his credit card authorized. Finally, blue shopping bag in hand, he hurried to the front door. He looked up and down the street as far he could see, then stepped outside. Dino was nowhere in sight, and neither was the red Cadillac.

Stone stood in the bright sunlight, feeling helpless, not knowing which way to turn. He waited for five long minutes, then made a decision: He turned right and walked rapidly along the street, checking shopwindows for Dolce and looking up and down the street for the red Cadillac.

Suddenly, Dino stepped out of a doorway and ran head-on into Stone. “Didn’t I tell you to stay where you were?” he demanded.

“I did, for a very long time,” Stone said. “Did you lose her?”

“Yeah, and I don’t understand it.”

Then, from not too great a distance, they heard three rapid reports.

“Gun!” Dino said, and started running toward the noise.

Stone followed, and the two of them turned a corner and ran toward a parking lot behind Worth Avenue. Stone could see the trunk of the red Cadillac protruding into the street.

Dino got there first. Women were screaming, and people in cars were trying desperately to get out of the parking lot. The Cadillac sat, blocking the entrance, three of its four doors open, with three bullet holes in the windshield. It was empty.

Dino flashed his badge at a parking attendant, who was crouching in a booth at the entrance. “What happened?” he asked the trembling man.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he said. “I was about to give the man in the Cadillac his parking check when the windshield seemed to explode.”

“Anybody hit?”

“I don’t know. I dove in here in about half a second.”

“Call nine-one-one,” Dino said, then he turned to Stone. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they walked quickly away, Stone looked around the lot and the street for a familiar face, but Dolce was gone, and so were Guido and his two goombahs.

54

THEY GOT BACK TO THE YACHT WITHOUT SIGHTING Dolce, and Stone was in his cabin, putting away his wedding gift, when Juanito knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Stone called.

“Mr. Barrington, there’s somebody to see you on the afterdeck.”

“Be right there,” Stone said. He retrieved the 9mm automatic from under his pillow and tucked it into his waistband in the small of his back. He wasn’t expecting visitors.

His visitor turned out to be Dan Griggs, and Stone was relieved until Griggs started to talk. He looked very serious. “Stone, there was an attempted shooting in a parking lot downtown, and one of my people saw you leaving the scene. You want to tell me about that?”

“Don’t worry, Dan. They weren’t shooting at me.”

Griggs didn’t smile. “I thought maybe it was you doing the shooting.”

Stone shook his head. “No, Dino and I were shopping on Worth Avenue, when we heard gunfire. Dino was armed, and we ran around the corner and saw the car with the bullet holes in it. That’s all we saw. We told the parking lot attendant to dial nine-one-one, then left.”

“Did you see the occupants of the car?”

“No.”

“Did you see the shooter?”

“No.”

“Witnesses said there were three men in the car, out-of-towners, by the look of them, and the shooter was a good-looking woman.”

Stone said nothing.

“Why did you leave the scene?” Griggs asked.

“We didn’t see anything. It’s not like we were witnesses. There was nothing there for us to do.” Stone was relieved that he could tell the truth about this, even if he was withholding information.

Griggs sighed.

Stone was about to say something, when he looked over Griggs’s shoulder and saw Dolce standing in the garden, maybe two hundred feet away. Griggs was about to turn and follow his gaze, but Stone took him by the shoulder and led him toward the afterdeck banquette. “How about a drink, Dan?” he said.

Griggs pulled away from his grasp, but did not look toward Dolce. “Are you nuts? I’m on duty. I thought that was obvious.”

“How’s Lundquist?” Stone asked, desperate to keep Griggs looking in his direction instead of Dolce’s. He couldn’t allow himself to look that way, either.

“I put him on a medivac plane for Minneapolis this morning. He’s recovering, and his department sent the aircraft.”

“He’s going to be all right, then?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” Griggs asked, irritated.

“Sorry, Dan. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Something else: You still looking for that Manning fellow?”

“Not really,” Stone said. “I pretty much straightened that out in a favorable manner.”

“Favorable? Did you shoot him?”

“No, no, I just sorted out the differences between him and Liz, and I think he’s out of our hair now.”

“Maybe not,” Griggs said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had two reports from my men of a man answering his description being in town.”

“Well, if he’s in town, I’ve got no quarrel with him, nor him with me.”

“Does he have any quarrel with Liz?”

“Not anymore. That’s all settled.”

“Then you don’t want me to pick him up?”

For a moment, Stone considered blowing the whistle on Paul Manning, and the hell with their agreement. “No. You wouldn’t have a charge, anyway. He’s clean.”

“How do you know that? I thought you said he was the criminal type.”

“As a result of our settlement, he’s now too rich to be criminal.”

“You paid him off?”

“Let’s say he walked away in very good shape.”

“Well, I’ll leave him alone, if that’s the way you want it, but I intend to keep an eye on him.”

“That can’t hurt, I suppose, if you have the manpower.”

Stone thought of something. “Tell me, Dan, did the description of the man include a bandage on his face?”

“A bandage? No, nobody said anything about that. He’s clean-shaven, with dark hair, going gray.”

“Oh.”

“Why did you think he might be wearing a bandage?”

“When I saw him he was. I thought maybe he’d had an accident or something.”

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Griggs said, turning back toward the house.

Stone looked up to see that Dolce was nowhere in sight. “I’ll walk with you,” Stone said.

“Don’t bother, I can find my way,” Griggs replied.

“I was going to the house, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.”

They walked down the gangplank and toward the house, with Stone casing every shrub and tree they passed.

“Did I tell you it was stolen?” Griggs asked.

“What was?”

“The Cadillac, the one that was shot at.”

“Sounds like a drug deal gone wrong,” Stone said.

“Maybe, but we don’t get a whole lot of drug dealing in broad daylight around the Worth Avenue shopping district.”

“I guess not,” Stone said, still looking for Dolce.

They reached the house and walked through the central hallway and outside to where Griggs had parked his car.

Stone looked around for the silver Volvo, or for any other strange car, but saw nothing.

“You know, Stone,” Griggs said, his mood still somber, “I’ve got a strong feeling that you know something I ought to know.”

“Me? I can’t imagine what.”

“When I find the guys in the Cadillac, I hope I don’t find out that they know you.”

“Since I left the force there are no drug dealers in my life,” Stone said honestly.

“We didn’t find any drugs in the car,” Griggs said. “It was stolen from the airport, by the way.”

“I guess they couldn’t get a cab.”

“I hear Thad Shames is getting married on Sunday,” Griggs said. “You want me to send a few people down here to help with the traffic?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Stone said. “Thad has hired some security for the wedding and the reception, but I don’t think he’s done anything about traffic.”

“I’ll send a couple of men,” Griggs said. He was about to get into the car, but he stopped. “Why does Mr. Shames need private security?” he asked.

“Gate-crashers, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Griggs got into his car. “I’ll see you around, Stone.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Dan.”

Griggs drove away, and Stone began to walk slowly through the gardens, expecting at any moment for Dolce to pop up. He passed through the hedge and had a look around the swimming pool, then walked back to the yacht.

Dino was having a drink on the afterdeck.

“Has Griggs put two and two together?” Dino asked.

“Just one and one. Apparently, a cop saw us leaving the area, and he thought we might be involved. He doesn’t really know anything.”

“I wish I didn’t know anything,” Dino said. “I’d really be happier that way.”

“I’ll devote my life to keeping you ignorant,” Stone replied.

“I wish you would. It’s tiring, knowing too much.”

“Tell me about it.”

“When are we getting out of here?”

“After the wedding, I guess. How about bright and early Monday morning?”

“Sounds good to me. It’s too cold down here.”

“I know what you mean,” Stone said truthfully.

55

STONE AND DINO WERE HAVING DINNER ALONE TOGETHER on the yacht. The crew had been given the night off, and Callie, after preparing dinner for them, had gone to work in her new office in the main house. Stone had seen little of her since Thad and Liz had decided to get married on short notice; there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for her to get her work done.

“Gee, it’s kind of nice here, just you and me,” Dino said. “We never get to have dinner alone anymore.”

“Oh, shut up,” Stone said. “You’re worse than a wife.”

“That’s something only a bachelor could say,” Dino replied.

“You know, Dino, I’ve been thinking about marriage.”

“Oh, no,” Dino groaned. “Not again.”

“What kind of crack is that?”

“Stone, every time you start thinking about marriage, you get into terrible trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Stone snorted.

“Stone, when you were thinking about marrying Arrington, look what happened: She married somebody else, and you got involved with this flake Allison—excuse me, Liz. And look at all the trouble that came out of that.”

“Well, that time, yes.”

“Then there was the English girl—what was her name?”

“Sarah.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“That didn’t go so good, either, right?”

“Not so good.”

“And then you actually married Dolce—well, sort of, and against all the advice I could muster. And now she’s out there stalking you with a gun, and frankly, I wouldn’t give you good odds on making it back to New York without taking along some excess baggage in the form of lead in your liver. Now, I ask you, what happens when you start thinking about marriage?”

“All right, I get into trouble,” Stone said gloomily.

“Stone, you’re my friend, and I love you, and that’s why I can say this to you: You’re not cut out to be married. Never in my life have I known anybody who was less cut out to be married. Marriage is very, very hard, and believe me, you’re not tough enough to handle it.”

“Callie is an awfully nice girl,” Stone said mistily.

“I’ll grant you that.”

“I think it would be nice to be married to her.”

“I’ll even grant you that, up to a point. As far as I can see, the only thing wrong with Callie is that you’re thinking about marrying her.”

“What, you think I’m the kiss of death, or something?”

“I didn’t say that, you did.”

“The sex is wonderful.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dino said. “Let me tell you something somebody told me when I was young and single. This was a man who had been married three times. He said to me, ‘Dino, tell you what you do: When you get married, you keep a piece of chalk in your bedside table drawer, and every time you make love to your wife, you take out the chalk and make a hash mark on the wall. Then, after you’ve been married for a year, throw away the chalk and keep an eraser in your bedside drawer, and every time you make love, take out the eraser and erase a hash mark.’”

“What was his point?” Stone asked.

“His point was this: ‘It’ll take you ten years to erase all the hash marks.’”

Stone laughed in spite of himself.

“So, pal, my point is, if you’re going to get married, you’d better have something going on in the relationship besides sex.”

“I knew that,” Stone said.

“No, you didn’t,” Dino sighed. “You still don’t.”

“No, I do, I really do.”

“Tell me this,” Dino said. “What makes you think she’d marry you?”

“Well . . .”

“You think all she’s looking for is a great lay? Not that you’re all that great.”

“I could offer her a pretty good life,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure. You’re traipsing all over the country, doing this very strange but oddly entertaining work. You think she’s going to like that? You going to take her along when you have to drop everything and go to Podunk, Somewhere?”

“Why not?”

“Because women get rooted in their homes. I guarantee you, a month after you’re married, you’re going to find that your house has been totally redecorated.”

“I like the way my house is decorated,” Stone said. “I did it myself.”

“Yeah, but Callie doesn’t like it.”

“She hasn’t even seen it.”

“You think that matters? She doesn’t like it because you decorated it, dumbo. She won’t think of it as her home until she’s changed all the wallpaper and carpets and had a big garage sale and sold everything you love most in the house.”

“You really know how to make marriage attractive, Dino.”

“I’m telling you the truth, here.”

“Did Mary Ann redecorate your place?”

“No, she sold my place one day when I was at work, and I had nothing to say about it. Then we bought one she liked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“This conversation is making me tired,” Stone said.

“I don’t blame you. Reality is always tiring.”

Stone drained the last of the wine from his glass. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good idea. The very least you should do about this marriage idea is to sleep on it. For about a month.”

“I think I could sleep for a month,” Stone said, yawning. “I could do that.”

“Then go do it, pal,” Dino said. “I’m going to finish my wine and look out at the night.” He settled himself in a big leather chair and turned on the TV.

“Good night, then.” Stone went to his cabin, undressed and got into bed. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about Callie redecorating his beloved house, until he fell asleep.

Then, seconds later, it seemed, Dino was shaking him.

“What?” Stone mumbled sleepily.

“Get up. You gotta see something.”

“Jesus, Dino, what time is it?”

“A little after two.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I was sleeping, in the chair in front of the TV. Then I woke up.”

Stone turned over and fluffed his pillow. “Then go back to sleep.”

“Stone, get out of the fucking bed right now and come with me.”

Stone turned over and tried to focus on Dino, then he realized that his friend had a gun in his hand. He sat bolt upright, now fully awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Put your pants on and come with me.”

Stone got out of bed and put his pants on, then padded along behind Dino as he led the way to the afterdeck.

“Look,” Dino said, waving an arm.

“Look at what?”

“Look at the shore.”

“What about the shore?”

“We aren’t tied up to it anymore.”

“Huh?” Stone looked quickly toward where the seawall behind Thad Shames’s house should have been. It wasn’t there. “We’re adrift,” he said.

“That’s the word I was looking for,” Dino said. “Adrift!”

“Why?”

“How the hell do you think I know? What do I know about boats?”

“This is crazy,” Stone said. “The engines aren’t running. Where’s the crew?”

“Ashore, probably drunk,” Dino said. “What do we do?”

Stone grappled with that problem for a minute. “We stop the yacht,” he said.

“Great. How do we do that?”

“Come on,” Stone said, “let’s get up to the bridge.”

“The bridge,” Dino said, following Stone at a trot. “I like that. It sounds real nautical.”

56

STONE RAN UP TO THE BRIDGE, WHICH WAS COMPLETELY dark. “Find a light somewhere,” he said to Dino.

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

Stone began feeling along the bulkheads for a switch. Suddenly, the lights came on, but dimly.

“I found it, but it’s not very bright,” Dino said.

“That’s okay, it won’t ruin our night vision.”

“What do we do now?”

“We’ve got to get the engines started,” Stone said. “Look for the ignition switch.”

“Right here,” Dino said, pointing. “Trouble is, there’s no key in it.”

“Then look for the key,” Stone said, starting to open drawers in the cabinetwork. He found no key. “We’ve got to get an anchor out.”

“How do we do that?”

Stone looked over the instrument panel. “On a yacht this size, there’s probably an electric windlass. Here it is!” He pressed the button, but nothing happened. “We need engine power for that, too.”

“What about the radio?” Dino asked. “Call somebody.”

“Good idea.” Stone found the VHF radio, switched it on and picked up the microphone. “Channel sixteen is the calling channel.” He changed the channel to 16 and pressed the switch on the microphone. “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is the yacht Toscana, Toscana. Do you read?”

Instantly a voice came back. “Toscana, this is the U.S. Coast Guard. What is your request?”

What was his request? He thought about it for a moment. “Coast Guard, Toscana. We’re adrift in the Intracoastal Waterway, and we need a tow. We have no power.”

“Toscana, Coast Guard. Sorry, you’ll have to call a commercial towing service for that kind of help.”

Stone looked at the ship’s clock on the bulkhead. “But it’s three o’clock in the morning,” he said. “Where am I going to get a tow at this time of night?”

“Sorry, but we can’t be of any help,” the Coast Guard operator said. “Good night, and have a good trip.” Then he was gone.

“Now what?” Dino asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, why don’t we just wait until morning and flag somebody down?”

Stone pointed out the windshield. “See that?” he asked.

“What, the bridge? Sure, I see it; you think I’m blind?”

“We’re drifting down on it.”

“So what? We hit it, we’ll stop. Isn’t that what we want?”

“Dino, this is a two-hundred-and-twenty-two-foot yacht, and it weighs God knows how much. If we hit that bridge, either the yacht or the bridge is going to be very badly damaged, maybe both.”

Dino blinked. “Well, do something, for chrissakes!”

Stone pressed the button on the microphone again. “Any ship, any ship, this is the yacht Toscana, in need of assistance. Anybody read me?”

Nothing. Silence.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Dino said. “What did you expect?”

Then a voice came over the radio. “Toscana, Toscana, this is Winddrifter. Do you read?”

“Winddrifter, Toscana. I read you loud and clear.”

“What’s your problem?”

“We’re adrift in the waterway with no power, and we need a tow, fast, to keep from hitting a bridge.”

“Sorry, Toscana. I’m halfway to the Bahamas. Afraid I can’t be of any help. Good luck.”

“You get the feeling we’re all alone?” Dino asked.

“Well, shit, we’ve got to do something,” Stone said.

“I’m wide open to suggestions.”

Stone looked outside the bridge and saw a large inflatable dinghy on deck. “There,” he said. “We’ve got to get that thing launched right now.”

“You mean we’re going to abandon ship?” Dino asked.

“No, no. Come on, follow me.” Stone opened the outside door and left the bridge. He ran forward to the dinghy, which appeared to be a good seventeen feet long. A big outboard motor was bolted to the stern. “Look, it’s already hooked up to the davit,” Stone said.

“To the what?”

“The davit, the cranelike thing.” Stone yanked a cover off a pedestal. “Here we go,” he said, switching on the electric motor. He tried the up switch, and the dinghy rose six inches, bringing its cradle with it. “Thank God it’s got its own power.” He set it back down on deck. “Quick, let’s get this thing unlashed.” He glanced at the bridge. It was beginning to look very large.

Dino fumbled with the ties. “Got this side undone,” he said.

“Mine, too,” Stone said. “Now, I’m going to get into the dinghy. You raise it higher than the rail, there, and use this joystick thing to swing it over the side. Then you push the down button.”

“I’ve never operated anything like this before,” Dino said.

“Think of it as a computer game.”

“I can’t do those, either.”

Stone hopped into the dinghy. “Okay, let’s go.”

Dino started to work the controls. He raised the dinghy three feet off the deck.

“Right, now use the joystick.”

Dino did something, and the dinghy began to move sideways at an alarming rate. Stone nearly fell out. “Slowly!” he yelled.

“I thought you were in a hurry,” Dino said.

“Gently. Don’t throw me out of the dinghy.”

Dino tried again, and this time the dinghy moved smoothly over the rail and hung, suspended, six or eight feet above the water.

“Great, now with the down button.”

Dino found the switch, and in a moment the dinghy was in the water. Stone unhooked the cable and was adrift. “Put the davit back in the same position we found it in,” he called to Dino.

Dino followed Stone’s instructions. “Now what?” he called.

A light breeze had sprung up, and Stone was drifting rapidly away from the yacht. “Find a long rope!” he yelled, “and go to the bow!”

“Where?”

“Up front to the pointed end.” Stone felt around the instrument panel for the ignition key and found it. He tried starting the engine. It turned over but didn’t start. He made his way to the stern of the dingy, found a gas tank with a fuel line leading to the engine, and pumped the attached rubber bulb a few times. Then he returned to the controls and tried again. The engine started.

Stone put the thing in gear and headed for the bows of the yacht, which was now turning sideways. Then he glanced over his shoulder and found that, in the time it had taken to launch the dingy, they were nearly to the bridge. The yacht was about to hit not one, but two of the bridge’s supports.

He did the only thing he could think of. He gunned the engine and attacked the bows of the big yacht, as if the dinghy were a tugboat. Gradually, the bows of the yacht began to turn upstream, and a moment later she passed, backward, under the bridge.

Stone could see Dino standing on deck. “Did you find a rope?”

“Yeah, a big one, too.”

“Make one end fast and throw me the other end.” A moment later, a large coil of heavy rope hit Stone in the back of the head, knocking him down.

“You trying to kill me?” he yelled at Dino. He struggled back to his feet.

“You said throw you the other end.”

“I didn’t mean two hundred feet of it!” Stone paid out forty feet of rope, then made it fast to a stern cleat. “Okay, I’ve got it,” he yelled.

“What do I do now?”

“Go back to the bridge and steer the boat.”

“Steer it where?”

“Just keep it headed upstream behind the dinghy!”

“Okay, okay.” Dino went aft toward the bridge.

“And when we pass back under the bridge, don’t let the yacht hit it!” Stone screamed.

“Thanks,” Dino called back. “I needed to be told that!”

Stone put the engine in gear and slowly went forward until the rope was taut. For a long moment nothing happened. He applied more power and finally, the dinghy began to move forward an inch at a time, then a foot. The bows of the yacht fell into line behind him, and he aimed at the center of the bridge.

Slowly, with the outboard engine making a loud racket, the yacht moved under, then away from the bridge.

“What now?” Dino yelled from the bows.

“Go back to the wheel! I’m going to try to bring the yacht alongside where we were tied up before. Find some more ropes, and as soon as we’re by the seawall, make one end fast to the yacht and jump ashore with the other end!”

“Okay!” Dino yelled, and went aft again.

The seawall came into sight now, illuminated by a dock light and the lights on the garden paths ashore. Stone could see Juanito and the yacht’s skipper standing on the wall, looking at them. He towed the yacht past the seawall, then, very slowly, made a 180-degree turn and started back toward the yacht’s berth.

“Easy!” somebody yelled from ashore. “Cut your power, and she’ll drift in.”

Stone did as he was told. Gradually, the big yacht drifted toward the seawall, then Dino was throwing ropes to the men ashore. Five minutes later, the yacht was secure.

Stone scrambled up a ladder to shore and tied the dinghy to the ladder.

The skipper approached. “What the hell happened? Did you decide to go for a cruise?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stone said. “I was asleep, and somebody cut our lines.”

“Untied them,” the skipper said.

Dino walked over. “Yeah, they were just hanging in the water.”

“I tried to start the engines,” Stone said, “but we couldn’t find the ignition key.”

“In my pocket,” the skipper said, holding up the key. “Well, she’s secure, now. Why don’t you go back to bed, and we’ll try to figure this out in the morning.”

“Good idea,” Stone said, and he and Dino trudged back aboard.

“Are you thinking Dolce?” Dino asked as he paused at his cabin door.

“Maybe. Or maybe our friend Manning.”

“Some friend.”

“Yeah.”

The two men said good night and went to bed. It took Stone a long time to get to sleep.

57

STONE AND DINO BARELY MADE IT ON DECK IN TIME FOR lunch the following day. They had the afterdeck to themselves, and they had just finished their omelettesto themselves, and they had just finished their omelettes when two men in suits emerged from the house and made their way toward the yacht.

“Ten to one they’re FBI,” Dino said.

“No bet,” Stone replied. He knew how Dino hated FBI agents, and his own experience with them as a cop had not been wonderful.

“Nobody else looks quite like that. What the hell do they want?”

“I think we’re about to find out,” Stone said, as the two men came up the gangplank.

“Either one of you Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the NYPD?” one of them asked without preamble.

“Who wants to know?” Dino asked.

Both men whipped out ID.

“Wow, I’m impressed. I’m Bacchetti. Why are you disturbing my vacation?”

“We want to ask you some questions,” the first agent said.

“See me in my office in New York,” Dino said. “I’ll be back next week.”

“It’s in connection with a bank robbery in Arlington, Virginia, four years ago,” the man said.

“I didn’t do it,” Dino said, “and I can probably come up with an alibi.”

The man turned to Stone. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Stone started to reply, but Dino interrupted. “None of your fucking business,” he said. “Now get off my yacht.”

The agent looked around. “Yours, huh? Pretty fancy for a New York cop. I wonder what your Internal Affairs people would have to say about this.”

Dino began laughing, and so did Stone.

“What’s so funny?” the agent asked, annoyed.

“You be sure and mention my yacht to Internal Affairs,” Dino said. “I’d enjoy their reaction. Now, will you people go away?”

“Look,” the agent said, “maybe we got off on the wrong foot, here. My name is Miles, and this is my partner, Nevins. We’d really appreciate your help, Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Dino said expansively. “Have a seat.” He kicked chairs in the agents’ direction, and they both sat down.

“Can I get you something?” Dino asked, the generous host, now that he had brought the two men into line.

“No, thanks,” Miles said.

“What can I do for you?” Dino asked.

“A couple of days ago, your office in New York ran a match on some fingerprints in our computer.”

Dino said nothing.

“Isn’t that right?”

“If you say so. We probably run prints a dozen times a day.”

“You ran a set of prints that matched with a thumbprint we got from a note passed to a teller in a bank robbery in Virginia.”

“So?”

“We want to know where you got the prints.”

“Didn’t you ask my office?”

“They wouldn’t tell us. They said we had to talk to you, and you were in Palm Beach, so we drove up here from Miami this morning.”

“How much did the bank robber get?” Dino asked.

“About thirty thousand, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dino said. “You two guys got into your government car and drove all the way up here from Miami, using government gas, in pursuit of a guy who got thirty grand from a bank four years ago?”

“That’s right,” Miles replied.

“Well, Agent Miles, I’m not too sure I approve of the way you people are spending my tax dollars,” Dino said.

“I don’t understand,” Miles replied.

Stone spoke up. “Neither does Lieutenant Bacchetti. He can’t figure out why you fellows are making this kind of effort to track down a penny-ante, walk-in bank robber who the bank won’t even make the effort to prosecute.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Miles said.

“Stone Barrington.”

“Well, Mr. Barrington, bank robbery is a very serious crime.”

“Gee, the bank doesn’t think so. When you catch this guy, they won’t even send somebody down to court to testify against him.”

“No matter what the banks think, the FBI considers bank robbery to be a very serious crime,” Miles said. “It eats away at the roots of our economic system, if we let people get away with stealing even what you consider a small amount from a bank.”

“No kidding?” Stone said.

“What else did this guy do?” Dino asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Come on, Agent Miles, you’re not here about a bank robbery. What did the guy do?”

“That’s confidential.”

“I’m a police officer. Mr. Barrington, here, used to be a police officer, and now he’s a distinguished member of the bar. You can tell us.”

“Those are not my instructions.”

“What are your instructions?”

“I’m, ah, not at liberty to say.”

“Well, Agent Miles, if you want information from me, you’d better be at liberty to trade a little information.”

“Lieutenant, why are you being so difficult about this? All we want is to catch a bank robber.”

“No, that’s not all you want. You want to catch an entirely different animal, and I want to know the species.”

Miles took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Lieutenant, you’re interfering with an FBI investigation.”

“Oh? Well, I’m terribly sorry. Did it ever occur to you that you might be interfering with my investigation?”

“I think a federal investigation takes precedence.”

“That’s what you guys always think,” Dino said. “You never think that something the NYPD is investigating might be as important as what the FBI is investigating.”

“That’s not true,” Miles insisted.

“They’re not going to tell us anything, are they?” Dino asked.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Then why should we tell them anything?”

“I can’t think of a good reason,” Stone said.

“This is obstruction,” Miles said indignantly. “You obviously know something about this perpetrator.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dino replied.

“Neither did I,” Stone said.

“Look, Lieutenant, I could take this to your superior,” Miles said.

“Oh, my captain would love that,” Dino said. “Assuming you could even get him on the phone, he’d love you wasting his time about some dime-a-dozen bank job. He’d really call me in on the carpet about that.”

“How about this, Agent Miles,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just tell us why the checking of this guy’s prints would raise a flag on the FBI’s computer system? It can’t be just this bank robbery.”

“If I told you that . . .” Miles stopped and thought better. “I can’t tell you that,” he said.

“Agent Miles,” Dino said, “I’m trying hard to see some reason why I should help out the FBI, which wouldn’t cross the street to help me out on an investigation.”

Miles produced his card. “Here’s my number,” he said, handing the card to Dino. “I’ll owe you one. A big one. Anytime you need a favor from the Bureau, you can call me.”

Dino took the card. “How about you, Agent Nevins? Are you going to owe me one, too?”

Nevins produced a card and handed it over. “Yes, yes, I am.”

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” Dino said. “Stone, tell the agents what you know about this guy.”

“His name—or at least, one of his names—is William Charles Danforth, of a P Street address in Washington, D.C., a town with which you are no doubt familiar. Some years ago his name was Paul Manning, and he was a well-known author.”

“Have you ever seen this man?” Miles asked.

“Yes, a couple of days ago.”

“Can you give me a description?”

“Late forties, six-three or -four, two hundred pounds, dark hair going gray.”

“Facial characteristics?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“But you say you saw him a couple of days ago.”

“That’s right, but he had a big bandage right in the middle of his face. I had the distinct impression that he didn’t want me to know what he looked like. Maybe he was afraid I might be talking to the FBI.”

“Do you know his present whereabouts?”

“A man answering his description has been seen in Palm Beach, but I’ve no idea if it’s the same man.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Nope.”

Miles and Nevins stood up. “Thank you very much, Mr. Barrington, Lieutenant Bacchetti. We owe you one.”

“You already said that,” Dino pointed out.

“We’ll be going, then,” Miles said.

“Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out,” Dino said.

Miles looked at the gangplank. “There isn’t a doorknob,” he said.

Dino looked at Stone. “You can’t fool the FBI, can you?”

“Nope,” Stone agreed.

The two agents left.

When they had gone, Stone turned to Dino. “I’m surprised you cooperated. Why did you want me to tell them about Manning?”

“The sonofabitch set my yacht adrift,” Dino said.

58

NO SOONER HAD THE FBI MEN LEFT THAN LIZ CAME out of the house and walked to the yacht. She came aboard and gave both Stone and Dino a big kiss. She was carrying an envelope and two gift-wrapped boxes.

“I just want to thank you both so much,” she said, sitting down.

“You’re welcome,” Stone said. “Glad to be of service.”

“Same here,” Dino echoed. “Only I haven’t been of all that much service.”

“Of course you have,” Liz said. “And I want to thank you. First of all,” she said, handing Stone the envelope, “here’s a check for your legal services.”

Stone slipped the envelope into a pocket without looking inside. “Thank you, Liz.”

“Second,” she said, handing Stone the larger of the two packages, “this is to express my personal thanks for your friendship and your concern for me. Even though your job as my lawyer is done, I think of you as my friend.”

“Thank you again,” Stone said, accepting the box.

“And, Dino,” she said, handing him the smaller of the two boxes, “this is for you, for taking the time and trouble to come down here and help out Stone. And for stopping that horrible man from hurting anyone else in that restaurant shoot-out.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Dino said.

“Don’t open them yet,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’d be embarrassed.” She stood up. “I have to run, now. Callie and I are going to town to look for dresses for the wedding.” With a little wave, she departed the yacht and headed back toward the house.

“You first,” Dino said.

“No, you.”

Dino opened his gift. Inside was a handsome gold pen from Cartier. “Very nice,” he said. “I’ll be the envy of the precinct. What’d she get you?”

Stone opened the package to find a large, red Cartier box inside. He opened it and held the contents up for Dino to see.

Dino took the box from Stone and gave a low whistle. “Hey, now, that’s really nice.”

Stone took back the box and removed the wristwatch from it. “Certainly is,” he said. He took off his steel Rolex, put it into his pocket and slipped on the new watch.

Dino picked up the red booklet that came with the watch. “Cartier Tank Francaise,” he read. “You pick the best clients.”

“I guess I do.”

Juanito approached with the telephone. “For you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Dan Griggs. Did some FBI agents come see you?”

“Yes, they just left.”

“Now I’ve got a guy from the Houston PD wants to talk to you.”

“Houston, Texas?”

“One and the same. What the hell is going on down there?”

“I don’t have the foggiest, Dan.”

“I’m sending the guy to you right now. His name is Fritz Parker.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.” Stone hung up.

“What?” Dino asked.

“A Houston cop wants to talk to me.”

“You committed any crimes in Houston?”

“I’ve never even been to Houston.”

Twenty minutes later a middle-aged man in a seersucker suit walked up the gangplank. “Lieutenant Bacchetti?” he asked.

“That’s me,” Dino said.

“I’m Fritz Parker, Houston PD. Can I have a word with you?”

“Sure, pull up a chair. This is Stone Barrington.”

“How do you do?” Parker said, shaking hands. “Lieutenant, do you mind if we talk alone?”

“You can talk in front of Stone,” Dino said. “He used to be my partner, before he became a rich lawyer.”

“All right.” Parker sat down.

“In fact, Dan Griggs said you wanted to see Stone.”

“No, I wanted to see you. Chief Griggs told me you were Mr. Barrington’s guest.”

“Okay, what can I do for you?”

“A couple of days ago, your precinct ran some fingerprints that matched an unknown perpetrator from a bank robbery in Virginia, four years ago.”

“Jesus,” Dino said. “The FBI was just here about that.”

“They were? I asked for their help, but I didn’t know they were coming.”

“Typical,” Dino said. “They liked what you told them, so they’re poaching on your territory.”

“It’s what they do,” Stone said.

“What’s this about?” Dino asked. “Can’t be the bank robbery.”

“No. At least my department has no interest in that; the FBI might. I’m here about a possible homicide.”

Dino and Stone looked at each other.

“Manning has been a busy guy,” Stone said.

“Manning?” Parker asked.

“The fingerprint belongs to a man named Paul Manning. Or, at least, that used to be his name.”

“Tell us about the homicide,” Dino said.

“It was last year,” Parker said. “A Houston business-man died of an apparent heart attack, but our medical examiner wasn’t entirely satisfied with that as a cause of death.”

“What did he suspect?” Stone asked.

“Poisoning, of a very special kind. Apparently, there are two common household products which, when mixed, create a poison that can’t be analyzed.”

“I’ve heard about that poison,” Stone said, “but I don’t know what the household products are.”

“Neither do I,” Parker said, “and the ME wouldn’t tell me. Said it’s not the sort of knowledge that should be spread around, and I think I agree. He did look around the house and said both products were present.”

“But why do you think Manning had anything to do with this?”

“Because this guy Manning, if that’s who he is, left a thumbprint on a bedside glass, right next to the body.”

“And these two chemicals were in the glass?”

“No, the glass was clean, except for the thumbprint. The ME theorizes that the murderer removed the glass containing the poisons and substituted a clean one.”

“And what was the outcome of the case?”

“It’s still open,” Parker said, “until we can find the owner of the fingerprint and question him. Do you have any idea where I can find Paul Manning?”

“He may be in Palm Beach,” Stone said. “Two of Chief Griggs’s men have seen a man in town answering his description. Lately, he has also gone by the name of William Charles Danforth.” Stone gave Parker the Washington address. “I gave that to the FBI agents, too.” He gave him Manning’s description.

Parker made a note of everything.

“I’d suggest you tell Chief Griggs that you have a good reason for him to pick up the guy,” Stone said. “We didn’t have a reason before now.”

“I’ll do that right away,” Parker said. Stone handed him the phone, and he made the call. Parker spoke to Dan Griggs, then handed the phone to Stone. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Hello?”

“Stone, I hear you’ve finally got something on this guy.”

“Well, Parker has, anyway.”

“It will give me the greatest pleasure to put out an APB on him.”

“He may be carrying ID saying that he’s William Charles Danforth, of Washington, D.C.”

“Got it. I’ll let you know if we pick him up.”

“Thanks, Dan.” He hung up the phone. “Fritz, you’re doing me a very great favor.”

“Glad to be of service. Lieutenant, running those prints was a very great favor to us. I’d love to clear this case.”

“I hope you clear it before the weekend,” Stone said.

“Why the weekend?”

“Because there’s going to be a big wedding here, and Mr. Manning might just try to crash the party.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Parker said. He stood up and shook Stone’s and Dino’s hands. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if we find the guy.” He turned to leave.

“Fritz,” Stone said, “what was your victim’s name?”

“Winston Harding,” Parker replied.

59

STONE WATCHED THAD SHAMES LEAVE THE HOUSE AND walk through the gardens toward the yacht. “Maybe I should talk to him alone,” Stone said.

Dino got up. “I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.”

Dino got up. “I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.” and

As Dino departed, Thad came up the gangplank and walked to the afterdeck, where Stone waited for him. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello, Thad. Have a seat.” Stone wasn’t going to enjoy this.

“What’s up? Why did you want to see me alone?”

“Because what I have to tell you is for your ears only. You must not share this with Liz, or even Callie.”

“You sound very serious,” Thad said.

“This is very serious.”

“Tell me.”

“Today, Dino and I have had visits from two FBI agents and a detective from the Houston, Texas, police department.”

“About Liz?”

“No, about Paul Manning.”

“What about Manning?”

“One of the problems with finding Manning was that, for a long time, he had never been fingerprinted. Lots of people haven’t. If you have never been arrested, applied for a security clearance or served in the armed forces, then you’ve probably not been fingerprinted. The Bureau maintains a huge database of everyone who has ever been fingerprinted, and it can be accessed by authorized law enforcement agencies.”

“I understand. And Manning has never been fingerprinted?”

“He has, once. After the business on St. Marks, Manning paid me a visit in New York. He wanted money. Fortunately, I had been expecting him, and Dino showed up shortly after his arrival and arrested him on charges of insurance fraud. Since he was wanted in St. Marks on three murder charges, and since the insurance company had no hope of retrieving any funds from him, they waived their claim on Manning and allowed him to be extradited to St. Marks. But first, he was taken to Dino’s precinct, the Nineteenth, in Manhattan, and routinely fingerprinted.”

“And then his prints went into the FBI computer?”

“No. Whoever handled the fingerprinting at the Nineteenth considered Manning’s arrest as a foreign matter and didn’t forward his prints to the FBI. But they remained on file at the precinct, and earlier this week, I remembered that Manning had been printed.

“The FBI also maintains a database of fingerprints that are associated with unsolved crimes. If a perpetrator leaves a print at a crime scene, it’s run against all known prints, and if there’s no match, it goes into the unsolved crimes database under a file number that relates to the case. I asked Dino to run a match of Manning’s prints against that database, and it turned up a match with a bank robbery in Arlington, Virginia, four years ago. That crime was also matched by modus operandi and description of the perpetrator to three other bank robberies in Maryland. All the robberies took place near Washington, D.C., where Manning kept an apartment under the name of William Charles Danforth.”

“So Manning is a bank robber, as well as a murderer?”

“Yes. It appears that he had been supporting himself in that manner while he was writing a novel, which has now been published and has become a best-seller.”

“Busy guy.”

“Yes, he has been. Which brings us to today’s visit from the FBI and the Houston detective. The FBI told us they were interested in the Virginia bank robbery, which was patently nonsense because the Bureau would never spend its resources on such a small crime, especially when they know the banks won’t even prosecute small robberies unless violence was employed.”

“So what were they really interested in?”

“The Houston PD, in investigating a suspected homicide, also came up with a fingerprint, which they ran against the FBI’s databases. They turned up the Virginia bank robbery, too, and then, when Dino’s precinct turned up the same thing, it alerted both the FBI and the Houston department that somebody else had a match. What’s more, Dino could attach an identity to the prints, as well, and that’s why we had these visits today.”

“Did you or Dino tell them who the prints belonged to?”

“Yes, we did.”

“So they’re looking for Manning, now?”

“Yes. And we think he may be in Palm Beach.”

“Well, this is very good news, Stone.”

“It is. I hope they’ll have him in custody soon, which would prevent Manning’s trying to disrupt the wedding.”

“Why do you think he would try to do that?”

“Last night, while the yacht’s crew was off duty, and Dino and I were asleep on the yacht, somebody let go all her mooring lines and removed the gangplank. If Dino hadn’t woken up, the yacht would almost certainly have collided with a bridge south of here and done great damage; maybe even have sunk the yacht.”

“Jesus. And you think it was Manning?”

Stone avoided mention of Dolce. “He seems the likely candidate. It was hardly the prank of a roving band of juvenile delinquents.”

“And you think he might try to disrupt the wedding?”

“Yes. We’ve taken security precautions against that possibility.”

“So everything that can be done has been done?”

“Yes.”

Thad stood up. “Then I’m going to put it out of my mind.”

“Please sit down, Thad. I’m not finished.”

Thad sat down.

“The Houston PD is interested in Manning because one of his fingerprints was found on a bedside glass of a man they believe may have been poisoned.”

“So he killed somebody in Houston, too? Good God, the man’s a maniac.”

“That certainly appears to be so. But what’s important to us here, today, is that the man the police think may have been poisoned was Winston Harding, Liz’s late husband.”

Thad seemed to freeze in place. “Oh, my God,” he said, finally.

Stone felt he had finally made his point.

“The poor girl. This man has made her life hell, and now we learn he murdered her husband, too?”

Maybe he hadn’t made his point, after all, Stone thought. He was going to have to spell it out. “That is a very distinct possibility,” Stone said. “And it has implications for you.”

“You mean, you think Manning may try to kill me?”

Stone nodded. “It’s a possibility we can’t ignore.”

“But you’ve already taken security precautions.”

“Yes, but how long are you willing to live under those circumstances?”

“I see,” Thad said. “You mean that he might try to kill me at some time in the future?”

“Yes.” Stone was having trouble getting the rest of it out. “Thad, I think that, under the circumstances, you should postpone the wedding.”

Thad looked alarmed. “For how long?”

“Until Manning is caught and . . . interrogated.”

“Gosh, I don’t know if we could do that at this point without causing a major hullabaloo in town. We’ve already invited two hundred people from Palm Beach and all over the country. Some of them have already arrived.”

“Of course, Manning may be arrested today or tomorrow.”

“That would certainly solve the problem, wouldn’t it?”

Stone took a deep breath. “Not necessarily.”

Thad looked at him for a long moment. “You mean Manning might have help? An accomplice?”

“It’s a very real possibility.” Thank God, Stone thought. He’s got it at last.

“Do you have any idea who it might be?”

No, he hadn’t gotten it. “Thad, I want you to understand that what I’m about to say is conjecture, but it’s a conjecture that has to be made.”

“So, make it.”

“There’s only one person that we’re aware of who knows both Manning and you.”

Thad’s brow wrinkled, then his face relaxed, and his mouth fell open. “You can’t mean . . .”

“As I say, it’s only conjecture at this point. We won’t know more until Manning is arrested, and it’s entirely possible that he won’t say anything then.”

“But that’s completely crazy,” Thad said.

“You may be right. But ask yourself this: Who profited from Winston Harding’s death?”

“Well, Manning, I guess. In some way. Revenge against Liz, maybe.”

“That’s a possibility. But there’s only one person who actually profited from Harding’s death.”

Thad didn’t seem to be able even to think it.

Stone finally said it aloud. “That person is Liz.”

“No, no, no, no . . .” Thad’s voice trailed off.

“And if the two of you are married and anything should happen to you, she would profit a great deal more than she did from Winston Harding’s death.”

Thad’s body sagged as if air had been let out of it. He seemed unable to speak.

“So, I think you should postpone the wedding until all this has been resolved.”

Thad seemed to collect himself. He sat up straight. “No,” he said. “I love her, and she loves me. If I know nothing else, I know that. The wedding goes on as scheduled. Do what you can to protect us from Manning, but you are not to say a word about this to Liz, is that understood?”

“Thad . . .”

“Stone, you have to either do as I wish in this matter, or leave. There’s no in between. What’s it going to be? Are you with me?”

Stone sighed. “All right,” he said.

60

STONE WATCHED CALLIE LEAVE THE MAIN HOUSE AND, with a man in tow, come toward the yacht. She looked particularly beautiful today, he thought, and he had missed seeing her the past few days, when she had been so busy with the wedding.

She came up the gangplank. “Stone, this is Jeff Collender of Rightguard Security Services. He’ll be helping us with the wedding, and I thought you’d better brief him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Collender said, shaking hands. “The name sounds like a deodorant; it was my wife’s idea.”

“Glad to meet you, Jeff. Have a seat.”

“I hear you’re throwing quite a shindig, here,” Collender said.

“That describes it very well,” Stone said.

“So, what do we need, here? You want us to keep out the gate-crashers, and like that?”

“Jeff, we may have more of a problem than gate-crashers,” Stone said.

“Oh? You expecting a lot of big drinkers, then? We’ve had experience with that. We know how to quietly eject the drunks.”

“Let me explain as fully as I can,” Stone said. “We have to be ready to handle an armed intruder.”

Collender blinked. “Armed? You mean with a gun?”

“Well, yes. You do have the capability of supplying armed security people, don’t you?”

“Sure we do, but we’ve never had to actually shoot anybody.”

“And I hope you won’t on this occasion, but we have to be prepared for anything.”

“Okay, we’ll be prepared.”

“Earlier, I had estimated that we’d need only a few armed men, but now I think they’ll all have to be armed. I assume your men have had some standard training?”

“Well, most of them are ex-law enforcement, so they’ve been trained by whatever department they worked for.”

“Are there any that haven’t had training?”

“Maybe one or two.”

“Let’s drop them. We need men who know how to handle weapons in a crowd.”

“Mr. Barrington, why don’t you tell me exactly who you’re expecting?”

“His name is Paul Manning. He’s tall and slender— six-three or -four, two hundred pounds, dark hair going gray.”

“Would you recognize him on sight?”

“Only by his size and shape. I haven’t seen his current face.”

“His current face?”

“We believe he’s had some cosmetic surgery.”

“So you don’t have a photograph?”

“No.”

“Ooookay, no photograph.”

“There aren’t too many people that tall. He should stand out in a crowd.”

“How big a crowd are we expecting?”

“About two hundred,” Callie said.

“There’ll be a tight guest list?”

“Pretty tight. If a guest wants to bring someone along, we’re not going to make a big thing of it.”

“And how many of these guests are likely to be armed?”

“Just the one,” Stone said drily.

Dino came out of his cabin, and Stone introduced him to Collender.

“Nice to meet a fellow officer,” Collender said. “I used to be the sheriff of Palm Beach County.”

“Mmmm,” Dino said. “Don’t let me interrupt, just keep going.”

“So,” Collender said, “how many people do you want here?”

“Twenty-four ought to do it,” Stone said.

“All armed?”

“Yes. Can you manage that?”

“Yeah, I can manage it. How do you want me to manage this Manning character, if we spot him?”

“Isolate him as quickly as possible, pat him down, check whatever name he gives you against the guest list and do it all very, very politely and apologetically. There are going to be some important people here, and we don’t want to annoy them any more than absolutely necessary.”

“Believe me,” Collender said, “we’re used to dealing with the rich and powerful in this town. We know how it’s done.”

“Good.”

“How do you want my people dressed?”

“Black tie. I don’t want them immediately identifiable as security. Do you have any women?”

“I’ve got four, all ex-officers and good.”

“Put them with men. Couples are less noticeable than single men.”

“Got it,” Collender said, taking notes. “If Manning starts shooting, what do you want done?”

Stone and Dino exchanged a glance. “Stop him in the most expedient way possible.”

Collender nodded sagely. “I get you.”

“I hope so,” Stone said. “I don’t want Manning to be able to hurt anybody. I think you can imagine how big a mess that would be.”

“Oh, yeah, I read you completely. Are we going to have any cops here?”

“I’m talking to Chief Griggs in a few minutes about that. I’ll let you know.”

Collender stood up. “Anything else?”

Stone shook his head.

“I’ll be going, then.” He gave Stone his card. “Call me if you think of anything else; there’s office, home and cell phone on the card.”

“Thanks, and it was good to meet you,” Stone said.

Callie escorted Collender off the yacht.

“You think this guy knows what he’s doing?” Dino asked.

“I hope to God he does. Callie says he’s the best around here.”

“Twenty-four guys with guns at a party? Let’s hope they don’t shoot each other.”

“Let’s hope,” Stone said.

Dan Griggs sounded amenable on the phone. “I’m glad we’ve got a charge against this guy, now,” he said. “I’d like it if we could snatch him off the street before the wedding.”

“I’d like that, too, Dan,” Stone said.

“I think we ought to have a meeting of all the security people and my people the afternoon of the wedding, and we’re going to need some kind of lapel pin to identify everybody. I’ll bring some.”

“Good idea,” Stone agreed. “There’s no way everybody is going to know everybody else on sight.”

“You know, we’ve covered a lot of parties in this town, mostly off duty, but this is the first time we’re actually expecting an armed intruder.”

“I hope we’re being overly cautious,” Stone said, “but we’ve got to be ready for anything. The more I learn about Manning, the more he worries me.”

“Let’s meet at four tomorrow afternoon, then,” Griggs said. “I know Jeff Collender. I’ll call him.”

“See you then, Dan.” Stone hung up.

Dino called to him from the saloon, where he was watching a golf tournament on television. “Quick, come here.”

Stone hurried into the saloon.

“Edward Ginsky was a prominent attorney in both New York and Miami legal circles,” a television reporter was saying. He was standing in front of a large house. “He leaves a widow and two grown children.”

“What happened?” Stone asked.

“Ed Ginsky got himself shot.”

“Any details?”

“Maid found him on his front steps this morning. He took two in the head.”

Stone sank into a chair. “Where is this going to end?”

“It’s not going to end until Manning is dead,” Dino said. “And I think you and I ought to do whatever we can to see that that happens, if he shows up at the wedding.”

“Dino, are you suggesting we just shoot him down on sight?”

“As much as I’d like to, I think we have to be a little more subtle than that,” Dino said. “But not much.”

61

STONE STOOD IN FRONT OF THE LIVING ROOM FIREPLACE in Thad Shames’s house and regarded the decidedly mixed group of men and women who stood around him, dressed—or half-dressed—in what each of them understood to be evening clothes.

Behind him, propped on the marble mantel, was a crude drawing of the house and grounds that he had done himself with a Magic Marker in black, with other colors for various personnel. He felt quite proud of it, in fact.

“Okay, everybody listen up,” he said. “You see here an outline of the place—house, gardens and yacht. There are sixteen small circles, in red, denoting employees of Rightguard Security. Jeff Collender will assign each of you to stations, and, once we’ve swept the grounds, you are to maintain those stations. Pick up a drink from the bar so you’ll look at least a little like a guest, and the drink will be iced water, soda, tonic or soft drink—no booze. Eight of you, four men and four women, will roam the house and grounds as couples. Jeff will assign you areas to patrol.

“The green circles denote Palm Beach police officers—two at the curb to control traffic, one at the door to display a little authority to anyone contemplating gate-crashing, especially unauthorized members of the press, and to handle the metal detector. Authorized press people will be wearing photo IDs on strings around their necks. If you see anybody taking notes or photographs who is not wearing this tag, firmly request the ID card and, if it is not immediately forthcoming, escort him or her from the premises. If possible, take such people either through the center hall of the house or around the sides to the street. If they become obstreperous, turn them over to a police officer on the street, who will arrest them for trespassing and place them in a police van.”

He pointed to his colleagues as he listed their names. “Chief Dan Griggs, Jeff Collender of Rightguard, Lieutenant Bacchetti and I will be known as the ‘management group’ and will be roaming the house and grounds. Everybody has been issued a lapel pin—green for Rightguard Security, red for Palm Beach Police, black for management group. You may also see some people with yellow lapel pins, but they are separate. Each of you has been issued a two-way radio, tuned to channel six. You understand that the use of radios is to be confined to sightings of Paul Manning. There is to be no unnecessary chat on the radios; there are too many of us for that. Paul Manning is six-feet-three or -four, two hundred pounds, dark hair going gray, moderately long. We have no photographs or sketches of him. If you spot a man answering that description, say the word ‘bogey’ into your microphone and give the specific location. If you see a weapon, either in his hand or on his person, say, ‘gun,’ into the radio. Keep it as short as you can while conveying the information you need to. After that, speak into the radio only if the subject changes position or if you are asked questions by one of the management group.

“Each of you has two sheets of paper with the entire guest list printed on them. If you have reason to suspect that a visitor is uninvited, politely request his or her name and refer to the list. If the name does not appear, ask the person to accompany you to the front door by one of the routes already mentioned, and turn him or her over to a police officer, who will determine if that person is, in fact, invited. It is possible that some invited guest may bring along another, uninvited guest. If an invited guest intercedes on behalf of such a person, do nothing, but make a note of the name on your guest list. Apologize for any inconvenience.

“Everybody insert the radio earplug for a sound check.” He waited while they did this. “This is a test,” he said into the microphone concealed in his left hand. “Anybody didn’t hear that, raise your hand.” No hands went up. Thank God the equipment was working.

“Now, let me tell you the policy on firearms. You are all carrying concealed weapons. You are not to take out that weapon, unless you see a weapon in the hand of someone not in this room now, such as the subject, Paul Manning. If you do see a weapon and produce your own weapon, you are not to fire unless you feel sure that the subject is threatening to fire. You are not to fire unless you have a clear shot. You are not to shoot any guest. I hope that is perfectly clear.” That got a laugh. “You might remember that if you fire a weapon this evening, you are going to have to answer to the police and, maybe, the courts for your actions. If you are in doubt about whether to fire your weapon, keep that in mind.

“Finally, if you spot the subject or any other threat, do not head for the bride and groom. Four Palm Beach detectives will be assigned to accompany them everywhere they go. Instead, head for the subject, and be ready to use physical force to disarm or disable him. Any questions?” Stone looked around at each face. Nobody spoke.

“All right, if you don’t already have an assigned station, get one from the management group. As soon as you have your assignments, we’re going to start at the seawall, and in a straight line, at arm’s length, we’re going to sweep the entire property, check every bush, every flower bed for any unwelcome person or weapon.” Or bomb, he thought, but didn’t say. He walked over to where Jeff Collender stood. “Jeff, the man standing over to the side of the group, there.” He nodded toward a man in his twenties, barely encased in a white dinner jacket, with a head that had recently been shaved.

“Yeah, he’s one of mine. Jason.”

“Assign him to the seawall, to watch for anyone approaching the property in a boat. I don’t want him mingling with the guests. He’ll scare them to death.”

“Will do.”

“All right, everybody, let’s go out to the seawall and start back toward the house.” Stone led them out of the house and toward the yacht. When they were stretched out at arm’s length, he called to them, “Commence your search, and when you get to the house, re-form farther down that way and come back to the seawall. When that’s done, take up your assigned positions.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten minutes to five. Guests will start to arrive at six, so move quickly but carefully.”

“Dan, Jeff, Dino, the four of us will search the house, starting at the top floor. When we get downstairs, Dino and I will take the kitchen.”

The four men walked back to the house, climbed the stairs to the third floor and went down hallways, knocking on every door, checking every room.

“Dan, your men at the door know that nobody enters the house except through the metal detector?”

“They know.”

“Okay, Dino, let’s check the kitchen.” Stone led the way, and they walked into a large, restaurant-style facility, teeming with people. He found the caterer, spooning caviar into a crystal bowl. “Mr. Weems?”

“That’s me.”

“My name is Barrington. I’m in charge of security.”

“How do you do?”

“I’d like you to walk around the room with me and confirm that every one of these people is known to you as a member of your staff.”

“Okay,” the man said.

Stone walked him around the room, then took him into the dining room, where a bar was being set up. “Do you know every one of these people?” he asked.

“Every one of them. They’re all mine. At the reception, we’ll have half a dozen people serving drinks who are not my regular employees, but they all come well recommended.”

“Thanks for your time.”

“Don’t mention it.” The man returned to his work.

“Looks like you’ve got it covered,” Dino said.

“I hope so,” Stone replied. “Can you think of anything we haven’t done?”

“Nope, not yet, anyway. If Manning gets in and shoots Thad or Liz, then I’m sure I’ll think of a couple of things we should have done.”

“Great,” Stone said.

“By the way,” Dino said, “have you read the guest list?”

“I glanced at it. I don’t know anybody who’s coming except Bill Eggers and a couple named Wilkes.”

“Check it again,” Dino said, “under C.”

Stone removed the list from an inside pocket and ran a finger down to the C’s. He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead. “Mrs. Arrington Calder,” he read aloud.

“Did you know about that?” Dino asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I didn’t think so. You’ve been too cool.”

“And why do you think her name on this list would make me less than cool?” Stone demanded.

“Well, you’re raising your voice,” Dino said, “and, all of a sudden, you’re sweating.”

62

STONE AND DINO TOOK ONE MORE WALK AROUND THE property, then, at six o’clock, they headed for the front door to check out the arrival procedures. Guests were already pulling up in Bentleys, Rollses and Mercedes-Benzes, and Stone was pleased with the efficiency with which the cars were being taken away and parked by the attendants.

He watched as a couple moved through the metal detector, which had been disguised as a rose arbor. A quiet beep was heard, and a smiling police officer approached the couple.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, and quickly ran a handheld wand over the man’s clothes.

“Probably my house keys,” the man said, holding up a large clump.

“I expect so, sir,” the cop replied. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“That was handled well,” Dino said quietly.

“That’s the Palm Beach Police Department for you,” Stone replied.

The three dozen wedding guests had been asked to arrive early, and by six-thirty they were all present with drinks in their hands. At six thirty-five, there was a murmur from the group as Liz descended the main staircase, resplendent in a beautiful ivory lace wedding dress. She was met at the bottom of the stairs by Thad, who towered over her a good eighteen inches, Stone reckoned. He escorted her into the living room to the fireplace, where a judge was waiting to perform the ceremony.

“Let’s go out back,” Stone said.

“What, you want to miss the wedding?”

“Nobody in that room is going to bother them. If there’s a threat, it’ll come from outside.”

“Okay.”

They walked into the garden and had a look around until Stone was satisfied. There was applause from inside, and Stone turned in time to see, through a tall window, the bride and groom kissing. “That’s one possibility down,” Stone said.

“What do you mean?”

“If Manning wanted to stop the wedding, he’d have already made his move.”

“I guess so,” Dino replied. “But if he wants to create a very rich widow, he’s got all evening.”

“That’s the scary part,” Stone agreed. He looked up to see Guido and two other men approaching. They were carefully dressed in rented tuxedos, and Stone was relieved to see that the jackets were sufficiently loose-fitting not to reveal any weapons. “Evening, Guido,” he said.

“Yeah, you, too,” Guido said. “Everything cool?”

“So far.” Stone dug into a pocket and came up with three yellow lapel pins. “Put these into your buttonholes,” he said. “They will let security know you’re okay.”

The three men complied.

“Where you want us?” Guido asked.

“Wherever you think best. All the security people are looking for a tall man, but not for a beautiful woman, so you’re on your own, if she turns up.”

“Way I figure it,” Guido said, “if she’s coming, she’s coming for you. We’ll stick close.”

“Not too close,” Stone said. He didn’t want to have to explain to anybody who they were.

“Got it.” They wandered off.

At seven, the reception guests started to arrive, and the crowd became thicker.

“Jesus,” Dino said, “this is a hell of a lot of people.”

“Just two hundred of their closest friends,” Stone said. A big dance band began to play tunes from the thirties and forties in the garden. Stone liked the music. It was a beautiful night, and a handsome crowd of people. They wandered through the house and gardens, sipping champagne and chatting with people they knew, and everybody seemed to know everybody. Stone began to relax a little.

The party wore on into the evening. The guests talked, danced, congratulated the bride and groom and did all the other things people did at parties. Some were drunk, but not too drunk. Then, late in the evening, Stone turned toward the house and saw Arrington. She was leaving the main house on the arm of a tall, handsome man of about forty, beautifully dressed. After the shock of recognition, Stone’s next reaction was jealousy.

“Easy, pal,” Dino said. “You look like you want to shoot the guy.”

The tall man had already attracted the attention of a couple of security people, who looked at Stone inquiringly. He shook his head.

“Yeah, that’s all we need,” Dino said. “For security to shoot Arrington’s date.”

“Yes, that would be too bad,” Stone said. Arrington saw him and started toward him, leaving her companion at the bar.

“Hello, Dino,” she said, beaming at him and giving him a kiss on the lips.

“Hiya, kiddo,” Dino said, beaming back.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, almost shyly. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I behaved badly the last time we saw each other,” she whispered. “I know we can work this out. I’m at the Breakers. Call me late tonight. I don’t care how late.”

Stone nodded, then a voice entered his ear.

“Crasher at the front door,” the voice said.

“Arrington, please excuse me,” Stone said. “I have to attend to something. I’ll call you later, I promise.” He made his way toward the front door, closely followed by Dino.

“Don’t you want me to handle the thing at the front door?” Dino asked. “Wouldn’t you rather stay here and talk to Arrington?”

“I just want to see what’s going on,” Stone said. They arrived at the front door in time to see two Palm Beach PD officers hustling a man into a van.

Another cop approached. “Unauthorized photographer,” he said. “We know him. He’s a stringer for one of the tabloids.”

“Good work,” Stone said. “You had any other problems at the front door?”

“Not really. We’ve had to frisk a few people, but no problems. Nobody as tall as the guy you’re looking for. An old man in a wheelchair set off all the alarms, but he was on the guest list.”

“Wheelchair?” Stone asked. “What kind of wheelchair?”

“One of those electric jobs, almost like a scooter. He arrived in a van and had to be helped with it.”

“What’s his name?”

The cop consulted his list. “Walter Feldman.”

“Describe him.”

“White hair, kind of hunched over and frail-looking.”

Stone turned to look at Dino.

“A wheelchair is a good way not to look tall,” Dino said.

Stone lifted his left hand to his mouth. “Everybody, listen up. This is Barrington. Without leaving your stations, find a man in an electric wheelchair and report his position.” He released the talk switch. “Come on, Dino.”

They quickly checked inside the house, but did not see the man. “He must be in the gardens,” Stone said. He spoke into the microphone again. “This is Barrington. Anybody got a position on the man in the wheelchair yet?”

Nothing.

“Jesus, how hard can he be to find?” Stone asked.

Then a voice came over the radio. “Mr. Barrington, I’ve got the wheelchair.”

“Where?” Stone asked.

“At the pool, behind the hedge.”

“Describe the occupant.”

“There’s no occupant. The wheelchair is sitting empty by the pool.”

“Everybody, listen up,” Stone said. “Our subject has arrived. Locate him quickly.”

They were near the seawall, now. Dino spoke up. “Where’s the guard you put on the seawall, the bald guy?”

“Nowhere in sight,” Stone said. He arrived at the wall, walked to the stern of the yacht and looked at the water. The big security guard, Jason, was floating facedown in Lake Worth, a trickle of red coloring the water around him.

“Oh, shit,” Dino said.

Then gunfire broke out.

63

STONE TURNED AROUND TO FIND A MOB OF PEOPLE RUSH ing toward him, many of them screaming.

“Shots fired!” he said into the microphone. “Secure the bride and groom in the master suite now!” Then he and Dino did what cops always do, and other people don’t: They ran toward the gunfire.

They had trouble making headway against the onrushing crowd, but after a couple of minutes they were nearing the house. A man and woman were huddled behind a huge shrub. “On the roof!” the man yelled at Stone, pointing.

“Detail at the front of the house,” Stone said into the mike. “Subject on the roof of the house. Watch the front drainpipes and apprehend.”

“He’s not coming this way,” Dino said. “There must be a way from the roof into the house.”

“Oh, God,” Stone said. He spoke into the mike. “Bride and groom detail. Where are you?”

“On the main stairs,” a voice replied. “We’ll have them secured in a minute.”

“Oh, no,” he said to Dino, “we’ve been suckered. Let’s get up there.” They started to run. “Don’t take the bride and groom upstairs!” he said into the microphone. He raced into the house and headed for the stairs. From the bottom, he could just see the wedding party disappearing down the upstairs hallway. “Wedding group,” he said into the mike. “Stop, and come downstairs.” No one came down. He ran up the stairs.

At the top he came to a sudden halt because the stairs were blocked by the bride, the groom, several guests and four Palm Beach police officers. They were standing there, rigidly, and Stone couldn’t see past them. He stopped a few steps from the top and listened.

“Step away from the bride and groom,” a man’s deep voice said.

Manning. Stone tiptoed up the remaining stairs. Then, blocked from Manning’s view by the group above him, he clambered onto the stair handrail and grabbed the banister built around the stairwell. He was holding onto the banister’s vertical risers, trying to pull himself up, and it wasn’t working very well.

“I said, clear away from the bride and groom,” Manning’s voice commanded.

Stone could see a couple of guests peel off from the group, but the cops stood their ground.

“Listen, Mr. Manning,” a cop said. “There’s more of us than you. More firepower, too. Why don’t you—”

“If any of you touches a gun, I’ll start firing,” Manning said, “and I’ve got thirteen rounds left. The happy couple will be the first to go.”

Stone swung his legs sideways and got a toe on the landing. Slowly, painfully, he muscled his way up until he could get a grip on the handrail. Then, as silently as he could, he pulled himself to the top of the railing and let himself down on the other side, striking the floor with a muffled thud.

“What was that?” Manning demanded.

“What was what?” the cop said. “Come on, Mr. Manning, you’re not getting out of here. Just drop the gun.”

“For the last time, step away from the couple, or I’m going to start shooting.”

Stone had the 9mm automatic in his hand by now, and he slowly pumped the first round into the chamber. On his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the group and, very quickly, stuck his head out and withdrew it. What he remembered seeing was a white-haired man in a dinner jacket who had assumed the combat position, pistol in both hands, at arm’s length.

The odds were not good on hitting Manning before he could fire, Stone reflected. He crouched, ready to leap to one side of the group and start firing.

Then Manning changed everything. He fired a single shot into the group, and everybody scattered. The women were screaming, and a cop had thrown Liz to the floor and was lying on top of her. The group parted like the Red Sea, leaving Stone exposed, but also leaving him a clear shot at Manning. He took it, firing four rapid rounds down the hallway.

Manning fired twice more as he was spun backward, but Stone was sure the rounds had gone into the ceiling. Stone rushed him, pistol out before him, yelling, “Freeze, Manning!” He could hear people moving behind him.

As he ran down the hallway, he saw Manning struggle to one knee and start to raise his gun. Stone stopped and aimed. “Don’t!” he yelled.

But Manning wasn’t listening. His hand kept moving upward.

Stone fired once more, and Manning fell backward. Two Palm Beach officers were all over him, kicking his gun away, rolling him over and handcuffing him. Stone put his gun away and walked forward. “Is he alive?” he asked.

An officer knelt beside the man, his hand at Manning’s throat. “I’ve got a pulse,” he said.

Stone looked down at Manning. He reached out and pulled the white wig off, then turned his head. At last, he had a full frontal view of the man’s face. It was unrecognizable, and for a moment he thought he had the wrong man, but he remembered that voice. He held the mike to his lips. “The subject is secured. He needs an ambulance, now.” He turned and looked back down the hallway. Liz and Thad were sitting on the floor, a Palm Beach officer leaning against Thad, holding his upper arm. “Make that two ambulances,” Stone said into the mike. He walked over to where the three sat, moved the cop’s hand and looked at his arm. He found a clean handkerchief and pressed it onto the wound. “Hold that,” he said to the man.

Then he turned to Thad and Liz. “Is either of you hurt?”

“No,” they both said, simultaneously.

“I’m okay,” the cop said. “Get them out of here.”

Stone helped them up and led them to the master suite.

“Is anyone else hurt?” Thad asked.

“A security guard is dead, back at the seawall,” Stone said. “And Manning doesn’t look so good. He got into the house in a wheelchair, then abandoned it at the pool. From there, hidden by the hedge, he must have gotten to a kitchen door and made his way up the back stairs. He fired a couple of shots into the garden to cause chaos and to get us to bring you two upstairs. You’ll be all right here. There’s no danger now. I want to get back downstairs and make sure no one else was hurt.”

“You go ahead, Stone,” Thad said. “We’ll be fine.”

“Is Paul dead?” Liz asked.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and Stone thought she looked very worried. “No,” he said, “but he took two or three bullets. An ambulance is on the way. Don’t go out into the hall.” He left the room and closed the door behind him, then he started down the stairs. Where the hell was Dino? Stone had been sure he was right behind him when he entered the house.

He walked into the back garden and surveyed the damage. The members of the band had abandoned their bandstand, and a couple of instruments lay on the ground beside it. A large table used as a bar had been overturned, and the air smelled of spilled booze.

He saw Arrington and her date come from behind a huge banyan tree, where they had apparently been hiding. Then he saw Dolce.

64

SHE LOOKED VERY BEAUTIFUL, HE THOUGHT. SHE WAS wearing a short, tight dress of dark green silk. Her hair, nails and makeup were perfectly done, and she was smiling slightly, showing the tips of her perfect, white teeth. For a moment, he thought she had an evening bag in her hand, but on further examination it turned out to be a small semiautomatic pistol with a short silencer affixed to it. Where the hell did she get that? he wondered.

She was not looking at Stone but at Arrington, and her smile became broader. Stone squeezed his left arm against his side, to be sure the pistol was still there. I could shoot her right now, and this would all be over, he thought. Instead, he managed the best smile he could, in the circumstances. “Hello, Dolce,” he said, trying to work some delight into his voice. He held out his arms and walked toward her. I’ll just hug her. Then I’ll take away the gun, he thought.

She turned toward him, and her face lit up with a burst of recognition. “Stone!” she said. “It’s you!”

Then, to Stone’s horror, she brought the pistol up before her and aimed it at him.

“I could shoot you, and this would all be over,” she said.

Where have I heard that before? Stone wondered. “I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Don’t shoot me.”

“Why not?” she said. “I don’t want her to have you.” She nodded toward Arrington.

“I don’t want him, Dolce!” Arrington cried.

Stone looked at Arrington. Her handsome escort was edging away from her toward the banyan tree.

“Of course you do, Arrington,” Dolce said. “You’ve always wanted him. You only married Vance because you thought I wanted him.”

“That’s crazy, Dolce,” Arrington said, then realized her choice of words was poor. She pressed on, though. “I didn’t even know you knew Vance, when we were married. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know you.”

Stone took the opportunity to edge closer to Arrington, his arms still outstretched.

“That’s a gorgeous dress,” Arrington said. “Where did you get it?”

Trust Arrington to bring up fashion at a time like this, Stone thought.

“At a little place on Worth Avenue. The shopping is very good in this town,” Dolce replied conversationally.

Stone edged closer.

Without taking her eyes from Arrington, Dolce said, “Stone, if you come any closer, I’m going to have to make a decision.”

Stone stopped moving, but he was afraid to lower his arms.

“You really don’t want Stone, Arrington?” Dolce asked, wrinkling her brow.

“I wouldn’t have him on a silver platter,” Arrington said with conviction. “I’m with Barry, here.” She turned to introduce her escort and discovered that he had vanished. “He must have had to go to the powder room,” she explained.

Stone was beginning to wonder which of them was the crazier.

“Did you get the shoes here, too?” Arrington asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dolce replied. “At Ferragamo.”

What’s going to happen when they run out of clothes to talk about? Stone wondered.

“And those earrings are a knockout,” Arrington said.

“I got those at Verdura,” Dolce said. “It’s down a little alley off Worth Avenue, and up a flight.”

“Wonderful shop,” Arrington said. “I know them from New York.”

“Dolce,” Stone said, “can we—”

“Shut up, Stone,” she replied. “Arrington and I are discussing shopping. I’ll get to you in a minute.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stone said.

“Yes, you are, and we have to talk about that.” She turned back to Arrington. “I love your handbag.”

“Oh, thank you,” Arrington said. “I got it at Bergdorf’s, at that little boutique just inside the Fifty-eighth Street door. I can’t think of the name at the moment.”

Dolce pointed the pistol at her. “Think of it, or I’ll shoot you.”

Arrington thought desperately. “Suarez!” she said, looking relieved. “That’s it.” She held out the handbag. “Would you like to have mine? Please take it as a gift.”

“Why, that’s very kind of you, Arrington,” Dolce said.

I’ve got to do something, Stone thought, but he couldn’t think what. If he rushed her, she’d shoot him, and then only Arrington would be left, and Dolce would shoot her, too. He remembered what Guido had said about Dolce’s shooting skills. Where the hell is fucking Guido?

Then Stone saw a movement behind Dolce. He dared not take his eyes from hers and look at it. Instead, he tried to identify it with his peripheral vision.

Dolce swung the pistol back to Stone. “I may as well get this over with, so Arrington and I can talk seriously about clothes,” she said, raising the pistol.

“But . . .” Stone started to say, then the pistol in Dolce’s hand went off, with an evil pfffft, and he staggered backward. Almost simultaneously, the shape behind Dolce turned into a billowing sail, which fell over her head, and Dino, who had thrown a tablecloth over her, wrestled her to the ground.

Stone felt a searing pain in his left armpit and put his hand under his jacket. It came back covered in blood. Stone had always disliked the sight of his own blood.

“Will somebody give me a fucking hand?” Dino yelled.

Guido and his two friends materialized from behind a bush and went to Dino’s aid. Or, that was the way it seemed at first. As Stone watched, the largest of the three men grabbed Dino by the collar and tossed him a few yards into a flower bed, as if he were an oddly shaped bowling ball. Guido picked up the shrouded Dolce, wrestled her gun away and threw her over a shoulder. Then he started toward the house, followed by his cohorts.

He nodded at Stone’s bloody hand. “You oughta get that looked at,” he said to Stone as he passed.

“Thanks,” Stone said, and watched them walk through the house and out the front door. Painfully, Stone put the microphone to his lips. “Detail at the front of the house: Three men are coming out with a woman in a sack. Do not detain them. Repeat, do not detain.” Then he fainted.

65

STONE CAME TO IN THE BACKSEAT OF A CAR. HIS HEAD was in Dino’s lap, and Dino was pressing something against his armpit.

“You awake?” Dino asked.

“Yes,” Stone murmured.

“You want to know what happened?”

“I think I know what happened,” Stone said.

Thad Shames spoke up from the driver’s seat. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “Why aren’t you with Liz?”

“Liz left the house,” Thad said. “I came downstairs and went out into the garden to look for you, and she must have left the master suite then.”

Dino spoke up. “The cop at the door said she insisted on getting into the ambulance with Manning.”

“Are you sure I’m not still unconscious?” Stone asked, then he passed out again.

He came to again on a bed surrounded by curtains. Dino and Thad were standing beside the bed. Stone was not wearing a shirt anymore, there was a wad of gauze and tape in his armpit and his arm was in some sort of rubber sling, which seemed to be filled with ice. On a stand next to the bed, a plastic bag of blood dripped into a tube attached to Stone’s other arm. He tried to sit up and started to speak.

Dino held a finger to his lips. He found a switch and the bed rose until Stone was in a sitting position. Dino pointed to the curtain and cupped a hand behind his ear.

Stone tried to focus. He could hear a woman’s voice from behind the curtain.

“Don’t you die on me, goddammit,” she was saying.

“Don’t you leave me in this mess. We’re going to get out of this together.”

Stone recognized the voice, and he looked at Thad, whose face was drawn and whiter than usual.

“I’m going to need some time to heal,” Paul Manning’s voice rumbled, surprisingly strong.

“They’re taking you to surgery in a minute,” Allison Manning said. “But I’ve got to talk to you first. Thad told me they know about Winston.”

“Do they know about you, or just me?” Manning asked.

“I don’t know, but I can get Thad to tell me. Don’t worry, I can deal with Thad. He’ll believe whatever I tell him.”

Stone looked at Thad. He looks worse than I do, he thought.

“The money is already in the Caymans,” Manning said. “You know the account number. Wait until I’ve recovered; but before they move me to some jail ward, find a way to get me out of here. Charter a plane and bring me a gun.”

“All right,” Allison said. “I hear a gurney. They’re coming for you.”

“Better get out of here and back to Shames.”

“I love you,” she said.

Thad stepped over to the curtain and drew it back. Allison spun around and looked at her husband and the other two men. It took her only a moment to recover. “Thad! Thank God you’re here!”

“Hello, Liz,” he said. “Or, perhaps I should say, Allison.”

“Did you hear all that?” she asked. “Paul is crazy, you know. I was trying to find out what he did with your two million dollars.”

Dino left the cubicle.

“Were you?” Thad asked. “Well, I guess you found out, didn’t you? It’s in the Cayman Islands, and you know the account number.”

“Thad . . .”

Thad held up a hand. “Don’t. You’ll just embarrass us both.”

Dino returned with Dan Griggs and the Houston detective, Fritz Parker.

“Mrs., ah, Shames, I guess it is,” Griggs said. “You’re going to have to come with me. This detective has some questions he’d like to ask you, and I have a few, myself.”

Allison looked at Thad. “You’ve got to help me,” she said.

“I don’t see how I can,” Thad replied. Then he turned and walked away.

“Stone,” she said, “you’ve got to represent me. I need your help.”

“You don’t need me, Allison,” Stone said. “You can afford the very best. Paul probably has a phone number in his pocket.”

“Please, please,” she begged.

“Goodbye, Allison,” Stone said. “I expect I’ll see you in court.”

They led her away, then Griggs came back. “We took a nine-millimeter away from Manning,” he said, “but it looks like the security guard was shot with a smaller caliber. You have any thoughts on that?”

Stone thought about that for a moment, then he shook his head and closed his eyes.

“We didn’t recover the slug.”

Good, Stone thought.

“I understand there was some sort of scuffle in the garden after Manning was stopped. You know anything about that?”

Stone opened his eyes. “A drunken guest,” he said. Apparently Griggs thought he’d been shot by Manning. “She had to be removed.” He closed his eyes again and kept them closed until Griggs went away.

Stone was comfortable in a reclining seat on the G V. His arm was still numb, and he was still in a slight morphine haze.

Callie put a pillow behind his head. “Anything else I can do for you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but not right now. Could I have a telephone, please?”

“I’ll get you one.”

Stone looked at his watch. Just past seven A.M. He had been taken to the airplane on a stretcher, but he had managed to walk up the airstair steps on his own. Callie had packed his clothes. They had been in the air for half an hour, and Dino was dozing across the aisle.

Callie brought him the phone. “After your call, you should get some sleep.”

“Have you got the phone number for the Breakers Hotel?” he asked.

She took the phone, dialed the number for him, handed the phone back and walked toward the front of the airplane.

“The Breakers,” an operator said.

“Please connect me with Mrs. Vance Calder,” Stone said.

“One moment.” The phone began ringing.

“Hello,” a sleepy voice said.

Stone thought for a second, then pressed the off button on the phone.

Dino stirred and turned toward Stone. “Who was that?” he asked.

“Good question,” Stone said.

“Why did you hang up?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“When?”

“When a man answers.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I WANT TO EXPRESS MY GRATITUDE TO MY EDITOR, DAVID Highfill, and my publisher, Phyllis Grann, for their continuing care and contributions to my work.

My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career, always with excellent results, and they, as ever, have my gratitude.

I want to thank my friends, David and Carolyn Klemm, for sharing their Palm Beach existence with me and for showing me the town, its restaurants, golf courses and shops.

My wife, Chris, is my first and most critical reader, and I thank her for her strong opinions and her love.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Short Forever

A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2002 by Stuart Woods

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguin.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-0970-7

A SIGNET BOOK®

Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: May, 2005

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THIS BOOK IS FOR

ROBERT TOWBIN

1

ELAINE’S, LATE.

Stone Barrington sipped his third Wild Turkey and resisted the basket of hot sourdough bread that the waiter had just placed on the table. Callie was to have been there an hour and a half ago, and he was very, very hungry. She’d called from the airport to say that she was on the ground and on her way, but that had been an hour ago. It just didn’t take that long to get to Elaine’s from Teterboro Airport, where her boss’s jet landed. He glanced at his watch: He’d give her another three minutes, and then he was ordering.

He had been looking forward to seeing her. They’d spent some very pleasant time together in Palm Beach a few months before, on the yacht of his client Thad Shames. She was Shames’s majordomo—assistant, cook, social secretary, whatever he needed—and she moved when Shames moved, back and forth between Palm Beach and New York. In New York, she had been living with Stone, and he missed her when she was away.

“Give me a menu,” Stone said to Michael, the headwaiter.

“Giving up on her?” Michael asked.

“I am. If I drink any more without some food in my stomach, you’re going to have to send me home in a wheelbarrow.”

Michael laughed and placed a menu before him. “Dino’s not coming?”

“He should be here in a while; he said he had to work late.” He opened the menu, and Michael stood ready, pad in hand. When Stone was this hungry, everything looked good. He’d meant to have fish; he’d gained three pounds, and he needed to get it off, but now he was too hungry. “I’ll have a Caesar salad and the osso buco,” he said, “and a bottle of the Amerone.”

Michael jotted down the order, and as he reached for the menu, Stone looked up to see Callie breezing through the front door. He rose to meet her. She looked wonderful, as usual, in an Armani pantsuit. She gave him a short, dry kiss and sat down.

“I’d given up on you,” Stone said. “I just ordered.”

Michael handed her a menu, but she handed it back. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay for dinner,” she said.

Stone looked at her, stupefied. She had kept him waiting for an hour and a half, and now she wasn’t going to have dinner?

“Would you like a drink, Callie?” Michael asked.

She shook her head. “No time, Michael.”

“You still want dinner, Stone?”

“Yes, please,” Stone replied.

Michael retreated.

“So?” Stone asked.

“So what?” Callie replied.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” He wanted an apology and an explanation, but he got neither.

“Stone,” Callie said, looking at the tablecloth and playing with a matchbook. She didn’t continue.

“I’m right here,” he replied. “Have been, for an hour and a half.”

“God, this is hard,” she said.

“Maybe a drink would help.”

“No, I don’t have the time.”

“Where do you have to be at this hour?” he asked.

“Back in Palm Beach.”

Stone wasn’t terribly surprised. Thad Shames, a computer software billionaire, had a peripatetic life-style, and Callie was, after all, at his beck and call.

“First of all, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to go by the house and pick up some things.”

Stone looked around; she wasn’t carrying anything.

“They’re in the car,” she said.

“What did you have to pick up?” he asked.

“Some things. My things.”

Stone blinked. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Back to Palm Beach. I told you.”

Stone was baffled. “Callie . . .”

She took a deep breath and interrupted him. “Thad and I are getting married this weekend.”

Stone was drinking his bourbon, and he choked on it.

“I know you didn’t expect this,” she said. “For that matter, neither did I. It’s just happened the past couple of weeks.” She had been gone for two weeks on this last trip.

Stone recovered his voice. “Are you perfectly serious about this?”

“Perfectly, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to talk me out of it.”

That was exactly what he wanted to try. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s good, Stone. It isn’t like with you and me, but that could never last.”

“Why not?” Stone demanded, stung.

“Oh, it’s been great. I arrive in town, move in with you; we go to Elaine’s and the theater, and around. We fuck our brains out for a week or two, then I go back.”

That was exactly what they did, he reflected, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “I thought we had more than that going,” he said.

“Oh, men always think that,” she said, exasperated. “There are things Thad can give me, things I need, things you can’t . . .” She left it hanging.

“Can’t afford?” he asked. “I live pretty well. Of course, I’m not worth five billion dollars, but I didn’t think Thad was, anymore, not after his new stock offering collapsed, and with the way the market has been.”

“It’s true,” she said. “Thad was hurt badly. Now he’s only worth three billion.”

“What a blow,” Stone said.

“It’s not the money,” she said. “All right, maybe that’s part of it. God knows, I’ll never have to draw another anxious breath.”

“Not about money, anyway.”

“Won’t you try and understand?”

“What is there to understand? I’m out, Thad’s in. It’s your life; I can’t tell you how to live it.”

“If only you’d . . .” She stopped.

Stone didn’t want to hear the rest, anyway. “I think it’s a little late for ‘if only,’ ” he said. “Clearly, you’ve thought this out, I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.”

“Thank God for that,” she muttered, half to herself.

They sat silently for a moment, then, without another word, Callie got up and headed for the door, nearly knocking down Dino, who had chosen that moment to walk in.

Dino turned and watched her rush out the door, then he walked over to Stone’s table and sat down. Dino Bacchetti had been Stone’s partner when he was still on the NYPD; now he ran the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. “So,” he said, “I see you managed to fuck up another relationship.”

“Jesus, Dino, I didn’t do anything,” Stone said.

Dino motioned to Michael for a drink. “That’s usually the problem,” he said. The drink was placed before him, and he sipped it.

“You want some dinner, Dino?” Michael asked.

“Whatever he’s having,” Dino replied.

“Caesar salad and the osso buco?”

“Good.” He turned to Stone. “After a while, women expect you to do something.”

“She’s marrying Thad Shames.”

Dino’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit? Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t see that one coming. I guess Thad isn’t broke yet.”

“Not yet, but he’s only worth three billion now.”

“Poor guy; couple months, he’ll be living on the street. Still, he got the girl.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“It’s what I do,” Dino explained.

Stone’s cellphone, clipped to his belt, began to vibrate. “Now what?” he said to nobody in particular. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Bill Eggers.” Bill was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the prestigious law firm for which Stone did unprestigious jobs.

“Yeah, Bill.”

“You sound down.”

“Just tired; what’s up?”

“You got anything heavy on your plate right now?”

“Nothing much.”

“Good; there’s a guy coming to see you tomorrow morning at nine, with some work. Do whatever he says.”

“Suppose he wants me to kill somebody.”

“If this guy wanted somebody killed, he’d do it himself. His name is John Bartholomew, and he’s major, in his way.”

“I’ll be glad to see him.”

“You got a passport?”

“Yes.” Not that he’d used it for a long time.

“Good. You’re going to need it.” Eggers hung up.

Elaine came over and pulled up a chair. “Callie left in a hurry,” she said. “I guess you fucked it up again.”

“Don’t you start,” Stone said.

2

STONE WOKE UP HUNGOVER. HE SHOULDN’T drink that much so close to bedtime, he reflected, and resolved, once again, not to do it again. It was half past eight, and this guy Bartholomew was coming at nine; no time for breakfast. He showered and shaved and got into a suit, then went down to his office on the ground floor.

The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist’s office when Stone’s great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist’s office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of townhouses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.

Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You’re in early,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

“That’s what I mean. I’ll bet you didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“You got some coffee on?”

“I’ll get you a cup,” she said.

“There’s some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”

“I’ll show him in when he arrives,” she said.

Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Eggers that he wasn’t busy.

Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in beans ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.

“She got in, then she got out.”

“Out? You mean, out?”

“I do. She’s marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”

“Good God! I’m shocked!”

“So was I, to tell the truth.”

“You let another one get away.”

“Joan . . .”

She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”

Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany’s makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”

The doorbell rang. “There’s your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.

“I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

“John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.

Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“No.”

Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.

Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.

There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”

“The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”

Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.

“We don’t have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I’ll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister’s only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She’s twenty, dropped out of Mount Holyoke, involved with a young man named Lance Cabot.”

“Of the Massachusetts Cabots?”

“He’d like people to think so, I’m sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn’t even know them; I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I’m reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“I’m very much afraid that Erica, besotted as she is, may be assisting him in his endeavors, and I don’t want to see her end up in a British prison.”

“She’s in Britain?”

Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don’t bother reading this now, there isn’t time, but it contains everything I’ve been able to learn about Cabot, and something about Erica, as well. What I’d like you to do is to go to London, persuade Erica to come back to New York with you, and, if it’s possible without implicating Erica, get young Mr. Cabot arrested. I’d like him in a place where he can’t get to Erica. For as long as possible, it goes without saying.”

“I see.”

“Will you undertake this task? You’ll be very well paid, I assure you, and you will lack for no comfort while traveling.”

Stone didn’t have to think long, and mostly what he thought about was Sarah Buckminster, another relationship he’d managed to fuck up, though it wasn’t really his fault. “I will, Mr. Bartholomew, but you must understand that I will be pretty much limited to whatever persuasion I can muster, within the law, and whatever influence with the authorities I can scrape up. I won’t kidnap your niece, and I won’t harm Cabot, beyond whatever justice I can seek for him, based on crimes that are real and not imagined.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Barrington. I’m well aware that you are a respectable attorney and not a thug for hire. I’m also informed, by a number of people, Samuel Bernard among them, that you are a resourceful man and that your background as a police detective gives you entrée to certain places.”

“Sometimes,” Stone admitted, “but not always. There are limits to what an ex-policeman can do.”

“I understand. I simply want you to do whatever you can.”

“On that basis, I’ll go,” Stone said. “I’ll ask my secretary to book me on a flight this evening.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bartholomew said, digging into his briefcase and coming up with an envelope secured with a rubber band. He tossed it onto Stone’s desk. “You’re booked on a two P.M. flight to London, and I’ve reserved accommodation for you at the Connaught hotel. There’s five thousand pounds sterling in the envelope and the name of a man at Coutts Bank in The Strand who will provide you with more, should you need it. Please enjoy whatever food, drink, and guests you may wish to have at the Connaught; the bill will come to me, and you need not keep track of your expenses.”

“That’s very generous,” Stone replied.

“All the relevant addresses and phone numbers are in the file, as is my card. Call me should you need advice or assistance of any sort. I understand that this may take a week or two, or even longer, so don’t feel pressed for time. I want this done in the best way possible, regardless of time or cost.” He reached into his briefcase, came up with a box, and placed it on Stone’s desk. “This is a satellite telephone that will work anywhere in Britain. Please use it to contact me when necessary; my number is programmed into the first digit. All you do is press one and hold it, and I’ll be on the other end. Please keep it with you at all times, in case I should wish to contact you.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew stood up. “Now, I must hurry to an appointment, and you have a flight to catch.” He shook hands with Stone, closed his briefcase, and marched out of the office, a man in a hurry.

3

STONE WENT UPSTAIRS AND STARTED packing. He had no real idea what clothes he might need, so he overpacked, as he often did, taking three cases. He was gathering his toiletries when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You all right? You got pretty snockered last night.”

“Yes, I did, but I’m bearing up. In fact, I’m off to London in a couple of hours.”

“For what?”

“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who’s about to get herself in trouble in London, and I’m supposed to bring her back.”

“Who’s the client?”

“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew’s card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it’s only a number.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”

“Just a minute,” Dino said.

Stone could hear computer keys clicking.

“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”

“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”

“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long E, Throckmorton.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I swear to God, that’s his name, and don’t forget the long E, otherwise it’s a girl’s name. He’s in that Special Branch thing, with a rank of detective inspector. He was over here last year, looking for an Irish terrorist, and he needed an Italian cop for some help, since the Irish cops wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”

“Beats me; I didn’t get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I’ll call him for you.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”

“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”

“I seem to recall there’s a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”

“I’m already over Callie, but what the hell?”

“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”

“I’ll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”

“Oh, it’s never any bother; you always get into such interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.

Stone drove himself to Kennedy Airport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.

A young woman looked at his ticket. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”

Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew’s seeming generosity, he’d expected to be in first class.

“You’re just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.

What a nice man Bartholomew was, Stone thought.

The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he’d expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he’d had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”

“And how long do you plan to stay?”

“Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

“And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”

He was not. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”

She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”

Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.

Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.

“I’m Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.

The man took Stone’s luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”

Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven P.M., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.

The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.

“I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”

“Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.

Annabel’s, Harry’s Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”

“Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and room service would only have sandwiches this late. I’d suggest Annabel’s; it’s a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you’d like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”

“Thank you, I will,” Stone said. Following the directions, he left the hotel and walked down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, then turned right. The night was cool and clear, belying what he’d heard about London weather. He crossed a street and followed an iron railing to an awning over a basement entrance, then walked downstairs. He was greeted by a doorman who clearly didn’t recognize him, but as soon as he gave his name he was ushered down a hallway.

“Would you like to go straight into the dining room, sir, or would you prefer to have a drink first?” the man asked.

They had entered a beautifully decorated lounge and bar area. “I’d like a drink first,” Stone said. He was shown to a comfortable sofa under a very good oil of a dog and her puppies, and he ordered a glass of champagne. He looked around. There were many good pictures and an extremely well-dressed crowd. The women were beautiful in London, he reflected.

As he sipped his champagne, a very handsome couple entered the bar, both obviously a little drunk. They were seated on the opposite wall, and they were both quite beautiful. The girl was tall and willowy, wearing a very short dress, and the young man wore a rakishly cut suit that had obviously not come off the rack. They nuzzled and giggled, and they attracted the attention of other patrons with their behavior.

Stone watched as a barman approached them, and his voice was mildly disapproving. “Good evening, Mr. Cabot,” Stone heard him say.

4

STONE WAS SEATED IN A DIMLY LIT dining room with a glassed-off dance floor at one end, and Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs were seated a few tables away. Although they were drinking champagne with their dinner, they didn’t seem to get any drunker.

It was five hours earlier in New York, and Stone’s stomach had not caught up with the time change, so he wanted something light. He handed the menu back to the waiter. “May I just have some scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and half a bottle of champagne? You choose the wine.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the man said.

Stone finished his dinner before Cabot and Burroughs did. He thought of following them when they left, but he knew where to find them, and, in spite of the time change, he was beginning to believe his wristwatch. He left Annabel’s and walked back to the Connaught through the beautiful clear night. A moon had risen, and Berkeley Square was almost theatrically lit, its tall plane trees casting sharp shadows on the grass.

At the hotel, the night clerk insisted on showing him to his room. He found himself in a very pleasant suite, and his clothes had been put away. He soaked in a hot tub for a while until he felt sleepy, then he got into a nightshirt and fell into bed.

It was nearly ten A.M. when he woke, and as he reached for the telephone to order breakfast, he noticed a small electrical box on the side table, displaying buttons for a maid, a valet, and a waiter. He pressed the waiter button, and a moment later, there was a sharp, metallic rap on his door.

“Come in.”

A waiter let himself into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I get you some breakfast?”

“Yes, please.”

“What would you like?”

There was apparently no menu. “Scrambled eggs, toast, a kipper, orange juice, and coffee, please.” He hadn’t had a kipper in many years, but he remembered the smoked-fish flavor.

“Right away, sir.” The waiter disappeared, to return a few minutes later, rolling a beautifully set tray table.

I’m going to like this hotel, Stone thought, as he dug into his breakfast.

Showered, shaved, and dressed, he presented himself at the concierge’s desk. “Can you direct me to the American Embassy?” he asked.

The concierge produced a map. “We’re here, and the embassy is just there,” he said, “in Grosvenor Square. A three-minute walk.”

“And I have to get a passport photo taken.”

The concierge pointed to a corner across from the embassy. “There’s a chemist’s shop there, and they do American passport photographs, which are a different size from the British ones.”

“Good. Now, can you tell me how to find Farm Street?” he asked the man.

The concierge pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s quite near, Mr. Barrington; a five-minute walk. Would you like to borrow an umbrella?”

Stone looked toward the door. “It’s raining?”

“Happens often in London, sir.”

Stone accepted the umbrella and walked outside. A steady rain was falling.

A top-hatted doorman greeted him. “Good morning, sir; taxi?”

“Yes, please.” The hell with the walk, in this weather.

The doorman summoned a taxi from a rank across the street, and Stone got into it. “Farm Street,” he said.

“Any particular number, sir?” the cabbie asked.

“I want to take a look at a house called Merryvale, but don’t stop, just drive slowly past.”

“Righto, sir.” The cabbie drove off, made a couple of turns, and two minutes later they were in Farm Street, which turned out to be a mews behind Annabel’s.

“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said, as he drove slowly past a beautiful little house with flowers growing from window boxes on each of its three floors. “Merryvale.”

A small sign on the front door proclaimed as much. Mr. Cabot has elegant tastes, Stone thought. “What would you think it would cost to rent that house?” Stone asked the driver.

“Thousand quid a week, easy,” the cabbie replied. “You want me to take you to an estate agent’s in the neighborhood?”

Stone thought. He wasn’t going to stand conspicuously in the rain in this little mews, waiting for Cabot or Burroughs to emerge. He’d go renew his passport and return later. “Make a U-turn at the end of the street, and let’s drive past again,” he said.

“Righto,” the cabbie said. He drove to the end of the mews and made an amazingly tight U-turn.

As he did, Stone saw a taxi pull up to Merryvale and honk its horn. “Stop here for a minute,” he said. A moment later, Erica Burroughs came out of the house, locked the door behind her, and, holding an umbrella over her head, got into the waiting taxi, which immediately drove away. “Follow that cab,” Stone said.

The driver laughed. “Twenty-one years I’ve been driving a cab,” he said, “and it’s the first time anybody ever said that to me.” He drove off in pursuit of Erica’s taxi.

Stone watched the city go past his cab window. Shortly, they were in Park Lane, then they turned into Hyde Park. By what seemed to be a rather convoluted route, Erica’s taxi took her to Harrod’s. She got out of the cab, paid the driver, and ran inside.

Stone was not far behind her. He followed as she went on what seemed to be an extensive but unplanned shopping trip. She wandered through department after department of the huge store, looking at this and that, but the only thing she bought was a pen, in Stationery.

He followed her up the escalator into the book department, where she browsed and bought a novel, then back downstairs into the food halls, which were the most spectacular supermarket Stone had ever seen. She bought a few pieces of fruit, then, suddenly, she turned and came back toward Stone, who was pretending to look at the smoked fish.

She stopped next to him and looked at the fish, too, then turned to him and spoke. “Are you following me?” she asked.

Stone was startled, but there was a small smile on her face. “Of course,” he said. “And nobody would blame me.”

She laughed. “You were at Annabel’s last night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Were you following me then, too?”

“You’ll recall I got there ahead of you.”

“And how long have you been following me this morning?”

“Since you left the taxi,” he said. “I happened to be right behind you, in another cab.”

“Coming from where?”

“The Connaught.”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Erica Burroughs,” she said.

Stone took her hand; it was cool and dry. “I’m Stone Barrington.”

“What a nice name; it sounds like an investment bank.”

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

“Since you’re at the Connaught, I assume you don’t live in London.”

“No, New York. I’m just visiting.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, at the moment.”

She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but I must tell you, I’m spoken for.”

“I’m desolated.”

“However, I’m hungry, standing amidst all this food, and if you’re hungry, too, you can buy me lunch.”

“I’d be delighted,” Stone said, and he was, more than she knew. She was making his job all too easy.

“Follow me,” she said. She marched off toward a door, and a moment later they were in another taxi. “The Grenadier, in Wilton Row,” she told the driver.

“I take it you live in London?” Stone asked.

“Yes, but only for a few weeks.”

“Do you work?”

“Not at the moment; how about you?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“With a New York firm?”

“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”

“I know that name; someone there handled my father’s estate.”

They drove through winding back streets, across Sloane Street, and into Wilton Crescent, a beautiful half-circle of handsome houses, all made of the same stone, then they turned into a mews. At the end, the cab stopped, and they got out. The rain had abated, though it was still cloudy. Stone paid the taxi, then followed Erica up a short flight of stairs and into an atmospheric little pub.

“We’ll sit at the bar,” she said, grabbing stools for them. “The bar food’s the best.”

They helped themselves to sausages, Cornish pasties, and cole slaw from a little buffet, then sat down again.

“I’ll have a pint of bitter,” she said to the bartender.

“Two,” Stone said.

They sipped the ale and ate, not talking much. When they had finished their food, Erica took a sip of her bitter.

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about you.”

“Born and bred in New York, to parents who were both from western Massachusetts; attended the public schools, NYU, then NYU Law School. The summer before my senior year I spent riding around the city in police cars, part of a law school program to give us a look at real life, and I found I liked it, so I joined the NYPD. I spent fourteen years there, finishing up as a homicide detective, then at the invitation of an old law school friend at Woodman and Weld, I finally took the bar exam and went to work for them.”

“You were a little old to be an associate, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t an associate; I’ve never even had an office there. I keep an office in my home, and I work on whatever cases Woodman and Weld don’t want to handle themselves. It’s interesting work. Now, what about you?”

“Born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, went to school there, then Mount Holyoke, graduated last spring. Worked at Sotheby’s for a while, learning to appraise art and helping with the auctions, then I got a better offer.”

This didn’t quite jibe with the file on Erica, he thought. “From whom?”

“From my fella. You saw him last night; his name is Lance Cabot.”

“One of the Boston Cabots?”

She shook her head. “Denies all knowledge of them. He’s from California, but his family came from Canada, not over on the Mayflower.”

“And what kind of offer did Lance make you?”

“A thoroughly indecent one, thank you, and I accepted with alacrity. I’ve been living with him for the better part of a year.”

“What does Lance do?”

“He’s an independent business consultant, on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Burroughs, Greenwich; do you have an uncle named John Bartholomew?”

She shook her head. “Nope. No uncles at all; both my parents were only children. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, forget it; someone I know said he had a niece from Greenwich, and I thought the name was Burroughs.”

“Not this Burroughs,” she said.

Very strange, he thought. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Do you always ask women their age?”

“Always. Their age isn’t important; it’s whether they’ll tell you that’s important.”

“I’m twenty-two and a half,” she said. “And now, shall I tell you why I picked you up at Harrod’s?”

“Is that what you did?”

“Didn’t you notice? Your following me made it very easy.”

“All right, tell me.”

“As I told you, I’m spoken for, but I have a very nice girlfriend who’s not, and she’s on the other side of thirty, which I should think would appeal to you more than a twenty-two-and-a-half-year-old.”

“Is she as beautiful as you?”

“Though it pains me to say it, she is more beautiful than I.”

“I would like very much to meet her.”

“You free this evening?”

“I am, as it happens.”

“Suppose we meet you in the Connaught bar at eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wear a suit.”

“Will do.”

“And now,” she said, gathering her packages together, “I must run. You stay and finish your bitter; I’m walking from here; it’s quite nearby.” She hopped off the stool and pecked Stone on the cheek. “Bye-bye.” And she was gone.

Stone sipped the now-warm ale and wondered what the hell was going on with John Bartholomew and his “niece.”

5

STONE LEFT THE GRENADIER AND walked back up the mews to Wilton Crescent. No cabs. He walked a bit farther and found himself at the Berkeley Hotel, where the doorman found him a taxi.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“There’s a chemist’s shop across from the American Embassy. You know it?”

“I do.” He drove away. Ten minutes later, Stone was having his photograph taken by a man with a large studio Polaroid camera, which took four shots simultaneously. He paid for the photos and walked across the street to the embassy. As he climbed the steps outside, he saw a familiar-looking form perhaps twenty yards ahead of him. The man went into the embassy, and Stone quickly followed.

As he entered the main door, he saw the man get onto an elevator. Although he got only a glimpse, it seemed to be John Bartholomew. He started for the elevator, but a uniformed U.S. marine stepped in front of him.

“You’ll have to check in at the desk,” the marine said, pointing to a window surrounded by what appeared to be armored glass.

“Do you know the man who just passed?” Stone asked. “He got onto the elevator.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t notice.”

“Can you tell me where to get my passport renewed?”

“Yes, sir. You go out the main door, turn left, walk around the corner to your left, and the passport office is right there.”

Stone went to the window first. “Can you tell me if there’s a Mr. John Bartholomew in the building?” he said to the woman behind the glass. “I think I just saw him go up in an elevator.”

The woman looked at a computer screen that Stone couldn’t see, typed something, and turned back to him. “I’m afraid we don’t have a Bartholomew working here,” she said. She consulted what appeared to be a sign-in sheet. “And no one by that name has entered the building this morning.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He wished he could have read the sign-in sheet. He followed the marine’s instructions and found the passport office. He filled out a form, gave it and two photos to the clerk, and was told to wait.

“How long should it take?” he asked.

“We’re not very busy; perhaps twenty minutes,” the clerk replied.

He took a seat and found a magazine.

In a room several floors higher in the embassy, two men studied a television monitor set into a wall with many other monitors.

“Is that he?” one asked.

“Yes, but I think it’s all right,” the other replied. “I think he’s just here to renew his passport.”

Stone heard his name called. He was given a form to take to the cashier, where he paid the fee, then returned and collected his new passport. He reflected that what had taken less than half an hour in London would have taken most of a day in New York.

Outside, he couldn’t find a cab, so he began to walk back toward the Connaught. He walked down South Audley Street and turned left onto Mount Street. He had gone only a few steps when he saw a familiar name on a shop window across the street. HAYWARD, the gilt lettering said. He crossed the street and entered the shop, shaking his wet umbrella behind him at the door.

A large, well-dressed man got up from a couch. “I recognize the suit, but not the man in it,” he said. “I’m Doug Hayward.” He offered his hand.

“My name is Stone Barrington, and you’re quite right; the suit belonged to Vance Calder. After his death, his wife, who is an old friend, sent all his suits to me. There were twenty of them.”

“The cost of alterations must have been fierce,” Hayward said.

“They didn’t need altering; his clothes fit me perfectly.”

“Then I don’t suppose I can sell you a suit,” Hayward said, laughing.

“I could use a couple of tweed jackets,” Stone replied, “and a raincoat. I foolishly didn’t bring one.”

“Have a look at the rack of raincoats over there, and I’ll get some swatches.” Hayward departed toward the rear of the shop, where men were cutting cloth from bolts of fabric.

Stone found a handsome raincoat and an umbrella, then he sat down and went through the swatches. A few minutes later, he had been measured.

“How is Arrington?” Hayward asked.

“I saw her in Palm Beach this past winter, and she was well; I haven’t spoken to her since then.”

“I was very sorry to hear of Vance’s death. Did they ever convict anyone of the murder?”

“A woman friend of his was charged and tried, but acquitted. If she really was innocent, then I think it will remain unsolved.”

“Very strange. I liked Vance, and, of course, he was a very good customer.” Hayward handed him his receipt. “But I suppose he’s bequeathed you to me.”

Stone laughed. “First time I’ve ever been a bequest.” He shook hands with Hayward, put on his new raincoat, picked up his new umbrella and the Connaught’s as well, and walked outside into a bright, sunshiny day. “Not a cloud in the sky,” he said aloud, looking around him. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Jet lag had crept up on him, and all he wanted was a bed. He turned and walked the half-block to the Connaught, went upstairs, undressed, and, leaving a wake-up call for seven, climbed into bed and slept.

The two men in the embassy sat across a desk from each other.

“You really think this can work?” one asked.

“I checked him out very carefully,” the other replied. “He’s perfect for us.”

“If he can make it work.”

“Let’s give him some time and see. If he can do it, he’ll save us a great deal of time and effort and, possibly, ah, embarrassment.”

The first man sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

6

STONE ARRIVED AT THE CONNAUGHT bar downstairs promptly at eight o’clock, showered, shaved, and dressed in a freshly pressed, chalk-striped blue suit. The nap had cleared his head, and he was sure that, with one more good night’s sleep, he would be over the jet lag. The bar consisted of two oak-paneled rooms filled with comfortable sofas and chairs, one room with a small bar at one end. He had only just sat down when his dining companions arrived.

Erica had not lied; her friend was even more beautiful than she. “Stone,” Erica said, “may I introduce my sister, Monica? And this is Lance Cabot.”

Stone shook hands all around. Monica Burroughs was perhaps five-ten, nearly as slim as Erica, and had deep auburn hair and green eyes. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, and he was not lying.

“Shall we have some champagne?” Lance asked. His voice was deep, and he seemed to have a mid-Atlantic accent. A waiter appeared and took the order. A moment later, they were sipping Krug ’66.

“I’m astonished to see this on a wine list,” Stone said.

“It isn’t on the list,” Lance replied. “It’s a secret, and I’m sure they have only a few bottles left. Erica tells me you’re a lawyer.”

“That’s correct.”

“And with Woodman and Weld?”

“I’m of counsel to the firm.”

“Not a partner?”

“No, most of my work for them is done outside the firm.”

Lance regarded him gravely. “It sounds as though you’re as much of a secret at Woodman and Weld as this wine is at the Connaught.”

“I’m not quite a secret,” Stone said. “Like the champagne, I’m available on request.”

“Tell me, Stone,” Lance continued, “have you ever done government work of any kind?”

“I worked for the government of New York City as a police officer for many years.”

“Did you? Erica didn’t mention that. What sort of police officer?”

“Every sort, at one time or another. I began as a patrolman and finished as a homicide detective.”

“Finished rather young, didn’t you?”

“I was retired for medical reasons.”

“You look reasonably fit.”

“I took a bullet in the knee.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“I can assure you that, at the time, it was not in the least romantic, only painful.” Lance was grilling him, and Stone was determined to be polite about it.

“Lance,” Erica said, “you’re hogging Stone; we’d like to talk to him, too.”

Monica spoke up, and her accent was more than mid-Atlantic; it was quite English. “How does one recover from a bullet in the knee?” she asked, and she seemed fascinated.

“With surgery and therapy,” Stone said. “It doesn’t bother me much anymore. If it becomes troublesome again, I can have it replaced.”

“Ah, yes,” Monica said, “the modular approach to human anatomy. I suppose Lance will be having a new liver soon.”

Stone and Erica laughed; Lance pretended to.

“And what do you do, Monica?” Stone asked.

“I have an art gallery, in Bruton Street.”

“Did you study art somewhere?”

“At Mount Holyoke, like Erica, only a few years ahead of her. I got a master’s in art history there, then went to work for Sotheby’s. Erica followed in my footsteps, but she lasted only until Lance spirited her away.”

“I heard that story at lunch,” Stone said. “How long have you lived in London?”

“Nearly ten years.”

Lance spoke up. “Long enough to acquire a pretentious accent.”

Monica and Erica both shot him searing glances. “Do you really find my accent pretentious, Lance?” Monica asked.

“Oh, very.”

“It seems that every time I speak to you, your accent has traveled a hundred miles farther to the east,” she said dryly.

Lance flushed a little.

Stone began to feel that all was not entirely well between Monica and Lance, or maybe, between Lance and anybody. “Lance, what made you ask if I’d done government work?”

“Just a hunch,” Lance said. “Perhaps there’s something a little bureaucratic about you.”

Stone laughed. “When I was on the public payroll, hardly anybody thought I was bureaucratic enough. I wasn’t thought of as a team player by the NYPD.”

“And why ever not?” Lance drawled.

“Because I wasn’t, I suppose. I tended to go my own way, something that’s never appreciated in large organizations.”

“I know what you mean,” Lance said.

“Oh? Are you employed by a large organization?”

“No, but I’ve had a taste of it,” Lance replied.

“And, I take it, you didn’t like the taste?”

“You might say that.”

“What, exactly, do you do?” Stone asked.

“I consult,” Lance replied.

“With whom do you consult, and about what?” Stone asked, glad to be the griller instead of the grillee.

“With a number of people about a number of things,” Lance replied. “Monica, will you pass the crisps, please?” Monica slid the little bowl of homemade potato chips toward him. He turned to Erica. “So, how was shopping today? Find anything?”

“Only a pen and some fruit,” Erica replied.

Stone was about to ignore the swift change of subject and return to the grilling when Lance looked at his watch.

“I think we’d better go along to dinner,” he said.

Everyone began to move toward the door, and Stone gave the waiter his room number for the check. He wondered if Bartholomew would bridle at the appearance of a Krug ‘66 on the bill.

Outside, they turned right into Mount Street, and Stone fell into step with Monica, behind Lance and Erica.

“We’re going to Harry’s Bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner.” She dropped back a few paces behind her sister and Lance. “It’s nice to see somebody turning the tables on Lance,” she said. “He can be awful.”

“It’s all right; I don’t have anything to hide,” Stone said.

“Really? How boring.”

Stone laughed. “I’m afraid I’m an open book, as boring as that may be. How about you?”

“I have a great many secrets,” Monica replied, “and you will have to ply me with a great deal of champagne and work very hard to learn what they are.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said, taking her arm.

They walked past the Hayward shop, turned left, and walked another few yards until they came to an unmarked door. Lance rang a bell, and a moment later a woman in what appeared to be a maid’s uniform let them in.

“Have you been here?” Monica asked Stone.

“No, in fact it’s been many years since I’ve been in London, so there are a lot of places I haven’t been. Just about everywhere, in fact.”

“You’ll like it; the food is marvelous.”

They were led into a dining room hung with many original Peter Arno cartoons, mostly from The New Yorker and Esquire, Stone thought. The headwaiter seated them at a corner table, and Stone drew the gunfighter’s seat, in the corner, which allowed him to view the other diners. He immediately spotted a well-known actor and a man whose photograph he was sure he’d seen in The New York Times—something to do with British politics, he thought.

Then he glanced toward the door in time to see two men enter: One was sixtyish, white-haired, very English-looking. The other was John Bartholomew. They were handing their coats to the woman in the maid’s uniform.

Stone leaned over and whispered to Erica, who was sitting on his right, “A man just came in who looks very familiar, but I can’t place him.”

Erica turned and looked toward the door. “The white-haired one? That’s Sir Antony Shields,” she said. “He’s in the cabinet, I think, but I don’t remember which portfolio.”

“No, it’s the other man who looks familiar.”

She looked again. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. The two men disappeared around a corner to a table out of sight.

So much for Uncle John, Stone thought. He wondered if Lance, whose back was to the door, would recognize him.

7

STONE HAD THE BRESAOLA, THINLY sliced, air-cured beef, and a pasta dish with seafood. Lance ordered the wine, and when it came, it was a Le Montrachet ’78. Stone reflected that the cost of the wines they were drinking on this occasion would pay for a dozen dinners at Elaine’s. Having gotten to know Lance just a little, he fully expected to end up with the check.

They dined in a leisurely manner, and with the wine, Lance became a bit more bearable, even charming, at times. They were on dessert when Stone saw Bartholomew and Sir Antony Shields leave the restaurant. Bartholomew had never looked in his direction. He was tempted to ask Lance if he recognized the man, but the men were too quickly gone. Stone waved at the headwaiter.

The man was there in a flash. “Tell me,” Stone said, “the two gentlemen who just left; one was Sir Antony Shields; do you know the other man’s name?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. The reservation was Sir Antony’s, and although I’ve seen the other gentleman here before, I never learned his name.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and the headwaiter went away.

The bill arrived, and as Stone started to reach for it, Erica pushed it toward Lance. “You’re our guest,” she said.

Lance hardly noticed. He signed the bill with a flourish, and they got up to go.

“We’re going this way, to Farm Street,” Erica said as they went out the door.

“I’ll get a taxi for Monica,” Stone said, grateful to be alone with her. He shook hands with both Lance and Erica and said good night.

“No cabs in sight,” Stone said. “Let’s walk down to the Connaught; there’s usually a taxi parked out front.” Monica agreed, and they strolled down Mount Street, which was shiny from a rain that had come and gone while they were at dinner.

“I think Lance liked you,” Monica said.

“I’d be surprised if that were true,” Stone replied.

“No, he turned out to be quite friendly toward you, for someone he has nothing to gain from.”

“Is he friendlier when he has something to gain?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

Stone laughed. “I suppose so.”

“And I thought you showed great forbearance, especially early in the evening.”

“The remainder of the company was good.”

They were nearly to the hotel. “Would you like to . . .” he began.

“Oh, I hardly think the Connaught is the proper place for that,” she said, reading his mind. “However, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a promising house party down in the country. Would you like to go?”

“I’d like that very much,” Stone replied.

“Grand. I’ll pick you up at, say, three tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

“Fine. What clothes shall I bring?”

“It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”

They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.

“Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.

Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.

“Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”

“Chile in South America?” Stone asked.

“Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYU Law School. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book and dialed the number.

“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.

“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”

Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”

“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”

“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”

“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”

“Oh? How interesting?”

“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”

“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”

“John Bartholomew.”

There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”

“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.

“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”

“Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”

“Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”

“Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”

“Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.

“May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”

“Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”

“The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”

“Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”

“As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”

Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.

“The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”

“I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.

“Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.

“At the Connaught.”

“Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”

“Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.

“This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.

Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

8

STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.

He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.

“Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.

Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.

“One moment, please.”

There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”

“Yes; may I take you?”

“Name the spot.”

“How about the Connaught?”

“I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”

“Twelve-thirty?”

“See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.

Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason’s, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & Asser.

He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.

Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.

“How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.

“He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”

“I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”

“I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.

“Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”

Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.

“The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.

“I’ll have the same,” Stone said. “Would you like some wine?”

“Of course.”

Stone ordered a Sancerre, and they chatted a bit until the first course came.

“Now,” said Throckmorton, digging into his shrimp, “what can I do for you while you’re here?”

“I’ve been sent over here by a client to look into the activities of an American living in London, and I need the help of an investigator—no, two. I thought you might know of someone reliable.”

“I know a lorryload of retired coppers,” Throckmorton said. “I daresay I could find you a couple of good men. What will you pay?”

“You tell me.”

Throckmorton mentioned an hourly rate, and Stone agreed.

“Anything illegal about this?” Throckmorton asked.

“Not unless surveillance is illegal in Britain.”

“Certainly not.” Throckmorton chuckled.

“I don’t want anyone hit over the head or anything like that. I just want to find out what’s going on and report back to my client.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He polished off his shrimp and whipped out an address book. “Let me go make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll be back before the sole arrives.”

Stone sat back and sipped his wine. As Throckmorton left, Sir Antony Shields entered the Grill with another man, and they were seated across the room. The man certainly eats well, Stone thought to himself.

Throckmorton returned as the waiter was boning the soles. “There’ll be two men here in an hour,” he said. “They’ll be waiting in the lounge when we’re done here. Their names are Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones, like the golfer. They both worked for me at one time or another; they’re smart, persistent, and discreet. You’ll get what you want from them.”

“Thank, you,” Stone said. The sole was excellent. “I believe that’s your Home Secretary over there.” He nodded at the table across the room.

“Yes, saw him when I came back to the table. I’ve shaken his hand, but I don’t really know the bugger, he’s too new. Came in with the Labour lot, the second man to hold the office. I’m told he’s reasonably bright; he made a name for himself as a barrister, prosecuting as often as defending. That’s how we do it over here, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Likes to see his name in the papers, always has, I’m told, as long as it’s favorable. He’s gotten a good press so far.”

They had dessert and coffee, and Stone signed the bill. They left the Grill and walked out into the main hall of the hotel.

Throckmorton stopped and shook Stone’s hand. “Splendid lunch,” he said, “many thanks. The two chaps you want are around the corner, there,” he said, nodding toward the sitting room. “I don’t want to be seen introducing you.” He walked through the revolving doors and left the hotel.

Stone walked into the sitting room, and it was immediately obvious whom he was meeting. Cops were cops. They were dressed in anonymous suits, and both wore thick-soled, black shoes. Stone went over and introduced himself.

Ted Cricket was the taller, more muscular man, and Bobby Jones was short, thin, and wiry. They were both near sixty, Stone reckoned, but they looked fit.

“How can we help you, Mr. Barrington?”

“There are two men I want surveilled,” Stone said. “The first is named Lance Cabot, and he lives at a house called Merryvale, in Farm Street. He’s American, in his mid-thirties, tall, well built, longish light brown hair, well dressed. He lives with a young woman named Erica Burroughs, and she is not to be followed, unless she’s with Cabot.”

Both men were taking notes.

“The second,” Stone continued, “is more problematical, because I don’t know his name. He’s American, too, somewhere in his mid-fifties, six-two or -three, heavy, maybe two-ten, looks like a former athlete. He has a hawkish nose, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy eyebrows.”

“And where does he live?” Cricket asked.

“That’s one of the things I want to know,” Stone said. “He’s in and out of the American Embassy, through the front door, and that’s where you’re going to have to pick him up. I want to know where he’s staying, who he sees, and where he goes. I don’t know if he lives in London or New York, but my guess is, he’s in a hotel not far from the embassy.”

“Right,” Cricket said. “Anything else?”

“I don’t know whether the weekend would be productive; why don’t you start first thing Monday morning?”

The two men nodded. “And we can reach you here, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, and I have a cellphone.” He gave them the number.

“We’ll report to you daily,” Cricket said.

“By the way,” he said, “I didn’t mention this to Throckmorton, but is it possible to tap Cabot’s phone and record all his conversations?”

“Not legally,” Cricket said.

“I understand that. Can you do it, or have it done?”

Both men looked wary. Finally, Jones spoke. “I know someone who can do it. But for how long?”

“Let’s start with a week,” Stone said.

“Could be pricey; I mean, there is a risk.”

“I don’t mind paying, but I want someone who can do it without risk to himself, you, or me. And I don’t want him to know who I am.”

“Understood,” Jones said. “I’ll get onto my man today.”

Cricket spoke up. “You understand, I didn’t hear any of that.”

“Understood,” Stone said. “Bobby, why don’t you take Cabot, and Ted, you can have the other man.”

Both men nodded. They shook hands all around, and the two men left.

Stone looked at his watch; he had half an hour to pack for the weekend.

9

MONICA BURROUGHS ARRIVED AT THE Connaught in an Aston Martin, and the combination of the car and the beautiful woman at the wheel impressed the doorman. Stone’s luggage was loaded, and Monica drove up Mount Street to Park Lane and accelerated into the traffic, driving faster than Stone would have under the circumstances.

“Did you sleep well?” Monica asked.

“Very well, thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; I thought you’d have lain awake, thinking of me.”

“I dreamed of you.”

“Something erotic, I hope.”

“Of course.”

She cut across two lanes of traffic and turned into Hyde Park. Shortly, they were in the Cromwell Road, heading west, as Monica constantly shifted up and down and changed lanes.

Stone tried to relax. “Who are our hosts for the weekend?” he asked.

“Lord and Lady Wight,” Monica replied. “He recently inherited the title from an uncle, although he managed the estates for many years while the old man was in a nursing home. The house is a nice old Georgian pile that has just undergone a five-year renovation that cost millions. I can’t wait to see it. His lordship made lots and lots of money in property development, so he can afford the title.” She glanced at him slyly. “Before he inherited, his name was Sir Robert Buckminster.”

Stone sat up straight. “Is he related to a woman named Sarah Buckminster?”

“She’s his daughter; know her?”

“Yes.” He had known her all too well in New York. They had practically lived together until someone had started trying to kill him, and when a bomb was placed in a gallery showing her paintings, she abruptly left New York, swearing never to return. “I knew her rather well. How do you know her?”

“My gallery represents her work in this country. We had a very successful show last month, sold out the lot.”

“Tell me, Monica, did you know that Sarah and I knew each other?”

She smiled a little. “I’d heard your name from her.”

“And does Sarah know I’m coming to her father’s house for the weekend?”

“No. I wasn’t going to tell you about Sarah, either; I wanted to see the look on both your faces, but I couldn’t stand the suspense. Now, I suppose, I’ll have to be content with the look on her face.”

This was all too catty for Stone. “Take me back to the Connaught,” he said.

“What?”

“I think it would be extremely rude for me to turn up there unannounced, so take me back.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stone; this will be fun!”

“Not for me, and very probably not for Sarah.”

“I won’t take you back.”

“Then let me out of the car, and I’ll find my own way back.”

“Oh, really, Stone; can’t you just go along with this?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, picking up the car phone and dialing a number. “Hello, Sarah? It’s Monica. Yes, sweetie. I have to tell you the funniest thing. Last night, I had a blind date with someone you know, Stone Barrington.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m not kidding; he’s over here on business and he met Erica and Lance, and they invited him to dinner.” She listened again. “He’s very well indeed, and I thought that, if it’s all right with you, I’d bring him down for the weekend.” She listened. “Wonderful! I’ll go get him, and we’ll be down in a couple of hours. See you then.” She hung up the phone. “There, she said she’d be delighted to see you. Satisfied?”

“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.

“I may as well tell you this, too.”

“What?”

“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”

“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”

“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”

“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”

“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.

“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.

“Hardly ever.”

“Do you still have a driver’s license?”

“Of course I do.”

Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.

“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”

“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.

Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.

“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”

“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”

“What was her name?”

“Matilda Stone.”

“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”

“I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”

“I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”

“No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”

“I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”

“Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”

“I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.

Stone was relieved.

An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.

“Wow,” Stone said.

“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”

He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.

10

THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.

“This is glorious,” Stone said.

“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”

A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.

“Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”

Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

“Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.

Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.

“Come in.”

He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.

“We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.

“Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”

“Very much. You must see it.”

She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.

When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.

At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.

“Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”

Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you about Stone.”

“Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.

“I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.

Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.

A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought them. Stone had asked for Scotch, thinking they probably wouldn’t have bourbon, and he found it dark and smoky, obviously a single malt. Monica took him through the room, introducing him to everybody. Apparently, the Burroughs sisters, Lance, and Stone were the only Americans present.

At dinner, Stone was seated between Sarah and her mother, while Monica was relegated to the other end of the very long table. Stone counted thirty diners. The dining room had a high ceiling and much gilt. They had hardly sat down, when someone’s cellphone rang, and a brief hush fell over the table. Lance stood up, blushing, and left the room. A moment later Stone saw him outside the window on the back lawn, pacing up and down in the long English twilight, gesticulating. He wondered what had so upset Lance. When he returned to the table he looked unhappy for a moment, then managed a smile as he resumed his seat.

“I hate those damned things,” Lady Wight said, stabbing at something on her plate. “Only an American would bring one in to dinner.”

“Mother, not all Americans are so gauche,” Sarah said, nodding at Stone.

“Oh, of course not, Stone,” her mother said. “So very sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry, Stone thought.

After dinner, the men left the women at the table and repaired to the library for port and cigars. Stone passed on the cigar but accepted the port with pleasure. He had not drunk enough vintage port in his life to suit him.

Lance wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Very well,” Stone replied. “Business call at dinner?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lance said, flushing, apparently still angry with whoever had called him. “You know about Wight, of course.”

“Not much.”

“He’s lucky not to be in prison. An office building he put up collapsed last year, fortunately in the middle of the night, so no one was killed. The incident prompted an inspection of a dozen of his buildings, and it was discovered that a lot of corners had been cut. Cost the old boy a packet of money and a bad bruise on his reputation. I think he was relieved when inheriting the title allowed him to change his name.”

“Mmmm,” Stone replied, not wanting to comment.

Half an hour later, the ladies joined them, and everyone talked until past eleven, when people began to drift upstairs to bed.

Stone had just switched off the light and was settling in when the door opened and someone entered. A moment later, she was in bed with him, her hands searching and finding what she wanted. Stone joined in enthusiastically, and after a few minutes they both came noisily, then collapsed. He was half asleep when she left the bed and went back to her room. Just as well, he thought, since he was exhausted and needed sleep.

He had just drifted off when she returned to his bed, snuggling up to him.

“What?” he said sleepily.

“Sorry I took so long,” Monica said, throwing a leg over his.

Stone sat straight up in bed. “How long has it been?” he asked.

“I don’t know; three-quarters of an hour, I suppose. I had a bath.”

Stone fell back onto the bed, realizing what had happened. “Monica,” he said, “you’re going to have to forgive me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Oh, surely I can bring you around,” she said, feeling for him.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Tomorrow is another day.”

“Oh, all right,” she said grumpily, and went back to her room.

Stone, before he drifted off again, had the momentary feeling that he was a character in a Feydeau farce.

11

STONE SLEPT LATER THAN HE INTENDED and was still struggling with the time difference. When he came downstairs for breakfast, nearly everyone had finished. He scraped the last of the scrambled eggs from a silver serving dish and grabbed some bacon and toast.

He found a leather chair in the library and settled into it. As he started on the eggs, Sarah and her fiancé, James, appeared before him. He struggled to get to his feet, but Sarah motioned him back into his chair.

“And how are you this fine morning?” she asked, smiling broadly. “I hope you were very comfortable in your bed last night.” She winked, while James looked on, sure that something was going on, but without a clue what.

Stone choked down a big bite of eggs. “Yes, sure,” he managed to say without spraying her with food.

“I was certainly very comfortable in bed,” Sarah added unnecessarily.

“Good,” Stone said. “What’s up for the day?”

“Oh, you’re coming sailing with James and me,” she replied, taking James’s arm in a proprietary way. “James is just learning to sail.”

James nodded, clearly her prisoner.

“Great; what time?” Stone asked, longing to return to his eggs before they got any colder.

“Five minutes,” she said. “We’ll meet in the mud room and get you some gear.”

“Great,” Stone replied, returning to his eggs. They wandered away.

Monica appeared with two cups of coffee and sat down on the rug at his feet. “Good morning,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better rested today.” Her voice dripped with meaning.

“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry about last night,” he said, accepting the coffee and setting it on a small table beside him. “It must be the jet lag.”

“We’re going sailing shortly,” she said.

“I heard.” He was shoveling in breakfast as fast as he could. He set down his plate and picked up the coffee. Black. He hated coffee without sugar, but he forced himself.

“I do hope you won’t wear yourself out too much today,” Monica said, archly. “Perhaps a nap in the afternoon?”

Outfitted with a slicker and a pair of rubber sailing boots, Stone climbed into a Range Rover with Monica, Sarah and her James, and Lance and Erica. Sarah drove like a madwoman, tearing down a narrow, winding track until she skidded to a stop at a dock, where a yacht of forty feet or so lay waiting on a pretty river.

“This is the Beaulieu River,” Sarah said over her shoulder to Stone. She pronounced it “Bewley.” “Up there a ways is the village of Beaulieu, and the other way is the Solent.”

Everyone climbed aboard, Sarah started the engine, and there was much scrambling with lines and sails. As Sarah motored down the Beaulieu, Stone began hoisting, first the mainsail, then a medium genoa, assisted by James, who clearly didn’t know what he was doing and didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the river into the Solent.

Sarah set a course to the east, and Stone trimmed the sails. “Anybody else on this boat know anything about sailing?” he asked.

They all shook their heads as one person.

“Swell,” he muttered under his breath.

The sky was a mix of blue and clouds, and they beat into a stiff breeze of close to twenty knots. Stone zipped up his slicker and wished he had a hat. What with the breeze, it was chilly. They sailed up the Solent, Sarah pointing out the sights, until they were abreast of a town and harbor to starboard.

“That’s Cowes,” she said, “England’s capital of yachting; maybe Europe’s.”

Everyone looked glumly at Cowes. Sarah seemed to be the only person really enjoying herself.

Stone thought it wasn’t too bad. Then Sarah bore away, and he had to let out the sails to go downwind. Off the wind, headed west again, the breeze seemed to diminish, and everyone was more comfortable, even though the yacht was rolling enthusiastically. James climbed out of the cockpit, knelt at the rail, and tossed his breakfast into the Solent. He seemed to feel better then, and he went and stood on the afterdeck behind Sarah, holding onto the backstay to steady himself.

Stone began to enjoy the sail. He hadn’t been on a yacht since his trip to St. Marks some years before, and he had never sailed in England.

“Have you done much sailing?” Monica asked.

“At summer camp as a kid,” Stone replied. “And I spent three summers in Maine, as a hand on a yacht. We did a lot of racing up there.” He looked up at the mainsail and saw a slight curl as the wind flirted with it. They were sailing dead downwind, and the boom was fully extended.

Stone leaned over and said quietly to Sarah, “You’ll be sailing her by the lee in a minute, if you’re not careful. You don’t want to gybe her.”

“I know what I’m doing, darling,” Sarah shot back. Then, as if to prove that she didn’t, she gave the wheel a slight turn, and the rear edge of the mainsail began to flap.

“Watch it,” Stone said, trying not to reach for the wheel to correct her, and then it happened, and fast. The wind got behind the mainsail, and the yacht gybed. The boom whipped across the deck, catching James on the side of the head and catapulting him overboard. He disappeared into the water.

“Christ!” Sarah yelled, fighting the helm. “Gybing back!” She put the helm over.

It took Stone less than a second to think: Never go after a man overboard; then you’ll have two men overboard, and nobody on this yacht can sail, except Sarah. Then Stone stood up, yelled to Sarah, “Stop the yacht!” grabbed a horseshoe buoy from the stern, and jumped into the water.

The water was colder than he expected. Pushing the buoy ahead of him, Stone kicked his way toward the spot where James had gone under. He shucked off the slicker and took a moment to get rid of his rubber boots, which had filled with water. Moving faster now, he reached what he thought might be the spot where James had gone down. He dove under, feeling, looking, seeing nothing but greenish water. Again and again he dove, until he had no breath left. He came to the surface and looked around him. No sign of James, and the buoy had blown away from him. He treaded water and looked for the yacht. She was lying abeam to the seas, two hundred yards away, her genoa aback and the main flapping free.

He got his second wind and started diving again, and it quickly became apparent that his actions were futile. He was very cold and tired now, the yacht was a long way off, and he didn’t know if he could swim that far. He began to try.

He swam slowly, his arms heavy with fatigue. Lance was taking the genoa down on the yacht, and someone, probably Monica, was lying on top of it, trying to keep it from blowing overboard. He thought he heard the engine start. He hoped to God he heard right.

Suddenly, he was only fifty yards from the yacht, and it was headed toward him. Sarah brought the boat to a halt when he was abeam of the helm. “Switch off the engine,” he called out weakly. He didn’t want to get chewed up by the prop.

Somebody tossed him the other horseshoe buoy, and he grabbed it gratefully. Lance was reaching out to him, grabbing at his clothes.

It took Lance, Monica, and Sarah to haul him aboard, and he wasn’t much help. He lay in the cockpit, shivering and gasping for breath.

“Did you see him?” Sarah asked, oddly calm.

Stone shook his head. “He’s gone.”

12

STONE WOKE SLOWLY. THE ROOM WAS dark, but faint daylight showed around the edges of the heavy curtains. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. Then there was a knocking at the door.

“Come in,” he said, as loudly as he could, struggling into a sitting position.

The door opened, and Lance Cabot walked in. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning?”

“You’ve been asleep since we got you back to the house.”

“Then it’s tomorrow?”

“It’s today; the, ah . . . accident happened yesterday. How do you feel?”

Stone got a pillow behind him and leaned back against the headboard. “Dull,” he said. “I think I’ll probably ache a lot when I start moving around.”

“The police were here yesterday, but the Wights wouldn’t let them near you. They were very concerned about your health. The local doctor came, but you showed no signs of waking up, so he said just to let you sleep it off.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine. Why don’t you come down and have some breakfast? All the guests left yesterday, except you, Erica, Monica, and me. We’re all witnesses.”

Stone nodded.

“There’s going to be an inquest tomorrow morning. The locals hurried it up so they could get it done while we’re all here, so we’re staying over another night.”

“I see.”

“I thought you, Erica, Monica, and I ought to get our stories straight.”

Now Stone was awake. “Straight?”

“We should be in agreement.”

“About what?”

“About what happened.”

“Is there any disagreement about what happened?”

“That depends on how you see it.”

“The yacht gybed, and James went overboard, then I did.”

“The yacht didn’t gybe; Sarah gybed it. She knew what she was doing.”

Stone resisted the thought. “Lance, how much sailing have you done?”

“None, to speak of.”

“Then you don’t really understand what happened. Boats accidentally gybe all the time; people sometimes get hit with the boom. James was unlucky.”

“So that’s the story you’re sticking to?”

“It’s what happened; I was there, too, remember?”

“You weren’t on the yacht after James went overboard.”

“No. Did something happen then?”

“Very little. Sarah seemed . . . Well, I had the distinct impression that her only real concern was getting you out of the water.”

“Tell me exactly what happened after I went in.”

“I heard you yell, ‘Stop the yacht,’ and then Sarah yelled, ‘Gybing back.’ Or maybe it was the other way around. Why would she gybe back?”

“To get the sails on the same side of the boat.”

“But she didn’t gybe back,” Lance said. “She just turned into the wind.”

“That was the right thing to do,” Stone said. “When I looked back and saw the yacht, the genoa was aback, and that would stop the yacht.”

“Sarah wouldn’t start the engine—not at first, anyway. I asked her to, and she ignored me.”

“She did start the engine; she came back for me.”

“Only after I pointed out that you were still in the water.”

“She would have been stunned by what happened,” Stone said. “We were lucky she was able to function at all.”

“She was as cool as ice,” Lance said.

“Lucky for me.”

“All right, Stone,” Lance said. “You’re the lawyer. How should we handle the inquest?”

“Tell the truth; relate the facts as they happened; don’t offer any opinions, unless you’re asked, then be circumspect. The family is certainly going to have a lawyer there, and—”

“He’s already arrived,” Lance said. “Sir Bernard Pickering, QC. Very famous barrister, I’m told. A polite shark.”

“Then he’ll tear you and the others to pieces if you begin to imply that what Sarah did was intentional. Stick to the facts; don’t make reckless charges. Have you been questioned by the police?”

“Yes, but not the girls. I told the police they were too upset to talk yet.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I played dumb, told them I don’t sail, don’t know anything about it.”

“Which was the truth.”

“After a fashion.”

“What do the girls think happened?”

“They don’t seem to have a clue.”

“Did they question Sarah?”

“No, she’s been locked in her room, except to have meals brought in. She won’t even talk to her parents, but I think the barrister is probably talking to her by now.”

“That’s as it should be.”

“So you don’t think what Sarah did was deliberate?”

“Of course not. I know her quite well, you know, and I’ve never seen her exhibit any behavior that would cause me to think she might want to kill her fiancé. She was marrying him, after all; if she wanted to be rid of him, she’d have dumped him in a straightforward manner. She’s a very decisive girl.”

“And you don’t think that’s exactly what she did?”

“I mean she’d have broken the engagement, told him to get lost. That’s pretty much what she did with me, except that we weren’t engaged.”

“How did all this happen?” Lance asked.

“We’d been seeing each other for a while, had been mostly living together in my house. Somebody from my past turned up—a man my partner on the NYPD had sent to prison for murder some years before. He began killing people close to me, and Sarah was, naturally, very frightened. Then he planted a car bomb outside a gallery where Sarah was showing her paintings. We managed to get everybody out before it went off, but after that, she just wanted to leave the country as quickly as possible. She asked me to come with her, and initially, I agreed, but then, at the airport, I changed my mind. She got on the airplane and, as far as I know, never looked back. I didn’t hear from her again after that.”

“Cool and decisive,” Lance said.

“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”

“I guess not.” Lance stood up. “I’ll take your advice, Stone. I don’t suppose anything I could say at the inquest would make a great deal of difference.”

“Not after the barrister got through with you,” Stone said.

“He wants to talk to you; you’d better get dressed and come downstairs.” Lance left the room and closed the door behind him.

Stone sat and thought about the scene on the boat for a minute. Lance couldn’t be right, could he? Of course not. He got up and headed for a shower.

13

STONE SHAVED, SHOWERED, DRESSED, and went downstairs; the house was very quiet. He walked into the library and found a man sitting before a fire reading a leather-bound volume. “Good morning,” he said.

The man rose; he was of Stone’s height but much slimmer, balding, with pale gray eyes. “Good morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernard Pickering. I expect you’re Barrington.”

Stone shook the hand. “Yes.”

“I’ve ordered us some breakfast,” Pickering said, nodding at a small table at the end of the room that had been set for two. As if on cue, a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray. “Come,” Pickering said, leading the way.

“I understand you’re a lawyer back in the States,” Pickering said, pitching into his eggs.

“That’s right.”

“Have you done any criminal work?”

“Yes, and I was a police officer for many years before I began to practice law.”

“And you’re a partner, now, in Woodman and Weld?” the barrister asked, rasing his eyebrows.

“I’m of counsel. I work out of my own office.”

“I see,” Pickering replied, though clearly he didn’t.

“I do much of their criminal work.”

Pickering’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I see.” Now he really did. “Well, that should make our conversation easier. I’m glad you’re someone who will understand the, ah, limits of my questions.”

“You mean the limits of my answers, don’t you?”

“Quite so. A death of this sort is always a delicate matter, and, if we handle it properly, we can dispose of the entire incident at this inquest.”

“I hope so,” Stone replied.

“I’m a bit concerned about Mr. Cabot’s attitude.”

“We talked about it. I don’t think he’ll be of particular concern to you.”

“James Cutler’s body came up in a fisherman’s trawl in the middle of the Channel, late last night. It’s being examined now.”

“I expect that death will be determined to have been caused by blunt trauma to the head or drowning, or both,” Stone said.

“Very probably. Will you give me your account of the events of yesterday?”

Stone related his story quickly, without embellishment.

Pickering nodded as he spoke. He took no notes. “Tell me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “are you an experienced yachtsman?”

“I’ve done a lot of sailing, but not recently.”

“Are you aware that the standard procedure in such an event is for the crew not to enter the water to help?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, and I considered it before going after James.”

“And what was your thought process, may I ask?”

“If someone goes into the water after a man overboard, then there are two men to be rescued, instead of one, but in this instance I believed that the blow from the boom would have rendered James unconscious, and that he would be unable to help himself.”

“Mmmm,” Pickering muttered in an affirmative fashion. “I expect you did the right thing. Did you see or touch Cutler after you went in?”

“No, I swam to where I thought he might be and dove for him, but I never saw or touched him.”

“Are you familiar with the tides in the Solent?”

“No.”

“The tide turned while you were sailing toward Cowes, so by the time you came off the wind and sailed toward the Beaulieu River, the tide would have been ebbing, and you might have had a couple of knots under you.”

“That would have made no difference in my search, since James, the yacht, and I would have all been equally affected by the tide.”

“Good point,” Pickering said. “Did Sarah say anything to you during this incident?”

“No, she didn’t have time before I went into the water, and I was in no state to have a conversation with her after they got me aboard again.”

“Good,” Pickering said, almost to himself. “Do you recall any display of attitude or emotion on her part after you were back aboard?”

“No, I was shivering too badly to notice, then I must have fallen asleep or passed out. I don’t remember being brought from the yacht back to the house.”

“Good,” Pickering repeated. “Well, I think that’s all; we can enjoy our breakfast now.”

“Have you spoken to Sarah?”

“Yes, about an hour ago.”

“How is she?”

“Grieving, feeling guilty that she may have done something to cause James’s death. That’s preposterous, of course.”

“It’s not preposterous, but in my judgment, for what it’s worth, the whole thing was an accident.”

Pickering gazed over Stone’s shoulder and out the window. He seemed to be considering something. “Tell me, Stone,” he said finally, “if I may call you that . . .”

“Of course.”

“What do you know of Sarah’s personal circumstances?”

“Not much. I haven’t seen her for a year or so, since she left New York.”

“I understand you were, ah, close, while she was there?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Have you had any contact with her since she left New York?”

“None at all, until we met here on Friday evening.”

“No letters or phone calls? Email?”

“No.”

“And how did you come to be here this weekend?”

“I was invited by Monica Burroughs.”

“Did you know that the house party was to be at the home of Sarah’s parents and that the occasion was the announcement of her engagement to James Cutler?”

“Not until we were driving down here from London.”

“So Sarah was surprised to see you?”

“No, I asked Monica to call her and explain that I was coming.”

“Had Monica not planned to tell her?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Why ever not?”

“I believe that Monica had intended my visit as a surprise.”

“I see.” He did not.

“I think it was probably mischievous on her part.”

“Oh, I see.” Now he did.

“But in any case, embarrassment was avoided by all because of Monica’s call to Sarah.”

“Good.”

“Do you think I could see Sarah? Is she up to it?”

“I suppose she is, but I’d rather no one who will be testifying tomorrow speak to her until after the inquest.”

“Would you tell her, then, that I asked after her and that I send my condolences?”

“Of course I will. I have one other question for you, Stone, and I would like this part of our conversation to be kept in the strictest confidence for the time being.”

“All right.”

“Are you aware that Sarah is James Cutler’s heir?”

“You mean she’s the beneficiary of his will?”

“Very nearly the sole beneficiary.”

“Is that sort of arrangement before a marriage common in this country?”

“It is not. I doubt if it is in the States, either.”

“In the States—or in New York, at least—they would be more likely to have a prenuptial agreement limiting Sarah’s benefits in the event of a divorce—or James’s, depending on Sarah’s circumstances.”

“Sarah’s circumstances are that she is a well-regarded painter with a nice income from her work, but she possesses no serious assets, except a long lease on her London flat. Whether she will inherit much from her father depends on the outcome of a number of lawsuits filed against him in connection with the collapse of an apartment building last year.”

“Was James particularly well off?”

“Let’s just say that Sarah is now the largest independent importer and distributor of wines in the United Kingdom, and she has widespread holdings in various French and Italian vineyards. She also now owns something upwards of a hundred and fifty wine shops and two hundred pubs. I doubt if she has much interest in running such a business, but it would bring a very large price if sold to one of the big wine and spirit conglomerates. Are you beginning to get my drift?”

“I believe I am,” Stone said.

Stone spent the remainder of the day reading more of Jane Austen in the library and joined the others for dinner, except Sarah, who dined in her room. Dinner was a quiet, almost somber affair, with little conversation. Everyone went to bed early, and Stone was not visited by anyone after retiring.

14

STONE LEFT THE HAMPSHIRE COUNTY Council building and found Monica waiting for him outside with the motor running. His baggage was already in the boot of the car, and he had said his good-byes to Lord and Lady Wight, but not to Sarah, who was still sequestered, pending her testimony to the coroner’s jury.

“How did it go?” Monica asked, putting the Aston Martin in gear and driving away.

“As planned, I think; Pickering seems to have everything well in hand.”

“I was surprised at how subdued he was when he questioned me,” she said. “He has a reputation as a tiger in court.”

“I think he went out of his way to give the impression that he was unconcerned about the outcome. He would not have wanted the coroner to think that he was defending Sarah of a charge.”

“Then he’s clever.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Did he need to be?”

“It never hurts, if a lawyer can avoid being seen to be clever.”

They drove in silence for half an hour. Finally, Monica spoke again. “Lance seems to think that Sarah did it deliberately.”

“None of the evidence I’m aware of supports that view.”

“So you think it was an accident?”

“Yes.” And he would continue to prefer to think that. Then he thought about Sarah’s late-night visit to him two nights before. A fling on her part, nothing more, he told himself.

She dropped him at the Connaught. “Dinner this week sometime?”

“Let me call you; I don’t know yet how long I’ll be here.”

She handed him a card. “Home, gallery, and cellphone.”

He thanked her and followed the porter into the hotel.

“You have a number of messages, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, handing him some small envelopes.

Stone waited until he was back in his suite to open them. Two were from John Bartholomew, or whoever he was, one was from Dino, and one was from Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. Stone dialed the New York number for Bartholomew. The number rang, then was interrupted, then rang again.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you, but the phone I gave you wasn’t working.”

Stone looked over and saw the phone resting on its charger. “I’m sorry; I forgot to take the phone with me when I went away for the weekend.”

“I read about your weekend in the morning papers,” Bartholomew said.

Not the New York papers, Stone thought. Bartholomew was still in London.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

“What have you learned?”

“That Cabot calls himself an independent business consultant.”

Bartholomew made a snorting sound. “Of course.”

“And that Erica Burroughs is not your niece.”

Now it was Bartholomew who was silent.

“And her mother is not dead, though her father is.”

“It’s not necessary for you to know everything,” Bartholomew said.

“Perhaps not, but it’s necessary, if we’re to continue this relationship, that what I do know is true and not a lie.”

“My apologies,” Bartholomew said stiffly. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you want Lance Cabot in an English jail?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Is your interest in him personal, or are you working for someone else?”

“Both.”

“Who are you?”

“Do you wish to continue to represent me in this matter?” Now Bartholomew was angry.

“I don’t much care one way or the other,” Stone replied evenly, “but I don’t like to be kept in the dark about the motives for my investigation.”

“I’m afraid it will have to be that way for a time, but I’d like very much for you to continue.”

Stone made his decision. “All right, I’ll continue.” Until I find out what the hell is going on, he thought.

“Good. But please keep the phone I gave you on your person at all times. I don’t like not being able to reach you.”

“All right.”

“Contact me again when you have something to report.”

“All right.”

Bartholomew hung up without further ado.

Stone called Bill Eggers.

“Hi there, you called while I was in Chile?”

“Yes, I did. You’re going to Chile for the weekend, nowadays?”

“At the invitation of a client who has a Gulfstream Four.”

“You’re a lucky man. Who is the man you sent to see me last week?”

“How do you mean, ‘who’?”

“What’s his real name, for a start.”

“I thought it was Bartholomew.”

“It’s not; I know that much. How did he come to you?”

“A client referred him.”

“Who’s the client?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“Where is the client located?”

“In Washington; you can infer what you wish from that.”

“I will. Do you have any idea what Bartholomew really wants?”

“I don’t even know what he told you he wants.”

“He told me a cock-and-bull story, and I’m annoyed.”

“I hope you haven’t done anything rash.”

“Like quit?”

“Yes.”

“Not yet, but I’m going to, if he keeps lying to me.”

“Stick it out, Stone. I can’t tell you why you should, but I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, all right, Bill.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember.” He hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“How you doin’?” Dino asked cheerfully.

“I had a strange weekend.”

“Tell me.”

Stone told him.

“And she inherits the guy’s business?”

“Apparently so. What do you think?”

“You know what I think,” Dino chuckled, “but I have a more suspicious mind than you do.”

“I think I prefer not being suspicious right now.”

“I’ll be willing to bet you hear from Sarah before the day’s out.”

“She’s grieving,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure. I gotta go; anything else?”

“Nope.”

“She’s going to call you.” Dino hung up.

Stone stood up and stretched, and the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said.

15

SHE SOUNDED PERFECTLY NORMAL—not depressed, not upset, just Sarah.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Perfectly all right, thank you.”

“What was the outcome of the inquest?”

“Accidental death,” she replied. “Had you expected another outcome?”

“No, I was sure that would be the verdict.”

“Sir Bernard seemed to think I might have purposely gybed the yacht; is that what you think?”

“No, and I told him so.”

“Did he say to you that I might have done it on purpose?”

“No, and I don’t think he believes that—not from anything he said in our conversation.”

“What about Lance? Does he believe I killed James?”

“Lance doesn’t know anything about sailing; he didn’t really understand what happened. I explained it to him, and he seemed satisfied.”

She was silent for a moment. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“All right.”

She seemed to be having trouble getting it out. Finally she spoke. “I didn’t intentionally cause James’s death, but I’m not really very sorry he’s dead. Does that sound awful?”

Stone avoided a direct answer. “Please tell me what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through with it—the marriage, I mean.”

“Then why were you having an engagement party?”

“My parents pressed me, told me I was getting old. I’m thirty-two, for Christ’s sake!”

“Maybe they just want grandchildren.”

“Oh, they do, that’s true. I liked James, but I was never in love with him. They kept saying what a perfect match we were, and I suppose it did look good on paper, at least. I guess we could have made it work, produced the grandchildren, bought a country house, given good dinner parties. But I just didn’t want it.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Have you seen this morning’s papers?”

“No,” Stone said. They had been stuck under his door when he returned to his suite, but he hadn’t even looked at them yet.

“We’re all over them, and the tabloids are hinting that I killed James for his money! Can you imagine?”

“Well, yes, considering . . .”

“We weren’t even married; how could they say I killed him for his money?”

“Well, there is his will.”

“What?”

“His will; he made a will. Surely you’re aware of that.”

“Aware of what? I don’t know anything about a will.”

“Apparently, James recently made a new will, making you the primary beneficiary.”

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “That’s preposterous! Why would he do a thing like that before we’re married?”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” Stone replied. “But according to Sir Bernard Pickering, that’s what he did.”

“Why is it that everyone knows this but me?”

“I thought you did know it; I don’t know how Pickering found out, unless he prepared the will.”

“Pickering is a barrister; he wouldn’t do wills; a solicitor would have to do that.”

“Who is James’s solicitor?”

“I have no idea . . . Wait a minute, yes I do; I was introduced to him at a party a couple of weeks ago.”

“Do Pickering and the solicitor know each other?”

“I don’t know; I suppose it’s possible.”

“Could they work out of the same law firm?”

“Solicitors and barristers are in different firms.”

“Have you heard from the solicitor?”

“No.”

“I expect you will shortly, if there’s any truth to all this.”

“Tell me exactly what Pickering told you.”

“He said you were now the largest independent importer of wines in Britain and that you now owned a lot of wine shops and pubs.”

“Hold on a minute; someone is rapping on my door.” She put the phone down and returned after a moment. “It’s a letter from James’s solicitor,” she said. “Hand delivered.”

“What does it say?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“Open it.”

“Oh, Stone, this is so crazy.”

“Open the letter and read it to me.” He heard the ripping and rustle of paper.

“ ‘Dear blah, blah, blah, condolences, etcetera. It is my duty to inform you that, shortly before his death, Mr. Cutler made a will, in which you are an important beneficiary. I would be grateful if you would call at this office at your convenience so that we may discuss this matter. Yours very sincerely.’ It says ‘important beneficiary.’ That doesn’t sound like I inherit everything.”

“Maybe it’s British understatement.”

“Oh, God, I can’t deal with this now; I have to arrange a funeral for James in London; he didn’t have any family to speak of—both his parents are dead, and he had no brothers or sisters, so it all falls to me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stone, will you go and see this solicitor and find out about this?”

“I think it might be better if you had your own solicitor go.”

“I don’t have one, and I hate Daddy’s. Just go and talk to him; I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“All right. Is there anything else?”

“Let me give you his phone number and address.”

Stone wrote it all down, and Sarah’s London number as well.

“I’m coming up to London tomorrow, and I’ll call you then.”

“All right. I’ll be around here. Oh, let me give you a portable phone number, too.” Stone retrieved the phone from its charging cradle and read off the number, which was taped to the telephone.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll call the solicitor now.”

“All right; tell him I’ll wait to hear from him.” Stone hung up and went to retrieve the papers. The story was on the inside pages of both the Times and the Independent, and it was brief in each case. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary to Stone. The phone rang. The solicitor, he thought. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Ted Cricket; Bobby Jones and I would like to come and see you, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, fine. When’s good for you?”

“How about six o’clock this evening at your hotel?”

“That’s good for me. I’ll see you both at six in the same place we met the first time.”

“Good, sir.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang immediately. “Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Julian Wainwright; I am solicitor for the estate of James Cutler.”

“Oh, yes, Sarah Buckminster said you’d call.”

“Miss Buckminster tells me you’ll be representing her in the matter of the Cutler estate. I’m a bit confused; you’re an American, are you?”

“That’s right, but I’m not representing her as an attorney, only as a friend. Sarah is very busy with making funeral arrangements at the moment, and she asked me to see you about the letter you sent her today.”

“All right, then; will sometime this afternoon be good?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Say, four o’clock?”

“That’s fine. I have your address.”

“I’ll see you at four, then.” He hung up.

Stone hung up, too, and sighed. How did he get roped into this?

16

THE SOLICITOR’S OFFICE WAS IN PONT Street, near Harrod’s, and Stone was on time. So was Julian Wainwright; Stone was shown immediately into his office.

“Been over here long?” Wainwright asked, showing him to a chair.

“Just a few days,” Stone said.

“Known Sarah long?”

“We knew each other when she lived in New York.”

“Forgive me, I’m just trying to understand why she sent you to receive this news.”

“I thought I explained that on the phone,” Stone said. “She’s busy making funeral arrangements, and, of course, she’s upset about the events of last weekend.”

“Ah, yes,” Wainwright said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Well, I expect you’ll want to know the contents of James Cutler’s will.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Stone reminded him.

“It’s like this,” Wainwright said. “James left bequests to Eton College, Magdelan College at Oxford, to Oxfam—that’s a large charity over here—and to his club, the Athenaeum. The total of those was three hundred thousand pounds.” He paused, seeming to have a hard time reading the neatly typed document before him.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“The remainder of his estate, James left to Sarah Buckminster.” He took a deep breath and sighed.

“You seem in some way unhappy about this,” Stone said.

“I must tell you, I counseled James against it. He came in to make a will which would take effect on his marriage to Sarah. We went over everything very carefully, the full list of his assets. I was quite all right with it all, but when he came back to sign the will, after it had been typed, he noted that the will would take effect on their marriage, and, rather offhandedly, he asked that it be changed to have immediate effect. When I questioned this, he said, ‘Oh, hell, I’m marrying the girl in a few months’ time, just do as I ask.’ So I had the page retyped, and he signed it.”

“Was the will properly attested to and witnessed?”

“Of course,” Wainwright replied, sounding offended.

“Are you satisfied that the will represents his true intentions at the time he made it?”

“As unwise as his intentions may have been, yes.”

“Then I don’t see any problem.”

“You’ve read this morning’s papers?”

“The Times and the Independent.”

“Not the tabloids?”

“They don’t have the tabloids at the Connaught.”

“Well, they’ve as much as accused Sarah of murdering James for his money.”

“Then I should think she’d have a very good libel suit against the tabloids,” Stone said.

“Quite,” Wainwright replied.

“Tell me,” Stone said, “when James made this sudden decision to have his will take effect immediately, did he in any way intimate that Sarah was aware of this decision?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And his decision seemed to you to be made on the spur of the moment?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that Sarah was unaware of the will until I told her about it this morning?”

Wainwright’s considerable eyebrows shot up. “No, I was not. And, may I ask, how did you become aware of the contents of the will?”

“I was told by Sir Bernard Pickering,” Stone replied, watching for a reaction, and he got it.

Wainwright gulped but seemed unable to speak.

“Are you and Sir Bernard acquainted?” Stone asked.

“We are next-door neighbors in the country,” Wainwright replied.

“And when did you convey the intent of the will to Sir Bernard?”

Wainwright was perspiring now. “I was having dinner at his home on Saturday evening, when he got the call from Lord Wight, requesting his services. I thought it my duty to make him aware of the circumstances.”

“For which I’m sure he was grateful,” Stone said. “What is the date on the will?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And during that time, did you divulge the contents to any other person, apart from Sir Bernard?”

“I did not.”

“To your knowledge, did James Cutler tell anyone else?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Do you believe he might have told Sarah about the will?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“How long did you represent James Cutler?”

“More than twenty years; we were at Eton together.”

“Were you good friends?”

“Very good friends.”

“Given your knowledge of your friend and client, do you think it is likely that he would have told Sarah of the contents of the will?”

Wainwright thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I do not. James was very closemouthed about that sort of thing.”

“That being the case, can we agree that, since Sarah was unlikely to know the contents of the will, there would be no motive for her to intentionally cause his death?”

“I . . . believe we can,” Wainwright replied.

“Then I think it would be appropriate for you to issue a public statement to that effect.”

Wainwright looked puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever issued a public statement about anything.”

“Do you know someone at one of the large newspapers?”

The solicitor brightened. “Why, yes, I was at school with a fellow at the Times.”

“Then I think a phone call to him and a brief interview on the subject would suffice, and your friend would be grateful to you for the story.”

“That’s rather a good idea,” Wainwright said, looking pleased.

Stone avoided chuckling. A largish percentage of the law firms in New York would have retained a publicist for such a chore. “Is there anything else that Sarah should know about the will?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I think she should see a list of James’s assets and liabilities,” Stone pointed out.

“Oh, of course.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. “I had him prepare a financial statement in conjunction with signing the will.” He handed some papers to Stone. “And a copy of the will for Sarah.”

Stone looked quickly through the documents. “He didn’t have any debt to speak of.”

“None more than thirty days old.”

“And you are the executor?”

“At James’s request.”

“Sir Bernard suggested to me that his holdings might easily be sold to one of the wine and spirits conglomerates.”

“As a matter of fact, James had a rather rich offer from one of them less than three months ago, but he wasn’t inclined to accept it.”

“I very much doubt that Sarah will have any interest in running these businesses. Perhaps after the funeral, you might contact that company and see if they’re still interested.”

“I will certainly do that,” Wainwright replied.

“By the way, what was the offer?”

“Four hundred ninety million pounds sterling.”

Stone did the math. Around three-quarters of a billion dollars. “Did James build this business from scratch?”

“Oh, heavens, no. He was the fourth generation of Cutlers in the business, but he greatly enlarged the business during his tenure.”

“One other thing, Mr. Wainwright: Are there any disaffected siblings or maiden aunts who might challenge this will?”

“None. James was an only child, as was his father before him.”

“Any large charities to whom promises had been previously made?”

“None.”

“Then you see no reason why this will should not be promptly probated?”

“None at all. Tell me, is Sarah currently represented by a solicitor?”

“No, she’s not.” Stone stood up and shook Wainwright’s hand. “Thank you for being so frank with me. I’ll convey what you’ve told me to Sarah, who I’m sure will have some instructions for you, in due course.”

Wainwright looked pleased at the prospect.

Stone left the solicitor’s office and started looking for a cab in Sloane Street. Sarah Buckminster was going to be a very happy starving artist, he reckoned. He glanced at his watch. And now he had to get back to his own business.

17

STONE WAS ON HIS SECOND CUP OF tea in the Connaught’s lounge when Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones appeared, exactly on time. When he had seated them and their tea had been served, he sat back and waited for their report.

“As you requested,” Ted Cricket began, reading from a notebook like a good cop, “I positioned myself outside the United States Embassy at eight A.M. this morning and waited for the appearance of a gentleman of the description provided by you on Friday last. Such a gentleman appeared just after ten A.M. and went into the embassy. He emerged at twelve thirty-nine P.M. with another gentleman, who was American in his dress, and I followed them to a restaurant and pub called the Guinea, in a mews just off Berkeley Square. They remained there for nearly two hours, then returned to the embassy.

“At half past four, the first gentleman emerged from the embassy again and, on foot, proceeded to a house in Green Street, a short walk from the embassy. He let himself in with a key, and I surmised that the house is his residence in London. To check this, I knocked on the door of the basement flat, where a caretaker lives, and asked him questions regarding the occupants of the building. He was extremely reluctant to talk to me until I gave him to understand that I was a police officer; then he became marginally more cooperative.

“He divulged, in an oblique manner, that the house was owned by the American government, and that it consisted of four flats occupied by various transient government officials. He knew the gentleman I was following, who occupied the third-floor flat, only as Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray has occupied the third-floor flat for at least four years, though he is often away, and he keeps a considerable wardrobe in the flat. He is apparently unmarried, though he sometimes receives lady guests in the flat. He receives no mail there, and I am inclined to believe that Gray is not the gentleman’s real name.

“I am also inclined to believe that Mr. Gray is not, formally speaking, an accredited American representative to Her Majesty’s government. He has all the earmarks of a spook.” Cricket stopped talking.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said. “I’m also inclined to think that it would be fruitless, not to mention dangerous, to attempt to bug Mr. Gray’s flat, because if he is a spook, his organization will have taken steps to prevent such an action.”

“Agreed,” Cricket replied.

“The question now is, how do we find out his real name?”

“I had a thought about that, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said. “Why don’t I have his pocket picked?”

Stone smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Can you get it done without his knowing?”

“I know a person who can,” Cricket replied confidently. “Mr. Gray might even enjoy the experience.”

“I take it your pickpocket is female.”

“Indeed, yes.”

“Go to it.”

Cricket turned to Jones. “Bobby, what do you have for Mr. Barrington?”

Jones produced his own notebook. “I began surveillance of the Farm Street house at seven A.M. this morning. By mid-morning, it became apparent to me that the house was not occupied, except by a cleaning lady who arrived at eight and departed at ten, so I had my man go in and wire the place for sound while I stood guard. He was out by one P.M., and now all the phones serve as taps for us, whether they are in use or not. The microphones are voice-activated and are recorded automatically by a machine in a garage about forty meters from the house. I’ll check it daily for anything of interest.

“I continued my surveillance of the house, and a little after three P.M. Mr. Cabot and Miss Burroughs returned and went into the house with some luggage. Less than an hour later, two men arrived outside in a car and knocked at the door. They were large gentlemen, and in spite of extensive tailoring and barbering, they struck me as right out of the East End. They rang the bell, and when Mr. Cabot emerged, they pulled him out of the house and began to rough him up, in the manner, I would say, of debt collectors for a loan shark or a bookmaker. Since I assumed you did not wish the man harmed, I approached, identified myself as a police officer, and asked Mr. Cabot if he required any assistance.

“He said he did not. I asked if he wished to make a charge against either or both of the gentlemen; he said he did not. I took the gentlemen aside and suggested that if I caught them in the neighborhood again I would have them in the nick very shortly. They got into their car and left. By this time, Mr. Cabot was already back inside the house.

“I then went to the garage and listened to the tape recording of what was said in the house. Miss Burroughs asked Mr. Cabot who had been at the door, and he replied, quite coolly, I thought, that some people had knocked at the wrong door. After that their conversation was of a mundane nature, and I reset the recorder. I waited within sight of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”

“Very good, Bobby,” Stone said. “Were you able to overhear any of the conversation between Cabot and the two men?”

“No, I’m afraid I was out of earshot. I expect they might be leery of returning to the house, but if they should telephone Cabot, we’ll have a recording of the conversation.”

“Do you have any further instructions for us, Mr. Barrington?” Cricket asked.

“You already know what to do about Mr. Gray; my main concern is to know his real identity. As for Mr. Cabot, Bobby, I’d like to maintain the surveillance on him for a few more days. I want to know who he sees during the days—I don’t think we need bother with his evenings. I’m particularly interested to know if he has any criminal contacts. After his encounter with the muscle, I wouldn’t be surprised. And, of course, I’d like a daily report on what your recorder picks up.”

“Of course,” Jones replied. “If anything that sounds remotely interesting is recorded, I’ll dub it off onto a portable so you can hear it.”

“Very good,” Stone said, rising. “I’ll look forward to hearing from both of you.”

“Mr. Barrington,” Cricket said, “may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I think it might be good for Bobby and me to swap targets every day. That way, the gentlemen are less likely to spot the tail.”

“By all means,” Stone said. “Change whenever you wish.”

He shook hands with the men, and they left.

Stone returned to his room, and as he entered, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sarah; I’m in London. Can we have dinner tonight?”

“All right. Where would you like to meet?”

“Where do you suggest?”

“It’s your town.”

“There are some press people hanging around outside my flat.”

“Then I don’t think you should be seen with me; that would just add fuel to the flame.”

“I can get out a back way, I think. Why don’t I come to the Connaught? I don’t think they would follow me inside, and if they did, they’d be thrown out.”

“All right.”

“What’s your suite number?”

“Ah, let’s meet in the restaurant.”

“Eight-thirty?”

“That should be all right. I’ll book the table now.”

“How did your meeting with James’s solicitor go?”

“It went well; I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

Stone called downstairs and booked the table, then he soaked in a hot tub for a while and lay down for a nap. As he drifted off, he wondered who had sent the hoods to deal with Lance Cabot.

18

SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.

Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maître d’, showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.

“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanished and returned with the drink.

“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.

“It didn’t work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around Belgrave Square at high speed, with them on my tail, and I finally lost them at Hyde Park Corner, when some traffic cut them off. God, these people are awful!”

“I’m glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant’s door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.

The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.

“Apparently, I didn’t lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don’t come out.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said.

“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn’t see any photographers. Apparently, there aren’t any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they’ve settled on me. I’ve never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.

“Slow down,” he said. “You’ve still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.

“I can’t deal with it; you order.”

Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.

“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don’t rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”

“Yes, please; I’d like something else to think about.”

“Well, you’ve a lot to think about,” Stone said. “First, let me ask you some questions: Did James say anything to you about making you his beneficiary?”

“No. Well, he mentioned something in passing, like, ‘Of course I’ll have to make a new will,’ but I assumed he meant after we were married.”

“Were you aware of the day he went to sign the will?”

“Yes, because we had seen his solicitor the night before. I knew he was going there.”

“Did you discuss the will at all?”

“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”

“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James’s financial statement, and I’ll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”

“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”

“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”

She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes welled up a little. “I don’t know anything about running a business; I don’t want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”

“Take it easy, now, that’s not how it works. You don’t have to run the business.”

“I don’t?”

“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”

“Yes.”

“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”

“So you think Julian can sell it?”

“Yes.”

“What a relief!”

“Do you want to know how much it’s worth?”

“Yes, please.”

“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”

“No, million.”

“But that’s . . .”

“A lot of money.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”

“I think I’d prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.

“And there were other things—James’s house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”

“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”

“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”

“He didn’t even mention that.”

“Do you know the two houses?”

“Of course. They’re both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.

“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”

“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”

“Something? What thing?”

“I can’t tell you that; client confidentiality.”

“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”

“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”

“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”

“Of course, I knew that.”

“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”

“Do you know Lance well?”

“Not really, but he’s very nice.”

“What does he do?”

“Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”

“Neither could I.”

They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.

“I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.

“Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”

“I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”

“Can you go to a friend’s?”

“I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.

“No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”

“I’m not a widow!”

“Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”

“I hate this,” she said.

“It won’t last forever.”

“I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”

“You’ve already done that, remember?”

She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”

“No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”

She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.

“Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.

As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.

19

BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.

Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.

Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.

Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.

Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He’s gone,” he said to his companion. “But I’m sure he was tailing me.”

“You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”

“Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.

At twelve o’clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby’s park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.

Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.

“I’m Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket’s friend.”

“Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let’s take a stroll around the park, shall we?”

“Love to.” She took his arm.

They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I’ll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he’s all yours.”

“Right,” Moira replied.

They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.

“He’s the taller of the two,” Bobby said. He handed her a card. “Here’s my cellphone number; let me know when you’re done.”

“Right,” Moira replied, then set off down the square, keeping Bartholomew in sight.

Bartholomew and his friend walked down into Berkeley Square, then down an adjoining mews and into a restaurant. Moira waited two minutes, then followed them in.

The two men were standing near the end of a crowded bar, each with a pint of bitter. Bartholomew was leaning on the bar, pulling his suit tight against his body. Nothing in the hip pocket, she thought. Then he fished his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took out a five-pound note to pay. Oh, thanks, she thought, taking it all in. She saw the ladies’ room door past them, up a couple of steps, and she walked toward it, catching Bartholomew’s eye and interest along the way, offering him a little smile. She went into the ladies’, freshened her makeup, and went out again. Bartholomew had stationed himself where he could watch her come out. She smiled at him again, then put a foot out, missed the first step, and began to fall forward.

Bartholomew took a step forward, his pint in his left hand, stuck out an arm, and, grazing a breast, caught her in his right arm.

She deliberately did not regain her feet right away, leaning into him, staggering him a couple of steps away from the bar.

“There,” he said, lifting and setting her on her feet again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “My heel caught on the step.”

“It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”

“Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.

“No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.

“Give me your number, then.”

She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

“Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.

Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones’s card, and punched in the number.

“Yes?” Jones said.

“I’ve got it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Berkeley Square.”

“You know Jack Barclay’s?”

“Yes.”

“Go and look at a Rolls; I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”

“Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don’t you think?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.

Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn’t this a beautiful Bentley?”

Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You’ll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.

20

AFTER BREAKFAST STONE LEFT THE Connaught and began to wander aimlessly around Mayfair, window-shopping and thinking. He was making precious little progress in his investigation of Lance Cabot, and even less in his investigation of his client, John Bartholomew, or whoever he was. Still, he had been in England for only a few days; perhaps he was being impatient.

Finally, his impatience led him into Farm Street, where he saw Ted Cricket standing at the far end. He did not approach the house, but he motioned for Cricket to go to the next mews, and they met there.

“Anything to report?” Stone asked.

“Not yet, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket replied, “but then I didn’t expect for anything to happen. They haven’t left the house yet, and when I checked the tape, there had only been a couple of phone calls, both for Miss Burroughs, both innocuous.”

“Heard anything from Bobby?”

“Not yet, but I expect we’ll have some results before the day’s out. We have your cellphone number, if anything of note occurs.”

“Thanks, Ted; I’ll talk to you later.” Stone walked back up the mews and slowly back toward the Connaught. He passed the Hayward tailor shop, but didn’t go in; it was too soon for fittings on the jackets he had ordered. His pocket phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Bobby Jones.”

“Yes, Bobby?”

“I have what you wanted; can we meet?”

“I’ll be at the Connaught in two minutes.”

“So will I, sir.”

Stone encountered Bobby at the front door, and they went in together and sat down in the lounge. Bobby reached into his raincoat pocket and presented Stone with a large wallet.

Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “at least we have his name, now.”

“The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”

“If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”

“Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”

“Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”

“I have a friend who can,” Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”

“How long will it take?”

“A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”

“All right.”

“What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”

“Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”

“All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.

Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.

“Eggers.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

“Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”

“That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he works for the government, probably in intelligence.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do.”

“Of course I do, Bill, but should you get some information that doesn’t compromise your relationship with a client, will you pass it on to me?”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Talk to you later.”

Stone thought it might not be too early to call his old professor, Samuel Bernard.

“Yes?” The voice was surprisingly weak.

“It’s Stone Barrington, sir; how are you?”

“Oh, I’ve had a bad couple of days, but I’m better now.”

“Is this not a good time to talk?”

“No, no, go right ahead. What can I do for you?”

“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

“Indeed it does,” Bernard replied without hesitation.

“Who is he?”

“When I knew him, and later, when I only knew of him, he was considered one of the agency’s brightest young men.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was a bit impulsive, perhaps even wild, but that doesn’t hurt one’s reputation in the Company, if the results are good. Of course, if one makes a mistake . . .”

“Did Hedger make a mistake?”

“He did, and I can’t tell you about it, except to say that it cost the lives of half a dozen operatives in a Middle Eastern country. Fortunately for Hedger, none of them was American, or he would have been in real trouble.”

Stone wasn’t sure what else to ask. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“There was a wife, in his youth, but she died in an automobile accident. Hedger was driving, and he was said to have been broken up by the event, though I never knew him to be broken up by anything. He had a level of self-confidence that is usually only found in maniacs, and that seemed to make him impervious to most disastrous events, like his Middle Eastern debacle. I shouldn’t think it took him long to get over his wife’s death.”

“Anything else?”

“He was extraordinarily brave, in the physical sense, which, I suppose, comes with his level of self-confidence. I doubt if he believed that anyone could ever do him harm. He garnered a couple of medals for valor, and that stood him in good stead in the agency. Still, careful people never trusted him, and there are always a lot of careful people in the Company.”

“What about those who were not so careful?”

“There are always those in the Company, too, and they always found uses for Hedger. Later, when he rose to supervisory levels, he attracted younger men who seemed to share his attitudes. He was kept busy keeping them out of trouble, which some saw as his just reward.”

“Do you have any idea what he might be involved with now?”

“I shouldn’t think he’s involved with anything. He’s dead.”

That brought Stone up short. “Are you sure?”

“He died in an explosion in Cairo about two years ago—one caused by an Islamic fundamentalist suicide bomber.”

“Was his body identified?”

“Some body parts were, I believe. If you’ll forgive me, Stone, I have a visitor, who’s on the way upstairs now. I’ll call you if I think of anything else. You’re still at the Connaught?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you.”

Stone hung up the phone, baffled more than before.

21

THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR JAMES CUTLER took place at the Catholic church in Farm Street, which Stone remembered being mentioned in the novels of Evelyn Waugh. All the people present at the house party the weekend before attended, plus a great many others, many of whom Stone surmised were business acquaintances of the deceased. Julian Wainwright was prominent among them, looking suitably sorrowful. When the service was over, many of those present adjourned to the house occupied by Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs, which was conveniently nearby.

A light lunch was served, and Stone had a glass of wine. He wandered idly through the house looking at pictures and taking in the place. It was handsomely decorated, and Stone wondered if Lance had had it done or if the house came that way when it was rented. As he strolled down a hallway, he heard Lance’s voice through an ajar door, apparently to the study.

“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance was saying, “if you persist in this, if you send anyone else for me, I’ll kill them, then I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. That is a solemn promise.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the receiver.

Stone ducked into a powder room and closed the door. He wanted to hear all of that conversation, and fortunately, he had the means to do so quite nearby. He ducked out of the house and found Bobby Jones down the street.

“Good day,” Jones said.

“I want to hear what’s on the recorder,” Stone said.

“Of course; I’ll take you there.”

Stone followed the little man to a garage nearby. Jones unlocked a small door in the larger one and closed it behind them. He went to a cupboard at the rear of the garage, unlocked a padlock, and opened the door to reveal a small tape machine. “How far back today do you want me to go?”

“The last conversation,” Stone replied.

Jones rewound the tape, and the sound of voices backward and at speed could be heard, then stopped. He punched a button and the recorder began to play.

“Hello?” Lance’s voice.

“I want it,” another male voice said. “You’re all out of time.” The quality of the connection was poor, as if the call were coming from some Third World country.

“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance said, and the rest was as Stone had heard a moment before.

“Let me hear it again,” Stone said.

Jones rewound the machine, and Stone listened carefully. The voice was American, he thought, but he could not be sure, and it didn’t sound like Bartholomew. “Once more,” Stone said, and listened.

“Sounds like he’s got somebody on his back,” Jones said, resetting the machine.

“Yes, it does.”

“Sounds like money to me.”

“Could be. Could be almost anything of value—even information.”

“I suppose so, but I’m a copper right to the bone, and I tend to think in the simplest terms, especially where a threat to kill is involved.”

“You could be right,” Stone admitted. “By the way, I checked with a knowledgeable friend in New York, and Stanford Hedger has been dead for two years.”

“You could have fooled me,” Jones said, letting them out of the garage and locking the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”

“Well, one of two things, I guess: either Hedger isn’t dead, or he’s dead and Bartholomew is using his identity for some purpose.”

“This is far too thick for me,” Jones said. “Give me a nice homicide any day; I never know what to make of these spooks.”

“You’ve had experience with them before?”

“Yes, but only with the blokes on our side—MI6. The trouble with trying to figure them out is you never know what they want, and if they explained it to you, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”

Stone laughed. “I see your point. I have a feeling, though, that whatever is going on here is taking place outside the bounds of any official action. It sounds awfully personal to me.”

Stone said goodbye to Jones and returned to the party. As he entered the house, he encountered Lance, who had an empty glass in his hand.

“Where did you go?” Lance asked, motioning him to follow toward the bar.

“Just for a stroll; I felt like some air.”

“I know the feeling,” Lance replied. “These wakes can be oppressive.”

“It was good of you to have it here.”

“I’m happy to help out Sarah at a difficult time.” He got a drink from the barman and led Stone out into a small garden. They sat down on a teak bench.

“Lovely house,” Stone said.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Lance said. “It came as you see it, right from the agency. The owner is with the Foreign Office; he’s in India or someplace.”

“Good break for you.”

“The rent isn’t a good break. Tell me, is what I’ve been reading in the papers true?”

“I don’t know; what have you been reading?”

“That Sarah is going to inherit James’s estate.”

“That much is true,” Stone said. “I’ve seen the will.”

“How much?”

“Hard to say; difficult to put a value on the business.” So far, he hadn’t told Lance anything that wasn’t public knowledge.

“I suppose Sarah will sell it.”

“I don’t know if she’s had time to think about it. I imagine there’ll be quite a lot of legal work to be done before it’s settled.”

“This turn of events brings me back to what I initially said to you about the boating accident.”

“You still think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I have a suspicious mind.”

“Well, I’ve looked into it a bit, and so has Sir Bernard Pickering, and to my knowledge, no information has arisen to indicate that Sarah even knew about the contents of James’s will.”

“But you can’t say definitively that she did or didn’t know.”

“I don’t think anyone can, but it’s my best judgment, based on what Sarah has told me and on my knowledge of her character, that she did not know.”

“You sound as if you’re testifying at a trial.”

“You sound as if you’re conducting one.”

Lance laughed. “Fair enough.”

“How well did you know James?”

“I’d met him two or three times.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I thought that, like a lot of men, he was very smart about business and very stupid about almost everything else.”

“You mean about Sarah?”

“Yes. She obviously didn’t love him.”

Stone nodded. “I think you’re right; she was under a lot of pressure from her parents to marry him. I don’t think she would have gone through with it.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because Sarah impressed me as someone who would not have let an opportunity like James get past her.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view. How well do you know Sarah?”

“Not all that well, but I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

This conversation was going nowhere, Stone thought. He decided to change the subject. “Do you know someone named Stanford Hedger?”

Lance turned and looked at him for a moment. “No, I don’t,” he said. Then he got up and walked back into the house, leaving Stone on the garden bench.

22

STONE RETURNED TO THE CONNAUGHT, and as he entered, he caught sight of Ted Cricket sitting in the lounge, having a cup of tea. Stone joined him.

Cricket looked grim. He reached into a pocket and handed Stone a single sheet of paper.

Stone unfolded it.

The fingerprints on the wallet were checked against all available databases. Only in the United States was there an apparent match, but no identity was provided. Instead, a message appeared onscreen, stating: “This record is unavailable, for reasons of national security.” I have returned the wallet to the Green Street house, as per your instructions.

This letter constitutes my resignation from the assignment. Mr. Cricket will present you with my bill. Please do not contact me again.

It was signed by Bobby Jones.

“I understand about the fingerprints,” Stone said to Cricket, “but what’s wrong with Bobby?”

Cricket handed him another sheet of paper, outlining Jones’s fee and expenses. “He’d be grateful for cash,” Cricket said.

“Of course,” Stone replied, reaching for the envelope containing Bartholomew’s expense money. He handed Cricket the cash, including a generous bonus. “Thank him for his help, will you?”

“Of course.”

“Now tell me what’s going on with Bobby.”

“When Bobby returned the wallet, he was apparently followed from the house by two men. They dragged him into an alley and beat him badly.”

“Jesus, is he all right?”

“He will be, eventually. He’s in hospital at the moment.”

“I want to go and see him.”

“He doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Barrington. He regards the beating as a message from Mr. Bartholomew to stay away from him and from you.”

“I’d like to pay any medical bills.”

“We have a National Health Service in this country.”

Stone peeled off another thousand pounds from Bartholomew’s money and handed it to Cricket. “Then please give him this; if he needs more, let me know.”

Cricket pocketed the money. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”

“What about you, Ted? Do you want out of this?”

“No, sir; I’d like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby.”

“I understand, but I can’t promise that will happen.”

“It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, too, Ted.”

“Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt.”

“Ted . . .”

“Let me deal with this, please. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t want anyone killed.”

“I’ve no intention of doing that.”

“I don’t want Bartholomew touched.”

“I won’t promise you that.”

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”

“I understand that, but it went that way.”

“I’ll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot,” Stone said. “But I don’t want you near Bartholomew. Don’t follow him again.”

“In that case, I’ll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my bill.”

Stone paid it.

Cricket stood up and offered his hand. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you’re a gentleman and that you didn’t intend for anything like this to happen.”

“Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck.”

“And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being.”

Stone shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’ll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends.”

“Then I’ll have the equipment removed,” Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.

Stone went to the concierge’s desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone’s memory, dialed Bartholomew’s number.

It was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“What do you have to report?”

“You and I have to meet right away.”

“I’m in New York.”

“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Embassy every day.”

There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”

“No; someplace public.”

“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”

“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.

The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let’s go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what’s so important?”

Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I’m returning to New York tomorrow.”

“But you can’t do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.

“Watch me. I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that’s your real name.”

“You stole my wallet?”

“I had it done. And you’re responsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital.”

“He was working for you? I had no way of knowing that.”

“I should warn you that there’s another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he finds you.”

“Oh, Christ,” Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. “What the hell were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?”

“I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn’t getting it from you.”

Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.

“What is your real name?”

“That’s not important,” Bartholomew said. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me.”

“As you wish. Since Stanford Hedger is dead, I’ll assume that’s just another alias.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not. You are Hedger, aren’t you? And you just want someone to think you’re dead.”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I have my resources, Mr. Hedger.” Stone decided to fire a guess. “Tell me, was Lance Cabot one of your bright young men at the Company?”

Hedger shot him a sharp glance. “You’re wandering into an area where you shouldn’t be.”

“I’ve been in that area since I arrived in London,” Stone replied. “Thanks to you. What was it you really wanted to accomplish when you put me onto Lance Cabot’s back?”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

Stone guessed again. “It wasn’t exactly official Company business, was it?”

Hedger shook his head slowly.

“What was it about?”

“All right, I’ll tell you; I guess I owe you that. But you breathe a word of this, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”

For a moment, Stone thought he probably shouldn’t know this; then he changed his mind. “Tell me,” he said.

23

HEDGER, IF THAT WAS HIS NAME, leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey. “It was a Middle Eastern operation,” he said, “and those are always a mess. We had—still have—a shortage of Arabic-speaking operatives, locals who blend in—and that always makes things difficult. Even when you recruit them, you can never really put any trust in them; you never know if they’re doubling for Hamas, or some other radical organization.

“Cabot fit in really well out there; his Arabic was outstanding—so good that he could impersonate an Arab on the phone, if not in person; he wore the region like an old shoe. So much so that I began to suspect him.”

“Of what? Of being an Arab?”

“Of course not; the man looks like a California surfer, doesn’t he?”

No, Stone thought, but he understood what Hedger meant. “If you say so.”

“I began to feel that he was too much taking the part of the people who were supposed to be the opposition. He didn’t like the Israelis we dealt with—thought they were too smart and too devious—and he seemed charmed by Arab custom and even by their fanaticism. He said that’s the way he would be if he were a Palestinian. That sort of comment doesn’t go down well with one’s colleagues, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

“Lance developed some Palestinian contacts—a man and a woman—whom he trusted, but I didn’t. He kept making the case that we should take them inside, tell them more. I wouldn’t do it. I always felt that, the moment we turned our backs, they’d be on the phone to Yasser Arafat or somebody, and that we’d end up paying the price. Well, we did.”

“Did trust them?”

“To an extent. And we paid the price. We put together an operation—I can’t tell you exactly what, but it was supposed to disrupt the leadership of a particularly virulent organization. Lance and I went to Cairo, where our people there put together two explosive devices that were to be carried into buildings by our two operatives, concealed somewhere, then left with timers set. We arranged a meeting in a safe house, and both operatives showed up, but Lance didn’t. He called and said he’d be late. I explained to these two people how the devices worked, and showed them how to set the timers. I waited as long as I could for Lance, then I sent them on their way. Five minutes later, the safe house exploded. The operatives had brought something with them. Lance was, apparently, watching from across the street, and he was on the scene very quickly.

“I was unconscious and was taken to a safe hospital. When I woke up and figured out what had happened, I told my people to tell Lance I had died. That’s how Stan Hedger came to be dead.”

“Does Lance still believe you’re dead?”

“No, certainly not. We ran into each other in Paris last year, so that was that. Lance left the Company shortly after the Cairo debacle and went private.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he used the contacts he’d made in the Middle East while serving the Company to serve himself. He began trading in arms, drugs, Japanese automobiles, whatever he could get his hands on, buy or sell. He’s still dealing with the two operatives who nearly killed me.”

“I can see how your people might be unhappy with him.”

“Unhappy, yes, but officially, he can’t be touched.”

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t be proved to have committed a crime, or even to have sold me out. Contrary to popular belief, the Company no longer blithely assassinates people who have annoyed it. Never did, really.”

“But you still want to hurt him.”

“I want him out of circulation. He’s a danger to people he once served with, like me, and he’s not exactly working in his country’s best interests.”

“So you’re doing this privately, without Company cooperation?”

“Why do you think I hired you?”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve thrown a monkey wrench into my investigation of Lance.”

“How so?”

“There were two retired cops working for me, remember? They were taking turns surveilling you and Lance. Now one’s in the hospital, and the other has quit. He’s the one who wants to meet up with you in a dark alley.”

“I’m really very sorry about the whole thing with the man being hurt,” Hedger said, sounding sincere. “In my business, you do not deal kindly with strangers who follow you and pick your pocket.”

Stone felt a pang of guilt. That was something he should have considered. “In any case, I don’t see how I can be helpful to you after all that’s happened. Lance knows who I am; we’ve socialized. I can hardly sneak up on him. And I’ve used my only police contact to hire these two men, one of whom is now badly hurt. I don’t feel I can go back to my contact and ask him for more help.”

Hedger looked thoughtful. “You say you and Lance have become friendly?”

“ ‘Friendly’ may be too strong a word. We know each other; I like his girl and her sister.”

“Oh, yes, Monica took you down to Lord Wight’s place, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Wight’s daughter from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Rather well.”

“So you have a plausible social history, as far as Cabot is concerned?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue to investigate him, but more from the inside.”

“For one thing, I mentioned your name to him yesterday.”

“What?”

“I asked him if he knew someone called Stanford Hedger; he said no, then walked away.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“I was still trying to figure out who you were, remember? If you had told me the truth—”

“Does he know why you asked about me?”

“No.”

“All right, here’s what you do: At the first opportunity, tell Lance everything that’s happened—about my hiring you, and all that, right up to this meeting. But you tell him you quit, that you were disgusted with my lying to you.”

“What would that accomplish?”

“It would disarm his suspicions. Don’t tell him that you know anything about Cairo or his having been in the agency; just tell him our conversation stopped at the point where you handed me back my money and quit.”

Stone thought about this. It was an intriguing situation, and he did not like Lance for doing the kind of business he was doing.

“You’d be doing a good turn for your country, if that means anything to you,” Hedger said, pushing the hook in a little deeper.

“I don’t know.”

“Give it another week,” Hedger said. He removed another, fatter envelope from his pocket and tossed it into Stone’s lap. “Live it up a bit; see more of London and Monica, Erica, and, above all, Lance. I just want to know what he’s up to, so I can stop him doing it.”

“Tell me the truth; do you intend to kill him?”

“Stone, if I’d intended that, he’d have been dead two years ago.”

“All right,” Stone said finally. “Another week, and that’s it.”

“It’s all I ask. How about a drink, now, and some dinner downstairs? Have you ever visited this club? Know anything about it?”

Then Bartholomew/Hedger, who was suddenly not such a bad guy after all, launched into a history of the Garrick Club and a list of its famous members.

Stone was charmed, a little, and he accepted Hedger’s dinner invitation.

24

STONE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING with a hangover, the result, he was sure, of the great quantity of port that he and Hedger had shared at the Garrick Club. They had dined in the club’s main dining room, a long, tall hall with acres of walls filled with fine portraits, the room’s red paint browned by decades of tobacco smoke. Stone had spotted a former American secretary of state and half a dozen well-known actors, and Hedger had pointed out government officials, barristers, and journalists among the crowd. Stone had been impressed.

Now he was depressed. He made a constant effort not to overindulge; he had failed, and the result was worse than jet lag. The phone rang—more loudly than usual, he thought. “Hello?”

“Good morning, it’s Sarah,” she said brightly. It was the first time they had spoken since the funeral.

“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.

“You sound hungover.”

“It’s jet lag.”

“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.

“All right, I’m hungover.”

“And how did this happen?”

“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”

“And in whose company?”

“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”

“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”

Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”

“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”

Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”

“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”

“Do I need a dinner jacket?”

“Always a good idea at an English country house.”

“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”

“Of course you will.” She hung up.

Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”

Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”

“Perfect; see you then.”

Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.

“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”

“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”

“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”

“Know much about him?”

“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”

“Oh.”

“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.

Stone nodded.

“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”

Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.

“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”

“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.

“Get in!”

The doorman held the door open for him.

“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.

Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.

Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.

“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.

“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”

“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.

Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.

“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”

“Port.”

“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”

“All too easily.”

“And who was your host?”

“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.

“English or American?”

“American, but an anglophile.”

“Thus, the port.”

“Yes.”

“How did you like the Garrick?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“They’re just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”

“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.

He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the windshield to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the glass, and it was eye to eye with him. “Where are we?” he asked.

“In the middle of a flock of sheep,” Sarah replied. “They have the right of way in the country.”

“I mean, where are we?”

“Halfway there. You hungry?”

Oddly, he was. “Yes.”

“There’s a pub round the bend; we’ll have a ploughman’s lunch.” She drove on when the sheep had passed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch—bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.

Stone drank deeply from the pint. “There, that’s better,” he said.

“The bitter will set you right,” Sarah said.

“That’s the second time today I’ve been told that.”

“And we were both right, no?”

“Yes, you both were. What do you know about Lance Cabot?”

“I told you already—not much.”

“Remember everything you can. Anything ever strike you as odd about him?”

“Only that he seems to fit in awfully well with English people. People I know don’t even seem to regard him as a foreigner.”

“Have you ever seen him with anyone you didn’t know?”

She thought. “Once, in a London restaurant, I saw him across the room, dining with a couple—man and woman—who looked foreign.”

“What kind of foreign?”

“Mediterranean.”

“That’s a big area.”

“Turkish or Israeli, perhaps.”

“Describe them.”

“About his age, well dressed, attractive—the woman, particularly. She was quite beautiful, in fact.”

“Could you hear them talking?”

“No, but they didn’t seem to be speaking English. I couldn’t read their lips, and I’m quite good at that, even from a distance. I don’t know if I told you, but as a child I had some sort of flu or virus that resulted in a sharp hearing loss. My hearing came back after a few months, but during that time I became adept at reading lips. Most people couldn’t tell I was hard of hearing.”

Stone nodded in the direction of a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the garden. “Tell me what they’re talking about.”

Sarah squinted in their direction for a moment, then giggled. “She’s lying to him,” she said.

“How?”

“She’s saying they were just friends, that they never slept together, and he believes her, but she’s lying.”

“How do you know?”

“I can just tell.”

“You’re a woman of many talents,” he said.

“I thought you already knew that.”

“I had forgotten how many.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m going to remind you.”

25

THEY DRESSED FOR DINNER AND DINED in a smaller room than last time, at a round table, the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the night, in the English fashion. Stone didn’t understand why the Brits did that; he enjoyed the long summer twilights.

The talk ranged through politics, sport, and the relationship between the English and the Americans. Stone noticed that Lord and Lady Wight, during this part of the conversation, seemed to feel that Lance was on their side of things, while Stone and Erica occupied the other. It was as Sarah had said; the Brits were very comfortable with Lance, considering him one of their own. Stone couldn’t figure out why.

Port was served with Stilton at the end of the meal, and Stone sipped warily from his glass, his hangover having only just disappeared. At some invisible signal, the ladies rose and left the room. Stone nearly went with them, but Lance signaled him to stay.

“Over here, the ladies go somewhere, and the gentlemen stick around for cigars,” Lance explained, lighting something Cuban.

Stone despised cigars—smoking them or smelling somebody else smoking them.

Wight did not light a cigar, but sniffed at Lance’s. “My doctor has taken me off them,” he said. “Bloody cruel, if you ask me.” He looked at a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m turning in early. My respects to the ladies.” He got up and left.

They sat quietly for a moment, Stone playing with his port, Lance puffing his cigar and staring at the windows, as if he could see through the thick drapes and out into the night.

“You asked me a strange question the other day,” he said finally. “I’d like to know why.”

“About Hedger?”

Lance nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I have a lot to tell you about that,” Stone said.

Lance waved the cigar, as if motioning him onward.

“Last week a man showed up in my office, recommended by Woodman and Weld, and introduced himself as John Bartholomew.”

Lance shot him a glance.

“I take it you understand the significance of that name,” Stone said.

Lance shrugged slightly.

“He told me that he was concerned about his favorite niece—his dead sister’s child—that she had run off to England with someone of whom he suspected evil things. He retained me to come over here and see if I could disentangle the girl from the clutches of this ogre. Normally, I wouldn’t take on such an assignment, but he had passed muster with Woodman and Weld, and they had urged me to help him, so I came.”

“And how did he expect you to deal with this ogre?” Lance asked, blowing smoke in Stone’s direction.

Stone waved it off with his napkin. “I told him up front that I would not participate in harming him, and that I would not kidnap his niece. He said he would be content if I could get the ogre put into jail.”

Lance laughed, choking on his cigar smoke. “And how did he expect you to do that?” he was finally able to ask.

“He told me that you were supporting yourself by smuggling drugs into Britain—on your person, no less. I had a police contact; when I confirmed Bartholomew’s charges, I intended to put him onto you.”

“And now that you have been unable to confirm this information, what are your intentions?”

“I have none. I resigned from Bartholomew’s employ yesterday.”

“Oh? Why, pray tell?”

“I discovered that he had been lying to me.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I hired two former policemen—one to follow Bartholomew—”

“I imagine that came to naught,” Lance chuckled.

“Not entirely. My policeman had his pocket picked; that’s how I learned that his name is Stanford Hedger.”

“I don’t imagine Stan took kindly to that.”

“He did not. Some of his acquaintances put one of my policemen in the hospital.”

Lance nodded sagely. “Figures. What about the other one?”

“Oh, he was assigned to follow you; actually, the two of them took turns. I had your phones tapped, too.”

Lance turned and looked at Stone for the first time. “You what?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t learn anything. The conversations were very boring. Except for one, that is.”

“And what was that about?”

“Apparently, someone wants something from you, and you don’t want to supply it. I believe you threatened to kill anyone who pressed the issue.”

Lance was obviously thinking back over that conversation. “No names were mentioned, as I recall.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, having left Stan’s employ, you’re back at square one?”

“No, square one was in New York, and now I’m in England and rather enjoying myself. I’m simply a tourist now; I returned Hedger’s expense money to him, having deducted a sum for the benefit of the injured policeman.”

“What else did Stan tell you about me?”

“He told me of your former, ah, business connection. He told me about the explosion in Cairo, in which, he believes, you were complicit.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Lance said. “I saved his life, you know. I was about to walk into the building when it blew, knocking me down, and I dragged him out of the ruins, unconscious, and got him to a hospital.”

“Did you think he was dead?”

“That’s what I was told the following day. Then, last year, he turned up at a dinner party in Paris, where I was also a guest. Quite a surprise, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine. Why does Hedger want you in jail?”

“He doesn’t want me in jail; he wants me dead. It would be easy to arrange, of course, if he could get me into a jail; then he could hire somebody to put a shiv in my liver.”

“Why wouldn’t it be easy to make you dead?”

“Because I know too much about him, and he doesn’t know who else I’ve told. For all he knows, there’s a neat little manuscript tied up with red ribbon, waiting in a safe-deposit box at my bank.”

“Is there?”

“Too bloody right there is.”

“Then it’s ironic that he wants you dead for the very same reasons he can’t afford to kill you.”

Lance grinned broadly, the first time Stone had ever seen him do so. “I like the paradox,” he said.

“Tell me some of what you know—not enough for Hedger to want me dead, of course. How does he operate?”

“Oh, Stan manages to use his official connections to arrange unofficial profits for himself.”

“Funny, that’s what he said about you.”

“I use every connection at my disposal,” Lance said readily. “The difference is, I waited until I had left our mutual employer to use them, whereas Stan is still employed and using his contacts to the hilt. There are rules about that.”

“But if you haven’t already made his activities known to his employer, why would you now?”

“That’s what worries Stan, apparently. Personally, I don’t give a shit what he does to make a buck, as long as it doesn’t endanger my own prospects. What Stan fears is that, in competing with him in business, I might turn him in, to get him out of the way. He could end up in prison if I did, you know. At the very least, he’d be bounced out of his job, and without any pension or benefits. He’s only a few years away from retirement, and he wants all that, in addition to the illicit wealth he’s accumulated over the years.”

“These activities have made him rich, then?”

“Not rich enough for Stan’s liking,” Lance replied. “I think he wants to live like a potentate when he retires.”

“Is there that much to be made?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“How much do you know about Stan?”

“I’ve learned that he was something of a wild man in the Company, at least in his youth, and that at least some of his superiors didn’t trust him.”

“That’s accurate information,” Lance said, “as far as it goes.”

“It’s about all I know, so far,” Stone said.

“All right, I’ll tell you about Stan.”

Stone leaned forward, eager to learn.

26

LANCE CABOT GOT UP AND LED STONE into the library, then settled into a leather sofa, inviting Stone to join him.

“What about the ladies?” Stone asked.

“They’re in the drawing room nattering away,” Lance said. “If they want us, they’ll hunt us down.” He had brought the decanter with him, and he refreshed Stone’s port glass and his own.

Stone waited patiently for him to begin.

“Stanford Hedger got out of Yale in the early sixties,” he said, “and he went straight into the Company, having been recruited well before graduation by a professor who later recruited me. It was a good time to join up; he was just completing his training when the Cuban invasion came along—hadn’t had a posting yet, so he couldn’t be blamed for what happened at the Bay of Pigs. But a lot of his superiors were blamed, and a lot of them left the Company, leaving an unusual amount of room for early promotion. Stan was good at languages; he had French, Russian, German, and more than a smattering of Arabic. Later he came by Hebrew, which impressed the Israelis. He was still at the military language school in Monterey, California, when the Bay of Pigs invasion came to grief. It’s a wonderful school; they teach you things like perfect military German or Russian, the idea being that when they got ready to put somebody over a border, he’d blend in.

“Stan got put across what was then the East German border, dressed as a colonel—Stan looked a lot older than he was. He wrought havoc on the other side; he’d walk into a military command when the senior officer was out, flash some bogus orders signed by the Soviet commander, issue a lot of ridiculous orders, and it would take them days, sometimes weeks before they’d get everything straightened out again. He was one step ahead of them for three or four months, then, as they were closing in on him, he hit a West German worker on the head, stole his clothes, and rode back into West Berlin on the S-Bahn, the elevated railway that took several thousand essential workers back and forth to the East from the West every day. It was a bravura performance, almost entirely solo, and it brought him to the attention of the higher-ups—got him decorated, it did.”

“Not a bad start for a bright young man.”

“It was a lot better than not bad, and it helped that Stan came out of a background that the agency loved and trusted—Choate, Yale, and half a dozen of the very best clubs. His father worked for Wild Bill Donovan in the OSS during World War Two, and by that time he was the head of an important New York brokerage house. If you’d tossed the two dozen top men at the Company in a room together and told them to design the perfect agent, they would have come up with Stan.”

“What came next for him?”

“Vietnam. By ’sixty-five, he was on the ground there, in Laos, Thailand, wherever he could do the most good. He was one of two or three guys who invented Air America, the CIA-fronted airline that flew people, equipment, drugs, and all sorts of contraband all over Southeast Asia. He made some money out of that, legend has it.”

“Was he motivated by money?”

“Not at first, probably, but agents in that sort of situation suddenly start seeing it lying around on the ground in neatly tied bundles, and it’s hard not to pick up some of it. Stan spent it as fast as he made or stole it, though; he had an establishment in Saigon that included a townhouse that had formerly belonged to a French governor, a chauffeured Rolls-Royce of a certain vintage, and a mistress who was said to be the most beautiful and the most sexually adventurous female for a thousand miles in any direction. He entertained on a scale not often seen outside the loftier regions of French society—a superb cellar had come with the house—and his guests included everybody of importance who came through the city: journalists, presidential advisiors, senior military figures. It was said that the only reason Hanoi never tried to blow the house to smithereens was that all the servants were Viet Cong, and they reported everything that happened there. Stan, of course, maintained he was running them as double agents.”

Stone had to laugh.

“When the whole thing finally came crashing down, Stan got out on the last helicopter leaving the embassy. You remember a photograph of an American slugging somebody who was clinging to the chopper as it rose?”

“Yes.”

“Look closely, allow for age, and you’ll see that it was Stan. It made him more famous than ever, in certain circles.”

“What happened to the mistress?”

“Funny you should ask. Stan abandoned her at the end, but it’s said that, within a week of the fall of Saigon, she was living with the commandant of what had suddenly become Ho Chi Min City. She had the house all ready and waiting for him. Eventually, she got out of the country and ended up in LA, where she is now running the most exotic bordello the town has ever seen. I’ll give you the number, if you’re going to be out there anytime soon.”

“You never know. What did he do after Vietnam?”

“He had a number of dull postings after that, kept his head down until nobody remembered whose fault Vietnam had been. I met him in the early eighties, when I arrived at the Farm.”

“What farm was that?”

“The Farm is the training school for the covert side of the agency, and by that time, Stan was running it. It’s the intelligence equivalent of an army officer becoming the commandant at West Point.”

“I see.”

“I think Stan saw something of himself in me—though, of course, a slightly dimmer bulb—so he did a lot of mentoring with me and got me into the Monterey school.”

“What language?”

“Arabic; I initially learned it in bed from a Lebanese girlfriend at Yale, and after the Monterey school, I was very good with it. Stan saw that I got a Middle Eastern assignment, a good one. I still can’t tell you much about that, but it involved slinking around various deserts, in mufti, listening a lot. I was limited by my Western appearance, but I did all right. I became something of a specialist, too, at listening in on interrogations and interpreting not just language, but all of the subject’s words and actions. The downside was, I had to watch the interrogations through a two-way mirror, and they were never pretty.”

Stone didn’t want to think about that.

“The friction with Stan started when I began to develop my own sources and collaborators. He was working out of the Cairo embassy by then, his cover being something like agricultural attaché, and he ran a tight ship. When I wouldn’t share my contacts with him or anybody else, he began to ride me. I was mingling a lot in the upper reaches of Middle Eastern society, too, so some of my sources were very well placed. I’d write reports giving a lot of good information, which Stan would always say was worthless because I wouldn’t ascribe it to a verifiable source. Then I began getting reports past him, directly to Langley, which is against Company policy, and that drove him nuts. The Company has a chain of command, just like the military, and if you violate it, you have to be very, very careful. Stan’s problem was that my information in these reports nearly always turned out to be accurate, and it made Stan look bad that he hadn’t passed them on to Langley himself.”

“I can see how that might annoy him.”

“Then the explosion of the safe house happened, and after he recovered from that, I’ve been hearing from old friends, he became diminished in the eyes of his superiors and something of a has-been in the eyes of his inferiors. That’s when he really started going for the main chance.”

“And he hasn’t been caught at it?”

“Stan’s too smart to get caught in the usual ways. Somebody would have to turn on him, and that’s why he worries about me. Sometimes I think that if I could sit down at dinner with him, I could put his mind at rest, but he regards me as as much of a business competitor now as a threat to his personal security.”

“I can see that it’s a difficult situation,” Stone said.

Lance looked sad. “One of us is not going to survive this situation,” he said. Then he looked grim. “And it isn’t going to be me.”

Then the ladies came looking for them.

“I think you’re going queer for Lance,” Sarah said. She was lying on top of Stone, having just drained him of most of his precious bodily fluids.

“What?” Stone managed to say, still panting.

“The two of you went into this huddle after dinner, and I think you’d still be there, if I hadn’t come in and dragged you away.” She began toying with his penis.

“You’re not going to find any joy there,” Stone said. “Not after what you’ve just put me through. I may take weeks to recover.”

“Nonsense,” she said, squeezing. “You’re recovering already.”

Stone groaned.

“I’m going to make you forget about Lance,” she said, traveling down his torso with her tongue, until she had him in her mouth.

She was absolutely right, Stone thought. Lance was right out of his mind.

27

STONE HAD FINISHED BREAKFAST AND was reading the London papers in the morning room when Sarah came in.

“And how are we this morning?” she asked, in the manner of a visiting nurse. She pecked him on the forehead.

“I don’t know about you,” he said in a low voice, “but I can hardly walk.”

“You’re out of shape,” she laughed. “We’ll have to get you fit again. Come on, we’re going to the market.” She tugged him out of the chair, grabbed a basket by the front door, and led him outside, where an ancient Morris Minor estate car, nicely kept, awaited them.

“Where’s everybody else?” Stone asked, as Sarah started the car.

“Erica’s sleeping in; Lance wanted a drive, so I loaned him the Mini Cooper.”

“Where’d Lance go?”

“I dunno; just for a drive.” They passed through the gates of the estate, and Sarah turned toward the village. Shortly, they had stopped in front of a small grocery.

Down the block, Stone spotted the bright orange Mini Cooper. “You go ahead and shop,” he said to Sarah; “I want to have a look at the village.”

“All right; meet me at the car in half an hour; I’ll be done by then.” She went into the grocery.

Stone started down the street toward the Mini Cooper. It was empty, and he looked around, wondering where Lance might have gone. Then he saw him enter a pub across the street. Stone glanced at his watch; it was just opening time. He dawdled down the street, wondering why Lance would be in a pub before lunch. Wasn’t there enough booze back at the house? He considered going inside himself, but Lance’s behavior was unusual enough that he preferred not to be seen following him. He ducked into a news agent’s across from the pub, bought a Herald Tribune, and pretended to read it. No more than a minute had passed when he saw two people get out of a parked saloon car and head for the pub.

Stone had never seen them before, but their appearance struck a chord. They were Mediterranean in appearance, and the woman was quite beautiful. That matched the description of the people Sarah had seen with Lance in a restaurant, and he remembered Hedger’s saying that two of Lance’s contacts in Cairo had been a young couple. Stone tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street.

The pub had stained-glass windows, and Stone peered through one. He saw the three of them seated at a corner table, and he moved around to the side of the building for a better view. He found another window, one with clear glass, partly protected by curtains. He could stand and look inside through a small opening in the drapes without being seen by Lance and his friends.

There was a very earnest conversation going on, which stopped abruptly when a barmaid brought drinks to the table, then resumed as soon as she had gone. Lance was making a point, tapping a forefinger hard on the table, leaning forward for emphasis. The couple seemed uncomfortable, and the woman placed her hand on Lance’s arm, in a calming motion. He jerked away from her and brought his palm down hard on the table, apparently very close to losing his temper. The couple sat back and listened, not arguing. Then Lance threw some money on the table, got up, and walked out.

Stone flattened himself against the wall until he was sure Lance had left the pub, then started toward the front of the building. From around the corner, he heard the distinctive sound of the Mini Cooper revving, then driving away in a hurry. Stone went into the pub.

The couple were still there, ignoring their drinks, looking worried, talking animatedly. Stone stood at the end of the bar nearest them and ordered a lemonade.

“I don’t care,” the man was saying. “This is getting dangerous.”

“We have to do this,” she said. “What choice do we have? How else are we going to make this kind of money?”

“Why do we have to take all the risks?” he asked.

“We’re not taking all the risks; Lance is doing his part.”

“Let’s get back to London,” the man said, standing up.

Stone turned his back to them, pretending to examine a photograph of the pub on the wall next to him. He didn’t want them to register his face; he might run into them again.

When they had been gone long enough to get to their car and drive away, Stone left the pub and walked back to the Morris Minor. Sarah was just coming out of the grocery with a cart filled with bags, and he helped her stow them in the rear of the estate car.

They were back in plenty of time for lunch, and found Erica had joined the living. After they had eaten, Lance took Stone into the morning room and sat him down.

“I’ve done some looking into your background,” he said, “and I like what I’ve learned.”

“What have you learned?” Stone asked.

“I’ve learned what sort of policeman you were and what sort of lawyer you are now. I’m impressed with the variety and depth of your experience.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, not sure what to make of this.

“I think you and I might do some business together. Interested?”

“What sort of business?”

“Profitable.”

“How profitable?”

“Very.”

“How illegal?”

“Entirely aboveboard,” Lance said. “And the money will be made quickly.”

“In my experience,” Stone replied, “fast money is usually made at the expense of the law and at the risk of prison. I’m not interested in either of those possibilities.”

“I assure you, this would be a straightforward business transaction.”

“Why do you need me to accomplish this transaction?”

“First, there’s some legal work in New York; I need to create a corporation and open banking and brokerage accounts in the corporation’s name.”

“Any attorney could do that,” Stone said. “Why me?”

“Because you’re here, and I’m not in New York,” Lance replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

Stone had a feeling it was not at all simple. “I’d have to know all of what you intend to do and how you intend to do it.”

“Not just yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I won’t be involved unless I know what I’m getting into.”

“I promise, you’ll only be doing what any New York attorney would be doing.”

“You mean, what I don’t know won’t hurt me?”

“That’s quite true.”

“I’ve always found that truism to be a lie,” Stone said. “It’s what you don’t know that can destroy you.”

“I can’t tell you everything just yet,” Lance said.

“Let me know when you can, and then we can talk about it,” Stone replied. “Whatever you tell me will be bound by attorney-client privilege as long as it’s legal, and if we should agree to disagree, you’d have nothing to fear from my talking about your deal.”

Lance stared at him for a moment. “You’re not a very trusting person,” he said.

“Let’s see,” Stone said. “What I know about you so far is that you’re ex-CIA and that you’re involved in, shall we say, unconventional business dealings. And you have a serious enemy who is still inside the Company and who wishes to see you in jail or, perhaps, worse. Does that about sum it up so far?”

“You’re taking Stan far too seriously,” Lance said.

“I’m not sure you’re taking him seriously enough,” Stone said.

“I assure you, I’m giving him the attention he deserves.”

Stone shook his head. “I’m not willing to talk about this, until you’re ready to talk to me a lot more.”

Lance considered this. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.” He got up and left the room.

Stone wondered if he wasn’t getting near the time when he should be calling Detective Inspector Throckmorton. Not just yet, he decided finally.

28

STONE ARRIVED BACK AT THE CONNAUGHT and checked his mail and messages, among which was one from Doug Hayward to come back for a fitting. Quick, he thought.

He changed clothes, then left the Connaught and walked up Mount Street toward Hayward’s shop. In the middle of the block he stood, waiting for traffic to subside enough for him to cross, but before he could move, a large black car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He could not see through the darkened windows, and as he tried, a rear door opened and a large man reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him forward into the commodious rear compartment of the car. Before he could say anything, he was on the floor, with large feet holding him down, one on the nape of his neck.

“What is this about?” Stone managed to croak, even though his neck was held at an odd angle.

“Shut up,” a man’s deep voice said.

Stone shut up.

The car drove for, maybe, twenty minutes. Stone tried to keep track of the time and the turns, but he couldn’t see his watch, and, not knowing the street plan well enough, he couldn’t figure out where they were going. They seemed to drive around three or four traffic circles, and shortly after the last one, they made a right turn and stopped. The two men in the rear seat hustled Stone through an open door in a narrow back street and into a darkened hallway. They marched Stone along, making a couple of turns, then he was propelled forward into a small room, bouncing off the rear wall, and the door was slammed behind him.

“You have one minute to strip off all your clothes, or we’ll do it for you,” the deep voice said.

Stone thought about this for half a minute, then he got out of his clothes and laid them neatly on a bench along one wall. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he could see that he was in a windowless room with a steel door. There was a bucket in a corner and the bench, no other furniture. A moment later, a small door in the larger one opened, then closed, then the two men came into the cell, took away his clothes, and slammed the door behind them.

Stone thought about it. These people did not seem like the police. Surely the London police had procedures about arrest and detention, just as the New York department did, and what he was experiencing did not seem to conform to any set of procedures in any civilized country. This was more like something out of a World War II film about the Gestapo, or a spy novel.

Perhaps three minutes passed, then the cell door opened again, and someone threw his clothes at him.

“Get dressed,” the deep voice said. “You have one minute.”

Stone was tying his necktie when the door opened again and he was half escorted, half dragged down another series of hallways, then pushed into a brightly lit room, the door slamming behind him.

Blinking rapidly, he discovered that all the room was not brightly lit, just the part containing a wooden stool. The other side of the room, some twelve or fifteen feet away, contained a table behind which sat three men. They were in deep shadows and he could see only their forms, not their faces. It seemed to be arranged as some sort of Stalinist tribunal.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Barrington,” a smooth male voice said.

Stone went and sat down on the stool. There was something odd about the man’s voice, but he couldn’t figure it out.

The smooth voice spoke again, and Stone figured it was coming from the man in the middle, who was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. “Tell us, please, if you have ever heard the following names, in any context: Robert Graves?”

“What?”

“Robert Graves.”

“Yes. The poet.”

“Any other context?”

“No.”

“Maureen Kleinknect?”

“No.”

“Joanna Scott-Meyers?”

“No.”

“Jacob Ben-David?”

“No.”

“Erica Burroughs?”

“Yes.”

“In what regard?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“How well do you know her?”

“I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”

“Lance Cabot?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”

“If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”

“Lance Cabot?”

Stone said nothing.

“If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”

Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.

“Just once more; Lance Cabot?”

“He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”

“How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”

“He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”

“Did you know him before arriving in London?”

“No.”

“Ali Hussein?”

“Pardon?”

“Ali Hussein?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Sheherezad Al-Salaam, also known as Sheila.”

“Nor her.”

“Sarah Buckminster?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“I knew her when she lived in New York; we renewed our acquaintance after I arrived in London. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Monica Burroughs?”

“The sister of Erica. Art dealer. Spent part of one weekend in her company.”

“John Bartholomew?”

“No.”

“John Bartholomew?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Mr. Barrington, don’t try my patience.”

Stone said nothing. The man made a small movement with one hand, and Stone heard a buzzer ring in another room. A moment later, the door opened and the two thugs entered.

“John Bartholomew?” the smooth voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell us.”

“Mr. Bartholomew visited me in New York and asked me to come to London to persuade his niece to return with me to the United States.”

“What is the name of his niece?”

“Erica Burroughs.”

“And why did he want her returned to America?”

“He said he was concerned that her boyfriend might involve her in illegal activities.”

“What sort of activities?”

“Drug smuggling.”

Stone heard a low laugh. “What is the real name of John Bartholomew?”

Stone tried to sound puzzled. “Real name? I know him only by that name.”

“Are you still in his employ?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I discovered that Miss Burroughs is not his niece, and that he seemed to have other motives for hiring me.”

“What motives?”

“He seemed to have some animus for Mr. Cabot.”

“For what reason?”

“He did not confide that to me. When I discovered he was lying to me, I resigned from his employ.”

“Have you seen him since that time?”

“No.”

There was a scraping noise from the table in front of him, and Stone realized that the contents of his pockets were on the table. A hand picked up the satellite telephone and held it in the light for Stone to see.

“What is this?”

“It’s a telephone.”

“What kind of telephone?”

“A cellphone, like any other.” Stone heard beeps as a number was tapped into the phone. A moment later, a phone rang in another room. The phone was returned to the table.

“Describe John Bartholomew.”

“Six feet three or four, heavyset, dark hair going gray, sixtyish.”

“Nationality?”

“American, as far as I know.”

“Why do you carry a false passport?” A hand held it in the light.

“If it’s false, then they’re handing out false documents at the passport office in the London embassy of the United States of America. If you’ll check the date of issue, you’ll see I got it last week.”

There was some whispering among the three men, then the smooth voice spoke again. If you have left Mr. Bartholomew’s employ, why do you remain in Britain?”

“Tourism.”

“Mr. Barrington, you are trying my patience again.”

“A woman, as well.”

“What woman?”

“Sarah Buckminster. Don’t you read the papers?”

“You are interested in her?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Miss Buckminster and I lived together in New York. We have renewed our acquaintance.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah.”

“Miss Buckminster has recently become very rich.”

“Ah, you do read the papers.”

“Are you interested in her money?”

“What do you think?”

“Ah.”

“If you say so.”

“Mr. Barrington, I can’t say that I like your attitude.”

“I can’t say that I like being abducted on a public street, imprisoned, and interrogated by a group of people who have read too many bad novels.”

“Mr. Barrington, this is your final opportunity to tell us what we want to know.”

“Have I denied you anything so far? I have no idea what you want to know.”

“According to your papers, you were once a policeman.”

“That’s correct.”

“Surely you conducted interrogations.”

“Many times.”

“Didn’t you always find out what you wanted to know?”

“No, I didn’t; unlike you, I was constrained by the law.”

“We are constrained by nothing.”

“No kidding.”

The man made a motion with his hand; one of the two thugs stepped forward, swept Stone’s belongings into a paper bag, and stepped back.

“Get rid of him,” the smooth voice said.

Stone did not like the sound of that. Before he could move, the two men were on him, one at each arm, dragging him back down the series of hallways, outside, and into the car. Once again, he was facedown on the floor of the limousine, with a foot on his neck.

The car drove away, turning this way and that. Stone lay still, knowing that he had no chance until the car stopped and they took him out. Then he would give them the fight of their lives.

Twenty minutes later, the car came to a halt; Stone was picked up and bodily tossed into the gutter. As he started to rise, the paper bag with his belongings hit him in the back of the head. By the time he got to his feet, the car had turned a corner and was gone. People looked at him oddly as he dusted himself off and returned his belongings to his pockets. He looked around. The Hayward shop was across the street; he was back where he had been abducted.

He walked across the street and into Hayward’s. Doug Hayward rose from a leather sofa, and a small dog began to bark at Stone.

“Shut up, Bert,” Hayward said. “Come on back, Stone; we’re ready for you.”

Stone silently followed Hayward to the rear of the shop and the dressing room, where he removed his jacket.

“Stone,” Hayward said, “are you aware that you have a footprint on the back of your shirt collar?”

29

STONE LET HIMSELF INTO HIS SUITE and got out the satellite telephone. He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Yes?”

“I have to see you now.”

“Can’t do it; how about tomorrow?”

“I’ll be in New York tomorrow, if I don’t see you now.”

A brief silence. “Where?”

“The lounge at the Connaught will do. Ten minutes.”

“All right.” He rang off.

Bartholomew/Hedger bustled into the lounge and sat down next to Stone, who was sipping a cup of tea.

“Some tea?” Stone asked.

“What is it?”

“Earl Grey.”

Hedger made a digusted noise and raised a finger to a waiter. “Bring me a pot of English Breakfast,” he said.

Stone waited while the tea was brought.

“All right, what?” Hedger said.

“Earlier today, I was grabbed by two men, stuffed into the back of a car, driven to an unknown location, stripped, searched, and interrogated by three men. By one man, really; the other two just sat and listened.”

Hedger stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear anything I said? I want an explanation.”

“Why do you think I know anything about it?”

“I believe you are a member of a group who indulges in such activities; you were my first thought, even though they asked me about you.”

Hedger held up a hand. “What did they want to know about me?”

“Whatever I knew; your name, for instance.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“If they didn’t know my name, how did they ask about me?”

“They asked about John Bartholomew. Obviously, they didn’t get the joke. They wanted to know Bartholomew’s real name.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them about our initial meeting and told them I had left your employ.”

Hedger looked relieved. “All right, now I want you to take me through this incident, step by step, and tell me exactly what happened and exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a big car, black, with blackened windows; a limousine, I believe. Plenty of room for me to lie facedown on the floor with some palooka’s foot on my neck.”

“Describe the two men who took you.”

“Big, muscular.”

“What did they say to you?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“They told me to shut up. Oh, one of them told me to undress, once we reached their location.”

“Accent?”

“Pretty hard to determine from the words ‘shut up,’ but I’d say British.”

“Class?”

“I didn’t ask them where they went to school.”

“No, class; social class: upper or lower?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, but it’s hard for me to believe that members of the upper class indulge in broad-day-light kidnapping. Lower, I guess.”

“What about the other men, their accents?”

“Only one of them spoke. His voice was smooth, cultivated, definitely upper class, but there was some sort of accent underneath it.”

“You mean a foreign accent?”

“You know the actor Herbert Lom?”

“Yes.”

“An accent like that, sort of—foreign, but British upper class at the same time. It’s as if he were born elsewhere but educated here.”

“Do you know anyone else, an Englishman, with the same kind of upper-class accent?”

Stone thought about it. “James Cutler,” he said, “and his solicitor, Julian Wainwright.” Also Sarah and her parents, but he didn’t mention that.

“Do you know where Cutler and Wainwright went to school?”

“Eton, I believe.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Just ah. That would indicate someone fairly high up in the food chain.”

“What food chain?”

“The food chain in whatever country he’s from. They don’t ship out butchers’ sons to be educated at Eton.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a list of names, nothing else.”

“What were the names?”

“Robert Graves was the first.”

“The poet?”

“They asked me if I knew the name in any other context.”

“Who else?”

“Two women’s names—an Irish first name, and the last name was odd—Klein something or other.”

“Maureen Kleinknect?”

“Yes, that’s it. Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter; she’s dead. What was the other one?”

“Joanna with a double-barreled last name.”

“Scott-Meyers?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Then there was Erica and Monica Burroughs, Lance Cabot, Sarah Buckminster, and you.”

“And what did you tell them about each of these people?”

“The bare minimum.”

Hedger sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Once again, describe the two men who dragged you into the car. This time I want every detail.”

“I told you—big.”

“What else?”

“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not very dark, but a little, and black hair.”

“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”

“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”

“Tell me about the silhouettes.”

“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”

“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”

“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”

“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”

Nobody had ever doubled his hourly fee before; Stone was impressed, still . . . “That won’t do me any good, if I’m dead.”

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“Why not? What’s their motive for keeping me alive?”

“These people are from a foreign country—probably a foreign intelligence service, or at least some clandestine group. It’s a lot of trouble to kill people and dispose of their bodies, and they won’t do anything that will call attention to themselves. Anyway, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Think about it; what do you know that you haven’t already told them?”

“Not much, just your name.”

“Exactly, and they don’t believe you know that. They believe they’ve milked you dry, so you’re of no further use to them. They’ll leave you alone, now.”

“If you say so,” Stone replied doubtfully.

“Trust me,” Hedger said.

Yeah, sure, Stone thought. But double his hourly fee sounded awfully good. It wasn’t until Hedger had left that Stone remembered that he had forgotten to mention the two Arab names he’d been asked about. What were they . . . Ali and Sheherezad, also known as Sheila? He couldn’t remember the last names.

30

STONE’S NEXT THOUGHT WAS TO HAVE the same discussion with Lance Cabot that he’d had with Stanford Hedger. Rain had begun to beat against the Connaught’s windows, so he retrieved his new raincoat and umbrella from his suite, and the doorman got him a cab. It was only a short way to Farm Street, but Stone was not going to dance over there in the rain.

The cabbie was just turning into Farm Steet, when Stone stopped him. “Just hold it right here for a minute,” he said. Lance Cabot and the couple he’d met with in the village pub were leaving the house, getting into a cab of their own. “Follow that cab,” Stone said, “but not too closely.” He could see the driver in the rearview mirror, rolling his eyes.

“Right, guv,” the cabbie said. “It’s your money; I’ll follow them to Cornwall, if you like.”

“I doubt if they’ll go that far.”

Lance’s cab set off. Stone’s driver reversed for a few yards, then drove up another mews. Stone thought the man had lost the other cab, until it appeared ahead of them. “Very good,” he said to the driver.

“It’s what I do,” the cabbie said. “You know about The Knowledge?” Lance’s cab turned into Park Lane, and Stone’s followed.

“What knowledge is that?”

“The Knowledge is what every London cabdriver has to have before he gets a license. You drive all over town on a motorbike for a year or two, taking notes on addresses, public buildings, pubs, theaters and tube stops—whatever you see; you go to classes at night; and finally you take the exam. A question would be, like, ‘A passenger wants to go from Hampstead Heath to Wormwood Scrubs Prison. Describe the shortest route, and name every cross street, public building, and tube stop along the way.’ Miss one cross street, and you’ve missed the question. Miss too many questions, and you’ve failed the exam. Get it right, and you have The Knowledge, and you get your license.”

Lance’s cab drove around Hyde Park Corner, through Belgrave Square, on to Sloane Square, and started down the King’s Road. Stone glanced at side streets as they passed and wondered if he could ever memorize them all. “That’s pretty impressive,” he said.

“I had a mate once, went through all that, passed The Knowledge, got his license, then he went out to celebrate that night, had a lot to drink, and got stopped by the police on the way home and Breathalyzed. Lost his license; he’d taken two and a half years to get it, and he kept it only a few hours.”

“Poor fellow,” Stone said. They were past World’s End now, continuing down the King’s Road, past dozens of antique shops. A large, black car overtook Stone’s cab and drove on.

“Who’s in the other cab?” the cabbie asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My wife’s boyfriend, I think,” Stone replied.

“Don’t you worry, guv, I won’t lose the bastard.”

Up ahead, Lance’s cab was signaling a left turn. The black car turned, too. It was starting to look familiar to Stone. Lance’s cab approached a large building that had probably once been a warehouse but now bore a large sign declaring it to be an antiques market. Down the block, Lance’s cab came to a halt, and its three occupants got out. The black car stopped half a block behind them.

“Stop here,” Stone said. The cabbie stopped. Stone watched as two large, swarthy men got out of the back of the limousine and followed Lance and his companions into the building.

“Is there another entrance to this place?” Stone asked.

“Just around the corner, there, in the King’s Road,” the cabbie said.

Stone got out of the cab and handed the driver a ten-pound note.

“Thanks, guv,” the driver said. “You want me to wait for you? Won’t be easy getting a cab in this weather.”

Stone handed him another tenner. “Wait ten pounds’ worth, and if I haven’t come back, forget it.”

“Righto, guv.”

Stone walked around the corner and into the building. The place was a warren of antique shops, some large and rambling, some no more than a yard or two wide. It was uncrowded, with only a few shoppers wandering about. He had to make an effort not to window-shop; he worked his way quickly through the building, looking for Lance, and then he saw him and his two friends turn a corner down a long corridor and walk toward him. Stone ducked into a shop and pretended to look at a piece of statuary. After a two-minute wait, when they hadn’t passed the shop, he looked down the corridor again; they had disappeared.

Must have gone into a shop, Stone thought. He made his way slowly down the corridor; then he saw a small sign, hung at right angles to a shopfront: A&S ANTIQUITIES—MIDDLE EASTERN SPECIALISTS. Ali and Sheila? Stone stopped and peered through a corner of a window. The woman was sitting at a desk writing on a pad. He could see the back of Lance’s head in a small office behind her. Stone wondered how long it would take for the two men to find them and what would happen when they did. It wouldn’t be good, he thought.

He stood back from the window and read the phone number painted on the shop window, then went back the way he had come. When he was at the King’s Road entrance, he called the number on his satellite phone.

“A&S Antiquities,” the woman’s voice said.

“Let me speak to Lance at once,” Stone said.

“I beg your pardon? There’s no one here by that name.”

“He’s in the back room with Ali, and this is an emergency. Put him on and quickly!”

“Yes?” Lance’s voice said, warily.

“It’s Stone Barrington. Two very large Middle Eastern gentlemen are in the building looking for you at this moment. I’ve met them before, and they are not friendly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I were you, I’d get out of there right now. I have a cab waiting at the corner, near the King’s Road entrance to the building. You don’t have much time.”

Lance’s voice could be heard, but muffled, as if his hand were over the receiver, then he came back on. “We’ll be right there,” he said.

Stone put the phone in his pocket and ran through the rain to the cab, not bothering with his umbrella.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“Just wait. We’re being joined by some other people.”

“Whatever you say, guv.”

A moment later, Lance and his two friends dived into the cab. “Get us out of here,” Lance said to the driver. He turned to Stone. “Now,” he said, “what’s going on?”

They drove past the black limousine. “You recognize that car?” Stone asked.

“No.”

“The two gentlemen I described were in it; they followed you from your house.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was on my way to see you when you came out of the house; they followed you, so I followed them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I had a rather unpleasant encounter with them and some friends of theirs earlier today,” Stone said. “I wanted to spare you the same experience, or worse.”

“Who are they?”

“I had hoped you could tell me. The man they work for is bald, with a bullet-shaped head.”

“Does that sound familiar?” Lance asked Ali and Sheila.

Both shook their heads.

They had driven around the block and were now on the opposite side of the antiques market building. As they drove toward the King’s Road, a section of the building exploded outward, followed a split second later by a huge roar. The cabbie, without a word, executed a speedy U-turn.

“I believe that was your shop,” Stone said to Ali and Sheila.

Lance was suddenly on a cellphone, punching in a number and waiting impatiently for an answer. “Erica,” he said, “I want you to leave the house right this minute; go to Monica’s gallery; take nothing with you. Do you understand? I’ll explain later; just get out of there immediately!” He ended the call and turned to Stone. “Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “But now perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”

31

LANCE STARED OUT THE CAB WINDOW at the rainy streets. He had not answered Stone’s request. “Tell me about your encounter with these people,” he said.

Stone related his tale of being abducted and interrogated. When he had finished, Lance still said nothing for a long moment. “Sounds like the Mossad to me.”

“We’ve got to get out of the country,” Ali said. “They just proved that to us.”

“No, not yet,” Lance replied, still looking out the window. Once Erica is out of the house, they won’t know where to find us.”

“Where are we going?” Sheila asked.

Lance opened the partition and gave the driver an address. “To Monica’s gallery; we’ll figure it out there.”

The gallery was in Dover Street, off New Bond Street; it was a wide building with a limestone front and had a single word, BURROUGHS, painted on the front window. Stone was impressed; he’d imagined something smaller.

“Can you wait for us?” Lance asked the cabbie.

“As long as you like, mate,” the cabbie replied. He lowered his voice. “The other bloke knows you’re having his wife off, you know; I can’t wait to see what happens.”

Stone heard this and laughed.

“What is he talking about?” Lance asked as they turned toward the gallery.

“I had to tell him something,” Stone said. They went inside.

Monica Burroughs was sitting at a desk in the large gallery, talking to Sarah Buckminster, who was seated next to her, looking at some slides. “Oh, hello,” she said, as Stone and Lance approached.

“Is Erica here?” Lance asked.

“No, is she supposed to be?”

Lance went to the window and looked out into the street.

Sarah came around the desk and pecked Stone on the cheek. “What’s up? Lance looks worried.”

“There’s been a little trouble,” Stone said. “Lance asked Erica to meet him here.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Lance was pacing up and down, checking outside often. He came to where Stone and Sarah stood. “I’m going to go and get her,” he said.

“Wait a few minutes,” Stone replied. “She’s probably on her way; she wouldn’t be there when you got there.”

As if to prove his point, Erica came through the front door, breathless. “I’m sorry to take so long; I couldn’t get a cab in this rain. What’s happening?” she asked Lance.

“We have to move, and right away,” Lance replied.

“Why?”

“There’s been . . . some trouble; I don’t want to go into it right now, but our house isn’t safe at the moment. We can go back later and pick up some things.”

Erica looked at Stone. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s best if you just do as Lance says for the moment,” Stone replied. “Lance, do you have anywhere to go?”

“I’m thinking,” Lance said. “I suppose we could find a small hotel somewhere.”

“James’s house,” Sarah said suddenly.

“What?” Lance asked.

“James’s house; there’s no one there but the housekeeper; there’s plenty of room for, what, the four of you?” She nodded toward Ali and Sheila.

“Are you sure that will be all right, Sarah?” Lance asked.

“Of course.” She began rummaging in her large handbag. “I’ve got the key here somewhere.” She came up with it, handed it to Lance, and gave him the address, in Chester Street.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Come on, everybody, let’s move.”

Stone walked out with them and gave the cabbie a fifty-pound note. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “Forget about all this, especially where you’re taking these people.”

“What people?” the driver asked. “Thanks, guv; good luck.” He handed Stone a card. “There’s my cellphone number, if you need me again.”

Lance slammed the door, and the cab took off. Stone went back inside the gallery.

“Now, will you tell me what happened?” Sarah asked.

“Lance’s friends Ali and Sheila have—had an antique shop in a market in the King’s Road. It was bombed a few minutes ago, and he’s concerned for their safety, and his own and Erica’s.”

Monica spoke up. “What has Lance gotten Erica into?”

“I don’t know the details,” Stone said. “I expect we’ll hear about it in due course, but they’ll be safe at James’s house, I’m sure.”

“Will the police be coming ’round?” Monica asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s all I need, to have a lot of policemen crawling all over my gallery.”

“Monica, you are unconnected with all this,” Stone said. “In the extremely unlikely event that a policeman should drop by, just tell him everything you know, up to, but not including, the past ten minutes. You don’t know where Erica is, all right?”

“All right,” Monica said uncertainly.

“More likely than the police is that someone more . . . unofficial . . . might ask Erica’s and Lance’s whereabouts, and your answer should be the same. That’s very important.”

“All right,” Monica said. “And who would these unofficial people be?”

“Whoever bombed Ali and Sheila’s shop. And by the way, you’ve never heard of either of them.”

“That suits me just fine,” she replied. “I didn’t like the look of them. And Lance didn’t even introduce them.”

“I’d better phone James’s housekeeper and let them know that Lance is coming,” Sarah said. She picked up the phone on Monica’s desk and began dialing.

Monica took Stone aside. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is somebody going to throw a bomb through my gallery window?”

“Monica, really, you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Should I call the police?”

“Certainly not; what would you tell them?”

“I don’t know; I could ask for protection, or something.”

“Protection from whom? You’re better off ignorant of this whole business. Practice being ignorant.”

“I always knew Lance would get Erica into some sort of trouble.”

“What made you think that?”

“Lance is always getting these mysterious phone calls on his cellphone, or going off to meet people in pubs or other odd places. He doesn’t have an office, like a normal businessman; he travels at odd times and on short notice, and Erica thinks this is all perfectly normal.”

“Lots of people do business out of their homes,” Stone said. “I, for one, and a lot of what you’ve just said would apply to me, too.”

Monica laughed. “I wouldn’t want you mixed up with her, either. Mixed up with me, on the other hand, would be different. When are we going to have that dinner?”

“I think we’d better postpone that indefinitely,” Stone said.

Sarah hung up the phone and joined them. “That woman—Mrs. Rivers, James’s housekeeper—is a pain in the ass; I’m going to fire her at the first opportunity.”

“What’s the problem?”

“She didn’t want them in the house, said Mr. James wouldn’t approve. I had to explain to her that she isn’t working for Mr. James anymore, she’s working for Miss Sarah, and she’d better get used to it in a hurry. I went over there yesterday to start cleaning out the place, and she behaved as if James were coming back momentarily, as if he’d been out of town on business. I’ve asked Julian Wainwright to write her a letter telling her that she’s now in my employ, but I suppose she hasn’t received it yet.”

“Relax,” Stone said. “All this will work itself out with time. I’m sure it won’t be hard to find another housekeeper, if Mrs. Rivers can’t accustom herself to her new circumstances.”

“I hope so,” Sarah replied.

Stone had a thought. “Monica, do you by any chance have a key to Lance and Erica’s house?”

“Why, yes,” Monica replied. “Why?”

“I think it might be a good idea for me to go over there and make sure everything is undisturbed.”

Monica went to her desk, opened a drawer, and handed Stone a set of keys. “There’s everything,” she said, “front door, garage across the road, even the wine cellar.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Stone said to them both, and he headed for the street to find a taxi. He couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass. He left the gallery and, in the pouring rain, started looking for a taxi.

32

STONE GOT OUT OF THE CAB AT THE bottom of Farm Street; he might as well have walked, he reflected, it had taken him so long to get a cab. The rain was still falling steadily, and the sky was unnaturally dark for the time of day. Lights were coming on in the houses of Farm Street.

He moved slowly up the little street, looking for men on foot or in cars. He did not want to encounter the two large men in the black car again, if he could help it. The street was empty of people, and all the parked cars were empty. With a final look around, Stone ran up the steps of the house and let himself in.

Grateful to be inside again, he stuck his umbrella into a stand to drain and hung his wet raincoat on a peg inside the door. The house was quite dark, with only minimal light coming through the windows from outside. Stone drew the curtains on the street-side windows and switched on the hall light to get his bearings, then switched it off again.

He had a brief look at the drawing room, switching the lights on and off again, then turned to the study, where he figured anything of interest to him would most likely be. He switched on a lamp on the desk, and the beautiful old paneling glowed in the light. There were many books, most of them bound in leather, and the desk seemed quite old, probably Georgian. Stone tried the drawers and found them unlocked. He sat down at the desk and began to go methodically through the drawers.

The contents were what might be expected in any prosperous home—bills, credit card statements in Erica’s name, but none in Lance’s. In a bottom drawer he found several months of bank statements, this time in Lance’s name. They were from The Scottish Highlands Bank, of which Stone had never heard, and he learned from examining them that Lance wrote very few checks. There were no canceled checks in the statement, but the printout identified each payee, and they were mostly for rent and household expenses. Those that weren’t were in larger amounts—five to ten thousand pounds—and were made payable to cash. Lance seemed to walk around with a lot of money in his pockets. All the deposits into the account were from wire transfers from two banks—one in the Cayman Islands and one in Switzerland. Lance would transfer twenty-five thousand pounds at a time into the account. These were substantial amounts, but not those of a multimillionaire; Lance, apart from his high-end address, seemed to live rather simply. There was no evidence of car ownership, clubs, or expensive purchases.

Erica’s credit card statements revealed mostly purchases of clothing and small household items. Her deposits came from a New York bank and were more on the order of ten thousand dollars at a time, and less frequent than Lance’s. Stone returned everything carefully to the drawers, leaving them as he had found them. He looked around the study again. There were no filing cabinets, and a small closet held only some stationery and a fax machine.

Stone switched off the study light and went upstairs. There were two floors of bedrooms, and the ones on the top floor seemed unused. The second floor contained a large master suite only, with a king-sized bed, two baths, and two dressing rooms. Though Erica had accumulated a lot of clothes, Lance seemed to own no more than he could pack into two or three suitcases. He switched off the lights and went downstairs, disappointed.

He had expected to find something—he wasn’t sure what, but something that would tell him more about Lance’s business dealings. There was so little as to seem unnatural, not even a briefcase, and Lance had not been carrying one earlier in the day. Nobody could do any sort of business so lightly equipped, which made Stone think Lance must have an office somewhere else in London.

He checked the kitchen and had one final look around, preparing to leave. Then, looking at the keys Monica had given him, he found one labeled “wine cellar,” which she had mentioned. He looked around for a door and found one under the stairs. The light switch gave no joy, and he felt his way down the steps to the bottom, where he found another door. Feeling for the lock, he inserted the key and turned it. As he stepped into the cellar, something brushed against his cheek, and he grabbed it: a string. He pulled it, and a single light bulb came on. The wine cellar was about twelve by fifteen feet and quite full of bottles. He checked a few and found some lovely old clarets and burgundies; whoever owned the house had been laying them down for years; you couldn’t just walk into a shop and buy them anymore.

He stood in the middle of the cellar and looked at each of the four walls. Why was the cellar so small, when the house was so much larger? He examined the walls, which were covered by racking from floor to ceiling. Walking slowly around the room, he checked between each stack of racks, and finally he came to a pair that seemed somehow unlike the others. The racks were all fixed to the wall, except these two, which moved when he shook them. Pressing an eye to the crack between one rack and its immediate neighbor, he saw the dull glint of dim light on metal. A hinge, maybe?

He moved along one rack farther, peering into the small spaces between them, and he saw a flat piece of metal that seemed to connect two racks. It was recessed too far to reach with his fingers, and even his pen was too fat to fit between the racks. He looked around and saw a small table containing a decanter and a corkscrew.

He picked up the corkscrew, which was of the waiter’s type—small, flat, with a folded knife blade at one end. He opened the knife and poked it between the two racks, finding the strip of metal. It moved when poked, and he tried inserting the blade underneath the strip and pushing upward. Almost to his surprise, the metal strip moved easily. It had been holding the two racks together; now, with it out of the way, Stone pulled on the two racks and they quite easily swung into the cellar like double doors. He could now see that each rack had a solid wood back that was fixed to the wall by four heavy hinges.

Behind the two racks was another door that, surprisingly, seemed to have no lock. Stone turned the knob and pushed it open, revealing a small room of about eight by ten feet. He found a light switch, and a fluorescent fixture brightly illuminated the space. He had found Lance Cabot’s office. The room was equipped with everything a home office requires—office supplies, file cabinets, and a multipurpose printer/copier/fax machine, connected to a substantial-looking computer with a flat-screen monitor.

Stone tried the filing cabinets: locked. He switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up. Finally a screen appeared, demanding a password. Stone tried Lance, Cabot, Erica, Monica, Ali, Sheila—all the names he knew to be connected to Lance. None worked. Frustrating. He could do this all night and get nowhere. The steel desk on which the computer keyboard rested was locked, too, every drawer, and there was nothing visible or searchable in the office that could tell him anything. Indeed, except for the secret location of the room, it was like any other home office—well equipped, but utilitarian. Nothing exotic—no high-frequency radios, no mysterious equipment. Of course, with the Internet, who needed long-range radios these days?

Stone knew a little about picking locks, and he looked around for something he might use for a lock-pick. Nothing but a letter opener and some paper clips. He examined the desk lock and got a small surprise. He had expected standard office locks, the kind that anybody with some picking skills could open, but these were more substantial. Each was an inch or so in diameter, and when he examined the small space between each drawer and desk, the bolts were larger than usual. It would take a much greater expert than he to deal with these locks, which had no commercial names on them. It appeared that the old locks had been drilled out and replaced with the larger, more secure ones. The locks on the filing cabinets were identical.

As Stone sat staring at the desk, wondering what to do next, he heard a noise above his head. It occurred to him that he was sitting directly below the main foyer of the house, and what he had heard was a footstep, followed by the sound of the front door closing.

There was no way out of the cellar, except the way he had come, and that opened into the foyer. Quickly, Stone turned off the wine cellar light, then pulled the two rack/doors closed and secured the metal strip. Then he closed the office door, fearful that light might escape around the door, and switched off the lights. Nothing to do now but be quiet and wait.

33

STONE LISTENED AS AN OCCASIONAL footstep struck the wooden floor above, instead of a rug, and it became apparent that more than one person was in the house, and, from the sound of the heavy steps, they were men. They moved in and out of rooms on the floor above, and then they stopped. Either they were standing still or walking on rugs.

Then Stone heard a noise in the wine cellar, and dim light appeared around the edges of the door to the little office. He could hear voices now, though they were muffled, and the men appeared to be speaking a foreign language. He put an ear to the door, trying to hear better, but it didn’t help much. Then there was a louder voice and two sharp reports, which Stone knew could only be gunshots. They were not very loud, but not silenced, either—probably a small-caliber handgun. A moment later, there were two further shots, and he knew what that meant. The light disappeared from around the door, and then there was nothing but silence, until he heard footsteps in the foyer, and the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Stone checked his watch, the hands of which glowed in the dark, and waited a full five minutes. Then he switched on the office light. Something made him look down, and he did not like what he saw. Blood was seeping under the door. He pulled it open slightly and listened; not a sound. He opened the door, raised the latch holding the wine racks shut, and pushed. They moved a couple of inches, then stopped against something soft.

Stone got as low as he could, put his shoulder against the racks, and pushed hard. Slowly, whatever was blocking the racks moved, and he was able to open them wide enough to step through. Light from the office fell on a man’s back. Stone stepped between the racks and over the body and found the ceiling light. Not one, but two bodies lay on the floor of the wine cellar; they were the two men who had abducted him, and each of them had two new orifices in his head.

Stone inspected the wounds; small caliber, he thought, probably a .22 pistol, maybe a .25. He checked the coat pockets of the two corpses and came up with two Greek passports. Greek? What the hell did that mean? Nobody was mad at the Greeks, were they? Who would shoot two Greeks in a wine cellar in Mayfair? And why would a bunch of Greeks abduct and interrogate him?

His first impulse was to go upstairs and call the police, in the person of Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton, but then he had second thoughts. How could he explain his own presence in the house? If he tried, he’d have to explain everything he’d done since he’d arrived in the United Kingdom, including the identity of his client. Also, his client had not asked him to search this house; he’d done it on his own. He would make a terrible witness, too, having seen nothing and having heard only footsteps and gunshots.

Discretion, in this case, was definitely the better part of valor. He stepped over a body, back into the office, and wiped anything he might have touched. Then he closed the office door, wiped the knob, and secured the two wine racks in place. He wiped the knob of the wine cellar door and went upstairs, wiping anything else he might have touched in the house. Finally, he put on his raincoat, retrieved his umbrella from the stand, opened the door a crack, and peered up and down the mews. It was dark now, and streetlights were on, but the mews was empty. He let himself out, wiped the doorknob, inside and out, closed the door behind him, and walked down Farm Street in the direction of Berkeley Square.

He had reached the square before he saw anyone else, and he kept the umbrella low to keep anyone from remembering his face. Deciding against a taxi, he walked across Berkeley Square and up the little hill into Dover Street. The gallery was closed and dark. He dropped the keys to the Farm Street house through the mail slot.

What now? He wanted to talk to Lance. He walked up to New Bond Street, then to Conduit Street, found a cab at the Westbury Hotel, and gave the driver the Chester Street address that he’d heard Sarah give Lance. As the cab made its way through the West End, he thought about the two dead men on the wine cellar floor at Lance’s house. How long would it be before anyone found them? Lance clearly didn’t intend to go back to the house anytime soon. Was there a housekeeper or a cleaning lady? If so, would she go down to the wine cellar? He retraced his own steps, thought about the time line from a policeman’s perspective. He was without an alibi from the time he left the gallery until he got into the taxi at the Westbury. How long was that? An hour at the most. Where else could he have been for an hour? Monica and Sarah knew he had the keys to the house, including the wine cellar. But no one would have any reason to question them, would they?

He thought about the cases he had solved as a cop by interviewing people at the periphery of a case. Any thorough investigation would get to them soon enough. Should he get out of the country? No, that would be the worst thing he could do. The cab stopped in front of the Chester Street house; Stone paid the driver and rang the bell. Erica answered the door.

“Oh, Stone, come in,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Where have you been?”

Already, he needed an alibi. “I was at the gallery for a while, then I did some window-shopping.” In the pouring rain? That was weak; he’d have to do better than that if the police questioned him.

“Come on in; Lance is on the phone.” She showed him into the drawing room, which was empty. The place was handsome and spacious, but it looked as though it had been decorated by a bachelor with the help of a maiden aunt; the furniture was comfortable, but dowdy, and the curtains were too elaborate. “Awful, isn’t it?” Erica asked cheerfully.

“Fairly.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, please; bourbon, if there’s any in the house; Scotch, if there isn’t.”

She went away and came back with a double old-fashioned glass filled with ice and a brown liquor. “No bourbon; try this.”

He sipped it—strong and dark and peaty. “It’s excellent, what is it?”

“Laphroaig—a single-malt Scotch whiskey from the island of Islay.” (She pronounced it “Islah.”)

“I’m not usually a Scotch drinker, but this will do just fine.” He thought she seemed oddly cheerful and unaffected for a young woman who had had to leave her home on a moment’s notice, for very odd reasons. “Are you doing all right?”

“Just fine. Lance will be off the phone in a minute, I’m sure; he’s already been on it since we arrived here. Ali and Sheila are upstairs napping—or something.” She smiled impishly.

Stone thought they must be napping, not something else, not after having seen their business explode before their eyes earlier in the day.

“Tell me about Ali and Sheila,” Stone said. He wanted to hear what Erica had to say about them before Lance returned.

“They’re just friends of Lance’s,” she said. “They have an antique shop in Chelsea.”

Had, Stone thought. “What nationality are they?”

“Ali is Syrian, Sheila Lebanese, I think.”

Syrian? Lebanese? Did they have something against the Greeks, or vice versa? He couldn’t make any sense of this. “How did Lance meet them?”

“Business—some importing or exporting thing, I think.”

“Does Lance have a lot of friends in London?”

“Just the ones you’ve met,” she said. “Monica, Sarah, Ali, and Sheila. He’s the sort of person who seems to have lots of acquaintances and few friends.”

I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Have you met a lot of his acquaintances?”

“Not really; once in a while someone will come to the house for a business meeting.”

“To the house? Doesn’t Lance have an office?”

“Not really; if he needs space for a meeting, he uses a club or a hotel meeting room.”

“I guess Lance travels pretty light, then.”

“Pretty light,” Lance said from the doorway.

“Oh, you’re finally off the phone,” Erica said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, some Scotch, please.”

“Try the Laphroaig,” Stone said, raising his glass. Stone opened his mouth to tell Lance what he’d experienced in his wine cellar, then changed his mind. So far, nobody knew he’d actually been at the house; perhaps it was better to keep it that way, at least, for the moment.

The three of them chatted idly for a while.

“Anybody hungry?” Erica asked.

“Now that you mention it,” Stone replied.

“There’s no food here; I guess we’d better go out somewhere.”

“There’s plenty of food back at Farm Street,” Lance said. “Let’s go back there and fix something. I’ve been on the phone with some people, and I think it’s safe to go back now.”

Stone wondered what kind of people could tell Lance that.

“Great!” Erica said. “I feel like cooking. Shall we wake Ali and Sheila?”

“Oh, I think they’re down for the night,” Lance said. “Let’s leave them until morning.” He drained his glass and got up.

Stone got up, too. He thought of begging off, but he was curious. “I’ll see if I can find us a cab.”

The rain had stopped. He found a cab almost immediately.

34

THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAB IN FRONT of the Farm Street house, and Stone paid the driver while Lance unlocked the door. Stone followed Lance and Erica up the stairs.

Lights were switched on and everything looked quite normal, Stone thought. Coats were hung up, and he followed them into the kitchen.

“Another drink, anybody?”

Stone nodded.

“We’ve got bourbon,” she said, “or would you rather stick to the Laphroaig?”

“I’ll stick with the Scotch, since I’ve started on it,” Stone replied.

There was a banquette in the kitchen, and Erica made Stone and Lance sit down there, while she began to put some dinner together.

“How about spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.

“Fine,” Stone and Lance said together.

Erica put some ground steak on the stove to brown and a pot of water on to boil and began chopping an onion. After a few minutes she had all the ingredients in the pot; she covered it, poured herself a drink, and sat down next to Lance. “There,” she said, “we’ll let it simmer for a while; by the time the water has boiled and the pasta is done, it should be ready.”

Nobody seemed to have anything to say. If Erica had had any questions to ask Lance about why they had so suddenly abandoned the house, and just as suddenly returned to it, she didn’t ask them now, and neither did Stone, though he was dying to know. In his experience, Lance did not answer questions to which Stone wanted answers.

“What are you working on these days?” Stone asked Lance. Might as well try.

“Oh, this and that; nothing startling.”

“Would you care to be more specific?”

Lance smiled a little smile. “Nope. What are you working on, Stone?”

“Zip,” Stone replied. “This is now strictly vacation time.”

“How long do you plan to stay in London?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a few more days, to help Sarah get through James’s estate stuff.”

“Doesn’t she have Julian Wainwright for that?” Lance asked.

“Yes, but she seems to want my advice, too. Anyway, I’m cheaper—couple of weekends in the country, a few good dinners.”

The water began to boil, and Erica got up and put the pasta into the pot. “Six minutes for al dente,” she said. She pointed to an empty wine rack. “Looks like a trip to the cellar is in order.”

Stone gulped.

Lance sighed, reached into his pocket for the keys, and put them on the table. “Stone, will you bring up a few bottles? I have to go to the john.”

Stone was reluctant but tried not to show it. “Where is the cellar?”

“The door is under the stairs. I’m sorry, but the bulb just inside is burned out, and we don’t have a spare; be careful going down the steps. The cellar light is just inside the door; you pull a string.”

Stone got up and took the keys. “Anything special you want?”

“There are two racks dead ahead. Those are my bottles; the rest belong to the house’s owner. Bring a few bottles of the Italian stuff.”

Stone nodded and walked into the hallway, pretending to find his way. Lance walked past him into the hallway powder room and closed the door behind him.

It was easier this time, with some light from the hallway, and Stone found his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. He got the key into the lock and took a deep breath; this was going to require a performance; he would have to run back up the stairs, breathless, and report the presence of two corpses in the cellar. He got the door open and, in the dark, felt for the string to turn on the cellar lights. He found it, hesitated for a moment; should he yell out something, or just run back up the stairs to report the bodies? He pulled the string.

The lights came on to reveal the wine cellar as he had first seen it. No bodies. No bloodstains. No sign that anyone had ever been there, let alone been murdered there. How long since he had left the cellar? An hour and a half? Two hours? He thought about it for a few moments, then did as he had been told: He went to the wine racks dead ahead, the ones covering the office door, and chose four bottles of wine. Then, with two tucked under an arm, he switched off the light, locked the cellar door, and went back upstairs.

“Find everything all right?” asked Lance, who was back seated at the banquette.

“Sure,” Stone replied, setting the bottles and the keys on the table. He sat down and resumed his drink.

Lance got up, found a corkscrew, and uncorked a bottle of Chianti Classico, then put the other three bottles into the kitchen wine rack. He got three glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table, then tasted the wine. “That should do the trick,” he said, and sat down again.

Erica tasted the sauce, then began setting the table. A moment later, she poured the pasta into a collander in the sink, then, while it drained, switched off the stove. She got a large platter from a cupboard, emptied the pasta into it, then poured the sauce on top of it and set it on the table. She brought some Parmesan cheese from the fridge, grated it over the pasta, sat down, and began serving them.

“Buon appetito,” Lance said, raising his glass.

They dug into the pasta.

Stone ate the food, which was very good, and wondered if Lance was the coolest person he’d ever met, or if he just had no idea what had occurred in his house a couple of hours before. “Who did you say owned the house?” he asked.

“A fellow in the Foreign Office, name of Richard Creighton; he’s out in the East somewhere, I believe; I pay the rent directly into his bank account. It’s quite a nice house, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. It’s fairly lived in, for a house owned by someone who’s never here.”

“Well, I guess these diplomats have got to have some sort of home to come back to. Anyway, I’m living in it, and I suppose he rented it to others before me.”

“I’ve done a few things to make it better,” Erica said. “The living room curtains are mine, and I’ve replaced all the bedding in the master suite.”

“Mmmm,” Stone said. “Wonderful sauce.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What plans do the two of you have for the next few days?” Stone asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

“We’re in London,” Lance said. “Unless something comes up.”

“What might come up?”

“Oh, you never know, sometimes a deal requires travel.”

“What are Ali and Sheila going to do about their shop?”

Lance shrugged. “I suppose it’s insured.”

“The police are going to want to talk to them.”

Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn’t thought of that.

“I suppose you’re right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren’t in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”

“I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don’t ignore bombings, and they’ll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”

“I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that’s Ali’s problem, not mine. I expect he’ll handle it in the morning.”

“The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”

“Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”

“Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”

“What sort of group did you have in mind?”

“Well, they’re Middle Easterners, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”

“I suppose so, but as far as I know, they’re not into politics.”

“What are they into?”

“Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I’m sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”

“I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.

35

STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.

He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”

“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”

“To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”

“All right; what time?”

“A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.

He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.

“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.

Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.

“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”

“And to whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he’s entertaining at home this evening, he didn’t need it.”

“Are these cars common in London?”

“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”

Stone relaxed a little; he wasn’t being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador’s residence?”

“In Regents Park, sir; do you know it?”

“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to Regents Park the first time.”

“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”

“You’re English?”

“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”

“I’m afraid I don’t even know the ambassador’s name.”

“It’s Sumner Wellington, sir; I’m told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”

“Oh, yes, of course; he owns a big communications company,” Stone said.

“That’s correct, sir; it’s said that American presidents always appoint very rich men to the Court of St. James, because they can afford to do all the necessary entertaining out of their own pockets. Ambassador Wellington has paid for a complete renovation of the residence, as well.”

“Sounds like an expensive job.”

“I expect so, sir.”

“But Ambassador Wellington can afford it.”

“Quite so, sir. You said you were in London once before?”

“Yes, as a student; I did a hitchhiking tour of Europe one summer, and I spent a week of it in London.”

“I expect your accommodations this time are somewhat better than on your last trip.”

“Oh, yes. I spent most nights at a youth hostel, and, on one occasion, I got back after curfew and was locked out, so I slept under a railway arch somewhere.”

“So the Connaught is a big step upwards.”

“You could say that.” The man was awfully chatty for a Brit, Stone thought, especially for a chauffeur. “Are you the ambassador’s regular driver?”

“No, sir, I’m just a staff driver; I’ve driven the ambassador on a few occasions, when his regular driver wasn’t available.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, sir, I do; I find self-made Americans are much nicer to staff than the upper-class British. Oh, we’re in Regents Park, now.”

They were driving along a wide crescent of identical buildings, with the park on their left. After a turn or two, the car glided to a stop before the residence, a very large Georgian house.

A U.S. marine opened the rear door of the car.

“Mr. Barrington?” the driver said.

Stone stopped getting out of the car.

“I was asked to give you a message.”

“Yes?”

“If you recognize someone, be careful.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, sir; I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to leave; just give your name to the marine on duty.”

“See you later, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone got out of the car and entered the house. In the huge foyer, there was a reception line that was moving slowly. Stone got into it, behind a very American-looking couple. He was short and pudgy; she was taller, very blonde, and expensive-looking.

“Hey,” the woman said.

“Good evening,” Stone replied.

“That’s what I should have said, I guess; good evening.”

“Hey works for me,” Stone laughed.

She held out her hand. “I’m Tiffany Butts; this is my husband, Marvin.”

Stone shook their hands.

“We’re from Fort Worth, Texas,” she said. “Are you an American?”

“Oh, yes; I’m from New York.”

“I wasn’t sure about your accent.”

“I’ve been here a few days; maybe I’m picking up an English accent.”

“Oh, shoot, no, it’s just me.”

“What business are you in, Mr. Barrington?” Marvin Butts asked.

“I’m an attorney.”

“I’m in the scrap metal business,” Butts said. “In a fairly big way.”

I’ll bet you are, Stone thought, or you wouldn’t be at this party. “Sounds good.”

“Good, and getting better,” Butts replied.

They had been moving along the line, and suddenly they were before the ambassador and his wife. The ambassador was sixtyish, slim, and handsomely tailored. His wife was twenty-five years his junior, very beautiful and elegant. The ambassador greeted Marvin and Tiffany Butts warmly, then turned toward Stone.

“Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the residence.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador,” Stone replied. “I’m Stone Barrington.”

“Ah,” the ambassador said, looking him up and down.

His wife gave Stone a broad smile. “We have a mutual friend, Stone,” she said.

“And who would that be, Madame Ambassador?”

“Oh, please, I’m Barbara, among friends.”

Friends? What was she talking about? An aide ushered Stone farther along before he could ask.

Stone found himself a few steps above a large hall, looking down on a very elegant crowd. Before he had moved a step, he recognized two people. The sight of either would have made his heart beat a little faster, but for very different reasons.

Arrington Carter Calder saw him almost at the same moment and held his gaze, expressionless. And just beyond her, Stone saw a short, bald, bullet-headed man he had met before.

36

THEN ARRINGTON SMILED WARMLY, and Stone’s knees went a little weak. He experienced a series of vivid flashbacks: meeting her at a New York dinner party some years before, she in the company of America’s biggest movie star, Vance Calder; taking her away from Calder, making love to her in his house and hers, falling desperately in love with her; then setting off on a sailing trip to the Caribbean, planning to meet her there; her not showing up, but writing to say she’d married Calder. Then there was the child, of course, Peter; born slightly less than nine months later: Calder’s son, she said, and the tests had backed her up. Then, after Calder was dead, murdered, learning that the tests might have been rigged. She’d refused further testing. He’d seen her a few months before in Palm Beach, for a single evening, then he had been in the hospital with a bullet wound, then whisked back to New York. They had not spoken since.

Stone snapped back to the present and made his way down the steps toward her. She was tall, a little blonder than before, dressed in a long, emerald-green gown. Ravishing. To his surprise she met him halfway, embraced him warmly, and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, nearly laughing. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“I certainly am,” he replied; “what brings you to London?”

“Barbara Wellington and I were roommates at Mount Holyoke; she invited me over to see what she’s done with the residence. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is.” But he wasn’t looking at the residence. “And you are more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Aren’t you sweet! I saw your name on the guest list this afternoon, and I jiggled the place cards around so we’re seated together.” She stopped and looked at him. “I’m alone in London.”

Stone was beginning to sweat a little, and he was grateful when a waiter showed up with a tray of champagne flutes. He took one and replaced hers with a full one. “I’ll look forward to catching up,” he said.

Then he remembered the other face he had recognized and looked for it. Gone. Lost in the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Arrington asked.

“I thought I saw a familiar face, but no more.”

She took his arm and led him across the room and out some French doors to a garden. “And what brings you to London?”

“A client asked me to come over and look into something for him.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

“It’s always mysterious when you’re involved, Stone. Tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe when it’s over.”

“Oh.”

“How is Peter?”

“Growing,” she said. “You must come and see him sometime.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said. “Where are you spending most of your time?”

“I’ve been dividing it between LA and Mother’s house in Virginia. Peter is there for the summer with her, while I’ve been apartment hunting.”

“In London?”

“In New York.”

Stone began to sweat again and sipped the cold champagne. From inside the house a chime was being struck repeatedly.

“Sounds like dinner,” Arrington said. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do.” The thought of Arrington living in New York again thrilled and frightened him. Immediately, his life seemed in turmoil.

They sat at round tables for ten, and there were at least twenty of them. Arrington knew some of the other guests, having “jiggled the place cards,” and she chatted animatedly with them all, leaving Stone with a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask any of them. Dinner was good, for banquet food, and when dessert came, Stone excused himself and went to look for a men’s room. A staffer showed him the way, and he went inside and stepped up to a urinal. A moment later, the door opened and someone walked behind Stone and around the room, then stepped up to the neighboring urinal.

“See anyone you know?” Hedger asked.

“Yes, Arrington Calder,” Stone said.

“The movie star’s widow? I think she killed him, don’t you?”

“No.”

“How do you know her?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Oh, wait a minute, I remember now; you were involved with her trial, weren’t you?”

“She was never tried,” Stone replied. “Her lawyer and I got it quashed at a hearing. She was plainly innocent.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hedger said.

Stone zipped up and went to wash his hands. Hedger was right behind him.

“I saw someone else,” Stone said.

“Who?”

“The man who interrogated me. At least, I think it was he; I only got a glimpse of him, and he wasn’t very well lighted the last time I saw him.”

“Where is he sitting?”

“I don’t know; when I looked for him again, he was gone.”

“You mean, he left?”

“I don’t know; he may have just moved elsewhere in the room.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and spot him again, and find a way to let me know where he is. I’m at table sixteen.”

“All right. There’s something else we have to talk about, but we can’t do it now.”

“How about lunch tomorrow in the Connaught grill? One o’clock?”

“Fine, see you then.”

Stone left first and went back to his table. He took the scenic route, wandering among the tables, and then, over near the doors to the garden, he saw the man, who was raptly listening to an elderly woman seated next to him. Table twelve, he noted. He looked at the man as closely as he dared. Was it his inquisitor, or was he simply a bald, bullet-headed man? Stone wished he could hear his voice; that would complete the identification. The man never looked at him, and he made his way back to his table and Arrington.

She was gone. Dancing had begun, and he spotted her on the floor with a man from their table. He took a cocktail napkin, drew a circle, and wrote on it, Table Twelve. He marked the bald man’s position and gave it to a waiter. “Please take this to Mr. Hedger, at table sixteen; he’s the one with the mustache.”

The waiter departed, and Stone followed him with his gaze to Hedger’s table. He saw Hedger read the note, then tuck it into a pocket. He didn’t immediately look at table twelve, but a moment later he let his gaze run in that direction. Then he looked toward Stone and shrugged.

Stone looked back at table twelve, but the man was no longer there. He noticed a door to the garden open, near the table. Stone looked back at Hedger and shrugged.

Arrington came back to the table and took Stone’s hand. “Come dance with me,” she said. She led him to the floor, and the band was playing something romantic.

Stone held her in his arms, something he had always loved doing, and moved them around the floor.

“You were always a wonderful dancer,” she said. “Vertically or horizontally.” She kissed him on the neck.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stone said.

“I can’t; I’m a guest of the ambassador, and it would be rude.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“The Connaught restaurant, at nine?”

“You’re on.”

She put her head on his shoulder, and he whirled her happily around the floor.

Stone looked back at table twelve; the man was still not there. “If you jiggled the place cards, you must have access to tonight’s guest list,” he said to Arrington.

“I suppose,” she replied.

“Do you think you could get me a list of the people at table twelve, with their positions marked?”

“I suppose so, but not tonight.”

“Will you bring it with you tomorrow evening? It’s important.”

“Anything for you,” she said, and let her tongue play lightly over his ear.

Stone didn’t complain.

37

STONE WAS ALREADY AT AN ALCOVE table in the Connaught grill when Stanford Hedger arrived for lunch. Hedger sat down and ordered a pink gin, something Stone had never heard an American do.

“What is a pink gin, anyway?”

“Gin with a dash of Angostura bitters,” Hedger replied. “I doubt if you’d like it.”

“I doubt it, too,” Stone replied, sipping his Chardonnay.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” Hedger asked. “I saw you and Mrs. Carter dancing.”

“Yes, thank you, and thank you, too, for the use of the ambassador’s car.”

“Any time,” Hedger replied. “When the ambassador’s not using it, I use it myself, sometimes. Tell me, is it hard to dance with someone’s tongue in your ear?”

“On the contrary,” Stone replied. “It helps.”

Hedger laughed. “I never saw your little bald man, you know; are you sure he wasn’t a figment of your imagination?”

“Isn’t his presence why you had me invited?”

“Well, yes; but I fully expected to see him, if you did.”

“Why did you think he’d be there?”

“Just a hunch. Last night’s dinner, if you didn’t know, was for the foreign diplomatic corps. I reckoned if he was anybody important in an embassy, he’d be there.”

“Good guess,” Stone replied. “And why did you think he’d be somebody important in an embassy?”

“His accents, as you described them, one overlaid on the other. Eton is a very exclusive school, you know, and everybody who spends his youth there comes out with that accent, even the foreigners. Remember Abba Eban, the Israeli ambassador to the UN?”

“Yes.”

“Same accent.”

“Now that you mention it.”

Hedger looked at the menu. “I’ll have half a dozen oysters and the Dover sole,” he said to the waiter, “off the bone, and I’d prefer a female, if there’s one available.”

“I’ll have the cold soup and the sole,” Stone said. “Should I order the female, too?”

“If you enjoy roe,” Hedger replied.

Stone nodded to the waiter.

“And bring us a bottle of that lovely Sancerre,” Hedger said. He turned to Stone. “Now, what’s up? Why did you want to see me?”

“Things have taken a rather ominous turn,” Stone said, “and I thought you might have some advice on how I should proceed.”

“Tell me.”

“I followed Lance Cabot yesterday from his house to an antiques market in Chelsea. Do you know his friends Ali and Sheila?”

“Oh, yes; he met them when we were in Cairo. I believe they were complicit in the bombing of my safe house there.”

“Turns out they had a shop in the market. Also turns out that I wasn’t the only one following Lance; so were the two men who abducted me and took me to the interrogation. They were in the same Daimler limousine.”

“Did you make a note of the number plate?”

“No,” Stone replied, a little embarrassed that he had not thought of that.

“Next time you get the chance,” Hedger said. “It would help.”

“Certainly. Anyway, the two men followed Lance into the building. I went inside and found Ali and Sheila’s shop, phoned Lance there, and told them to get out. I got them into a cab, and as we drove around the building, a bomb destroyed the shop.”

Hedger’s considerable eyebrows went up. “Sounds like these people are getting serious.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Stone said. “Lance called Erica and told her to get out of the house; then they went to the home of a friend, and I had a look around Lance’s house; got the keys from Monica, Erica’s sister.”

“Oh, good,” Hedger said, obviously pleased. “I assumed you searched it thoroughly.”

“I did. There was absolutely nothing that revealed anything about Lance or whatever business he’s conducting.”

“I’m not really surprised,” Hedger said. “Lance is too smart to leave sensitive materials lying around.”

“Then I had a look in the wine cellar, where I found a small office, concealed behind a couple of wine racks.” He gave Hedger a description of how he got in. “There was a desk, a computer, and filing cabinets, all secured. As I was trying to get into the computer, I heard someone entering the house; more than one person. I shut myself up in the office and waited for them to leave. After a few minutes, two men came into the wine cellar; a moment later, another person came in and shot them both.” He had Hedger’s undivided attention now.

Their first courses arrived, and Stone waited for the waiter to depart before continuing. “When I got out of the office, they were both dead—two small-caliber shots to the head, in both cases.”

“I hope to God you didn’t call the police.”

“No, I got the hell out of there, after removing any fingerprints I might have left on various surfaces.”

“Good,” Hedger said, relieved.

“The two men were my former abductors.”

Hedger looked surprised. “Oh, really?”

“They were carrying Greek passports.”

“Greek?” Hedger grunted. “Probably false.”

“They looked good to me.”

“Would you recognize a false passport?”

“I’ve seen a few, but to answer your question, probably not a good one.”

“Well, let’s sum up,” Hedger said.

“Not yet, there’s more.”

“More?”

“I went to find Lance and Erica; we had a drink, and then we returned to the Farm Street house. Erica cooked, and Lance asked me to go to the cellar and bring up some wine. I did, and the bodies were gone, everything cleaned up.”

Hedger looked really interested. “How long were you out of the house?”

“An hour and a half, maybe two hours.”

“Long enough for Lance to visit the house, clean up, and return to the other house?”

“If he hurried, and if he was very efficient. He was on the phone when I arrived at the other house, but I’ve no idea how long he had been there.”

“Could Lance have had any idea you’d been to the Farm Street house?”

“Possibly, since I got the keys from Monica. Maybe she told him.”

“So he sent you down to the cellar so you could see for yourself that everything had been cleaned up.”

“Perhaps. I’ll have to find out if Monica told him I had the keys.”

“Do that. Now, as I said, to sum up, what does this tell us about Lance?”

“You tell me.”

“It tells us that Lance is a part of something bigger than himself.”

“How does it tell us that?”

“You obviously didn’t read the papers this morning.”

“Not thoroughly.”

“Your two ‘Greeks’ were found in Hyde Park, in the trunk of a stolen car. The police are quite excited about it.”

“Oh.”

“I very much doubt if Lance had time to steal a car, load the bodies into it, and clean up the wine cellar, all on his own.”

“You have a point. But what if it wasn’t Lance?”

“Who else might it be?”

“The bald man?”

“They were his men; why would he shoot them in Lance’s wine cellar, then clean up after himself? I could understand that he might wish to pin the murders on Lance, but in that case, he’d have left them where they lay, for somebody to find, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“The parties we know are involved in this are Lance, the bald man and his two companions, and the two ‘Greeks,’ and they’re dead. If there’s another party, I don’t know about it, and neither do you.”

“Lance would,” Stone said. “If he knows anything. It’s possible that another party murdered the two men, and Lance knows nothing about it.”

“If you were the investigating officer, and you are, in a way, would you believe that?”

“It wouldn’t be my first theory,” Stone admitted.

“Now, back to the bald gentleman. I think he’s a diplomat; how do we find out who he is?”

“Tonight, I’ll have a list of the people at table twelve,” Stone said. “We can begin there.”

“Very good,” Hedger said. The waiter arrived with their sole, and they tucked into it.

Stone liked the roe.

38

LATER THAT EVENING, MR. CHEVALIER, the maître d’ in the Connaught restaurant, took note that Stone had arrived, for the second time that week, with a beautiful woman. He must have had a sense of humor, because he seated them at the same corner table that Stone had shared with Sarah.

Sarah had called that afternoon. “Why don’t I cook you some dinner at my flat this evening?”

“I’m afraid I already have plans,” Stone said.

“Anyone I know?”

Strictly speaking, no, though she knew about Arrington. “No.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“It’s business,” Stone said, falling back on the most convenient lie. He didn’t like lying, but he was cornered.

“Oh.”

“How’s it going with James’s estate?” he asked, wanting to remind her that she should, strictly speaking, be in mourning.

“Splendidly,” she said. “Julian Wainwright has had a word with the conglomerate, and it looks as though they’re still interested in buying the business.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes, it is.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Will I see you this week?”

“Of course. Oh, by the way, do you know if Monica spoke to Lance the other night, after she gave me the keys to the Farm Street house?”

“I don’t think so; we had dinner together, and I dropped her off at her place later. She didn’t call anyone while we were together. Why?”

“I decided not to go to Lance’s house, since it really isn’t any of my business, and I didn’t want Lance to think I had been there.”

“I’m seeing Monica later today; I could mention that to her, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I put the keys through her mail slot not long after she gave them to me.”

“All right, then, I’ll see you later, I hope.”

“Of course,” Stone replied, and hung up feeling guilty.

Seated at the corner table, with Arrington beside him, in the warm glow of the Connaught restaurant, Stone no longer felt guilty. The difficult past he and Arrington shared had receded; all he could think about was here and now.

“It’s so good to see you,” Arrington said.

“And you.”

“When I saw you in Palm Beach, you said you’d call me the next day. Why didn’t you?”

He had called her in the morning and a man had answered, so he had hung up. “You’ll recall the circumstances of the evening,” Stone said. “I had to make a stop at the local hospital, and they got me out of there early the next morning on Thad Shames’s jet.” It had been from the jet that he had called her. “By the time I got to New York and the drugs had worn off, you had left Palm Beach.” He was guessing that she had left.

“Yes, I left the next day,” she said. “Oh, by the way, here’s that list you asked for.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her purse.

Stone looked at the list: the Swedish ambassador and his wife; the Belgian chargé d’affaires and wife; the Israeli cultural attaché and wife; the German military attaché and wife; the Australian head of chancery and wife. “There’s no seating plan,” he said.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get that; some secretary had apparently shredded it, or something.”

It was a start, Stone thought; he’d have to go over this with Hedger.

“Why did you want the list?”

“There was a man at the table I recognized, but I couldn’t place him.”

“You know a lot of diplomats, do you?”

“No, he just looked very familiar. It’ll come to me.”

“You’re not losing brain cells, are you?”

He laughed. “Yes, but no more than usual.”

They had a drink and ordered dinner. Stone didn’t really care what he ate; he was happy just to be with her, with no strain, no conflict. Every time they had met during the past couple of years there had always been some problem that made the situation difficult.

“It’s so nice to be back in London,” Arrington said. “And I’ve always loved this room. Vance and I stayed here when we were in town, and we always had dinner here at least once.”

That didn’t improve the atmosphere much for Stone, but he let it pass.

“You’re looking very beautiful tonight,” he said, trying to get things back on track.

“You look pretty good yourself,” she said.

Mr. Chevalier suddenly appeared at the table and handed Stone a small envelope. “A message for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied. “Sorry about this,” he said to Arrington. He opened the envelope. On a sheet of the hotel’s stationery was written, I am in the hotel lounge; I must see you at once. It was signed by Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton.

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here I have to see for a moment. Please excuse me.”

“Not a woman, I hope,” Arrington said.

“Fear not.” He left the table and started toward the lounge. As he reached the central hallway, Monica appeared through the front doors.

“Hello, there,” she said, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a kiss on the lips.

Stone could see Throckmorton waiting impatiently in the lounge across the hallway. “Hello; I dropped Lance’s keys through your mail slot; did you get them?”

“Yes. Did you check out his house?”

“No, I decided it was none of my business, so I dropped off the keys. Why are you at the Connaught?”

“I’m having dinner with some friends in the grill; I’d better run.” She repeated the warm kiss, then disappeared down the hall into the grill.

Stone walked into the lounge, wiping lipstick from his lips. Throckmorton and two men who were obviously detectives were waiting for him, seated in large chairs, still wearing their raincoats. The detective inspector looked grim. A raincoat was draped across his lap. “Sit down,” he said. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want truthful answers,” he said.

Stone sat down.

“Early this morning,” Throckmorton began, “a police constable in Hyde Park found a stolen car abandoned there.”

Stone tried to remain calm.

“In the boot were the bodies of two men who had been murdered, shot in the head with a handgun, obviously a professional job of work.”

“I believe I saw something about that in the papers,” Stone replied.

“They were of Mediterranean extraction, carrying Greek passports. Do you know anyone of that description?”

“No,” Stone lied.

“Think carefully, Mr. Barrington; you don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“I do not think I am acquainted with them.”

Throckmorton took the raincoat from his lap and held it out to Stone. “Then why was one of them wearing your raincoat?” He opened the coat and turned out an inside pocket. A label bore the name of Doug Hayward’s shop and neatly printed inside, Stone’s own name.

Stone was stunned; he struggled to remain calm. “I don’t understand,” Stone said. “My raincoat is upstairs.”

“Let’s go and see it,” Throckmorton said, standing up.

Stone went to the concierge’s desk, asked for his key, and led the way to the elevator. The four men filled it completely. Stone’s mind was racing. When the two men had entered Lance’s house, they must have hung their raincoats on the rack with Stone’s: When he had left the house, he must have taken the wrong coat. Oh, shit, shit, shit! How was he going to explain this? And if he told Throckmorton everything, how would he explain not having told him earlier about the two corpses in the wine cellar?

The elevator stopped on Stone’s floor, and he led them to his suite. He went to a closet, found the raincoat, and handed it to Throckmorton.

The two detectives peered over his shoulder at the two coats, comparing them. “They’re nearly identical,” one of them said, helpfully. “The linings look the same, too.”

“Mmm, yes,” Throckmorton agreed. He turned to Stone. “That doesn’t explain how the two coats got exchanged,” he said.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Stone replied. “Perhaps in a checkroom somewhere?”

“Where? Where have you checked this coat?”

“Everywhere I’ve been,” Stone replied. “Downstairs in the cloak room, in restaurants; I’ve also hung it on racks in pubs, set it down in shops.”

“But where could you have taken this dead man’s coat?”

“I don’t know, it seems likely that he took mine and left his, doesn’t it?”

Throckmorton turned to the two detectives. “Wait downstairs,” he said. The two men left the room. “Sit down,” he said to Stone. Both men took chairs.

“Evelyn . . .”

“It is only because of Lieutenant Bacchetti’s recommendation of you that we are not having this conversation in an interrogation room, and that the interrogation is not being conducted by the two men who just left, who would be doing the job far less gently than I.”

“I appreciate the consideration,” Stone said, “but I have absolutely no idea when and where this exchange of raincoats happened.”

“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”

“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.

“Let me see yours.”

Stone went to his briefcase, got his passport, and handed it over.

Throckmorton examined it closely, then he took two passports from his pocket and compared them. “It says here that this passport was issued only a few days ago at the American Embassy in London.”

“That’s correct; when I arrived in this country, an immigration officer told me that my passport was expiring the following day.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No. I hadn’t used the passport for several months; it didn’t occur to me to look at the expiration date. I went to the embassy, as the officer suggested, and got a new one.”

“And where is your old one?”

“The passport office kept it.”

“And I’m keeping yours,” Throckmorton said, tucking all three passports into his pocket.

“Suppose I have to leave the country?”

“You will not leave the country until I say so,” Throckmorton said, rising. “One last time, Stone; is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“No.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Throckmorton said. He walked out of the room, taking both raincoats with him.

Stone sat down heavily and loosened his necktie. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “how could I have made such a stupid mistake?” He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

What seemed only a moment later, Stone jerked awake. Had he dozed off? Then he remembered that Arrington was downstairs in the restaurant. He ran to the elevator, buttoning his shirt and fixing his necktie; when he reached the ground floor, he tried not to run to the restaurant. From the door he could see that the table was empty.

“Mr. Barrington?” Mister Chevalier said.

“Yes? Where is Mrs. Calder?”

“I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago; she went to the lounge to look for you but could not find you, so she got her coat and left.” Chevalier looked at his watch. “You were gone for nearly an hour,” he said, with barely noticeable reproach.

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.

“We have kept your dinner warm,” Chevalier said. “Would you still like to have it, or would you prefer to order something else?”

Stone stared at the paneling ahead of him, wondering how he was ever going to fix this.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Oh. Will you send it to my suite, please?”

“Of course; and Mrs. Calder’s dinner?”

“Give it to the cat,” Stone said. He turned and trudged disconsolately to the elevator.

Upstairs, he got out the London telephone directory and looked for the ambassador’s residence; he found it under U.S. Government and dialed the number.

“Good evening,” a young male voice said, “this is the residence of the United States Ambassador.” Probably a marine.

“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak with Mrs. Arrington Calder? She’s a guest of the ambassador.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Calder has asked me not to put any calls through.”

“Would you tell her I called, please?” He gave the Connaught’s number.

“Of course, sir; good night.”

There was a sharp rap on his door, and he went to answer it. His dinner had arrived, and he didn’t feel like eating it.

39

STONE, HAVING LAIN AWAKE UNTIL the middle of the night, slept as if drugged. It was mid-morning before he woke up, and his first move was to call the embassy residence again and ask for Arrington. There was a long delay, then a woman came on the line.

“Stone?”

“Arrington, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Stone, it’s Barbara Wellington.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Arrington. I’ve been trying to reach her; she wasn’t taking calls last night.”

“I know; she came home very hurt and angry last night; she said you had abandoned her in the middle of dinner at the Connaught. What happened?”

“Some people showed up that I absolutely had to see, and—”

“She also said that when she got up to go to the ladies’ she saw you kissing another woman in the Connaught lobby, so when you reach her, I don’t think you ought to try and pass that off as business.”

“It was business—not the woman—but three men I had to see, and—”

“And when she came back from the ladies’ you had disappeared, and the concierge said you had gone up to your suite with a guest.”

“With three guests—they insisted. You see—”

“Stone, it’s not I you have to convince, so save your strength.”

“May I speak to Arrington, please?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Barbara, please just tell her there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”

“Stone, Arrington has gone.”

“Gone where? Where can I reach her?”

“To New York; she left here about twenty minutes ago for Heathrow. I think she’ll be staying at the Carlyle. If I were you, I’d go after her, get the next plane.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that—”

“You’re going to have to resolve this face-to-face.”

“How long did you say she’d been gone?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“What airline?”

“British Airways.”

“Do you know the flight number?”

“No, but it leaves around noon, I think. You have to be there early these days, because of all the security stuff.”

“Thank you, Barbara.” Stone hung up, then picked up the phone again. “Please ask the doorman to get me a cab for Heathrow immediately,” he said to the operator. “I’ll be right down.”

He threw on some clothes and, unshaven and unshowered, ran for the elevator. The doorman had the cab door open as he came through the revolving door, and he dove into the rear seat.

“Heathrow, is it, sir?” the cabbie asked.

“Right, and hurry.”

The driver pulled away and turned up Mount Street, headed for Park Lane. “Shouldn’t be too bad this time of day; what airline?”

“British Airways, first-class entrance.”

“Righto.”

Stone sat back and stared out the window, frequently glancing at his watch. Traffic wasn’t bad, and after the Chiswick Roundabout, it became even better.

“Excuse me, sir,” the driver said, “I don’t want you to think I’ve come over all paranoid, but I’m quite sure there’s a car following us.”

Stone spun around and looked at the traffic behind them. “Which one?”

“It’s a black Ford, the big one; at least two men in it, about four cars back.”

“Are they staying back, or are they trying to overtake us?” Stone asked.

“They were closer before; now they’re just lying back there, keeping us in sight.” What now? he thought. Have the two big “Greeks” been replaced in the lineup?

“Is there any way you can shake them?”

“Not on this road; they’re faster than I am. I could get off the motorway and try and lose them in Hammersmith.”

He had no time for that. “Never mind, just get me to Heathrow as fast as you can.”

“Righto.”

The driver stayed in the center of three lanes, driving fast; the black Ford held its position, and when the cab left the motorway at the Heathrow turnoff, Stone saw the Ford’s turn signal go on.

The driver followed the signs to the British Airways terminal, still driving fast. Stone reached into a pocket for money, and discovered he had none. He had nothing in his pockets.

The cab screeched to a halt. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t know if . . .”

But Stone was gone at a run. He did not see the black Ford stop fifty yards back and two men get out. He dashed into the terminal and ran for the first-class ticket counter. There were three people in line; he ignored them and went to the desk. “Excuse me, this is an emergency; can you tell me if Mrs. Arrington Calder has checked in yet?”

“Yes,” the young woman said. “I checked her in no more than five minutes ago; she was headed for the security checkpoint when I last saw her.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and hurried off, following signs to the checkpoint. The area was a zoo, with dozens of passengers lining up for the security check and X-ray machines. Stone jumped up and down, trying to see over their heads, and he saw Arrington pick up her hand luggage on the other side and start toward the gates. He didn’t want to start shouting at her, and there was no way to break into the line, so he went to an exit, where a uniformed policeman was on guard.

“Excuse me,” he said to the bobby, “I’m trying to catch up with a friend who has just gone through security; may I get in this way?”

“Do you have any luggage, sir?”

“No.”

“May I see your ticket?”

“I don’t have a ticket; I’m not flying today, she is.”

“May I see your passport?”

The police had his passport. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring it.”

“Some other identification?”

Stone dove into a pocket, then remembered it was empty. “Oh, God, I didn’t bring my wallet.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“This really is a sort of personal emergency.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t let you through without a ticket or any identification.”

Then Stone heard a voice behind him. “It’s all right, mate, we’ll deal with this.”

Two men seized his arms and marched him back through the terminal. Stone looked at them and recognized the two detectives who had accompanied Evelyn Throckmorton the night before.

“Trying to catch a flight, were we, Mr. Barrington?” one of them said.

“No, I was trying to catch up with a friend who’s leaving on a noon flight.”

“Well, he’ll have plenty of time to make it,” the cop said.

“Do you think it might be possible for me to go after her? Can you vouch for me with the officer at the security gate? It’s very important that I speak to her.”

“I believe Detective Inspector Throckmorton told you last night that you were not to leave the country,” the cop said.

“But I wasn’t trying to leave.”

“You wouldn’t have made it without your passport, anyway.”

“Honestly, I was just trying to catch up with my friend.”

They were out the door, where Stone’s taxi was still waiting for him.

“That cab is waiting for me to go back to the Connaught,” he said.

“Never mind, we’ll give you a lift,” the cop replied.

“But I have to pay him.”

The cop stopped. “All right, pay him.”

“I don’t have any money with me; it’s back in my room at the Connaught.”

The cop sighed wearily. “I suppose you expect me to pay him.”

“Look, I’m not trying to leave the country; you can follow me back to the hotel.”

“Just a moment.” The cop produced a cellphone and stepped a few paces away. A moment later, he returned. “All right, Mr. Barrington, the detective inspector says you can return to the Connaught.”

“Thank you.”

“But don’t give us any more chases, all right?”

“Thank you again.” Stone got into the cab.

“Catch her, sir?”

“Not quite,” Stone replied. “Take me back to the Connaught.”

The black Ford followed them all the way back.

40

STONE GOT BACK TO THE CONNAUGHT, went upstairs, got money, and paid the driver, tipping him extravagantly. As he passed the concierge’s desk, he heard his name called.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, “but this message arrived for you last evening, and it was somehow misplaced.” He handed Stone a yellow envelope.

Stone opened it and extracted the message. I’m on my way, it said, and that was all. “Who is it from?” he asked the concierge.

“I’m afraid that’s just how it came, sir; there was no name. We thought you’d know who it was from.”

“Man or woman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t on duty last evening, so I don’t know.”

Stone stuffed it into his pocket and went upstairs. He didn’t care who the fuck it was from, he was too pissed off. He let himself into the suite, hung up his jacket, and picked up the London papers. He went quickly through the Times and the Independent, looking for further mention of the two dead “Greeks” but saw nothing. There was a small piece about the explosion at the antiques market, but it had, apparently, been attributed to a gas leak.

He soaked in a hot tub for nearly an hour, grateful for the solitude, then ordered some sandwiches from room service and turned on the TV. He watched CNN for a while and, after he began seeing the same stories for the third time, began channel surfing. There was an Italian soap opera, a bad 1930s movie, a children’s show, and a soccer match. Stone had always thought that soccer would be a better spectator sport if the field were half as long and the goals twice as wide. Finally, he settled on a cricket match and for an hour tried to make some sense of it. He finally concluded that cricket was an elaborate joke that the Brits played on American tourists; that they probably played the same taped match over and over. He dozed.

He was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. Still in a stupor, he gathered the terrycloth robe around him and went to the door. Nobody there. The hammering came again, and it seemed to be coming from his right, where there was a door, always locked, apparently leading to a second bedroom adjoining his suite. He listened at that door and jumped back when the hammering started again. Very weird. Gingerly, he unlocked his side of the door and opened it. Behind it was another door, and someone hammered on it again. “It’s locked on your side!” he yelled.

The latch turned, and the door opened. Dino Bacchetti stood in the adjoining room.

“Jesus,” Dino said, “are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”

Stone was completely nonplussed. “What the hell are you doing here, Dino?”

“I’m hungry; get me a room-service menu.”

“Press the button over there that says ‘waiter,’ ” Stone instructed. Dino pressed it.

“Dino, what are you doing in London?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“No. Well, yes, I guess so, but there was no name on it.”

The waiter knocked on the door, and Stone opened it.

“Yes, sir; may I get you something?”

“What time is it in this country?” Dino asked.

“Nine-thirty P.M., sir,” the waiter said, glancing at his watch.

“You want some dinner?” Dino asked Stone.

“Whatever you’re having,” Stone replied.

“Bring us a couple Caesar salads and a couple steaks, medium-rare, and a decent bottle of red wine,” Dino said to the waiter.

“Of course, sir. Would you like some potatoes?”

“Sure, sure, whatever you’ve got,” Dino said. “And bring him a double Wild Turkey on the rocks, and me a Johnnie Walker Black, fixed the same, right away, please.” He closed the door behind the departing waiter.

“Dino, just once more, what are you doing here?”

Dino shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, and sank into an armchair. “What the fuck are they doing?” he asked, pointing at the TV.

“They’re playing cricket,” Stone replied. “It’s been going on for at least six hours.”

“What are the rules?”

“Nobody knows. What are you doing here?”

“Well, you’re in trouble; somebody had to come over here and pull your ass out of the shit.”

“I’m not in trouble.”

“Oh? I hear you’re looking good for a double murder.”

“Oh, that; Throckmorton called you.”

“Yep.” He was still gazing, rapt, at the TV. “What kind of pitching is that?” he asked.

“They call it bowling.”

“That’s not what they call bowling in my neighborhood,” Dino said.

“What did Throckmorton tell you?”

“Just that they found a couple of stiffs in a car trunk, and one of them was wearing your raincoat.”

“That was an accident,” Stone said.

“An accident? With two pops each in the head?”

“I mean the raincoat.”

“An accidental raincoat? Hey, look at that; they don’t run to first, they run to the pitcher’s mound and back again. This is completely nuts!”

“I grabbed somebody’s raincoat, and he apparently grabbed mine. Or rather, whoever shot him grabbed it and put it on him.”

“Didn’t want him to get rained on, I guess,” Dino said. “Do you really expect anybody to believe a story like that?”

“Throckmorton doesn’t believe it?”

“Of course not; who would?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly tell him everything.”

“I figured. You want to tell me?”

The waiter arrived with the drinks, and they sat down.

Dino raised his glass. “To your eventual freedom,” he said, and took a long pull on his Scotch.

“I’m not under arrest,” Stone said.

“No? Stick around. Now, you want to tell me what the fuck happened?”

“All right, but Throckmorton never hears this, okay?”

“Are you kidding? I came over here to get you out of this, not to send you to Wormy Scrubbers.”

“Wormwood Scrubs.”

“Whatever.”

“All right, here’s how it went,” Stone said.

“You better start at the beginning, so we don’t have to go backwards.”

“All right; this guy showed up in my office, sent by Woodman and Weld.” Stone began to take Dino, blow by blow, through what had happened since he’d arrived in London. He got as far as the explosion at the antiques market when dinner arrived. The waiter served it and left.

When he had gone, Stone continued with the events at the Farm Street house. When he got to the dinner of the night before, he stopped, not wanting to talk about Sarah or Arrington.

“So,” Dino said, “how’s Sarah? How’s Arrington?”

“How did you know Arrington was here?”

“She called me a few days ago, said she was headed to London and how were you?”

“Why didn’t she call me?”

“I guess she did, and you weren’t there, so she called me. She’s buying an apartment in New York.”

“I heard.”

“So tell me about Sarah and Arrington, and how you’re keeping them both happy.”

Stone did the best he could.

“So Arrington is on her way to New York?”

“Right.”

“And Sarah is filthy rich, having knocked off her boyfriend?”

“She didn’t knock him off, it was an accident; I was there.”

“Sure, like Arrington didn’t knock off Vance Calder.”

“You don’t really think she did that, do you?”

“Nobody’s proved to me that she didn’t.”

“Dino, you’re a very suspicious person, do you know that?”

“It’s useful in my work; and if I weren’t a suspicious person, somebody would have knocked you off by now.”

“You’re probably right,” Stone admitted. Dino had gotten him out of the soup more than once.

“You know what I think?” Dino said, pushing back from the table.

“What?”

“I think I’m going to bed. I hear jet lag is a bitch if you don’t get any sleep.”

“So, you’re going to bed without having solved any of my problems?”

“You betcha.” He got up, went to the door of his room, and opened it. “I’ll do that tomorrow.” He closed the door.

“Christ, I wish somebody would,” Stone said.

41

DINO WALKED INTO STONE’S ROOM AT 6:30 A.M., in his pajamas, whistling loudly. “Up and at ’em!” he shouted.

Stone groaned, rolled over, and pulled a pillow over his head.

“Don’t you want to brush your teeth before breakfast?” Dino asked, ripping the covers off Stone.

“No,” Stone replied, trying vainly to get the covers back.

“That’s disgusting,” Dino said. “You can’t eat breakfast without brushing your teeth; it’s unsanitary.”

Stone peeped out from under the pillow. “What breakfast? I haven’t ordered breakfast.”

There was a sharp rap on the door.

“That breakfast,” Dino said, opening the door and admitting the waiter.

Stone went and brushed his teeth; when he returned, an elaborate breakfast had been laid out.

Dino handed him a large glass of orange juice. “Come on, wake up.”

Stone took the orange juice. “This must be what it’s like to be married.”

“Are you kidding?” Dino asked. “The day you get married is the last day you’ll ever get breakfast in bed.”

“I’m not in bed,” Stone said, sipping the orange juice.

“Close enough. What’s your plan for the day?”

“I’m planning for you to solve all my problems,” Stone said.

“Okay, I can do that. Not Arrington, of course, or Sarah; you’ll have to handle those yourself, though of course, I’ll be there with lots of advice.”

“I’d rather not hear it,” Stone said, digging into his scrambled eggs.

“Man, these are really terrific eggs,” Dino said. “How do they get them like this?”

“I asked about that,” Stone replied. “Seems they cook them very slowly, with a lot of butter, in a saucepan, not a skillet, and they serve them on a hot plate, very soft, since they continue to cook on the plate.”

“No kidding? I’ll have to get Mary Ann to do them that way.”

“Lots of luck. Your wife doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would spend the early moments of her morning making you English scrambled eggs.”

“Who would have thought the English could cook?”

“Someone, I think it was George Bernard Shaw, once said that you could eat very well in England, as long as you have breakfast three times a day.” Stone was waking up now.

Dino laughed. “I gotta remember that one.”

“Don’t bother; it isn’t true anymore; the Brits cook very well indeed these days. Okay, how are you going to solve all my problems?”

“I slept on your problems,” Dino said, “and I think you can best solve them by leaving London and going back to New York. That would remove you from the evil influence of the people around you in this town.”

“They aren’t all evil,” Stone replied.

“No? Name me one person you know in London that you can prove not to be evil.”

“They’re innocent until proven guilty,” Stone said.

“Only in a court of law; in the court of my law, every fucking one of them is guilty of something.”

“Demonstrate, please.”

“Okay, let’s take Bartholomew: Do you have any doubt that he’s an evil son of a bitch?”

Stone thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said, “none.”

“And you’re working for him. How about Lance?”

“Well, I think he may be mixed up in those two murders; and maybe a lot more, as well.”

“Same for Sarah, except it’s just one murder,” Dino said. “Who’s left?”

“Well, there’s Erica and Monica, the sisters.”

“Okay, I guess there have to be some innocent bystanders, but I’m not going to count on it.”

“And there’s Arrington.”

“Arrington doesn’t count; she’s not in London.”

“And Throckmorton.”

“Throckmorton wants you to spend the rest of your life in an English prison, where they don’t have toilets. How evil is that?”

“He doesn’t believe for a moment that I killed those two men.”

“He doesn’t care,” Dino said. “He just wants to clear these two killings; it doesn’t make him look good for bodies to turn up in his nice, green park. If he can blame you, he’s home free.”

Stone thought for a moment. “They don’t have toilets in English prisons?”

“No, they were all built before they had plumbing; you have to shit in a bucket and do God-knows-what with it.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“My very point; it’s why, among other reasons, you don’t want to go to jail over here.”

“So what is your solution to dealing with all this evil?”

“I told you: get out of town. You don’t owe these people anything.”

“I can’t; Throckmorton has my passport. Yesterday, when I tried to see Arrington at the airport, two of his goons dragged me out of the place.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dino said. “If I can get your passport back, will you get out of here right away?”

Stone thought about that. “Maybe. But I have to admit, I’m pretty curious about what’s going on. You have any thoughts about that?”

“Let’s take these people one at a time, in reverse order of evilness,” Dino said. “Monica: She just has a business here, and she’s probably not involved. Erica: She may not be involved; she just wants to follow Lance around like a puppy, and she doesn’t give a fuck what he’s done or what he’s doing. Sarah: If there were any justice, she’d be shitting in a bucket in an English prison, instead of collecting a huge inheritance. Ali and Sheila: They’re in business with Lance, so they’re just as evil as he is. That leaves us with Lance and Hedger, who are so obviously evil that it’s hardly worth discussing.”

“I want to know what it is that Lance and Hedger actually do that’s so evil.”

“Well, Hedger, for a start, killed that retired cop Bobby Jones.”

“He just had him beaten up—not that that’s a good thing.”

“He’s dead,” Dino said. “Died of his injuries. Throckmorton told me on the phone; that’s one of the reasons he’s so pissed off with you.”

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned. “I didn’t know; nobody told me.”

“So that makes Hedger a murderer; Throckmorton wants him for Jones, but I get the impression that his investigation is being impeded by somebody in the British government.”

“You two had quite a little heart-to-heart, didn’t you?” Stone asked. “Why hasn’t he told me any of this? He’s certainly had the opportunity.”

“Because he doesn’t trust you, dummy; you work for Hedger, don’t you? He’d like to have Hedger shitting in a bucket somewhere and you for an accessory. Jones and his buddy Cricket were apparently two of Throckmorton’s favorite people.”

“Jesus, I’m never going to get out of this country,” Stone said.

“That’s a possibility,” Dino agreed. “What we’ve got to do is find out what’s going on here, so we can tell Throckmorton, and then he can lock up the perpetrators, except for you.”

“Hedger is my client; I can’t help lock him up.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you enjoy putting away bad guys anymore? Where’s the cop in you?”

“He’s still there, but so is the lawyer.”

Dino sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

42

DINO WENT TO GET DRESSED, AND Stone shaved and showered. He was tying his tie when the satellite phone rang.

“It’s Hedger.”

“Good morning.”

“You said you’d have a list of the people at table twelve.”

“Right, let me get it.” Stone retrieved the list, the only fruit of his aborted dinner with Arrington. “Want me to read you the names?”

“Yes.”

Stone did so.

“It’s the Israeli cultural attaché,” Hedger said.

“Why do you think so?”

“Because the governments of Sweden, Australia, Germany, and Belgium do not usually participate in kidnapping innocent Americans off the streets of London. But I wouldn’t put it past the Israelis. What’s his name?”

Stone consulted the list. “David Beth Alachmy.”

“Holy shit.”

“Do you know him?”

“Just of him; he’s very smart, very tough. And his very presence in London means that he’s the new chief of station for the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service. He’s so new in town that my people didn’t know yet.”

“Then the two ‘Greeks’ were Israelis?”

“Probably. You said you had a contact in the London police; why don’t you ask him?”

“He and I are not on cordial terms at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks I was involved in the murder of the two Israelis.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because one of them was wearing my raincoat.”

“How the hell—”

“I took off the raincoat when I was doing my little survey of Lance Cabot’s house, and apparently when I left, I picked up the wrong coat. The murderer dressed one of the two corpses in mine.”

“Oh, swell, now you’ve come to the attention of the local police.”

“You could say that.”

“That greatly reduces your value to me.”

“You expect me to feel guilty about that? Let me remind you that I came to their attention while trying to get information for you.”

“In the old days, we’d have just shot you; as it is, I’ll have to fire you.”

“As you wish—you’ll recall that I’ve already resigned once.”

“This time let’s make it permanent; I can’t have anything more to do with you.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with a continuing hotel bill.”

“Why is that? As far as I’m concerned, you can get on the next airplane out of here.”

“Not at the moment; the police have taken my passport. When I went to the airport yesterday to, ah, see off a friend, they dragged me out and sent me back to the Connaught.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, pal, you’re on your own.”

“You can discuss it with the accounting department at Woodman and Weld,” Stone said. “And while you’re at it, remember that I’ve been on double my hourly rate for a while.”

“Not anymore; as I said, you’re fired.” Hedger hung up.

Dino came into the room, dressed. “Who was that?”

“Hedger; when he heard the police were interested in me, he fired me.”

“Well, I hope you don’t still feel any loyalty to him.”

“He’s not my client anymore.”

“So fuck him and the horse he rode in on.”

“Yep.”

“Let’s call Throckmorton and tell him who beat up Bobby Jones.”

“He already knows Hedger was behind it; Ted Cricket would have told him; he just can’t prove that Hedger sicced the hoods onto Jones.”

“Oh. Well, what are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know; what were you going to do?”

“I was going to follow you around at a safe distance, to see if anybody else was following you.”

“Good idea; I guess I’d better go somewhere.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Why don’t I take Lance Cabot to lunch?”

“Someplace good, I hope.”

Stone picked up the phone and called Lance’s number.

Erica answered. “Oh, hello, Stone,” she said brightly. “How are you?”

“Very well, thanks; is Lance there?”

“Sure, just a minute.”

“Good morning, Stone,” Lance said.

“Good morning; are you free for lunch today?”

“Sure; where?”

“The Connaught grill, at twelve-thirty?”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up.

“What do you hope to accomplish by having lunch with him?” Dino asked.

“A few days ago, he tried to bring me into some sort of business deal; I blew him off at the time, but now I feel more receptive. Also, it will give you a good look at Lance; I’ll get you a table, too.” He called downstairs and made the reservations.

Stone arrived in the grill on time; Dino was already seated a couple of tables away from his own; Lance showed up five minutes later.

“Well, what’s up?” Lance asked, after they had ordered lunch.

“Last weekend, you asked me to do some legal work for you in New York.”

“Yes, but you weren’t interested; I accept that.”

“Now I’m interested.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I have some time on my hands here. I won’t do the legal work myself, but I’ll give you the name of a man who can handle it. I’m more interested in participating in the business end of the, ah, transaction.”

“You mean you want a piece of the action?”

“If I like the action.”

“I assume you’d be willing to make an investment?”

“That depends on what the deal is and how big an investment you want.”

“Could you come up with a quarter of a million dollars?”

“If I were sufficiently motivated.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Lance laughed. “I’m not sure that I know everything.”

“Let’s start with what you know.”

“All right; I propose to buy some items in England or elsewhere in Europe and sell them to someone in another part of the world for a large profit.”

“How much will you pay for them and what will you sell them for?”

“I expect to pay in the region of half a million dollars for these items, and I expect to sell them for around two million, maybe a bit more.”

“That is a very nice profit indeed. And exactly what are the items?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you just yet.”

“You understand that I will be unwilling to make the investment until I know?”

“Of course; I don’t think you’re a fool, Stone.”

“Can you give me a general idea?”

“Let’s just say that the goods are of a scientific nature, and that the buyers are lovers of science.”

“Are Ali and Sheila part of this deal?”

“A very important part. They will act as liaison between the sellers and the buyers.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“Let’s just say that I’m of the wrong nationality, ethnicity, and religion. Ali and Sheila are critical to the success of the transaction.”

Stone took a card from his wallet and wrote a name and telephone number on the back of it. “This is a lawyer in New York who will handle your legal work. But for the record, this is the only part of the transaction that I will ever admit taking part in—a simple reference.”

“I quite understand.”

“Apart from the nature of the goods and the name of the buyer, I will require a means of making my share of the profit bankable and spendable, without attracting the attention of any government agency anywhere.”

“I quite understand. I have such an arrangement already in place, and you may avail yourself of it.”

“When will this happen, and when can you tell me more about it?”

“Once I give the go-ahead, it will take only two or three days to conclude the transaction. The items in question have already been manufactured and will be transported as soon as I transfer the funds to the maker. How soon can you produce your quarter of a million?”

“What do you mean by ‘produce’? Where and when?”

“I mean wire-transfer the funds to an offshore bank, which I will specify.”

“As soon as I know all the details of what you’re delivering and to whom. The funds are currently in a money market fund, awaiting investment. All it will take for delivery is a coded fax to my broker.”

“I like your style, Stone.”

“All we need to know now is if I like yours.”

“I’ll talk to some people and be in touch shortly.”

They raised their glasses in a silent toast, then went back to finishing their lunch.

Stone glanced across the small room at Dino. He was enjoying his lunch immensely.

43

STONE SAID GOODBYE TO LANCE ON the steps of the Connaught, then set off down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, walking slowly, so that Dino could follow, window-shopping along the way. It was time to see if anyone was following him.

He walked around the square, letting Dino follow from a distance, and, on a whim, walked into Jack Barclay’s, the Rolls-Royce dealer. A young man approached him immediately.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

“I’d like to look at a Bentley, please.” The showroom was a good place from which to spot a tail, with its large windows overlooking Berkeley Square. Stone couldn’t see Dino.

“The Arnage—that’s the saloon car—or the convertible?”

“The Arnage.”

“This way.” He led Stone across the large sales floor. “Would this be for UK use or export?”

“UK,” Stone lied, thinking that the young man would send him to an American dealer if he said otherwise.

“Here we are,” the salesman said, stopping before a gleaming black example of the car. “This one is in black with Autumn upholstery.”

“May I see the engine?”

The salesman opened the car’s hood to reveal a large engine bay, stuffed with equipment.

“What is the displacement and horsepower?” Stone asked, still unable to spot Dino.

“Six point eight liters, turbocharged; four hundred horsepower and six hundred and fifteen pounds of torque, available at low revs.”

“Acceleration and top speed?”

“Zero to sixty miles per hour in five point nine seconds. Unfortunately, the top speed is electronically limited to a hundred and fifty-five miles per hour.”

“Very impressive,” Stone said, opening the driver’s-side door and getting behind the right-side steering wheel. While the salesman droned on about the car’s features, Stone was able to sweep the square from his seat, and he still could not spot Dino. Surely he hadn’t walked too fast. He got out of the car.

“Would you like a brochure?” the salesman asked.

“Yes, thank you, and your card.”

The salesman dropped both into an envelope and handed it to Stone. “We hope to hear from you,” he said.

“Thank you.” Stone walked out into the square; still no sign of Dino on the busy streets. Had he followed at all? He walked back to the Connaught and went up to his suite. He was relaxing, reading the Bentley brochure, when Dino let himself in from next door. Half an hour had passed since Stone returned to the hotel.

“Where have you been?” Stone asked. “Did I move too fast for you?”

“Nope, and not for the four-man team following you, either.”

“There were four men following me?”

“Well, two of the men were women. They were very good, too, working both sides of the street, changing places. I don’t know if I would have made them, if they’d been following me, but since I was following you, it was easier to see what was going on.”

“Any idea of nationality?”

“They didn’t appear ethnic, so I’d say English or American.”

“What about the shoes?”

“The men wore expensive shoes with thin soles, so they’re not cops, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No thick soles and white socks, then?”

“Nope.”

Stone put down his brochure. “My guess is, it’s Hedger’s people.”

“They must want Lance pretty bad.”

“Then why aren’t they following Lance?”

“Maybe they are.”

“Maybe they are, at that; it’s something to keep in mind. What did you think of Lance?”

“What struck me,” Dino said, “was how much alike the two of you are.”

“How do you mean?”

“Jesus, Stone, didn’t you see the guy? He’s waspy, blondish, beautifully dressed. He has that languid look that only very confident people have.”

“Or very good actors.”

“Well, you’re not that confident, and you’re not that good an actor; from my view of the conversation, you were the guy who wanted something, and he was the guy who was going to decide whether you get it.”

“Just the opposite,” Stone said. “He wants a quarter of a million dollars from me, and I’m demanding full disclosure; he’s not ready to tell me yet.”

“Do you have a quarter of a million dollars?”

“Yes, but I’m not about to give it to Lance; he doesn’t know that, of course.”

“You better be careful, Stone; you start promising people money, and they’re liable to get very upset if you don’t come through with it.”

“You have a point.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make a couple of phone calls.”

“And the first one will be to Arrington, won’t it?”

“Oh, shut up and get out of here; I’d like some privacy.”

“I’ll go to my room and see if there’s a cricket game on TV.”

“Cricket match.”

“Whatever.” Dino went to his own room.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Carlyle hotel in New York, which was lodged in his memory, and asked for Mrs. Calder. The phone rang several times, and then the voice mail kicked in.

“Arrington, it’s Stone. I want to apologize for the other evening; it was inexcusable leaving you like that, but I really didn’t have a choice. I tried to catch up with you at Heathrow, but you got through security before I could. I’d like to explain, if you’ll let me. I’d also like to see you again, but I won’t be back in New York for at least a few more days. Please call me at the Connaught.” He left the number and hung up, then he got out his address book and called Samuel Bernard at his home in Washington Square.

“Good morning, Stone,” the old man said, “or good afternoon, if you’re still in London.”

“I’m still in London, sir, and I wanted to ask for some more advice.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Bartholomew is Hedger, as you suspected, and he and I have parted company.”

“Why?”

“I’ve come to the attention of the local police on a related matter, and that put him off.”

“I can see how it might,” Bernard said.

“I had thought that Hedger was working outside his agency, for personal reasons, but today I was followed by a four-man team who seem to be either British or American, probably American.”

“It’s unlikely that he would have so many people at his disposal, if he were working on his own,” Bernard said.

“That’s what I figured. Now I have another problem: I’ve learned about something that I think should be brought to the attention of some authority, but I don’t trust Hedger. Is it possible that you could connect me with someone at your former employer’s that I could talk to without Hedger finding out?”

“I think that would be very dangerous, Stone; I don’t know what’s going on internally at the Company at this moment, so it’s difficult to ascertain how much official support Hedger has. Even if I found someone for you to speak to, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t go straight to Hedger. And he wouldn’t be in London, either. If anything happens in the London station, Hedger is going to know it, because if he’s not actually station head, he’ll be very close to whoever is. Why don’t you want to go directly to Hedger?”

“I just don’t trust him; he’s lied to me a lot.”

“That’s what agents do; it’s not surprising.”

“I don’t yet know enough about what’s going on to know whether I might be hurting someone who’s innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Can you give me a general idea of what’s happening?”

Stone recounted his conversation with Lance, without mentioning names.

“It sounds as if your acquaintance is going to sell something important to a foreign government or more informal organization, that our government, or at least Hedger, doesn’t want them to have. Are you actually going to put up this money?”

“I don’t know.”

“I warn you, if you do, you may involve yourself in this matter in an inextricable way.”

“I’d much rather contact some agency that could support me in this.”

Bernard was silent for a moment. “If you don’t trust Hedger, then I think you should go to the British.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“I’ll give someone yours,” Bernard said. “If you get a call from someone who says he’s a friend of Sam’s, see him.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stone said.

“Keep me posted,” Bernard replied. “I’m beginning to enjoy this.”

Stone hung up the phone, laughing.

44

STONE HAD EXPECTED TO GET A CALL from someone soon, but it didn’t come. He didn’t see any point in going out, just to be followed, so he stayed home, looking in on Dino to find him snoring away. Maybe he wasn’t immune to jet lag, after all. Stone found a movie on TV and settled in.

Early in the evening, Dino came into the suite, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I was watching cricket, and then I practically passed out.”

“Jet lag.”

“If you say so. You hungry?”

“Almost. You want to order dinner now, or wait for a while.”

“You don’t want to go out?”

“Not really.”

Stone heard an odd noise, and he turned to see an envelope being slid under the door.

“Looks like a message for you,” Dino said.

“That’s not one of the Connaught’s message envelopes,” Stone said, staring at it.

“Well, are you going to open it? The suspense is killing me.” Dino yawned.

Stone retrieved the envelope, which had nothing written on it. He opened it and took out a single sheet of paper. Written in block capitals was a message: AFTER TEN MINUTES TAKE THE WEST LIFT UP ONE FLOOR, TURN LEFT OUT OF THE LIFT, AND WALK TO THE END OF THE CORRIDOR. THE DOOR WILL BE AJAR. It was unsigned. He handed it to Dino, who read it and smiled.

“I love this kind of stuff,” he chuckled. “You have any idea who it’s from? A woman, I’ll bet.”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said. “I called a friend and asked to be introduced to somebody on this side of the water. I think this is it.”

“Whatever you say; I still think it’s a woman. It always is with you.”

After ten minutes, Stone did as he was told. He figured out which sides of the hotel the two elevators were on, then took the west one up a flight and walked down the corridor. A door at the end was ajar. He rapped lightly and walked in. “Hello?”

He was standing in a small vestibule with three doors. One of them opened and a woman smiled at him. “Mr. Barrington?” She was of medium height, wearing a gray business suit and lightweight horn-rimmed glasses, dark hair. Stone thought she’d be quite pretty without the glasses and with a little more makeup. “Yes,” he said.

She opened the door to reveal a large sitting room. “Please come in and have a seat; he’ll be with you shortly. May I get you something to drink?”

“Some fizzy water would be nice,” he replied.

She went to a cabinet at one side of the large room, opened it to reveal a full bar, and poured two glasses of San Pellegrino mineral water.

She returned to where Stone was sitting, handed him a glass, and sat down. “My name is Carpenter,” she said. Her accent was clipped, of indistinguishable class, at least to him.

“How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“For whom are we waiting?”

“For me, old chap,” a voice said from behind him. He turned to find a man in his mid-thirties entering the room, apparently from the bedroom. He was dressed in a severely cut pin-striped suit, and what Stone imagined was a club tie, though he didn’t know which club. It was dark blue or black, with a single sky-blue stripe.

“Thank you for coming up,” he said briskly. “Sorry to be so cloak-and-dagger, but from what our mutual friend, Sam, told me, you’ve picked up a rather elaborate tail.” His accent was terribly upper-class.

“It seems so.”

“My name is Mason.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. Instead, he went to the bar, poured himself a Scotch, no ice, then sat down opposite Stone. “Sounds as though you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something.”

“How much did our friend tell you?”

“Why don’t you tell me the whole thing from the very start?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you already know? It would save me repeating myself.”

Mason smiled tightly. “You’re a cautious chap, aren’t you?”

Stone shrugged.

“Apparently, you think somebody wants to sell something he shouldn’t be selling to someone who shouldn’t be buying it. That sum it up?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you’ve fallen out with Stan Hedger, whom you don’t trust anymore, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“But you came to London at his request.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve attracted the attention of the police. How, may I ask?”

“You may have read in the papers about two gentlemen found dead in the trunk of a car in Hyde Park?”

“I heard of it less than an hour after they were discovered. Are you connected to that incident in some way?”

“One of them was wearing my raincoat.”

Mason burst out laughing. “Goodness, that would put the coppers onto you, wouldn’t it. Who’s the man in charge, if you know his name?”

“Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton.”

“Oh, yes, he’s all right.”

“I was already acquainted with him.”

“How?”

“I used to be a police detective in New York; a friend of mine on the force introduced me to him.”

“Nice to have an introduction in a strange city, isn’t it? Well, I think you should forget about the detective inspector and put your trust in me, from here on in,” Mason said. “Sam thought so, too.”

“All right.”

Carpenter got up, went to a briefcase on a table, took out a small tape recorder, set it on the coffee table, and switched it on; then she sat back and prepared to listen.

Mason made a motion that Stone should continue.

Stone looked at the recorder, then at Carpenter, then Mason. He shook his head slowly.

Mason leaned forward and switched off the recorder. “My, my, you are cautious, aren’t you?”

Stone nodded. “I wouldn’t like to hear this conversation played back to me in a courtroom someday.”

“Entirely understandable,” Mason said. “You’re a lawyer, Sam tells me.”

“Right.”

“Well, let me put your mind at rest, Mr. Barrington; Carpenter and I are not the police; the organization we work for conducts its business without reference to the police, unless we need them for some small chore or other. Tell me, just between us. Do you believe that you may have committed a crime while in Britain?”

“I didn’t shoot those two men, if that’s what you mean.”

“Anything else? Drug smuggling? Rape? Incest? Cross the street without looking both ways?”

“No, nothing.”

“You didn’t boot poor James Cutler off that yacht, did you?”

“No.”

“That’s what I heard; heard you did your damnedest to save the poor chap.”

“I got wet.”

Mason leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and his voice changed, lowered, became friendlier. “Relax, Stone,” he said. “We’re here to help. Start at the beginning, now.”

Stone took a deep breath and, once more, started at the beginning.

45

WHEN STONE HAD FINISHED TELLING them everything, Mason just stared at him for a long moment. “Extraordinary,” he drawled.

Stone looked at Carpenter; she nodded.

“Rather,” she said.

He wasn’t sure whether this meant they didn’t believe him. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Well, let me tell you a few things: First, David Beth Alachmy is the new Mossad station chief in London; old Stan was right about that; second, the two chaps in the car were Beth Alachmy’s men; third, the abduction and interrogation of you by Beth Alachmy and his thugs was way, way out of bounds, and I will see that he is suitably punished for it.”

“Thank you, but I don’t really care about that,” Stone replied. “I just want to get this thing over with and get back to New York.”

“Our sentiments exactly,” Mason said. “I hope we can have you out of here in just a few days.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re aware of Lance Cabot and his little consulting business, but this is the first we’ve heard of Ali and Sheila; we’ll be looking into them.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, I assume you do actually have the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that Cabot wants for his project?”

“Well, yes, in a brokerage account in New York.”

“I think the very first thing you’ll want to do is have that transferred to the offshore account, as Cabot requested.”

“But—”

“Oh, don’t actually give it to him; just let him confirm that you’ve got it in the account. When we’re done, you can wire it back to your brokerage account.”

“I suppose—”

“Now, the first thing we’ve got to do is to get you out of this hotel.”

“Why?” Stone asked plaintively. “I like it here.”

“Because Stan’s people know where to find you, and they can follow you anywhere from here,” Mason said, as if he were explaining things to a child. “Do you have somewhere you can go?”

Stone thought for a moment. “Let me make a phone call.”

“Of course.”

He picked up a phone and called Sarah at her London flat.

“Hi.”

“Well, hello; I was wondering when I was going to hear from you.”

“Have our mutual acquaintances cleared out of James’s house?”

“Yes, all gone.”

“Do you mind if Dino and I move in there for a few days? I’ve got to get out of the Connaught; they’re booked up, apparently.”

“Dino’s in London?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course you can stay there; when do you want to go?”

“Immediately.”

“All right; why don’t I cook us all some dinner over there? James has a decent kitchen, and I can pick up some things on the way.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“See you in an hour?”

“That’s good. Bye.” He hung up and turned to Mason. “We can go to James Cutler’s house in Chester Street.”

“Ah yes, good,” Mason said. “Who is Dino?”

“Dino Bacchetti, my old partner at the NYPD. He got into town yesterday.”

“All right, then; you go and get packed up, and I’ll send someone for your luggage. I believe your bill is going to Stan Hedger?”

“Yes.”

“Good, that solves that. We’ll be taking you out of the hotel by a rear exit.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, by the way, Sam asked me to ask you if Hedger ever gave you any sort of electronic device—a radio, a pager, a clock—to carry around with you?”

“Yes, he gave me a satellite telephone.”

“You’ll want to give that to me; he’s been using it to track your whereabouts.”

Stone felt like a complete ass. “All right.”

“I’ll come and get you in, say, three-quarters of an hour.”

“Good.” Stone left the suite and went back to his own.

Dino was still watching cricket. “You know, I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this game.”

“It’s an illusion; no American will ever understand it.”

“You ready for some dinner?”

“Yes, but Sarah is cooking it for us; get packed, we’re moving out of the hotel.”

“But I like it here,” Dino said. “It’s nice—you push a button and somebody comes to take care of you.”

“I’ve just had a meeting with some British intelligence people, and they want us out of here; they say it’s the only way we’ll ever lose the tail that Hedger put on us.”

“We’re going right now?”

“Very shortly; just get your luggage ready to go.”

Dino switched off the cricket match with reluctance.

At the appointed time, the porter rapped on their door. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. I’m to take your bags down to the kitchen.”

“There they are,” Stone said, pointing to the pile. “Mr. Bacchetti’s, too.”

“There’s a lady waiting for you at the lift.”

Stone and Dino walked to the elevator, where Carpenter was waiting for them, the door open. He introduced Dino.

Once in the elevator, Carpenter inserted a key into a lock and turned it. “This will get us to the lower level,” she said.

Stone watched her on the way down; she really was very attractive, in her muted way. The lift doors opened, and Carpenter led them down a hallway, past the kitchens, and out a rear door. There were three identical gray vans waiting outside, and the porter was loading their luggage into the middle one.

Mason appeared from behind them. “Give me Hedger’s phone,” he said.

Stone took the phone from an inside pocket and handed it to him.

Mason looked around him, then spotted a truck unloading seafood for the hotel. He tossed the phone over the crates of fish into the rear of the truck. “There,” he said. “That will keep your tail busy. Get into the center van.”

Stone and Dino climbed into the rear seat with Carpenter, while Mason got into the front.

“We’ll wait until the fish lorry goes,” he said.

As if on command, the truck started up and moved out of the mews, then turned right at the street.

“Wait,” Mason said. “Let them register the move.” He glanced at his watch. Two minutes passed, then Mason said, “Now; turn left at the end.”

The three vans moved out.

“Why do I feel like a load of laundry?” Dino asked.

“This would be your policeman friend?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Stone said. “This is Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, of the New York Police Department.”

“Enchanted,” Mason drawled, without turning around.

“Yeah, me too,” Dino said.

The three vans drove into Grosvenor Square and at the next corner, each went in a different direction, none of them toward James’s house.

“The house is in Chester Street, off Belgrave Square,” Stone reminded Mason.

“I know, old chap,” Mason said. “We’re just going to lead any possible tail on a merry chase before we turn for home. I’ve visited the house, actually. James Cutler and I were at Eton together a couple of hundred years ago. He was a good chap, and I’m grateful to you for what you tried to do for him.” He paused. “I’m not so sure about this Miss Sarah Buckminster.”

Dino dug Stone in the ribs.

46

THEY ARRIVED AT THE CHESTER STREET house, and the van’s driver set Stone’s and Dino’s luggage on the sidewalk.

“We won’t come in,” Mason said. He handed Stone a tiny cellphone, its charger, and an extra battery. “If anyone asks, you rented this through the concierge at the Connaught.” He handed Stone an index card with a list of numbers written on it. “These are my and Carpenter’s cellphone numbers,” he said. “If there’s no answer, you’ll have an opportunity to leave a message, and one of us will get back to you quickly. I suggest you memorize them and destroy the card. Your number is there, too.”

“All right,” Stone said, pocketing the phone and the card.

“Tomorrow morning, call Lance Cabot and tell him you’ve arranged with your broker to have the quarter of a million transferred at a moment’s notice, pending Cabot’s satisfying you with the details of the transaction. When he tells you, I suggest you be somewhat less scrupulous than you’ve been so far; don’t be shocked at what the goods turn out to be or to whom they’re to be sold. The more of a buccaneer you seem to be, the more Cabot will be interested in doing business with you. Meantime, we’ll be doing a complete background check on Cabot, Ali, and Sheila.”

“Sounds good,” Stone said.

“Don’t leave the house without telling me, and on a few minutes’ notice, I can provide any transportation you may need. From now on, I want your only tail to be my people.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He and Dino got out of the van, and it drove away. They trudged up the steps with their luggage and rang the bell.

Sarah answered and threw herself at Dino. “How are you, darling?” she asked. “And how’s Mary Ann?”

“We’re all just great,” Dino said, beaming at her.

“Come on in and get your things put away.” She led them up the stairs. “Dino, you’re in there, and Stone, you come with me.” She led him to a rear bedroom, obviously the master, and then she gave him a long and tantalizing kiss. “Get unpacked and come downstairs; dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Stone hung up his clothes and put his toiletries in the bathroom, which was large and old, wall-to-wall marble.

The three of them sat around the kitchen table eating lamb chops and drinking an outstanding claret from James’s cellar.

“You won’t believe the wine that’s down there,” she said. “I don’t think that any lot of really fine wine passed through the business that James didn’t grab a case or two of for himself.”

Stone looked at the bottle: a Chateau Haut-Brion ’66. “I never thought I’d be drinking this,” he said.

“Stick around,” Sarah said. “I’ll ruin your liver for you.”

“Sarah, you’re not to tell anyone that Dino and I are staying here.”

“And why not?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Dear, don’t be so old-fashioned.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m involved in some very delicate business, and the competition is unscrupulous. I don’t want them to know my whereabouts. If someone should call you asking for me, you can tell them I’ve moved from the Connaught, but you don’t know where.”

“Oh, all right, if you say so. It’s all very cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” More than she knew.

After dinner and brandy, Stone went upstairs and turned on the taps in the huge, old-fashioned bathtub. He had just settled in for a soak, with the lights dimmed, when Sarah came into the bathroom. She was quite naked, and it was the first good look he’d had at her that way for a long time.

“How about some company?” she said, sliding into the tub, facing him.

“Mmmm,” he replied, closing his eyes.

A moment later, he felt her hand on his crotch.

“I think we have to get this clean,” she said, and she began soaping it.

Stone held onto the sides of the tub.

“Now it’s clean,” she said, “and we have to get it warm.” She climbed on top of him and brought him inside her. “There,” she sighed. She began moving, slowly, in and out.

Stone responded favorably.

She reached behind her and took his testicles in her hand, still moving, now massaging gently.

Stone sat up and put his arms around her, cupping her buttocks in his hands, helping her move.

“Don’t you dare come before me,” she breathed, moving faster.

Stone ran a finger down between her cheeks, letting it pass lightly back and forth over her anus, then he inserted a finger.

Sarah came explosively, and he was right behind her. They writhed in the tub until they were both spent, then she put her head on his shoulder and wrapped herself around him. “I love a hot bath, don’t you?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Stone replied. “I don’t know why anyone ever bothered inventing the shower.”

They stayed that way until the water began to get cold, then they dried each other and went into the bedroom, where they started over, this time with Stone on top.

Sarah lifted her legs and put her ankles on Stone’s shoulders. “Now,” she said, “all the way in.”

Stone gave her everything. They lasted longer this time, changing positions, trying this and that—every orifice, every erotic pressure point, until in one final, earth-rocking spasm, they gave in to the climax, both crying out.

From down the hall, Stone heard Dino’s voice.

“Can you two hold it down a little? A guy could get horny.”

“Want me to go take care of that?” Sarah asked Stone from his shoulder.

“Remember Mary Ann,” Stone said. “She’d track you down and kill you. Never underestimate a Sicilian woman.”

“Good point,” Sarah said, and they fell asleep.

47

AFTER BREAKFAST, SARAH LEFT THE house, and Stone called Lance Cabot.

“Hello?” He sounded sleepy.

“It’s Stone; I’m ready to deal on this thing, if you’re ready to talk.”

“How soon can you get the money together?”

“I faxed my broker yesterday; the funds can be transferred with a phone call. But not until you’ve told me everything.”

“Lunch?”

“Where?”

“At the Connaught again?”

“I’ve moved out of the Connaught.”

“Why?”

“I discovered yesterday that Hedger had put a tail on me. Last night, I moved to another hotel, a lot farther from the embassy.”

“Which hotel?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

“What’s the matter, do you think Hedger and I are in league?”

“I doubt that.”

“How can I reach you?”

“I’ve rented a cellphone.” Stone gave him the number.

“All right, there’s a restaurant out west of London called the Waterside Inn, in a village called Bray; do you know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“I’ll pick you up, if you like.”

“No, I have some other things to do; I’ll meet you there.”

“One o’clock?”

“Fine.” Stone hung up and called Mason’s number.

“Yes?”

“I’m on for lunch with Cabot at one o’clock.”

“I’ll send one of our taxis.”

“No, it’s at a place called the Waterside Inn, in Bray.”

“Oh, yes; I hope Cabot is paying; the Waterside is not in my budget.”

“It’s his turn. I’m meeting him there; I’ll need a car that passes for a rental, but nothing cheap, please, since Cabot is buying lunch.”

“The car will be outside the house at noon; do you know how to get to Bray?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“I’ll send along a map.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m also going to wire you.”

“Oh, no you’re not; with Cabot’s background, he’ll know what to look for.”

“Not the way we do it, he won’t; we have something quite new. Someone will be there at half past eleven to equip you; if you don’t like the equipment, you don’t have to wear it, but I urge you to; if Cabot is going to explain himself, we’ll want it recorded.”

“I don’t want a tail of your people, either; he might spot it.”

“There’ll be a van tracking the car and listening to the wire, but it will be at least a mile away, so don’t worry.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good-bye.” Mason hung up.

Dino, who had heard Stone’s half of the conversation, spoke up. “I’ll tail you.”

“No, no; Mason is going to have a van tracking me from a mile away. You take the morning off.”

“And do what?”

Stone tossed him the Times. “There’s a very nice exhibition of Royal evening gowns at the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

“Yeah, sure; where can I do some shopping? If I come home without something for Mary Ann, she’ll kill me in my sleep.”

“Try Harrod’s; it’s an easy walk from here.” Stone found a London map in the kitchen and showed Dino Harrod’s. “There’s a really good pub right here, for lunch,” he said, showing him the Grenadier, in Wilton Row. “King’s Road is down here, if you want to do some further shopping; Hyde Park is up here, if you feel like a stroll. It’s all very close together.”

“Okay,” Dino said. “It’s Harrod’s; anything else will have to wait until I see how my feet do. After walking a beat, I swore I’d never walk farther than to the can, if I could help it.”

“There are taxis everywhere.”

“Right. You got any English money? I didn’t have time before I left New York.”

Stone gave him a wad of notes. “Spend it in good health; it’s Hedger’s.”

“That’ll make it more fun,” Dino said.

At eleven-thirty sharp, the doorbell rang, and Stone opened the door to find Carpenter standing there, holding a briefcase. “Come in,” he said.

She smiled, the first time she had exhibited teeth, and they were very nice teeth, indeed. “Thank you.” She stepped in and took a seat in the drawing room. “Horrible decor,” she said, looking around.

“A dead man did it.”

“I’m not surprised. Please bring me the jacket you’re wearing to lunch.”

Stone went away and came back with a blue blazer.

“Nothing with brass buttons,” she said. “You should wear a suit, anyway; the Waterside Inn is quite elegant.”

Stone went away and came back with a suit jacket. She examined the buttons and nodded, then opened her briefcase. She removed a small leather case, which held a selection of buttons. “Oh, good,” she said; “an excellent match.” She took some scissors and snipped off one of the four small buttons on Stone’s left sleeve, then deftly sewed on one of her buttons. “There,” she said. “Good match?”

“Excellent. Do you mean that tiny button is a bug?”

“In conjunction with this,” she said, holding up a fat Mont Blanc pen, made of sterling silver. She clipped it into Stone’s inside left-hand pocket. “The button transmits to the pen, and the pen transmits up to three miles, but we’ll keep the van within two, just to be sure. They pick up the transmission and record it.” She took out the pen and unscrewed the cap. “It’s a working pen, too.”

Stone examined the pen and tried to unscrew the other end.

“You can’t do that without a special tool; don’t worry, it has a fresh rollerball refill inside; you won’t run out of ink.”

“Good,” Stone said, replacing the pen in the jacket pocket.

“The only limitation is that the button has to be within six feet of whoever you’re talking to. I used a sleeve button because you can put your hands on the table and get it closer to Cabot. Don’t have any conversations with him from across the room.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “Tell me, how did a nice girl like you get into this business?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to ask a whore?” she asked wryly.

“Spies, too.”

“I’m not a spy; I catch spies.”

“Come on, how?”

“I was recruited my last year at Oxford; my father had worked for the same firm, but he was killed in the line of duty when I was sixteen. I suppose I wanted to finish his job. How did you get from being a cop to being a lawyer?”

“I was recruited for the police department my last year in law school,” Stone said. “Fourteen years later, I was retired for medical reasons. I took the bar exam, and a friend found a place for me with his law firm.”

“You look pretty healthy to me,” she said, looking him up and down.

“It was a bullet in the knee. I got over it, except in cold weather.”

“Oh,” she said, retrieving a map from her briefcase. “Sit down, and I’ll show you how to get to the Waterside Inn.”

Stone sat on the arm of her chair and caught a faint whiff of perfume. He wondered if intelligence agents often wore perfume to work.

“Here we are, in Chester Street; you go down to the corner, turn left at Hyde Park Corner, that’s the big roundabout, here, and go straight out Knightsbridge, past Harrod’s, straight on out, as if you were going to Heathrow. You’ll end up on the M4 motorway; get off at the Bray exit and follow the signs to the village. You’ll see signs for the inn once you’re in the village. It’s at the end of a street that runs dead into the river, on your left.”

“What river?”

“The Thames; it’s pretty much the river around here. Have you driven on the right side before?”

“No, but it doesn’t look too hard.”

“It isn’t, but watch out for the first right-hand turn you make. Americans invariably turn into the right lane, instead of the left. The streets are littered with smashed rental cars.” She stood up. “Well, I have to go. Your car should be here shortly; I’d allow three-quarters of an hour for the drive; it could take an hour if traffic is bad.”

He walked her to the door, and with a final, fleeting glance at him and a little smile, she left. He wished he had more time to get to know her.

48

AT TWELVE O’CLOCK, THE DOORBELL rang again. A man Stone had never seen before held out a set of car keys. “It’s the Jaguar S-type, parked along there, British Racing Green,” he said. “Here’s a car rental receipt from a firm in Knightsbridge; sign it here and here, and fill in your American driver’s license number. Ring Mason when you’re finished with the car and someone will collect it.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. The man left. Stone filled out the form, then turned to Dino. “You want a lift to Harrod’s? I’m going right past it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Let’s go, then.” Stone put on his jacket, checked to be sure the pen was still in place, and led the way out the door, locking it behind him. Sarah had given them each a key.

“Here we are,” Stone said, climbing into the Jaguar and adjusting the seat.

Dino got into the passenger seat, and Stone pulled out of the parking place, went to the corner, and turned left.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a steering wheel over here?” Dino asked.

“Nope, it’s over here.”

“It’s very weird sitting here with no controls,” Dino said. “I keep wanting to put on the brakes.”

“Relax,” Stone said, negotiating Hyde Park Corner. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s house over there,” he said, pointing, “and that’s Hyde Park behind it.”

“Got it,” Dino said.

They drove a couple of blocks through heavy traffic, and Stone pulled over in front of the department store. “Here’s Harrod’s,” he said.

Dino looked out at the line of store windows. “Which one?”

“The whole block,” Stone replied. “It’s the largest store in the world.”

“Jesus,” Dino said, “I’ll need a map.”

“Just wander, and ask somebody if you get lost.”

“Okay, pal; when will I see you?”

“I’ll come back to the house after lunch; if anybody calls and asks for me, except Sarah, you don’t know me.”

“I might be better off,” Dino said.

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have nearly as much fun.”

Dino closed the door and walked into Harrod’s.

Stone drove on out Knightsbridge, which became the Cromwell Road, and soon he was on a four-lane highway, and soon after that, on the M4 motorway. Traffic was heavy, but he made good time. He got off the motorway at the prescribed exit and took the opportunity to check the traffic behind him. No one exited after him that he could see, and he felt tail-free, except for Mason’s van, which was nowhere to be seen.

He followed the signs to the village and the restaurant and parked the car. The Thames was before him, broad and slow-moving, with pretty houses on the other side. He went into the restaurant; it was precisely one o’clock. Lance was not there yet, and the maître d’ seated him outside on the terrace, under an elm tree. He ordered a kir royale and sipped it. Lance, he figured, was driving around the village to see if either he or Stone had a tail. Another fifteen minutes passed before he entered the restaurant.

Stone shook his hand. “A very elegant place,” he said.

“Wait until you taste the food.”

They had only desultory conversation until the food arrived, then Lance took a look around to be sure they were not being overheard. “I’m going to have to pat you down,” he said to Stone.

Stone laughed. “Don’t worry, I haven’t worn a wire in years, not since I was a cop.”

Lance got up, walked behind Stone and, on the pretense of pointing at something on the river, ran his hands expertly over Stone’s body, down to the crotch.

“Don’t have too much fun there,” Stone said.

“What’s this?” Lance asked, patting Stone’s jacket pocket.

Stone removed the pen and handed it to him.

Lance inspected it closely and unscrewed the cap.

Don’t try to unscrew the other end, Stone thought.

Lance didn’t; he returned the pen, and Stone put it back into his pocket.

“Now,” Lance said.

Stone leaned forward, as if to listen closely, putting his left hand on the table.

“I’m going to tell you everything I think you need to know.”

“If it’s everything I think I need to know, we’ll be fine.”

“There is a company west and south of here, in Wiltshire, a very secret company that makes very, very high-tech parts for the British military. We’re talking very specialized metallurgy, machine tools, incredibly tight tolerances, and computerized design. For the past year, a man who works there, making these parts, has managed to make a duplicate of one extremely important component.”

Stone interrupted. “Surely parts of that kind are stringently catalogued and accounted for.”

“This man has been working in this facility for nearly thirty years, and he has accumulated a reservoir of trust, which leads his employers and colleagues to give him wide latitude. He’s brilliant, and he’s crotchety, and nobody likes to piss him off, so they leave him pretty much to himself.”

“I see.”

“This gentleman is nearing retirement, and he feels that his pension plan and what he has managed to save are insufficient to keep him in the style to which he would like to become accustomed. You see, he has a little horse-betting habit, which, over the years, has taken its toll on his nest egg.”

“Do you mean to tell me that an important employee of a high-security facility could be betting the ponies and losing and not be noticed?”

“Apparently, he has been very discreet, and he has not been noticed,” Lance replied. “In any case, he has made it known to someone who knows someone I know that he has built this very special device, and that it is for sale. I have bid on it, and he has accepted my offer. All that remains to be done is to meet with him, retrieve the device, pay him half a million dollars in cash, and pass the device on to someone else.”

“It sounds too simple,” Stone said.

“Believe me when I tell you, there has been nothing simple about it. I have known about this for seven months, and it has taken nearly every day of that time to set this up—retrieval of the device, payment, shipping, and finally, collecting payment.”

“And with all that time to prepare, why do you suddenly need my money?”

“Because the investor who was to have provided it last week met with a fatal accident, and his funds are no longer forthcoming. You happened to arrive at a moment when you could be useful.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re here,” Lance said emphatically. “The people to whom I’m to deliver the device are not the kind who take disappointment lightly; they get ugly quickly. I have given them a schedule, and they expect me to keep it.”

“Why don’t they deal directly with your man? Why do they need you?”

“Because they don’t know who he is or how he came by the device. Only I know that, just yours truly, and no one else. By the way, you are not going to know that, either. You will know only what I tell you, and if that’s not enough for you, then—”

“Then you’ll have to disappoint your buyers, won’t you?” Stone asked coldly.

That stopped Lance in his tracks. “I have another source for the funds, but it is a less attractive one, which will cost me too much in interest. If you don’t want into this, say so, and lunch is on me and we won’t meet again.”

Stone stared at him for a long moment. “What is the device? What does it do?”

“Please believe me, Stone, you do not want that information. In the unlikely event that this should go awry, you will be grateful for not knowing.”

Stone thought he had shown a sufficient amount of reluctance to be convincing. “When does the transaction take place?”

“Within the next forty-eight hours,” Lance replied, “after your funds are safely in a Swiss account.”

“Whose account?”

“Yours; I’ve brought the paperwork with me; you can instruct the bank not to proceed at any time you choose. But if you’re in, then the transfer has to be received in Zurich by the close of business tomorrow, which is noon in New York.”

Stone looked at his watch. “I can transfer the funds today. But first, when do I get paid, and how much?”

“We’re paying half a million dollars for the device, and I have negotiated a final sales price of two million, two. Your cut of that is one million dollars. I get more, because I set it up.”

“How and when will I be paid?”

“The device will be transported to a secure location, a bank in southern Europe, where the exchange will take place. The buyers’ funds will be transferred to your Zurich account and mine, in the appropriate amounts, before the device is handed over. It’s as foolproof as a transaction of this sort can be. I’ve done a number of them, I know. I much prefer doing business in the conference room of a bank, instead of in a back alley.”

“What about the arrangement you mentioned that will keep this transaction away from prying eyes, such as the Internal Revenue Service?”

“I also have the documentation for an account in the Cayman Islands. You sign both sets of documents—Swiss and Cayman—and I’ll fax them to the respective banks, along with a code word. You can then transfer from the Swiss Bank to the Cayman one with one phone call. Once it’s in the Cayman bank, you can draw on the account anywhere in the world—cash can be transferred to you, you can write checks, and you can have a credit card which is paid directly from the Cayman account. Thus, no transaction ever goes through an American bank, and you come to the attention of no one.”

“I like it,” Stone said. “Give me the documents.”

Lance produced a thick envelope from an inside pocket and showed Stone where to sign. “Write your code word—any combination of letters and numbers, up to twelve characters.”

“I don’t like the idea of your having the account numbers and the password,” Stone said.

“It’s the only way I can transfer your share of the funds to your account. Once I’ve done that, you can change the account number and the password.” Lance tore off a copy of each account application and handed them to Stone.

Stone put the papers into his pocket. “Where do I transfer my funds?”

“To your account in Zurich, which will be open in an hour; I’ll let you know where and when to send them from there.”

Stone stuck out his hand. “I’ll speak with my broker as soon as I get back to my hotel; I’ll have to fax him, too. The funds will be in Zurich before the day is over.” He glanced at his watch; he had three hours to get it done.

He and Lance parted at the restaurant door.

“I’ll call you on your cellphone tomorrow morning, with further instructions,” Lance said. “Make sure it’s turned on; from here on in, everything has to be done in a precise manner.”

“Good,” Stone said. Driving back to London, he wondered if he would have gone for this deal if he’d been on his own. Certainly not, he decided. Too risky.

49

STONE DROVE BACK TO LONDON AND Chester Street; as soon as he was in the house, he called Mason’s cellphone. No answer; he left a message. As an afterthought, he called Carpenter’s number.

“Yes?” She sounded harried.

“It’s Stone Barrington. Did you get it?”

“Hold on,” she said, and covered the phone, so that he could hear only muffled voices. She uncovered it in time for Stone to hear her say, “Find out why, and do it now.” There was real authority in the voice. She came back to Stone. “Are you in Chester Street now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Stone was going to ask what the hell was going on, but she had already hung up.

Dino let himself in through the front door; he was carrying two large Harrod’s shopping bags. “Hey,” he said.

“I take it you got Mary Ann something.”

“Yep; how’d your lunch go?”

“Just as it was supposed to, I think.”

“Good.” Dino stretched. “I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“It’s jet lag,” Stone said.

“I never get jet lag.”

“Whatever you say. You want me to wake you up later?”

“Not unless it gets to be dinnertime. Do we have any plans?”

“Not yet; I’ll call Sarah later.”

Stone read the papers for ten minutes, then the doorbell rang. He let Carpenter and Mason into the house.

“Come and sit down,” she said. “We have a lot to ask you.”

They all went into the drawing room and took seats.

“Did you get everything?” Stone asked.

“We got almost nothing,” Carpenter replied.

Mason seemed uncharacteristically quiet; usually, he did the talking.

“Your brand-new bug didn’t work?”

Now Mason spoke. “There was something in the neighborhood interfering with it,” he said petulantly. “As soon as you left the restaurant, we could clearly hear the sound of your car; it was just in the restaurant that it didn’t work. Must have been something in the walls.”

“We lunched outdoors,” Stone said. “It sounds as if Lance Cabot is smarter than you gave him credit for.”

“What do you mean?” Mason demanded.

“He searched me for a wire,” Stone replied, “which means he was suspicious. My guess is he had something in his car that would interfere with any radio transmissions in the immediate vicinity.”

“Shit,” Mason said, with disgust.

“Don’t worry about it,” Carpenter said. “We have Stone to tell us.” She turned to him. “Tell us.”

“Someone who works in what sounds like the factory of a defense contractor has made a duplicate of the device he builds every day. He’s going to sell it to Lance for half a million dollars in cash, and Lance is going to resell it to an unknown party for two million, two.”

“What details did he give you about the device?”

“The device is something that requires exotic metallurgy and special machine tools to make. It’s made to extremely tight tolerances. Sounds as though it’s small enough to carry around.”

“What else did he tell you about this man?”

“He has worked in the same facility for nearly thirty years and is about to retire. Apparently, he’s frittered away his savings on the ponies, and he wants to sell the device to make his retirement comfortable.”

“Ponies?” Mason asked, baffled. “Polo?”

“Horse racing,” Carpenter said to him sharply.

“This gives us nothing to go on,” Mason said. “There are factories and laboratories all over the country doing classified work. How are we going to find this man?”

“Lance said that the facility was very secret, and that it’s south and west of the restaurant, in Wiltshire,” Stone replied.

“Oh, Christ,” Carpenter said, turning pale.

“Eastover?” Mason asked.

“Shut up!” Carpenter said sharply.

Stone had the distinct impression that, for some reason, Carpenter was now in charge. Perhaps she had been from the beginning.

“What’s Eastover?” Stone asked.

“You don’t need to know,” Carpenter replied. She turned to Mason. “Listen to me very carefully: I want you to call someone in our tech department and have him call someone eminent in the related sciences that we know well. Have that person call the director at Eastover and tell him that someone is coming to see him for some advice on a technical matter. I don’t want the director to have any idea what’s going on, until you get there.”

“I understand.”

“When you arrive and are alone with the director, ask him who fits this description: long-time employee, highly classified work, a builder of devices rather than a designer, close to retirement. If he can’t come up with answers based on his own knowledge, have him call in his director of security to go through the personnel files, until you’ve identified the man. This must be done softly, softly, in such a way that does not create any alarm or gossip in the labs.” She turned to Stone. “When is the buy supposed to take place?”

“Within forty-eight hours of the time I transfer my funds to a Swiss account, which Cabot has already opened.”

Carpenter turned back to Mason. “We have forty-eight hours, probably less, to place our suspect under the most stringent surveillance—electronic, sonic, anything we can scrape up, but I don’t want any bodies anywhere near him or his residence, because if Cabot is as smart as he appears to be, that might alert him. Now, get on the phone.”

Mason whipped out a cellphone and walked into the dining room, pressing buttons.

Carpenter turned back to Stone. “When did you say you would transfer the funds?”

“Before the day was out.”

“Have you done it?”

“No.”

“Then you’d better get moving, hadn’t you?”

Stone went into the kitchen and used the phone there to call his broker in New York.

“Richardson.”

“Hank, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Hi, Stone, what’s up? Got some more money for me?”

“No, I’m taking some out.”

“How come?”

“I can’t explain right now. How much have I got in my money market account?”

“Hang.” Stone could hear computer keys clicking. “Three hundred and ten thousand, give or take. The way the market is going, I’m getting ready to start investing it.”

Stone took out the document from the Swiss bank. “Got a pencil?”

“Yep.”

“I want you to transfer two hundred and fifty thousand to the following account number at the Charter Bank in Zurich.” He read the account number twice. “Got that?”

“I’ve got it. Listen, Stone, I can do as well for you as the Swiss, you know, probably better.”

“This is a short-term thing, Hank; I’ll have the money back in my account with you in a couple of days.”

“Is this ransom money, Stone? Has somebody been kidnapped?”

“No, nothing like that. Just do it, Hank.”

“I’m going to need written confirmation; can you fax me something?”

“In five minutes; go stand by the fax machine.” Stone hung up, then went upstairs to his room and opened his briefcase. He took out a sheet of his letterhead, wrote a letter of instructions, then took it down to James Cutler’s study and faxed it to Richardson. Then he went back into the drawing room.

Carpenter was on her cellphone, and she waved him to a seat. She ended the conversation, snapped the phone shut, and turned to Stone. “Did you get it done?”

“The money will be in Zurich within the hour.”

“Good. What are you supposed to do when it’s there?”

“Lance is to phone me on my cellphone tomorrow morning and tell me where to transfer it. I’m not going to do that, of course.”

“Why not?” she asked, alarmed.

“Are you kidding? It’s a quarter of a million dollars that I worked very hard for. You think I’m going to flush it down some cockamamy security operation I don’t really give a damn about?”

She looked miffed. “I quite understand; I’ll do something about getting hold of some funds tomorrow. Obviously, if we don’t transfer the money, Cabot isn’t going to go through with the buy.”

“He said that everything will have to be done at precise times from then on.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the money. And we’ll put someone on his house, to keep track of him.”

“I wouldn’t do that; he might spot your people, no matter how good they are. He’s been trained for that, you know.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” she said.

“Why did you want me to think Mason was in charge?”

She smiled. “The less you know, the better.”

“Carpenter and Mason,” Stone said. “I’ll bet you have a colleague named Plumber.”

She laughed. “Let’s just stick with those names for the moment, shall we?”

“What are you doing for dinner, Carpenter?”

She blushed. “Maybe when this is over,” she said. She stood up. “Now I have to go find that money.” She walked into the dining room, dialing her cellphone.

50

CARPENTER AND MASON MADE MORE phone calls, then Mason made ready to leave. “I can be in the director’s office at Eastover by five,” he said.

“Wait until half-past. Give the building time to empty out after work,” Carpenter said. “Is everything in motion?”

“Our people are meeting at a country hotel a few miles from Eastover,” he said. “When we’ve identified our man, I’ll get them cracking.”

“Good. Call me if there are any problems.”

“Where will you be?” he asked.

“At the end of my cellphone,” she replied.

“All right; will you need transport?”

“If I do, I’ll use Barrington’s Jaguar.”

Mason nodded and left.

“He’s really quite good,” she said to Stone. “If a little short of imagination sometimes. I’m not sure that can be cured. Now, I have some phoning to do; may I use something besides the dining room?”

“Yes, Cutler’s study, right through there.” He pointed at the door.

“Maybe we should plan on dinner,” she said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Lance Cabot decided to rush things a bit.”

“All right.”

She disappeared into the study. Stone called Sarah at her studio.

“Hey, there,” she said brightly. “Are we on for dinner and, you know?”

“I’m afraid not; some business has come up, and I’m going to be tied up all evening. Maybe all night. How about tomorrow night?”

“Oh, all right,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I must have worn you out last night.”

“Not entirely.”

“Good; well, you have until tomorrow evening to rest. I’ll see you then.”

“Until then.” He hung up. With nothing else to do, he read the papers until Carpenter emerged from the study around six.

“Well, I’ve done all I can do until we hear from Mason,” she said. As if on cue, her cellphone rang. “Yes?” She listened intently. “Do you have enough people for that? Well, get more; then call Portsmouth, if necessary. Do you want me to call them? All right, get back to me.” She hung up. “A complication,” she said.

“What is it?”

“There are, believe it or not, two people who fit the description of Cabot’s contact at Eastover. One of them is a woman.”

“Lance always referred to his contact as ‘he.’ ”

“But ‘he’ could be a woman, so we have to surveil them both; there’s no way around it. Mason is getting more help.”

“What happens at Eastover?”

“Eastover is a code word for a government facility on an army base in Wiltshire, north of Stonehenge.”

“And what do they make there?”

“Very serious items,” she said. “Things that are shared only with your government, things that are vital to both our defenses.”

“Were they able to recognize the device from what Lance said about it?”

“As there are two people, there are two devices, made in separate departments; it could be either of them.”

“Is there nothing else you can tell me?”

“Suffice it to say that, if either of the devices fell into the hands of an unstable government or a terrorist organization, it might give them capabilities that neither my government nor yours would like them to have.”

“Weapons capabilities?”

She nodded. “Now, don’t ask me any more.”

“All right.”

“Do you like Chinese food?”

“You betcha.”

“I know a place; we’ll order in. It’s all right, is it, that we have dinner here?”

“Yes, of course, but order for three; my friend Dino is upstairs asleep.”

“May I use the phone? My department frowns on the use of secure cellphones for ordering Chinese.”

“Sure, there’s one in the kitchen.”

“It will be an hour or so,” she said. “The restaurant is in Gerard Street, in Soho, not far from my, ah, place of business; they’ll send it over in a taxi.”

“Do I pay the driver when he arrives?”

“No, it’s already been charged to a business account.”

“For future reference, what’s the restaurant?”

“The Dumpling Inn. It’s good for a quick before-the-ater dinner, a short block off Shaftsbury Avenue.”

“I’ll make a note,” he said, “for a future trip. Would you like a drink while we wait?”

“Thank you, yes; is there any bourbon?”

Stone went to a liquor cabinet across the room and found a bottle of Knob Creek. “Yes, and a good one. Where would a proper, Oxford-educated Englishwoman acquire a taste for bourbon?”

“I did some training in Virginia, near Washington.”

“At the Farm?”

“How did you know that?” she demanded.

“Lance Cabot told me he spent some time there.”

“True; he was in the class just a year ahead of mine; we heard about him.”

“Was Stan Hedger running the place then?”

“Yes; you do know a lot, don’t you?”

“Not a lot. Just enough to sound knowledgeable. Ice?”

“Yes, please; I learned that in Virginia, too.”

There was an ice machine built into the cabinet; Stone returned with the two drinks and sat down. They clinked glasses.

“Mmmm, good one,” she said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s one of a rash of boutique bourbons that have cropped up the past few years. Sort of like your single-malt Scotches.”

Her cellphone rang. “Yes? Well, give the man priority. Try and have it done before he gets home. You’ll just have to do the other one while the house is occupied; it must be done as soon as possible.” She hung up. “Mason is bringing more personnel up from our Portsmouth office, but right now we’ve only enough people to wire one house, and I’ve chosen the man, since he’s working late in the lab.”

“Probably getting his device ready to sell.”

“Probably.”

“Did you enjoy the training at the Farm?”

She smiled. “I adored it, the rougher the better. I’m quite a tomboy, you know. I grew up outdoors, around horses, played polo. At school, I was a vicious lacrosse player; had a terrible reputation among our opponents.”

“I expect your people liked that about you, when you were being considered for your work.”

“No, I think they would have preferred me working in a code room, or something else less masculine. Mason has been working for me for two years, and he’s never really become accustomed to being bossed around by a woman. That’s one reason I let him take the lead with you; good for his ego.”

“You’re not married?”

She held up a bare ring finger. “How very observant of you.”

“Oh, I’m real quick.”

“Marriage would be difficult. If I married inside my organization there would be the problem of arranging compatible postings, office politics, all that. If I married outside, I’d probably have to resign.”

“Why?”

“Oh, many of our male employees are married to civilians, their wives having been well vetted, of course. But for our management, it doesn’t seem to work both ways. There’d still be the problem of postings, and they’d be fearful of an officer having to rush home and cook dinner for her husband. And, of course, children would be an unbearable complication. I love the work so much, I rather think I won’t marry.”

Dino appeared, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Not a lot. You up for Chinese?”

“I’m always up for Chinese,” Dino replied.

51

THEY DINED FROM CARDBOARD CARTONS on Wedgwood plates. The food was superb, and Stone had found a dry, white Bordeaux in James Cutler’s cellar that was a perfect companion to Chinese food. Among the three of them, they managed two bottles.

Stone’s cellphone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me,” Lance’s voice said.

“Lance,” Stone mouthed to Carpenter. She came and put her ear next to his.

“What’s up? Everything on schedule?”

“Did you wire the funds into the Swiss account?”

“Yes; they would have been there before the close of business.”

“Good; then we’re a go.”

“When is the buy going to take place?”

“The evening of the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow morning I have to arrange for the cash to be transported from Zurich to England. You’ll wire it to an account in Belgium, and it will be across the Channel as quickly as possible. I’ll give you the wiring instructions tomorrow morning, so don’t be far from your cellphone.”

“Lance, I want to be there for the buy.”

Lance was quiet for a moment. “That isn’t necessary,” he said.

“It’s necessary for me. I don’t want to be separated from my money.”

Lance laughed. “All right; we’ll arrange to meet west of London; I’ll give you an address.”

“Why don’t you just pick me up?”

“Because I won’t be returning to London after the buy; you’ll need transportation. Believe me, this is the best way to do it.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll call you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning with the wiring instructions.”

“All right, good night.”

“Good night.”

Stone punched off the phone. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Let’s wait until you hear from him with the wiring instructions. By that time, I’ll have the funds available to make the transfer. We’ll wire them to your Swiss account, and then you can forward them to the Belgian account. That way it will look entirely kosher. You’ll have to sign for the funds, of course.” She smiled. “We can’t have you running off with our money.”

“Suppose I did?”

“I’d hunt you down; you couldn’t hide for long.”

“I don’t think I’d want you on my trail,” Stone said.

Carpenter looked at her watch. “I have to go home and get some sleep.”

“Can I drive you?”

“I’m within walking distance.”

“Then I’ll walk you.”

“That won’t do, I’m afraid. You get some sleep; I’ll be back here by eight in the morning.” She stood up.

Stone walked her to the door and said good night. Stone went back to the kitchen, where Dino was polishing off a final dumpling.

“She doesn’t want you to know where she lives,” Dino said.

“I guess not.”

“Or her name.”

“I guess not.”

“It’s a shame; she’s quite a broad; I’ve never met anybody like her.”

“Neither have I,” Stone admitted.

“What did you tell Sarah about tonight?”

“Business.”

“I suppose that wasn’t too much of a lie.”

“I try never to lie.”

“The best policy,” Dino agreed.

They had a brandy, then went to bed.

Stone was already up and dressed the following morning, when Carpenter rang the bell.

“Good morning,” she said. Today she was dressed more informally, in a cotton pantsuit that complemented her figure.

“Come in,” Stone said.

“Heard anything from Cabot?”

“No, not yet. He said he’d call at nine. Have you had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Come to the kitchen; I’ll make you some eggs.”

Carpenter followed him into the kitchen, where Dino was making coffee. Stone scrambled some eggs, English-style, and fried some superb smoked Irish back bacon. They were just finishing when nine o’clock came.

Stone looked at his watch. “Any minute,” he said.

“My funds are ready to go,” Carpenter said. “The minute you have the wiring instructions.”

By ten o’clock, Stone had still not heard from Lance.

“Call him,” Carpenter said.

Stone dialed the Farm Street house; Erica answered.

“Hi,” Stone said, “may I speak with Lance?”

“He’s not here,” she said, and she sounded upset.

“What’s wrong?” Stone asked.

“He left in the middle of the night; I didn’t wake up until Monica called a few minutes ago.”

“You sound a little groggy.”

“I know; I can’t seem to wake up.”

“Did Lance leave a note?”

“No, nothing; and all his clothes are gone. I mean, everything, and all his luggage, too.”

“I’ll call you back,” Stone said, and hung up. He turned to Carpenter. “Sounds like Lance drugged Erica last night, then packed up and decamped. Does this change anything?”

“No,” she said. “It makes sense that he’d not tell her where he’s going, and he wouldn’t want to return to the house after the buy.”

“But why would he go two days before the buy?”

“This leads me to think that the exchange will be tonight, rather than tomorrow. It can’t happen any earlier than that, because his man at Eastover will be working all day; if he didn’t show up for work, our people would be all over him.”

“Then why hasn’t Lance called with the wiring instructions?” Stone asked. “He can’t make the buy without the funds, and he made the very good point last night that the cash would have to be transported to England. This doesn’t make any sense.”

Carpenter got out her cellphone and went into the study. She came back a few minutes later. “Both our suspects at Eastover are at work, as usual,” she said. “We’ll be notified if they leave the installation for any reason, and there are people there to keep track of them if they do.”

Stone was suddenly struck with an odd feeling. “Excuse me a minute, will you?” He went upstairs and retrieved his copy of the Swiss bank documents. There was an account manager’s name at the top of the first page, and a telephone number. Stone dialed the number.

An operator answered, repeating only the number.

“May I speak with Dr. Peter von Enzberg?” Stone asked.

“Who is calling, please?” the operator asked in stiff English.

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“One moment.” There was a brief pause, followed by several clicks.

“This is Peter von Enzberg,” a deep voice said, sounding very English. “Is that Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, Doctor. I opened an account yesterday and transferred some funds from New York.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington; we received the funds in good order.”

“Can you tell me the current balance in my account?”

“May I have your code word, please?”

Stone gave it to him.

“One moment.” Stone could hear computer keys clicking. “Your current balance is one hundred dollars, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone felt suddenly ill. “What was the amount you received from New York?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Then why isn’t it in the account?”

“A request was made to transfer the funds shortly before closing yesterday. It was very late, but the request was urgent, so we accommodated Mr. Cabot.”

“Mr. Cabot had access to my account?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Barrington; his signature was on the account application, and he knew the code word.”

Stone felt frozen. “Where were the funds transferred?”

“To an account in Hong Kong,” the account manager replied.

“Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg.” He hung up and trudged down the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” Carpenter asked. “You look ill.”

“I’ve been had,” Stone replied.

52

STONE SANK HEAVILY INTO AN ARMCHAIR in the drawing room.

“Explain,” Carpenter said.

“Lance transferred all the money out of the account yesterday, to a bank in Hong Kong.”

“How could he do that?”

“Apparently, he had access to my account.”

Carpenter stared at him. “Did you sign the account application, then give it back to Lance?”

“Yes.”

“Then he simply added his own signature to the document. Did he know your code?”

“I wrote it on the form. How could I have been so stupid?”

“An expensive oversight,” Carpenter said.

“I could get the Hong Kong account number, and we could trace the funds,” Stone said.

Carpenter shook her head. “Remember the time difference; Cabot has had plenty of opportunity to retransfer the funds half a dozen times; he was probably at it all night. We’d never find it.”

“But your people will reimburse me?”

“I can’t make any promises; my management are likely to take a dim view of all this.”

“I worked very hard to earn that money,” Stone said, though he’d really made it in the market. “You can’t let them hang me out to dry.”

“If it were our funds he’d stolen, that would be one thing, but your funds are quite another.” She looked at her watch. “We have to get going,” she said.

“To where?”

“To Wiltshire; obviously, the timetable has been accelerated. I hope we’re not too late.”

Stone grabbed a tie and his suit jacket and they met downstairs.

“We’ll take your Jaguar,” Carpenter said. “But you can’t go,” she said to Dino.

“I go where he goes,” Dino replied.

Carpenter looked at Stone, who nodded. “Oh, all right. Let’s get out of here,” she said.

Carpenter drove, fast and expertly.

Stone glanced at the speedometer, which was glued to a hundred and twenty miles an hour. “Aren’t you worried about being stopped by the police?”

“The number plate is a special one; they’ll know to leave us alone,” she replied. She fished her cellphone out of her bag and dialed a number, driving with one hand, making Stone nervous. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “Cabot has bolted with Barrington’s money, we don’t know where. We have to assume that his timetable has changed. I’m on the way, and I’ll be there in an hour.” She punched off.

Stone called the Farm Street house again. Erica answered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’ve had three double espressos, but I’m still a little fuzzy around the edges.”

“Write down this number,” Stone said, and gave her his cellphone number. “If Lance should call, tell him I called and want to speak to him urgently. When he hangs up, you call me immediately.”

“What’s going on, Stone?” Erica asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but don’t leave the house; stick by the phone.”

“All right,” she replied.

Stone hung up. “Should I call her back and have her check the office in the wine cellar?”

“Don’t bother,” Carpenter said. “It isn’t Cabot’s office.”

Stone looked at her. “Then whose is it?”

“It belongs to the owner of the house,” she said. “He’s one of ours.”

“Why would Lance rent a house from one of your people?”

“He doesn’t know. We’ve been keeping track of Cabot ever since he arrived in London last year. He was followed to an estate agent’s, where he was looking for houses to rent, and we, in effect, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The rent and the location were irresistible.”

“Who shot the two Israelis?”

“Not our people; maybe Stan Hedger.”

“Why?”

“He may have read them as a threat to Cabot, and he didn’t want anything to happen to Cabot, at least not yet.”

“This is way too complicated for me,” Stone said.

“Then don’t try to figure it out.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Dino chipped in from the backseat.

“What does?”

“The whole thing. Hedger hires you to look into Cabot because he’s afraid if he uses his own people Cabot will figure it out, because, having been one of them, he knows how they operate. Cabot researches you, figures you were telling the truth when you said you were no longer working for Hedger.”

“I did tell the truth,” Stone said. “Eventually.”

“Yeah. Once Cabot thinks you’re not working for Hedger, he figures you for a mark.”

“God knows, that’s true.”

“The Israelis obviously want whatever Cabot is buying, and so does Hedger.”

“But the American government already has access to this technology, doesn’t it?” Stone asked Carpenter.

Carpenter looked momentarily uncomfortable. “Not necessarily,” she said.

Dino continued. “Makes even more sense,” he said. “The Brits build this . . . thing . . . and they don’t share their little secret with the Americans, so Hedger and his people are pissed off.”

“But why me?” Stone asked.

“You’re not some unknown person,” Dino said. “You get your name in the papers now and then. That’s probably how you came to Hedger’s attention—that, or your old professor buddy down at NYU dropped your name on somebody he used to know.”

“And who would the professor be?” Carpenter asked.

“Samuel Bernard,” Stone replied. “He was one of my professors in law school.”

“That bloke is a bloody legend,” she said, wonder in her voice.

“I knew he had a lot of connections, but I didn’t know he qualified as a legend.”

“He was offered the directorship of central intelligence at one time; turned it down and went to NYU, but word is, he kept his hand in. Once you’ve been at that level in the agency, you don’t just get put out to pasture.” She whipped off the motorway, made a left, drove another half a mile, and turned onto a smaller road, keeping her speed at what Stone figured was about twenty miles an hour more than the car was capable of on that road.

Stone hung onto the door handle and tried not to look at the winding black tarmac rushing at him. Dino, on the other hand, seemed perfectly awake.

“Looks like everybody knows what’s going on here except you, Stone,” he said.

“Oh, I think you’ve explained it to him very well, Dino,” Carpenter said, whipping around a hairpin turn. “You missed your calling; you’re wasted as a policeman.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Dino replied. “I wouldn’t get mixed up in your business for anything. You can never trust anybody.”

“Not a bad policy,” she replied. “Is it any better on the NYPD?”

“Marginally,” Dino said.

“Where are we going?” Stone asked.

“Right up there,” Carpenter replied. They had emerged from a stand of trees onto an open, rolling plain with few trees. Ahead of them a mile or so, at a crossroads, was a three-story stone building, which got larger fast. Carpenter skidded into the parking lot, which was nearly full, and got out of the car. “Come on,” she said.

Stone saw two men on a ladder stringing a cable from a utility pole on the road to a corner of the building. He looked at the sign: THE BREWER’S ARMS, it read. He followed Carpenter inside.

53

THEY WALKED UP TO THE THIRD FLOOR of the country inn, past a guard, and into a roomy, two-bedroom suite, which contained half a dozen men, most in their shirtsleeves, and several pieces of electronic equipment—radios, computers, and two large, flat-screen monitors. Thick wires ran from the equipment out a window, where Stone had seen the two men stringing wire, and he could see a small satellite dish mounted to the windowsill.

“What’s happening?” Carpenter said to one of the men. “Oh, this is Barrington and Bacchetti; they’re with me. Gentlemen, this is Plumber.”

“We’re just about set up,” Plumber said. “We’re expecting satellite contact any moment, and we’ve got great weather for it.”

“What have you done with the two subjects’ homes?”

“We couldn’t get anything decent with sonic equipment,” Plumber said. “They both live in official housing, and double glazing was installed a few months ago, so we can’t get anything off the glass. We’ve tapped both phones from the exchange, but since they’re both at work, we’re not getting anything.”

“Eyeball surveillance?”

“Nothing within five miles,” Plumber replied. “We figure that when Cabot arrives in the area he’ll canvass the neighborhood, looking for anything that might be surveillance, so we’re going to rely on satellite, until dark. After that, we’ll have taxis with local numbers painted on, but we’ll keep our distance. We’re going to place satellite tracker marks on both subjects’ cars, so we needn’t stay within sight.”

“Where’s Mason?”

“He’s running the on-ground operation; he’ll be in touch when something happens.”

“Anything else?”

“Bad news; Portsmouth let us down.”

“What?”

“Something about a suspect merchant ship in the harbor; they’ve put all their people and equipment on that.”

“Do we have enough resources on the ground here to cover both subjects?”

“Maybe; that’s the best I can tell you.”

“Isn’t there anything else we can draw on?”

“No. Another team is on its way to Scotland, looking for a suspected terrorist who is supposed to be arriving in the Clyde on a tanker.”

“Shit,” she muttered.

“Satellite’s up,” a young man at a computer station said.

Everyone gathered around him. The image on the big monitor was of a building and a carpark. “Eastover internal security gave us the position of the two subjects’ cars.” He moved the cursor to a small car and clicked on it: an A appeared on the car’s roof. He moved the cursor to another, larger car and clicked again. A B appeared on the car. “A is Morgan, our male subject; B is Carroll, our female. The equipment will move the ID letter with the cars, so we won’t lose them in traffic.”

“How about the houses?” Carpenter asked.

The tech tapped some more keys, and the screen divided into thirds. “Now you can see both Eastover and the two houses,” he said. “Neato, huh?”

“Stop speaking American,” Carpenter said.

Plumber spoke up. “Internal security at Eastover is tracking both Morgan and Carroll inside the building. They’ll know if either tries to take something out.”

“Tell them not to stop either one,” Carpenter said. “I want to bag Cabot and find out from him who his buyer is.”

“Righto.”

“Well,” Carpenter said, “we’ve nothing to do until the end of the workday, when our two subjects will leave the building. We might as well order some lunch.” She went to a desk and found a room-service menu.

By half-past five, they were ready for some action. Stone was reading an elderly copy of Country Life, and Dino was in one of the bedrooms, glued to a cricket match. Carpenter merely paced.

“We’ve got movement,” Plumber said. It was one minute past five-thirty, and people were streaming out of the Eastover building.

“Typical civil servants,” Carpenter said. “Leaving on the stroke of quitting time.”

“We can’t identify individuals by satellite, but look, A’s car is on the move. There—so is B’s.” The cars pulled out of the carpark and turned in opposite directions.

A cellphone rang, and Plumber answered it. “Righto,” he said, then hung up. “We’ve got word from internal security that both subjects have left the building.”

“Were they carrying anything?” Carpenter asked.

“A wore a loose raincoat, and B had a bakery box, looked like a cake.”

“Did they search them on the way out?”

“I asked them not to, as per your instructions.”

Carpenter watched the screen as it divided in two, each displaying a car with a letter on top.

Five minutes passed. “They’re home,” Plumber said. “Both cars are garaged. The houses are virtually identical.”

“Government-issue,” Carpenter said.

“Right, but they’re on opposite sides of the village; both back up onto Salisbury Plain.”

“What now?” Stone asked.

“We wait,” Carpenter replied.

They did not have long to wait. “We’ve got movement on A, Morgan,” Plumber said. “He’s backed his car out of the garage, now he’s loading something, can’t tell what.”

Everybody gathered around the screen to see the man putting several items into the back of what seemed like a small station wagon.

“What kind of car is that?” Stone asked.

“Morris Minor Estate,” Plumber replied. “It’s from the fifties, and Morgan has carefully restored it himself; looks new.”

Across the room a man wearing headphones shouted, “B’s getting a phone call!” He flipped a switch, and, over a speaker, they could all hear the phone ringing.

There was a click, and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

From the other end of the connection came not a voice, but a whistle. The whistler performed a few bars of “Rule Brittania,” then hung up. The woman hung up, too.

“That’s a signal,” Plumber said. “Everybody alert; she’s going to move now.”

On the split screen they watched Morgan back his Morris Minor out of his driveway and head off down the street, his car still marked with an A.

“Oh, shit,” Plumber said, pointing at the other side of the screen. B was coming out of the garage, too, but not in her car; she was pushing a bicycle. On the back, a large pair of saddlebags could be seen. “We can’t put a tracker mark on her bicycle—not enough area showing to the satellite. This is going to be dicey.”

“Don’t you lose that bicycle,” Carpenter warned.

“I’ll do my best,” the tech said, “but with the marked car, the tracking would have been automatic. With the bike, I’m going to have to do it manually, and it’s the toughest computer game you ever saw.”

“Cabot is very smart,” Carpenter said. “But we knew that; we should have suspected something like this. Where’s Morgan going?”

“I’ll put him on the other screen,” the tech said. “It’ll be easier to track B if we devote a whole screen to her.” He tapped in a command, and the second screen came to life.

“He’s leaving the village,” Plumber said. “We’ve got fewer houses, now. He’s headed west, toward the Plain. Wait a minute, he’s turning into some woods. Shit, we won’t be able to see him under trees.”

Then the Morris Minor emerged from the trees and stopped. Morgan got out of the car, opened the rear doors, and began unloading.

“What’s he doing?” Carpenter asked.

“Equipment of some sort,” Plumber replied.

“It’s an easel,” Stone said. “Look, he’s setting it up.”

“He’s going to paint?” Plumber asked.

“Looks like it,” Carpenter replied.

Morgan set up a camp stool, opened what looked like a toolbox, and placed a canvas on the easel.

“He’s going to paint the sunset,” Plumber said.

“I’ve got trouble here,” the tech said suddenly, pointing to the screen before him. “Carroll is approaching a roundabout, and so are some other bikes.” They watched as B moved into the roundabout, merging with half a dozen other bicycles. Then they began exiting.

“Which one is she?” Carpenter demanded.

“You got me,” the tech replied. “There are two roads off the roundabout, and we’ve got two bikes on one and four on the other. We can’t track them all.”

“It’s B, Carroll,” Carpenter said. “Use both views to track the cyclists, until we can identify her. Morgan’s going to be there awhile; we’ll let him be. It’s Carroll, I know it.”

Stone watched as both screens began displaying cyclists on country roads. His last view of Morgan was of the man painting away.

54

THEY SPLIT INTO TWO GROUPS, EACH watching the cyclists. “There,” Stone said. “The saddlebags; there’s only one bike with large saddlebags.”

“You’re right,” Carpenter said. “And none of the other bikes has saddlebags at all. That’s Carroll!”

Then the bicycle with the large saddlebags split off from the other three and turned onto a dirt lane.

“Okay,” Carpenter said to the tech, “follow her, ignore the others, and let’s get Morgan back on the other screen.”

The tech got the bicycle in his sights. “It’s going to be easier now, since she’s on that little lane.”

“Show me Morgan,” Carpenter said.

The tech tapped more keys, and the image popped back onto the second screen.

“Where is he?” Carpenter asked.

“Let me pan around,” the tech replied.

“It’s the same spot,” Stone said, “but Morgan’s car isn’t there; he’s gone.”

“Find that car,” Carpenter said, “and be quick about it.”

“It’s not so easy,” the tech said. “It’s one thing to track the A car when you’ve got him in your sights, but finding him in a landscape is going to be nearly impossible.”

“I don’t care, do it!”

Stone watched the lone cyclist as she pedaled down the little lane. “Anybody got a map of the area?” he asked.

“Here,” Plumber replied, spreading a large-scale map of the area on a table. “She came up here from her house to the roundabout,” he said, pointing, “and then she left it here.” He ran his finger up the road. “She exited the paved road here, and she’s going up this lane.”

“What’s this?” Stone asked, pointing to a green area up the lane.

“It’s a copse of trees, with a clearing in the middle.”

“Look at this,” Carpenter said, pointing at the trees.

Carroll had cycled into the clearing, and a car was waiting for her. A man got out.

“Here’s the buy,” Carpenter said. “Get me Mason.” Somebody handed her a cellphone. “Mason? Close on the following map coordinates.” She read them off.

“We’ve got a problem here,” Plumber said, pointing at the map. Everybody gathered around him. “There are three roads out of the clearing, in different directions.”

“Dammit,” Carpenter said. She spoke into the cellphone again. “Mason, check the coordinates; there are three exits from the clearing; you’ve got to cover them all. I don’t care, pull your men off Morgan’s house and get them out there; I am not going to lose the device, and I am not going to lose Cabot. Do it!”

Stone went and stood behind the tech. “Are you having any luck locating Morgan?”

“Not yet,” the young man said.

“I think it’s very important that you find his car.” He turned to the other screen. “What’s Carroll doing?”

“See for yourself,” Carpenter said. Carroll and the man she had met were embracing. “Looks as though Cabot gives this lady a lot of personal attention. Any luck on Morgan’s car?”

“Not yet.”

“Zero in on Morgan’s house,” she said. “Let’s see if he returned home.”

“That’s easy,” the tech replied, tapping his keyboard. “Here we are; all is quiet.”

“Work outward from the house in circles; see if you can find him in the neighborhood. Maybe he stopped at the pub, or for groceries.”

“Will do,” the tech replied.

Carpenter moved back to Carroll’s screen. She stared at it for a moment, then laughed. “I don’t believe it!”

“What?” Stone asked.

“They’re fucking.” She pointed at the screen. They had spread out a blanket, and the principal view was of a man’s bare back.

Then the tech widened the view. “Here come our people,” the tech said. Cars could be seen approaching the copse from three directions.

Mason drove the lead car, and he was moving fast up the unpaved lane. Ahead, the trees beckoned, and inside them, the clearing. He was going to make this bust himself, he thought; it was going to be the high point of his career. He entered the trees, and ahead, he could see the clearing in the evening light. Simultaneously, three cars entered the clearing from each access road. A couple were lying on a blanket, naked, and they looked up. “Oh, God,” he moaned. He picked up the cellphone.

Carpenter’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe it. He’s who?” She snapped the phone shut. “Carroll is fucking her immediate superior at Eastover.”

“Then Morgan is our man,” Stone said.

“Find him!” Carpenter said to the tech.

“He’s not in the neighborhood,” the young man replied.

“Get somebody over to Morgan’s house,” Carpenter snapped at Plumber.

“We don’t have anybody; they’re all on Carroll.”

She picked up the cellphone. “Mason? It’s Morgan, no doubt, and we’ve lost him. Get over to his house and arrest him. Report back.”

“How long will it take him to get there?” Stone asked.

Plumber spoke up. “Four, five minutes.”

“I don’t believe it,” Carpenter was saying. “All this bike ride was in aid of was fucking her boss!”

“They couldn’t meet at either of their houses,” Plumber said. “These facilities frown on extramarital relationships.”

“Carroll is married?”

Plumber was checking a list. “Divorced, but her boss is married.”

“How about Morgan?” Stone asked.

Plumber checked his list again. “Never married.”

“So he lives alone?”

Plumber checked his sheet again. “No; he has a cat.”

Carpenter was back on the cellphone. “Mason, where are you? Well, hurry up!” She closed the phone. “He says he’s two minutes out.”

“Morgan won’t run,” Plumber said. “He has no idea we’re onto him. He plans to take his retirement on schedule, then retire somewhere with his new money, probably Spain, where we can’t get at him. I’ll bet he’s home watching telly right now.”

Dino came out of the bedroom. “What’s happening?”

“Lots,” Stone replied. “Who won the cricket match?”

“I have no idea,” Dino said. “Bring me up to date.”

Stone gave him a sixty-second recap.

“Mason’s at the house,” Carpenter said. “Get it onscreen,” she said to the tech.

The tech had it up in seconds; two cars pulled into Morgan’s driveway, and men spilled out of them. One opened the garage door; the others ringed the house, while someone at the front kicked in the door.

“Mason, report,” Carpenter said into the cellphone. “Mason? Where are you?”

Stone stared at the screen. He didn’t like this at all.

“Mason!” Carpenter shouted. “What? What’s happening?” She listened. “It’s still there?”

“The car,” Dino said. “I’ll bet it’s in the garage.”

Stone held up a hand for silence; he was listening to Carpenter.

She closed the phone. “Morgan’s gone,” she said. “His luggage is gone, and most of his clothes. The Morris Minor is in the garage, empty.”

“Is it a two-car garage?” Stone asked.

“Yes.”

“Then he had another car. The device was in the back of the Morris Minor; while Morgan painted, Lance took it and left the money in the car. Morgan drove home, garaged his car, then got into the other car, which was packed and ready to go, and just drove away.”

Carpenter turned to Plumber. “Full-scale alert—every airport, every seaport, every police patrol car. Photographs of Cabot and Morgan faxed everywhere, the continent, too. Call Interpol and explain the situation. I want them both back, and the device, too. Especially the device. What’s the longest Cabot and Morgan could have been gone?”

Plumber looked at his watch. “Forty minutes for Cabot; Morgan would have needed another, say, fifteen minutes to return to the house and leave again.”

“Establish a perimeter at eighty miles,” Carpenter said. “Right now, Cabot could be, say, forty miles away, driving fast, and Morgan less. Every road blocked; turn out the local police, but don’t tell them why we want these two.”

Stone picked up a photograph. “Is this Morgan?”

“Yes,” Plumber replied.

“I want to see his house.”

“Me, too,” Dino said.

Carpenter handed Stone the keys to the Jaguar. “Give them a map,” she said. “I can’t spare anybody to go with you, Stone.”

Stone took the keys and ran for the car.

“I want to drive,” Dino said.

55

DINO GOT THE CAR STARTED AS STONE got in. “Don’t waste any time,” Stone said.

Dino hung a right out of the carpark and found himself staring at a moving van coming straight at him in his lane. “Shit!” he yelled, whipping to the other side of the road and nearly running into the ditch.

“Sorry, I forgot to warn you about that first right turn.”

“Maybe I don’t want to do this after all,” Dino said.

“Shut up and drive,” Stone said. “Just remember which side of the road you’re supposed to be on.”

“Very weird, driving on the left,” Dino said. “But I’ll get the hang of it.”

“Soon, please.”

They followed the map into the small village and to Morgan’s street. All the houses seemed identical.

“It’s gotta be the one with no front door,” Dino said, whipping into the driveway.

They walked into the house to find Mason and his people pulling the place apart. A man appeared from the kitchen. “I found a safe in the garage,” he said.

Everybody trooped through the kitchen to the garage. There was, indeed, a safe, the door open, empty.

“He put that in for the device,” Mason said. The group started to pull the garage apart.

Stone motioned Dino back into the house.

“What are we looking for?” Dino asked.

“Anything that might give us a hint where Morgan has gone—travel brochures, reservation forms, anything. You take the desk.”

Dino began going through the desk drawers, while Stone walked around the living room slowly, looking at everything. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. There was a large television set, and an easy chair and ottoman parked in front of it. On the ottoman was a stack of magazines; Stone began to go through them.

A television guide, a well-marked racing form, a couple of girlie magazines, and a travel magazine. Stone flipped through the travel magazine twice before he found something. A corner of one page had been dog-eared, then flattened again. The page was a continuation of an article on country inns that began earlier in the magazine; there was only one ad. “Take a look at this,” he said to Dino.

“Nothing in the desk,” Dino said. “No secret compartments, no travel receipts, nothing.”

Stone held out the magazine. “This page has been marked,” he said.

Dino looked at the ad in the lower right-hand corner. A photograph of a large country house dominated it. “What’s Cliveden?” he asked, pronouncing it with a long i.

“Cliveden, with a short i, was the country house of Lord Astor, before the war. His wife, an American woman named Nancy, who was a member of parliament, ran a very big salon there. Everybody who was anybody showed up at one time or another—George Bernard Shaw, Charlie Chaplin—and every literary or political figure of the time.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I read a book about it.”

“So why is this important?”

“It’s a hotel now, and it’s near Heathrow. Suppose Morgan wanted to lie low for a few days, until the heat was off at the airports, then beat it out of the country? He’s got to know everybody will be looking for him.”

“Could be,” Dino said. “You want to check it out?”

“Have we got anything else to do?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s do it.”

They were on the M4 motorway, driving fast.

“Why aren’t we looking for Lance instead?” Dino asked.

“Two reasons: First, Lance is a lot smarter than Morgan, I think, and he’s going to be a lot harder to find; second, Morgan has my money.”

“And that’s the important one, huh?”

“You bet your ass; I don’t give a damn about the device, whatever it is, but Carpenter and her people don’t give a damn about my money, either.”

Following a small map in the magazine ad, they found the house.

“Jesus Christ,” Dino said, as they drove up the drive and came to the place. “I didn’t expect it to be so big.”

“Neither did I,” Stone said, getting out of the car. He took the photograph of Morgan from his pocket and showed it to Dino. “This is our guy.” Morgan was late fifties, heavyset, balding, with graying hair and a military mustache.

“I’ll bet he shaved before he left the house,” Dino said.

They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.

“Wow,” Dino said under his breath. “This Astor guy knew how to live, didn’t he?”

They approached the reception desk. “Show them your badge,” Stone whispered.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the young woman behind the desk asked.

Dino flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a man,” he said.

Stone handed her the photograph. “His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It’s possible he’s shaved his mustache, too.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the young woman said.

“What’s his room number?”

“He didn’t check all the way in,” she replied.

“Pardon?”

“He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember.”

“Did he show you any kind of identification?”

“Yes; he didn’t want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British passport.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said he’d forgotten something at his London house; he’d have to go back for it.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A raincoat and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment.”

“How much luggage did he have?”

“Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag.”

“Describe the canvas bag, please.”

“A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he’d gone that he’d insisted on carrying it himself.”

“Where would I find the porter?”

The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. “These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory,” she said.

“Yes, sir?” the porter said.

“How did he arrive?”

“By car, sir.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Jaguar from the sixties—dark blue—quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise.”

“Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?”

“It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”

“Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.

“Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”

Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.

“Yes?” She sounded harried.

“It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”

“Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”

“He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”

“Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”

“I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”

“Which terminal? There are four.”

“International departures?”

“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”

“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”

“Right.”

Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”

“This is a long shot,” Dino said.

“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

56

LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.

The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.

Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.

Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.

“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”

“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”

“Any particular altitude?”

“Ten.”

“Ten thousand?”

“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”

“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”

Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”

“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”

Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”

The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”

“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”

The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.

“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.

“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.

“What do you sell?”

“Whatever’s in demand.”

They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.

“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.

The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV button. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. “Let it fly the airplane for now,” he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.

“What are we landing on?” the pilot asked.

“A farmer’s field,” Lance replied. “You’ve got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need.”

“Any lights?”

Lance pointed to the rising full moon. “That,” he said, “and some car headlights.” He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.

Forty-five minutes later, Lance spoke again. “Descend to five hundred feet.” He spoke into the microphone. “It’s me; you there?”

“I’m here,” Ali’s voice said.

“Wind?”

“One eight zero, light. I’m already parked.”

“Switch on your headlights, and put them on bright; turn them on and off, once a second.” Lance scanned the horizon.

“Five hundred feet,” the pilot reported.

“We’re five miles out,” Lance said. “Look for headlights, flashing on and off, and land into them, on a heading of one eight zero.”

The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.

“Four miles,” Lance called out.

“I don’t see anything.”

“They’re there. Three miles.”

“Nothing.”

“Dead ahead, see them?”

“Got them!”

“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”

“Yes, the moonlight is good.”

“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”

The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.

“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.

The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.

“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.

Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.

Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”

The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.

“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door and watched as the pilot ran the engine up to full power, then released the brakes. Lance winced, thinking he might not make the trees, but then the little airplane was off the ground and climbing steeply. He ran back to the car and got into the passenger seat, while Ali got into the rear.

Sheila put the car in gear and drove slowly off the field. When she was into the trees, she switched on the headlights and found the track through the woods.

“How long until we hit the autoroute?” Lance asked.

“Less than half an hour. Driving at a steady eighty we should be at the Swiss border before dawn.”

“Got the passports?” he asked Ali.

Ali handed the three forward, and Lance inspected them. “Good,” he said.

Ali handed him a small leather case. “Here’s your makeup and beard,” he said.

He had tried out the makeup and beard when they had taken the passport photographs. He’d apply it after they were on the smooth autoroute. Then he would be Herr Schmidt.

“Meine damen und herren,” he said, “mach schnell!”

Sheila joined the paved road, put her foot down, and the car roared off into the European night.

57

MORGAN PARKED HIS CAR IN THE short-term lot at Heathrow, fastened his luggage to a folding hand trolley, and walked into terminal four. He found a men’s room, let himself into the handicapped toilet stall, then took off his hat, got out of the raincoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his small suitcase, took out a loud Hawaiian shirt and put it on, followed by a tweed cap and sunglasses with heavy black rims. He wadded up his shirt and wrapped it in the raincoat, then stuffed the bundle behind the toilet. He left the stall, dug into his bag, and found a small bottle of pills marked VALIUM 5MG. He took one, then looked at himself in the mirror. “Keep calm,” he said. He grabbed his luggage cart, left the men’s room, and walked to the ticket counters.

From the departure board, he chose a flight, and, a minute later, he was standing in a ticket line. Then it occurred to him that he was going to have to go through security, and that the money in his valise might be discovered. As he stepped up to the counter, he made a snap decision. “Check everything,” he said to the ticket agent.

“Of course, sir,” she replied. “You’re going to have to hurry; your flight leaves in twenty-five minutes, and it’s already boarding.”

“I’ll hurry,” Morgan replied, accepting his ticket and boarding pass.

Dino screeched to a halt in front of terminal four. Before Stone could open his door, a man clutching a handheld radio opened it for him.

“My name’s Bartlett,” he said. “Heathrow security.”

Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.

“I’ve already circulated it,” Bartlett said.

“He’s shaved the mustache, and he’s wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he’ll be carrying a canvas valise, I’m sure of that. He’s calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”

Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let’s go,” he said to Stone.

“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I’ve pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We’re concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”

“Let’s start there,” Stone said.

With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.

Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.

“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.

“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.

“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”

Morgan produced both.

“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”

“That’s right,” Morgan said. “What’s this about?”

“Just a routine security check, sir. And is this your current address?” The officer held up the passport.

“Yes, it is, and I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“We won’t be a moment, sir. Would you remove your sunglasses, please?”

Morgan took them off and gave the officers a big smile. He knew his security photograph at Eastover made him look dour.

The officers compared him to a photograph one of them produced. They looked at each other; one shook his head. The officer handed back Mr. Barry Trevor’s passport and ticket. “Thank you, sir; sorry for the inconvenience. Here, let me get you through security.” He led Morgan to one side of the checkpoint and signaled to the officer on station, who ran a detector wand over Morgan’s clothes, then waved him through.

Morgan headed for the gate. With a little luck, his timing would be perfect.

Stone arrived at the security checkpoint, and Bartlett called two men over.

“Any sightings?” he asked.

“No; we’ve checked three men, but all seemed okay.”

“Any of them carrying a canvas valise?”

“No; one of them had a briefcase, but there were only business documents inside.”

“Any of them wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat?”

“No, sir.”

Bartlett turned to Stone. “Anything else you want to try?”

Stone nodded. “I hear Spain is a favored destination for fugitives.”

“That’s right; we’ve no extradition treaty with them.”

“Let’s go to the gates that have flights departing for anywhere in Spain.”

Bartlett looked up at a row of monitors next to the security checkpoint. “Three, no, five flights departing in the next two hours, from three gates.” He led the way through the checkpoint, then flagged down an oversized golf cart driven by an airport employee. Bartlett, Stone, and Dino boarded the vehicle, and, on Bartlett’s instructions, it began to move down the long corridor.

Morgan walked along the people mover, dodging other travelers who were happy to stand still and ride. He tried to move quickly, without looking as though he was hurrying. He checked his watch; seven minutes to go.

Bartlett was on the radio, summoning officers to the three gates with departing flights to Spain. “I want two men at each gate, scrutinizing every male passenger even remotely resembling the photograph.” He turned to Stone. “If he’s bound for Spain, we’ll get him at the gate.” His radio squawked, and he held it to his ear. “Say again?” He turned back to Stone. “One of my men has found a raincoat, a shirt, and a trilby hat, discarded in a men’s room. A British passport bearing the name Sir William Mallory was in the raincoat pocket.”

“Costume change,” Stone said. “This guy is starting to do everything right.”

The cart pulled up to a gate, and Stone got out, followed by Dino and Bartlett. The first person he saw was Stan Hedger.

Hedger walked up to him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s a public airport; none of your business.”

“Have you seen Lance Cabot?”

“Is that why you’re here? You’re looking for Cabot?”

“That’s right.”

“So is half the country, from what I hear.”

“I thought you had gone back to the States, Stone. Why are you involved in this?”

“It’s personal,” Stone said. “See you around, Stan.”

“Come on,” Dino said, “we’re wasting time.”

Morgan reached his gate two minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. He went to the counter for a seat assignment.

“You’ll have to hurry, Mr. Trevor,” the young woman said. “We’re about to button up the airplane.”

“I’ll hurry,” Morgan said, and made for the boarding ramp. There was no line, and a moment later he was strapping himself into a first-class seat.

Stone, Dino, and Bartlett made their way quickly from gate to gate, coming up empty-handed at each one.

“That’s it,” Bartlett said. “We know he’s in the airport, but we don’t—”

“What are other likely destinations for fugitives?” Stone asked.

Bartlett shrugged. “Could be anywhere. There are more than a hundred international flights taking off in the next two hours; I don’t have the manpower to cover them all, and I’m not about to shut down this airport, unless I get a personal call from the Home Secretary.”

“Shit,” Stone said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Bartlett replied. “But let’s keep looking.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said. “We are now pushing back from the gate, and in a few minutes we’ll be taking off for our flight to Honolulu. While we’re taxiing, we direct your attention to the video, which will explain the emergency procedures for this aircraft.”

Morgan picked up a magazine. Fuck the emergency procedures, he thought. He wanted a double Scotch.

Stan Hedger left the airport in disgust, along with one of his people, and got into a waiting car. He did not notice, nor did his driver, that the car was followed by another, which kept a respectful distance.

Stone and Dino stuck it out until nearly midnight, when departures slowed dramatically, then they drove back to the Brewer’s Arms.

Carpenter, Mason, and Plumber were all in the suite when they arrived. “Anything?” Carpenter asked.

“Morgan was at the airport,” Stone said. “One of the security people found his discarded hat, coat, and passport in a men’s room. We covered the departures for Spain all evening, but there were too many departing flights to cover them all. What have you heard about Lance?”

“A farmer about eighty miles west of here reported that a light airplane landed and took off again at a disused RAF airfield near his house. Two local police officers found a brand-new BMW motorcycle abandoned there.”

“You think it was Lance’s?”

“It was wiped completely clean of fingerprints,” she said, “and it was properly registered to someone in London. We’re checking it out now, but who else would abandon an expensive motorbike at an old airfield and wipe off the prints?”

“I doubt if he’s coming back for it,” Stone said.

“The police are keeping a watch, to see if anyone picks it up.”

Stone sank into a sofa. “This hasn’t gone well, has it?”

Carpenter sat down next to him. “No, it hasn’t, but it’s not your fault; you were a big help. And you’ve lost all that money.”

Stone raised a hand. “Please, don’t mention that again.”

“I’ll do what I can to get you reimbursed, but I’m not very hopeful. My management are very annoyed that we’ve let these people get away.”

“Can I give you a lift back to London?”

“I have to stay here, but I’ll walk you downstairs.”

They walked through the inn to the parking lot, and Dino got behind the wheel.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing each other again,” Carpenter said.

“Oh, I don’t know; I might get to London, from time to time.” He handed her his card. “You might even get to New York.”

“Possible, I suppose. Let me give you a telephone number; memorize it, don’t write it down.” She gave him the number, then repeated it. “If you call that number at any hour of the day or night, you’ll hear a beep; leave a message for Carpenter, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

“I’m sorry about the device,” he said.

“Spilt milk,” she replied. “They don’t have the electronics to make it work, and they don’t have the software—especially the software. It will take them months, hopefully years, to figure out how to use it, and by that time we’ll have something better.”

Stone offered her his hand, but she snaked an arm around his neck and planted a wet kiss on his ear. “Hope I’ll hear from you,” she said, then she turned and walked back into the Brewer’s Arms.

Stone got into the car, and Dino drove off. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, gone,” he sighed.

Dino laughed. “And I was looking forward to a finder’s fee.”

As they drove back along the M4, Stone looked out at the rolling landscape. He’d heard that the road had been planned to show off the countryside. “I love this country,” he said. “I feel as though I’ve been here forever.”

“A pretty short forever,” Dino replied.

58

LANCE CABOT WOKE UP IN HIS ZURICH hotel room at noon, wakened by his travel alarm. He showered, shaved, dressed, and applied his false beard, which on inspection in the mirror, he thought very becoming. Maybe he’d better grow one, he thought, since he was going to be hot for a while, even though no one had anything on him. Stan Hedger was his only real worry; Hedger wanted him badly, and he wouldn’t stop looking. He felt sorry about Erica, but he couldn’t contact her for a long time, he knew.

He called Ali’s room. “I’m off,” he said. “As soon as the transaction is complete I’ll pick you up here. Our flight to Cairo isn’t until five o’clock. We’ll change passports again.” He hung up.

Lance arrived at the bank on time. He gave the appropriate name to an officer and was escorted into a conference room. Two men of Middle Eastern appearance sat at the large table. They stood up when he arrived.

“There’s a buzzer on the table, there,” the bank officer said. “Ring when you need me.”

Lance nodded and sat down.

“You have the item?” one of the men asked.

Lance set the catalogue case on the table and opened it. He handed over the device, wrapped in tissue paper.

Nervously, the man on the other side of the table tore away the paper, then held the device in his hands and weighed it. “It’s very light,” he said.

“Very advanced metallurgy,” Lance said. “Are you ready to make the transfer?”

“How do we know this is the device you promised?”

“I would have thought that your people would have been smart enough to send someone with the skills to authenticate it.”

He handed the device to his companion, who inspected it for, perhaps, two minutes, then nodded.

“All right,” the first man said, “we are ready to make the transfer.”

“I think, perhaps, you should put that away,” Lance said, nodding at the device and pushing the catalogue case across the table. When the device was safely in the case, Lance pressed the button.

The bank officer returned with a file folder and sat down at the table. “Have you successfully completed your transaction?” he asked.

“We will have when the funds have been transferred,” Lance said.

“I have made out the paperwork as per your instructions,” the banker said. “Five million dollars to be transferred to your numbered account.”

“That’s correct,” Lance said.

The banker laid the documents before the two Middle Easterners. They examined them, and one of them signed.

“I’ll just be a moment,” the banker said. He took the documents and left the room.

Lance sat and looked at the two men, who impassively returned his gaze. No one said anything.

Presently, the banker returned. “Gentlemen, your transaction is complete.”

The two men rose and left the room without a word.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the banker asked Lance.

Lance thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied.

Ted Cricket stood in a light rain outside the Guinea pub and restaurant, in a mews off Berkeley Square. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The door to the restaurant opened, and Cricket stepped back into the shadows and looked around. The mews was empty.

Hedger left the restaurant alone, weaving a little, and started up the mews toward Berkeley Square. He walked right past Cricket, no more than six feet away.

Cricket stepped from the shadows, reached out, cupped a hand over Hedger’s mouth, and ran the slim blade into his back, thrusting upward. Hedger’s knees gave way, and when Cricket released him, he collapsed onto the wet cobblestones.

Cricket looked up and down the mews again; empty. He rolled Hedger over, switched on a tiny flashlight, and shone it into Hedger’s face. He was still alive. “This is for Bobby Jones,” Cricket said. He placed the knife point on Hedger’s chest, over the heart, shoved it through the flesh, twisted it ninety degrees, and pulled it out, wiping the blade on Hedger’s fine Savile Row jacket. Hedger coughed up some blood, then was still.

Cricket walked up the mews into Berkeley Square, then around the square and into the warren of streets that was Mayfair. He waited until he reached Park Lane before hailing a taxi.

The telephone was ringing as Stone let himself into the house.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said. “I’m at Monica’s gallery; Erica is here, and she’s very upset.”

“Bring her here for the night,” Stone replied. “Don’t take her back to the Farm Street house for any reason.”

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t want to tell you on the phone,” Stone said. “Get here as soon as you can; I’ll wait up for you.”

The two women arrived in a rush, carrying Erica’s luggage.

“I moved out of the house,” Erica said. “It seemed very strange with Lance not there, and I was hearing clicking noises on the phone.”

“You did the right thing,” Stone replied. “I think you should fly back to New York tomorrow.”

“It seems the only thing to do,” Erica said.

“Stone, what is going on?” Sarah demanded.

“Lance has been involved in some sort of smuggling, I think, and they’re looking for him.”

“Who’s looking for him?”

“Just about everybody.”

“Good God.”

“I’m going home tomorrow, too,” he said. “Dino, will you call British Airways and book the three of us on the Concorde?” He still had some of Stan Hedger’s money.

Dino went into the kitchen to use the phone.

“Why don’t you get Erica to bed?” Stone asked Sarah. “I’m pretty bushed myself.”

By the time Sarah crawled into bed with him, he was out.

59

STONE AND DINO WERE HAVING BREAKFAST when the doorbell rang. Stone answered it, to find Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton standing there with another officer, looking grim.

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“No, it isn’t,” Throckmorton replied, brushing past him and walking into the drawing room. “Come in here and sit down.”

“I was about to call you; how on earth did you find me here?” Stone asked.

“I had Miss Burroughs followed,” Throckmorton replied, “and my people weren’t the only ones doing so. Where is she?”

“Upstairs, asleep,” Stone replied.

“No, I’m not,” Erica said from the doorway.

Stone introduced her to the two men.

“I have only a few questions for you, Miss Burroughs,” Throckmorton said, and he proceeded to ask them. Ten minutes of grilling her produced nothing, and he told her she could go.

“Get some breakfast,” Stone said to her. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

“Well, Barrington,” Throckmorton said, “you’ve certainly managed to mix in a number of things, haven’t you?”

“I suppose I have,” Stone replied.

“How about Stanford Hedger’s death; did you mix in that?”

Stone had no trouble looking surprised. “He’s dead?”

“Knifed outside a Mayfair restaurant late last evening.”

“I saw him at Heathrow earlier in the evening,” Stone said, “and he was perfectly fine.”

“He was looking for Lance Cabot?”

“Yes.”

“And so were you, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Look, I know very well that you’re up to your ears in the Eastover matter, and I’m not in the least convinced that you had nothing to do with Hedger’s death.”

“May I speak to you alone for a moment?” Stone asked.

Throckmorton motioned for the detective to leave them.

“I think we both have a pretty good idea who might have dispatched Hedger, don’t we?” Stone asked when they were alone.

Throckmorton sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. He had all the skills; he was ex–Special Air Services, you know.”

“I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. I don’t suppose there’s anything but suspicion to link him to Hedger’s death?”

“He has half a dozen witnesses, all retired policemen, who swear he was in a card game at the time.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to leave it.”

“I wish I could; the Americans are very upset.”

“Then let them solve it; they don’t seem to have any compunctions about operating on your soil.”

“No, they don’t, do they?”

Stone didn’t say anything for a moment. “May I have my passport back, please?”

“Oh, yes.” Throckmorton stood up, took it from his pocket and handed it to Stone.

“And my raincoat?”

“No. That’s evidence. You’ll be returning to New York, then?”

“Yes, today.”

“Thank God,” Throckmorton said. “I hope you never come back.” He walked out of the room and the house without another word, followed by his detective, bumping into Mason as he entered the house. The two men exchanged a long glance, but said nothing to each other.

“Good morning,” Stone said to Mason. “Any news?”

“None I can give you,” Mason replied. “I’ve come for your car, your pen, and your button.”

“Oh, yes.” He had forgotten. He went into the kitchen, found a knife, and cut the button from his sleeve.

“What are you doing?” Dino asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” He went back into the drawing room and handed Mason the button, pen, and car keys.

“Thank you,” Mason said, then turned to go.

“There’s nothing you can tell me?” Stone asked.

“It’s not my place,” Mason replied. “Thank you for your assistance; you got your passport back?”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t delay leaving the country, if I were you.”

“I’ll be gone before sundown,” Stone replied.

“Yes, sundown; that’s when you Americans get out of town, isn’t it?”

“Only in Westerns.”

“Well, I suppose this has been a sort of Western, hasn’t it? Except we didn’t get the bad guy in the end.”

“Will you?”

“A personal opinion?”

“Sure.”

“We’ll get Morgan one of these days. As for Cabot, I doubt if Morgan can identify him, so we don’t actually have anything concrete on which to base a prosecution. And to tell you the truth, I doubt if my management would prosecute him if we did. This whole business has been terribly embarrassing for them, as well as for Carpenter and me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said.

Mason shook his hand. “Don’t be; in a week or two, the whole thing will have blown over for us. Take care.”

“You, too.” Stone showed him out.

Stone went into the kitchen, where Sarah had joined everybody. “I want everybody ready to leave for Heathrow in an hour,” he said, checking his watch.

Sarah drove them, and walked Stone as far as the security checkpoint. “I had hoped you might stay for a long time,” she said.

“I’m an American and a New Yorker. As much as I like it here, I know where home is.”

“And after I went to all that trouble,” she said.

Stone frowned. “Trouble?”

“Well, I had to, didn’t I? Daddy is nearly broke, and if he’d lost any of the lawsuits, he’d lose everything, even the house. I had to do something; then you turned up, and it became even more imperative.”

Stone stared at her. “Jesus, Sarah, you didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t I?” she asked. She kissed him and walked away.

Dino and Erica joined Stone. “You don’t look so hot,” Dino said.

“Just a little shaken,” Stone said.

“What, she told you the truth?”

“Yes, in a way; nothing that I could testify to, though.”

“Jesus, Stone, I knew all that; why didn’t you?”

“I guess I didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah, you’re good at that. Come on, we’ve got a rocket ship to catch.”

As the Concorde roared down the runway, Stone looked at Erica sitting beside him, reading a magazine. “You don’t seem terribly upset about Lance,” he said.

She shrugged. “He told me something like this might happen someday. I’ll hear from him, eventually.”

Stone reflected that he was finally doing what “John Bartholomew” had hired him to do: bring home Erica Burroughs. He settled into his seat. What with the time change, they’d arrive in New York before they left London.

60

STONE WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE following morning by the telephone. For a moment he was disoriented, thinking he was at the Connaught or in the late James Cutler’s bed. He glanced at the clock; he had slept for twelve hours. “Hello?” he croaked into the phone.

“It’s Carpenter,” she said. “You sound awful.”

“I was asleep,” he said.

“Oh, yes, the time difference; it’s lunchtime here.”

“Right.”

“Mason said you wanted an update?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“There’s good news and bad news; which do you want first?”

Stone groaned. “The bad news.”

“My management have categorically refused to reimburse you for your monetary loss. They feel no responsibility.”

“That’s sweet of them. Tell me the good news.”

“It comes in two parts: first, we caught Morgan in Hawaii.”

Stone sat up in bed. “Did he have my money with him?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Stone fell back into the bed. “Why are you torturing me?”

“I said the good news came in two parts.”

“All right, what’s part two?”

“Morgan checked in for his flight only shortly before it departed, so his luggage didn’t make it aboard the aircraft.”

Stone sat up in bed again. “The valise?”

“Heathrow security found it, waiting patiently to be put aboard the next flight. There was nearly half a million dollars in it.”

“Yeeessss!” Stone shouted, punching the air.

“It will take a little sorting out, but I imagine that, in a few days, I can transfer it to your New York bank. Do you have the account number?”

Stone gave her his brokerage account number. “Send it there,” he said, “back where it came from.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll be able to buy me dinner the next time I’m in New York.”

“Yes, I suppose I will be able to afford that. Soon, I hope.”

“You never know.”

“What about Lance Cabot? Any word on him?”

“He was too slick for us. The motorcycle turned out to be his; we picked up his pilot when he returned for the machine; Cabot had given it to him, apparently.”

“What did the pilot tell you?”

“He delivered Cabot to a farmer’s field in France, he isn’t sure where, since Cabot erased the coordinates from his GPS computer before leaving the airplane. He was met by two people, one of them answering to the description of Ali. We haven’t been able to trace him from there, so we have to assume that both he and, ah, his luggage reached their destination. We don’t know where that was.”

“Mason said he probably wouldn’t be prosecuted.”

“That’s right, but we would certainly make it difficult for him if he ever returned to Britain. I expect that he won’t; he’ll enjoy his ill-gotten gains in a more hospitable climate.” She paused. “Well, I must run.”

“May I know your name, now?”

She laughed. “All in good time. You take care of yourself.”

“Listen, when do you think . . .” But she had gone.

Stone got out of bed, and by the time he had dressed and breakfasted, his secretary was at her desk, working away.

“Good morning!” she said. “And welcome back!”

“Thank you, Joan,” he said. “Will you let my broker know to expect the return of some funds I took out of my account? In a few days, I think.”

“Of course,” she said. She handed him a stack of message slips. “Here are your phone calls, and this was in the fax machine when I came in yesterday.”

Stone looked at the paper. It was from his Swiss banker.

Sir, it read, I take pleasure in reporting the receipt of the following funds into your account. Stone looked at the bottom of the form. The amount was one million dollars.

“Good God!” Stone said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing; Lance kept his word.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Stone stood and thought about the ramifications of receiving this money. Should he return it? If so, to whom?

“You look puzzled,” Joan said.

Stone nodded. “I think you’d better get my accountant on the phone.”

“That doesn’t really mean what it says, does it?” she asked, nodding at the document in his hand.

“I’m afraid it does.”

She picked up the phone. “I’ll get your accountant,” she said.

“You know,” Stone said to her, “it’s amazing what can happen in a short forever.”

She stopped dialing. “What?”

“Never mind,” Stone said. He was trying to figure out how he was going to explain all this to his accountant.

He’d had worse problems.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to express my thanks to my editor, David Highfill, for making this the first manuscript in my career where an editor asked for no revisions whatever. It takes a highly discerning editor to know when something doesn’t need fixing.

I am very grateful to my publisher, the remarkable Phyllis Grann, now gone on to other things, for her interest in my career and for her efforts to do the best for each of my titles that she published. I wish her well in whatever she undertakes.

My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career with care and thoughtfulness, and always produce excellent results. I am very appreciative of all their efforts.

I thank Maldwin and Gilly Drummond for lending me the site of their wonderful house, if not the house itself, to use for the Wight home.

And I am always grateful to my wife, Chris, for her acute observations when reading my manuscripts and for her affection.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to David Highfill at Putnam, address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the on-line bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguin.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dirty Work

A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2003 by Stuart Woods

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguin.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-0984-4

A SIGNET BOOK®

Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: September, 2003

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

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44

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48

49

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51

52

53

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55

56

57

58

59

60

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS BOOK IS FOR

CHARLTON AND LYDIA HESTON.

1

Elaine’s, late.

A big night—a couple of directors, a couple of movie stars, half a dozen writers, an assortment of journalists, editors, publicists, cops, wise guys, drunks, hangers-on, women of substance, and some of considerably less substance. And this was just at the tables; the bar was a whole other thing.

Stone Barrington pushed his plate away and sat back. Gianni, the waiter, snatched it away.

“Was it all right?” Gianni asked.

“You see anything left?” Stone asked.

Gianni grinned and took the plate to the kitchen.

Elaine came over and sat down. “So?” she said.

She did not light a cigarette. To Stone’s continuing astonishment, she had quit, cold turkey.

“Not much,” Stone replied.

“That’s what you always say,” Elaine said.

“I’m not kidding, not much is happening.”

The front door of the restaurant opened, and Bill Eggers came in.

“Now something’s happening,” Elaine said. “Eggers never comes in here unless he’s looking for you, and he never looks for you unless there’s trouble.”

“You wrong the man,” Stone said, waving Eggers over to the table, but he knew she was right. For ordinary work, Bill phoned; for more pressing tasks, he hunted down Stone and usually found him at Elaine’s.

“Good evening, Elaine, Stone,” Eggers said. “Your cell phone is off.”

“It didn’t work, did it?” Stone replied.

“I gotta be someplace,” Elaine said, getting up and walking away. She got as far as the next table.

“Drink?” Stone asked.

Michael, the headwaiter, materialized beside them.

“Johnnie Walker Black, rocks,” Eggers said.

“I have a feeling I’m going to need a Wild Turkey,” Stone said to Michael.

Michael vanished.

“How’s it going?” Eggers asked.

“You tell me,” Stone said.

Eggers shrugged.

“If I had to guess,” Stone said, “I’d say, not so hot.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Eggers replied.

“Then what drags you away from home and hearth, into this den of iniquity?”

“You remember that big Irish ex-cop, used to do little chores for you from time to time?”

“Teddy? He dropped dead in P. J. Clarke’s three months ago.”

“From what?”

“How many things can an Irishman in an Irish bar drop dead of?” Stone asked, rhetorically.

“Yeah,” Eggers admitted.

“And why would I need somebody like Teddy?” Stone asked.

“You remember telling me about that thing Teddy used to do with the water pistol?” Eggers asked.

“You mean, after he kicked down a door and had his camera ready, how he squirted his naked subjects down low, so they’d grab at themselves and leave their faces open to be photographed in bed with each other?”

Eggers chuckled. “That’s the one. I admire that kind of ingenuity.”

The drinks came, and they both sipped for a long, contemplative moment.

“So, you’re in need of that kind of ingenuity?” Stone asked at last.

“You remember that prenup I tossed you last year?” Eggers asked. Bill Eggers was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the very prestigious New York law firm to which Stone was of counsel, which meant he sometimes did the work that Woodman & Weld did not wish to appear to be doing.

“Elena Marks?” Stone asked.

“The very one.”

“I remember.” Elena Marks was heiress to a department store fortune, and she had married a member in high standing of the No Visible Means of Support Club.

“You remember that funny little clause you wrote into her prenup?”

“You mean the one about how if Larry got caught with his pants around his ankles in the company of a lady other than Elena, he would forfeit any claim to her assets or income?” Lawrence Fortescue was English—handsome, well educated, and possessed of every social grace, which meant he didn’t have a receptacle in which to relieve himself.

“The very one,” Eggers said.

“Has Larry been a bad boy?” Stone asked.

“Has been, is, and will continue to be,” Eggers replied, sipping his Scotch.

“I see,” Stone said.

“Now that Teddy has gone to his reward, who do you use for that sort of thing?”

“It’s been quite a while since that sort of thing was required of me,” Stone replied edgily.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” Eggers said, raising himself erect in mock dudgeon. “It’s work, and somebody has to do it.”

Stone sighed. “I suppose I could find somebody.”

Eggers looked at him sharply. “You’re not thinking of doing this yourself, are you? I mean, there are heights involved here, and you’re not as young as you used to be.”

“I am not thinking of doing it myself, but I’m certainly in good enough shape to,” Stone said. “What kind of heights are we talking about?”

“The roof of a six-story town house, shooting through a conveniently located skylight.”

“There is no such thing as a conveniently located skylight, if you’re the one doing the climbing,” Stone said.

“You’d need someone . . . spry,” Eggers said, “and the term hardly applies to the cops and ex-cops you mingle with.”

At that moment, as if to make Eggers’s point, Stone’s former partner from his NYPD days, Dino Bacchetti, walked through the front door and headed for Stone’s table.

“If you see what I mean,” Eggers said.

Stone held up a hand, stopping Dino in his tracks, then a finger, turning him toward the bar.

“I get your point,” Stone said. “I’ll see who I can come up with.”

“You don’t have a lot of time,” Eggers said. “It’s at nine o’clock tomorrow night.”

“What’s at nine o’clock tomorrow night?”

“The assignation. Larry Fortescue has an appointment with a masseuse who, I understand, routinely massages more than his neck muscles. Elena would like some very clear photographs of that service being performed.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Stone said.

Eggers tossed off the remainder of his Scotch and placed a folded sheet of paper on the table. “I knew you would grasp the nettle,” he said, standing up. “The address of the building is on the paper. I’ll need the prints and negatives by noon the day after tomorrow.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Elena Marks is accustomed to instant gratification.”

“But not from Larry?”

“You are quick, Stone. Nighty-night.” He slapped Dino on the back as he passed the bar on his way to the door.

Dino came over, licking Scotch off his hand, where Eggers had spilled it. He flopped into a chair. “So what was that about?” he asked, pointing his chin at Eggers’s disappearing back.

“Dirty work,” Stone said.

2

Dino patted the rest of the spilled Scotch off his hand with a cocktail napkin. “Is there any other kind?”

“Sure there is, and they give me plenty of it,” Stone said defensively.

“How dirty?”

“Just slightly grubby; I don’t have to kill anybody.”

“And who are you going to get to do it?”

“Well, Teddy’s dead, so I guess I’d better call Bob Cantor,” Stone said, digging out his cell phone and switching it on.

“Bob’s your man, as well as your uncle,” Dino observed.

Stone dialed the number and got a recording. He left a message, then dialed Cantor’s cell phone.

It was answered instantly. “Speak to me!” Cantor’s voice shouted over a babble of voices and steel-band music.

“It’s Stone. Where the hell are you?”

“Saint Thomas, baby!” Cantor yelled.

“Like in the Virgin Islands, Saint Thomas?”

“I’m not talking about the church.”

“Bob, I need some help. Are you sober?”

“Certainly not! I’ve had enough piña coladas to fill that hot tub at your house.”

“It’s not a hot tub; it’s just a big bathtub with the Jacuzzi thing.”

“Whatever. Why don’t you come down here, Stone? You wouldn’t believe the women.”

“I’d believe them.”

“What d’ya need, that you would interrupt a man’s drinking?”

Stone looked around and cupped a hand over the cell phone. “I need a second-story man who’s good with a camera.”

“You running a badger game?”

“Close, but not quite. And the shots have to be taken on a roof, so I need somebody who’s in good enough shape not to fall off the building and embarrass everybody.”

“Got a pencil?”

Stone dug out a pen. “Shoot.”

“Herbie Fisher.”

“Who’s he?”

“My sister’s boy. He’s young and bold and agile, and he’s a pretty good photographer.”

“The light may not be very good.”

“It never is in those situations, is it?”

“Right.”

Cantor gave Stone the number, and he wrote it on a cocktail napkin. “Tell him I sent you and not to screw it up.”

“Does he make a habit of screwing up?” Stone asked. But Cantor had punched off and returned to his piña coladas.

“I heard that,” Dino said, “but I didn’t hear it.”

“Good,” Stone said, punching in the number Cantor had given him. The phone rang five times before it was picked up.

“What!” a young man’s voice said, panting.

“Herbie Fisher?”

“Who wants to know? Jesus, can’t a guy get laid anymore?”

“My name is Stone Barrington. Your uncle Bob said to call you.”

“Gimme your number, I got something to finish here.”

Stone gave him the number, and he hung up.

“I think I interrupted him,” Stone said.

“In the saddle?”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“These kids!” Dino said, laughing. “Nobody would ever have caught you or me doing that.”

“Nah,” Stone agreed. Then he looked toward the door and froze. “Look over your shoulder and tell me if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing,” he said.

Dino looked over his shoulder. “Carpenter!”

She was standing there in a beautiful cashmere coat that set off her dark brown hair, looking around, looking lost; she hadn’t seen him. Stone grabbed Michael, the headwaiter, as he passed. “The lady at the door,” Stone said. “Go over there and say, ‘Miss Carpenter? Mr. Barrington is expecting you.’ Then bring her here.”

Michael nodded and went to his work. Stone watched her face; no sign of surprise. Carpenter had never given much away. Michael led her back toward the table, and Stone and Dino stood up.

“What took you so long?” Stone said, embracing her and kissing her on the cheek.

“I came as fast as I could,” she said, her British accent smooth and creamy. “Dino, how are you?” She hugged him.

“Better now,” Dino said.

Stone took her coat, hung it up, and held a chair for her, then he sat down and waved Michael over again. “What would you like to drink, Carpenter?” He didn’t know her first name, nor her last name, for that matter. Carpenter was a handle, a moniker, a code name. They had met in London the year before, when he had gotten himself into a mess that required the assistance of British intelligence. Dino had been there, too.

“Bourbon, please,” she said, “no ice.”

“You get that, Michael?”

Michael nodded and went away.

“Since when does a limey girl drink bourbon?” Dino asked.

“Since Stone extolled its virtues,” she replied. A glass was set before her, and she sipped appreciatively.

“And what brings you to New York?” Stone asked. “Besides me, I mean.”

“Well,” she said drolly, “you were the most important consideration, of course, but there is a little job I have to do with an agency of your government that will require every waking moment that I can tear myself away from your presence.”

“I’ll see that there are not many of those moments,” Stone said. “Dare I ask which agency of my government?”

“The FBI,” she said.

“Oh, yes, they would be the folks who are roughly analogous to your own outfit, wouldn’t they?”

“Perhaps,” she said coolly.

“C’mon, Stone, she’s not going to tell you anything,” Dino said.

Elaine came back and pulled up a chair.

“Elaine Kaufman,” Stone said, “let me introduce . . .” He waited for Carpenter to fill in the blank.

“Felicity,” Carpenter said, offering her hand to Elaine and shooting Stone an amused glance.

“Really?” Stone asked.

“Sometimes,” Carpenter replied.

Stone’s cell phone rang.

3

Stone stood up. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said to Carpenter. He walked toward the kitchen and turned into the empty dining room that Elaine used for parties and overflow. “Hello?”

“This is Herbie Fisher. You called?”

“Yeah, I spoke to your uncle Bob a few minutes ago, and he recommended you for a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“It involves a camera.”

“I’m up for photography,” Herbie said. “Tell me more.”

“The job’s tomorrow evening, so clear your schedule. Come to my office tomorrow morning at ten.” Stone gave him the address. “It’s the professional entrance of the house, lower level.”

“What’s it pay?”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning.” Stone hung up and went back to his table. Elaine had moved on to somebody else’s.

“Late date?” Carpenter asked.

“Business,” Stone said.

“Ah, business.”

“How long are you in town for?”

“A few days, unless I can think of a reason to stretch my stay.”

Dino stood up. “I’ll leave you two to work on some reasons.”

“Good night, Dino,” she said. “I hope I’ll see you again while I’m here.”

“Count on it,” Dino said, then he left.

“Sweet man,” Carpenter said.

“If you say so. Felicity, huh? I like it.”

“It’s just as well; I’m not going to change it.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“I had a business dinner earlier.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With friends.”

“Where, with friends?”

“In the East Forties.”

“Very near me. Will you come to my house for a nightcap?”

“All right.”

They got into their coats and, outside, Stone started to hail a cab.

“Don’t,” she said. “I have a car, courtesy of my firm.” She nodded toward a black Lincoln idling at the curb.

“All the better,” Stone said, opening the door for her. He gave the driver his address.

“That’s in Turtle Bay,” she said.

“You know Turtle Bay?”

“I can read a map and a guidebook, I know all about it. Does your house open onto the common garden?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Perhaps you’ll show me the garden tomorrow.”

“Certainly,” Stone replied, though he wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

“How does one afford a house of one’s own, what with property prices the way they are in New York these days?”

“Easy. One has a great-aunt who dies and wills him the house. Then one works one’s ass off renovating it.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“You don’t have to wait, we’re here.” He opened the door, and she slid across the seat. She leaned back into the car. “You can go,” she said to the driver.

Stone liked the sound of that. He led her up the steps, unlocked the front door, and hung their coats in the front hall closet. “I didn’t know you had any friends in New York,” he said.

“Business friends.”

“Oh. And I suppose their front hall closet has a selection of cloaks and daggers.”

“Quite,” she said.

Stone switched on some lights from the master panel in the foyer.

Carpenter walked into the living room. “This is very handsome,” she said. “Did you choose the furniture, or did you have a designer?”

“Most of the furniture came with the house. I had everything reupholstered. I chose the fabrics.”

“Oh? I thought I detected a woman’s touch.”

Stone didn’t want to go there. “My study is through here,” he said, leading the way.

“Beautiful paneling and bookcases,” Carpenter said.

“My father designed and built them.”

“Your father the Communist?”

“Ex-Communist,” Stone replied. “You pulled a few files on me, didn’t you?”

“A few. Mother, a painter. Both parents disowned by their parents, who were textile tycoons in New England. Why?”

“My father, because of his politics; my mother, because she married my father. The only family member who spoke to them was my great-aunt. She bought this house and hired my father to do a lot of the interior. It kept them from starving to death, early in their marriage. What else did you learn about me?”

“Went to New York University, then the law school. Joined the NYPD afterwards, served fourteen years, including eleven as a detective. Retired for medical reasons, ostensibly. A bullet in the knee, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but there were other, more political reasons. The department was never very comfortable with me.”

“You must tell me about it when we have more time,” she said.

“Don’t we have time now?”

“Not really. Where is your bedroom?”

He led her up a flight. “Right here.”

She began unbuttoning her suit coat. “I think we’d better get to bed,” she said. “I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

Stone stood, stunned, his mouth open.

She reached over and closed it, then kissed him lightly. “You mustn’t believe everything you hear about proper British girls,” she said, working on his buttons.

“I must remember that,” he said, helping her.

Stone woke with the gray light of dawn coming through the windows overlooking the garden. He could hear the shower running. He got up, found a robe, brushed his hair, and was about to go and find her when she came out of the bathroom, wearing his terrycloth robe, her face shiny with no makeup.

“Good morning,” she said. “You were very good last night.”

“Why, thank you,” he said.

“It’s interesting how you talk during sex,” she said. “Englishmen never do that.”

“No?”

“No, they always seem in such a hurry. You, on the other hand, took your time, and I liked that.”

“You are a very big surprise, Felicity.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she replied. “If I hadn’t been, my carefully composed professional mien would have been compromised.”

He put his arms around her. “I assure you, it was not. As I said, you were a very big surprise.”

She picked up her watch from his dresser top. “I think we may have time to do it again,” she said. “Are you up for that?”

“I’m getting there,” Stone said.

4

Stone stood at the door, his arms around Carpenter. “Can’t I get you a cab?”

“It’s only in the next block,” she said.

“What is?”

“The, ah, home of my friends.”

“What is it, a town house? An apartment building?”

“It’s very comfortable,” she said, “though I like it here better.”

“Then why don’t you move in for the remainder of your time in New York?”

“What a nice idea,” she said, kissing him. “Let me see if I can arrange it.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Love it. I’ll come here at, say, eight o’clock?”

“See you then.” He watched her walk quickly down the street, then turn the corner. Then he went back inside and made himself some breakfast.

Herbie Fisher was forty minutes late for his appointment. He was small, ferret-like, sleekly dressed, and annoying. “Hey,” he said, plopping down in a chair across the desk from Stone.

“You’re late,” Stone said.

Herbie shrugged. “Traffic.”

“If I give you this job you can’t be late,” Stone said.

Herbie shrugged. “So get somebody else,” he said, standing up.

Stone picked up the phone and punched a button for a line that didn’t exist. “Joan,” he said, “get me that guy I used last month for the photography work.” He hung up and pretended to go through some papers, then he looked up. “You still here?”

“Okay, okay,” Herbie said. “I get the picture. I’ll do it your way, on time and everything. What does it pay?”

“Five hundred,” Stone said. “It just went down from a thousand. You want to try for two-fifty?”

“Five hundred’s fine,” Herbie said contritely. “Gimme the pitch.”

Stone handed him a sheet of paper. “The pitch is, you show up at this address at eight o’clock this evening. Can you pick a lock?”

“What kind of lock?”

“The street door of a town house with several apartments.”

“No problem.”

“If you can’t pick the lock, you’ll have to get somebody to buzz you in, or wait for somebody to leave the building so you can get in. If there’s an elevator, take it to the top floor; if not, walk up the stairs.”

“Carrying what?”

“At least two cameras, one wide lens, say a thirty-five-millimeter, one medium telephoto, a hundred-, a hundred-thirty-five-millimeter, in that range. Fast color negative film, no flash. This is strictly existing light. When you get to the top floor, get yourself onto the roof. The sixth-floor apartment has a skylight. There’ll be a man and a woman in the apartment around nine o’clock. I want explicit photographs of whatever they do to each other. Is that clear?”

“Clear as gin.”

“Then get out of there and process the film. Do it yourself; no labs. Got it?”

“Got it. Don’t worry, I got all the equipment. Who are the people?”

“I don’t know, and you don’t want to. I want the negatives and two sets of eight-by-ten prints on my desk, here, no later than ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“I got it,” Herbie said. “I want to be paid now.”

“Forget it. Five hundred, cash on delivery. If you do a clean job, no problems, and I like your work, I’ll give you a thousand. Tell me right now if there’s anything about this you can’t handle; you get only one shot at it.”

“I can handle it all, clean, no problems,” Herbie said.

Stone gave him his cell phone number. “Call me when you’re out of the building safely. Don’t write the number down, memorize it.”

“Got it,” Herbie said.

“Then get this, Herbie: You screw up, and I never heard of you. Don’t call me from a police station and ask me to make bail for you, understand?”

“I got it.”

“You get yourself busted, you’ll have to sit in jail until your uncle Bob gets back from the Virgin Islands.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the picture,” Herbie said, picking up one of Stone’s cards from a tray on his desk.

“Put that back,” Stone said. “You and I have never met and have no connection whatever.”

“Jesus, you’re a hardass,” Herbie said, returning the card.

“Now you’re getting the picture,” Stone replied. “But just in case you didn’t, I’ll spell it out for you: You get caught, you’re looking at a Peeping Tom charge, and maybe attempted burglary, at the very least, and at worst, a blackmail rap. You could do time, and you’ll do it with no weekly visits and freshly baked cookies from me. In short: Fuck up and you’re on your own.”

Herbie held up his hands defensively. “I told you, I got it. I’m a pro. I know the risks, and I’ll take whatever, if things go wrong.”

“If you’re not back here with the goods at ten tomorrow morning, I’ll know things went wrong, and I’ll be joining your uncle Bob in Saint Thomas for a week or two. He’ll testify that I was with him the whole time.”

“You think Uncle Bobby would do that to me?”

“He’s already told me he would. He doesn’t like fuckups, either.”

Nodding furiously, Herbie got up and fled the premises.

Stone hoped to God he’d made an impression on the kid.

He buzzed for Joan.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Book me a table for two at Café des Artistes at eight-thirty, please.”

“Sure, and I promise not to tell Elaine.”

“You’d better not. If I’m dead, you’re out of a job.”

“You have a point.”

“And if a woman named Carpenter calls, give her my cell phone number. I don’t want to miss her call.”

“Somebody new, Stone?”

“Somebody old, but not all that old.”

5

Carpenter showed up at Stone’s house exactly on time, followed by a uniformed chauffeur carrying two large suitcases.

“I’m accepting your invitation,” she said, kissing Stone lightly on the lips.

“And you’re very welcome,” Stone said. “Put the cases in the elevator,” he said to the chauffeur. “I’ll do the rest.”

They rode up to his bedroom together, and he showed her where to put her clothes. “Make it quick,” he said. “Our dinner table is in half an hour.” He looked at his watch: Herbie Fisher should be in the building by now.

Stone employed a service that provided drivers, and his usual man had his Mercedes E55 waiting at the curb when they came out of the house.

“Very nice,” Carpenter said, settling into the backseat beside Stone.

“And armored, too,” Stone said. “Just in case anybody intends to do you harm.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. When I went car shopping a while back, they were wheeling it into the showroom. Some mob guy had ordered it and had got himself popped the day before it arrived.”

“Bad timing.”

“Good for me, though. I was being shot at, at the time, and I bought it from the widow at a nice discount. The armor is only good for small arms—no land mines or rockets.”

“You get a lot of land mines and rockets on the streets of New York?” she asked.

“Not as many as we used to. Giuliani discouraged that sort of behavior, and Bloomberg seems to be following his lead.”

They arrived at 1 West Sixty-seventh Street on time for their table at Café des Artistes, and they were seated immediately. Stone ordered two champagnes fraise des bois.

“What’s that?” Carpenter asked.

“A glass of champagne with a dose of wild strawberry liqueur.”

The drinks arrived. “I like the murals,” Carpenter said, looking around at paintings of nude nymphs greeting conquistadores.

“They’re a big reason this is one of my favorite restaurants,” Stone said. “Notice that, while they have different faces, the nymphs all seem to have the same body. I think the artist, Howard Chandler Christy, must have had a favorite model.”

“I hope we aren’t here entirely for the nudes,” Carpenter said.

“Fear not, the food is excellent.” He glanced at his watch. Herbie should be in position on the roof by now.

Stone ordered them the charcuterie and the bourride, a seafood stew in a thick, garlicky sauce.

“Mmmmm,” Carpenter said, tasting it. “Good thing we’re both having this, what with all the garlic.”

“Felicity,” Stone said. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“And what is your last name?”

“I’m not sure I know you well enough to tell you,” she said.

“After last night, I should think you’d know me well enough to tell me anything,” Stone said.

She laughed. “All right, it’s Devonshire.”

“Like the county?”

“Exactly.”

“Felicity Devonshire. Sounds like an actress on Masterpiece Theatre.”

“What’s Masterpiece Theatre?”

“It’s a program on our Public Broadcasting System that features British television plays.”

Stone checked his watch again: nine-thirty. Herbie should be calling any second.

“Why do you keep looking at your watch?” Carpenter asked.

“Sorry, something’s going on tonight, and I should get a call saying it went well.”

“Sounds like you’re in my business.”

“Not exactly,” Stone said. “Though we probably use some of the same techniques.”

“What’s this evening’s technique?”

“Candid photography,” he replied.

“Keyhole stuff? You’re joking.”

“All’s fair in love and divorce.”

“I thought we British had a corner on that market, except for the French.”

“Nope. New York is not a no-fault state.”

“What’s no-fault? Sounds like car insurance.”

“It means the divorce is legally considered to be neither party’s fault. Lots of states have that, but not New York. In New York one needs grounds for divorce—cruelty or, especially, adultery. Sometimes my clients ask me to substantiate grounds. In this particular case, the evidence is more important than the divorce itself, since the husband signed a prenuptial agreement stating that, if he fooled around, he’d get none of his wife’s very considerable fortune.”

“Poor bloke.”

“I may have asked you this before, but why have you never married?” he asked.

“The job,” she said. “My firm frowns on marriages, unless they’re intramural. Marrying outside the profession almost guarantees divorce, often an ugly one, and the firm doesn’t like that sort of publicity.”

“None of the gentlemen of your trade ever appealed to you?”

“Oh, there was a time,” she said. “A couple of years ago one of my colleagues and I got very serious, but not as serious as I thought. When he was offered a posting abroad, he accepted with alacrity, much to my annoyance. I broke it off immediately. He made the wrong choice.”

“Maybe it wasn’t so wrong after all, if he could leave you so readily.”

“I entirely agree,” she said, “and I got over it. You’re my first, ah, liaison since then, which is why I was so eager to get you into bed last night. I hope I didn’t put you off with my assertiveness.”

“Did I seem put off?”

She laughed. “No, I don’t think you did. You were . . . very interesting.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?”

“It means exactly that. Don’t worry, it’s a very considerable compliment.”

They finished their main course and had dessert. When they were served coffee, Stone had entirely forgotten about Herbie Fisher. Then his cell phone vibrated. He looked at his watch: just after eleven o’clock. “Do you mind?” he asked, holding up the phone.

“Go ahead,” she said.

Stone opened the phone. “Yes?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Herbie said, sounding very agitated.

“What?”

“The goddamned skylight must have been old or something.”

“What the hell happened?” Stone demanded, trying to keep his voice down.

“It collapsed,” Herbie said. “I fell right on top of both of them.”

“You fell into . . .” Stone stopped and looked around. “Where are you?”

“It’s not my fault the guy’s dead,” Herbie said.

“He’s what?”

“You’ve got to come down here,” Herbie said.

“Down where?”

“I’m being arraigned in night court.”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Stone said. “Don’t say a word to anybody—not to a cop, not to an ADA, not to anybody. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I understand. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I’ll be there inside of an hour, and you keep your mouth shut,” Stone said. He snapped the phone shut.

“Somebody get a thumb in his eye looking through a keyhole?” Carpenter asked.

“Something like that,” Stone said, waving for the check.

“You don’t look so good,” Carpenter said.

“I’m not so good,” Stone said, feeling as if he might toss his dinner back onto the table. “This is very, very bad.”

He signed the check, grabbed Carpenter, and headed for the door.

“Where are we going?” Carpenter asked.

“I’m going to night court; you’re going home.”

“Oh, no I’m not. I want to see night court.”

Stone hustled her into the car. “This may take a while,” he said.

“I’ve got all night,” she replied.

“This is very, very bad,” Stone said, half to himself, as the car drove away.

6

Stone sat in one of the little rooms where attorneys met with their clients. Carpenter was upstairs in the big courtroom, taking in the American way of justice.

The opposite door to the cubicle opened, and Herbie Fisher walked in. He looked terrible—no belt or shoelaces, his hair mussed, and an expression of terror on his skinny face. He sat down on the stool opposite Stone and grasped the chain-link partition between them.

“You gotta get me out of here,” he said, tears in his eyes.

“Take it easy, Herbie,” Stone said. “Nobody’s going to kill you.”

“You haven’t seen the guys I’m sharing a cell with,” Herbie replied. “Now you gotta get me out of here.”

“Herbie, do you remember the little chat we had yesterday?” Stone asked. “The one where I told you that if you fucked up, you were on your own?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Herbie cried.

“Keep your voice down. Now I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

“Get me out of here first,” Herbie said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

“Herbie, unless you tell me what happened and tell me right now, I’m going to walk out of here and let you rot in jail.”

“You can’t do that! You gotta get me out! I can’t be in jail.”

“Herbie, listen to me very carefully,” Stone said. “Take a few deep breaths and calm down.”

Herbie sucked air.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.”

Herbie appeared to be a little calmer.

“Sometime tonight, you’re going to be arraigned in night court. The charges could include manslaughter or negligent homicide, breaking and entering, and attempted burglary. Do you understand?”

“But I didn’t kill anybody!” Herbie cried. “You gotta get me out of here!”

“Shut up and listen. At the arraignment, a lawyer will represent you, and you’ll plead not guilty to all charges. Then bail will be set, and you’ll get out. You’ll be having breakfast at home.”

“You’re going to represent me?” Herbie asked plaintively.

“No, another lawyer will. You are not to mention my name to him or anyone else. Do you understand?

“Yeah.”

“Now I want you to tell me exactly what happened tonight. Start when you entered the building.”

Herbie took a couple more breaths. “The downstairs door was open—like, ajar, you know? All I had to do was push it open.”

“Good, that helps with the breaking-and-entering charge.”

Then I took the elevator to the sixth floor, like you said, and I found a door to the roof. When I went out onto the roof, it locked behind me and that scared me, because I was stuck up there. I was going to have to shinny down a drainpipe or something.”

“Okay, you got onto the roof. Then what happened?”

“The apartment under the skylight was dark for a few minutes, then, a little before nine, a light came on, and I could see inside.”

“What did you see?”

“A girl was in the room and she was setting up one of those portable massage tables, you know?”

“I know. Go on.”

“Well, she set everything up, and she seemed to be real careful about everything in the room. She was turning lights on and off, until she got them the way she wanted them. Then she spread out sheets and stuff on the table.”

“Okay, go on.”

“Then, a little after nine, this guy arrived, and he took off his clothes. They both did, as a matter of fact.”

“Did they kiss or embrace?”

“Just a peck on the cheek and a pat on the ass.”

“Did you photograph that?”

“No, not yet. I was getting my gear ready.”

Stone resisted the temptation to yell at him. “Go on, what happened next?”

“Then the guy got on the table, facedown, so I figured it wouldn’t do any good to shoot him, if I couldn’t see his face.”

“So you still didn’t take any photographs?”

“No, not yet. So, anyway, the girl was rubbing him all over, and he was kind of squirming. Then he turned over on his back and I could see his face.”

“So you started photographing him?”

“No, not yet.”

“Herbie, did you take any photographs at all?”

“Sure, yeah, I did.”

“When?”

“I’m coming to that. Anyway, she starts to work on his thing, you know, and he’s writhing around, but my angle wasn’t so good, so I crawled out onto the skylight so I could get a better shot. It looked strong enough to hold me.”

“So, when you got a better angle, did you start shooting?”

“Yeah. I took a couple of wide shots with the thirty-five-millimeter lens, then I heard—no, I guess I felt—this creaking under me, you know?”

“Go on, Herbie.”

“So I stopped shooting and started thinking about getting off that skylight.”

“You stopped shooting?”

“Well, yeah, the skylight was sounding like it was going to break, so I had to get off it.”

“Did you get off it?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I was kind of backing up, and the skylight creaked again, and the girl looked up, right at me.”

“Did you photograph her face?”

“I’m not sure. It all started happening very fast,” Herbie said.

“Then what happened?”

“The guy was just lying there, like he was done and had fallen asleep, the way you do, you know? And the girl started backing away from the table.”

“Yes, then what happened?”

“Then the skylight caved in and I started falling into the room.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

“Well, I must have been out for a little while, and when I came to, I was lying on top of this guy, and he was dead.”

“Wait a minute,” Stone said. “How do you know he was dead?”

“Because he was just kind of staring up with these dead eyes. He wasn’t blinking or anything.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, I got to my feet and brushed glass and stuff off me and kind of walked around to see if anything was broken. Anything of mine, I mean.”

“But you were all right?”

“Yeah, but the guy was dead. I think I might have broken his leg, though.”

“When you fell on him?”

“Yeah. I fell on his legs.”

“That shouldn’t have killed him.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I didn’t kill the guy; I couldn’t have.”

“What happened then?”

“I heard all these guys coming,” Herbie said. “It sounded like a lot of them coming up the stairs.”

“They didn’t use the elevator?”

“No.”

“What happened next?”

“I figured it was the cops, so I looked around for someplace to hide my camera, and I saw this wood box by the fireplace. So I went over and opened it and took out a log, and I put my camera inside and put the log back on top of it. I was looking for another way out of the room when the door opened and all these guys came in.”

“Were they cops?”

“I guess so.”

“Were they in uniform?”

“No. They looked like detectives, in plain clothes.”

“And what did they do?”

“A couple of them grabbed me and threw me up against the wall, and a couple more went over to see about the naked guy on the table. I heard one of them say his leg was broken, and another one said he was dead.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then they left.”

“They left? You mean they left the apartment and left you alone there?”

“Yeah. One of them said, ‘You stay put.’ So I did.”

“And then what?”

“I tried to find another way out of the apartment, except by the door, but there wasn’t one. So I sat down on a chair and looked at the dead guy for a minute. Then the cops arrived. This time they had uniforms. And guns. And they arrested me and took me to a police station, where they put me in a van with some really badass guys and brought me here.”

“So the detectives just walked out, and a few minutes later the cops came?”

“Yeah, except I’m not so sure they were detectives.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when they were talking to each other, they had funny accents.”

“What kind of accents?”

“The kind you hear on PBS, on that show Mystery.”

“You mean English accents?”

“Yeah, like that. Like English cops.”

Stone was stumped. “Now listen: I’m going to get you a lawyer and arrange bail. If your lawyer asks about your relationship with me, you tell him I’m a friend of your uncle Bob, who’s out of town, and when you thought you needed a lawyer, you called me. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“And you say nothing about our meeting yesterday. If he wants to know what you were doing on that roof, tell him you’re a freelance photographer, and you were trying to take a picture you could sell to the tabloids. Nobody hired you. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

“When bail is set and you get out, go home and get some sleep. I’m going to be looking into this, and I’ll call you when I find out something.”

“Okay.”

“Herbie, have you ever been arrested?”

“No, not until tonight.”

“Never? Drunk driving? Burglary? Disturbing the peace? Anything? They’ll find out if you have been, and it will make a difference.”

“Never. I’m clean.”

“Do you have a job?”

“Yeah, I run a one-hour photo processing machine at a drugstore in Brooklyn.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Do you live with anybody?”

“I got a little place near the drugstore.”

“Tell all this to your lawyer.”

“What’s his name?”

“I haven’t picked him out yet. I’m going to go and do that now.”

“When will I get out of here?”

“When they call your case. It could be two or three hours, there’s no way to tell right now. Your lawyer may be able to find out.” Stone pressed the button to call the guard. “Now go back to your cell and keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to anybody about why you’re here, and don’t form any friendships with your cellmates. Any one of them will sell you out for a pack of cigarettes.”

“Okay.”

The guard came and took Herbie away, and Stone went upstairs to the courtroom.

7

Stone walked into the courtroom and looked around. He saw Carpenter sitting in the second row, apparently rapt, and he kept looking until he found his man, waiting with a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit who was about to be arraigned.

Tony Levy was short, stocky, and crafty. He earned his living as a lawyer by hanging around the courts, picking up cases on the fly. Stone had met him half a dozen times in the courthouse, and he was perfect for tonight’s purpose. He reached across the railing and tapped Levy on the shoulder.

“Hey, Stone,” Levy said, smiling and offering his hand. “I haven’t seen you down here for a while.”

“I try to stay uptown,” Stone said. “I’ve got a case for you. Can you talk?”

Levy turned back to his client, who was sporting a full set of restraints. “Don’t go anywhere for a minute,” he said, then he waved Stone to the side of the courtroom and led him through a door into a small conference room. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Nephew of a friend of mine—you know Bob Cantor?”

“Ex-cop? Yeah, I had him on the witness stand a few times.”

“His nephew, name of Herbert Fisher, is downstairs awaiting arraignment on charges of man two, B and E, and attempted burglary.”

“Nice,” Levy said.

“He was apparently taking some bedroom shots for a divorce case, and he fell through a skylight and onto a guy who was getting a very thorough massage from a young lady.”

“Jesus!”

“Right. Trouble is, when Herbie came to, the guy was dead.”

“And that’s the man two?”

“Right, and it sounds wrong because Herbie fell on his legs. The cops came and took him away. I can work on reducing the charges later, but right now I just want him bailed. I’ll call Irving Newman and arrange that, so his man in the court will be ready for you.”

“Okay.”

“Herbie is twenty-two, no priors, has a job and an apartment. I figure twenty-five grand for bail, but I’ll be prepared for more, if necessary.”

“Okay, seems straightforward. A grand will buy me.”

“I’ll send you cash by messenger tomorrow,” Stone said. “I don’t want my name on any paper connected with this. In fact, I don’t want to be associated with it in any way. Understand?”

“I read you loud and clear, Stone. I guess the partners at Woodman and Weld would frown on Herbie’s sort of activity.”

“They like me to stay out of night court, unless it’s their client,” Stone replied. “So I’m getting out of here now. Call me on my cell if there are any problems you can’t deal with. The kid is scared silly, and he needs to sleep in his bed tonight.”

“I’ll do everything but tuck him in,” Levy said.

Stone walked to where Carpenter was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and beckoned her to follow.

“Enjoy yourself?” he asked when they were outside the courtroom in the corridor.

“It’s fascinating,” she said. “When does your case come up?”

“It’s not my case. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. Another lawyer will represent the guy.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said.

“Hello?” The voice didn’t sound sleepy. Irving Newman, Stone’s favorite bail bondsman, was accustomed to being awakened in the night.

“Irving, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Stone, you okay? What’d they charge you with?”

“Thanks, Irving, I’m fine, and it’s not me,” Stone said, chuckling. “I’m down at night court. You know Bob Cantor?”

“Ex-cop?”

“Yeah. His nephew, one Herbert Fisher, is coming up tonight on man two, B and E, and attempted burglary. I figure bail will be twenty-five, but let’s be ready with more, just in case.”

“I’ll call my guy in court,” Irving said. “You putting up your house?” This was Irving’s idea of a joke.

“Yeah, sure, Irving. Call my secretary in the morning, and she’ll messenger you twenty-five hundred in cash. We never talked, okay?”

“Of course not. Who the hell is this, anyway?” Irving hung up.

Stone closed his phone and tucked it away. He took Carpenter’s arm and led her from the courthouse to his waiting car.

“So, what’s this all about, and why wouldn’t you tell me on the way down?” Carpenter asked.

“It’s strictly need-to-know,” Stone said. “You know about that in your trade, right?”

“Well, I already know your client’s name and the charges, don’t I? And Irving is arranging bail.”

“Herbie is not my client. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.”

“Somehow, I think the favor extends back to earlier in the evening,” Carpenter said. “You were looking at your watch all night, and you were clearly expecting that phone call, but not what you heard.”

Stone pointed at the driver and put a finger to his lips.

“All right,” she said. “When we get home. I’m not going to bed with you until I know all.”

Carpenter stood at the foot of the bed, her robe dangling invitingly open, revealing a slim, well-buffed body. “So tell me the whole story.”

Stone stared, and he was very ready for her. “Oh, come to bed,” he groaned.

She tied the robe firmly. “Not until I hear it.”

“This is blackmail,” Stone said.

“No, it’s extortion. As a lawyer, you should know the difference.”

“Oh, all right,” Stone said. “I arranged for a photographer to take dirty pictures of a married man and an unmarried lady in compromising positions. The photographer got too enthusiastic and fell through a skylight onto the man, who somehow died. The cops came and took the photographer away.”

Carpenter looked very interested. “Who was the dead man?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, Stone.”

“Oh, all right. It was a compatriot of yours, one Lawrence Fortescue, married to a sometime client of mine.”

Her face became expressionless. “How dead is he?”

“All the way,” Stone replied. “Herbie couldn’t understand it, because he fell on the guy’s legs. No reason for him to be dead. Something else funny, a bunch of apparent cops in plain clothes showed up in no time at all, and at least one of them had a British accent, according to Herbie, who learned everything he knows about British accents watching Brit cop shows on TV.”

“What happened to the woman involved?”

“Funny, I don’t know,” Stone said. “Herbie was out for a short time. She must have departed the premises, which, given the circumstances, was a wise move.”

“I need to use the phone in the next room,” Carpenter said. “And don’t you dare listen in.”

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“In a minute,” she replied, opening the door. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Stone watched the light on the phone come on and resisted the temptation to listen in. He was still watching the light ten minutes later, when he fell asleep.

8

A full bladder woke Stone early in the morning, and he had relieved himself and crawled back into bed before he realized he was alone. He raised his head from the pillow. “Carpenter?” he called. No answer.

Stone struggled from the bed and looked in the bathroom, then in his study. She was gone, but her bags were still there. He stumbled back to bed, but as he lay there, his unconscious began to reveal what it had come up with during the night. After a few minutes of communing with his psyche, Stone sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Ten past nine, and he had slept like—excuse the expression—a stone.

He picked up the phone and called Dino at his office.

“Bacchetti,” Dino snapped into the phone.

“It’s Stone.”

“Don’t say another word. Meet me at Clarke’s for lunch.” He hung up.

“What the hell?” Stone said aloud. He was wide awake now, and he got into a shower and shaved, dressed, and went down to his lower-level office. He could hear Joan Robertson’s computer keyboard clicking away as he came into his office from the rear door. The clicking stopped.

“I’m in,” Stone called out.

Joan appeared in the doorway. “Herbie Fisher has called three times in the past twenty minutes,” she said, placing a call slip on his desk.

Stone groaned. “Get him for me. And I’m having lunch with Dino, so don’t book me for anything before three.”

Joan left, the light on Stone’s phone went on, and she buzzed him.

Stone picked up the phone. “Shut up, Herbie,” he said, before the kid could say anything.

“What have you gotten me into?” Herbie yelled.

“I told you to shut up, and if you don’t do it right now, I’ll hang up, and you can handle your own legal difficulties.”

Herbie shut up.

“Now listen to me very carefully, because this is the last time you and I are going to speak, on the phone or in person. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Herbie replied, sounding contrite.

“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced—”

“Reduced? I’ll still have to go to jail.”

“Shut up, Herbie.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced to something that will get you probation instead of time.”

“But I’ll still have a record,” Herbie protested.

“Shut up, Herbie.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have any prior arrests or convictions, and you’re gainfully employed, so we can probably get you unsupervised probation, so you won’t have to report in every week.”

“That would be nice.”

“It would be very fucking nice, seeing that the alternative is probably five to seven for the manslaughter charge.”

“When do I get paid?” Herbie asked.

“PAID!!!!????” Stone screamed down the phone. “Paid for what?”

“Well, I did the job, sort of,” Herbie said.

“Yeah? Then where are the photographs of two people doing disgusting things to each other?”

“Well, my camera is still in the apartment,” Herbie pointed out. “I could go back and—”

“Don’t you go anywhere near that apartment!” Stone shouted.

“Could you stop yelling at me, please?” Herbie said, sounding wounded. “It’s not very polite. And could I point out that my camera is brand-new, and the warranty is registered in my name, and if the cops find it, they can trace it back to me?”

Stone was momentarily taken aback by the appearance of a rational thought from Herbie, but not for long. “They’ve already arrested you for being in the apartment. What difference does it make if they trace the camera back to you?”

“Oh,” Herbie said. “Right.”

“Leave the camera to me,” Stone said. “Where do you work?”

“At Walgreens, in Brooklyn.” Herbie gave him the address and phone number of the drugstore.

“Listen,” Stone said. “If I can get that camera back, and if the pictures are worth anything, and if you never, ever call me again for any reason, then you’ll get paid.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Herbie said, seeming to sense it was the best deal he was going to get.

“Did Tony Levy give you his card?”

“Who?”

“The lawyer who got you bailed out last night.”

“Oh, him. Yeah.”

“If you have any further problems with the police, call Levy, not me. He’ll deal with the situation.”

“Okay.”

“How much was your bail?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

‘ ’What?”

“That’s what the judge said.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered. “If you run, Herbie, I’ll hunt you down and deal with you myself. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Did Levy explain the conditions of your bail?”

“Well, yeah.”

“See that you follow those conditions to the letter.”

“All right.”

“Now, you sit tight and wait to hear about the charges. When I hear something, I’ll call Levy, and he’ll call you.”

“I got it.”

“And you understand never to call me again?”

“Right. And since I won’t be talking to you anymore, Stone, I’d just like to say what a pleasure it’s been working with you, and—”

Stone slammed down the phone, swearing. He buzzed Joan.

“Yes, boss?”

“Joan, please dip into the cash in the safe. Hand-deliver twenty-five thousand dollars to Irving Newman and a thousand to Tony Levy. Both addresses are in our book.”

“Right now?”

“Take a long lunch and do it then. And make them count it, and get a receipt from both.”

“Will do, but that will pretty much clean us out of cash.”

“Okay.” Stone hung up and listened to his stomach growl. He hadn’t had any breakfast, and it was too early for lunch. He rested his forehead on the cool desktop and tried to empty his mind of everything.

Then Joan buzzed him. “Bill Eggers on line one,” she said.

Stone groaned again and picked up the phone.

9

Eggers was not happy. “Have you seen this morning’s Daily News?”

“No.”

“Well, everybody else on the planet has. I don’t know how you missed it.”

“Bill . . .”

“Your guy killed Larry, you know.”

“Bill . . .”

“Elena wanted him caught cold, but not that cold.”

“Bill . . .”

“Explain to me how this could have occurred.”

“Accidents happen?” Stone said hopefully.

“Accident? This was no accident! This was pure, unadulterated stupidity and ineptitude. Do you know that Elena Marks, along with her trust, is one of the largest and most profitable clients this firm has? And now I have to go and explain . . .”

Stone pressed the hold button and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, boss?”

“Please go and get me a copy of the Daily News, right now.”

“Be back in a jiffy.”

Stone pressed the line button again.

“. . . and to every partner in the firm, too. You and I have a meeting with Elena Marks at three o’clock this afternoon at her apartment, and you’d better be ready to pull this out of the fire. And in the meantime, if the press gets wind of your association with this fiasco, you’re going to be looking for a new career or a country that will let you practice law. And when you show up at Elena’s, you’d better not forget those photographs!”

“Bill . . .” But Eggers had already hung up.

When he heard her return, Stone buzzed Joan. “Please get me Tony Levy—try his cell.” He sat staring at the wall, trying to figure out what to do.

“Levy’s on one,” Joan said.

Stone picked up the phone. “You bailed out Herbie for two hundred and fifty grand?” he said.

“Take it easy, Stone,” Levy said soothingly.

“Easy? Twenty-five grand is easy. A quarter of a million is very, very hard.”

“Judge Simpson got sick in court, and Judge Kaplan came in and subbed for him. You know what she’s like: I was lucky to get Herbie bail at all. We’re lucky she didn’t order him executed.”

“Kaplan came in?” Stone said. Tony was right. Kaplan wasn’t just a hanging judge; she was a draw-’em-and-quarter-’em judge. “Did you explain to Herbie how important it is for him to adhere to the terms of his bail?”

“Don’t worry, I scared the shit out of him,” Levy said. “He’s not going to run.”

“If he does, I’m going to let you pick up half the bail,” Stone said.

“In your fucking dreams,” Levy replied evenly. “I did the best I could for him. You and Johnnie Cochran together couldn’t have done better with Kaplan. Where’s my money?”

“It’ll be there at lunchtime,” Stone said.

Joan laid a fresh copy of the News on Stone’s desk.

“I see you’ve been talking to the press,” Stone said, flipping from the page-one lead to the rest of the story inside.

“You don’t see your name anywhere, do you?” Levy asked. “Let me have my little moment in the sun, Stone. It’s all a little shyster like me can hope for. After all, we can’t all do dirty work for Woodman and Weld.”

“This has nothing to do with the firm,” Stone said. “I told you, I was doing a favor for Bob Cantor.”

“Yeah, sure, Stone. And I’ll be representing the Bush girls the next time they get busted for ordering cosmopolitans at the college cafeteria. Don’t worry, buddy, I’m not going to embarrass you or blackmail you. But you’d better have some more work for me soon, or I might weaken.” He hung up, laughing maniacally.

Stone walked into P. J. Clarke’s, waded through the lunchtime bar crowd, and found Dino at a good table in the back room. “Good day, Lieutenant,” Stone said.

“Sit down,” Dino replied, “and shut up.”

“What is it with you today?” Stone asked. “Why can’t I talk anymore?”

“Because I already know everything you’re going to say,” Dino replied, sinking half a draft beer and waving at the waiter. “Two bacon cheeseburgers, medium, and two bowls of chili,” he said, “and bring Clarence Darrow, here, a beer.” The waiter vanished.

“About last night . . .” Stone began.

“I already know about last night,” Dino said. “Everybody who can read at the sixth-grade level knows about it.” He tapped his copy of the News, resting on the table.

“I do have a few questions,” Stone said.

“And I’ll answer them for you. One: The girl got away from my people across the roof. She apparently has the agility of a cat burglar, which is more than I can say for your boy, Herbie. Two: The four suits who got there first work for a foreign intelligence service, and their country of origin shall remain nameless. Three: They and the cops got there so fast because they were waiting on the landing below, laying for one or both of the people in the apartment. Four: No, I don’t know where the photographs are that Herbie took. Any other questions?”

Stone shook his head. “Thank God Herbie kept my name out of it.”

“Yeah? What makes you think that? He was spilling his guts in the patrol car, up the front steps of the precinct, and into an interview room faster than anybody could write it down, and you were the star of his story.” Dino swept a hand expressively across the table, nearly spilling his beer. “Above-the-title billing!”

The waiter set their food before them.

“I’m going to throw up,” Stone said.

“Well, do it in your hat, pal. I’m eating, here.”

“I can’t eat this,” Stone said, beginning to eat the chili.

“Don’t worry, the detective knows we’re friends; he’ll keep it to himself, and I’ve already scrubbed the interview tape clean.”

“Thank you, Dino.”

“Is that all you can say? You ought to be offering me Carpenter’s sweet body on a platter.”

“Carpenter’s in this, somehow,” Stone said. “I have a feeling she knows the country of origin of the gentlemen present last night. When I told her what happened, she started making phone calls, and when I woke up, she hadn’t slept in the bed.”

“Poor you.”

“I don’t think Herbie’s fall killed Larry Fortescue,” Stone said.

“Well, neither do I,” Dino replied, “but we’ll probably never know.”

“Why not? The medical examiner will figure it out.”

“The ME was poised over the corpse this morning, scalpel raised, when two guys showed up with a federal court order and took the body away in a van.”

“Holy shit.”

“My sentiments, more or less.”

“This whole business is completely out of control,” Stone said.

“Well, completely out of our control,” Dino agreed. “But somebody must know what’s going on. Certainly, nobody in the NYPD does.”

Stone finished his chili. “I do know something you don’t,” Stone said.

“What?”

“I know where the photographs are.”

“I want them now,” Dino said, pushing away from the table.

“Just a minute,” Stone said. “You get one set of prints, I get the negatives and all the others.”

“Deal,” Dino said, standing up.

“And I need them processed by two-thirty, with nobody the wiser. You know somebody who can do that?”

“You bet your ass,” Dino said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Stone threw some money on the table, took a quick swig of his beer, grabbed his burger, and ran after Dino.

10

Stone dove into the cab behind Dino, who sat staring at him.

“You going to tell the driver where to go?” Dino asked.

Stone gave him the address of the building with the skylight, then he took a huge bite of his burger.

“The camera is still in the building?” Dino asked.

“If we’re lucky,” Stone replied through the cheeseburger.

“Nobody from the precinct has been there today,” Dino said. “I checked. The Feds were in on this. I hope to God they haven’t turned it over.”

“Me too,” Stone replied.

The cab screeched to a halt in front of the building. Dino got out.

“Pay the guy,” he called over his shoulder.

Stone paid the cabbie and followed along, still trying to eat his bacon cheeseburger.

Dino was on the stoop, ringing doorbells. The super appeared, chewing his own lunch.

“What d’ya want?” he said, in heavily accented English.

Dino showed him his badge. “Is the sixth-floor apartment locked?” he asked.

“You better believe,” the man said. “FBI guy gave me instructions.”

“Give me the key,” Dino said.

“I’m not fucking with FBI,” the man replied, swallowing food.

“Give me the key now, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice and send you back to whatever godforsaken country you came from.”

The man dug into a pocket and gave Dino a key. “Don’t tell nobody,” he said, then went back into his apartment.

They took the elevator to the sixth floor. “There’s the door to the roof,” Dino said, as they got off. He opened the apartment door.

It was dark inside, and Stone found a light switch that turned on a lamp in a corner. The massage table, two of its legs broken, lay on its side in the middle of the floor.

“There’s why it’s dark,” Dino said, pointing upward. The broken skylight had been replaced with sheets of plywood. “Cozy little pad,” Dino said.

“Looks like it was rented furnished,” Stone observed. “Nobody would buy those pictures, except a landlord.”

“Okay, enough of the art lecture,” Dino said. “Where’s the film?”

Stone went to the fireplace and opened the wood box next to it. It was half full of logs made of compressed sawdust. He lifted one and extracted a 35mm camera with a zoom lens attached. Stone rewound the film, popped the case, and put the film cartridge in his pocket. He removed the lens from the camera and put the lens in one inside pocket of his raincoat and the camera body in the other. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“I want to see the roof,” Dino said, striding toward the door. He opened the door and walked outside. Stone followed him. The door closed behind them.

Stone looked around. “I don’t see how that girl got down from here,” he said.

“Well, we’d better figure out how in a hurry,” Dino said.

“How come?”

“Because the Feds will probably be here any minute, and you’ve closed the fucking door and locked us out.”

Stone tried turning the knob. Nothing. “Shit,” he said.

Dino peered over the edge of the roof. “There’s a drainpipe,” he said. “You go first. I want to see if it’ll hold your weight.”

Stone peered over the parapet. “I’m not shinnying down that,” he said. “I’m wearing a good suit. You go down it, then take the elevator back up and open the door.”

“You know, that’s a terrific idea,” Dino said. “Why should both of us have to shinny down the drainpipe?” He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Stone. “Go down the drainpipe, or I’ll shoot you.”

Stone shook his head. “Go ahead and shoot me. It beats falling off a building.”

They were standing there like that when the door opened, and the super stepped out. “The FBI just call,” he said. “You guys got to get out or I get in trouble.”

Dino put his gun away and stepped inside. “Lucky for you,” he said. “I was going to shoot you.”

“No, you weren’t,” Stone said, getting into the elevator.

“Oh, yes I was,” Dino replied. “I wasn’t about to shinny down that drainpipe.”

“Neither was I,” Stone pointed out.

“That’s why I was going to shoot you.”

Downstairs they got into another cab and got out in front of a photo shop on Third Avenue. Dino went inside and walked over to the one-hour processing machine, flashing his badge.

Stone handed him the film cartridge.

“I want this developed right now—two sets of five-by-seven prints, and don’t you look at them,” Dino said.

“Make it three sets,” Stone said.

“Yes, sir,” the kid behind the counter said. He took the film and went to work.

“How long is this going to take?” Stone asked.

The kid pointed at the one-hour sign. “An hour,” he said.

“It better not,” Dino said.

Ten minutes later, the kid was holding up a strip of film to the light. “There are only four frames exposed,” he said.

“Stop looking at them and make the prints,” Dino said.

Ten more minutes and they had the prints.

“Can I drop you?” Stone said, giving the cabbie Elena Marks’s address.

“You betcha,” Dino replied. “Gimme my prints.”

Stone gave Dino a set, put a set in his raincoat pocket, along with the negatives, and looked at the third set.

“What a fucking mess,” Dino said. “You couldn’t nail anybody in a divorce with these. In this one, he’s lying on his belly. In these three, he’s got his arm over his face, and in all of them her head blocks his crotch. For all we can see, she might have been giving him a legit massage. Where’d this kid learn his photography, in juvenile hall?”

Stone looked at the fourth photograph. The woman was looking up at the skylight. It was the only shot that showed part of her face. She had long, dark hair and, from what he could see, was attractive. “Not bad,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dino agreed. “What you can see, anyway.”

The cab stopped on Dino’s corner, and he got out.

“What are you going to do with the photographs?” Stone asked through the window.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t give them to the Feds.”

“I never give anything to the Feds without a court order and a gun at my head,” Dino replied, walking away.

11

The cab took Stone to 1111 Fifth Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum. Bill Eggers was waiting for him.

“Thank God you’re on time,” he said. “Now listen, when we get upstairs, I’ll do the talking. You just keep your mouth shut and nod a lot.”

“Whatever you say,” Stone said, grateful that he would not have to explain the events of the night before.

The elevator opened directly into the foyer of Elena Marks’s apartment. The foyer, Stone noted, was nearly as large as his bedroom. The floors were marble, and the walls were hung with good art. A flower arrangement the size of a big-screen TV rested on a Louis Quinze table. A man in a white jacket entered the foyer.

“Mr. Eggers? Mr. Barrington? Please follow me.” He led them through a living room the size of a basketball court and into a library with a double-height ceiling. A spiral staircase in a corner led to the upper level. Every book in sight was leather-bound and matched several other books. Elena Marks was nowhere to be seen.

“Please have a seat,” the butler said. “Mrs. Fortescue will be with you shortly. May I get you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” Eggers replied.

Stone wanted a beer; the cheeseburger still hadn’t gone all the way down. “First time I ever heard her referred to as Mrs. Fortescue,” he said.

“Well, she’s a widow now, isn’t she?” Eggers replied.

A section of the bookcases along one wall suddenly opened, and Elena Marks Fortescue entered the room. The bookcase/door closed silently behind her. She was a razor-thin woman with bright, blond hair, wearing a bright yellow, flowered dress, the sort of thing that would have been perfectly acceptable for a recent widow in, say, Palm Beach, Stone thought.

“Good afternoon, Elena,” Eggers said smoothly. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Bill,” she said, nodding. Then she turned a withering gaze on Stone. “Mr. Barrington,” she said through clenched, beautifully capped teeth.

Stone tried smiling, but it didn’t work. “Good afternoon, Ms. Mar . . . ah, Mrs. Fortescue.”

She held her gaze a little longer, as if to punish him, before looking away.

Stone felt as if a hole had been burned through him.

“Sit,” Elena said. “Speak,” she said to Eggers. She appeared to be barely in control of her anger, but addressing them as dogs seemed to help.

“Elena,” Eggers said plaintively, “please let me express my condolences, along with those of everyone at Woodman and Weld.”

“Accepted,” Elena said, her face like marble.

Stone realized that she had had so many Botox injections that she was probably incapable of any expression, short of baring her teeth.

“What happened,” she said to Eggers, a command rather than a question.

“A terrible accident,” Eggers replied. “Our investigation has determined that the skylight above the apartment had been fatally weakened by dry rot.”

What investigation? Stone wondered. Nobody had asked him anything.

“And when Stone’s operative put a little of his weight on it, in order to be able to photograph the scene below, it gave way.”

“Who do we sue?” Elena asked.

That brought Eggers up short. “Ah, well, I, ah . . . Stone? You want to answer that one?”

Stone, who had thought he was to keep his mouth shut, wasn’t ready for the question. “Not really,” he said, tossing the ball back to Eggers.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Elena said, “that the people who are responsible for my husband’s death should go unpunished?”

Stone found his voice. “Mrs. Fortescue,” he said, “if I may be candid, you hired a man, through Bill and me, to climb onto the roof of a building and photograph your husband in compromising positions. The attorneys for the owner of the building would work hard to make a case that you, therefore, are responsible for your husband’s death, and they might very well win with such a defense. Even if you won, the resulting publicity would be devastating to your reputation.”

“Then perhaps I should sue you for hiring an incompetent,” Elena said.

Eggers made a small choking noise.

“That would have the same result,” Stone said. “At the moment, the story the press has is that a burglar or Peeping Tom fell through the skylight. It is being reported as nothing more than a freak accident, which, of course, it was. There has been no mention of the woman or the motives of the man who fell. To pursue this further would not result to the benefit of anyone involved.”

Elena attempted to frown and failed. “What about your Peeping Tom? It seems to me that he might have a lawsuit against you, and eventually, me.”

“You may rest assured that that will not happen,” Eggers said.

Stone hoped he was right. The idea of Herbie Fisher suing had not occurred to him, and he hoped to God it hadn’t occurred to Herbie.

“But I’m the injured party here,” Elena cried, banging her bony fist against the arm of the sofa. "Somebody has to pay for that injury!”

Eggers turned white and said nothing.

“Mrs. Fortescue,” Stone said, “may I be perfectly frank?”

“You’d fucking well better be,” Elena snarled. Her marble skin had turned bright pink.

“These events, as unfortunate for everyone as they are, have inadvertently accomplished something that could not have been foreseen.”

“And what is that?” Elena demanded.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” Stone said, hoping that the cliché would find its mark.

It did not. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Elena cried, turning pinker.

“An act of God, for want of a better term, has rid you of a husband who was unfaithful to you, and whom you had already decided to be rid of, and it has done so in a way that avoids the inevitable, damaging publicity of divorcing him and enforcing your prenuptial agreement.” Stone paused for effect. “Not to mention the very considerable expense of so doing.”

There was a long silence, finally broken by Elena Marks Fortescue. “You have a point,” she said. Then she got up and left the room the way she had entered it.

Eggers had been holding his breath, and he let it out in a rush.

Back on the street, looking for a cab, Eggers turned to Stone. “What about the photographs?” he asked.

Stone handed him a set, and Eggers looked at them briefly.

“And the negatives?” he asked.

Stone handed over an envelope containing the four frames. “You think we’re out of the woods with Elena?” he asked.

“She didn’t fire us, did she?” Eggers said cheerfully, waving down a cab and getting in. “Let’s do lunch sometime.” He drove away.

12

Stone felt lighter than air. This was all going to work out; everything had been taken care of. All he had to do now was to get something worked out with the DA’s office about Herbie’s charges—get them to drop the manslaughter charge, plead him down to a misdemeanor, and get him probation. It was a bright, cool day, and he felt like a walk.

He strolled down the west side of Fifth Avenue, occasionally glancing into the park, then farther downtown, turned left on East Fifty-seventh Street and walked to the Turnbull & Asser shop. He would treat himself.

He looked at the new sea island cotton swatches and ordered a dozen shirts. He didn’t know what they cost; he didn’t want to know. Joan would pay the bill when it arrived, and he had instructed her not to enlighten him; some things were best left unknown. He picked out a few ties and waited while they were wrapped; the shirts would take eight weeks, or so. Then he left the shop and turned down Park Avenue toward home in Turtle Bay.

In the upper Forties, as he turned to cross Park, a stretched Bentley glided to a momentary halt, then drove on, but not before Stone had seen, through the open rear window, Elena Marks, now clad in proper New York widow’s weeds by Chanel, in earnest conversation with someone Stone knew. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Woodman & Weld and Bill Eggers.

“What is it, Stone?” Eggers asked, sounding rushed. It was a technique of his when he didn’t want to talk to somebody.

“Bill, I was crossing Park Avenue a moment ago, when I saw Elena Marks in her car with Robert Teller, of Teller and Sparks.”

“What?” Eggers cried.

“I kid you not.”

“That buccaneer! That bastard! Poaching my clients!”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“What were they talking about?”

“Well, Bill, I couldn’t hear them. I just saw them in that big Bentley of hers, talking.”

“Well, I’ve already got our tax people working on something that might save her a few hundred grand. It’s the kind of thing she likes.”

“I’d tell her about it soon, Bill. Bye-bye.” Stone punched off. He thought about calling T&A and canceling his shirt order, but he thought better of it.

Stone arrived home and went upstairs to leave his new ties, before returning to his office. As he approached his bedroom, he heard a snore. He pushed open the door and peered inside. Carpenter lay on her back, a breast exposed, sawing lightly away. He tiptoed across the room toward his dressing room, left the ties and tiptoed back into the bedroom. He was greeted by a wide-awake Carpenter, sitting up in bed, clutching a sheet to her bosom with one hand while using the other to point a small, semiautomatic pistol at him.

“You caught me hanging up neckties,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming confused.

“I live here,” Stone explained. He pointed at the bed. “I sleep there. Is that my Walther you’re pointing at me?”

“No, it’s mine. My firm has issued them to everybody since the first James Bond novel.”

“And why are you still pointing it at me?”

She lowered her hand. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the sheet, to good effect, and running her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“I remember,” he said. “I was all curled up in bed, waiting anxiously for you. When I woke up, you were gone.”

“Business,” she said.

Stone sat down on the bed, removed the pistol from her hand, and set it on the night table. “Something to do with Herbie Fisher’s big night?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?” she said warily.

“Well, as soon as I told you what happened, you were on the phone in the next room, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“There was something I was supposed to ask you,” she said, scratching her head.

“You don’t seem quite awake yet.”

“It’s jet lag, I think.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at dinnertime.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed, pecked her lightly on each nipple, pulled the covers up, and tucked her in.

“Mmmmm, thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She seemed instantly asleep.

Stone left her there and closed the door behind him. He was about to start downstairs when the bedroom door was flung open, and a very naked Carpenter stood there.

“The photographs!” she cried, pointing at Stone.

“What?”

“The photographs that Herbie Fisher took. Where are they?”

Stone walked her back into the bedroom and sat her on the bed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Business,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Those were some of your people who turned up at the flat after Herbie took his dive,” Stone said.

“Maybe,” she said warily.

“What were they doing there?”

“Stone, I need those photographs.”

“Why?”

“They’re important to something I’m working on.”

“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”

“I can’t talk about that,” she said.

“All right, then, I’ll trade you.”

“What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”

“I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”

“What information?”

“I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”

“Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.

“Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”

“How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.

“Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated with—arrived at the morgue this morning with a federal court order and took the corpse away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Okay,” Stone said, standing up, “no photographs for you.”

“Wait!”

Stone stopped.

“You can never tell anyone I told you this.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Fortescue died from the application of some sort of poison to the base of his spine. We haven’t figured out yet what it is.”

“I’m going to need a letter to the DA from a credible authority, stating that Fortescue was already dead when Herbie tried to fly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It may take a few days.”

“As few as possible, please.” Stone reached into his pocket and handed her the four photographs.

Carpenter looked at the first one, of Fortescue lying on his back, the woman hovering over him. “Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured.

“Huh?” Stone said.

She looked at the other three photographs, then her mouth dropped open. “Jesus!” she said. She got up, found her handbag, took out a cell phone and dialed a number.

“It’s Carpenter,” she said into the phone. “I’ve got a photograph of her.” She looked at the bedside clock. “Half an hour,” she said, and punched off.

“What’s going on?” Stone asked.

“Get out of here. I’ve got to get dressed,” she said, rummaging through the closet for clothes.

“Are you going to be free for dinner?” he asked.

“I’ll call you when I know,” she replied, then she went into the bathroom and shut the door, taking the photographs with her.

He opened the door a little. “It’s not even that good a photograph,” he called out.

“It’s the only one in existence,” she called back.

13

Stone stayed at home the early part of the evening, waiting for Carpenter to call, until hunger got the better of him. What the hell, she had his cell phone number, so why wait?

He arrived at Elaine’s only moments before she would have given away his table. It was a very busy night, and even regulars were waiting at the bar. They shot him evil glances as he sat down.

Elaine came over. “You know how much I could have gotten for your table?” she asked, nodding at the bar.

“Let them eat . . . cake,” Stone replied. “You’ll overcharge them anyway.”

“You could get a fork in the chest, talking like that,” she replied equably.

“I just want one in my hand, and something to eat.” He grabbed a waiter and ordered a spinach salad and osso buco. “Tell Barry I want it with polenta instead of pasta,” he said. “And I need a Wild Turkey on the rocks, and bad.”

“Tough day?” Elaine asked.

“I had to face Elena Marks today,” he replied.

“You mean, explain how you killed her husband?”

“I didn’t kill her husband, and neither did the guy I sent. You been talking to Dino?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Just between you and me and the nearest gossip columnist in this joint, Larry had already bought it when the kid took his dive.”

“The cops don’t seem to know that.”

“They will soon,” Stone said. “I’ve seen to it.”

“So where’s Felicity, the English doll?”

“Working. I was hoping she’d make it to dinner.”

“What does she do?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“If I did, she’d have to kill me, and believe me, she would.”

“I don’t think she would enjoy it,” Elaine observed.

“Maybe not, but she’d do it just the same. She’s already pointed a gun at me once today.”

“I didn’t know you were that bad in the sack.”

Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Carpenter said.

“Who’s this?”

“Don’t give me a hard time. I’m in a car on the way to Elaine’s; that’s where you are, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll be there shortly.” She punched off.

“Was that Felicity?” Elaine asked.

“It was Carpenter,” he replied.

“Her last name is Devonshire,” Elaine said. “Why do you call her Carpenter?”

“It was how she introduced herself at our first encounter,” Stone said.

“I don’t get it.”

“She had an associate named Mason and another named Plumber.”

“What is she, an English cop?”

“Elaine, if I told you any more, she’d have to kill you.”

“Enough said,” Elaine said, throwing up her hands. “And here she is,” she said, looking toward the door.

Carpenter walked in and came to the table. “Dino will be here in a minute,” she said, pecking him on the cheek.

“How do you know that?” Stone asked.

“Because we came here in his car.”

Dino came in, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and sat down. “Evening, all,” he said.

Elaine reached over and patted his cheek affectionately.

“Wait a minute,” Stone said. “What were you and Dino doing in the same car?”

Carpenter smiled. “You’re beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“No?” she said, frowning.

After his session with Elena Marks, Stone was glad she could still frown. “I’m just curious.”

“Should we tell him, Dino?” Carpenter asked.

“Nah,” Dino said. “Let him sweat.”

“I’m not sweating,” Stone said.

“Sure you are,” Dino replied.

“He’s sweating,” Carpenter agreed.

“Yeah,” Elaine said.

“Okay, don’t tell me,” he said to Carpenter. “You want a drink and some dinner?”

“Yes, please. I’ll start with one of those bourbon whiskies.”

Stone flagged down a waiter. “Bring her what I’m having,” he said.

“And what are you having?” Carpenter asked.

“Unborn calf,” Stone replied. “With a very nice sauce.”

“Sounds yummy,” she replied. “Okay, Dino and I were in the same meeting.”

“About what?” Stone asked, puzzled.

“If we told you, we’d have to kill you,” Dino said.

Elaine roared with laughter, then she got up and hopped to another table.

“You know,” Carpenter said, “your Herbie Fisher character wasn’t entirely useless.”

“That’s right,” Dino said, flipping idly through the Post.

“You mean, because of the picture he took?”

“Can you think of any other way he wasn’t entirely useless?” Dino asked.

“Now that you mention it, no.” He turned to Carpenter. “You said it was the only one in existence. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant it’s the only one in existence.”

“Thank you for the clarification. Why is it the only one in existence?”

“Because she has scrupulously avoided ever being photographed.”

“In her entire life?”

“Since she was about twelve, in school.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t want anybody to know what she looks like.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Who is she?”

“She’s a woman who goes around assassinating people,” Carpenter said. “And the luckiest thing in your life is that she doesn’t know you’re responsible for the only photograph ever taken of her.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dino said, handing Carpenter the Post and tapping an item on Page Six.

Carpenter read aloud. “ ‘Rumor has it that the strange death of Lawrence Fortescue (Mr. Elena Marks), caused by a peeper photographer who fell through a skylight while taking candid snaps of Mr. M. and a certain young lady doing disgusting things to each other, was organized by a fairly sleazy Gotham “lawyer,” with a very “hard” name, who hired the falling photog. Any guesses? We’ll bet he’s supping tonight at Elaine’s.” ’

Carpenter put the paper down. “Oh, shit,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” Dino agreed.

14

Stone looked at Dino and Carpenter narrowly. “I hope this is some kind of joke.”

“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter said seriously. “My people are very interested in finding her, and they asked me to liaise with the NYPD. That’s why Dino and I were in the same meeting. Since we were already acquainted, I picked him to liaise with.”

“Who is this woman?” Stone asked.

“I’ll tell you all we know about her, and believe me, it won’t take long. She was born Marie-Thérèse du Bois, in Zurich, of a Swiss father and an Egyptian mother, but she doesn’t use that name anymore, because if she did, she might get caught.”

“Tell me all of it.”

“Little Marie-Thérèse grew up in Switzerland and in Egypt, and she was something of a whiz with languages, being exposed to four—the usual Swiss three, plus her mother’s Arabic—while growing up. Even as a girl, her hobby was studying languages. In addition to her native tongues, she picked up Farsi, Urdu, and some Hindi. Her father imported Middle Eastern products to Switzerland—rugs, olive oil, dates, pottery—whatever he could turn a profit on, and he was very prosperous, ended up rich, in fact. She traveled with him often around the Mediterranean basin, picking up Spanish and Greek along the way. She’d sit in hotel rooms, watching local television and conjugating verbs.”

“Good God, how many languages does she speak?”

“Nobody knows, but I’d guess at least a dozen, and with perfect accents in various dialects.”

“So, why does she go around killing people?”

“When she was twenty, my firm and the CIA were pursuing the members of a terrorist organization in Cairo who had been killing foreign tourists. We received a tip that half a dozen members of the group would be traveling in a white Renault van along a major boulevard, en route to planting some explosives. Cooperating with Egyptian intelligence, our people set up an elaborate trap for them at an intersection. There wasn’t supposed to be any traffic to speak of. Unfortunately, Marie-Thérèse and her parents were driving home from a very late party in another white van, and someone fired a rocket launcher at the wrong vehicle. Her parents were both killed instantly, but Marie-Thérèse, who was asleep in the third seat, was blown clear and survived with only scratches.

“She retreated to her Cairo home and became reclusive, but she was bitter about her parents’ death. She refused compensation from all three governments, but then she was a wealthy young woman, having inherited two large houses and her father’s considerable fortune.

“She had a boyfriend, an Irani, whose politics extended to extreme violence, and we think she was recruited by the boy and sent to a terrorist training camp in Libya, where she made contacts among others of her kind from Ireland, Japan, Germany, and God knows where else.

“She was trained in firearms, explosives, and chemical weapons, but her handlers, when they learned of her language skills, thought her meant for better things. They taught her assassination skills, document forging, and just about anything else a budding terrorist could possibly want to know, keeping her interest by telling her they would help her find the people responsible for her parents’ death so she could kill them. She also became very physically fit in the desert, and she’s known to work out almost obsessively, wherever she goes.

“When she finished her schooling in Libya, she returned to Cairo, then Zurich, selling her two houses and secreting the money in accounts around the world. Some say her holdings ran to several tens of millions of dollars. She returned to Cairo and, in effect, ceased to exist. The little we know of her since then comes from rumors and a couple of very aggressive interrogations of people who knew her.

“She seems to have assassinated two Egyptian politicians who held views unpopular with her terrorist friends. She shot one in the head while he waited in his car at a traffic signal, then calmly boarded a bus and rode away. That evening, she dropped cyanide, or something like it, in the other’s drink in a crowded restaurant, then climbed out the ladies’-room window while he was still in his death throes. We think she performed half a dozen other such jobs over the next couple of years. Her handlers realized that they had a very valuable commodity on their hands, and they strung her along by telling her they were making progress in learning the names and locations of her parents’ killers. They were lying, of course.

“Finally, she became impatient. She kidnapped the head of our Cairo station and tortured him until he gave the names of everyone involved in the operation,” Carpenter said calmly. “Then she cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. The body, naked and very damaged, was deposited on the steps of the British embassy.”

“Then she started hunting them?” Stone asked.

“Yes. The Americans were the first and easiest target. They were husband and wife. Both worked in their embassy in Cairo, and she fire-bombed their apartment while they slept.

“The British contingent, four of them, took longer. She garotted one in a railway station men’s room in Bonn. The other, she stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip as he walked across Chelsea Bridge, in London.” Carpenter started to continue, but stopped.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“She murdered Lawrence Fortescue the night before last,” Carpenter said quietly.

“Larry Fortescue was a member of your service?”

“He was the man I told you about, the one I had a relationship with who decided to work abroad. He came here two years ago, married Elena Marks, and resigned from the firm.”

“So she got them all,” Stone said. “One by one.”

“No,” Carpenter said, “not all. She hasn’t gotten me yet.”

“You?”

“It was my first assignment abroad,” she said. “I went along merely as an observer.”

Stone gulped. “Does she know you’re in New York?”

“I don’t know,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m moving out of your house tonight, and into a hotel.”

“But why? You’re safe with me.”

“Stone,” Dino said, tapping the newspaper on the table, “if little Marie-Thérèse, or one of her friends, happens to read today’s Post, she’ll know that the taking of her picture was instigated by a certain lawyer with a ‘hard’ name.”

“But that’s not enough to identify me, surely.”

“And,” Dino said, “she knows where you’re dining tonight.”

Stone looked slowly around Elaine’s. He saw half a dozen women who could have been the woman in the photograph.

“Do you think this Marie . . . what’s her name . . .”

Carpenter spoke up. “She picked up a sobriquet in Paris, after murdering a member of the French cabinet. Interpol calls her ‘La Biche.’ And yes, she could be here tonight.”

Stone pushed back his chair. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

15

Dino’s driver took them to Stone’s house, where Carpenter packed her bags, then they were driven to the Lowell, a small, elegant hotel on East Sixty-third Street, off Madison Avenue.

They were met at the door by the night manager, who, without bothering to register Carpenter, took them directly to a suite on the top floor.

“Are you known here?” Stone asked when the manager had gone and the bellman had deposited her luggage in the bedroom.

“My firm is,” she said. “We’ve used the hotel often. We missed out on dinner; should we order something?”

They dined in the room on Dover sole and a good bottle of California Chardonnay, and without much conversation.

“So Dino,” Stone said when the dishes had been cleared, “I guess you’ve put out an APB for this woman.”

“Pretty tough, putting out an APB without a description,” Dino replied, looking at the dessert menu.

“Description? You’ve got a photograph of her!”

“Yeah, well,” Dino replied.

Carpenter went to her purse and brought back a sheet of paper. “Here’s what the CIA’s photo people were able to come up with,” she said, handing it to Stone.

He opened the paper to see a rather bland face, framed by long, dark hair—straight nose, big eyes.

“The photograph Herbie took was of her looking up, so only her hair, forehead, eyes, and nose were visible, no jaw, and the hair was a wig.”

“This could be nearly anybody,” Stone said.

“Exactly. La Biche’s stock-in-trade is looking like anybody. She can walk through the toughest airport security and pass herself off as an American businesswoman or a French fashion designer, an Italian countess, or a Spanish nun.”

“I thought, what with electronics, it was getting harder to use false passports. Every time I’ve used mine, it gets swiped through a reader, and my information pops up on a screen.”

“All true, but over the years there have been numerous thefts of blank passports from embassies and consulates all over the world, which solves the problem of paper authenticity, and if such thefts can be concealed for a few days or weeks, the numbers don’t come up as stolen when going through immigration. It’s very, very tough to catch somebody when your suspect is using real paper.”

“I would imagine,” Stone said.

The phone rang, and Carpenter went to answer it. “Yes? No, absolutely not. It would attract the attention of anybody who knew what to look for. Are you trying to make me a marked woman?” She paused and listened. “Well, that makes sense, I suppose, though the thought doesn’t really appeal. Oh, all right, send them over.” She hung up and returned to the table.

“What was that?” Stone asked.

“First, they wanted to put a team on me, which I thought was a bad idea. Even if they’re very good, they can be spotted.”

“But you agreed to something,” Stone pointed out.

“The CIA is sending somebody over to see me.”

The doorbell rang.

“That was quick,” Stone said.

“Too quick,” Dino said, shoving his chair away from the table.

“Go into the bedroom,” Stone said to Carpenter. He went to the door, while Dino took up a position beside it, gun drawn. He looked through the peephole and saw a young woman—light brown hair, medium height, slim. “It’s a woman,” he said. “Ready?”

Dino nodded.

Stone put the chain on the door and opened it. “Yes?” he said.

“Carpenter,” the woman replied.

“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “If you need a carpenter, see the manager.”

The woman produced an ID. “I’m here on official business.”

“It’s all right,” Carpenter said from behind Stone. “I know her. Come on in, Arlene.”

Stone unhooked the door and admitted the woman, who was carrying a small suitcase.

“Stone, Dino, this is Arlene,” Carpenter said.

Arlene nodded. “Let’s go into the bathroom,” she said to Carpenter.

Stone and Dino watched CNN while water ran and a hair dryer made noise behind the door. Forty-five minutes later, Arlene emerged from the bathroom. “May I introduce my friend, Susan Kinsolving?”

Carpenter emerged, nearly unrecognizable. Her brown hair was now a pronounced auburn, and though she usually wore little makeup, she was now pretty much a painted woman.

“Hi, there,” Carpenter said in a Midwestern American accent.

“Hate the accent,” Stone said.

“Get used to it, buddy,” Carpenter replied.

“Let’s get you outfitted with some ID,” Arlene said, opening her suitcase. “Have a seat.”

Carpenter pulled up a chair.

“Okay, here’s your American passport. It was issued three years ago and has a dozen stamps from Europe and the Caribbean. We’ve already changed the hair color. You’re a marketing executive with a computer company in San Francisco. Here are your business cards and some stationery. The company knows your name, and if anyone calls there, you have a secretary and voice mail. You were born in Shaker Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, thirty-four years ago, educated in the public schools there and at Mount Holyoke College, in western Massachusetts. You have, in your wallet, in addition to your California driver’s license and credit cards—all valid—an alumni association membership card. You’re registered at the hotel under the Kinsolving name.” She pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here’s your legend. Memorize it.”

Carpenter flipped through the sheets. “Very thorough.” She turned to Stone. “What do you think?” she asked, tossing her hair.

“Very nice, Susan. You want to have dinner sometime?”

Stone and Dino sat in the back of Dino’s car, rolling down Park Avenue.

“Dino, a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Since Larry Fortescue’s death has been established as murder, would you feel comfortable calling the DA’s office and letting them know that? I’d like to get the charges dismissed, and then I can plead Herbie down to a misdemeanor and get him probation.”

“Sure, I’ll call down there first thing. You know who the ADA is?”

“Call the deputy DA and do it through him. It’ll be faster.”

“Okay.”

They pulled into Stone’s block.

“Slow down,” Dino said, checking both sides of the street. “Stop here.” The car rolled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. Dino got out and looked around. “Okay,” he said, waving Stone out of the car.

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said, “you’re creeping me out.”

But Dino stood by the car, his gun in his hand, until Stone was inside.

16

Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o’clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.

The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.

She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”

Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.

“Thanks, I’ll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman’s gaze.

The woman hesitated, then vacated the stool. “As you wish, sweetheart,” she said, as she sauntered off.

“Dewar’s, rocks,” she said to the bartender, and the drink arrived. She was halfway through it when she saw what she was looking for. A woman in her late twenties had entered the bar and stopped just inside the door, looking hesitantly around her. She was dressed very much as Florence was, in a pin-striped suit, and she was carrying one of those purses that was half briefcase. She was about Florence’s height and weight and had the same streaked blond hair. She crossed the room, took a stool three down from Florence, and ordered a cosmopolitan.

“Those are too sweet for me,” Florence said, smiling.

“Well, they are sweet, but they’re addictive,” the young woman said, smiling back.

“Put that on my tab,” Florence said to the bartender.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

“Why don’t you slide over here and join me?”

The girl fumbled with her briefcase and her drink, but she made it to the stool.

“I’m Brett,” Florence said, offering her hand.

“I’m Ginger,” the girl replied.

Brett didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “Are you a New Yorker?” she asked, finally releasing it.

“I’m from Indianapolis originally, but I’ve been here for six years. I’m a paralegal in a downtown law firm. Do you live in New York, too?”

“No, I’m in from San Francisco for a few days. I’m an art dealer, and I’m in town to bid on some things for a client. There’s an auction at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I love art,” Ginger said, sipping her drink. “What sort of things are you bidding on?”

“Late-nineteenth-century representational paintings mostly; one piece of sculpture, too. They’re not the most expensive things in the world; you can find quite nice pictures in the thirty- to fifty-thousand-dollar range.”

“Well, that’s certainly out of my range,” Ginger replied.

“Have you ever been to an art auction?” Brett asked.

“No, but I’d love to go sometime.”

“If you can take the time off from work, why don’t you join me at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow?”

“Gosh, I’d love to do that, but I only get an hour for lunch, and the workload is fierce. My boss specializes in divorce work, and the clients are very demanding.”

“Maybe another time?”

“That would be great.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m on the Upper East Side—Eighty-first and Lexington Avenue. Where are you staying?”

“At the Carlyle—Seventy-sixth and Madison. What’s your favorite restaurant, Ginger?”

“Oh, I guess Orsay, at Seventy-fifth and Lex, just down from my building.”

“Will you have dinner with me there tonight?” Brett pulled out a small cell phone. “I’ll bet we can get a table if we go early.”

“Well, sure, I’d like that.”

Brett called the restaurant and secured a table. “Finish your drink, and we’re off,” she said.

At Orsay, they had another drink, then ate a three-course dinner and shared an expensive bottle of French wine. They kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about Ginger’s family and background and the sort of work she was doing.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ginger said, but we’re representing a woman who is demanding two million dollars a year in alimony, and half a million in child support, plus five million for an apartment on Fifth Avenue. And she wants a limousine and security guards.”

“No doubt to protect her from her husband,” Brett said, laughing. She waved at a waiter for the check.

“Why don’t we share this?” Ginger asked, reaching for her briefcase.

“Oh, no, this one is on me—or my gallery,” Brett said. “You’re . . . Let’s see, you’re representing a client who has a very nice Magritte for sale.”

“Oh, all right, but can I give you a nightcap at my place?”

“You bet,” Brett said, handing the waiter one of Florence Tyler’s credit cards.

Ginger lived in a ground-floor rear apartment in a town house, with a little garden out back.

“It’s lovely,” Brett said, when Ginger switched on the garden lights.

“It’s just a year’s sublet,” Ginger said. “It belongs to a friend of the family who’s in Europe.”

“What’s that low, shed-like thing?” Brett asked, pointing.

“Oh, that’s a hotbox. It’s like a tiny greenhouse, where you can get things growing early in the season, then plant them when it gets warm enough. At least, that’s what I saw on Martha Stewart. I’m not really a gardener.”

“Me either,” Brett said, stroking Ginger’s cheek with the back of her fingers. She kissed the woman lightly, and got a warm reception. A moment later, they were working on each other’s buttons.

When they reached the bedroom, Brett lay back and let Ginger have her way with her. Brett wasn’t a lesbian, strictly speaking, but she liked this. When she had had a couple of orgasms, she rolled Ginger onto her stomach. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. She reached down and picked up a Hermès scarf where Ginger had dropped it on the floor, and quickly bound Ginger’s hands behind her.

“I’ve never done it like this,” Ginger said.

“You just leave everything to me, sweetheart,” Brett replied. She rolled the girl over on her back. “Now the feet,” she said, grabbing a belt from the pile of clothing beside the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Ginger asked, half anxiously, half eagerly.

Brett picked up a pad and a pencil from the bedside table. “Well, first, I’m going to need your office number.”

“What?”

“Your office number, and I’ll bet you have one of those voice mail systems. I’m going to want your boss’s extension number, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Ginger said.

Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”

Ginger gave her the phone and extension numbers, and Brett wrote them down. Then she found her handbag and removed a straight razor from it.

Ginger was attempting to squirm off the bed now, and Brett grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She held her hand over Ginger’s mouth, then placed the razor against her throat and drew it lightly across her skin, raising a hairline of red. “When I take my hand away,” Brett said, “don’t scream, or I’ll hurt you badly.” She took her hand away.

Ginger was crying now.

“That’s very good,” Brett said. “You keep that up. Now here’s what we’re going to do, Ginger: I’m going to dial your office number and your boss’s extension, and when his voice mail answers, here’s what I want you to say. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Arnold,” Ginger sobbed.

“You say these words exactly. ‘Mr. Arnold’—you’re sobbing—‘this is Ginger. I’m afraid there’s been a death in my family, and I have to fly back to Indianapolis tonight. I’m going to be away for at least a week, and I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be back. I’m awfully sorry about the short notice.’ Did you get that?” Brett pressed the razor against her throat again, eliciting another paroxysm of sobbing.

Brett began dialing the number.

“I’m not going to say that!” Ginger said, suddenly collecting herself.

Brett hung up the phone and held the razor to Ginger’s left breast. “You’ll do it exactly that way, or I’ll slice your nipples off, Ginger.”

Ginger began sobbing again, but she nodded.

Brett dialed the number, waited, then dialed the extension number. She held the phone to Ginger’s lips and the razor to her nipple.

Ginger performed admirably, Brett thought.

Brett waited a full minute after Ginger stopped struggling before removing the pillow from her face. She checked for a pulse, then listened at her chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. She untied Ginger’s hands and released the belt from her feet. She went into the kitchen and found a pair of kitchen gloves, a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth, then she rubbed down the body, carefully removing any possible trace of a fingerprint or her own body fluids. She got a clean bedspread from a linen closet and rolled Ginger’s body in it, leaving her on one side of the king-sized bed. She pulled her panties on, then got into a pair of Ginger’s jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then she switched off the garden lights, went outside, and looked around. She couldn’t see any neighbors at their windows. She opened the hotbox, which was empty, and noted two large bags of potting soil leaning against the fence. She went back inside, hoisted Ginger’s body over her shoulder, looked around outside, then went into the garden and dumped the body into the hotbox. She emptied both bags of potting soil over the body, covering it completely, then tossed in a few flowerpots that were lined up against the garden fence.

Having worked up a sweat, Brett went back inside, stripped off her clothes, and took a hot shower, never removing the rubber gloves. When she had dried herself and her hair, she cleaned the hair from the shower drain and saved it, then walked around the apartment, naked, selecting things. She found a good suitcase and packed some of Ginger’s clothes. She found her passport in a desk drawer—Ginger Harvey, her full name was—then emptied her briefcase on the bed and took the wallet and credit cards, putting them into her own bag.

When everything was packed and in order, she got into bed, set the alarm clock for five a.m., and went immediately to sleep.

When the alarm went off, she rolled up Florence Tyler’s clothing and effects, then stripped the bedcovers, put them into the over-and-under washing machine in the kitchen, added detergent and a generous amount of bleach and switched it on. She ate a breakfast of juice, fruit, yogurt, and coffee while the things washed, then she put them into the dryer. While they tumbled dry, she put fresh sheets and a new duvet cover on the bed, then dressed in Ginger’s best suit.

Finally, she folded the laundered bedcovers and put the contents of the lint filter and her hair from the shower drain into a plastic bag, rolled it into Florence Tyler’s things. She went around the apartment with the spray cleaner again, obliterating any possible trace of herself. Satisfied, she tucked Florence Tyler’s clothes under her arm, picked up Ginger’s suitcase, let herself out of the apartment and the building, and began walking down Lexington Avenue. After a block, she stuffed Florence’s things into a street-corner wastebasket and caught the next bus downtown.

When she got off, she was Ginger Harvey.

17

Stone settled at his desk the following morning and sipped the single cup of coffee he allowed himself after breakfast, an Italian espresso roast, made very strong in a drip coffeemaker. He buzzed Joan.

“Good morning. Please get me Herbie Fisher at his place of work. It’s a Walgreens in Brooklyn. You have his numbers, don’t you?”

“Got them on his first visit. I’ll buzz you back.”

Stone read the front page of the Times and washed it down with his black coffee.

Joan buzzed back. “He didn’t show up for work. You want to talk to his boss?”

“Yes.” Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning,” he said, “is this Herbert Fisher’s supervisor?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Wirtz, the manager.”

“I understand that Herbie didn’t show up for work this morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know why?”

“Nope. He didn’t show up yesterday, either.”

“Is this unusual?”

“Well, he’s come in late and hungover before, but at least he always showed up.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He buzzed Joan. “Try his home number.”

Joan buzzed back a moment later. “His mother answered the phone. I’ve got her on the line.”

Stone pressed the button. “Mrs. Fisher?”

“Mrs. Bernstein,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Fisher took a hike a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Bernstein, this is Stone Barrington. I’m Herbie’s lawyer, and it’s important that I speak to him. Where can I reach him?”

“You’re who? I thought his lawyer was Mr. Levy.”

“Mr. Levy works for me on Herbie’s case. It really is very important that I reach him.”

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not. You can look me up in the phone book, if you want to be sure.”

“Hang on.” She put the phone down.

Stone waited, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Why was she taking so long?

She came back on the line. “Yeah, all right, I got you in the book.”

“Where’s Herbie, Mrs. Bernstein?”

“He’s on a boat somewhere or other.”

“A boat? Where would somewhere or other be?”

“Down in some islands, you know? His uncle Bobby is down there, too.”

Stone was having trouble breathing. “In Saint Thomas?”

“Saint something or other,” she said.

“And did he say when he’d be back?”

“He said when things cooled down, and the judge forgot about him.”

Stone was having trouble speaking now. “And did he say when he thought that would be?”

“A year, maybe. He took a lot of clothes.”

“Mrs. Bernstein, did he leave a phone number or the name of his hotel?”

“He said he’d send me a postcard,” the woman said, then she hung up.

Stone was left listening to a dead phone. He wondered, in passing, what his blood pressure might be at this moment. When he recovered himself enough to speak, he buzzed Joan.

“Any joy?” she asked.

“Anything but,” Stone replied. “Get me Bob Cantor on his cell phone.”

“Okay.” She went off the line, then came back. “I’m getting a recording saying that the person’s phone is out of the calling area. What next?”

“First of all, if Irving Newman, the bail bondsman, calls or sends anybody over, I’m out of the country, can’t be reached, and you don’t know when I’ll be back. Got that?”

“Got it.”

“Now get me Tony Levy. He’s probably on his cell phone, too.”

Levy came on the line. “Yeah?”

“Tony, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Yeah, Stone, you got something for me?”

“Just the opposite,” Stone replied. “When is Herbie Fisher’s next court appearance?”

Levy let out a short laugh. “He jumped bail, didn’t he?”

“There are some things it’s better for you not to know, Tony. When’s his next appearance?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit. Is Judge Simpson back yet?”

“No, out for at least another week. Kaplan’s still sitting.”

Stone tried to think how things could be worse and failed. “Tony, I want you to get a postponement.”

“On what grounds, and for how long?”

“On any credible grounds you can dream up and until Judge Simpson is back on the bench and in a really good mood.”

“I’ll see what I can do. If I can’t get the postponement, any chance Herbie will show?”

“If he doesn’t, it’ll be because he’s dead.”

“Whatever you say, Stone. What are you going to tell Irving Newman?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything, and don’t you, either.”

“He’ll hear about the postponement, you know. He’s got a guy in court every day.”

“He’ll hear whatever you tell Judge Kaplan, and it better be good.”

“Stone, this is going to cost you.”

“Cost me what?”

“Five grand. That’s my price for lying to a judge.”

“Tony . . .”

“Come on, Stone. We both know it’s a bargain.”

“All right. Joan will send you a check today.”

“Cash, like before. I don’t want to share it with Uncle Sam.”

“All right, Tony. You may be able to reach me on my cell phone, if it’s absolutely necessary.” Stone gave him the number.

“It’s a pleasure doing you, Stone.”

Stone hung up and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Dino, can you take a few days off?”

“For what purpose?”

“To spend a little time on a tropical island, feeling the warm breeze waft across your bald spot.”

“I don’t have a bald spot; I’m Italian.”

“So’s Rudy Giuliani.”

“On whose nickel am I traveling?”

“Mine, but you’ve got to get me an extradition warrant without logging it in.”

“For who?”

“For Herbie Fisher. He’s jumped bail, and I’m on the hook to Irving Newman for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Oh, boy. The warrant can’t be done; new procedures.”

“Then get me a blank warrant and I’ll fill it in.”

“That, I can manage. When do we leave?”

“Go home now and pack, and you might start working on what you’re going to tell Mary Ann.”

“I’ll blame it on you, the way I always do.”

“I’ll call you when I’ve got a flight booked.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “Please get Dino and me on the next flight to Saint Thomas, and I’m going to need an open, one-way ticket back for Herbie Fisher. And find us a decent hotel there.”

“I stayed at Harborview the year before last,” Joan said. “You’ll like it.”

“That will be fine,” Stone said.

Joan came back a few minutes later. “Your flight leaves in an hour and a half, change in San Juan. You’ll be there for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He called Dino’s cell phone.

“Bacchetti.”

“We fly in an hour and a half,” Stone said. “Your driver is taking us to the airport, with the siren on.”

“I hope you got first-class seats,” Dino said.

Stone gave him the flight number. “Get on the phone to the airline’s station chief at Kennedy, sound official, and tell them not to let the flight leave without us,” Stone replied. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t forget your badge.”

“I never leave home without it,” Dino said.

18

They sat at the end of the runway in San Juan, the engines of the DC-3 roaring, while the pilot did his runup.

Stone was enchanted. He hadn’t been on a DC-3 since he was a boy, and he loved the deep rumble of the radial engines. “This is great, isn’t it?” he said to Dino.

Dino, who was holding tight to the armrests, his knuckles white, did not reply.

“Isn’t it great, being on a DC-3?” Stone asked, elbowing him.

“It has propellers,” Dino said.

“Of course it has propellers.”

“It’s not a jet.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Why is the tail on the ground and the nose in the air? We’ll never get off the ground.”

“It’s a tail dragger,” Stone explained. “It doesn’t have a nosewheel, just a little one at the back. It’s the way all airplanes used to work.”

“They used to crash a lot, too.” Dino let go of an armrest long enough to grab the wrist of a flight attendant, who was walking down the short aisle. “I need a drink,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our flight is too short to offer drink service. We’ll be in Saint Thomas in half an hour.”

“I’m a cop. Does that make any difference?”

“We don’t even have liquor aboard, sir. Please relax, it’s going to be a very short flight.”

Dino let go of her wrist and resumed his death grip on the armrest. The airplane rolled onto the runway and kept going, while Dino helped by keeping his eyes tightly shut. After an interminable roll, the airplane lifted off and began to climb.

“See,” Stone said, “it flies.”

They crossed the coastline and entered clouds. The airplane began to shake. The pilot came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the captain speaking. We apologize for the turbulence, but I’m afraid we’ll be dodging thunderstorms along our route today, so please keep your seat belts fastened.”

Dino let go of an armrest long enough to yank his seat belt tight enough to cut off circulation to his legs.

“This is going to be great,” Stone said, as the airplane leveled off.

Dino looked out the window. “We’re flying awful low.”

“It’s a short flight, Dino. There’s no point in climbing higher; we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The airplane suddenly dropped a couple of hundred feet.

“Jeeesus!” Dino said through clenched teeth.

“Nothing to worry about,” Stone said, sounding unconvinced. He was feeling a little queasy himself.

The airplane banked sharply to the right, kept that course for ten minutes, then banked sharply to the left. Items were falling out of the overhead racks.

Then, unexpectedly, they were on the ground, just as a rain squall struck the airplane. It did some weaving as it braked, but then they were at the terminal.

“I want a drink,” Dino said.

“When we get to the hotel,” Stone replied.

The rain continued as they got into a taxi, and what little they could see of the town of Charlotte Amalie through the rain-streaked windows seemed drab. The taxi climbed steeply for a few minutes, then deposited them on the doorstep of a small hotel. Shortly, they were in their adjoining rooms.

“You want a drink now?” Stone called.

“I want a blood transfusion,” Dino called back. “Leave me alone.”

“Our dinner table is in twenty minutes,” Stone shouted. “Get changed.”

Twenty minutes later, they walked out onto a broad terrace overlooking the twinkling lights of the town. The rain had passed, and the night was filled with stars. A pair of cruise ships anchored in the big harbor far below were bathed in their own lights, while the anchor lights of sailing vessels bobbed around them. They found a couple of comfortable chairs, accepted menus from the waiter, and Stone ordered two piña coladas.

“I want a double Scotch,” Dino complained.

“Shut up, you’re in the tropics,” Stone explained.

The drinks were icy cold and delicious. Stone flipped open his cell phone to see if he could get a signal. He did, and he dialed Bob Cantor’s number and got the out-of-range recording. “Either Bob’s on a boat somewhere or he’s turned his phone off,” Stone said.

Dino looked out at the view. “Can you blame him? I’d do the same in this place.”

They listened to the piano player as the bar filled with arriving customers.

“Did you call the DA’s office this morning, about getting Herbie’s charges dropped?” Stone asked.

“Who had time?” Dino replied. “You yanked me out of my office before I had time to do anything.”

“Call him in the morning,” Stone said. “It’ll be easier to convince Herbie to go back to New York if the manslaughter charge has disappeared.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dino said. “Now can I drink this ridiculous drink and enjoy the view?”

“Be my guest.”

“You’d better believe it.”

The waiter came and took their orders. “It’ll be twenty minutes or so,” he said. “Would you like another piña colada?”

“You betcha,” Dino replied.

“What, no Scotch?” Stone asked.

“We’re in the tropics, dummy.”

Stone laughed. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Mary Ann along.”

Dino looked at him as if he were mad. “You bachelors,” he said, “don’t understand anything. The duty-free shopping alone would break you.”

“Break me?"

“We’re on your nickel, remember?”

“My nickel doesn’t extend to duty-free shopping. It won’t support a camera or a Rolex, you remember that. Besides, you’re not going to have time to shop. We have to find Herbie.”

“And how do you figure to go about doing that?” Dino asked.

“If Bob Cantor won’t answer his phone, then I don’t have a clue,” Stone said.

Then a flashbulb went off in their faces.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” somebody with a New York accent said. “Here’s my card. Can I print that great shot for you? Only twenty bucks.”

As his eyes readjusted to the available light, Stone looked up into the smiling face of Herbie Fisher.

19

Herbie’s smile collapsed. “I, ah . . .” He couldn’t seem to get it out.

Stone was too stunned to speak for a moment. Finally, he said, “Hi, Herbie.”

Herbie turned and sprinted across the terrace like a terrified rabbit, then out through a door.

“Come on!” Stone said. He and Dino struggled out of the deep soft chairs, around the table, and ran after Herbie. Stone got a glimpse of him fleeing the parking lot, and he turned on the speed, losing a loafer in the process. “Get him!” he yelled at Dino, then went back for his shoe. By the time he caught up, Dino was standing in the street, looking around.

“Which way did he go?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know. I had to stop for my shoe.”

“You’re a big fucking help, Stone.”

From behind a little stand of trees beside the street, they heard a car start, then the sound of tires spinning on gravel. Stone ran around the trees in time to see a yellow jeep disappear around a curve. “Well,” Stone said, “at least we know what he’s driving.”

“A jeep?” Dino said, laughing. “Haven’t you noticed that half the tourists on this island are driving rented jeeps?”

“It’s a yellow jeep,” Stone pointed out. “They’re not all yellow.”

“I’m hungry,” Dino said.

They walked back into the hotel and out onto the terrace, where two new piña coladas were melting.

“Your table is ready, gentlemen,” the waiter said. “Right this way.”

They settled into a banquette near the door, where they could still see some of the view, and accepted a glass of wine.

“How the hell are we going to find him?” Dino asked, as he dug into his first course.

“He’ll call his uncle Bob as soon as he can, but he’s having the same problem contacting him that I am. As soon as Bob gets within range, I can explain things to him, and he’ll explain them to Herbie.”

“And how long do you figure that will take?” Dino asked.

“Well, Bob’s been down here for at least four days. Maybe he’s ready to go home.”

“What if he’s on a three-week vacation?”

“Don’t say that.”

“When does Herbie have to appear in court?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, swell.”

“I called Tony Levy and told him to get a postponement, no matter what.”

“Who’s the judge?”

“Kaplan.”

“You’re fucked,” Dino said, chuckling. “You’re out of a quarter of a mil, and by the time you get home, Irving Newman is going to own your house.”

“Dino, you’re ruining my appetite.”

“Have you called Irving?”

“No. I’m hoping he hasn’t heard that Herbie jumped. How could he know?”

“Well, when Herbie doesn’t show the day after tomorrow, and Tony Levy is standing in front of Kaplan with his dick in his hand, Irving is going to suspect something. He’s got a guy in every courtroom, you know.”

“I know. Can we just drop it?”

“And Irving is not the kind of guy to just trust you for a quarter of a mil.”

“It’s not a quarter of a million, it’s two twenty-five.”

“Oh, that’ll make all the difference,” Dino said.

“Really, Dino, you’re ruining my dinner.”

“Of course, you’ve got some bucks in the bank. You could write Irving a check.”

“I’d have to sell stock, and my portfolio is way down. I have hopes of it bouncing back, but it would cost me dearly to write that check right now.”

“Didn’t you have to make a margin call last week?”

“Dino, if you keep talking about this I’m going to go back to the room, find your gun, and shoot you.”

“I didn’t bring a gun.”

“Let’s change the subject, all right?”

“Okay.” Dino chewed for a moment and sipped his wine. “Does Carpenter know you left town?”

Stone groaned. “I didn’t have time to call her.” He dug out his cell phone and called the Lowell. “What’s the name she’s registered under?”

Dino looked thoughtful. “I don’t remember,” he said. “She’s got too many names.”

The hotel answered.

“Just a moment,” Stone said, covering the phone. “Come on, Dino, help me out here.”

“I swear, I can’t remember it.”

“Neither can I.” Stone slapped his forehead. “Susan!” he said.

“That’s right!”

He put the phone to his ear. “May I speak to Susan Kinsolving, please?”

The phone rang and rang, then the operator came back on. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no answer. Would you like voice mail?”

“Yes, please.” Stone listened to the message and heard the beep. “It’s Stone. I’ve had to leave town on business. Please call me on my cell phone.” He repeated the number, in case she had lost it. “I’ll be back in a day or two.” He punched off.

Dino laughed. “A day or two? That’s funny.”

“We might get lucky.”

“We already got lucky, and you blew it.”

“I blew it?”

“It wasn’t me,” Dino pointed out.

“You were closer to him than I was. You could have just grabbed him.”

“Who could see after the flash went off?”

“Well, I couldn’t see either.”

A woman at the next table leaned over. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you two married to each other?”

“I’m very sorry,” Stone said.

“You sure sound married,” she said, then went back to her dinner.

“You’re embarrassing me,” Stone whispered.

"I’m embarrassing you?” Dino asked, astounded.

“I asked you to change the subject.”

“And I did,” Dino replied.

“Gentlemen, please,” the woman at the next table said.

“I’m very sorry,” Stone said again.

“I did change the subject,” Dino whispered.

“Shut up,” Stone said.

20

Carpenter picked up the phone, dialed Stone’s home number, and got an answering machine. She hung up without leaving a message. She tried his cell phone number and got a recording saying he was out of the calling area.

She was sitting in a barely furnished office kept for visitors in the New York headquarters shared by MI5 and MI6, neither of which was supposed to have a presence in New York. She was tired, out of sorts, and hungry, and she wanted Stone to take her to dinner, and he wasn’t cooperating. She grabbed her coat, signed out at the front door, and was buzzed out of the building. P. J. Clarke’s was only a couple of blocks away, and she headed there. She didn’t give a thought to the notion that she might be followed.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and the dining room was busy. “We’re not going to have anything for forty-five minutes,” a waiter told her, “but if you’re really hungry, you can order at the bar.”

She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their hard hats, who apparently didn’t want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.

“A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the New York Post.

“Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.

“Been in New York long?”

“Actually, I live in San Francisco. I’m just here on business.”

“One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.

“One of everybody’s,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“What firm?”

“I left a job last week, and I’m just starting the search.”

“Any luck so far?”

“I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”

“I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I’m eating here, since there’s not a table available.”

“Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”

The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.

“I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”

“Actually, I’m not all that interested in wine, though I’m happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”

“What’s your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.

“Postrio,” Carpenter replied.

“Oh? I thought that was closed.”

“Nope. They’ve redone it, and they have a new chef. It’s wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn’t go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.

“Where are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.

“At the Carlyle.”

“Pretty expensive for business travel, isn’t it?”

“I’m a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.

“That’s great.”

“It ain’t bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”

“Uptown, East Eighties.”

“I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.

Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.

“Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.

“Jordan Cabernet.”

“Yes, it’s a nice one.”

“Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn’t such a bad idea.”

“See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”

“Four years,” the woman replied.

“Is it easy to meet men here?”

She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”

“That’s how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”

The woman laughed. “It’s the same here.”

They finished their steaks.

“Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.

“What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.

“I like the walnut apple pie, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

“Sold!”

“Make it two,” the woman said, “though I’ll regret it tomorrow when I weigh myself.”

“Never weigh yourself,” Carpenter said.

They finished their apple pie, and Carpenter asked for the check. She paid it with one of her Susan credit cards. “This one’s on me,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Susan Kinsolving,” Carpenter said, offering her hand.

“I’m Ginger Harvey,” the woman said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

“Thanks, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m really tired. Maybe I’ll see you in here again sometime.” Carpenter waved goodbye, walked outside, and found a cab. “The Carlyle hotel,” she said. “Seventy-sixth and Madison.”

“Right,” the cabbie said.

“Do me a favor, will you? Check your rearview mirror and see if there’s a woman getting into a cab behind us.”

“Coming out of Clarke’s?” the man asked. “Yeah.”

“Take your time going uptown,” she said. “Don’t jump any lights.” Carpenter got out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “I think I’ve been made, and I think it’s our friend. I’m in a cab, heading up Third Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and she’s right behind me. I’m going to the Carlyle hotel. Call the manager there and set me up quickly, get me registered. I don’t suppose you can get anybody there in ten minutes? I didn’t think so. No, don’t call the cops. We’re going to have to handle this the best way we can, and all by ourselves.” She hung up.

“That’s funny,” the driver said.

“What’s funny?”

“You didn’t have an English accent when you got into the cab.”

Carpenter handed him a fifty. “Forget you heard it,” she said. “Drop me at the hotel, leave your meter running, and don’t pick up a fare until you’re at least twenty blocks away, all right?”

The driver looked at the fifty. “Yes, ma’am!”

Carpenter got out of the cab at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the Carlyle and walked briskly to the front desk. “My name is Carpenter. May I have my key, please?”

The man at the desk looked at her for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed her a key. “High floor, interior suite, as requested,” he said.

“Anybody asks for me, call the number you were given,” she said. “There’ll be somebody here soon.”

“Sleep well,” the clerk said.

Carpenter got onto an elevator before she looked at the number taped to the key. She gave the operator the floor number. Her cell phone vibrated as soon as the elevator began to move. “Yes?”

“It’ll be twenty minutes before we can get a team into place,” the voice said.

“So long?”

“We’re scattered. Don’t answer the door until you get a call first.”

“Right.” She snapped the phone shut and got off the elevator. She found the door and let herself into a small suite, chaining the door behind her. The view was of an air shaft, but she closed the curtains anyway before turning on lights. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“All right,” she said, “check this: Name Ginger Harvey, lawyer, lives in the East Eighties.”

“Hold, please.”

She could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“East Eighty-first, near Lexington,” he said.

“Get somebody over there now. If no one answers, go in and call me back.” She hung up, shucked off her shoes, and paced the floor. It worried her that Ginger Harvey was real.

21

They finished their dinner quickly, and Stone went to the front desk. “The photographer who was here earlier,” he said to the woman. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Did he annoy you? He only started coming here last night, and I told him not to bug the guests unnecessarily.”

“No, nothing like that,” Stone said. “I just want to talk to him.”

“All I’ve got is a phone number,” she said, digging into a drawer and handing over a card. It was crudely printed and read “Herbie the Eye, Great Photography Quick.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “Do you have a rental car available?”

“I’ve got a jeep,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll charge it to your room, Mr. Barrington.”

“Thanks so much.” Stone and Dino hurried to the car park, where they found a red jeep waiting.

“Your job is to remember how to get back here,” Stone said, starting the vehicle.

“Sure,” Dino said. “We’re just going to cruise?”

“We’re going to cruise hotels,” Stone replied. “Having lost us, I don’t think Herbie is going to pass up a buck, do you?”

“He doesn’t seem like the type.”

They drove through the warm night, stopped at every hotel they passed and cruised the parking lot. They found two yellow jeeps, but no Herbie. Stone tried Bob Cantor’s cell phone again.

“Yeah?” Cantor said.

“Bob? Where the hell have you been?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Stone. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been on a boat. We just got into Red Hook this evening.”

“Where’s Red Hook?”

“Out at the eastern end of the island. What’s up? Why have you been trying to reach me?”

“Have you heard from Herbie Fisher?”

“No, you’re my first call since I switched on my phone. Why would I hear from Herbie?”

“He’s jumped bail.”

“Jumped bail for what? Did you get the kid arrested? My sister will kill me when I get home.”

“I didn’t get him arrested. Herbie got himself arrested, and I’m trying to get him out of it. I bailed him out through Irving Newman, and he jumped a quarter-of-a-mil bail.”

“A quarter of a mil! What did the kid do?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Stone said. “Where are you staying?”

“It’s my last night on the charter boat. I was planning to go home tomorrow.”

“How do I get to Red Hook?”

Cantor gave him directions and the name of his boat. “It’ll take you half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Herbie is going to call you. Count on it. When he does, tell him to come to Red Hook, and don’t tell him you’ve talked to me. I think he thinks that if I find him, I’ll take him back to jail.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“No! I want to get the charges reduced to a misdemeanor and get him probation. He’s got a court appearance in about thirty-six hours, and if he misses it, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the kid, Stone.”

“Don’t talk to him, let me do that. If he somehow gets there before I do, play dumb and sit on him.”

“Whatever you say,” Cantor replied.

Stone hung up. “We’re going to Red Hook.”

“I want to go to bed,” Dino said. “It’s midnight.”

“Later.” Stone began picking his way toward Red Hook.

Carpenter jumped. There had been a noise outside her door. She grabbed her handbag, extracted the little Walther, and screwed in a silencer. The Carlyle would not appreciate gunfire in their hallways. She ran across the room in her bare feet and checked the peephole. Nobody visible. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped again. She didn’t open it.

“Carpenter!” somebody said from the hall.

She checked the peephole again. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Mason,” he replied.

He wouldn’t use that handle if he were at gunpoint. She unchained the door and opened it, stepping back, the pistol ready, just in case.

Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”

“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”

“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.

“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”

“I was supposed to call?”

“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”

“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”

“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”

“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”

“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”

“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”

“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”

Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”

“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”

The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”

“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.

“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”

Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.

“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”

“Got her where?”

“Got her in a hotbox in the garden.”

“A gardening hotbox?”

“Exactly.”

“How long dead?”

“No rigor present, she doesn’t stink. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Get out of there, and clean up after yourself. Tell me you didn’t jimmy the door.”

“I picked the lock.”

“Then stake out the place in case La Biche returns, and be very, very careful.”

“All right.”

“Tell me you didn’t make this call on Harvey’s phone.”

There was a brief silence. “Ah, we’re getting out.”

Carpenter punched off. “Dunces! They called here on Harvey’s phone!”

Mason groaned. “Now we’ll have to talk to the NYPD. They’ll surely check her phone records.”

“You let me do the talking,” Carpenter said. She looked up Dino Bacchetti’s cell phone number in her book and dialed it.

22

The jeep ground to a halt in the parking lot of a marina. “This way,” Stone said, pointing.

Dino jumped. “Hang on, it’s my cell phone,” he said, groping for it. “This time of night, somebody’s gotta be dead.” He opened the phone. “Bacchetti.”

“Dino? It’s Carpenter.”

“Oh, hi,” Dino said. He held his hand over the phone. “It’s Carpenter.”

“Why the hell is she calling you?” Stone asked, reaching for the phone.

Dino held it away. “She’s calling me, I’m talking to her. What’s up, Carpenter?”

“I have a little problem for you, Dino.”

“For me? What kind of problem?”

“A couple of my people stumbled into a murder on your patch.”

“Who did they murder, Carpenter?”

“Nobody. La Biche took care of that.”

“Who’d she murder, one of yours?”

“A civilian, a woman named Ginger Harvey, and La Biche has taken her identity, at least for the time being.”

“Tell me about it.”

Carpenter gave him the address. “It’s a ground floor, rear apartment with a garden. The body’s in a hotbox in the garden.”

“What’s a hotbox?”

“It’s a gardening thing, like a small greenhouse without glass.”

“I’ll send some people over there.”

“They’re not going to find much, except for the body. This woman is very smart, and she will have eliminated all trace of her presence there.”

“Yeah, but we’ve gotta go through the motions.”

“A favor, Dino: Can you wait until, say, mid-morning tomorrow before going in there? I’ve got the place staked out in case La Biche returns, and she’ll run like the wind if she spots anything resembling a policeman.”

“Okay. I’ll wait to call it in.”

“I appreciate that, Dino. I know it’s not proper procedure, but we’ve got at least a chance of bagging her.”

“Don’t worry about it. Keep in touch.”

“Let me give you my cell phone number.”

Dino fished for a pen. “Shoot.”

“I want to talk to her,” Stone said.

Dino nodded, writing down the number. “Hang on, Stone wants to talk to you.”

Stone took the phone. “Hi. You all right?”

“Right now, I’m running. La Biche has made me, and I’m holed up at the Carlyle.”

“Oh, shit. How’d she find you?”

“I think when she kidnapped our man in Cairo, he must have given up our New York office address. She probably waited outside for me to leave the building and followed me to P. J. Clarke’s, where we had a nice little chat at the bar.”

“Are you going to stay at the Carlyle?”

“No, I’ll get out of here in the morning. I can’t go back to the Lowell, either.”

“Go to my house.”

“She may know who you are.”

“She may not.”

“I’ll think about it. Why don’t you come around to the Carlyle a little later, when I’ve sorted this out?”

“A little problem there. I’m in Saint Thomas.”

“A church?”

“An island.”

“What on earth are you doing there?”

“Bringing back Herbie Fisher, who jumped bail, leaving me holding a great big bag.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

“Dino has my cell phone number. Call me when you get back.”

“You watch your ass.”

“I wish you were here to watch it for me.”

“Me too. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Stone hung up and handed Dino his phone. “Let’s find the boat. She’s called Tenderly.”

They walked down the main pontoon slowly, checking boat names, until they came to one, a sailboat, with a light burning.

“Here we are,” Stone said, stepping aboard. He rapped on the hatch. “Bob?”

“Come on down, Stone,” Cantor replied.

Stone and Dino clambered down the companionway steps. Bob was sitting at the saloon table, and Herbie Fisher was sitting beside him, looking like a small animal caught in a spotlight.

“Well, hi, Herbie,” Stone said. “You’re a tough guy to catch up with.”

“He called right after you did, Stone,” Cantor said. “He just got here.”

“I’m not going back,” Herbie said.

“Yes, you are,” Stone replied, taking a seat on the banquette opposite the saloon table. “Let me tell you why.”

“Shut up and listen to this, Herbie,” Cantor said.

“You didn’t kill the guy,” Stone said.

“Don’t hand me that shit,” Herbie said. “You think I don’t know when a guy’s dead? I grew up in Brooklyn.”

Stone let the non sequitur pass. “He was dead, Herbie, but you didn’t kill him. There was an autopsy. The girl killed him. He was already dead when you fell on him.”

“I don’t believe you,” Herbie replied.

“Let me introduce Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, chief of the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. Show him your badge, Dino.”

Dino gave a little wave and showed Herbie his badge.

“Dino,” Stone said, “am I lying to Herbie?”

“Nope,” Dino replied. “The guy was poisoned.”

Herbie looked at them, back and forth.

“He’s not lying to you, Herbie,” Cantor said to his nephew.

“I’m still not going back,” Herbie said.

“What?” Stone asked, confused.

“I like it here. I’ve already got five hotels lined up. It’s going to be a sweet deal.”

“Herbie, you have a court appearance in thirty-six hours. We’ll get the manslaughter charge dropped, plead the other stuff down to a single misdemeanor, and get you non-reporting probation. Then you can come back here and take pictures at hotels.”

“But I’ll have a record,” Herbie said plaintively.

“Herbie,” Stone replied, “if you don’t show up for your court appearance, a fugitive warrant will be issued, and cops everywhere, including here, will be looking for you. Would you prefer that to probation?”

“I don’t know,” Herbie said.

Bob Cantor reached behind Herbie and brought the flat of his hand hard across the top of his nephew’s head. “Putz!”

“Ow,” Herbie said, flinching.

“Go home with Stone and fix this, or I’ll tell your mother,” Cantor said.

“Okay,” Herbie said sheepishly.

23

Carpenter was jarred awake by the slamming of the door. Her hand was immediately on the Walther. She was in bed, naked, and she could hear somebody whistling in the sitting room of the Carlyle suite. It was only Mason. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth with the hotel’s toothbrush, found a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and walked into the sitting room, running her hands through her hair. She hadn’t borrowed a hairbrush.

“Good morning,” Mason said cheerfully. His jacket and Eton tie were draped across a chair, and his shirt was open at the collar.

“Good morning,” she said, not meaning it. She had never seen him, in any circumstances, without his Eton tie.

Mason waved a hand at the rolling table. “We’ve got eggs, kippers, and sausage, and that wonderful fresh orange juice they get from Florida.”

She was surprised to find that she was hungry, and she sat down and began lifting dish covers, dropping them on the floor.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes, but not long enough,” Carpenter replied. “You?”

“Like a top. The sofa was quite comfortable.”

“Mason, have you ever been uncomfortable in your entire life?” she asked. Wherever they went, Mason always seemed to bring along his father’s campaign furniture, or a down sleeping bag, or a portable bar.

“Not since the Army,” Mason replied thoughtfully.

She knew he had served in the SAS, the Special Air Services, Britain’s toughest commando outfit. “Describe to me a single occasion when the Army managed to make you uncomfortable.”

“Northern Ireland,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I was in Londonderry, keeping an eye on a house where we thought one of those Real IRA chaps might turn up. It was raining, and my Land Rover had a leaky canvas top, and the rain kept dribbling down my neck. Oddly enough, I was more comfy after the bomb went off. I was upside down, but the canvas top was more comfortable if you were lying on top of it, with the vehicle over you. It didn’t leak that way.”

“Oh,” she said. She took a big bite of eggs with a little kipper. “Had any overnight reports?”

Mason paused for a moment, then assumed a more somber mien. “Tinker is dead,” he said, “and Thatcher is in hospital, a couple of blocks from here, at Lenox Hill.”

Carpenter swallowed hard and put down her fork. “She got both of them?”

“Well, she got Tinker. She didn’t quite get Thatcher, if you see what I mean. He’s still alive.”

“How did she do it?”

“Ice pick, apparently. You can still buy them at ironmongers’ here. Did you know that?”

“I did not.” She thanked God that her firm did not require that she write letters to the families of those killed on duty. “So La Biche went back to the Harvey flat after all?”

“It would seem so.” Mason sat down and began to eat. “Funny thing,” he said. “I’m ravenous, in spite of the news.”

“It’s a psychological thing,” she said. “Relief to be alive when others are dead instills a feeling of well-being, increasing the appetite. It’s why people bring food to the families of the deceased. I feel a little hungry, myself.” She began eating again.

“You’re out of the Lowell,” Mason said. “Where do you want your things sent?”

She gave him Stone’s address.

“Think that’s a good idea?”

“I haven’t got a better one at the moment. How am I getting out of here?”

“We’ve got hold of a fishmonger’s van. It will pull into the garage downstairs in . . .” He consulted his wristwatch. “ . . . fifty minutes. The fish will come out, and you’ll go in, and the van will proceed to the Waldorf, where you and more fish will be delivered. You’ll change to a taxi there, to go . . . wherever you want to go.”

“All right,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind the smell of fish.”

“I can stand it as far as the Waldorf. Has anybody talked to Thatcher?”

“Oh, yes. He remembers very little, just the pain. He never saw her coming. Are we going to tell our policemen friends about the Harvey woman?”

“I have already done so,” Carpenter replied. “Lieutenant Bacchetti’s people will swarm over her flat at mid-morning.”

“They’re going to find fuck-all,” Mason said, stabbing at a sausage.

“I’ve already told Dino that, but they have to go through the motions. I wouldn’t be shocked if they found signs of Tinker and Thatcher’s being there. They were obviously not up to this one.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” Mason said. “This woman is quite . . . extraordinary. What were your impressions of her when you met her at Clarke’s?”

“I’ll tell you, if you won’t tell anybody else.”

“All right.”

“She was good—so good that I didn’t twig until she invited me for coffee somewhere else, which would have been the Harvey flat, I think. I wasn’t actually sure until she got into a cab and followed me here.”

“Then she is very good, indeed.”

“She was so ordinary.”

“That’s what’s extraordinary about her, I suppose,” Mason observed. “Someone who can hunt people down as coldly as that, while seeming so ordinary. You think she has an organization here?”

“I’d bet she has a name or two to ring up if she needs something, or if things go sour,” Carpenter said. “She’s too good not to have some sort of backup. Did we flag the Harvey passport?”

Mason stopped eating. “I’m not sure,” he said, sounding guilty.

“That means you didn’t do it.”

“Well . . .”

“Do it now.”

Mason got up and went to the phone, but it rang before he reached it. He listened for a moment, then held out the phone to Carpenter. “It’s for you.” He rolled his eyes upward, as if to God.

Carpenter got up and went to the phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Architect.” Her boss, in London.

“Yes, sir?”

“A flight landed at Heathrow this morning with one Virginia Harvey listed on the manifest. “I believe she’s called Ginger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She got onto the airplane, but she didn’t get off—at least, she didn’t make it to immigration. Her body was found in a ladies’ room off the corridor leading from the gate to baggage claim. Her passport was in her handbag, but the photographs didn’t match the corpse.”

“They wouldn’t, since they were of a different woman.”

“Of course, but you’re missing the point.”

Carpenter sucked in a breath. “I think I just got it,” she said.

“We’re tracking two other single women who were on the flight,” Architect said. “Both cleared customs and immigration. One has turned up at her London hotel, the other hasn’t been found.”

“That makes sense.”

“So it seems we’ve taken her off your hands, for the present, at least.”

“It would seem so. I’ll be on the next flight.”

“I think you’re better off in New York at the moment. You and Mason take a few days. I’m sorry about Tinker. I take it Thatcher will be all right in a few days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in touch if there’s news.” He hung up.

Carpenter replaced the phone in its cradle.

“What?” Mason asked.

“La Biche apparently went from killing Tinker and wounding Thatcher straight to Kennedy Airport, took a flight to London, and after leaving it but before reaching baggage claim, murdered another woman, took her purse, and left Ginger Harvey’s in its place. She’s loose in London.”

“Mmmm,” Mason said. “I suppose I should have flagged the Harvey passport last night.”

“She thought we wouldn’t move that fast,” Carpenter said. “And she was right.”

24

Stone, Dino, Bob Cantor, and Herbie Fisher got off the airplane at Kennedy. Dino flashed his badge at customs, and the moment they were through, Stone felt a handcuff close on his wrist. He looked at it and found Herbie on the other end.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Dino said.

“I have to go to the john,” Herbie said.

“There’s one,” Dino said, pointing. “You two guys have a nice time.”

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said. “Unlock them.”

“I’m not taking them off,” Dino said, “unless I cuff both Herbie’s hands behind him, then you can help him in the john. That okay?”

Stone went into the men’s room with Herbie and waited impatiently while he used the urinal, then they found Dino’s car waiting for them outside and got in. Stone got out his cell phone. Dino got out his own.

Dino dialed. “Gimme the deputy DA’s office,” he said.

Stone dialed. “Tony,” he said, “are you in court? In ten minutes? I’ve got Herbie, but we’re twenty minutes, half an hour out. Can you stall Judge Kaplan? Do your best. Tell her the subway broke down.” Stone hung up.

“George?” Dino said, “Dino Bacchetti. . . . Yeah, you too. Listen, I’m going to save you some time: One of your people is dealing with a Herbert Fisher, charged with manslaughter in the Larry Fortescue case. . . . Right, his appearance is in about ten minutes. Thing is, I’ve been reliably informed that Fisher’s fall through the skylight didn’t cause Fortescue’s death. . . . No, he was poisoned, and by a pro, so he was already dead when Fisher hit him. . . . No, I’m not kidding you, I’ve had a look at the autopsy report. . . . From an intelligence source. This thing is real cloak-and-dagger. Also, these people tell me that Fisher actually did them some good, because he took a photograph of the woman who killed Fortescue. . . . Come on, George, could I make this up? . . . What do I want? George, manslaughter sure isn’t going to stick, and, given the help Fisher was to these people, I’d kick the other charges, if I were you. I think it’s better if this just goes away. . . . My interest in this? My interest is keeping egg off my face, and that oughta be your interest, too. . . . Okay, kiddo. Talk to you later.”

Dino hung up and turned to Stone, who was occupying the backseat with Herbie. “George is going to talk to the ADA on the case. He’s on his way to the courtroom now.”

“You mean this is all going to go away?” Herbie asked.

“Shut up, Herbie,” Dino said. “You’re not out of the woods yet. We’ve still got to get you to court before Kaplan realizes you’re not there.”

“Turn on the siren, Dino,” Stone said.

Dino turned on the siren. “Not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference at this hour.”

Twenty minutes later, as the bailiff was calling the State of New York v. Herbert Fisher, Stone walked into the courtroom with Herbie in tow. He turned over Herbie to Tony Levy.

“What’s happening?” Levy whispered.

“Keep your mouth shut and let the ADA do the talking,” Stone said.

“Mr. Levy,” Judge Kaplan said, “I guess you want bail continued?”

Levy was about to open his mouth when the ADA, a short woman in a bad suit, spoke up. “Your Honor, this office is dropping all charges against Mr. Fisher at this time.”

Kaplan looked at the young woman askance. “You’re dropping murder two? What’s going on here?”

“This office has learned that the victim died of other causes before Mr. Fisher, ah, intruded on the scene.”

“Well, I never,” Kaplan said.

“Neither did I, Judge,” the ADA replied, “but our information is from a reliable source.”

“Okay, Mr. Fisher, you’re off the hook. Bail will be refunded.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Levy said. He walked Herbie back to the rear of the courtroom where Stone was waiting. “How did you pull that one off, Stone?” he asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Stone replied.

Levy pulled Stone aside. “I believe you owe me five big ones,” he said.

“No, five is your fee for lying to a judge. You didn’t have to do that. I’ll send you a grand today.” He grabbed Herbie and walked him out of the courtroom, leaving Levy to wonder what had just happened.

“Well,” Herbie said, “I’m outta here.”

“Yes, you are,” Stone said. “And if you breathe a word of what Dino told the DA to anybody at all, including your mother, you’re going to find yourself back in this courtroom.”

“Jesus, I love this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Herbie said. “Tell me what happened in that apartment that night.”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“You gonna have some more work for me soon?” Herbie asked.

“No, Herbie, I’m not.”

“Why not? This one worked out okay, didn’t it?”

“No, Herbie, it didn’t. You nearly went to prison, and you nearly cost me a quarter of a million dollars.”

“But it worked out okay. Nobody got hurt.”

“That’s not what I call working out okay,” Stone said, “and you’ll never know how close you came to getting hurt by me.”

“I’ll give you a ring next week and see what you’ve got for me,” Herbie said hopefully.

“Herbie, if I ever see or hear from you again, I’m going to have a word with the people who dealt with what happened in that apartment, and they’re going to make sure that you never give anybody a ring again.”

Herbie gulped. “You mean . . .”

Stone nodded gravely. “If I were you, I’d be on the next flight to Saint Thomas, and I’d never come back to New York.”

Herbie backed away from him, nodding, then he turned and ran.

Stone hoped the kid could get to the airport without his help.

25

Marie-Thérèse was awakened at three in the afternoon by the housekeeper. She was in a safe house for a Middle Eastern intelligence service, in Hampstead, a north London suburb.

“He’s here,” the woman said.

“I’ll be down in five minutes,” M-T said. She took a quick shower and, her hair still wet, dressed in Ginger Harvey’s good suit and went down to the dining room, which had been turned into an operations center. Abdul, as he was code-named, sat at a desk, reading his e-mail on a laptop computer. There were three other computers in the room, along with a high-frequency radio and two satellite phones. There was also equipment for encoding messages, plus a special recording device for creating short-burst transmissions that could be transmitted, then expanded by anyone who had the codes and proper equipment.

Abdul looked up from the laptop. “I take it you had to leave New York in a hurry?”

“I had to go before they called in the local authorities. There would have been too many people looking for me. I made sure they knew I left the country.”

“And now?”

“And now I want to go back, preferably today. I need very good cover, and I hope you can help.”

“You’re in luck,” Abdul said, “but you can’t leave until tomorrow.”

“How will I do it?”

“We are infiltrating a young couple into the States. They’re married and have a young child.” He went into a briefcase beside him and took out two passports, handing her one.

“We don’t look at all alike,” she said.

“I’ll put your photograph into her passport now. She’ll travel on the same flight with another passport. You’ll carry the child and sit with the husband.”

“I like it,” M-T said, smiling. “They won’t expect me back so soon, especially not with a child.”

“Are you sure you want to go back now?”

M-T nodded. “Yes, I have unfinished business, and they won’t be looking for me since they know I’ve left the country.”

“You’re very bold,” Abdul said, smiling.

“Sometimes boldness works best.”

Abdul handed her a package. “You’ll need to dye your hair black before I take your new passport photo. Better get started. You’ll find some women’s clothes in a cupboard upstairs. Find something suitable.”

“What time is my flight tomorrow?”

“Eleven a.m., British Airways. You’ll arrive in New York around two, what with the time change. What else will you need? Weapons?”

M-T shook her head. “I couldn’t carry them onto an airplane these days.”

“It can be done,” Abdul said, “but we prefer to save that for special occasions.”

“I have sufficient resources in New York, but I could use a couple of passports.”

“All right, but we’ll have to send them via diplomatic pouch to our UN embassy. I’ll give you a contact there.”

“Good.”

“How many people did you kill in New York?” Abdul asked.

“Three,” she said. “Two of them were British intelligence. The other was merely for convenience.”

Marie-Thérèse was back downstairs in half an hour to have her hair done by the woman of the house, then she was photographed for the new passports, two of them in wigs.

“It’s good,” she said when she saw the Polaroids.

Abdul went to work on the passport, deftly removing the old photograph and replacing it with that of M-T. When he was happy with his work he gave her the passport and a few sheets of paper. “This is the woman’s background,” he said. “It’s completely legitimate. She was born in Cairo, studied economics in Paris and London. She’s never been suspected of any involvement with us.”

“What am I going to owe you for this, Abdul?” M-T asked.

Abdul smiled. “We have a man in our UN embassy in New York who has been talking to the CIA, taking their money. We’d like him eliminated in an obvious sort of way, then we’ll blame the CIA for his murder. We’ll furnish you with the sort of weapon the agency would use.”

“Very good,” M-T said.

“I’ll have the other passports done before you leave. That should square us,” Abdul said.

Stone arrived back at his house and entered through his outside office door. Joan was working at her desk.

“Welcome back, boss,” she said. “What did you think of Harborview?”

“It was wonderful, what little I saw of it. I never slept in my bed, as it happened. The only sleep I got was on a small boat, and it wasn’t comfortable.”

“Did you get Herbie back?”

“I did. Herbie’s off the hook, and so am I. Send Tony Levy another thousand dollars today, and send Bill Eggers a bill for my services and for the twenty-five thousand I paid to Irving Newman for Herbie’s bail.”

“Will do. By the way, your friend Felicity is upstairs, sacked out in your bed. She got here a couple of hours ago, with company: There’s a man in your study and another in the garden, pretending to read a book.”

“Swell. I need some sack time, myself, so hang on to my phone messages.” He took the elevator upstairs, and as he stepped out of it he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. “I’m Barrington,” he said.

“ID?”

Stone showed the man his driver’s license. “I’ll take over your duty up here. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the library, downstairs?”

“All right,” the man replied, then headed for the stairs.

Stone went into the bedroom as quietly as possible. Carpenter lay on her belly, breathing softly. Stone undressed, got into bed, and lay down beside her.

“Welcome home, sailor,” Carpenter said sleepily. “I suppose you want a sailor’s welcome?”

Stone lay on his side and cupped a buttock in his hand. “Nothing too strenuous,” he said. “I am, after all, home from the sea.” He moved his fingers up and down between her cheeks, and she made an appreciative noise. He explored a little further and found her already wet.

She rolled over on her side and pressed her buttocks into his crotch, reaching between her legs for him.

A moment later he was inside her, feeling her cheeks pushing against his belly as they moved together. He reached around and found her clitoris, then, while kissing her on the back of the neck, continued moving in and out of her while letting his fingers do the walking.

Carpenter began moving faster, and a moment later, came in little whimpers, while he joined her. They lay still for a minute or two, then she rolled over and nestled in his arms. “An Englishman would never have started that way,” she said. “It would have been the missionary position or nothing, not that I have anything against the evangelical. How did your trip go?”

“Later,” Stone breathed. “Don’t you know that sex renders men unconscious?” He took a deep breath, and by the time he had exhaled, he was asleep.

26

Her traveling companions arrived at the Hampstead safe house six hours before their departure time. Marie-Thérèse met the husband and baby, but not the wife, who was taken to another room. She played with the nine-month-old baby girl, whose name was Jasmine, talking to her in Arabic, making her feel comfortable with her temporary mother. Marie-Thérèse had always liked children, and she got on very well with the baby.

She went through her legend with the young man, whose name was, rather unfortunately, Saddam, discussing details of his wife’s background. Saddam seemed very pleased to be in her company.

Three hours before their flight a taxi arrived to take the baby’s mother to the airport, followed a few minutes later by another cab to take M-T, Saddam, and the baby. It would take a long time to get through security, but they wanted to be in the thick of a crowd, not too early or too late, which might call attention to them.

After checking their baggage the “family” approached the outgoing emigration control booth, and they could see the child’s mother only a few people ahead of them. M-T stepped out of line and took the baby into the ladies’ room for an unnecessary diaper change, and when she returned, the mother had passed through the control point, apparently with no problem.

M-T stepped up to the window and handed over her borrowed passport, which included details of the baby, and that of Saddam. She gave the inspector a little smile, which was not returned, and he stamped their passports.

The child behaved well in the departure lounge but offered real cause for another diaper change, which M-T accomplished expertly. After an interminable wait, they were herded onto the airplane, passing the child’s mother a few rows ahead of their seats. She ignored them, as she had been told to do. M-T had been afraid she would pay too much attention to the baby.

The transatlantic crossing was routine, marked only by an attempt by Saddam to grope his new wife, which got him a hard pinch that nearly drew blood. He behaved himself after that.

Then they were at Kennedy Airport, lined up for customs and immigration. M-T and Saddam presented properly issued visas for a thirty-day visit to family in Dearborn, Michigan. The immigration officer, a woman, was distracted by the happy baby and passed them through after a routine check of their documents.

Then, as they were about to leave customs, a man in a dark suit approached them. “Will you come with me, please?”

M-T began looking for escape routes from the terminal. There were none. He led them into a small room containing four chairs and a steel table and indicated that they should sit down.

M-T was concerned, now. This man was no fifteen-dollar-an-hour security guard. He was intelligent, efficient, and knew his business. M-T, in the role of a good Muslim wife, let Saddam do the talking, and since he was accurately describing the background of himself and his wife, he did well. Then the man turned to Marie-Thérèse.

“Your date and place of birth,” he said.

M-T told him and continued to answer as he picked his way through her life history. She was perfect, but not too perfect, but the man was unsatisfied. Clearly, his instincts were telling him that there was more to this couple than met the eye. Then little Jasmine did a wonderful thing.

The officer suddenly wrinkled his nose and pushed back from the table. “What the hell is that smell?” he asked. He was clearly not a parent.

Marie-Thérèse became embarrassed and flustered and started removing the soiled diaper. Before she was finished cleaning and rediapering the baby, the officer had his back against the wall and a hand over his nose and mouth.

“What shall I do with this?” Marie-Thérèse asked, extending a hand with the soiled diaper.

“Take it with you,” the man said curtly. He pointed at the door, and the little family left. They stood in a long line for a taxi, and Jasmine, once again, came through, beginning to cry. They were pushed to the front of the line and got the next cab.

“Well,” Saddam said in English, “I’m glad to be through that security gauntlet.”

M-T elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Shut up,” she said.

They checked into a reserved room at the Roger Smith Hotel on Lexington Avenue and waited for the child’s mother to arrive. She knocked on the door a few minutes later. The two women silently exchanged clothes, M-T wished them luck and left them in the room.

She changed taxis twice going uptown. Finally, she got out at a corner and walked down the block to a storage company. Once inside and satisfied that she had not been followed, she opened the combination lock on her rented storage closet, switched on the light, and stepped inside, locking the door behind her. She changed clothes again, put her hair up and chose a blond wig, then she checked the available weapons. She decided on a tiny .22-caliber semiautomatic pistol with a silencer. She unscrewed the silencer and placed it in a pocket in a large handbag, along with an extra magazine. She also put an ice pick into the handbag, then she packed a few items of clothing into the bag, locked up, and left.

Stone woke up before Carpenter did, but by the time he returned from the shower, she was awake, sitting up in bed, her breasts exposed. “If that is supposed to interest me, it’s working,” he said.

“You smell all soapy and clean,” she said.

He made a grab for her, but she eluded him and ran for the shower. “Fix me some breakfast,” she called.

“What would you like?”

“Fruit, yogurt, and coffee.”

“That’s way too healthy for my kitchen,” he called back. “You’ll take fresh croissants and like it.”

“If I have to,” she said, closing the shower door.

“What do you have to do for the next few days?” Stone asked, munching a croissant.

“I’ve been given time off,” she said.

“Oh? Why?”

She told him about the events of the day before.

“So she’s in London now?”

“Apparently,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’m still in hiding.”

“I think I have a better place to hide you than here,” Stone said.

“And where would that be?”

“I have a cottage in Connecticut, in a lovely colonial village called Washington, and if you’re willing to ditch your bodyguards, I’ll take you up there.”

“To the country? Now, that sounds wonderful.”

“I have some catching up to do in my office,” he said, “but I’ll be ready to go by mid-afternoon. Put some things in a bag.”

“Will do.”

It was closer to four before Stone got free of work. The two bodyguards worked both sides of the street before calling Carpenter on her cell phone to report the coast clear. By that time, she and Stone were sitting in his car, waiting for the word to move. When it came, Stone opened the garage door with the remote and drove away from the house, closing the door behind them. They turned up Third Avenue, and as they made a left on Fifty-seventh Street, they nearly ran down a young woman, a well-dressed blonde.

The black Mercedes E55 with the darkened windows meant nothing to Marie-Thérèse, except that it had nearly killed her. The young woman meant nothing to Stone and Carpenter either.

Stone drove to the West Side Highway and turned north, toward Connecticut.

“How long a drive?” Carpenter asked.

“An hour and forty minutes from this spot,” Stone said.

“Can I cook you dinner tonight?”

“I was going to take you out, but if you really know how to cook, well . . .”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” she said.

27

Marie-Thérèse showed one of her passports at the front door of the embassy on the Upper East Side and was let in. She approached a window in a thick glass wall.

“May I help you?” the woman at the window asked in Arabic.

“Yes,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I would like to speak to the vice-consul in charge of tourism.”

The woman blinked and paused for a moment. “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism,” she replied.

“Please tell him that Abdul suggested I speak with him.”

Again, the woman said, “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism.”

“He is expecting me,” M-T replied.

“One moment, please.” The woman left the window and went to a telephone. She spoke a few words, listened, then returned to the window, filled out a pass, and pushed it through the narrow opening. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor. You will be met.”

“Thank you,” M-T replied. She turned and walked to the elevator, then rode it to the fourth floor. As she stepped out of the car two men in civilian clothes approached her.

“Your handbag, please,” the shorter of the two said. He was thickly built, with thick, black hair. Though clean-shaven, his beard showed through the skin.

She handed it over, then raised her arms for the search.

The shorter man emptied the handbag onto a small table in the hallway and quickly found the pistol and the ice pick. He picked them up in one hand and the handbag in the other. “Follow me, please.” He led her down a hallway to the rear of the building, stopping at a steel doorway. He tapped a code into a keypad beside the door, then opened it and motioned for her to follow. He climbed a flight of stairs, entered another code beside another steel door, then took her down a hallway to a comfortably furnished office, where a rather handsome man sat at a desk, writing on a pad. The shorter man set M-T’s handbag and weapons on the desk and left.

Without looking up, the man motioned for her to sit down. He kept her waiting while he finished writing, then closed the folder before him and set it aside.

“You have come to see us sooner than I expected,” he said.

“I had a little time on my hands,” she replied.

The man took a pair of latex gloves from a desk drawer, then picked up her little pistol. “Crude but effective, no doubt,” he said.

“It does very nicely at short ranges. I wouldn’t like to try to hit a target across a street.”

He stood up, took a clump of keys from his pocket, and unlocked a steel cabinet. From it he removed a black cardboard box and set it on his desk.

“I’m told that you are proficient with firearms,” he said.

“I am.”

He handed her a pair of latex gloves, then opened the box, removed a pistol from it, and laid it on the desk. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

M-T donned the gloves, picked up the weapon, and examined it. It was a .22-caliber semiautomatic with a slightly thicker barrel than she would have expected. She ejected the magazine and examined that, too. “I’ve never seen one like this. It has no markings of any kind.”

“We took it from a CIA agent in Beirut late last year,” the man said. He took a silencer from the box and handed her that, too. She installed it with a simple half turn. “Very nice,” she said. “An assassin’s weapon—light, easily concealed, and, I’ve no doubt, very accurate, especially with the silencer.”

“It was custom-manufactured for the CIA. Only a couple of hundred were made, according to the man we took it from in Beirut. While it has no manufacturer’s markings and there are no identifying marks on any of its parts, we have discovered that the barrel’s rifling leaves a very distinctive pattern on the bullets fired from it. Part of the inside of the barrel is a freely rotating cylinder, so every time the weapon is fired, a different ballistic pattern is etched onto the bullet.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” she said admiringly. “It’s ingenious.”

“We have also learned that if any American police department runs a ballistics check on one of its bullets, the FBI comparison program will flag it as being very special and highly classified.”

“So, when the police remove the bullet from your traitorous colleague, it will be known that he was killed with a CIA weapon?”

“Exactly. But if you fire more than once, each bullet will appear to have come from a different weapon.”

“And who is the gentleman? Do you have a photograph?”

“He is the man who brought you to this office,” the man said. “The shorter of the two who greeted you at the elevator. Do you remember him well enough, or do you still want a photograph?”

“I remember him very well,” M-T replied.

“He lives six blocks north of the embassy,” the man said, “and he always walks home after work, leaving at around five-thirty. He walks up the east side of Park Avenue, where the sidewalks are wide and not crowded, even at rush hour.”

“Will today be soon enough?” M-T asked.

“Today will be very satisfactory. What assistance do you require?”

“I will need an untraceable escape vehicle—a motorcycle, preferably—and someone to drive it. Can you do that in the time available?”

“We can manage that.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a little over an hour. I’ll reconnoiter and phone you with a location.”

He wrote a number on a piece of paper and showed it to her. “Memorize it,” he said.

She did so, then put the weapon into her handbag and stood up. “If there’s nothing else?”

He took an envelope from his desk and handed it to her. “Some walking-around money, as the Americans say.”

“I assume that, since the ballistics will identify the bullet as CIA, you will not need me to dump the weapon where it can be found?”

“Please keep it, with my compliments,” he replied, standing up.

They shook hands, in spite of the latex gloves, and she left.

Downstairs, she walked to Park Avenue, then uptown. Four blocks along, she found a recessed, wrought-iron gate leading to a narrow alleyway beside a large apartment building. She stood in the recess and looked up and down Park. This would do nicely. She used her cell phone to call the number.

“Yes?”

She gave him the address of the building she stood next to. “Please have the vehicle follow your friend from a little distance. When the driver sees him fall, he is to pull up near the body. I will hop on, and he can drop me a few blocks away.”

“It will be done.”

“I won’t shoot unless I see the motorcycle there. If the driver tries to go past me, I’ll shoot him, so please instruct him carefully.”

“I understand.”

“Goodbye.”

“You may call this number if you ever need assistance. I am called Ali.”

“Thank you.” She punched off. She walked over to Madison Avenue and window-shopped for half an hour, then walked back to her chosen spot. She stood in the little recess, leaning against the building, and looked downtown, from whence her quarry would be coming. Ten minutes passed before she saw him, a block away. She did not see the motorcycle.

“Right on time,” she said aloud to herself. “Let’s hope my transportation arrives as promptly.” She watched the man approach, now half a block away, waiting to cross the street. As he stepped off the curb, she saw the motorcycle. She knelt beside her handbag and checked the weapon, then she stood up and slung the bag over her shoulder and put her hand inside. She turned to look uptown, then down again. He was walking quickly, and the nearest pedestrian was half a block from him. The motorcycle stopped at the corner, idling.

She pressed her back against the downtown side of the recess, so that he couldn’t see her. Then he appeared. She stepped out of the alcove with a last look around, took the weapon from the bag, and fired once at the back of his head from a distance of six feet. He fell like a butchered animal. She stepped closer and fired two more rounds into his head, then returned the pistol to her bag.

The motorcycle came to a stop a few feet away. She hopped onto the pillion seat, sidesaddle. “Drive to Seventy-second Street and turn left,” she said.

The driver followed instructions.

“Now, straight ahead, and into the park.”

He drove into the park.

“Stop here,” she said, “and thank you.”

He stopped, she hopped off, and he drove away without a word. From his size, and in spite of the helmet, she thought he was Ali, the man who had given her the pistol.

She strolled south in Central Park, found a bench, and waited, her hand in her bag, on the pistol, to see if anyone pursued her. No one did.

28

Stone left the interstate north of Danbury and turned onto narrower country roads.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Carpenter said as they crossed a bridge over a long lake. “Like England, but with a great many more trees.”

“It’s not called New England for nothing,” Stone said.

“England would have looked like this in the eighteenth century,” she said, “before we denuded the country of forests.”

They drove alongside a creek and passed an old mill. “Now that’s my idea of New England,” she said, “taken mostly from picture postcards.”

They drove through Bridgewater. “Another twenty minutes,” he said.

“Take as long as you like,” she replied. “I’m enjoying it.”

They came to Washington, and Stone turned left, then, after a short distance, left again. A couple of hundred yards along, he turned into his driveway.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” They got out of the car, and Stone took their luggage from the trunk.

“It was originally the gatehouse for the big place next door,” he said.

“Who lives there?” she asked, looking over at the large Shingle-style house.

“A writer, until recently, but he moved to the city. A movie producer bought it, but he hasn’t moved in yet.”

“Still, you have a lot of privacy,” she said, “with the trees and the hedge. And I love the turret.”

Stone unlocked the door, entered the alarm code, and adjusted the thermostat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one of your bourbon whiskies,” she replied, walking around the house, inspecting the new kitchen, the mahogany floors, and the comfortable furniture. She chose a sofa and sat down.

Stone brought in their drinks and sat down beside her. “We’ll need to go to the grocery store soon. It closes at six-thirty.”

Dino was clearing his desk, getting ready to go home for the day, still tired from lack of sleep the night before, when a message generated by a 911 call popped onto his computer screen. A shooting on Park Avenue? That hardly ever happened. Through the glass wall of his office, he saw two detectives rise from their desks. They were next on the rotation, and they would take the call. He would tag along, just to see what people were doing to each other on Park Avenue these days. Anyway, it was on his way home.

The block had been closed off, creating a huge, rush-hour traffic jam. Dino got out of his car, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and found a uniformed officer. “What happened?” he asked.

The officer pointed at the body of a man, lying facedown on the sidewalk, leaking blood. Two EMTs were just turning him over.

“As soon as they pronounce him, throw a sheet over the body and open the street,” Dino said to a sergeant as he approached the body. “Whataya got?” he asked an EMT.

“Looks like two, maybe three, to the back of the head,” the EMT replied.

“You calling it?”

The EMT nodded.

“Okay,” he said to the sergeant. “Run it down for me.” His two detectives had arrived and were ready to take notes.

“The building doorman saw the guy fall,” the sergeant said, “but he didn’t hear anything. A woman—a blonde, medium height and weight, thirties—walked away from him, hopped onto the back of a light motorcycle, and was driven north on Park. That’s about it.”

“Two or three gunshots, and he didn’t hear anything?”

“That’s what he says. We haven’t found anybody else who saw what happened.”

“It’s an execution,” Dino said, “using a silencer. The lady was a pro. Who’s the dead guy?”

“Mohammed Salaam, works at one of the UN embassies, about four blocks down, between Park and Lex. He was carrying a diplomatic passport.” He showed it to Dino.

“Sounds political,” Dino said. He turned to the detectives. “Report it to the FBI after the scene has been milked dry. Tell the techs to hurry it along, and get the body off the street as soon as you can. We’ve got traffic backed up to Forty-second Street, and even opening Park isn’t helping because of all the rubbernecking. I do not want to hear from the commissioner, or worse, the mayor, about this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, boss,” the senior detective said.

Dino got into his car. “Take me home,” he said. “Use the siren, if you have to.” He dialed his captain’s cell phone.

“Grady,” the captain said.

“It’s Bacchetti, Cap. We’ve got what looks like a political assassination on Park Avenue, diplomat from one of the UN embassies, Arab.”

“Aw, shit,” the captain said.

“My sentiments exactly. I told my guys to call the Feds after they’ve worked the scene. I’d appreciate a call to the ME to get the autopsy done before they yank the body out of our hands.”

“Will do. You need any help?”

“I think we’ve got it covered. I’ve told the team to clear the scene as soon as possible. We’ve already got traffic moving on Park again, should anybody ask.”

“You got any theories yet?”

“Could have something to do with this lady assassin the Brits are all hot about,” Dino replied. “I’ll look into that.”

“Good man. Call me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

Dino’s car drew up in front of his building, and he went upstairs. His son, Ben, was lying on his belly in Dino’s study in front of the TV, apparently making a stab at his homework. “Hey, kiddo,” Dino said, ruffling his hair. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Math,” Ben said.

“Do it in your room, okay? I gotta make some calls.”

Mary Ann came into the room wearing an apron dotted with red sauce. She kissed him firmly on the lips. “You’re home for dinner? Good God!”

“Don’t gimme a hard time,” he said, kissing her again.

“How was Saint Thomas?”

“Awful. I had to sleep on a goddamned boat last night, got about two hours. I’m beat.”

“Have a drink, that’ll help. Dinner’s in an hour.”

Dino poured himself a stiff Scotch and sat down in his favorite chair. He picked up the phone and called Stone, got an answering machine. “Call me,” he said, and hung up. He tried Stone’s cell phone and got a recorded message. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself. He found his phone book and looked up the Connecticut number.

“Hello?” Stone said.

“What are you doing up there?” Dino asked.

“Hiding Carpenter.”

“What’s the latest on La Biche?”

“She got a late flight to London last night, and this morning murdered another passenger and took her ID. The Brits lost her.”

“So she’s not in the city?”

“Who knows? Carpenter says she wouldn’t be surprised if she doubled back. Why do you ask?”

“An Arab guy got himself popped on Park Avenue an hour ago,” Dino said. “Two or three in the head, no noise.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Could be our girl.”

“Let’s not jump to that conclusion. Could have been an irritated Israeli. That situation is hot right now.”

“We’ll look at that, too. Tell Carpenter to call me if she wants to talk, and I’d like to hear anything she has about what her people think.”

“Okay. She’s cooking dinner right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to disturb her.”

“Time you had a home-cooked meal,” Dino said.

“I won’t argue with that.” Stone hung up.

Dino hung up, took a big swallow of his Scotch, put his head back, and fell immediately asleep.

29

Stone walked back into the kitchen where Carpenter was doing something to a sauce. “Smells good,” he said, pouring them both another drink. “What is it?”

“Chicken breast with tarragon sauce.”

“A red wine okay?”

“That’s fine. Who was on the phone? Who knows you’re here?”

Stone went to the wine cooler and found a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet. “Dino tracked me down. An Arab diplomat has been murdered on Park Avenue. Looks like a hit. That give you any ideas?”

“You mean, La Biche?”

“That’s what Dino’s wondering.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already back in the city, but why shoot somebody else when she’s looking for me?”

“I don’t know, maybe she doesn’t want to get rusty.”

“You get the guy’s name?”

“No. You want me to call Dino back?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Dino wants you to call him if you have anything to contribute. He wants to know what your people come up with.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She popped a pair of boned chicken breasts into some hot, clarified butter.

Stone liked the sizzle and the smell. “La Biche isn’t going to get tired of looking for you, is she?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You know anything about her you haven’t told me?” Stone asked.

“Well, let’s see. She’s unclassifiable as to type of killing. She’s used everything from pistols to ice picks to garrotes. A favorite means of avoiding arrests is what she’s just done in New York: She picks up a girl in a bar, usually a lesbian, goes home with her, murders her, takes her clothes and ID, then disappears. She did this three times in three days in Paris last year.”

“Makes her awfully hard to track, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does. We don’t know who to look for until the victim’s body turns up, and that can take days. By then, she’s somebody else.”

“You’ve seen her face-to-face, now. Can you improve on the CIA-generated portrait?”

“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot, that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”

“You think she’s a lesbian?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”

“I’ll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.

She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.

“Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I’ll serve us in here.”

Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.

“Bon appétit,” she said, raising her glass.

“Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.

“Don’t count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.

“What’s your feeling about this Park Avenue shooting?”

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Maybe we should just stay in Connecticut,” he said. “She’d never find us here.”

Marie-Thérèse walked into Elaine’s and looked around. She’d read about this place, most recently on Page Six, and she was surprised that it wasn’t fancier. What lay before her was a homey-looking neighborhood restaurant with a dining room stretching to the back of the building, checkered tablecloths, and a long bar on her left. The headwaiter was looking at her, but she pointed at the bar and took an empty stool at the end, her back to the window. She was wearing a sleek, black cocktail dress from Armani and some very nice pearls that she had stolen from a victim some time ago. The bartender came over.

“Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks,” she said, in her best American accent.

He brought the drink. “You having dinner?” he asked.

“Can I eat at the bar?”

“Sure. I’ll get you a menu.”

She sipped her Scotch and surveyed the crowd. She recognized two or three faces from the movies or the celebrity magazines, which she read voraciously. She liked the place. The bartender brought the menu, and she ordered a Caesar salad and a steak. “Have a drink on me,” she said to the bartender.

He poured himself a small Scotch, raised his glass to her, and sipped it.

She wanted him friendly.

She fended off a couple of passes from guys at the bar, and when her dinner came, she ate it and ignored them. When she was finished, she ordered a cognac.

The bartender brought it. “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”

“Nope. I’m from San Francisco. It’s my first time in New York.”

“Maybe you need somebody to show you the sights,” he said.

“Maybe I do, at that,” she replied, smiling. “Say, tell me something.”

“Anything at all,” he said.

She dug into her handbag and came out with a clipping. “I saw this on Page Six a few days ago.” She handed him the clipping.

He chuckled and handed it back. “Yeah, Elaine gets mentioned like that all the time.”

“Who’s the lawyer with the ‘hard’ name?”

“Oh, that’s Stone,” the bartender said. “Stone Barrington.”

“Who is he?”

“Used to be a cop, now he’s a lawyer. He’s in here two or three nights a week.”

“Is he here now?” she asked, looking around.

“Not tonight,” the bartender said. “You want to meet him, is that it?”

“Not really. I was just intrigued by the story about the guy falling through the skylight.” She smiled. “I think I’d rather be shown the sights.” She liked the bartender; he was cute.

Stone lay in bed, wide awake. They had made love half an hour ago.

“You awake?” Carpenter asked.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

“I thought sex rendered men unconscious.”

“Usually it does,” he said.

“Stop thinking about La Biche. We’ll get her, eventually.”

“Before she gets you?”

She rolled over and put her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”

“Of course not.”

She put her hand on his belly and stroked. “You want another shot at unconsciousness?”

“You betcha,” Stone said, turning toward her.

30

Dino had finished dinner and was back in his chair with the TV going, but he was having trouble staying awake.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Mary Ann asked.

“It’s too early,” Dino replied. “I’d just wake up at four o’clock in the morning. Stimulate me. Talk to me.”

She left the sofa, crossed the room, and sat in his lap. “I’ll stimulate you,” she said, moving around on his crotch.

The phone rang.

“Ignore it,” she said. “Let the machine pick up.” She kissed him.

Dino kissed her back. He seemed to be waking up.

The machine clicked on. “Dino, it’s Elaine,” she said. “I need to talk to you now. Pick up.”

“Fuck her,” Mary Ann said.

“Right,” Dino replied, unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for a breast.

His cell phone rang. “That’s gotta be the precinct,” he said. “Let me get rid of them.”

“Oh, all right,” Mary Ann replied, running her tongue around his ear.

Dino fumbled under Mary Ann for the phone and got it open. “This better be good,” he said.

“It’s Elaine. Get over here.”

“What?”

“You remember that conversation about this woman finding Stone by reading Page Six?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a woman at the bar with the clipping, asking about Stone.”

“Describe her.”

“Well dressed, thirties, medium everything.”

“Do what you can to keep her there, but don’t piss her off. I’m on my way.” He shut the phone and kissed Mary Ann. “Sorry, baby, but something hot has come up.”

“Is she hotter than me?” Mary Ann asked, pushing him back into the chair.

“She’s committed four murders that we know of, and she’s at the bar, at Elaine’s.”

“I give up,” Mary Ann said, getting up and buttoning her blouse. “I’m never gonna get laid.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Dino said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door, the cell phone in his hand.

He grabbed a cab in front of his building. “Eighty-eighth and Second,” he said to the driver, then began dialing the precinct. “Gimme the duty commander,” he said. “This is Bacchetti. We got a rumble on a suspect in this afternoon’s shooting on Park Avenue. She’s at Elaine’s restaurant, Second between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth, west side of the street, sitting at the bar, her back to the window. I’m on my way there now. I want a SWAT team. . . . Scrub that, I want eight people in plain clothes, no visible weapons, no sirens on the way—shit, they can run all the way, it’s that close. Nobody parks out front, nobody enters the restaurant but me.”

The cab drew to a halt at the corner of Eighty-eighth and Second. Dino gave the driver a five and got out, still talking on the cell phone.

“I’m going into the restaurant now. I want two people on either side of the door, not visible from inside, and four across the street. Suspect is a white female, thirties, medium height and weight, alone, probably armed and very dangerous. Any questions?”

“No, Lieutenant,” the detective answered.

“Call me on my cell phone when everybody is in position.”

“Got it.”

Dino hung up and called Elaine’s, got her on the phone. “I’m coming in alone in just a minute. Is there an empty table by the bar?”

“No, but Sid Zion is at number four with two other guys. He’s got a couple of empty chairs. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“That’s good. Pay no attention to the woman at the bar. Don’t even look at her. Has she moved?”

“No.”

“I’m coming in now.” Dino checked his weapon, returned it to his holster, and walked into Elaine’s.

Suddenly, Marie-Thérèse was nervous. The bartender had said something to the restaurant’s owner, and she had made a phone call. Now she was on the phone again, and she had glanced at where she was sitting at the bar.

The front door opened and a man walked in: not too tall, Mediterranean-looking.

Dino walked toward table number four, where Sidney Zion, a journalist and writer, was sitting. “Hey, Sid,” Dino said, pumping his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sit down, Dino,” Zion replied.

Dino took a seat with a good view of a woman at the bar he thought was probably Marie-Thérèse.

The man was a cop, she could feel it. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked the bartender.

“Back that way, take a right, second door on the left.”

Marie-Thérèse left her coat on the bar stool, picked up her bag, and began walking toward the rear of the restaurant. Straight ahead, all the way to the back, was a door, but two large men were sitting at a table squarely in front of it. She turned right, toward the ladies’ room, first looking into the kitchen: no visible way out. She went into the ladies’ room; no one there. She tried the window. It was small, but she could fit through it. She got it open, but it was covered with burglar bars.

She opened her handbag and began removing things. She took the top off the toilet tank, wiped the CIA pistol and the ice pick with a towel, dropped them into the tank, and replaced the cover. She ripped up her false passport, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. Then she got out her cell phone and started dialing.

Dino’s cell phone vibrated. “Bacchetti.”

“Lieutenant, everybody’s in place.”

“Tell them to sit tight. We’re going to wait until she’s ready to leave. I’ll follow her out the front door, then everybody converge.”

“Got it.”

Dino put the cell phone away and looked around. Still in the ladies’ room.

“Hello?”

“Ali?”

“Yes. Is this my appointment from this afternoon?”

“Yes. I think I’m about to be arrested, and I’m going to need a lawyer.”

“Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called Elaine’s, on Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth streets.”

“You’re quite near the Nineteenth Precinct. They’ll take you there, unless they’re federal.”

“My guess is local police.”

“Your lawyer’s name is Sol Kaminsky. I’ll call him, and he’ll be there in half an hour. Say nothing to the police.”

“I’m going to talk to them, play it innocent,” she said.

“That’s your judgment to make. Are you dirty?”

“I’ve just cleaned up. I have a good passport.”

“Good. I’ll tell Kaminsky. Call his number from the police station and leave a message on his answering machine. Memorize the number.” He recited it to her.

“You’re sending me a Jewish lawyer?”

“We retain him. He’s good. What will your name be?”

“Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Your real name?”

“Trust me.”

“What will you give for an address?”

“I don’t know.”

“We keep room one-oh-oh-three at the Hotel Kirwan, on Park Avenue South at Thirty-seventh Street. Use that address. I’ll get some women’s clothes and a suitcase over there, too.”

“Thank you.” She closed the phone, returned it to her handbag, checked her makeup, and left the ladies’ room. Maybe she was just paranoid. She hoped so. She returned to her bar stool. “Can I have the check, please?” she asked the bartender.

He brought her the check. “What’s your name, and how can I get in touch?” he asked. She took a pen and a small pad from her purse and wrote down her name and cell phone number. “Call me tomorrow,” she said. She put some cash on the bar, including a big tip, got into her coat, and started for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cop get up from his table and reach for his coat.

She walked outside and stood at the curb, her hand held up for a taxi. Then he was behind her.

“Freeze, police!” Dino said, his weapon stretched out before him. He kept a good six feet between them.

Marie-Thérèse looked over her shoulder, feigning surprise. “What?” she said.

Then they were all over her, cuffing her wrists, going through her handbag. “No weapons,” a detective said.

“Search the ladies’ room,” Dino replied, as they hustled her into a squad car.

31

Stone snapped out of a deep sleep. The phone was ringing. He was momentarily disoriented, looking around the dark bedroom, trying to figure out where he was.

“Are you going to answer that?” Carpenter asked.

Stone fumbled for the phone. “Hello?”

“Gee, I hope I didn’t interrupt any screwing,” Dino said.

“Dino, what’s going on? What time is it?”

“Not all that late. Let me speak to Carpenter.”

“She’s asleep.”

“No, I’m not,” Carpenter said, snatching the phone from Stone. “Hello, Dino?”

“Sorry to wake you up, but I thought you’d want to be brought up to date on developments.”

“What’s happened?”

“I arrested a young woman—early thirties, medium height, medium build—at Elaine’s tonight.”

“You mean you’ve got her?”

“Looks that way.”

“How did you identify her?”

“She’s carrying a Swiss passport in the name of Marie-Thérèse du Bois, and she matches the picture.”

“I’m on my way,” Carpenter said. “Don’t you dare let her get away.”

“She’s locked in an interrogation room. She’s not going anywhere.”

“I’ll be there in an hour and a half. You can use the time to good effect by photographing her repeatedly and fingerprinting her. Get DNA samples, too.”

“She’s called a lawyer, but I don’t know how that’s going to help her. I’ve got the deputy DA on the way, too. Hurry up!” He hung up.

“Dino’s got La Biche?” Stone asked incredulously.

Carpenter was already digging clothes out of her bag. “Yes, and she’s admitted who she is. I’m having trouble believing this myself! Get dressed, for Christ’s sake!”

Stone started grabbing at clothes.

Dino walked down the hall to Interrogation One and checked out the woman through the one-way mirror. She was sitting, looking worried and baffled. “Yeah, sugar,” Dino said aloud. “I’d be worried, too, because I’ve got your ass!”

His boss, Captain Grady, walked in. “Okay, so who is this woman?”

“Her name is Marie-Thérèse du Bois. She’s the suspect in the diplomatic killing on Park Avenue.”

“Is that all you know about her?”

“According to our friends across the sea in British intelligence, she’s a big-time assassin who’s murdered people all over Europe. By the way, she’s killed at least three other people since she arrived in New York.” He handed Grady her passport.

Grady flipped through it and stopped. “This says she arrived in the U.S. from Canada yesterday,” he said, pointing at a stamp.

Dino looked at it. “Gotta be a fake,” he said.

“Run it past the Feds.”

“Not yet, Cap. I don’t want them in on this. I’ve got a lady from British intelligence on the way here now.”

“When’s she coming?”

“She’s driving down from Connecticut with a friend of mine; maybe an hour.”

“Is this friend of yours Barrington?”

“Ah, yeah, Cap. Why do you ask?”

“Because you don’t have any other friends. What’s he got to do with this?”

“Well, he and the Brit lady are sort of an item. We both met her in London last year.”

“Have you talked to your suspect yet?”

“I was just about to when you got here. I was waiting for the deputy DA to get here, too.”

“You got him out of bed?” Grady asked, chortling. “I want to see that.”

“You’re looking at it, Captain,” a voice behind them said.

Dino and the captain turned to find George Mellon, the deputy DA, standing behind them.

“She doesn’t look all that dangerous,” he said, peering through the glass.

“I’m going to go in and feel her out,” Dino said.

“Get her signature on a Miranda waiver before you ask her a fucking thing,” Mellon said.

Dino opened the door and went into the room.

Stone was driving down the nearly deserted I-684 at 140 miles per hour.

“Won’t this thing go any faster?” Carpenter demanded.

“Yes, it will, but I won’t go any faster. I’ve never driven this fast in my life.”

“Chicken,” she muttered.

Stone eased the accelerator to the floor, and the speed climbed another fifteen mph. “I forgot, the speed is electronically limited to one-fifty-five.”

“Shit,” Carpenter said. “Why didn’t you buy something fast?”

Stone began thinking about what he might say to a New York State trooper, and about the roadblock that might have already been set up ahead of him somewhere. He checked the sky for helicopters.

“Good evening,” Dino said. “I am Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti.”

She offered her hand without getting up, like a lady. “How do you do?” she said.

“I do very well,” Dino replied, shaking her hand.

“Why on earth was I brought here?” she demanded, half angry, half frightened.

“Before we go any further, I have to advise you of your rights under the United States Constitution.” He recited the Miranda mantra. “Do you understand these rights?”

“Of course. So you think I have never watched television?”

Dino handed her a sheet of paper and a pen. “Then please sign this statement to that effect.”

She read it and signed it.

Dino placed her passport on the table. “This says you are Marie-Thérèse du Bois, of a Zurich, Switzerland, address. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it’s correct.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dino said.

“About what?”

“When did you arrive in the United States?”

“It’s in my passport.” She had put the stamp there herself.

“And where do you reside?”

“At the Hotel Kirwan, on Park Avenue at Thirty-seventh Street, room one-oh-oh-three.”

“When did you check in?”

“Today . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Rather, yesterday. Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know, do you?”

“I am happy to answer your questions, but I would like a lawyer present, please.”

Dino sighed. “I’ll get you a phone.” He went out of the room, got a cordless phone, and brought it back. “Would you like some privacy?”

“I doubt if I will get any,” she said, nodding at the one-way mirror. She dialed a number. “Hello, this is Marie-Thérèse du Bois. I am being held at a police station. . . . One moment.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “Where am I?”

“At the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“At the Nineteenth Precinct, and I require legal representation at once. Please come here right away, ask for a Lieutenant . . .”

“Bacchetti.”

“Lieutenant Bacchetti. Thank you.” She handed the phone back to Dino.

“Now, will you please tell me why I am here?”

“You are here, Miss du Bois, because you are a suspect in four murders in New York City.”

She laughed. “Good God! And when am I supposed to have committed these murders?”

“In the last couple of days.”

“I have spent the last couple of days driving down here from Canada with a friend.”

“What is your friend’s name?” Dino asked, taking out his notebook. “I’d like to corroborate that.”

“His name is Michel Robert. He is Canadian.”

“And where might I find him?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” she said. “We had a petit contretemps. He left me in New York and went away, I don’t know where. May I ask on what evidence you suspect me of these preposterous charges?”

“We’ll get to that later,” Dino said. “Excuse me a moment.” He got up and went outside to speak to Mellon.

“She asked a good question, Dino,” Mellon said. “On what evidence do you suspect her of these murders?”

“There’s a British intelligence agent on the way here now who can identify her and tell you about her background,” Dino said.

“Was she carrying anything that we can use?”

“No,” Dino said, “but before I arrested her at Elaine’s she went to the ladies’ room. That’s being searched now.”

Two detectives walked in, and one was holding a large Ziploc bag containing a black pistol and a silencer, as well as an ice pick.

“Am I glad to see that,” Dino said. “Go dust if for prints, fire it for ballistics, and check it against the slugs from the guy on Park Avenue, and be quick about it.” He turned back to Mellon. “Feeling better now?”

“A little,” Mellon said. “Can you tie her to the murder?”

“You just heard me tell my guys to go do that, didn’t you?”

“Have you printed her?”

“Not yet. We can do that now.”

A small, plump man bustled into the room “Where is my client?” he demanded.

“Hello, Sol,” Mellon said. “Who brought you into this?”

“She did,” Mellon said, pointing through the glass. I want to talk to her now, and I want everybody out of here while I do it.”

“How long do you need?”

“I’ll let you know, George. Now get out of here and let me do my work.”

Dino, the captain, and the deputy DA filed out of the room and went to Dino’s office. “Who is that guy, George?”

“His name is Sol Kaminsky, and he’s a very smart lawyer. But unless you can tie this woman to that weapon and the weapon to one of these murders, he’s not going to have to be very smart.”

32

Stone crossed the Harlem River Bridge, slowing down only for E-ZPass to let him through. He looked at his watch: He never would have believed he could have gotten to Manhattan this fast.

“What’s taking us so long?” Carpenter demanded.

“We’ve just broken the world record for a trip from Washington, Connecticut, to Manhattan,” Stone said, “and by half an hour.”

She sniffed. “So you say.”

Dino, the captain, and the deputy DA had been chatting uneasily for forty minutes, while Sol Kaminsky talked to his client. The two detectives walked into Dino’s office and placed the pistol, silencer, and ice pick on his desk.

“What?” Dino asked.

“No prints on any of these.”

“What about the ballistics test?”

“Two of the bullets were too deformed to get a match,” one of the detectives said, “but one of them was whole.”

“And?”

“No match. Not even close. This is not the piece that killed the diplomat.”

“Shit!” Dino said.

“But this is a very interesting pistol.”

“How so?”

“It has no manufacturer’s markings anywhere on it. We ran the ballistics against the FBI database, and it came up federal, probably CIA or Defense Intelligence Agency, something like that.”

Dino looked up to see Stone and Carpenter coming into the outer office. “Here’s our Brit spy,” he said. “Now we’ll get somewhere.” Dino introduced the two to the captain.

“Hello, Stone,” George Mellon said, not offering his hand.

“Hi, George.” Stone had once beaten him in court in a very embarrassing way.

“Where is she?” Carpenter asked.

Sol Kaminsky walked into Dino’s office. “You and I can meet with my client now,” he said. “Come on.”

Everybody followed Kaminsky back to the interrogation room, and Dino went inside with him, while the others stood behind the one-way mirror.

Stone elbowed Carpenter. “Well, is that La Biche?”

“God,” Carpenter said, “she looks so different. I’m not sure I could swear to it.”

“Nothing like an eyewitness,” the deputy DA muttered.

“All right, Lieutenant Bacchetti,” Sol Kaminsky said, “my client has identified herself with her valid passport and answered your questions. What evidence do you have to connect her to any crime?”

Dino placed the pistol, silencer, and ice pick on the table without saying anything. He wanted to see her reaction.

Marie-Thérèse looked at her lawyer uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“The lieutenant, my dear, thinks these weapons belong to you,” Kaminsky said.

“I have never seen any of them,” she replied. “I have no need for weapons.”

Kaminsky turned to Dino. “What evidence do you have connecting these weapons to my client?”

“She put them in the toilet tank in the ladies’ room at Elaine’s,” Dino said with a sinking heart.

“How do you know this? Did you find her fingerprints on any of them?”

Dino gulped.

“Have you connected any of these weapons with any of the murders with a ballistic or other scientific test?”

“Not yet,” Dino temporized.

“Do you have any witnesses who can place Ms. du Bois at the scene of any crime?”

“I’ll be right back,” Dino said. He left the room and joined the others behind the one-way mirror. “What about it, Carpenter?”

Carpenter winced.

“She can’t make the ID,” Stone said.

George Mellon spoke. “This is not looking worth getting me out of bed for, Dino.”

“Just hang on a minute,” Dino said. “This woman is a professional assassin well known to the European authorities. Right, Carpenter? I can run her name against the Interpol database and find charges against her, can’t I?”

Carpenter looked at the floor. “No,” she said.

“No? And why the hell not?”

“She’s in our files, but we’ve never shared them with any law enforcement agency. We’d hoped to pick her up ourselves.”

Mellon spoke up again. “Am I to understand that there is no open charge against this woman anywhere in the world?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Carpenter replied.

“And there were no fingerprints on the weapons, and the ballistics test was negative?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Dino replied.

“Well, then, book her on a weapons charge until we’ve got something concrete.”

Nobody said anything.

Mellon looked at Dino. “Am I to understand that you can’t connect the woman with the weapons?”

“She was in the ladies’ room at Elaine’s. We found the weapons in the toilet tank immediately after she left,” Dino said defensively.

“But you can’t prove that she put them there,” Mellon said. “Fifty women a night use the ladies’ room, and any one of them could have deposited the weapons in the toilet tank at any time for months past, right?”

“Yes,” Dino replied.

Mellon looked at all of them. “Anybody have any charge I can hang on this woman, even to hold her? Did she resist arrest, maybe? Assault a police officer?”

Nobody said anything.

Mellon began putting on his coat. “Then I’m out of here. Cut her loose.” He walked out of the room.

Carpenter was on her cell phone. “Mason? La Biche is about to be released from the Nineteenth Precinct. Get a tail on her now.”

Dino turned to the two detectives. “Grab anybody you can find and get out front. When she leaves, don’t lose her. Keep her in sight until she gets to her hotel, then put two men in the hallway outside her room and tail her if she leaves the hotel.”

“I’m sorry, Dino,” Carpenter said.

Dino went back into the interrogation room. “Mr. Kaminsky, your client is free to go just as soon as I’ve photographed and fingerprinted her.”

“In your dreams,” Kaminsky replied. “My client is not under arrest and there is no probable cause to believe she has committed a crime. Good night, Lieutenant.”

Dino led them out of the interrogation room. “My apologies for the inconvenience, Ms. du Bois,” he said.

“Think nothing of it, Lieutenant,” she replied.

Dino watched them leave, then led Carpenter and Stone into his office. “All we can do is tail her and hope she tries to kill somebody else.”

“Probably me,” Carpenter said.

A detective knocked on the door. “Lieutenant, I need to log that pistol and the ice pick. You got them?”

“They’re on the table in Interrogation One,” Dino said.

“No, sir, they’re not.”

“Oh, shit,” Dino said.

Marie-Thérèse and Sol Kaminsky were riding down Second Avenue in a cab.

“You want me to drop you at your hotel?” Kaminsky asked.

“No, thank you, Mr. Kaminsky. I’ll be getting out before then.”

Their cab stopped at a traffic light. Marie-Thérèse looked out her window to find a large truck next to them. “Mr. Kaminsky, please get out of the cab,” she said, “and walk away.”

He looked at her. “In the middle of the street?”

“Yes, please.”

Kaminsky opened the left rear door and stepped out of the cab. As he did so, Marie-Thérèse handed the driver a twenty. “Keep your meter running until Thirty-fourth Street, and don’t pick up anybody,” she said. She opened her door as little as possible, fell out of the taxi onto the street, and began rolling her way under the truck. She had just cleared it when the light changed, and the truck drove away. She rolled under a parked car and waited.

A block behind her cab, a detective radioed the precinct. “Tell Bacchetti the lawyer got out of the cab at Seventy-seventh Street,” he said. “We’re still following.” The light changed, and he drove on down Second Avenue.

Marie-Thérèse waited for the next change of the traffic light before she rolled from under the parked car, dusted off her clothes, and disappeared into the night.

33

Stone got Carpenter into a cab.

“I’m exhausted,” Carpenter said.

“Let the cops and your people do their work,” Stone said. “You can get some sleep at my house.”

“That was a humiliating experience,” Carpenter sighed, as they rode downtown.

“You might have mentioned to Dino earlier the fact that there were no charges against her in Europe.”

“We didn’t want Interpol or the various police agencies to interfere,” she said.

“You just wanted to find her and quietly kill her. Is that it?”

Carpenter didn’t reply.

“If there were no charges against her, how did you gather all this information about her—the people she’s killed, and her methods?”

“From people we’ve . . . interrogated,” Carpenter replied.

“Can’t the testimony of those people be used to file charges against her, so Dino can make an arrest?”

“Those people are . . . no longer available to testify,” Carpenter said.

Stone took a deep breath. “Oh,” he said.

The detective following La Biche’s taxi radioed in. “Tell Bacchetti the cab didn’t go to the hotel. It’s continuing downtown.”

“This is Bacchetti,” Dino said. “Where is the cab now?”

“At Second and Thirty-fourth, stopped at a light,” the detective replied. “Wait a minute. The cab’s light is on and a guy is getting in.”

“Stop the cab,” Dino said. “Arrest her for tampering with evidence. She stole the pistol.”

The detective switched on his flashing light and drove up next to the cab. His partner got out and shone a light into the rear seat, then got back in. “Lieutenant,” he said into the radio, “she’s not in the cab anymore.”

“What?”

“She’s not there. We saw the lawyer get out, but not the woman. We thought she was still inside.”

“Oh, swell,” Dino said. He hung up and called Stone’s house.

“Hello?” Stone said. Carpenter picked up the other bedside extension.

“We’ve lost her,” he said.

“How?” Stone asked.

“My guys saw Kaminsky get out of the cab at Seventy-seventh Street, but not La Biche. Now she’s not in the cab anymore. What’s more, she stole back the pistol and the ice pick, took them right off the table in the interrogation room when I went to the door. Didn’t any of you behind the mirror see that?”

“We were talking to each other,” Stone said.

“It’s not your fault, Dino,” Carpenter said. “It’s ours.”

“Sorry, babe,” Dino said. “I can put an APB out for her for stealing the pistol, if you like.”

“Can you prove she stole it?”

“I can, if I can catch her with it.”

“And what do you think the chances of that are?”

Dino was quiet.

“Good night, Dino.” Carpenter hung up.

So did Stone. “What now?”

Carpenter dialed a number. “Mason,” she said.

Stone picked up the extension.

“Mason,” a man’s voice said.

“Tell me you’re still on her,” Carpenter said “We’re not, I’m afraid,” Mason replied. “There was no way we could get to the precinct before she left.”

“I was afraid of that. The NYPD lost her. They’ve been chasing an empty cab since Seventy-seventh Street.”

“Good God. Why didn’t they hold her?”

“That one is our fault, I’m afraid. We never filed any charges against her, and the NYPD had nothing on her. They found a pistol in the ladies’ room at Elaine’s, but the ballistics didn’t match the slug from the diplomatic killing, and she didn’t use a gun on the others.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Mason said.

“On top of everything else, she stole the pistol back from the police, walked right out of the precinct with it in her handbag.”

“So where we are now sounds very much like square one.”

“Very much.”

“Architect will not be amused.”

“Well, no. Get some sleep, Mason. We’ll speak in the morning.”

“Where are you?”

“At Barrington’s house.”

“I’ll send some people over.”

“Don’t bother. I think we’re safe for tonight.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Stone and Carpenter hung up.

“I loved your house in Connecticut,” she said.

Marie-Thérèse let herself into the twenty-four-hour-a-day storage facility, went to her closet, and unlocked the door, closing it behind her. The space was about eight by ten feet, much like a prison cell, she thought. She stripped down to the skin, took a fur coat from a rack of clothes, and spread it on the floor. She found another coat and wrapped herself in it, then lay down on the fur coat.

Now she had used her most valuable, most hoarded resource: her own identity. She would not be able to use it again. Not, she thought, unless they were so stupid as not to enter it into their computers and send it to Interpol.

She fell asleep thinking of the baby she had held in her lap all the way across the Atlantic.

34

Five men and four women got off a Concorde flight at JFK and got into two waiting vans. The driver of one handed one of the men a cell phone. “Just hold down the number one, sir.”

He held down the number one, then put the phone to his ear.

“Trading Partners,” a woman’s voice said.

“Do you know who this is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re en route. I want a meeting in one hour, with everybody, and I mean everybody.”

“I understand, sir. I’ve been holding the conference room.”

“Good.” He snapped the phone shut and handed it back to the driver.

“It’s yours, sir, while you’re here,” the driver said.

Architect put the phone in his pocket and turned his attention to The New York Times.

The phone rang in Stone’s bedroom. “Hello?” he said sleepily, glancing at the clock.

“Miss Carpenter, please,” a woman’s voice said.

Stone shook Carpenter awake. “Call for you,” he said.

“What time is it?” Carpenter asked, rolling over and picking up the extension.

Stone hung up his phone. “A little after two P.M. We slept pretty good.”

“Hello?”

“Architect has arrived. There’s a meeting here at three,” the woman said. “Attendance is mandatory.”

“Right,” Carpenter said. She hung up. “I’ve got to get into a shower,” she said to Stone. “My boss is in from London.” She tossed off the covers and ran for the bathroom. “Any chance of some lunch?”

Stone went down to the kitchen and made a couple of ham sandwiches and brought them back upstairs. Carpenter came out of the shower, toweling her hair dry around the edges.

“That looks good,” she said, grabbing a sandwich and taking a huge bite.

“So, what’s this meeting going to be about?” Stone asked.

“I think you can guess.”

“How the hell are you ever going to find her?” he asked.

“We’ll find her, and we’ll deal with her,” Carpenter replied, her mouth full. She went back into the bathroom, taking her sandwich with her.

Stone picked up the phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“You had lunch?”

“I missed it,” Dino said.

“Clarke’s in half an hour?”

“You buying?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s make it the Four Seasons.” Dino hung up.

Stone went to his own bathroom and got into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he stood on his doorstep with Carpenter.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“I’ll have to call you,” she replied, kissing him. She ran down the steps and turned toward Third Avenue.

Stone turned toward Park.

The last of the lunch crowd lingered over their espressos in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons. Getting a table was easy, since half the crowd had gone back to their offices. Stone and Dino ordered salads and omelettes and a couple of glasses of wine.

“How’d La Biche come to be in Elaine’s at exactly the time you were?” Stone asked.

“She came in looking for you.”

“What?”

“I kid you not. She came in, took a seat at the bar, ordered dinner, and whipped out that Page Six clipping about you representing Herbie Fisher. Asked the bartender who you were.”

“Did he tell her?”

“I don’t know. I was pretty busy. Elaine called me at home and told me somebody was asking about you, so I disappointed my wife, who was snuggled up to me at the time, and got my ass over there in a hurry. There she was, sipping a brandy.”

Stone thought about this.

“So why’d you want to have lunch? I had the feeling you had something on your mind.”

“Something’s brewing with our British friends,” Stone said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“The big cheese arrived from London and has called a meeting of his people.”

“Why do I care about this?” Dino asked.

“Because I think there’s about to be a rumble on your turf.”

“What kind of rumble?” Dino asked.

“Think about it.”

“What, I have to guess?”

“That’s what I’m doing. Anybody call you this afternoon? Any Brits, I mean?”

“Nope. Should I expect to hear from them?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone replied.

“Come on, Stone, what has Carpenter told you?”

“Only that there’s a meeting.”

“And what do you think is going to be the subject of that meeting?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Dino.”

“Okay, I know the subject. What are they going to do?”

“I think they’re going to hunt her down and kill her,” Stone said.

“Right here in New York City?”

“Yes. Of course, they may only want to kidnap and torture her, but I think the chances of taking the lady alive are nil.”

Dino chewed his salad and thought about it. “Okay,” he said finally.

“What do you mean, okay?”

“I mean, it’s okay with me if they hunt her down and kill her, or just kidnap and torture her.”

“Jesus, Dino, you’re a New York City police lieutenant. Are you going to let that happen?”

“Yep,” Dino said, sipping his wine.

“We’re talking about murder, Dino. You’re supposed to take a dim view of that.”

“You’re such a wuss, Stone,” Dino said.

“No, I’m not. I’m just opposed to murder in the streets of my hometown.”

“Well, I’m sure that when the murderers hear about that, there’ll be a dramatic drop in the homicide rate,” Dino replied.

“Dino, you’ve got to do something.”

“What am I going to do?” Dino asked. “These people are not visiting policemen. They’re fucking spies. They do things in secret. You think they’re going to let me in on their plans?”

“Maybe I can find out something.”

“I don’t want to know,” Dino said. “And if you want to keep rolling around in the hay with Miss Felicity Devonshire, you’d better not want to know, either.”

“You want to know why there are no charges against La Biche in Europe?” Stone said.

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Because the Brits got their information on her by torturing and killing her friends, so there’s nobody left to give evidence against her.”

“I didn’t want to know that,” Dino said.

“It’s how they work. These people don’t arrest criminals and try them. They put them in cellars while they extract information from them with tools, and when they’re done, their captives are done, too. They’re outside the law. They’re above the law.”

“Well then, if I were you, I wouldn’t piss off Carpenter.”

“When you and I were cops together, we had a common view of the law,” Stone said. “We believed in doing it by the book.”

“Well, not always strictly by the book,” Dino said.

“All right, we slapped around a few people, frightened a few guys, but we didn’t murder anybody.”

“And I’m not going to start now,” Dino said.

“But you’re going to turn a blind eye to what these people are planning?”

“Stone, in this case, a blind eye is all I got.”

“You don’t want to see it.”

“You’re right, because, unlike you, I understand that there are two whole different worlds existing right alongside each other: There’s your world and mine, then there’s their world, where a crazy woman holds a grudge against their people and goes around killing them, plus a few other people along the way. How do we prosecute that? There’s never any evidence. And suppose I could, somehow, stop them from killing La Biche? What would I do with her? Pat her on the head and send her back to Europe to kill a few more people? I don’t have any evidence against her. Jesus, somebody’s got to stop her, and it ain’t going to be me.”

“This is depressing,” Stone said.

“It’s not depressing if you don’t think about it,” Dino replied.

35

Carpenter rushed into the building, went to her temporary office, deposited her coat, and picked up her notes. She made it to the conference room just as Architect took his seat.

His name, as everyone who worked for him knew, was Sir Edward Fieldstone, but when he had chosen a code name, his bent for carpentry and building came to the fore. He had a huge workshop at his country home in Berkshire, and his large estate was dotted with barns, sheds, workmen’s houses, and other structures that he had either built himself or supervised. He had come to the intelligence services by way of the Army and the SAS, and he was known to be partial to officers who had served in that unit, especially in Northern Ireland, where he had commanded it. His reputation from that time was one of being soft-spoken and completely ruthless.

Carpenter sometimes felt at a disadvantage for not having served in the Army. Her credentials in the service were, at the outset, hereditary, since her paternal grandfather and her father had both been intelligence officers—the former, during World War II, when he had been repeatedly parachuted into France to arm and train Resistance fighters, and the latter, who had been a specialist in dealing with Irish terrorists in mainland Britain. Those were considered historic credentials in the service, and Carpenter had worked hard to live up to them.

“Good morning,” Architect said softly, causing an immediate hush to fall on the room. He gazed around the table at the two dozen faces, a third of them women. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said finally.

“The subject—the only subject—of this meeting is one Marie-Thérèse du Bois, known also as La Biche, an aptly assigned sobriquet, if I may say so.” A tiny smile twitched at a corner of his mouth.

“I am sure that you have all read the dossier compiled on this woman, a dossier appalling in its nature and, especially, in its bearing on the members of this service. I need hardly tell you that she must be stopped.”

There was a murmur of assent around the table.

“Carpenter,” he said.

All eyes turned to her, and she felt her ears burning.

“Yes, sir?”

“Give us a little recap of her activities in this city over the past few days.”

Carpenter did not need notes for this. “She has murdered a former officer of this service, a serving officer, an Arab diplomat known to be an intelligence officer, and an innocent female civilian. She has also seriously wounded a serving officer of this firm.”

“And how is Thatcher?” Architect asked.

“He has suffered partial paralysis of both legs as a result of an ice pick wound to his spinal cord, but he is out of danger and is responding to treatment and showing signs of improvement. The prognosis is for a complete or nearly complete recovery.”

“Good, good. Is he being well taken care of?”

“He is, sir.”

“Good. Now, Carpenter, please give me your assessment of the current situation regarding La Biche. I’d especially like to know about her detention and release by the New York City Police Department. How were both these things accomplished?”

“An item appeared in a gossip column in the New York Post regarding the attorney who had arranged for an operative to photograph Lawrence Fortescue, formerly of this firm, during a tryst with a woman, who turned out to be La Biche. It was mentioned in the article that the attorney frequented a restaurant called Elaine’s, on the Upper East Side, and La Biche turned up at the restaurant to inquire about the lawyer, whose name was not mentioned in the article. The restaurant’s eponymous owner telephoned a police officer of her acquaintance to report the incident. He immediately organized an arrest, and La Biche was taken to the Nineteenth Precinct and questioned.”

“That covers her arrest. What about her release?” Architect asked.

“La Biche had dumped two weapons in the ladies’ room of the restaurant, after wiping them clean. Although they were recovered, they yielded no fingerprints and could not be connected to her, since, in theory, anyone could have left them there. One weapon, a pistol, underwent a ballistics test, in the hope of connecting it to the murder of the Arab diplomat. The results were negative.” She took a deep breath. “The police were also hampered by the fact that this service has declined to report her activities to any police force or to Interpol, so there were no outstanding charges under which she could be detained.”

The room went very quiet, since everyone knew that the decision not to alert police had been Architect’s.

“Quite,” he said calmly, betraying no annoyance. “Go on.”

“Finally, she presented a valid passport in her true name with a valid entry stamp, or at least a forgery so good that the police were unable to detect it. She was represented by a New York attorney named Sol Kaminsky, who has, in the past, been known to represent Arab terrorists in court. He was prominent in the unsuccessful defense of the men who placed a bomb in the basement car park of the World Trade Center some years ago.”

“I am acquainted with Mr. Kaminsky’s reputation,” Architect said. “Who made the decision to release La Biche?”

“The deputy district attorney of New York County was personally present during her interrogation, and when no probable cause could be found to hold her, or even to photograph and fingerprint her, he ordered her release.”

Architect nodded. “And how would you assess our current situation, Carpenter?”

“We don’t know where she is or who may be helping her. We have no credible evidence against her, so that even if we were able to apprehend her, we could not bring her to trial—and, if we were somehow able to do so, she would be acquitted, in either a British or American court. I should point out that, due to her very average appearance, which changes constantly, and the absence of a fingerprint record, we would find it very difficult even to identify her. In short, we haven’t laid a glove on her, nor are we likely to do so.”

Architect fixed her with a steely gaze. “In your desire to be realistic, you are being too pessimistic, Carpenter. Do you have a plan for proceeding?”

“We know that she has, in the past, frequented lesbian bars, where she has picked up women, murdered them, and used their residences and identities for short periods. I suggest that, since we have a number of women present, we stake out as many such bars as we can, in the hope of spotting her. Every such officer should be wired and under constant electronic surveillance.”

“You will note that I brought four female officers with me,” Architect said. “Any other recommendations?”

“We should tap the telephones of Mr. Kaminsky’s law offices and his home, and keep him under surveillance. He is the only person we know her to have contacted in New York.”

Architect’s voice became even softer. “Is that all? Surely you have a further recommendation.”

Carpenter met his gaze and held it. When the inquiry into this situation came, as it surely would, she wanted to be on record. “I have no further recommendation, sir.” It is bloody well going to have to come from you, you silky bastard, she thought.

“You disappoint me, Carpenter.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Quite.” Architect looked around the table. “All right, here is how we will proceed: Mason, you will undertake the staking out and electronic surveillance of the lesbian bars. Incidentally, how will we find them?” He looked around the table for an answer.

Carpenter spoke up. “I would suggest that we begin by walking the streets of Greenwich Village and Soho. Once some such establishments have been located, our people can inquire among the customers present about the location of others.”

“Well,” Architect said, permitting himself another hint of a smile, “I feel some small relief in learning that none of my people has any personal acquaintance with such places. See to it, Mason.”

“Yes, sir,” Mason replied.

“Sparks,” Architect said, singling out another male officer, “I will leave the electronic surveillance of Mr. Kaminsky in your hands. See that our presence does not become known to the local authorities.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Will we seek FBI approval?”

“Not exactly,” Architect replied, “but I am having dinner this evening with the director of that agency, who is in New York, and I will see that he is appropriately apprised of our activities.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sparks replied.

“Well,” Architect said, closing his briefcase, “I believe we’re finished.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Carpenter said. “Do you have an assignment for me?”

Architect gazed at her. “Well, obviously, since La Biche has seen you up close, we can’t send you around to these bars . . . however much you might wish to go. . . .”

Carpenter’s ears got hot again.

“. . . But I believe you are personally acquainted with this lawyer—Barrington? Is that his name?”

Carpenter looked over at Mason, who had assumed a studious attitude with some papers before him.

“Yes, Barrington. Since La Biche apparently has an interest in him, your assignment, Carpenter, will be to see that the twain do not meet. If she keeps killing civilians . . .” He left that thought unfinished.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“And further, Carpenter, you are directed to take whatever measures are necessary to remain alive. You’re no good to me dead.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Mason said.

“Yes, Mason?”

“May we have instructions on what to do about La Biche, once we’ve found her?”

Good for you, Mason, Carpenter thought. Get him on the record.

“You are not—repeat, not—to attempt to detain her,” Architect said. “She is far too dangerous, and I don’t want to lose any more people.” Architect closed his briefcase. “Dispose of her,” he said, “by whatever means are available.”

“Sir,” Mason pressed on, “any such opportunities that arise are likely to be in public places.”

“I am aware of that, Mason,” Architect said. “Try to avoid collateral damage.” He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room.

As the group filed out, Carpenter fell into step with Mason. “Are you prepared to follow that order?” she asked quietly.

“I am unaccustomed,” Mason said, “to not following his orders.”

36

Stone was getting hungrier and hungrier, and Carpenter had not called. The phone finally rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” she said.

“How did your meeting go?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

“How much later?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to work through the evening. Why don’t you go to Elaine’s, and I’ll meet you there later?”

“Do you feel safe at Elaine’s?” Stone asked.

“The last time La Biche came to Elaine’s, she got arrested,” Carpenter said. “I don’t think she’ll be anxious to return, do you?”

“I guess not,” Stone agreed. “Any idea what time you’ll be there?”

“I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Bye.” She hung up.

Stone took a cab to Elaine’s, settled in at his table, and ordered a drink and a menu. Elaine came over and sat down.

“You missed all the excitement last night, huh?”

“Yeah, Dino said you alerted him. That was a good call.”

Elaine shrugged. “Just watching your ass for you.”

“Thanks. I still have possession of it. How did all this happen?”

“She came in and sat down at the bar. One of the bartenders, Bobby, chatted her up a little while she had dinner, and they got along real well. She even gave him her number. Then she pulled out the Page Six clipping, and he mentioned it to me. She wanted to know your name, and he told her. I remembered a conversation in here about that.”

“She gave Bobby her number?”

“Yeah, they were going like gangbusters. Bobby’s pretty swift with the ladies.”

“Excuse me a second,” Stone said. He got up and went to the bar. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Hey, Stone. How you doing?”

“I’m good. Thanks for your help last night.”

“I thought I was helping myself.”

“Elaine said the lady gave you her number?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You still got it?”

Bobby went to the cash register, hit a key, and the drawer slid open. He reached under the currency tray for something and came back with a slip of paper. “Here you go. I don’t guess I’ll be calling her, from what I’ve heard about her.”

Stone pocketed the paper. “Thanks, Bobby. Have one on me.”

“Thanks.”

Stone went back to his table and looked at the paper. The area code was 917, which was reserved for New York City cell phones.

Elaine looked at him. “Jesus, you’re not that horny, are you?”

“Of course not,” Stone said, putting the number in his pocket.

“Where’s Felicity?”

“Working. She’ll be in later.”

“And Dino?”

“We had lunch. We’ve seen enough of each other for one day.”

“Stone, you think you’re in any sort of danger from this woman?”

“I hope not, but she’s unlikely to come in here again, after what happened to her last night.” Stone looked up to see a woman alone come through the front door. She stopped and looked around. Medium height and weight, brown hair, nicely dressed. He started looking for something to throw at her and settled on the wooden Indian standing guard next to his table.

Then the woman seemed to spot somebody at the rear of the restaurant. She walked quickly down the aisle, past Stone, and embraced a man, who had stood up to greet her.

“That’s his wife,” Elaine said. “Maybe you better have another drink.” She waved at a waiter and pointed at Stone.

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“That one’s on me,” Elaine said to the waiter when the drink came.

“Thanks,” Stone said, raising his glass to her.

“Maybe you ought to get outta town for a few days,” Elaine said. “Why don’t you go up to Connecticut?”

“I just got back,” Stone said, “but that’s not a bad idea.”

Elaine got up to greet somebody, leaving Stone alone. He ordered dinner, then took out the phone number again. Impulsively, he dialed it.

She answered immediately. “Yes?”

“Ms. du Bois, this is Stone Barrington. Don’t hang up,” he said quickly, “I just want to talk to you.”

There was a brief silence. “All right,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?” Her accent was perfectly American.

“First of all, I want to explain why I had you photographed.”

“I would be interested to hear this,” she said.

“It was a domestic matter: Lawrence Fortescue was married to a woman, my client, who believed he was having an affair. They had a prenuptial agreement that precluded his getting any of her money in a divorce if he was shown to be adulterous. I had no idea who you were.”

“Do you now?” she asked.

“I have a better idea,” he said, “and I’d just as soon not be on your list of enemies.”

She laughed aloud. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you have a well-developed sense of self-preservation, I’ll give you that.”

“I think it would be a good idea if you and I met,” Stone said.

“Come now, you don’t really expect that, do you?”

“Are you acquainted with the American principle of the inviolability of the attorney-client relationship?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you must understand that if you and I meet for the purposeof your seeking legal advice from me, both the meeting and the conversation would be privileged, and I could not tell the police about either.”

“I understand that. Would the attorney-client relationship prevent you from, shall we say, inviting others to this meeting?”

“Yes. I could not ethically inform any authority of our meeting or our conversation unless I had direct knowledge of your intent to commit a crime.”

“And what do I know of your ethics, Mr. Barrington?”

“Nothing, except that all American lawyers live by the same code. American attorneys do not turn in their clients, except under the circumstances I have already described.”

“I take it you are curious about me.”

“Of course, but that’s not the principal reason for wanting to meet you.”

“And what would the principal reason be?”

“I want to save your life, if I can.”

“You wish to persuade me to turn myself in? I was in police custody only yesterday, and they didn’t seem to want me.”

“I don’t represent the police . . . or the British intelligence services.”

There was a silence. “You are very interesting, Mr. Barrington, because of who you do not represent. I’m sure you have a cell phone. Give me the number.”

Stone gave it to her.

“Tomorrow at six p.m., be at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Perhaps I’ll buy you a drink. But please don’t be so foolish as to ask anyone to join us.” She hung up.

Stone was about to put away his cell phone when it vibrated in his hand. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi.”

“Things are going very slowly here, and I’m going to be several more hours. They’re ordering in some Chinese, so I’ll eat here and see you at home later.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”

“Me too. Bye.”

Stone put the cell phone away, thinking not about Carpenter, but La Biche. He wondered what he was getting himself into.

37

Marie-Thérèse kept her appointment at Frédéric Fekkai, a fashionable hairdressing salon and day spa on East Fifty-seventh Street. They knew her there by another name.

Mr. Fekkai greeted her warmly. “Mrs. King, how are you? How are things in Dallas?”

“Hey, sugar,” Mrs. King replied in a broad Texas accent. “Things are just wonderful. The price of oil is up, so I thought I’d come up here to the big city and spend some of Mr. King’s money.”

“We are delighted to see you. Let’s see, you have a massage and herbal wrap scheduled, and a manicure and an appointment with a makeup artist. We’ll do your hair last, is that all right?”

“Of course, baby.”

“The girl will order you some lunch.”

“I’m famished. Does she have any bourbon?”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Marie-Thérèse submitted to half a day of pampering, then reported to Mr. Fekkai at the end of it.

“Now, what shall we do with your hair?” he asked.

“I want it fairly short,” she said, running her fingers through it, “and I want a nice blond color, with some streaks.”

“I think that will suit you perfectly,” he replied. “The colorist is waiting for you, and I’ll see you next.”

At four o’clock, she left the establishment, quite literally, a new woman. All her identification had been arranged to support the effect. She went into Bergdorf’s and bought some clothes, then allowed herself to be fitted for two wigs, charging everything to an American Express card in Mrs. King’s name, which would be paid automatically from a bank account in the Cayman Islands. At six o’clock, she stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, took out her cell phone, and made the call.

Stone stood, gazing down at the skaters, one in particular—a pretty blonde in a red outfit with a short skirt, who was far better than anyone else on the ice. He looked around him for a woman alone who might be La Biche. His cell phone vibrated.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I want you to walk—not ride—to Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. You should be there in ten minutes. Walk on the west side of Fifth to Forty-fourth Street, then down the east side of the street to Forty-second, then cross again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you when you’re there.” She hung up.

Stone walked to Fifth Avenue and headed toward the library.

She walked over to Madison Avenue, crossed the street, turned left, and entered an electronics shop specializing in spy-type equipment, where she made a quick purchase. She caught a cab and headed downtown, then made another call.

“Hello?” he said.

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “I want you to walk west on the south side of Forty-second Street, turn left at the next corner and walk south to Thirty-seventh Street and make another left. There’s a bar on the south side of the street called O’Coineen’s. Go in there and take a seat in the last of the row of booths on your left. There’ll be a reserved sign on the table; ignore it. If anyone questions you, say you’re meeting Maeve. Got all that?”

“Yes.”

“Be there in ten minutes.” She hung up. “Turn right here,” she said, “and stop in the middle of the block.” She got out of the cab, went into O’Coineen’s and then into the ladies’ room. She peed, then went into her shopping bag for a wig. She chose an auburn one, very straight, with bangs. She glanced at her watch.

Stone found the bar. The place was busy with after-work customers, but the last booth was empty.

A waiter approached. “Sorry, that booth is reserved,” he said.

“I’m meeting Maeve,” Stone replied.

“It’s all right, Sean,” said a woman’s voice with a very attractive Irish accent.

Stone turned to find a redhead with very straight hair and bangs, beautifully made up. It was not the woman he had seen at the Nineteenth Precinct.

“Stand up, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

Stone got out of the booth. “Good evening,” he said.

“Hold your arms away from your sides,” she said.

Stone complied.

She frisked him in a professional manner, not omitting his crotch, then produced a small black object and ran it over him, head to toe. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the side of the booth with its back to the street.

“Thank you for coming,” Stone said, sitting down.

She slid into the opposite side of the booth, facing the street, and set a Bergdorf’s shopping bag on the seat beside her, then she placed a medium-sized handbag on the table, with the open end toward her. She looked around the bar carefully, then at the front windows. Finally, she turned to him. “What’ll y’have?”

“A beer will be fine,” Stone said.

“Two Harps,” she said to the waiter.

“Right,” he said, and went to get them.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” she said, keeping the Irish accent.

Stone wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Come on, Mr. Barrington, I’m here. What d’ya want?”

Stone started to speak, but the waiter came with the drinks, and he waited for him to leave.

She picked up her beer, poured some into a glass, and clinked it against his. “So? Yer not very talkative, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone sipped his beer. “I think you should leave New York immediately.”

“Oh? And why’s that, if you’d be so kind as to tell me?”

“I don’t think you should believe that your release from police custody has made you immune,” he said.

“Immune to what?”

“To . . . further action.”

She glanced at the door, then leaned back into her seat and sipped her beer. “You said on the phone you knew something about me,” she said. “Exactly what?”

“It’s my understanding that, when you were younger, your parents were killed in an ambush that was meant for someone else, and that after that, you underwent some rather specialized training, then began assassinating various people, with an emphasis on those who were inadvertently responsible for your parents’ death.”

“My, you are well informed, aren’t you?”

“Moderately.”

“ ‘Inadvertently’? Is that what they told you?”

“Who?”

“Whoever told you this rubbish.”

“I think it’s pretty good information, though it may not entirely conform to your view of things.”

She laughed. “Yes, my view of things is somewhat different. I know for a fact that my mother was the target, and killing her husband and daughter, as well, didn’t faze them in the least.”

Stone said nothing.

“You see, there’s two sides to every story.”

“Perhaps so. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re going to hunt you down and kill you,” Stone said.

She looked amused. “Oh? Well, that’d take some doing, wouldn’t it?”

“They have no legal recourse, so they’re going to use other means.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I hear things,” Stone said.

She reached into her handbag.

Stone sat up straight.

She came out with a hundred-dollar bill and shoved it across the table. “Put that in your pocket,” she said.

Stone put it in his pocket.

“Now you’re my lawyer, right? You’ve been paid for legal advice, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And this conversation is privileged. You can’t disclose it to anyone else.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, Mr. Stone Barrington, what is your advice?”

“I’d advise you not to spend another night in New York City. I’d advise you not to leave by airline, train, or bus, but to leave by car, and, if you want to leave the country, do that by car, too, or on foot. I’d advise you not to come back for a long time.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d advise you to go to ground, establish an identity you can keep permanently, and find a more productive way to live out your life. And to never, ever again identify yourself to anyone as Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Well, that’s very sound advice, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I’ll think it over.”

“Don’t think too long,” Stone said. “And since I’ll deny that this conversation ever took place, I’d be grateful if you’d do the same, because it’s very dangerous for me to be associated with you in any way.”

“Well, I think I can promise you that,” she said. She gathered up her handbag and shopping bag. “I’m going to be leaving you now, and I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again. You finish your beer. Finish mine, too, and take at least fifteen minutes to do it.” She stood up.

“Goodbye, then.”

Her voice changed to something mid-Atlantic. “Goodbye, Mr. Barrington, and thank you for your concern. I’m very grateful to you.”

She walked to the rear of the room and disappeared through the kitchen door.

Stone finished his beer, and hers. He knew from her attitude that he’d set out on a fool’s errand. She was going to do exactly what she’d intended to do all along.

38

Stone and Carpenter met at the Box Tree, a small, romantic restaurant near his house. They settled at a table, and Stone ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, his favorite champagne.

“What’s the occasion?” Carpenter asked, when they had clinked glasses and sipped their wine.

“An entire evening, just the two of us, free of the cares of work. What we in America call a ‘date.” ’

She laughed. “And what were we having before?”

“What we in America call ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” ’

“I didn’t think American men objected to that sort of relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship, it’s just carnal fun—not that I have any objection to carnal fun.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

They looked at the menu and ordered. The waiter poured them more champagne.

“Tell me about yourself,” Stone said.

Carpenter laughed again. “Isn’t that my line? Why is it that our roles seem to be reversed?”

“Roles are reversible, in certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“When the male has an interest in the female deeper than carnal fun.” Stone thought he caught a blush in her cheeks. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“What you mean is, why do I do what I do. Isn’t that right?”

“What people do is often the most important thing about them.”

“What I do is not the most important thing about me,” she said.

“What is?”

“Who I am.”

“And who are you?”

She looked at the table, then around the room for a long moment. “All right, what I do is the most important thing about me. It’s who I am.”

“Imagine that, through no fault of your own, you were unable to continue in your career. Who would you be, then?”

She took a deep draught of her champagne. “That is an unthinkable thought.”

“Surely you’ve seen people sacked from your service, turned out into the cold.”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you think they were what they did?”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“And what did they do when they could no longer be what they wanted to be?”

“One or two of them . . . did themselves in.”

“Would you do yourself in?”

“Certainly not,” she replied quickly.

“Then what? What would you do? Who would you be?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“You may, after you’ve answered mine.”

“I’d be a barrister,” she said. “I read law at Oxford, you know. I could very easily qualify.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight,” she said without hesitation.

“Are there jobs for brand-new thirty-eight-year-old barristers in London?”

“I’d have to go to a smaller town, I suppose.”

“Are there jobs for brand-new, thirty-eight-year-old barristers in smaller towns?”

She shrugged. “I’m not without friends of influence.”

“That always helps.”

“I don’t understand your line of questioning,” she said. “What is it you really want to know?”

“I suppose I’m wondering if you and I could have a more permanent relationship—”

“In New York?”

“Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’? Why couldn’t you move to London?”

“Because I couldn’t get a job as a barrister anywhere in England, and I doubt if they’d offer me anything at Scotland Yard. And those are the only things I know how to do. I suppose what I really want to know is if you could be happy in an existence where secrets and routine violence—even murder—don’t play a part.”

“Is that how you see my life?”

“Isn’t it how you see it? Don’t you ever think about what your work does to you as a human being?”

“There is a long tradition in my family, going back at least five hundred years, of service to one’s country.”

“No matter what one’s country asks one to do?”

“I have always been equal to what my country has asked of me.”

“That’s what worries me,” Stone said.

“That I’m a loyalist?”

“That, where your country is concerned, you’re capable of anything.”

She blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Marie-Thérèse’s parents weren’t killed by accident, were they?”

“I told you they were. I was there.”

“The target was her mother. Isn’t that true? Collateral damage didn’t matter.”

Carpenter set down her glass. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Someone who was there.”

“I am the only person still alive who was there.”

“No,” Stone said, “you’re not.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her face expressionless. “Good God,” she said softly.

Stone said nothing, just looked at her.

“I think you’d better stop lying to me,” he said finally. “It isn’t good for the relationship.”

“How did you find her?”

“I’m a good detective. The NYPD trained me well.”

“We can’t find her, but you could?”

“That seems to be the reality.”

“Did you meet her face to face?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t the face we saw at the Nineteenth Precinct. I don’t know how she changes, but she does.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

“It seemed to me more dangerous not to meet with her. She knew who I was and that I had played a part. . .”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Where did you meet her?”

“In a bar. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, before she would talk to me, she insisted on paying me a retainer. I’m now her attorney.”

“That was very clever of her. Can you contact her again?”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No.”

Carpenter pushed back from the table. “I have to leave,” she said.

“To report to your superiors?”

“Thank you for the champagne,” she said. Then she got up and left.

39

Stone’s phone rang early the next morning.

“It’s Carpenter,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“Are you free for lunch today?”

“Yes.”

“Twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons. There’s somebody I want you to meet.”

“Who?”

“I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.” She hung up.

Stone was on time, and Carpenter, with a companion, was already seated at a table in the Grill. The man rose to greet Stone.

“This is Sir Edward Fieldstone,” Carpenter said. “Sir Edward, may I introduce Stone Barrington.”

The man was six feet, slender, rather distinguished-looking, with thick, gray hair that needed cutting, hair visible in his ears and nose, and a well-cut if elderly suit that could have used a pressing. “How do you do, Mr. Barrington,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, his accent very upper-class. “Won’t you sit down? Would you like a drink?”

Stone glanced at the bottle on the table: Chateau Palmer, 1966. “That will do nicely,” he said.

Sir Edward nodded, and a waiter appeared and poured the wine.

“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” Sir Edward said. “Let’s order some lunch, shall we?”

They looked at the menu, and Stone ordered a small steak, while Carpenter and Sir Edward both ordered the Dover sole, not seeming to care that it might not be the best thing with the wine.

“Lovely weather,” Sir Edward said. “We’re not used to it. London is always so dreary.”

“It can be dreary in New York, too,” Stone said, wondering exactly who Sir Edward was. He seemed to be in his mid-sixties, and very un-spylike.

They chatted about nothing until their food came. Stone waited for somebody to tell him why he was there.

“Is there anything you’d like to know?” Sir Edward asked. It seemed a non sequitur.

Stone looked at Carpenter, who kept her mouth shut. “Perhaps you could begin by telling me who you are,” he said.

“Of course, of course,” Sir Edward said, sounding apologetic. “I’m a British civil servant. Perhaps I shouldn’t go any further than that.”

“Are you Carpenter’s immediate superior?” Stone asked.

“Perhaps a notch or two upwards.”

“Are you the head of Carpenter’s service?” Stone asked.

“One might say so. Pass the salt, please.”

Carpenter passed the salt.

“MI Five or MI Six?” Stone asked.

“Oh, those lines seem so blurred these days,” Sir Edward replied. “Let’s not be too specific.”

“Perhaps I should explain, sir,” Carpenter said.

Sir Edward gave her the faintest of nods.

“It is very unusual for . . . a person in Sir Edward’s position to meet, in his official capacity, with a person outside his service. In fact, very few outsiders are even aware of his name.”

“Would you prefer to be addressed as ‘M,’ Sir Edward?” Stone asked.

Sir Edward chuckled appreciatively but did not reply.

“That’s a little outdated,” Carpenter said. “You do understand that this meeting is, well, not taking place?”

“All right,” Stone said. “Perhaps you could tell me why it is not taking place?”

“Thank you, Felicity,” Sir Edward said. “I’ll take it from here.” He turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, I believe you are familiar with recent events involving a young woman by the name of Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Somewhat,” Stone said.

“And you know that we have been trying to protect certain of our personnel from certain actions of this woman.”

“You mean, you’re trying to stop her from killing your people?”

Sir Edward looked around to be sure he was not being overheard. “One might say that, though perhaps not quite so baldly.”

“Sir Edward, I am an American, not a diplomat, and we are sometimes, as a people, blunt. I think this conversation might go better if you keep that in mind.”

“Quite,” Sir Edward replied, seeming a little miffed.

“What is it you want of me?”

“It is my understanding that you are representing the woman in certain matters?”

“She has retained me for legal advice.”

“Then you are in touch with her?”

“That may be possible.”

“I should like to meet with her.”

Stone nearly choked on his wine. “You astonish me, Sir Edward, given the history of her meetings with members of your service.”

“I am aware that she harbors ill feelings toward us.”

“Then you are aware that she would probably enjoy killing you on sight.”

“Quite.”

“Sir Edward, I think that what you propose is out of the question, given the current state of relations between you and my client.”

“It is the relations between us that I would like to discuss.”

“Frankly, I cannot imagine a setting where such a meeting could take place, given your separate concerns for security.”

“I would be willing to meet with her alone in a place of her choosing, as long as it is a public place.”

“Sir Edward, do you intend to propose some sort of truce between your service and my client?”

“Something like that.”

Stone shook his head. “For such a meeting to take place, I think there would have to be a level of trust that does not exist on either side.”

“I have already said that I am willing to meet with her alone.”

“If you’ll forgive me, I don’t find that a credible proposal.”

Sir Edward looked irritated. “And why not?”

“I think my client would view such a meeting as nothing more than an opportunity for your people to kill her.”

“Nonsense. I’m willing to give her my word.”

“I’m not sure that, given her experience with your service, that would impress her.”

Sir Edward looked as if he would like to plunge his fish knife into Stone’s chest.

“Surely you can understand that,” Stone said.

“Speak to your client,” Sir Edward said.

“And tell her what, exactly?”

“Tell her that we are willing to come to an accommodation.”

“Make a proposal.”

“We stop trying to kill each other. If we can agree that, then I can arrange for all record of her to be removed from our databases and those of other European services.”

“Permanently?”

“We would retain a record, off-line, so that, if she should violate our agreement, we could circulate it again.”

“And if you should violate it?”

“That, sir, is not in question.” Sir Edward shifted in his seat, and his tone became more conciliatory. “Please understand that my service has never before undertaken such an accommodation with . . . an opponent. We are doing so now only because, in you, Mr. Barrington, we suddenly have a conduit to the opposition. You may tell that we respect her motives, but we believe that it is in the interest of both parties to bring a halt to this madness.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said.

40

Stone walked back to his house, deep in thought. He did not trust Sir Edward Fieldstone’s intentions, and the man’s word was not enough. He had visions of some sniper drawing a bead on Marie-Thérèse’s head as she and Sir Edward negotiated in some public place. He got out his cell phone and dialed the number.

She answered immediately. “Yes?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“Be brief. I don’t want to be scanned.”

“I need to meet with you again. I have news.”

A brief silence. “Go to Rockefeller Center again, at six o’clock this evening. I’ll be in touch.” She hung up without waiting for a reply.

Stone pressed the redial button.

“Yes?”

“Be very careful. Do you understand? I don’t know if I’m being followed.”

“I’m always very careful.” She cut the connection.

Stone was at the skating rink on time. Ten minutes passed before his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Were you followed?”

“Not by anyone I could spot.”

“Are you any good at spotting a tail?”

“Fairly good.”

“Walk to Central Park. Go up Fifth Avenue, against the traffic. Cross the street at least three times, checking for a multiple tail. There’ll be at least four of them. Once in the park, sit on a bench outside the Children’s Zoo.” She hung up.

Stone walked briskly up Fifth Avenue, stopping now and then to check the reflection in a shop window. He crossed the street four times, looking for a repetition in the faces around him, but he saw none. He strolled slowly through the park to the Children’s Zoo and sat down on a bench. His cell phone rang immediately. “Yes?”

“Walk to the Wollman skating rink.” She hung up.

Stone walked to the rink, stopping frequently to look at the zoo’s animals and checking for a tail. He still saw no one. At the rink, his cell phone rang again. “Yes?”

“Go to the carousel, buy a ticket. Don’t ride a horse, you’ll look ridiculous. Sit on a bench.” She hung up.

Stone did as he was told, mixing among the children and their nannies. The carousel had made three revolutions before she sat down beside him. Her hair was long and dark, and she wore a tweed suit and bright red lipstick.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Good evening. I assume I wasn’t followed.”

“Only by me. There was no one else on you. Why did you call?” Her accent was American now.

“Do you know who Sir Edward Fieldstone is?”

“Architect? Of course.”

“I had lunch with him today, at his request.”

She looked surprised. “And how did this come about?”

“A friend of mine works for him. I told her I had spoken to you.”

“I suppose that is not a breach of client confidentiality.”

“He wants to meet with you.”

She laughed. “I’ll bet he does.”

“I think you should consider this carefully. He says he’s willing to meet you, alone, in a place of your choosing, as long as it’s a public place. I expect you’re thinking there’ll be a sniper on a rooftop.”

“You’re psychic, Stone. What does he want?”

“He wants a truce.”

She blinked a few times. “He actually said that?”

“To the extent that you can get an upper-class Englishman to say anything explicit, yes.”

“On what terms?”

“You stop killing his people, his people stop trying to kill you. He’ll remove all traces of you from British and European intelligence computers, keeping only backup files, in case you renege.”

“What if he reneges?”

“I asked him that, but I didn’t get a straight answer. Presumably, you could go back to killing his people.”

“I don’t get it. Why would he stop trying to kill me?”

“So far, you’ve killed, what, half a dozen of his people? And he hasn’t even killed you once. He’s losing, and he knows it.”

“It’s unlike him to relent,” she said. “In Northern Ireland he had a reputation of never giving up until he got his man. Or woman.”

“Maybe he’s getting old. He’s got to be in his mid-sixties. Maybe his fires are cooling.”

“Maybe. I doubt it.”

“Marie-Thérèse, how long do you think you can continue like this before you end up in somebody’s gunsights?”

“As long as I want to.”

“Don’t you ever get a hankering for a more normal life?”

“What, husband? Children?”

“Whatever you want—being able to live your life without changing your identity every other day; being safe, with no one hunting you.”

“Sometimes I think about that, but you don’t understand what I’d be up against if I stopped this. There are other people who would not be pleased if I gave up my work.”

“I can understand that, but they don’t have the sort of facilities at their disposal that the intelligence services have. Granted, they may have large networks of people, but they don’t have computers that scan your face every time you cross a border. You could disappear, find a haven where you could live a more normal life—whatever you’d like that to be.”

She sighed. “You make it sound very attractive.”

“Look, the people you’ve been working with are going to lose, eventually. They’re being hunted, too, and that’s not going to stop. They’re going up against a group of big nations that have virtually unlimited resources, and they’re going to be ground down. Even the countries that have been sheltering them are going to start pulling away, because the cost to them is going to be too great. Eventually, they’re going to see that it’s easier to do business with the Western powers than trying to destroy them. This is inevitable. When that happens, where do you want to be?”

“You have a point, but it’s not going to happen tomorrow. And in the meantime, I’m quite enjoying myself.”

“I don’t believe that. I think you’re getting tired, and if you’re tired, you’re going to start making mistakes. And you can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“I may meet with Sir Edward, under the right circumstances, and you’re authorized to negotiate those for me. Tell him that if we do meet, it would be a very great mistake to make any move on me.”

“I’ll relay that.”

“Call me when you have something like an agreement, in writing.”

“Agreements like this don’t get put into writing.”

She sighed. “All right, do the best you can, but I want an immediate truce while we’re negotiating.”

“I’ll tell him that.”

She stood up, holding on to a bar to keep her balance. “You free for dinner this evening?” she asked.

“Not this evening or any evening,” Stone replied. “It’s dangerous to be around you.”

“Well, if we can make it less dangerous with this deal, maybe later.”

“Maybe later,” Stone said. But he didn’t mean it.

41

Stone went home and called Bob Cantor.

“Hey, Stone.”

“Hey, Bob. Where’s that nephew of yours?”

“Back running the photo processing equipment at the drugstore.”

“What happened to his business plans in Saint Thomas?”

“The boy is—how shall I put it?—mercurial.”

“You’re a master of understatement.”

“What’s up?”

“I want my house swept every day for a week. Can you manage the time?”

“Every day? What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Never mind. I just don’t want to be overheard while I’m doing it.”

“It’d help if I knew what sort of surveillance you’re worried about.”

“Phones, rooms, the works.”

“Who’s the opposition?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“If it’s some amateur, this is easy. If it’s a pro, or a group of pros, it’s going to be harder.”

“It’s a group of pros.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Cantor turned up and began by checking the phone system. After an hour he came into Stone’s office, holding up something electronic-looking. “Your phones were bugged, big time,” he said, “and this is very sophisticated stuff.”

“How sophisticated?”

“They don’t have to have a van parked outside your house. This probably has a range of a mile, maybe two. They can leave a voice-activated recorder running and listen to your conversations whenever they get around to it. This device wasn’t bought at Radio Shack, or off the shelf anyplace else, come to that. This is custom-designed, custom-made, and it’s not a one-off, either. Whoever did this has quality manufacturing at his disposal. Who are these people?”

“An intelligence service.”

“Not ours, I hope. I don’t want to mess with those people.”

“It’s foreign.”

“How foreign? We’re not talking about Arabs, are we?”

“They speak our language; let’s leave it at that. Are the phones secure now?”

“Yep—at least, until I leave the house. There are other ways to do this, you know, if they can get access to underground phone company equipment.”

“What about the rest of the house?”

“Give me a few minutes.”

Cantor came back a while later. “I haven’t picked up anything planted, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. These people could rent an apartment behind your house or across the street and pick up the vibrations from the glass in your windows.”

“I have double glazing throughout the house.”

“That’ll help. Are you planning to have some important conversations in the house?”

“Maybe.”

“Then let’s go find places where you can defeat surveillance. I wouldn’t use this office,” he said, pointing at the view of the gardens. “Too easy for them. Let’s go upstairs.”

They walked around the house, looking at rooms. “The dining room’s your best spot; no windows at all. The study is good, too, if you draw those velvet curtains. Your bedroom and the kitchen are not good.”

“Okay, Bob, I get the picture. I need some more help.”

“What kind?”

“I want you to round up three or four ex-cops and have them tail me.”

“You afraid of some sort of personal attack?”

“No, I’m afraid of being tailed. I want your people to look out for other people following me.”

“Gotcha,” Cantor said, leafing through his address book. “You want to be wired to my watchers?”

“That would be good.”

“When do you want to start?”

“I’m going to have a meeting here later. Right after that.”

“What time is the meeting?”

“I have to arrange it, then I’ll let you know. You start rounding up your guys.”

“You’ve got my cell phone number. Call me.”

“Will do.” Cantor let himself out of the house.

Stone called Carpenter. “I want another meeting with Sir Edward.”

“I’m not sure he has the time.”

“What? Is he jerking me around?”

“Can you arrange the meeting with La Biche?”

“We can talk about that at the meeting.”

“I’ll see if he has the time.”

“If he wants to get this done, tell him to find the time. We’re meeting at my house, as soon as possible.”

“He’ll want to choose the spot.”

“Then tell him to go fuck himself.” Stone hung up.

The phone rang ten minutes later.

“Yes?”

“Five o’clock, at your house,” she said.

“Just him,” Stone replied.

“He wants me.”

“I want you, too, when you’re not killing people. Tell him I’ll frisk him for a wire—you, too.”

“He won’t sit still for that.”

“We’re going to do this my way, or not at all,” Stone said. “What’s it going to be?”

She covered the phone and spoke to someone else, then came back. “See you at five,” she said.

Stone hung up and called Bob Cantor. “The meeting’s at five.”

“That’s going to be tough. How long will it last?”

“Half an hour to an hour is my best guess.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

Stone went to the dining room. He moved all the chairs back to the wall, except three, then he went to his desk, rummaged through a drawer, and came up with a small scanner. He replaced the batteries and put it into his pocket, then he sat down and called Marie-Thérèse’s cell phone.

“Yes?”

“Call me from a pay phone,” he said. “I’ve had my phones checked. They were bugged, but they’re clean now.”

“Ten minutes,” she said, then hung up.

Stone waited as patiently as he could, then picked up the phone as soon as it rang. “That you?”

“It’s me.”

“I have a meeting with the English gentleman at five.”

“Good.”

“We have to talk about what you want, so I’ll have something to negotiate about.”

“I want what he offered me, plus as much else as I can get.”

“You mean money? Damages for your parents’ death?”

“That would be nice.”

“Given the attrition you’ve caused in his organization, I don’t think you’d have a leg to stand on. You’ve already realized a good deal more than tit for tat.”

“All right, I want a written apology for the deaths of my parents.”

“I like that. It’s good to start with something we know he’ll never give us. What else?”

“I don’t really care, except I think we need something to punish him with, if he reneges.”

“Let me give that some thought. I’ll call you when the meeting is over.”

“Where is the meeting being held?”

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re not going to harm a hair on anybody’s head while I’m in this, or you’ll have to get yourself a new lawyer. I’m not going to be an accessory to a killing.”

“Oh, all right, I won’t murder anybody for a while,” she said, like a child promising to be good.

“Good. Talk to you later.” He dictated some notes to Joan and read them as they came off the printer, then read them again. He was ready. He looked at his watch, impatient to get on with it.

42

Sir Edward and Carpenter were on time, and Stone showed them into the dining room. “Would you like some refreshment?” he asked.

“Perhaps later,” Sir Edward replied. “Let’s get on with it.”

Stone sat down. “Marie-Thérèse is willing to meet with you in a public place of her choosing, under stringent security requirements, which she will dictate.”

“Agreed,” Sir Edward replied. “Subject to my approval of her choice of place.”

“You offered to meet at a place of her choosing. You won’t know the place until you’re there. If you become concerned as you make your way there, you can always abort.”

“How will she arrange this?”

“You’ll go to a public place, then be contacted by cell phone and directed to another public place, then another, until she is satisfied you didn’t bring company. Then, and only then, will the meeting take place.”

“Agreed,” Sir Edward replied.

“She will require a written apology from you, personally, on your service’s letterhead, for the deaths of her parents.”

Sir Edward grew an inch. “Absolutely out of the question,” he said.

“And monetary damages,” Stone said.

“That is patently ridiculous,” Sir Edward replied hotly.

“Is it? Think about this for a moment, Sir Edward. On your instructions, members of your service lay in wait for her parents, deliberately destroyed their vehicle on a public street, killing her mother and father. That is, of course, a criminal act worthy of life in prison anyplace in the civilized world, but we’ll overlook that and keep this a civil matter.”

“It doesn’t sound very civil to me,” Sir Edward said.

“Civil as opposed to criminal. Marie-Thérèse, in return for your written acceptance of responsibility and apology, plus monetary damages, will forgo, in writing, her right to press criminal charges, and she will waive any further civil action.”

“Her parents were killed in a war,” Sir Edward said.

“Oh? Was there a declaration of war by Britain on Switzerland and its citizens?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, under international law, there was no war.”

Carpenter spoke up. “Stone, surely you can see that we cannot give her anything in writing. An apology, maybe, but not in writing. She might publish it.”

“That’s exactly what she intends to do, should you renege on the agreement.”

“Ridiculous,” Sir Edward said.

“Is it? You have recourse if she breaks the agreement: You can reinstate the computer record of her activities with international law enforcement and intelligence services, and she becomes a fugitive again. She is entitled to recourse, as well, and the ability to publish your letter would be a motive for you to keep the agreement.”

“What else does she want?” Sir Edward asked.

“Just those two things.”

“How much does she want?”

“Two million dollars; a million for each parent.”

“Out of the question.”

“Make me an offer.”

Sir Edward did some whispering with Carpenter.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” Carpenter said.

“If you’re going to make jokes, then we don’t have anything left to talk about,” Stone said, gathering his notes.

More whispering. “All right, half a million,” Carpenter said.

“A million,” Stone replied.

“Three quarters of a million . . . euros,” Sir Edward said, “and that’s my final offer.”

“I believe I can recommend that to my client,” Stone said, “though she reserves the right to reject the offer at her meeting with you.”

Sir Edward nodded.

“I’ve drafted some language for your letter,” Stone said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table.

Sir Edward shoved it at Carpenter. “Read it to me.”

Carpenter picked up the letter. “ ‘To whom it may concern: On (fill in date) in the city of Cairo, Egypt, agents of this service, at my personal direction, assassinated two Swiss citizens, René and Fatima du Bois, who were innocent of any crime. I wish to apologize personally, and on behalf of this service, to their daughter, Marie-Thérèse du Bois, for this unconscionable act. As a consequence of my actions, this service is paying the sum of (fill in amount) to Mademoiselle du Bois as reparations for the deaths of her parents. Signed.” ’

“Will you excuse us for a few minutes?” Sir Edward asked.

“Of course.” Stone got up and went into his study. He could hear murmurs and occasionally the raised voice of Sir Edward. Finally, Carpenter came into the study. “All right, come in. And Stone, he will not go one inch further than what you’re about to hear.”

“Let’s hear it,” Stone said, getting up and walking back to the dining room.

Sir Edward sat, his jaw clenched, and stared at Stone.

“This is what we have,” Carpenter said, reading from a handwritten document. “ ‘To whom it may concern: Some time ago, agents of British Military Intelligence conducted an operation in the Middle East, during which two Swiss citizens, René and Fatima du Bois, were inadvertently killed. This organization regrets its actions and extends its apologies and sympathy to their daughter, Marie-Thérèse du Bois.’ That’s it. There will be no mention of reparations in the letter. It will be typed on the letterhead of the Ministry of Defence.”

“And I won’t change a fucking word of it,” Sir Edward said.

“All right,” Stone replied, “you may present the letter and your offer to Marie-Thérèse at your meeting.”

“Which will be when?” Carpenter asked.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to my client.”

Everyone stood up, and Stone showed them out.

Carpenter hung back for a moment. “Stone, believe me when I tell you, this is an extraordinary concession for Sir Edward. Please tell your client that he will offer nothing further.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Stone said.

“Call me when you have a time for the meeting.” The two walked away from the house.

Stone went back inside, called Marie-Thérèse and asked her to call back from a pay phone. When she did, he read her the text of the letter and told her about the money.

“The letter and the sum are both inadequate,” she replied.

“Listen to me, Marie-Thérèse. This is the offer, and it won’t change. It’s more than you ever expected to get, and I advise you in the strongest terms to accept it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “All right, but Sir Edward will have to apologize to me in person when we meet.”

“We can make that demand at the meeting, but don’t expect it to happen.”

“All right. Now, how are we going to prevent these people from trying to kill me at the meeting?”

“I have some ideas about that,” Stone said, and he explained.

“I like it,” she said. “Tell Sir Edward to be at the Rockefeller Center skating rink tomorrow at three p.m.”

“All right,” Stone said, and hung up. Then he called Dino.

43

Stone was halfway through his first bourbon when Dino arrived at Elaine’s.

Dino gave Elaine a kiss and settled into a chair opposite Stone. “A Laphroaig on the rocks,” he said to a waiter.

“You’re drinking single malts now?” Stone asked.

“Only when you’re buying,” Dino replied. “And it’s better than that corn whisky you drink.”

“Corn liquor aged in oak barrels for ten years,” Stone said. “And bourbon is a patriotic American libation.”

“Then you ought to get the Medal of Honor. What’s going on?”

“I need your help.”

“So what else is new?”

“You’ll be preventing a killing on the streets of New York, so just think of it as doing your job.”

“I’m real anxious to hear what your idea of doing my job is.”

“All right, pay attention, this is complicated.”

“I’ll try to follow,” Dino said, “if you’ll keep it to words of two syllables or less.”

“Actually—”

“That’s four syllables.”

“Dino, shut up and listen.”

“Can I have another Laphroaig on the rocks?” Dino asked a passing waiter.

“You haven’t finished the one you’re drinking,” Stone pointed out.

“Yeah, but you’re going to talk for a long time, and I don’t want to interrupt you by ordering another drink.”

“You just did.”

“After this. Go.”

“I’ve arranged a meeting between the head of Carpenter’s service and La Biche, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dino nearly shouted. “How the fuck could you do that when you don’t know either one of them?”

“We’ve all met since I saw you last.”

“Last I heard, you were upset about their trying to kill her.”

“I still am. I’m trying to stop it from happening. That’s why I need your help.”

“Okay, just a minute, there’s something I want to know.”

“What?”

“What are four retired NYPD cops doing outside in the street and at the bar right now?”

“They’re making sure I’m not being followed.”

“Stone, have you come over all paranoid?”

“Dino, if you’ll just let me talk uninterrupted for a few minutes, all your questions will be answered, I promise.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re not, you’re asking questions.”

“No, I’m listening.” Dino rested his chin in his hand. “See? This is me listening.”

“To begin again, I’ve arranged a meeting between La Biche and Sir Edward Fieldstone—”

“Where do the Brits get these names?” Dino asked, shaking his head.

“Dino, shut up and listen.”

Dino drew an imaginary zipper across his mouth.

“ . . . who is the head of Carpenter’s service. He has proposed a truce between his people and La Biche—in short, they stop killing each other.”

Dino shook his head in wonder and laughed.

“Dino . . .”

“I didn’t say a word, but that was funny.”

“The participants in this situation don’t think it’s funny.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. How many of this Fieldstone guy’s people has La Biche got on the scoreboard?”

“Too many, that’s why he wants the truce. So I’ve arranged a meeting between them.”

“Is the girl bananas? If she shows up at a meeting, the Brits will waste her.”

“That’s what I’m trying to prevent, and that’s why I need your help.”

“You want me to get her some body armor to wear?”

“That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, but no, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Well, I don’t want to be anywhere nearby when this meeting happens.”

“That’s exactly where I want you to be.”

“Not anywhere nearby?”

“No, nearby. In fact, very nearby.”

A look of incredulity spread across Dino’s face.

“Just hear me out.”

“You want me to take a bullet for this broad?”

“No, but if you’re there, nobody will take a bullet.”

“And how do we know that?” Dino asked. “Really, I’d like to know why my presence would stop them from pulling her plug.”

“Dino, you’re a lieutenant in the NYPD. It’s not in their interests to kill such a person. That’s why they won’t shoot if you’re close to her and they know it.”

“And where is this meeting going to take place?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let’s backtrack a minute here,” Dino said. “How is it you happen to be in touch with La Biche?”

“I got her number from Bobby, the bartender.”

“From Bobby, the bartender here?” Dino pointed down.

“Yes.”

“Let me get this straight: If you want to get in touch with an international terrorist and assassin, the guy to see is Bobby, the bartender at Elaine’s?”

“In this case, yes. You see—”

“Boy, I’ve been underestimating Bobby. I thought all he did was pour drinks, but all the time, he’s a clearinghouse for spies and assassins.”

“You remember the night you arrested her here?”

“I seem to have some recollection of that.”

“She was at the bar talking to Bobby. He asked her for her number, and she gave it to him. Her cell phone number.”

“Man, I wish I’d thought of that when I had her in custody. It would make it so much easier to get in touch with her the next time she kills somebody.”

“Dino, that’s how it happened. I called her and met with her—”

“And why the fuck would you want to do a stupid thing like that. After that thing in the Post . . .”

“That’s why I wanted to talk with her, to explain that I had nothing to do with trying to kill her. I didn’t want her breathing down my neck.”

“And she took your word for that? She’s not as smart as I thought she was.”

“She is very, very smart, believe me, and I can pull off this meeting and stop this killing, if you’ll go along with me.”

“Sure, sure, I’ll go along. It’ll make a nice change. I haven’t done anything this crazy in years.”

“All right,” Stone said, “this is how we’re going to do it.”

Dino listened, rapt. When Stone had finished, he burst out laughing.

“Jesus, I love it. And what are you going to do if World War Three breaks out in this public place?”

“Trust me, Dino, this is going to work.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” Dino said, “because if you’re not, it’s going to be my ass.”

“And mine.”

“Never mind yours,” Dino said.

44

Sir Edward Fieldstone stood in the middle of Rockefeller Center and tried to watch the skaters. He did not like being in the midst of all these . . . people . . . these foreigners, these colonials, these Americans with what he assumed were Brooklyn accents. His idea of New York accents had been formed by watching a great many World War II movies, American ones, mostly. His idea of a New Yorker was William Bendix.

He had stood there, increasingly annoyed, for twelve minutes before the cell phone in his hand vibrated. He opened it and put it to an ear. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” Marie-Thérèse said.

“If you say so.”

“Now, now, mustn’t be unpleasant.”

His annoyance, and the thick body armor he wore under his jacket, caused him to begin to perspire. “May we get on with this, please?”

“Of course. You are to walk west on West Fiftieth Street, to your right. When you come to Sixth Avenue, cross and turn left.”

“What . . .” But the connection had been broken.

“I’m to walk west on Fiftieth Street, cross Sixth Avenue, and turn left,” he said, lowering his head and hoping the microphone pinned to the back of his lapel was working.

“The van won’t be able to follow you,” Carpenter replied, “because the traffic on Sixth Avenue moves uptown, and you’ll be walking downtown, and I don’t think we can take the risk of backup on the ground. But the chopper will keep you in view.”

Sir Edward looked up.

“Don’t look up,” Carpenter said, “and don’t lower your head when you speak. The microphone can pick up your voice. Speak as little as possible, and when you do, try not to move your lips.”

What was he, a ventriloquist? He hated that he had allowed Carpenter to talk him into this nonsense, but he had to agree that it was their only chance to get at La Biche. He began walking. At Sixth Avenue, he crossed and walked downtown at a leisurely pace. He didn’t like Sixth Avenue; it was full of taxicabs and grubby people and those awful street vendors with their kebobs and foreign food stinking up the atmosphere. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“At the next corner, cross the street, then continue downtown.”

He followed her instructions, resisting the urge to look behind him. There was no one there anyway, unless La Biche had accomplices.

Stone’s cell phone went off. “Hello?”

“It’s Cantor. The Brit is crossing Sixth and heading downtown. None of my guys have been able to spot a tail yet. He may be clean.”

“Good,” Stone said, then closed his phone.

Sir Edward had walked for nearly eight blocks with no further word. He did not enjoy walking, especially in New York; he preferred his car and driver. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“Cross Forty-second Street, then turn left into Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. Ten paces into the park, stop and wait for another call.” She cut the connection.

“She’s directed me into the park behind the library,” Sir Edward said to the air around him.

“I can’t believe we’re that lucky,” Carpenter replied, “unless it’s not the final meeting place.”

“She told me to stop when I get into the park. Do you think she’ll fire?”

“I don’t believe she will. Now listen, when she’s clear, your signal to fire is to take off your hat, smooth your hair, and put your hat back on.”

“I believe I remember that,” Sir Edward replied. “Just be sure your man doesn’t miss.”

“His weapon mount is gyro-stabilized,” she replied. “The copter’s movement won’t muss his aim.” She glanced at Mason, who was standing beside her wearing a harness that held him in the helicopter and a baseball cap backwards. She thought he looked ridiculous.

“I hope to God you’re right.” Sir Edward crossed Forty-second Street, walked another few yards, then turned into Bryant Park. He counted off ten paces and stopped. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“Very good, Sir Edward. Do you see the line of park benches to your right? The ones in the center of the park?”

“Yes.”

“Go and sit on the fourth bench, at the end closest to Sixth Avenue.”

Sir Edward looked at the benches: They were strung out in a line with a few feet between them. He counted, then went and sat on the bench as he had been instructed. He looked around.

“What’s happening?” Carpenter asked.

“She told me to sit on this bench.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Then let’s wait for something to happen.”

“I don’t see any alternative,” Sir Edward said, “unless she’s drawing a bead on me now.” Someone sat down beside him on the bench.

“Who is that? The man in the hat?” Carpenter asked.

“Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” the man said.

“Barrington? What are you doing here? The meeting was to have been with Miss du Bois.”

“Stone Barrington is there?” Carpenter asked.

“Yes,” Sir Edward replied.

“Yes, what?” Stone asked.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sir Edward said.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Ah, myself. Where is Ms. du Bois?”

“She will arrive in due course,” Stone replied.

Sir Edward looked around him. The park was fairly crowded with all sorts of people. Which one could be the woman? The bag lady pushing a shopping cart? The woman in a business suit with a briefcase? The girl on Rollerblades?

“Where is she?”

“Relax, Sir Edward,” Stone replied.

On the sidewalk behind the benches, a man in a suit and hat pushed a wheelchair bearing an old woman, who was hunched over, a large handbag in her lap. Sir Edward kept looking, trying to identify La Biche.

The wheelchair came to a halt between Sir Edward’s bench and the next. The man bent over the woman, apparently his mother. “There, dear, is that comfortable for you?” he asked her.

“Very comfortable,” she replied in an old lady’s voice. She reached over and plucked the tiny receiver from Sir Edward’s ear. “Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” she said. Her voice was no longer old, and her accent was as British as Sir Edward’s. “I am Marie-Thérèse du Bois. May I introduce Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York Police Department.”

“How do you do, Sir Edward?” Dino said. He was still bending over the wheelchair. His head close to that of Marie-Thérèse.

45

Sir Edward looked around himself. “I’m surrounded,” he said, lowering his head to be closer to the microphone behind his lapel.

It took Marie-Thérèse only a moment to locate it and pull it free. “Sir Edward is quite safe,” she said into the microphone. “And I wish to point out that an attempt on me is very likely to hit either Lieutenant Bacchetti or Mr. Barrington. If that should happen, The New York Times will have the story before the ambulances arrive.” She picked up Sir Edward’s earpiece, which was resting on his shoulder, and put it into her own ear. “Did you read that loud and clear?” she asked.

Sir Edward removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and put the hat back on.

Carpenter, in the helicopter, looked at Mason, who shook his head. “No shot,” he said. “And we don’t want to knock off one of the local constabulary, do we? Never mind your mate.”

“I read you loud and clear,” Carpenter said into her own microphone.

“Then kindly go and park that chopper over the East River,” Marie-Thérèse responded. “You’ll still be able to read our transmissions, but you don’t want to make me nervous by hovering, do you?”

Mason switched off his headset. “How soon can we have men in the park?”

“I estimate four minutes, if they run,” Carpenter replied.

“Looks like we’re stuck with the situation, doesn’t it?”

Carpenter switched on her headset again. “Pilot, head for the East River and hover there,” she said, so that La Biche could read her. She switched to her channel two. “Everybody converge on Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. Subject is seated next to Architect. Use extreme caution, and don’t fire unless certain of success without collateral damage.”

“Thank you so much,” Marie-Thérèse replied. She watched as the helicopter moved east, along Forty-second Street, then she leaned forward in her wheelchair so that she could see Stone. “Let’s get on with it,” she said. “We won’t have long before Sir Edward’s cavalry arrives.”

“Sir Edward,” Stone said, “did you bring the letter?”

Sir Edward reached into an inside pocket, produced an envelope, and handed it to Stone.

Stone read the letter and handed it to Marie-Thérèse. “It’s as advertised.”

She looked over the letter. “And the money?”

Sir Edward produced another envelope. “Here is a deposit receipt from Manhattan Trust. Call the number at the top of the page, use the code word ‘structure,’ and the bank will wire the funds to any account in the world. The transaction is irrevocable from my end.”

“I certainly hope so, for your sake, Sir Edward, because if there is any problem with the transfer, you will be in violation of our agreement.”

“I believe I’m due a signed document from you,” Sir Edward said.

Stone handed him a letter. He looked at it and put it into a pocket. “It is satisfactory,” he said.

“All right, let’s go,” Marie-Thérèse said. “Sir Edward, you will push my wheelchair.”

“What? I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’re all going into the library. It’s a lovely building, you’ll be impressed.”

“We’ll be done in a couple of minutes, Sir Edward,” Stone said. “Please don’t make a fuss.”

The four set off together, Sir Edward pushing the wheelchair, Stone and Dino walking on either side of Marie-Thérèse. They entered the library through a side door and took an elevator to the main floor.

“Stop here,” Marie-Thérèse said. “Sir Edward, you will accompany these gentlemen to the main entrance of the library, then you will be free to go.” Grabbing the wheels, she maneuvered the wheelchair through a rest room door bearing a handicapped-use sign.

“Let’s go,” Stone said, indicating the way for Sir Edward.

Marie-Thérèse locked the door, shed some clothes, and produced others and a wig from her large handbag. A quick check in the mirror, and she left the rest room, abandoning the wheelchair and her other clothes. She returned to Bryant Park and headed toward Sixth Avenue. As she reached the sidewalk, half a dozen men ran past her as she hailed a cab.

Stone paused at the top of the library’s front steps. “That concludes our transaction, Sir Edward.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Sir Edward replied.

“You couldn’t just play it straight, could you? So much for the word of an English gentleman.”

“Oh, go roger yourself,” Sir Edward said, sweat rolling down his face.

“You should get out of that body armor before you have a heart attack,” Dino said. “Let’s go, Stone.” He led the way down the front steps, and they got into Dino’s car, which was waiting at the curb. “Where to?”

“Home, I guess.” The car moved off.

“And where is Marie-Thérèse now?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know,” Stone said, “and I don’t want to know.”

Marie-Thérèse opened her cell phone and dialed the number on the bank receipt Sir Edward had given her.

“Wire transfer department,” a woman’s voice said.

Marie-Thérèse read off the account number from the sheet in her hand.

“What is your code?”

“Structure.”

“Accepted. What are your instructions?”

“Wire the full amount to the following number at Saint George’s Bank, Cayman Islands.” She recited an account number.

The woman repeated the number for confirmation. “The funds will be in your account tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Why not today?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

“Transfers must be made before two p.m., or they go out the following business day.”

“Make an exception,” Marie-Thérèse said.

“I’m afraid it’s a nationwide banking rule,” the woman replied. “Good day.” She hung up.

Marie-Thérèse dialed Stone’s cell phone number.

“Yes?”

“The bank won’t wire the funds until tomorrow morning.”

“That’s normal. Transfers have to be made by two p.m.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll check with my bank in the morning, and if the funds are not there . . .”

“Please, don’t tell me,” Stone said.

“You’ll hear from me if the money isn’t there.”

“I’d rather not hear from you again, Marie-Thérèse.”

“What about your bill?”

“Consider my services pro bono,” Stone said. “Now please disappear, and have a happy life.”

“Check your coat pocket,” she said. “And thank you for your help, Stone.” She hung up.

Stone felt his pockets. There was something in one of them. He reached in and pulled out an envelope. Inside was a thick wad of one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Looks like about ten grand,” Dino said. “Don’t forget to report it on your tax return. And you’re buying dinner tonight.”

46

Stone and Dino had just sat down at Elaine’s, when Carpenter walked in.

Dino waved her to a seat. Stone ignored her greeting.

“Whatever Dino’s having,” she said to a waiter.

“A nice single malt, on Stone,” Dino said.

“Quite a day, eh?” Carpenter said. The waiter set down her drink, and she raised her glass. “To a job well done by the firm of Barrington and Bacchetti.”

Dino raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Stone left his glass on the table.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dino asked.

“She was in the chopper,” Stone said to Dino. He turned to Carpenter. “Who was the shooter? Mason?”

“Mason was the best shot in the Royal Marines, a few years back,” she replied. “He keeps his hand in.”

“But you were calling the shot, weren’t you?”

“No, Sir Edward did that, when he took off his hat. I called it off.”

“But you wouldn’t have, if Dino hadn’t been there, would you?”

“If Dino and you hadn’t been there. That was very clever of you.”

“I knew it was the only way I could keep her alive.”

“It was.”

“Well, I’ve learned something from this experience,” Stone said.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Never trust an English gentleman, or an English gentlelady, for that matter.”

“It’s like they say in your Mafia,” she replied. “It wasn’t personal, it was business.”

“Forgive me if I take it personally.”

“That’s up to you.”

“Stone and I take a different view of this,” Dino said. “I understand your position. I may even have some sympathy for it.”

“Thank you,” Carpenter replied. “It’s nice to get a little understanding from somebody.”

Stone picked up a menu. “Anybody want some dinner?”

“I’m starved,” Carpenter said. “I’ll have whatever Dino’s having.”

“Smart girl,” Dino said. “We’ll try the osso buco,” he told the waiter.

“Same here,” Stone said, “and tell Barry to make it with polenta, instead of pasta. And bring us a bottle of the Amarone.”

“Why do you prefer the polenta to the pasta?” Carpenter asked.

“My necktie prefers it,” Stone replied.

“Tuck your napkin into your collar, the English way.”

“I intend to, even with the polenta.”

“So,” Dino said, “what are your plans now, Felicity?”

“Oh, I may stick around New York for a while. It’s time I got back to the work I came here to do, before La Biche so rudely interrupted it.”

“And what work was that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Dino.”

“She’s afraid the NYPD might interfere,” Stone said. “During the past few days Carpenter and her people have broken more New York laws than a Mafia family.”

“Well, as long as they don’t do it in the Nineteenth Precinct, and frighten the patrol cars.”

Elaine came and sat down. “So?”

Stone shrugged.

“It’s a pity you weren’t here a minute ago,” Dino said to her. “You missed Stone’s display of moral outrage.”

“Yeah? We don’t get a lot of that around here, except when the Yankees or the Knicks lose.”

Their dinner came, and Elaine moved on to another table.

“This is delicious,” Carpenter said.

“The best in New York,” Dino replied. “Better than I’ve had in Italy, come to think of it.”

Stone ate half his dinner and stopped.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dino asked. “I never saw you leave osso buco on a plate.”

“I’m still thinking about this afternoon, I guess, and it’s not doing my appetite any good.” He waved at a waiter. “Wild Turkey on the rocks.”

“You haven’t finished your wine,” Carpenter said.

Stone poured his glass into hers. “You finish it for me. Wine isn’t strong enough tonight.” The bourbon came, and he took a large swig.

“Uh-oh,” Dino said. “I’m going to have to send him home in a patrol car tonight.”

“Does it happen often?” Carpenter asked.

“Couple of times a year, maybe. Usually, it’s a woman.”

“It’s a woman tonight,” Stone said.

“Anybody we know?” Dino asked.

Stone looked directly at Carpenter for the first time that evening. “She’s not a hundred miles from this table.”

“Oh, I like the thought of driving a man to drink,” Carpenter said.

Stone stared into his bourbon.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Carpenter said.

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s a war, and we’ve got to win it.”

“You won the First World War and lost a million men, a whole generation of leadership. You won the Second World War and had your cities and your industry reduced to smoking rubble and lost your empire. What do you hope to win this time?”

Carpenter shrugged. “Some sort of peace.”

“At what price?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“I admire your commitment, but not your tactics,” Stone said.

“In every country, even in this one, there are a few who are willing to do what’s necessary to achieve greater good. The public doesn’t care, they look the other way, while we clean up the mess left by foreign policy.”

“Oh, thank God for the few,” Stone said, raising his glass. He took a large swig. “The few make me sick.”

“You’re not going to throw up in my police car, are you?” Dino asked.

“I may throw up on this table if I hear any more of this.”

“Dino,” Carpenter said, “can’t you explain this to him?”

“He wouldn’t understand,” Dino said.

“Oh, I understand, all right,” Stone replied. “It’s just that what I understand makes me ill.”

Carpenter threw her napkin on the table and drained her wineglass. “Well, I don’t think I’ll go on making you sick.” She stood up.

“Do you have any idea what’s going to happen tomorrow?” Stone asked.

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“Marie-Thérèse is going to find out that the money Sir Edward promised her isn’t in her bank—that’s my guess, anyway, having dealt with Sir Edward this once. And if he’s as duplicitous as I think he is, there’s going to be blood in the streets—your blood, and Sir Edward’s and Mason’s, and whoever in your service is foolish enough to stick his head out of doors.”

“You think we should all leave town, then? Run?”

“I think you should leave the planet, if you can, because you still don’t grasp how determined this woman is and what she’s capable of. You wronged her once, and you lost half a dozen people. If you’ve wronged her again . . . Well, there’ll be no end to it, until all of you are dead—her, too.”

“Felicity,” Dino said, “is the money going to be in her bank tomorrow morning?”

Carpenter looked at Dino. “Yes,” she said, turning toward Stone. “I made the banking arrangements myself. Now I’m getting out of here. I’m sick of Stone’s moral superiority.”

“It’s easy to feel morally superior to some people,” Stone replied.

She picked up her handbag and walked out.

Dino turned to Stone. “She says they paid the money. Maybe this is going to be all right.”

“She’s lying,” Stone replied. “That’s all they do, these people, is lie and kill. This is going to be a disaster, you wait and see.”

“Ever the optimist,” Dino said.

47

Marjorie Harris arrived at her desk at Manhattan Trust half an hour early, as she usually did. She switched on her computer and opened the wire transfer file. She had prepared a list of transactions that had been ordered too late for the two P.M. deadline the previous day, and now all she had to do was press the send key, verify the instruction twice, and tens of millions of dollars were automatically wire-transferred to banks all over the world in a matter of seconds.

She waited for the confirmations to come back, and, one by one, each transaction was confirmed by a computer in another bank somewhere. Human hands were not involved, though in some cases the instructions were received by fax.

Marjorie, her first duty of the day accomplished, opened the bag from the deli, removed a warm cheese Danish, which was not on her diet, and a black coffee, then turned to the New York Times crossword puzzle. The rest of her day would not begin until she had finished it.

At that same moment, in the Cayman Islands, south of Cuba, Hattie Englander let herself into St. George’s Bank and went to her desk in the wire transfer department. She placed her coffee and ham-and-egg sandwich on her desk, then went to the fax machine, bent over, and removed a stack of faxes that had arrived during the night or earlier that morning.

As she was about to straighten up, she heard a small, chirping sound behind her. She smiled and maintained her position.

“There it is,” Jamie Shields said, running a warm hand over her buttocks. “Shining like the morning sun.” He lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. “Is it wet this morning?” he asked Hattie.

“You know it is,” she replied, moving to the touch of his hand, then to the touch of something even warmer.

He slid into her from behind. “What a wonderful way to start the day,” he breathed, as he established a rhythm.

Hattie shortly did what she did two or three times a week: She came in a series of snorts and cries, grabbing hold of the fax machine for support. The papers in her hand fell and scattered as Jamie joined her chorus.

Five minutes later, when the other workers began to arrive, Jamie was at his desk at the other end of the room, and Hattie was on her hands and knees, scooping up the stack of faxes that had slipped from her grasp.

“What’s going on?” her boss asked sharply.

“Nothing, Mr. Peterson,” Hattie said, her search interrupted before she could see the single sheet of paper that had landed under the fax machine. “I just dropped the morning faxes.”

“Deal with them at once,” Peterson said grumpily.

“Yes, sir,” Hattie replied, taking her seat at her desk. Coffee would have to wait. She stacked the papers evenly and ran through them quickly. All were copies of transfers wired that morning or during the night from banks around the world. Except one sheet, which was a request for notification. One hour after opening time, she was to fax a number in Switzerland, to report receipt of a transfer of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust in New York. If the funds were received into the St. George’s account, she was to immediately forward them to an account in the Swiss Bank, holding out only the fifty-dollar transfer fee. If the transfer from New York had not arrived, she was to report that fact to the Swiss Bank.

She went through the other sheets again; the transfer had not arrived. She checked her watch: twenty minutes before nine. She opened her coffee. Plenty of time to have breakfast before checking the fax machine again at nine. She began to munch her sandwich and sip her coffee.

At nine o’clock, she checked the fax machine again. A number of other transfers had arrivied, but not the one from Manhattan Trust. She opened a fax form in her computer and typed a short message: “Subject: wire transfer, 750,000 euros, from Manhattan Trust not received. Please inform client.” She moved the cursor to the send button and clicked. This whole business would have been easier if her bosses had completed the computer setup that would handle everything automatically, but they were waiting for the end of the fiscal year to spend the money.

Five minutes later, she received an e-mail from Switzerland. “Please confirm receipt or lack of receipt of Manhattan Trust transfer at your 2:00 p.m. cutoff time.”

Hattie logged in wire transfers all morning, getting hungry as one o’clock passed. She could not have lunch until the two-o’clock cutoff time. At two, she checked the fax machine once more and found it empty. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. Then, as she was about to leave, she remembered.

She returned to her desk, checked the transfers once more, then tapped in a message to Switzerland. “Manhattan Trust transfer of 750,000 euros not received this day. Please inform client.” Then she went to lunch.

Marie-Thérèse was having breakfast in her suite at the Carlyle when her cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“Good morning, it’s Dr. von Enzberg, in Zurich,” a deep male voice said.

“Good morning, Dr. von Enzberg,” she replied. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Saint George’s Bank has informed us that the transfer from Manhattan Trust has not been received,” he said. “However, it will almost certainly come later in the morning. I’ve asked them to contact me at their two-p.m. cutoff time, to let me know if it has arrived.”

“Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg,” she said. “I’ll expect your call.” She closed the cell phone and went back to her breakfast. Then she stopped, nervous. She found the sheet of paper Sir Edward had given her and dialed the phone number at the top.

“Wire transfer room,” Marjorie Harris said.

“Yesterday I gave instructions for a transfer to Saint George’s Bank in the Caymans,” Marie-Thérèse said. She gave the woman the account number.

“Oh, yes,” Marjorie replied, checking the number on her computer. “That went out first thing this morning. It should be in your account now.”

“Thank you,” Marie-Thérèse said, then hung up, feeling better. She finished her breakfast, then drew a bath and got in. Where would she go? she asked herself. The world was her oyster now. Even the countries where she had been a fugitive were now open to her, as long as she had a good European Union passport, and she could manage that in a day. She thought about England: perhaps a nice, little Queen Anne house in the country, not too far from Heathrow. The Cotswold Hills were appealing, and she liked the irony of living in Sir Edward’s own country. The thought made her laugh. Some shopping before leaving New York would be in order.

Marie-Thérèse was trying on a dress in the Armani shop a little after two, when her phone rang again. Finally. “Yes?”

“It’s Dr. von Enzberg. I’ve had notification from Saint George’s Bank that no funds were received into your account from Manhattan Trust.”

“They’re certain?”

“I asked for confirmation and received it. What are your instructions?”

“None,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I will handle this myself.” She closed the phone. “I’ll take this dress and the tweed jacket,” she said to the saleslady.

“They’ll both be wonderful for traveling,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m not traveling just yet,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I have a few things to do in New York over the weekend, before I leave.” Clearly, the phone number for Manhattan Trust was manned by someone from British Intelligence. They would not fool her again.

Just at closing time, a cleaning woman came into the wire transfer department of St. George’s Bank and made ready to mop the floor. “You going to be long?” she asked the young woman still seated at her desk.

“I’ll be out of your way in a moment,” Hattie replied.

The cleaning woman took hold of the cart that held the fax machine and rolled it away from the wall. A single sheet of paper lay on the floor where the cart had been. She picked it up and handed it to the woman at the desk. “This yours?”

Hattie examined the document. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

“It was under the fax machine.”

“I was waiting for it all morning,” Hattie said, laughing. She checked her watch: after closing time in Switzerland. She typed a message confirming receipt of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust and clicked on the send button. It was Friday night in Switzerland. They would receive the e-mail when they opened on Monday morning.

48

Marie-Thérèse yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.

“How much longer?” the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.

“As long as it takes,” she replied. “Read your paper.”

“I’ve read it.”

“Then do the crossword.”

“I can never do those things in English.”

“Then shut up.”

He was silent.

They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.

“Now,” she said aloud. “Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car.”

“Right,” her driver replied.

A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began moving.

“Let’s get going,” she said. “Stay as far behind them as you can without losing them.”

The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.

Marie-Thérèse, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. “Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don’t move from the spot until I appear.”

The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Thérèse got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.

This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn’t have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Thérèse, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.

He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.

Marie-Thérèse put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. “I’m early,” she said to the bartender. “A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the bartender replied, then went to work.

How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.

The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. “Good evening,” he said. Yes, American.

“Good evening,” Marie-Thérèse replied coolly.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” the man said, “but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a drink?”

“Thank you, I already have a drink. And my date will be arriving in a few minutes.”

“May we talk until then?”

“All right.”

“My name is Burt Pence,” he said, offering his hand. “And yours?”

“Elvira Moore,” she replied, shaking his hand.

He moved the fifty away from the bartender, toward her purse. “Please put this away,” he said. “This is on me.”

Marie-Thérèse picked up the fifty and stuck it into her large handbag, which rested on the stool next to her. “Thank you, Burt. Tell me, what sort of work do you do?”

“I’m an FBI agent,” Burt replied.

“Oh, sure. I’ve heard that one before.”

Burt reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, and laid it on the bar.

“Oh, my, you’re telling the truth,” she said, picking up the wallet and examining it. “What on earth are you doing at the Four Seasons? I hope you’re on an expense account.”

“Actually, I’m not dining this evening,” Burt replied. “I’m on duty.”

“Really?” She tried to look very interested. “What sort of duty?”

Burt looked slyly from side to side, as if he feared being overheard. “I’m protecting the director of the FBI and the head of British intelligence.”

Marie-Thérèse looked around. “Where are they?”

“In the other dining room, down the hallway. My partner is on duty in there.”

“What are you protecting them from?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. I mean, there’s no specific threat at this time, but the director always has a bodyguard.”

“I see. What about those people there?” She nodded at a couple who had come up the stairs and were being escorted down the hallway. “Would they be a threat?”

Burt looked down the hallway at their backs. “Probably not, but my partner will observe their actions in the dining room.” He suddenly stood up. “Uh-oh, you’re going to have to excuse me.”

Marie-Thérèse looked down the hallway to see Sir Edward Fieldstone walking briskly toward them.

“That’s my British subject,” Burt said out of the corner of his mouth. “Probably going to the can.”

“Well, you’d better go and hold his . . . hand,” she said, laughing.

Sir Edward started down the stairs, and Burt fell in behind him.

Marie-Thérèse put her fifty back on the bar and hopped down from her stool. She began walking down the stairs and stopped on the landing. Sir Edward was standing outside the men’s room, and Burt was nowhere to be seen. Then Burt came out the door, nodding, and held it open for Sir Edward, who disappeared inside. Burt took up his station outside the door.

Marie-Thérèse walked quickly down the stairs and over to Burt.

“What, you’re leaving?” he asked. “I’ll be right back.”

“My date called me on my cell phone and canceled,” she replied.

“I’m off in a couple of hours,” he said. “Want to meet somewhere?”

Marie-Thérèse looked around. The coat-check girl had momentarily disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun, Burt?”

Burt grinned and opened his jacket, revealing a 9mm semiautomatic.

“Oh, good,” she said, sticking her silenced pistol into his ribs and backing him against the wall. “I’ll have that, Burt.” She pulled his pistol from its holster. “Now, let’s go to the men’s room.” She shoved him with her gun barrel.

“Hey, lady, what’s going on?” Burt asked, as if she were joking. But he went through the door into a little vestibule.

Marie-Thérèse hit him, hard, in the back of the head with his own pistol, then tossed it onto his crumpled form. “Sorry about that, Burt.” She pushed open the door to find Sir Edward standing at a sink, washing his hands. An attendant stood by with a towel. She shot the attendant first, to get Sir Edward’s attention.

Sir Edward stood up straight, holding his wet hands out before him. “No, no,” he said. “I paid the money, really I did.”

“A liar to the end,” she said, and shot him once in the chest. He fell to the floor, then she walked over and put a round into his head.

She dropped the pistol into her bag, left the men’s room, stepping over Burt’s inert form in the vestibule. He began to stir. She thought about it, then picked up his pistol and hit him with it again. “This is your lucky day, Burt.” Then she peeked out the door. The entrance hall was empty. She walked casually from the men’s room and out the front doors, looking for her car. Spotting it near the corner, she beckoned, then waited, and the driver drove quickly up and stopped.

“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” she said as she got into the car. “Just drive away in a leisurely fashion.” She looked back at the three SUVs parked at the curb. They remained where they were.

“That went very well,” she said, removing her gloves. “Drop me at Madison and Seventy-second Street.”

She got out of the car and began window-shopping her way back toward the Carlyle.

49

Carpenter sat in the pool dining room of the Four Seasons with the director of the FBI and his deputy. Their main course arrived, and Sir Edward had not returned from the men’s room.

“I’d better go and check on him,” she said to the director.

“Keep your seat,” he replied, and waved over his bodyguard. “Find the men’s room and check on Sir Edward,” he said to the man. “He may be ill.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Carpenter said. “He probably ran into someone he knew. I think we should start without him.” She picked up her knife and fork and cut into the venison on the plate before her.

“How long have you been an intelligence officer, Felicity?” the director asked.

“Twelve years, sir,” she said. “I read law at Oxford, then joined the service.”

“Sir Edward tells me your father was also in your service.”

“That’s correct,” she said, “and my grandfather, as well.” Something across the room caught her attention. The director’s bodyguard was crossing the big room, walking fast, nearly running. He arrived at their table.

“What’s wrong?” the director asked. “Is it Sir Edward?”

“Yes, sir,” the agent replied. “Please follow me, and let’s move quickly.”

Everyone left the table and followed the agent from the dining room, drawing stares from other patrons. They entered a kitchen area, then came to a large door with an EXIT sign above it.

“What’s happened?” the director asked.

“Please wait here just a moment, sir,” the agent said. He walked out the door and returned a few seconds later. “Please hurry, your car is waiting.”

Carpenter followed the three men into one of the black SUVs, and it drove away quickly.

“Now tell me what’s happened,” the director said.

Carpenter thought she knew what had happened. She got out her phone.

Stone and Dino were finishing dinner at Elaine’s when Dino’s cell phone went off.

“Bacchetti,” he said into the phone. He listened for a moment, then spoke. “I’m on it. You on your cell phone? Don’t go back to where you came from, go somewhere else. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.

Stone looked at Dino. “What’s wrong? You don’t look good.”

“It looks like . . .” His phone rang again. “Bacchetti. . . . Yes, sir, I’ve just heard. I have men on their way. . . . Yes, sir, I understand how this looks. I’ll be there personally in ten minutes. . . . Yes, sir, I understand.” He hung up. “Come on,” he said to Stone, and they both ran for the door.

They were in the rear seat of Dino’s car, headed downtown with the siren going before Dino spoke again. “Don’t let anybody slow you down,” he said to the driver, then he got out his cell phone again.

“Wait a minute, Dino,” Stone said. “What’s going on?”

“Looks like your client just popped Sir Edward Fieldstone in the men’s room at the Four Seasons.” Dino dialed a number. “This is Bacchetti. I want four homicide detectives, a crime-scene team, and twelve uniforms at the Four Seasons, on East Fifty-second Street, now. Close the block, don’t let anyone into the restaurant, but let the patrons out as they finish dinner. Screen off the men’s room, and don’t let anybody in there until I’m on the scene and say so. I arrive in six minutes.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stone said, sinking back into the seat.

“So you had this all fixed, huh?” Dino said.

“At the Four Seasons?” Stone moaned. “Holy shit.”

“That about sums it up for me,” Dino said. “I just had the commissioner on the phone, and if he ever finds out that I was involved in that little business of yours in Bryant Park I’ll be walking a beat in the far reaches of the Bronx for the rest of my career.”

“I don’t believe this,” Stone said. “It was all fixed—everything.”

“I like your idea of all fixed,” Dino said. “Call your client.”

“What?”

“Call her. You’ve got her cell phone number.”

“What am I supposed to say to her?”

“Ask her what she’s going to do next.”

“Why do you think she’ll tell me?”

“Just ask her. Go ahead, call.” Dino handed Stone his cell phone.

Stone dialed the number, which he now knew by heart, while Dino stuck his ear next to Stone’s.

“Yes?” she said.

“It’s Stone. What have you done?”

“They didn’t send the money.”

“Of course they sent it. I confirmed it. Didn’t you call the bank?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t the bank. It was obviously one of Sir Edward’s people. They lied to me and to you, Stone. I had it confirmed twice that the money never arrived.”

“You’ve got to stop this, Marie-Thérèse,” he said.

“I’ve no intention of stopping,” she replied. “They broke their agreement, and now they’re fair game.” She hung up.

Dino snatched his cell phone back and pressed redial long enough to get the number.

“What are you doing?” Stone asked. “That was a conversation with a client.”

“A client who has just announced her intention of committing a crime,” Dino replied. “Your obligation now is to report that to the police and render whatever assistance you can, which you have just done.” He called another number. “This is Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti at the Nineteenth Precinct,” he said. “I want a wall-to-wall surveillance on the following cell phone number.” He read out the number. “Nail it down in a hurry and call me back with a location. Highest priority. Do not—repeat—do not attempt to detain the holder of the cell phone.” He hung up. “I’m going to nail the bitch,” he said.

“What else can I do to help?” Stone asked.

“Think. Think of another way to get to her. Do you know where she’s sleeping?”

“No.”

“No idea at all? Hotel? Apartment? Safe house?”

“I have no idea. The only thing I have is the cell phone number, and you have that now.”

“I hope to God it’s enough,” Dino said. “Did I mention that at the time she shot Sir Edward, he and Carpenter were having dinner with the director of the FBI?”

“Oh, shit.”

“That’s right, pal.”

The car was waved through a roadblock at Fifty-second and Park, then screeched to a halt in front of the Four Seasons. Stone and Dino got out of the car.

“Stay with me,” Dino said, “and keep your mouth shut.”

“What could I possibly say?” Stone replied.

50

Dino and Stone walked into the downstairs lobby of the Four Seasons to find a phalanx of uniformed police officers standing in front of the men’s-room door. A man in a pin-striped suit was yelling at them. “You don’t understand! I’ve got to get into that men’s room right now!”

Dino tapped the man on the shoulder, spinning him around. He flashed his badge. “Sir,” he said, “go upstairs and ask the headwaiter to direct you to the other men’s room.”

“What other men’s room? There isn’t one.”

“Believe me, he’ll find you one,” Dino said. He pointed at an officer. “You. Escort this gentleman upstairs.”

The cop took the man’s elbow and steered him up the staircase.

“Out of my way,” Dino said to the uniforms, who parted like the Red Sea. He pointed a thumb at Stone. “He’s with me.” Then he led the way into the men’s room. A team of EMTs were bent over two bodies, one of them in a dark suit.

“Are they dead?” Dino asked.

“Yep,” an EMT replied, “both of them.”

“Then get the hell out of my crime scene.”

The EMTs gathered their gear and left.

Dino bent over Sir Edward. “One in the chest, one in the head. Very professional.” He looked at the men’s-room attendant. “Poor schmuck,” he said. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

A uniform stuck his head through the doorway. “Lieutenant, we got an FBI guy up at the bar. He’s the only witness.”

“Let’s go,” Dino said to Stone. He marched up the stairs and to the bar, where an EMT was doing something to the back of a young man’s head. There was a glass of brown liquid before him, no ice. He took a big swig.

Dino removed the glass from his hand and set it on the bar. “This is how the FBI recovers from a tap on the head?” he asked. “I’m Bacchetti, NYPD. What happened, and get it right the first time.”

“I was sitting here, watching the people entering the hall to the dining room. My partner was in the dining room with the director, his deputy, and his guests.”

“Who were . . . ?”

“Deputy Director Robert Kinney, Sir Edward somebody or other, the dead man, and a woman who works—worked for him.”

“Go on.”

“Sir Edward came down the hall looking for the men’s room. I went with him, and then the woman—”

“Wait a minute, what woman?”

“There was a woman sitting next to me at the bar.”

“She was sitting next to you, or you were sitting next to her?”

“Well . . .”

“I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

“Anyway, I went down with Sir Edward and checked out the men’s room. There was nobody in there but the attendant. I was waiting outside the door for him to finish when the woman came downstairs.”

“Describe her.”

“White female, thirty to forty, five-six or -seven, a hundred and thirty pounds, long, dark hair, wearing a black cocktail dress and black gloves.” He looked longingly at the glass on the bar. “A real looker.”

“Very good description,” Dino said. “At least you learned something at the academy. What happened next?”

“She asked me if I was armed, and I showed her my gun. She pulled a black, small-caliber pistol with a silencer from her handbag, took my gun, and pushed me ahead of her into the vestibule inside the men’s-room door. She must have clocked me with either her weapon or mine. I passed out. When I came to, she hit me again. I only woke up five minutes ago, and I got on my radio.”

“So where are all your people?”

“On the way.”

Dino looked at the back of the man’s head. “Get him to a hospital,” he said to the EMT. “He’s going to need lots of stitches.”

The EMT and his partner escorted the agent down the stairs; Dino and Stone followed. They had only just seen him into an ambulance when a procession of dark vans drove into the block, and men in body armor and helmets, carrying automatic weapons, began spilling out of them, “FBI” emblazoned on their backs.

Dino stood in front of the door and held up his badge. “NYPD,” he said. “Who’s in command?”

A man in a suit got out of the front seat of a van and walked over, flashing his ID. “I’m Jim Torrelli, agent-in-charge of the New York office of the FBI,” he said. “You’re in the way of my men.”

“No, I’m not,” Dino replied. “They’re in the way of this city’s traffic. Please get them out of here.”

“We have a crime scene to secure,” the man said.

“It’s an NYPD crime scene, and it’s already secured,” Dino replied, not budging.

“We have an injured FBI agent in there,” Torrelli said.

“No, you don’t. He’s already on the way to a hospital. There are no other FBI personnel inside, just two murder victims, and murder, if I may remind you, is not a federal crime. Now, if you want to hang around and see what happens, you may do so at my invitation, but don’t get in my way, and get these storm troopers out of here, now.”

Torrelli thought about it for a moment. “Everybody back in the vehicles,” he said. “Return to base and wait for my call.” The men got back in the vans and drove away. “Now, Detective . . .”

“Lieutenant Bacchetti,” Dino said, “commander of the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Yeah. The director of the FBI and his deputy took the head of British Intelligence and his colleague out to dinner, guarded by two FBI agents. The Brit went to the men’s room, and a young woman hit one of the agents over the head and shot the Brit and the men’s-room attendant. She left the premises. That’s all I’ve got, at the moment, but when we’re done here, there ought to be enough embarrassment for the FBI to last for years.”

Torrelli’s jaw began to work, but he managed to get a few words out. “Has the young woman been apprehended?”

“No, and I don’t expect she will be right away.”

“Has she been identified?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you that information at the moment. Maybe later.”

“Lieutenant, if I have to go to the commissioner or the mayor himself, I’m going to know everything there is to know about this case.”

“I’ll send you a copy of my report,” Dino said. “Now why don’t you go up to the bar and have a drink. We don’t need you right now.”

“Can I see the bodies?”

“They’re dead. Two slugs in the Brit, one in the attendant. That’s all you need to know.”

“I’d like to put the FBI crime lab at your disposal,” the agent said.

“From what I’ve heard about the FBI lab, I think I’d rather handle it in-house,” Dino said.

The man, who was much larger than Dino, looked as if he wanted to beat him into the ground. “I’ll be in my car,” he said, and returned to his van.

Dino and Stone walked back into the restaurant.

“You’re going to hear about that,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Dino got out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial button. He held the phone to his ear. “Sir, it’s Bacchetti. This is where we stand.” He gave a concise report to the commissioner. “And the FBI is already trying to horn in on our scene. I’d appreciate your help in keeping them off my back, so I can get this thing cleared and make an arrest.” He listened for a moment. “Thank you, sir.” He hung up and turned toward Stone. “I don’t think we have to worry too much about the Feds.”

“What next?” Stone asked.

Dino’s phone went off. “Bacchetti.” His eyes widened. “Location?” He snapped the phone shut. “We’ve got a fix on her cell phone.”

51

Dino reached into the front seat and picked up a handheld radio. “Remind me what’s at Madison and Seventy-third,” he said to Stone.

“A lot of very expensive shops,” Stone replied.

“Listen up,” Dino said into the radio to the four detectives in the car behind him. “Get out at Sixty-fifth and Madison and work your way north, shop by shop. I’ll be working south from Seventy-sixth Street. We’re looking for a good-looking white woman, probably alone, thirty to forty, five-six or -seven, a hundred and thirty pounds, wearing a black cocktail dress and black gloves. She may be wearing a coat, too. It’s nearly ten, and nothing’s open this time of night, but we had her standing still at Seventy-third and Madison for a couple of minutes, so she may be window-shopping. Detain and identify anybody of that description, alone or accompanied. Until you do, try not to look like cops. Be careful, because she’s armed and very dangerous.” Dino released the talk button on the radio. “This isn’t going to work,” he said.

“Why not?” Stone asked. “We may get lucky.”

“I don’t get this lucky,” Dino said. “You get this lucky. Anyway, if we catch her, she’s going to kill at least one cop before somebody shoots her.”

Stone didn’t comment on that.

“Remind me,” Dino said. “How did I get mixed up in this?”

“There was a murder on your beat,” Stone said.

“Oh, yeah. Next, you’re going to remind me that I had her in custody and let her go.”

“I wasn’t going to, but, of course, that’s true.”

“I’m going to be lucky to get out of this with my badge.”

“Dino, all you have to do is blame it on the Brits and the FBI.”

Dino brightened. “Yeah, you’re right.” He tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Right here.”

Dino and Stone got out of the car. “You take the east side of the street, I’ll take the west,” he said to Stone. “Are you carrying?”

“No.”

Dino handed him a .32 automatic. “Take my backup.”

“Thanks,” Stone replied.

The two men began walking south on Madison. It was well after dark, but there were still a lot of people on the street.

Stone looked carefully at every woman he saw, looking for something familiar. She may have already changed clothes, he thought, but he might be able to recognize her. Then, half a block away from him, walking slowly uptown, he saw her. She wasn’t wearing gloves, but her dress was black, and her hair shoulder-length and dark. The face? He couldn’t tell; each time he had seen her she had looked so different. His hand closed over the gun in his pocket. She stopped and looked into a shop window for a moment.

Stone looked across the street at Dino and nodded toward the woman. Dino began making his way across Madison Avenue, through heavy traffic, not waiting for the light.

Stone walked up to her. “Excuse me, haven’t we met?” he asked.

She turned and looked at him. “No,” she said with a little smile. “But I certainly have no objection.”

Dino stood directly behind her. “Miss,” he said, “I’m a police officer. Please stand perfectly still.”

She looked over her shoulder. “What is this, a gang bang?”

“Let me see some ID,” Dino said.

Stone grabbed the bag before she could reach into it, then handed it to Dino, still looking into her eyes.

She looked back, with interest. “So, this is how the NYPD amuses itself in the evenings?”

“When the weather’s nice,” Stone said.

“What’s your name?” Dino asked, looking at the driver’s license in his hand.

“Donna Howe Baldwin,” she said.

“Social Security number?”

She recited it. “But you won’t find it on my license. They don’t do it that way in Florida.”

“Why do you carry a Florida driver’s license?” Dino asked.

“Because I live in Miami. My address is on the license.”

“Why are you in New York?”

“Because I heard what a lot of fun the police are here.”

Stone looked at Dino and shook his head. “It’s not Marie-Thérèse.”

“I could be, if you wanted me to,” the woman said. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” Dino said, handing back her handbag. “I’m sorry to have detained you. We’re usually nicer to out-of-town visitors.”

“You still could be,” the woman said. “I’ve no objection to two dates. Who’s buying the drinks?”

“Perhaps another time,” Stone said.

She handed him a card. “I’m at the Plaza for two more days. Anytime at all.” She looked at Dino. “And be sure to bring your friend.” She continued walking uptown.

“Well,” Dino remarked, “I said you would be the one to get lucky.”

“Looks like we both did,” Stone said.

Dino went back across the street, and they continued their walk downtown, inspecting every woman they encountered. Once, Dino showed his badge and asked a woman for ID, then she continued uptown, apparently livid.

At Seventy-second Street, they met the four detectives coming the other way, and Dino’s car caught up with them.

“Why do I think she was going uptown?” Dino asked.

“Because she was walking away from the Four Seasons,” Stone replied.

“What’s uptown from Seventy-third?” Dino asked.

“A couple of hotels: the Westbury and the Carlyle.”

“It’s worth a try,” Dino said. “You four guys take the Westbury. Get the manager to give you a list of every single woman staying in the hotel and question every one of them who even remotely matches the description. Stone, you and I will take the Carlyle.” They got into Dino’s car and started uptown.

“This isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Stone said. “She’s got to be sleeping somewhere, and the Carlyle is about the last place you’d look.”

“The worst idea I ever had was showing up with you in Bryant Park yesterday,” Dino said.

The car stopped, and they got out.

“You know anybody here?” Dino asked, as they went in through the Madison Avenue entrance of the hotel.

“The manager,” Stone replied. “He won’t be here this time of night, but I can drop his name.”

“Never mind, I’ll just drop my badge,” Dino replied as they approached the front desk.

Stone’s cell phone vibrated, and he flipped it open. “Hello?”

“It’s Carpenter,” she said.

52

Stone was surprised how glad he was to hear from her.

“Where are you?”

“With the director of the FBI at a government flat in the Waldorf Towers.”

“Stay there. It’s dangerous everywhere else.”

“I intend to, for the moment. Have you spoken to Dino?”

“I’m with Dino.”

“Is Sir Edward dead? Is it confirmed? These people won’t tell me anything.”

“It’s confirmed.”

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“Well, yes.”

“Ask Dino where I can claim his body.”

“At the city morgue, but after a postmortem.”

“Is there any way to avoid that? I’d like to get him home.”

“Ask the director. He can probably call somebody.”

“He’s very annoyed at everyone in the New York City government, from Dino to the mayor.”

“That’s because Dino wouldn’t let him play in his pond, and the commissioner and, presumably, the mayor backed up Dino.”

“Something like that. Apparently, he has all these men in black with guns, and he can’t use them.”

“That always annoys the FBI.”

“Will you come and see me here?”

“The FBI would probably shoot me if I tried.”

“I want to see you. I need to see you.”

“Don’t you think it would be a little crowded in a hotel suite with you, me, and the director all there?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Tell me, was Mason on the scene when Marie-Thérèse’s parents were killed?”

She paused. “Sort of. He was in a van nearby.”

“Then you’d better tell him to watch his ass. Who else was there, who’s still alive?”

“Just the two of us.”

“If I were you, I’d order up an airplane to an airport other than Kennedy and get out of the country. She knows where you’ve been camping out in New York. You’d be safer in London.”

“I’ll think about it. Does she know I’ve stayed at your house?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I’ll call you later, on your cell phone.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, but I don’t know when.”

“Whenever, just call.” Stone hung up. “Carpenter’s a little stressed,” he said.

“Who wouldn’t be?”

The duty manager came to the front desk.

Dino showed him a badge. “I’m Lieutenant Bacchetti. I need a list of all the women staying in the hotel who are traveling alone.”

“What for?” the man asked.

“There may be a lady murderer in your hotel, and I’d like to arrest her before she kills some of your guests or staff.”

“Just a minute,” the man said, then went to a computer terminal. “We’ve got three.”

“Do you know them by sight?”

“I know Mrs. King, from Dallas. She’s stayed here before. And Ms. Shapiro, from San Francisco. I don’t know Mrs. Applebaum, from Chicago.”

Dino gave him the description.

“Both Mrs. King and Ms. Shapiro fit the general description,” the manager said.

“I want to speak to both of them, but I don’t want them to know we’re the police,” Dino said. “And find me somebody who knows Mrs. Applebaum by sight.”

“Just a minute.” The manager went away for a moment and came back with another man. “This is the concierge. He knows Mrs. Applebaum, and she’s in her sixties.”

“All right, here’s what we do,” Dino said. “You make up a story that gets both women out of their rooms for long enough for us to get a look at them.”

“I could tell them we have a small fire in a suite near them, and ask them to leave their rooms for a few minutes.”

“Where will you move them?”

The manager checked his computer. “I have empty suites near both of them,” he said.

“Get us some hotel coveralls and a toolbox,” Dino said. “Let’s start with Ms. Shapiro.”

The manager took Dino and Stone into his office and ordered coveralls for them, then he picked up the phone and called the room. “Ms. Shapiro, this is the duty manager speaking. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a small electrical fire in the suite below you, and I’m going to have to move you temporarily to a room down the hall while the electrician checks your room. . . . Yes, I’m really very sorry. May I bring him upstairs? . . . Thank you.” He turned to Dino. “Ready?”

Dino and Stone stood on either side of the manager while he rang the doorbell. Each had his hand on a gun.

The door opened and a woman in a dressing gown greeted them.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” the manager said.

“Glad to help,” she replied.

She had a very large, and quite beautiful nose, Stone thought. He looked at Dino and shook his head.

Dino put his cell phone to his ear. “Yes? Thank you.” He turned to the manager. “The problem’s been fixed,” he said. “We won’t have to disturb Ms. Shapiro.”

“That’s good news,” the manager said. “Again, I’m very sorry, Ms. Shapiro.”

She smiled and closed the door.

Dino handed the man his cell phone. “Now, Mrs. King,” he said.

The manager called the front desk and asked for Mrs. King’s suite. “No answer,” he said. “She must be out.”

“You got a passkey?” Dino asked.

“Yes, but you realize it would be an illegal search.”

“Not with your permission.”

The man handed over the key. “It’s two floors up—nineteen-seventeen.”

“Thanks,” Dino said. “I’ll return this to you. Let’s go, Stone.”

Downstairs, in the Café Carlyle, Marie-Thérèse was deep in conversation with a man at the bar.

Musicians began taking their places at the opposite side of the room, and a voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Café Carlyle is proud to present, in his thirtieth season at the Carlyle, Mr. Bobby Short!”

The music began, and Marie-Thérèse and her new acquaintance turned toward the stage.

53

Carpenter dialed Mason’s cell phone and he answered immediately. “Speak,” he said.

“It’s Carpenter. Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, at Sixty-fifth Street.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“I have news, but don’t react.”

“Go.”

“Architect is dead.”

“Really?” he drawled, in his Etonian accent. “Anyone we know involved?”

“La Biche shot him in the men’s room at the Four Seasons.”

“Goodness gracious. Who’s next in line?”

“You and I.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like that much.”

“I didn’t think so. I think she followed him from the firm offices, so don’t go back there.”

“Makes sense. Any suggestions?”

“Don’t go back to your hotel, either.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mason said, sighing.

“Good idea.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“I think we should get an RAF airplane over here and get out. I’d feel more comfortable at home.”

“Would you? I’m not sure I agree. After all, our, ah, friend is here, isn’t she? I should think we’d have more luck making a connection with her right here in the Big Apple.”

“You might not like the connection.”

“Leave that to me.”

“I’ll be on my cell phone. Let’s stay in touch.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Waldorf Towers, in the director’s company flat.”

“How cozy.”

“Don’t make bad jokes. Stay in touch.”

“Righto.”

Mason hung up and gazed at the young FBI agent sitting across the table from him. “There’s been a spot of bother. My governor is deceased.”

“Well, at his age . . .”

“It wasn’t a coronary.”

The young man dug out a cell phone.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Mason said. “They’ll just put you to work. They’ll get in touch if they need you.”

The agent smiled and pocketed his cell phone.

Mason leaned forward. “It’s been suggested that I shouldn’t go home. Mind if I bunk with you tonight?”

The agent smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

Carpenter went back into the suite’s living room, where the director and his deputy were on separate phones.

“I’m getting zero cooperation from the New York police and the local administration,” the director was saying. “It might help if you called the mayor, sir.” He took the phone away from his ear when the reaction came. “Sir, I think you should consider the reaction in the press when they find out that a high figure in British intelligence has been murdered while in the company of a high American official. . . . Well, you have a point. The press will never have heard of Sir Edward, unless, of course, the NYPD decides to tell them who he is. I think that if you called the mayor, we might be able to keep this as the murder of a foreigner in a restaurant, nothing more. . . . Thank you, sir.” He hung up and sighed.

“Problems, Director?”

“Call me Jim, Felicity.” He patted the sofa next to him. Carpenter took a nearby chair, instead. “Jim it is.”

“The attorney general doesn’t want to get involved,” the director said.

“One can hardly blame him,” Carpenter replied. “I don’t think you need be concerned about the press’s treatment of this event. We go to some lengths to see that our own management’s names are never published, and the only member of the NYPD who knows who he is is Lieutenant Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth Precinct. I don’t think he’ll be loose-lipped.”

“Bacchetti, yes. I’ve heard of him. Somebody recommended that I recruit him in a management position. What do you think?”

“He’s a good man.”

“Maybe this would be a good time to broach the subject with him.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

The director stood up, an empty glass in his hand. “Can I get you a Scotch?”

“No, thank you, sir. Officially, I’m still on duty.”

“What has London had to say about all this?”

“I have a call in to the home secretary, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s the middle of the night there, and I doubt if his duty officer has the nerve to wake him. There’s not much he can do, anyway, and I’d rather be free to act without his orders inhibiting me.”

“Are you planning something?”

“I’m planning to react, if I get the opportunity. I don’t know if I will.”

“Well, you’re safe here with me,” the director said, pouring himself another Scotch.

“Thank you, sir, that’s very reassuring.”

“How well did you know Sir Edward?”

“I’ve known him all my life. He and my father served together.”

“Then I suppose my personal condolences are in order.”

“Not really, sir. Sir Edward was a shit, and I won’t miss him.”

Stone and Dino stood outside the door of Suite 1917.

“Ready?” Dino asked.

“Whenever you are,” Stone replied, gripping the gun in his pocket.

Dino rang the bell. No answer. He rang it again. “What the hell,” he said, slipping the passkey into the lock.

54

Stone followed Dino into the suite, gun in hand.

“Hello?” Dino called. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody home?” He walked quickly to the bedroom door, flattened himself against the wall, and nodded to Stone.

Stone pushed the door open with his foot and stepped tentatively into the room. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody there?”

Dino put a foot against his backside and pushed him into the bedroom.

“Just like old times,” Stone said. “First through the door again.”

“You have a lousy memory,” Dino said, following him into the room.

They looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

“Check the closet,” Dino said.

“You think she’s in there? You check it.”

Dino opened the closet door, and the light came on. Inside hung half a dozen outfits. “She travels pretty light, for a woman.”

Stone pointed at the upper shelf, where three wigs rested on plastic forms. “Not every woman travels with that much hair.”

“Okay,” Dino said, “let’s turn it over, but leave everything exactly as it is.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Evidence. I’d love to find the weapon she’s been using.”

“It’s probably tucked into her bra.”

“I’m willing to look there.”

They went to work.

Downstairs in the Café Carlyle, Bobby Short’s performance was drawing to a close. The applause was long and warm.

“Well,” the man next to her at the bar said. “Can I buy you a nightcap?”

“I’m staying here,” she said. “Why don’t you let me buy you one upstairs? There’s a bar in my suite.”

He held out a hand. “I’m Jeff Purdue. You’re on.”

“I’m Darlene King. Right this way.”

They fell in with the crowd leaving the café.

“I take it you’re not a New Yorker?” he said.

“I’m a Texan, sugar.”

“Dallas?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do down there?”

“My husband’s in the oil business.”

“You have a husband? I hope he’s in Dallas.”

“He sure is. If I know him, he’s in bed with his secretary right this minute.”

His hand dropped from her waist to her ass. “What you need is a little revenge,” he said.

“Believe me, I know the deep satisfactions of revenge,” she replied.

Stone stopped looking. “That’s it. There’s nothing more.”

“There’s a safe in the closet,” Dino said. “I’ll call the manager. We’ll get it opened.”

“It’s late,” Stone said, looking at his watch. “We don’t want her to walk in on us.”

“I need some evidence.”

“She’s obviously carrying the weapon.”

“We don’t even know this is her suite,” Dino said.

“It’s her suite,” Stone said.

“How do you know?”

“Because when I met her the first time, she was wearing a red wig that’s now on the shelf of her closet.”

Dino looked at his watch. “Let’s get out of here and set up surveillance.”

“Okay.”

They let themselves out of the suite and headed for the elevators.

Marie-Thérèse and her new friend had made their way out of the café crowd and into the lobby. As they rounded a corner, headed for the elevators, she stopped and stepped back. She had just seen Stone Barrington and that police lieutenant step off the elevator into the lobby, and they were wearing workmen’s coveralls.

“Something wrong?” Purdue asked.

“I just remembered what a mess my suite is. Where are you staying?”

“At the Waldorf, five minutes from here in a cab.”

“Why don’t we go there?” she asked.

“Fine with me.”

She led him back past the café and out the Madison Avenue exit, where a couple of cabs waited at the curb. In a moment, they were driving away.

He leaned over and kissed her on the neck, cradling a breast in his hand.

She didn’t react, just looked straight ahead, thinking fast. The cab turned onto Fifth Avenue.

He pinched a nipple hard. “What do I have to do to get your attention?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting him on the knee. “My mind was elsewhere for a moment. What do you do, Jeff?”

“I’m with the State Department, on the U.S. delegation to the United Nations. I spend two weeks a month in New York.”

“How very interesting,” she said, turning toward him with new interest. “So your wife’s back in Washington?”

“She usually comes with me, so she keeps some clothes here. But she had some meetings this week.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient,” she said, kissing him.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and it came away in his hand.

“Well, there’s a surprise,” he said, holding the wig in his hand and looking at her short blond hair.

“I’m just full of surprises, sugar,” she said, running her hand up his thigh.

55

Stone and Dino sat in Dino’s car outside the Carlyle, while Dino made a phone call. “Sir, it’s Bacchetti. We’ve found out where the woman is staying. She’s in a suite at the Carlyle. . . . Yes, sir, she certainly has good taste. I’ve ordered in a surveillance team. In very short order I’ll have the place covered and a couple of men in the suite next door with a listening device. . . . No, sir, I don’t want to take her in the street or in the lobby. There’s sure to be weapons fired, and we don’t want a mess. I want to let her come home and go to bed. We’ll know when that happens. Then, when she orders breakfast in the morning or leaves her suite, we’ll be waiting. I think we can take her clean. . . . Yes, sir, I know how important that is. I’ll call you the minute anything happens.” Dino hung up. “He’s not going to get any sleep tonight,” he said.

“I expect not,” Stone replied.

Dino’s driver returned with a paper bag holding coffee.

“We may as well make ourselves comfortable,” Dino said.

“I had a thought,” Stone said. “Suppose she’s in the café, listening to Bobby Short?”

Dino snorted. “Not everybody has your weird taste in music, Stone.”

The ride up in the elevator seemed a long one.

“I’m in the Towers,” Purdue explained. “The government rents an entire floor, where the UN delegation stays, and there are apartments for visiting dignitaries, including a presidential suite.”

“How interesting,” Marie-Thérèse said. “Who’s in residence at the moment?”

“I’m the only one of the delegation in town. Most of the others arrive tomorrow, for the opening of the Security Coucil session. I saw the director of the FBI in the elevator earlier, though, so I guess he’s staying. I’ll bet he’s commandeered the presidential suite.”

Marie-Thérèse laughed aloud.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just that I never thought I’d be this close to the director of the FBI.”

The elevator stopped, and they got out. A man in a dark suit holding a clipboard stopped them.

“It’s all right,” Purdue said, “the lady’s with me.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to see her ID, sir,” the guard said.

“No problem,” Marie-Thérèse said, digging out her wallet and her Texas driver’s license.

The man wrote her name down and noted the time, then returned the license to her. “Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am,” he said.

“Right this way,” Purdue said, taking her elbow. They walked a few steps and he led them into a suite, tossing his keycard onto a table in the entrance hall.

“Very nice,” she said, looking around. It wasn’t big, but it was certainly elegant. “Where’s the bedroom?”

“A woman after my own heart. Right this way.” He led the way into the bedroom.

She unzipped her dress. “I want to hang this up,” she said, “since I’ll be wearing it tomorrow morning.”

“Right over there,” he said, pointing at a closet, then he went into the bathroom. “Excuse me a second.”

Marie-Thérèse opened the closet door to find a small collection of outfits. She plucked one off the rack and held it up to her. “Not bad,” she said aloud.

“Don’t mess with my wife’s things,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “She’d notice, believe me.”

“Don’t worry, sugar,” she replied, hanging up the dress. “I won’t disturb a thing. Tell me, have you got an early day tomorrow?”

“Nah, the session doesn’t open until after lunch. We can sleep in, if you like.”

“Oh, good,” she said, hanging her dress in the closet and shedding her underwear. “You ready for me, sugar?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She slid into bed with him. This wouldn’t take long, then she could get a good night’s sleep.

Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“It’s Carpenter.”

“Hi, there.”

“Turns out we’re in the presidential suite, but I’ve managed to get a room with a lock on the door that opens into the hallway. Why don’t you join me?”

“I can’t, but you’re going to like my news.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s staying at the Carlyle. Dino’s people have got her suite staked out now. They’ll wait for her to come home and go to sleep, then take her in the morning.”

“God, that’s a relief,” Carpenter said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait her out in the presidential suite?”

“I want to be here. You sleep well, and we’ll talk in the morning.” Stone hung up. “Carpenter’s staying in the presidential suite of the Waldorf Towers, with the director.”

Dino laughed.

“She says there’s a lock on her door.”

Carpenter called Mason.

“Hello,” he panted, on the fourth ring.

“You sound a little winded,” she said.

“What is it, Carpenter? I’m busy.”

“The director wants a meeting tomorrow morning at eight. Think you can manage that?”

“I expect so. Can I go now?”

“I should have talked with the home secretary by then.”

“How nice for you. Good night.” He hung up and returned to his FBI agent.

The following morning at eight o’clock, Carpenter took her seat at the suite’s dining room table. Mason had been on time, though he looked a little worse for the wear, and he was wearing the same suit and shirt as the day before.

“All right, let’s get started,” the director said.

Carpenter’s phone rang. “Excuse me, sir.” She stepped away from the table and opened the phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Stone.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t come home last night.”

“Oh. I’ll report that and call you later.” She closed the phone and sat down.

“Anything?” the director asked her.

“I’m afraid there’s bad news, sir. As I mentioned earlier, the NYPD had her located in a suite in the Carlyle hotel. They staked it out, but she didn’t come home last night.”

“Shit,” the director said. “I thought we had her.”

“So did I, sir.”

“I wonder where she is at this moment,” he mused.

56

At that moment, Marie-Thérèse was looking at the top of the head of a member of the U.S. delegation to the UN. He performed with enthusiasm and considerable skill, she thought, and she told him so.

They were interrupted by the doorbell. Purdue grabbed a robe and signed for breakfast, then wheeled the cart into the bedroom.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Purdue said.

“You should have told him you’d already eaten.”

He laughed and handed her a plate of sausage and eggs. “How much longer are you in New York?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Since my wife isn’t along on this trip, I thought we might see more of each other.”

“It’s hard to know how we could see more of each other than we already have,” she said, laughing.

“You have a point,” he agreed. “Stick around for a while? I’m here through next week.”

“And then, back to the wife.”

“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

“Tough?”

“Being married to a rich woman is a hard way to make a living,” he said.

“So, get a divorce.”

“I’ve learned to like my lifestyle, but I can’t afford it on a State Department salary.”

“So, if you want the lifestyle but not the wife, get somebody to kill her.”

He laughed. “You Texans,” he said. “I don’t want to end up the subject of some TV movie-of-the-week.”

It occurred to her that Washington might make a nice change of scene, at the moment. She could rent a car and drive down. “Oh, it can be done quite discreetly,” she said. “I can arrange it.”

“What?”

“You’d be at a Security Council session, or someplace with a lot of witnesses. She’d be the victim of a burglary gone wrong, or something like that. No one would ever be able to connect you to it.”

“You can arrange it?”

“I’m a resourceful person. I was thinking of traveling to Washington, anyway. It would be my pleasure.”

“That sounded as if you wanted to do it yourself.”

“I have some experience at these things.”

“What sort of experience are you talking about?”

“I lied to you, Jeff. I’m not a Texas matron, I’m a professional assassin.”

Purdue laughed heartily. “I’m not sure I can afford you,” he said.

“I’ll work cheap. Tell you what: Allow me the use of your suite through the weekend, and she’ll be dead by the middle of next week.”

“You sound serious,” he said.

“And you sound interested.”

He stopped eating. “All right, I’m interested,” he said warily. “Tell me why we wouldn’t get caught.”

“Because you and I have no history together that could be discovered later, and because I have no motive to kill your wife. Also, when I leave New York for Washington, I’ll no longer be Darlene King, but someone else, who will disappear the moment she’s dead.”

He set down his plate. “Ah, the stuff that dreams are made of,” he said wistfully.

“I imagine you’d be a very eligible man as a widower—handsome, well connected, and, finally, rich.”

“That’s perfectly true. But, if you’re what you say you are, why are you confiding in me? I could walk down the hall, rap on the door of the presidential suite, and tell the director about you. I’ll bet he would be interested.”

“Oh, you couldn’t do that, Jeff: You’d have too much to explain. You’d end up having to explain it to your wife, and she might react badly. You might find yourself living on your State Department salary. No, I’m perfectly safe confiding in you.”

“Convince me you’re what you say you are,” he said.

Marie-Thérèse set her plate on the room-service cart and got out of bed. She walked over to where her purse rested on a chair, dug out her little silenced pistol, walked back to the bed, and pointed it at Purdue’s head.

Purdue’s face froze.

“Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to shoot you.”

“What kind of gun is that?” he asked, fascinated.

“An assassin’s weapon. It was made by your very own CIA,” she said.

“And how did you come into possession of it?”

“By means too convoluted to explain.”

“If you shot my wife with that, could the gun be connected to other murders?”

“No, it could not. You’ll have to trust me on that.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“You think it over,” she replied. “I’m going to have a shower.” She walked into the bathroom, taking her purse and the pistol with her.

Carpenter closed her phone. “The NYPD has given up on La Biche’s returning to the Carlyle suite, so they’re going to concentrate on our local headquarters,” she said to the meeting, “in the belief that she might watch the place again. They’re stationing snipers on the rooftops nearby.”

“I don’t see what else can be done,” the director said. “My people are watching the airports, train and bus stations. We’ve circulated her description to the car rental agencies, too. What identity was she using at the Carlyle?”

“Mrs. Darlene King, of Dallas, Texas,” Carpenter replied. “She’s apparently stayed there before under that name.”

“I don’t suppose she’d be so foolish as to use it again,” he said.

“I doubt it. She’s abandoned the suite at the Carlyle, and I expect she has abandoned that identity for another.”

Mason leaned over. “Look, if you don’t need me anymore, I want to go back to the office and pick up some fresh clothes.”

“Go ahead, but watch yourself,” Carpenter said.

Marie-Thérèse checked herself out in the mirror. She looked very good in Mrs. Purdue’s Armani pantsuit, she thought, and she felt clean and fresh in her underwear, too. She walked back to the bathroom, where Purdue was shaving.

He looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Hey, you can’t wear that,” he said. “That’s my wife’s.”

“She’s not going to be needing it, is she?”

He continued shaving. “Let’s drop this little game,” he said. “You’re no assassin, and my wife is not going anywhere. Now put on your own clothes and get out of here. You’re a great fuck, but we’re not going to be seeing each other again.”

His tone annoyed Marie-Thérèse, not to mention that he was talking with his back to her.

“Well, Jeff, I was going to do you a favor, but since you take that attitude, I think I’ll do your wife one, instead.” She took the pistol from her purse and fired once into the back of his head. The soft-nosed bullet splattered his face all over the bathroom mirror.

She hung her dress carefully in the closet, so as to blend in with Mrs. Purdue’s things, dropped her dirty underwear in the hamper, and walked out of the suite, closing the door behind her. The guard from the night before was still on duty. “Good morning,” she said sweetly.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he replied, pushing the elevator button for her.

Another man came down the hall and stood with her, waiting for the elevator. When it arrived, they both got on.

“Good morning,” he drawled.

“Good morning,” she said, looking at him for the first time. “Well, upon my word, if it isn’t Mason!” She laughed aloud.

He squinted at her. “How do you know that name? Have we met?”

“No,” she said, “but your reputation precedes you.” She fumbled in her handbag, as if she were looking for her lipstick. When her hand was on the pistol, she pressed the emergency stop button on the elevator.

“What are you doing?” Mason demanded, then his face fell as he realized who she was.

“I’m getting off here,” she said, withdrawing the pistol from her bag. “You’re going all the way down.” She shot him twice, then stepped off the elevator, reached back inside, and released the car.

57

The meeting in the presidential suite was just breaking up, when an FBI agent walked quickly into the room and whispered something in the director’s ear.

The director’s eyebrows went up. “You cannot be serious,” he said.

“I am perfectly serious,” the man replied.

The director turned to Carpenter. “Your man, Mason, has just been found dead in the elevator, shot twice.”

Carpenter stood up; she wasn’t sure why. Before she could say anything, her cell phone rang. Automatically, she answered it. “Yes?”

“It’s Stone. Dino and I have just arrived at the Waldorf. We’d like to meet with you and the director.”

“Stone, she’s in the hotel.”

“Who’s in the hotel?”

“La Biche. She just shot Mason in the elevator.”

“Don’t leave the suite, and tell the director not to, as well. I’ll call you back.” He broke the connection.

“What is it?” Dino asked, as they walked up the steps from the drive-through under the hotel, headed for the Tower elevators.

“Marie-Thérèse is in the building,” Stone replied. “She’s just killed Mason in an elevator.”

Dino ran back to his car and retrieved a handheld radio. “This is Bacchetti,” he said into it. “La Biche is at the Waldorf. Pull everybody off the Brits’ offices and get them over here. Call hotel security, too, and get every available patrol car to the hotel. I want every woman alone stopped and ID’ed, then held if there’s the slightest suspicion.”

Marie-Thérèse waited impatiently for an elevator to stop, but none did. Then she realized what had happened. She had been on an express elevator to the Towers, one that stopped only because she had pressed the emergency button. The elevator to this floor was not an express, but stopped at any floor that had requested it, and at this hour of the day, it was receiving many requests. She had planned to reach the lobby while there was a commotion over the discovery of Mason’s body, before anyone had time to begin searching for his killer, but now her time was running out while she waited for an elevator. And at this moment, the security guard on the Tower floor was giving her description to her hunters. She looked around for an exit, a stairway, and found it. The door was plainly marked, sixteenth floor. If she took the elevator, someone would very likely be waiting at the bottom. How long would it take her to walk down sixteen flights of stairs?

She looked in the other direction and saw an open door, with linens and supplies stacked inside. She ran down the hallway into the closet and closed the door behind her. She found a maid’s dress, freshly laundered, on a shelf, and quickly got into it, buttoned it closed over her suit. She rolled up her pant legs, so that they disappeared under the skirt, and she found a maid’s cap and put it on. Then she heard a key in the lock, and the door opened.

A maid stood in the hallway beside a cart laden with supplies. Before she could speak, Marie-Thérèse asked, “Excuse me, where is the service elevator? I’m lost.”

“Down there,” the woman said, “but you’ll need a key.” Then she realized that something wasn’t right. “What are you doing in here? I don’t know you.”

Marie-Thérèse grasped her wrist and yanked her into the closet. She hit her sharply on the back of the neck with the heel of her hand, and the woman collapsed in a heap. Marie-Thérèse searched her for her keys and found them in a pocket. She left the closet, closing the door behind her, and began pushing the maid’s cart toward the service elevator, placing her handbag in the cart’s hamper. As she walked, she grabbed a towel and wiped her face vigorously, removing her makeup.

Stone called Carpenter’s cell phone again.

“Yes?”

“Dino and I are at the Tower elevators, and hotel security has it roped off. If she comes down in one of the other elevators, we’ll stop her.”

“Good.”

“Now, you’re going to have to organize a search of every floor between you and the ground, knocking on every door and checking out every woman who even vaguely fits her description.”

“The FBI is already working on that,” she said.

“Dino has called his people off your offices and is bringing them here, but if Marie-Thérèse has already made the ground floor, they’re going to be too late to stop her. Our only chance is if she’s still somewhere upstairs.”

“We have a new description,” Carpenter said. “She’s wearing a pantsuit, color undetermined, and she has short blond hair and is carrying a large handbag.”

“Got it,” Stone said. “Call me with any news.” He hung up. “She’s now got short blond hair,” he said to Dino, “and she’s wearing a pantsuit.”

Marie-Thérèse found the elevator key, slipped it into the lock, and turned it. She looked up at the floor lights. The car was three floors above her and headed down. After a long moment, the door opened, and she pushed the cart aboard. She looked at the buttons on the control panel and discovered that the hotel had a basement and two subbasements. She inserted her key and pressed the basement button. The doors closed, and the car started down.

To her alarm, it stopped again almost immediately, and the doors opened. A busboy pushed a room-service cart aboard, but her cart was between him and the control panel. “Push SB-one for me, will you?” he asked.

She inserted her key again and pressed the button. The elevator began moving down again.

“Man, this day is a bitch,” the busboy said in Spanish-tinted English. “I got half a dozen carts to get downstairs, and somebody’s stopping me every two seconds.”

“Why are they stopping you?” she asked, alarmed.

“They’re looking for somebody upstairs,” he said, “some woman. That’s all I know. Security is all over the place, and there’s lots of other guys I don’t know, guys in suits.”

“I’m new here,” she said. “What’s in subbasements one and two?”

“Kitchen on SB-one, laundry on SB-two,” the man said. “Hey, I buy you a cup of coffee sometime in the lounge, okay?”

“Sure,” Marie-Thérèse said. She was starting to sweat under the two layers of clothing. And she was frightened.

58

Marie-Thérèse changed her mind and pushed the elevator button for SB-2.

“I thought you were getting off at the basement,” the busboy said.

“I meant to go to the laundry,” she said. “I got confused.”

“Yeah, it takes a while to learn your way around this place.” He got off at SB-1. “See you later.”

“Yeah, sure.” The door opened again at SB-2, and she pushed the cart out ahead of her. And there before her was something she had been looking desperately for: a sign saying exit, with an arrow pointing to her left. She pushed the cart in that direction, then followed another sign, turning down a long hallway. At the end was a door with an EXIT sign over it, but there was a uniformed, armed security guard standing in front of it. This shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought.

She pushed the cart nearly all the way to the door, then stopped and took her handbag from the hamper.

“I’m afraid you can’t get out this way, lady,” the guard said. “I got orders.”

She adopted the Spanish accent of the busboy. “Oh, I just want to have a cigarette outside,” she said. “They give you a hard time if you smoke inside.” She rummaged in her handbag, as if she were looking for her cigarettes.

“Yeah, I’m a smoker, too, so I know how it is, but I still can’t let you out this door. It’s orders from upstairs.” He rested a hand nonchalantly on the butt of his pistol.

Marie-Thérèse stopped rummaging in her bag. If she tried to shoot him, he’d have a head start. “Oh, well,” she said, “I’d better get back to work. I can have my smoke later.” She turned the cart around and pushed it back the way she had come, looking for another way out. She found another exit, but there was another security guard standing in front of it, and he looked less friendly than the last one. Finally, with nowhere else to go, she went back to the elevator, put her key into the lock, and pressed the button. She’d try another floor.

Carpenter showed her ID to the guard and took the express elevator to the lobby. As she stepped out, Stone and Dino approached.

“She hasn’t come this way,” Stone said. “How’s the search upstairs going?”

“Slowly,” Carpenter replied. “She could have knocked on the door of any room and got herself inside, and it’s a big hotel.”

“Dino,” Stone said, “if you can get a cop or two to watch the elevators, we could work our way up.”

Dino spoke into his radio, and a moment later, two uniformed officers approached. Dino gave them instructions, then turned to Carpenter. “Okay, let’s go upstairs.”

“We’ll take the other elevator, to the lower floors,” Carpenter said, “and just do a sweep of each floor. We won’t knock on every door. We’ll leave that to the search teams and just hope to get lucky.”

Stone and Dino followed her onto an elevator and rode up a floor. They got off and began walking the halls.

Marie-Thérèse got off at the basement level; at least it was closer to the street. But to her surprise, the floor contained staff offices for the hotel. A securty guard down the hallway spotted her and began walking toward her. Quickly, she got back onto the elevator, hoping he didn’t have a key. The ground floor would be crawling with cops, so she pressed three. At least she could walk down quickly from that level.

Carpenter and her two companions completed their patrol of the second floor, and she started toward the stairs.

“No,” Dino said. “If we get into the stairwell, we won’t be able to get out on another floor; we’ll have to walk downstairs, and we just came from there. We’ll have to take the elevator.” He pressed the call button.

“Do you really think she’s still in the hotel?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know,” Carpenter replied, “but it’s the only place we’ve got to look for her at the moment. If she got out of the hotel, she could be anywhere.”

“Let’s just keep at it,” Dino said. “It’s called police work, Stone, remember?”

“I remember,” Stone said. They got on the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.

Marie-Thérèse got off on the third floor, pushing the cart ahead of her, her handbag back in the hamper. She rounded a corner, looking for an exit, in time to see two men and a woman get off the elevator. They turned and began to walk toward her. She recognized them immediately and fought the urge to run. “Good morning,” she said in her Spanish accent, as they passed her.

“Good morning,” the three muttered.

They had gone a dozen steps when Carpenter held up a hand to stop them. A gun was suddenly in her hand, and she held the barrel to her lips. Silently, she pointed the weapon at the maid disappearing down the hallway.

Stone and Dino turned to look at the woman. From under her white uniform skirt, a black pant leg had fallen to her ankle.

“Pantsuit,” Carpenter whispered.

Stone and Dino drew their weapons.

59

Marie-Thérèse knew she had been made. She had the maid’s passkey in her hand, and, crouching behind the cart, she grabbed her handbag from the hamper and opened the door to the room nearest her, ducked inside, and slammed the door behind her.

A man emerged from the bathroom. He was enormous—six and a half feet tall, three hundred pounds, she estimated. He was dressed in trousers and a white shirt, and a necktie hung loose at his neck. “Yeah?” he asked.

She dug into her handbag and came out with the pistol. “Stand over there,” she said.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he demanded.

Marie-Thérèse tossed her maid’s cap on the unmade bed and began unbuttoning the uniform dress. “You look like you once played football.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Ever have a knee injury?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how much it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

She pointed the pistol at his right knee. “This is going to hurt a lot more,” she said.

He held his hands out in front of him in a pacifying motion. “Okay, okay, whatever you say.”

Marie-Thérèse walked to the window, keeping the gun pointed at him, and looked out. She was only three floors above street level, and she had thoughts of tying the bedsheets together, but there were two police cars parked in the street, their lights flashing. She turned back to her captive.

“Just tell me what you want,” he said.

“I want a ride out of here,” she replied.

Stone, Dino, and Carpenter stood in the hallway, their backs against the wall, on either side of the door.

“Kick it in,” Carpenter said. “That’s what cops do, isn’t it?”

“That kind of door don’t kick,” Dino said, “unless you want to break an ankle.” He put the handheld radio to his mouth. “This is Bacchetti. We’ve got the suspect cornered in a room on the third floor. I want a SWAT team with a battering ram up here now.”

“Lieutenant, it’s Sergeant Rivera,” a voice came back. “We don’t have a SWAT team on site—you didn’t ask for one earlier. I’ll have to call it in, so it’s going to be a few minutes.”

“She isn’t going anywhere,” Stone said.

“Okay,” Dino said into the radio, “tell them to shake their asses.”

“What do we do now?” Carpenter asked.

“Let me see if I can talk her out,” Stone said.

“Feel free,” Dino replied.

Stone moved closer to the door and rapped on it sharply. “Marie-Thérèse, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Well, hi there, Stone,” her muffled voice came back. “What brings you to see me?”

“I want to get you out of here alive,” Stone said.

“Sounds good to me. How do we go about that?”

“It’s simple. You open the door, toss out your weapon, and walk out with your hands on your head. I guarantee you’ll be safe.”

“Carpenter’s out there, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she’s here.”

“Can you guarantee I’ll be safe from her? After the lie about the money transfer, I don’t trust her.”

“I sent the money!” Carpenter shouted. “It’s in your account!”

Stone motioned for her to be quiet. “Carpenter is not going to shoot you, but a SWAT team is on the way, and unless we get you out of there now, they’re going to be battering the door down, and anything could happen.”

“Well, we don’t want that, do we? All right, I’m coming out. Everybody stand away from the door.”

The three of them backed across the hallway and waited.

“We’re out of the way,” Stone said.

“Okay, here I come.”

The knob turned, and the door swung inward.

Stone blinked. A man stood there, a man so big that he filled the whole doorway. His fingers were interlaced across his belly, and from under his arms protruded two female feet, in heels. Marie-Thérèse peeked over his shoulder, an arm around his neck, and her pistol was against his temple.

“Giddyup,” she said, “but take it slow.”

The man moved slowly through the doorway.

“Just don’t turn your back on them,” Marie-Thérèse said.

Dino spoke up. “Hey, I know you, don’t I?” he said to the man. “Weren’t you a linebacker for the Jets a while back?”

“Yeah,” the man replied.

“Billy Franco, The Freezer!”

“Yeah, right, now could you just please do whatever it takes to get this lady offa my back and outa my life?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt this sports chat,” Marie-Thérèse said, “but we’re going to do a little dance now. Everybody is going to rotate counterclockwise until we’ve changed places.”

The three began moving in that direction, and Franco moved at the same time, until his back was to the opposite wall, and they were standing in the doorway of the room.

“Now, everybody back into the room and close the door, and then I won’t have to splash Mr. Freezer’s brains all over the place.”

“Then what?” Franco asked.

“Then I’m going to ride you out of this hotel and into the nearest car.”

“I got a better idea,” Franco said.

“What?”

He took a quick step backward and slammed Marie-Thérèse against the wall, then dove sideways.

Marie-Thérèse made a sound like air rushing from a blown tire and ended up in a sitting position on the floor. Then, with the last of her strength, she raised the pistol, pointed it in the general direction of the three, and pulled the trigger. There was a soft click as the hammer fell on the empty chamber.

For a moment, no one moved, then Carpenter fired two bullets into Marie-Thérèse.

Stone swung an arm, knocking Carpenter off her feet. “Stop it!” he yelled.

Franco, who had been lying facedown in the hallway, his hands covering his head, turned and looked. “Did somebody get shot?” he asked.

Stone bent over Marie-Thérèse and held his fingers to her throat. “Yes,” he said. “Shot dead.”

60

Stone got back to his house around noon. There was a courier package on his doorstep, and he took it inside and dumped it on the hall table. He was exhausted and dispirited, and he was in no mood to read anything. What he needed was sleep.

He left a trail of clothing from the elevator to the bedroom and climbed into bed, pausing only to press the privacy button on his telephone.

When he awoke it was dark outside. The bedside clock said just after eight. He got his feet on the floor, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. Five minutes of hot shower on the back of his neck made him feel nearly human again.

He went back into the bedroom, thinking of food. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before. He switched off the privacy button on the phone, and it rang immediately.

“It’s Dino. Get your ass up to Elaine’s.”

“I don’t know, Dino. I just woke up.”

“Carpenter’s leaving. She tried to call you, but I guess you had the phone turned off. She’s stopping by on her way to the airport.”

“All right, I’ll be there.” He hung up, then shaved and got into some clean clothes, still a little fuzzy around the edges. As he was about to leave the house, his eye fell on the package on his front hall table. The return address was the Carlyle hotel. He opened it. Inside were several sheets of paper and a fairly thick envelope.

Stone:

I have the very odd feeling that I am at the end of something, maybe of everything. I wish I could stop, but I can’t, not until I’ve done what I set out to do. I know you think I’m a fool, and you had me convinced of that, until I was faced with the duplicity of the people I oppose. If things go well, I will probably be out of the country by the time you read this. If things go wrong, as I fear they might, then you have your instructions. I have enclosed the name of my lawyer in Zurich. When he is notified, he will know what to do. I wish to be cremated and have my ashes sent to him. Thank you for what you tried to do.

Marie-Thérèse

Stone looked at the attached document, which was neatly typed and notarized. It authorized him to act as her attorney in the United States, before and after her death. Another sheet of paper was a copy of a letter to her Zurich attorney, apprising him of Stone’s involvement in her affairs. He ripped open the envelope to find a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, the same as the last time she had paid him. He tossed the package onto the table, left the house, and looked for a cab.

Dino was alone when Stone arrived. He sat down, and without a word, Dino shoved a copy of the New York Post across the table, open to a story inside.

STATE DEPARTMENT OFFICIAL

MURDERED AT WALDORF

Jeffrey Purdue, a member of the U.S. delegation to the United Nations, was found shot to death in a suite in the Waldorf Towers this morning. Police sources said that he had picked up Darlene King, a high-priced prostitute, the evening before and had taken her to his suite, and that, after a night together, she had robbed and murdered him.

A maid discovered the body early in the morning and notified police and hotel security. The hotel was locked down and a search conducted, resulting in a confrontation between Ms. King and police. When she pointed a pistol at them, she was shot to death.

“That’s it?” Stone asked. “No reference to what happened at the Four Seasons or to Mason?”

“It’s the clean version,” Dino said. “Only Purdue gets his name in the papers.” Dino threw up his hands. “Don’t look at me. This came from a lot higher up the food chain.”

“Speaking of food,” Stone said, reaching for a menu. A waiter set down a Wild Turkey on the rocks. “Want to share the porterhouse for two?”

“Why not?” Dino said. “I haven’t eaten. Mary Ann is at her father’s.”

“The porterhouse, medium to medium rare,” Stone said to the waiter.

“Make that rare,” Dino said.

“Make it rare on his side,” Stone countered, and the waiter went away.

Carpenter suddenly appeared, looking businesslike in a suit. She sat down.

“Drink? Dinner?” Dino asked.

“Neither. I’ll eat on the airplane.”

“There’s a flight to London this time of night?” Stone asked.

“There’s an RAF airplane waiting for me at Teterboro,” she said. “I’m taking back two bodies as hand baggage.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What will happen to La Biche’s remains?” she asked Dino.

“Potter’s field is my guess.”

“No,” Stone interjected. He told them about the package from Marie-Thérèse. “She wants her ashes sent back to Switzerland.”

“Why don’t you just flush them down the toilet?” Carpenter asked.

“Shut up, Felicity,” Stone said.

“You liked her, didn’t you?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t. I admired . . . some of what she was—determined, even principled, in a way.”

“And you don’t like me anymore?”

“I like you, but I don’t admire you,” Stone said.

“I did what had to be done.”

“No, you did what you had to do; there’s a difference.”

“At least I know that she’s not after me anymore. I can relax now.”

“I don’t know how you can ever relax again,” Stone said.

“I’m quitting, you know.”

“Are you really?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Don’t think about it, just quit. You can’t be a human being again until you do.”

“I wish you understood,” she said.

Stone shrugged. “Like you said, it’s a war; what’s to understand?”

She stood up. “I have to go.” She gave Dino a hug, then turned to Stone.

“I don’t feel like kissing you,” she said.

“Then don’t.”

“Call me when you’re in London?”

“After you’ve retired.”

She gave him a little wave, then left.

They were quiet for a while, sipping their drinks, then Dino finally spoke. “You were too hard on her.”

“Was I?”

“We all have our dirty work to do—Carpenter, me, and you.”

Stone downed the rest of his bourbon and signaled a waiter for another. “I think you’d better order a police car to take me home tonight.”

“It’s waiting outside,” Dino said.

THE END Mount Desert, Maine, June 26, 2002

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to my editor at Putnam, David Highfill, for his continuing fine work on my manuscripts and his shepherding of my books inside the publishing house, as I am to all the people behind the scenes at Putnam who do so much to make my work a success.

I am grateful, too, to my literary agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, for all their work in the management of my career over the past twenty-two years. They have always made me feel I am in good hands.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to David Highfill at Putnam, address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the on-line bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Reckless Abandon

A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2004 by Stusrt Woods

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguin.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-1009-3

A SIGNET BOOK®

Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: November, 2004

Contents

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60

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book is for Harry and Gigi Benson.

1

ELAINE’S, EARLY.

Stone Barrington had just walked through the door when his cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He dug it out, while Gianni led him back to his usual table. Dino wasn’t there yet.

“Hello?”

“Stone?” An unfamiliar female voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Holly Barker.”

It took only a nanosecond for Stone to display her image on the inside of his eyelids—tall, light brown hair, sun-streaked, well put together, badge. “Hello, Chief, how are you?”

“Confused.”

“How can I help?”

“I’m in a taxi, and I don’t know where to tell the driver to take me. Can you recommend a good hotel, not too expensive?” “In what city?”

“In New York. I’m headed for the Midtown Tunnel, I think.”

“Why don’t you stay at my house? There’s a guest room.”

“I have a friend with me.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“My secretary is there right now, working late. I’ll call and tell her to expect you.” He gave her his Turtle Bay address. “There are three guest rooms—two with king beds and one with twins, all on the top floor. You choose.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble at all. That’s what the guest rooms are for.”

“When will I see you?”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“Drop your luggage, freshen up, and meet me at Elaine’s—Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth.”

“Sounds great. We’re at the tunnel now. How long should it take me?”

“If you’re quick, half an hour, but you’re a woman . . .”

“Half an hour it is, and don’t ever put a ‘but’ in front of that statement.” She hung up.

Gianni put a Knob Creek on the rocks in front of him, and Stone took a sip. “Better get him something, too,” Stone said, pointing at Dino, his partner when he had been an NYPD detective. Dino spoke to a couple of people at the front tables, then came back and pulled up a chair. His drink had already arrived.

“How you doing?” Dino asked.

“Not bad. You?”

“The same. You’re looking thoughtful.”

“I was just trying to remember everything about my trip to Vero Beach, Florida, last year, when I was picking up my Malibu at the Piper factory.”

“Why?”

“I was in a bank in the next town, a place called Orchid Beach, getting a cashier’s check to pay for the airplane, when a bunch of guys wearing masks walked in and stuck the place up.”

“Oh yeah, you told me about that. They shot a guy, didn’t they?”

“Yes. A lawyer with a funny name—Oxblood, or something like that.”

“Oxenhandler.”

“How did you remember that?”

Dino tapped his temple. “I do The New York Times crossword every day. Calisthenics for the brain.”

“Funny, it doesn’t seem to have muscled up.”

“I remembered the name, didn’t I? While your brain has apparently turned to mush. Why were you thinking about the bank robbery?”

“Not the robbery so much, the woman.”

“Ah, now we’re getting to the nub of things. I’ll bite. What woman?”

“She’s the chief of police down there, name of Holly Barker. She was supposed to marry Oxenhandler that very day. I met her at the police station.”

“You went to the police station?”

“I was a witness, and I didn’t have a shirt.”

“You’re losing me here.”

“I took off my shirt and held it to Oxenhandler’s chest wound, not that it did much good. He died shortly after reaching the hospital.”

“So you were bare-chested in Orchid Beach, and you met this girl?”

“Woman. We’re not supposed to call them girls, remember?”

“Whatever.”

“A cop loaned me a shirt. Holly arrived and took over the case. I remember how cool she was under the circumstances.”

“Pretty bad circumstances.”

“Yeah. After I came home I called her with some information, and we had a couple of phone conversations after that.”

“So why are you thinking about this . . . person?”

“She’s in town. In fact, she’s at my house right—Jesus, I forgot to call Joan.” Stone dialed his office number and got his secretary on the phone. “There are a couple of women coming to the house—one is named Holly Barker; I don’t know the other one. Will you put them in whichever of the guest rooms they want, and give them a key?”

“You’re doing two at a time now, Stone?” Joan Robertson asked.

“I should be so lucky. Just get them settled. I’ll explain later.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” She hung up.

“What’s she doing up here?” Dino asked.

“She didn’t say. She called from a taxi on the way in from the airport.”

“Nice of you to offer her a bed,” Dino said slyly.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Did you offer the two of them your bed?”

“I offered them a guest room; that’s it.”

“So far. Well, I guess it’s how you keep your weight down, isn’t it?”

“Dino . . .”

Gianni put some menus on the table.

“We’ll be two more,” Stone said. “And we’ll order when the ladies arrive.”

Gianni brought two more menus and a basket of hot bread. Stone tore into a slab of sourdough.

“Carbing up for later?” Dino asked.

“Get off it. I just want to get something in my stomach with the bourbon.”

“Mary Ann and I worry about you, you know.”

“Mary Ann has enough to worry about with you on her hands.”

“We want to see you settled with some nice, plain girl.”

“You just want to drag everybody down with you,” Stone said. “And what do you mean, ‘plain’?”

“A beautiful woman demands too much of a man.”

“You’re married to a beautiful woman.”

“I speak from experience. Their care and feeding is a full-time job.”

“Mary Ann cares for and feeds both of you, and without the slightest help from you, as I recall.”

“She’s an exceptional woman,” Dino said. “You’ll never do that well.”

“Thanks a lot.”

They finished their drinks and had just ordered another round, when Dino nodded toward the front door. “I’ll bet that’s your lady cop,” he said.

Stone looked up to see a tall woman, more striking than he remembered, striding toward them, smiling.

“Hey, there,” Holly said, offering her hand.

Stone and Dino were on their feet, getting her chair.

“This is my friend Dino Bacchetti, my old partner. He runs the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“Hey, Dino.”

“Hey, Holly.”

“Where’s your friend?” Stone asked.

“Oh, Daisy’s exhausted,” Holly replied. “I put her to bed.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Stone asked.

“What are you drinking?”

“Bourbon.”

“That will do nicely,” she said.

Gianni brought her the drink.

“So what brings you to the big city?” Stone asked.

“I’m in hot pursuit of a fugitive,” Holly said.

Stone handed her a menu. “Let’s order dinner, then you can tell me about it.”

2

THEY WERE HALFWAY through their first course, a salad of French green beans, mushrooms, and bacon.

“Tell us about your fugitive, Holly,” Dino said. “Maybe I can help.”

“That would be nice, Dino,” Holly replied. “First, a little background: Not long ago, I wrapped up a case in my jurisdiction that involved a man named Ed Shine; his history is interesting. He came to the U.S. from Italy, as a teenager, and his original name was Gaetano Costello.”

“Costello?”

“Second cousin to Frank. The mob changed his name to Edward Shine, planted a birth certificate in the county records, and put him through high school and college, ostensibly the son of some people named Shine, who just happened to live in the same apartment building as Mr. and Mrs. Meyer Lansky. Right out of college, Ed starts building office buildings, and he never has any trouble arranging financing; he’s laundering money for the mob. He continues doing this for forty years or so, and very successfully. In the meantime, he’s visiting Florida on a regular basis, and he has a brief affair with a Latino woman and fathers a son out of wedlock, naming the boy Enrico. The kid takes his mother’s maiden name, Rodriguez, and is called Trini.

“Trini Rodriguez grows up his father’s son and is trained in all the little arts required of a Mafia-made man. His favorite is killing people. I thought I had killed him, but he bounced back.”

“Why did you think you had killed him?” Stone asked, putting down his fork.

“Because I stuck a steak knife in his neck and wiggled it around, and he was pumping blood at a great rate the last time I saw him.”

Stone gulped. “And why, may I ask, did you stick a steak knife in his neck?”

“He was trying to kill an FBI agent at the time, and I was trying to stop him.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently, though, his people got him to a hospital in time, and he recovered.”

“Wasn’t he arrested?”

“Yes, but there were complications.”

“He was trying to kill an FBI agent, but there were complications?”

“Right. Turns out Trini had been an FBI informant all the time he was killing people, and the Miami agent in charge, a guy named Harry Crisp, took him out of the hospital and put him in the Witness Protection Program, saying that he needed his testimony in the big case—my case. All this without mentioning it to me, and I wanted the guy for mass murder.”

Dino spoke up. “So the guy you’ve come to New York to find is in the Federal Witness Protection Program?”

“Right.”

“Well,” Dino said, wiping his mouth and taking a sip of his wine, “that’s going to make it just a little difficult to arrest him.”

“Hang on,” Stone said. “You said you wanted him for mass murder?”

“Right. I had a witness in protective custody, and he killed two of her relatives, trying to get at her. She insisted on going to the funeral, and the FBI had the scene covered with lots of agents and a few snipers. I’m up in the church bell tower with one of the snipers when the hearses arrive, and everybody is on maximum alert, looking for somebody with a weapon.

“The coffins are taken out of the hearses and set by the graveside, and my witness walks over, puts a rose on the first coffin and kisses it, then steps over to the other coffin, and, as she kisses it, both coffins explode.”

“Holy shit,” Dino said quietly.

“My sentiments exactly,” Holly replied. “It’s carnage, everywhere you look. More than a dozen people are dead and several dozen injured, some critically. Like I said, I’m in the church tower, and the shock wave from the explosions starts the bell ringing and nearly deafens the sniper and me.”

“So he murders a dozen people, and still the FBI puts him in the Program?”

“Harry Crisp puts him in the Program, and once anybody in the FBI makes a move, they never want to reverse it; makes them look bad, they think.”

“And I’ll bet Crisp still has his job,” Stone said.

“No, thanks to a little work of mine, but he still has a job: He’s the AIC in American Samoa.”

“Samoa?”

“It was the most remote place they could find to send him. The AIC in Miami is now one Grant Early Harrison, who was the FBI guy I was trying to save when I stuck Trini Rodriguez. He was undercover at the time.”

“Well, Grant Early Harrison must be very grateful to you,” Stone said.

“Grateful, but not very. He’s how I know Trini Rodriguez is in the Program and in New York, but he stopped talking to me the moment he realized that I planned to take Trini.”

“So there’s no more help forthcoming from Agent Harrison?”

“None at all, the bastard, and after I got him his job, too.”

“And how did you do that?” Stone asked.

“After this business was over, and Ed Shine and a lot of other people had been arrested, a deputy director of the FBI paid me a visit and asked me for my account of events. I managed to toss a couple of hand grenades into Harry Crisp’s lap, resulting in his getting shipped to the farthest reaches of the Pacific Rim, and I said some very nice things about Grant, which, ultimately, got him the AIC’s job in Miami.”

“I don’t ever want you for an enemy,” Dino said. “You’re not Italian, are you?”

“No, but I’m an army brat, and I put twenty years in, myself, commanding MPs. In the army, you learn how to work the system.”

“Do you learn how to stick a knife in somebody’s throat, too?”

Holly put a hand on Dino’s arm. “Oh, Dino, that’s the first thing they teach you in the army, didn’t you know?”

“Are you armed?” Dino asked.

“No, I didn’t want to deal with the hassle at the airport.”

“You got your badge and your ID with you?”

“Sure.”

Dino reached under the table and fiddled with an ankle, then he put his napkin over something and slid it across the table. “I think you’re going to need this,” he said.

Holly lifted the edge of the napkin and peeped under it. “Oh, Dino,” she said, “a Walther PPK. How sweet of you!”

Stone peeped under the napkin, too. “I’ve got one just like it,” he said.

“That’s yours,” Dino said. “You didn’t think I’d give her my piece, did you?”

“What are you doing with my Walther?” Stone demanded.

“You loaned it to me that time when we did that thing.”

“And you never returned it?”

“Holly will give it back to you after she’s shot Trini Rodriguez a few times,” Dino explained.

Holly slipped the weapon into her handbag and returned Dino’s napkin.

“Swell,” Stone said.

“Holly,” Dino said, “I’ve got a couple of friends on the organized crime task force. I’ll mention Rodriguez’s name and see if anybody has heard about him. Do you know what name he’s using in the Program?”

“No, Grant wouldn’t tell me.”

“It would be a big help if you could find out.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Holly said.

“Let me work on it,” Dino replied.

Their main course arrived, and there was no more talk of Trini Rodriguez.

On the way back to Stone’s house, in a cab, he turned to Holly. “Are you and your friend comfortably situated upstairs?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. The room is very nice.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about sleeping in the same house with somebody who could stab somebody else in the neck.”

Holly patted his knee. “I promise not to stab you in the neck,” she said. “At least not the first night.”

The cab pulled up in front of Stone’s house, and they got out. Stone went to the front door and unlocked it.

“Hang on!” Holly yelled. “I left my purse in the cab!” She ran toward the moving taxi, screaming at it.

Stone watched her catch up and stop the cab, then he turned back and stepped inside his front door. As he did, he heard a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He froze.

Holly came up the steps behind him. “That was close,” she said.

“Don’t move,” Stone replied.

“What? Oh, God. Daisy! Stand down!” She brushed past Stone and took the dog’s collar. “Sit.”

Daisy sat down and looked at Stone warily.

“This is Stone,” she said. “Stone is good. Good.”

Daisy walked over and nuzzled Stone’s hand.

“How do you do, Daisy?” Stone said.

She licked his hand.

“Sorry about that,” Holly said. “You okay?”

“My heart rate is returning to normal. So this is your friend?”

“Yep. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“You didn’t mention that your friend is a Doberman pinscher.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“I hope it’s okay if Daisy stays, too. We can always go to a hotel.”

“Holly, in hotels, chambermaids enter your room several times a day when you aren’t there. You don’t want a dead chambermaid on your conscience, do you?”

“Daisy’s not like that.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“She only kills on command.”

Stone looked at her askance.

“Just kidding.”

“Go to bed,” Stone said. He watched as she walked ahead of him to the elevator. It was a pleasant sight.

Stone was nearly asleep when he felt Holly sit on his bed. He wasn’t all that sleepy after all, he thought. He reached for her, and his hand found a warm, furry body.

“Go to sleep, Daisy,” he groaned.

Daisy sighed, snuggled against Stone, and settled in for the night.

3

STONE WAS SLEEPING soundly when he was disturbed by a chink, chink sound. He opened an eye and found Holly sitting on his bed in one of his terry cloth bathrobes, eating cereal from a bowl.

“Good morning,” she said. “I made myself some breakfast. Can I get you some?”

Stone pressed the button that made his bed sit up, then rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Six-fifteen,” she replied.

Daisy, who had been snuggled close to Stone, sat up and yawned.

“Six-fifteen,” Stone repeated tonelessly.

“Too early for you? What time do you normally get up?”

“I wake up around seven, then have some breakfast in bed and read the Times and do the crossword. I usually get out of bed around nine.”

“Lazy guy, huh?”

“I’m not running a police force in a Florida town,” Stone said, “and I don’t have people pounding on my door at the crack of dawn, demanding to see me. It’s one of the advantages of being self-employed.”

Holly nodded. “Guess so. I see Daisy slept with you last night,” she said.

Stone nodded. “Apparently so. You’ll need to avert your eyes while I dash to the bathroom. And doesn’t Daisy have to go out in the mornings, or does she use a flush toilet?”

“She has to go out. And why do I have to avert my eyes?”

“Suit yourself,” Stone said, getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom. When he came back, Holly was still there.

“And don’t forget the plastic bag,” he said, climbing back into bed.

“Plastic bag?”

“For Daisy.”

“You want me to put Daisy in a plastic bag?”

Stone shook his head. “It’s the law in New York that when the dog poops, the owner picks it up and puts it into the nearest trash can. It’s a hundred-dollar fine if you fail to do so. And don’t bring it back into the house.”

“Well, I never,” Holly said. “What’ll they think of next in the big city?” She stood up. “Where do I find a plastic bag?”

“Kitchenette,” Stone said, pointing. “Next to my dressing room; saves an elevator ride at breakfast time.”

Holly went and found a plastic bag. “Guess I’d better shower and get dressed, if we’re going out,” she said to the dog. “Come on, Daisy.”

“Doesn’t she have to go out right now?” Stone asked.

“She can hold it, don’t worry. You want to take her out?”

Stone rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

At mid-morning Stone had finished breakfast and was dressing when Holly came upstairs, looking good in a sweater and wool slacks, Daisy at her side.

“Nice neighborhood,” she said. “Why is it called Turtle Bay?”

“There used to be a bay called Turtle Bay here, a long time ago. It got filled in.”

She went and looked out a rear window. “Beautiful garden. Do all the houses get to use it?”

“Yep, it’s a common garden. All the houses open onto it.”

“Nice feature.”

“So what are you going to do today?”

“Start looking for Trini Rodriguez, I guess.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Where do mafiosi hang out?”

Stone slipped his feet into a pair of loafers. “Hang on a minute. Trini is in the Federal Witness Protection Program, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, the Feds usually put people in there when they’re going to testify against the Mafia, when they’re running from the mob, you know?”

“Oh, I don’t think Trini would ever testify against his people.”

“Then who are the Feds protecting him from?”

“Probably me.”

“Holly, that just doesn’t make any sense. Why would they protect him from you?”

“Because he’s theirs, and they don’t want me getting him tried in Indian River County. And they think if he’s theirs, nobody else has a right to him. Well, I have a right to him.”

“You’re a very determined gir. . . woman, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I don’t mind being called a girl, except at work. So where do the Mafia guys hang out?”

“Well, they used to hang out in Little Italy, but these days they seem to be more scattered. I guess there are some in each borough.”

“Borough?”

“There are five in New York: Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx, and Manhattan. Until the turn of the century, they were separate cities.”

“So where’s Little Italy?”

“Downtown.”

“Will a cabdriver know it?”

“That’s problematical these days,” Stone said. “Tell you what: I’ve got a light day; I’ll drive you down there, maybe buy you some lunch.”

“Hey, that sounds great, but I’m buying. You get the gas.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She put a hand under Daisy’s chin and gazed into her eyes. “You stay here and be a good girl,” she said, then she turned to Stone. “Do you want her to kill anybody who comes into the house?”

“No, thanks,” Stone replied. “I wouldn’t want to come home and find my secretary dead.”

Stone slipped into a tweed jacket. “Okay, let’s go.” He led her downstairs to the garage, opened the door, and backed out, closing the garage door with a remote control.

“Your car makes a nice noise,” she said, as he accelerated toward Second Avenue. It’s an E55, isn’t it?”

“Very good. Most people can’t distinguish it from the ordinary E-class Mercedes.”

“I drove one, once; pretended that I was a prospective customer. I liked it.”

“Did you train Daisy yourself?”

“No, she was trained by an old army buddy of my father’s who got murdered. I bought her from his daughter. Daisy is what’s called in dog-breeding circles an ‘Excellent Working Bitch.’ ”

Stone laughed. “I like that.”

“Applies to me, too,” Holly said, grinning.

Soon they were creeping through traffic through the little streets of Little Italy. “That’s Umberto’s Clam House,” Stone said, pointing at a little restaurant. “Joey Gallo got shot there. Down the street is a coffeehouse, where some other don got it while playing bocce in the back garden. You may have seen that photograph of the corpse, with a cigar still clamped in his teeth.”

“I think I saw that on the History Channel,” Holly said.

“I guess you have a lot of time for things like the History Channel in Orchid Beach.”

“Oh, we get out of the house once in a while.” She pointed at a little restaurant. “Let’s have lunch there.”

“Okay. Let me find a parking space.”

“I’ll go ahead and get a table.” She opened the door and got out. It took Stone another ten minutes before somebody freed up a parking space, and when he got back to the restaurant, she was sitting at a table in the window, looking at the menu. He stopped and just looked for a moment. He was finding her more and more attractive. He went in and took a seat.

“What looks good?”

“Pasta,” she said. “I was thinking about the white clam sauce.”

A waiter came over.

“I’ll have the same,” Stone said, after she’d ordered. “And let’s have a bottle of the Frascati.”

“I hope that’s a dry white wine,” she said.

“It is.”

The waiter brought the bottle and poured them each a glass.

Stone raised his glass. “To . . .” But, to his astonishment, Holly had kicked over her chair and run out of the restaurant. He ran to the front door and looked down the street in time to see her sprinting through the crowds on the sidewalk, her handbag in one hand and his Walther in the other.

4

STONE RAN A few steps in the direction Holly had taken, but she had disappeared into the crowd. He ran back to the restaurant, left some money on the table, and ran to his car. He executed a lucky U-turn and started down the street, checking both sides for Holly. A couple of blocks down, he found a parking place and got out of the car, searching the street for signs of her. Then he saw her half a block away, walking toward him. He leaned on the car and waited.

“I can’t believe I let the son of a bitch outrun me,” Holly said, though she wasn’t even breathing hard.

“You saw Trini?”

“He walked right past the restaurant. Didn’t you see him?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what he looks like,” Stone said. “You want to give me a description?”

“Six-two or -three, two hundred pounds, looks more Hispanic than Italian. He has black hair with a ponytail; evil face.”

“Evil face? I don’t recall ever having seen that description on a wanted poster.”

“Trust me. What are we doing about lunch?”

Stone looked around. “I’m not giving up this parking spot. Follow me.” He led her a few blocks into Chinatown, to a restaurant called Hong Fat, and soon they were eating noodles.

“So, are you a native New Yorker?” Holly asked.

“Born and bred in Greenwich Village; father was a cabinet and furniture maker, mother, a painter. Went to NYU and NYU law school. My last year I joined a program to ride with the NYPD, became enamored of law enforcement, and, on graduation, joined the department, became a detective three years later, partnered up with Dino, and had a hell of a good time. Put in fourteen years. That’s the nutshell bio.”

She shook her head. “Incomplete. Why’d you leave the force?”

“The force left me. We disagreed on an investigation I was ostensibly running, and they used a knee wound as an excuse to ship me out. I did a cram course on the bar exam, took it, passed, and joined the law firm of Woodman and Weld, courtesy of an old law school buddy. That complete enough?”

“For the moment,” she said.

“How about you?”

“Born in the army, grew up in the army, mother died when I was twelve, joined the army after high school, got a degree in the service, went to OCS, got a commission, and commanded MPs for the rest of my twenty years.”

“Why didn’t you go for thirty?”

“Another female officer and I accused a bird colonel of sexual harassment—rape, in the other girl’s case. We got him court-martialed, but he was acquitted. After that, there was no place to go in the army. He had too many friends in high and low places. Got an offer of the deputy chief’s job in Orchid Beach; the chief got himself killed, and I was bumped up a rung. Met Jackson Oxenhandler, moved in with him, made plans to marry him. You know the rest.”

“How are you living with that?”

“Better than can be expected. I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing things, so I tucked it away in the back of my mind. It comes out once in a while, but less and less often. Jackson, fortunately, had made a will, and he left me well fixed.”

“Seen any men since then?”

“Just one—Grant Early Harrison. We had . . . well, I guess you’d describe it as a fling, and after he got the AIC’s job in Miami, we cooled down. Before, he’d been an undercover agent, and that was interesting. Now he’s a bureaucrat, and that’s not.”

“Ever thought of getting out of that little town?”

“Listen, so much happens in that little town you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve busted up two major organized crime operations in three years, with all the attendant homicides and other felonies. You’re looking funny—skeptical, maybe. What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking, the idea of you waltzing into town, looking for some guy in the Witness Protection Program, then going down to Little Italy your first day and spotting him on the street is ludicrous; couldn’t happen.”

“That sort of thing happens to me all the time,” Holly said, laughing. “Either there’s some sort of angel watching over me, or I’m the world’s best cop.”

“Another thing: It’s okay for you to pack my Walther while you’re in town—the NYPD would overlook that, since you’re a serving officer—but if you start shooting at Trini on the street and clip a civilian—well, that’s big trouble. You might keep that in mind.”

“I certainly will,” Holly replied. “I’d take a dim view of something like that happening in my jurisdiction.”

“Good. And if you remember that you’re not in your jurisdiction, that would be a big help. Even if you hit Trini between the eyes with your first shot—that’s a lot of paperwork for the locals, and the New York news media would fall on you from a great height.”

“Okay, okay,” Holly said, raising her hands in surrender. “Lecture heard and understood. You want the Walther back?”

“Keep it,” Stone said, “but make sure the circumstances are dire before you use it.”

“Dire,” she replied. “I promise. So how’s your love life, Stone? Now that we’ve covered mine.”

“Varied,” Stone said.

“I’ll bet that’s a New York City term, meaning ‘nonexistent.’ ”

“You sound like Dino.”

“And I’ve seen you looking at me. You look pretty horny.”

Stone tried to repress a blush. “You’re an attractive girl,” he said, “but don’t get cocky; it’s unbecoming.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do anything unbecoming.”

“If I put my hand on your knee, is Daisy going to bite it off?”

“She will if I tell her to.”

“Would you tell her to?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t need her help to handle you.”

Stone choked on a noodle.

5

AFTER LUNCH, STONE drove them back to his house, and Holly and Daisy headed for Central Park and a long walk. Stone called down to his office.

“Good afternoon,” Joan said dryly.

“Sorry I didn’t check in this morning,” he said. “I took my houseguest downtown for lunch.”

“You didn’t tell me you bought a killer dog,” she said. “I went upstairs to find you, and, luckily, I slammed the door before he could tear my arm off.”

“She,” Stone said. “It’s Holly’s dog. Didn’t you meet her when Holly arrived?”

“No, I was on my way out. I just gave her the key and the alarm code and pointed her upstairs. I guess the dog was still in the cab.”

“Anything up this morning?”

“Well, a guy who says he’s an old friend of yours has been waiting for you for more than an hour.”

“Who is he?”

“He won’t say, and he won’t leave. Could you get down here and deal with him, please?”

“I’ll be right there,” Stone said. He got up and went downstairs to his office. As he came down the stairs he could see down the hall to the waiting area, and saw two long legs extended from a chair, with a very fine pair of shoes at the end of them.

“Good afternoon,” Stone said. He couldn’t see the face, but when the man stood up, it was familiar enough.

“Lance Cabot,” he said.

“So that’s his name,” Joan’s voice called from her office.

Lance offered his hand. “I’m sorry, perhaps I was being too cautious. I thought that if you called in and she gave you my name, you might not want to see me.”

“Come into my office,” Stone said, pointing the way. He was still trying to get his breath back. A little more than a year before, a man had walked into his office and offered Stone a lot of money to go to London to rescue his niece from the clutches of her bad, bad boyfriend, whose name had been Lance Cabot.

Stone had taken the job, only to learn that his client had used a false name and was trying to track down Cabot to kill him. The client, whose name turned out to be Stanford Hedger, was CIA, and Cabot was ex-Agency, then operating as a rogue. Stone had asked for help from a friend and had been contacted by British intelligence, who asked him to enter into a business arrangement with Cabot, who was trying to steal some important equipment from a military arms lab. With the help of an inside man, Cabot had stolen the item, presumably sold it to bad people, and had disappeared with Stone’s money. A couple of weeks later, to Stone’s astonishment, his money had been returned, along with the healthy profit Cabot had promised him.

Lance took a seat and crossed his legs. He was casually dressed in a tweed jacket and tan trousers, looking for all the world like a resident of New York, out for a walk and a cup of coffee.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Stone asked.

“Thanks, but your secretary provided that, in spite of her suspicions.”

“What brings you to New York, Lance?”

“I live here now, a few blocks uptown.”

Stone’s jaw dropped. “Aren’t you a fugitive? Is that why you’re here, looking for a lawyer?”

Lance shook his head. “I’m not a fugitive, and I don’t need a lawyer, at least for myself.”

“For someone else?”

“Maybe, but not just yet.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m baffled by all this. I thought you were being sought by every intelligence agency and police department in Europe, not to mention your own former people.”

“They’re not former,” Lance said. He fished a wallet out of his pocket and handed it to Stone.

Stone found himself staring at a CIA ID card, complete with photograph. “How long have you had this back?”

“I always had it,” Lance said. “Let me explain. When Hedger hired you—”

“Hedger was CIA, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was, but he was led to believe that I had gone rogue. That’s why he was looking for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s complicated. I was sent over there to . . . well, ostensibly to acquire a British invention, a piece of military hardware, you will recall, and sell it to a Middle Eastern country—Iraq, as it happens.”

“The CIA wanted you to steal British military hardware and sell it to Saddam Hussein?”

“Yes. Well, not really. You see, Hedger wanted the hardware, too, ostensibly for our nuclear weapons program. He really wanted it to help him regain the Agency’s high regard, in which he had formerly been held.”

“This is very confusing: The Agency had two agents trying to steal the hardware, working at cross-purposes?”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“And you were supposed to sell it to Saddam Hussein?”

“Yes, and I did, but not before it had been modified to make it useless. It needed the right software, too, and he didn’t have that, but by that time, I had his money and was gone. You got a very nice slice of those funds, too. What did you do with the money?”

“I paid the taxes on it and invested the rest, as my accountant recommended.”

“Good,” Lance said. “Just what I would have done.”

“Lance, it worries me to think I did what you would have done.”

Lance laughed. “You have nothing to worry about, Stone. You’re clean as a whistle.”

“Does your agency know that I was paid the money?”

“Of course. I had a little trouble convincing them, but after I had repeatedly pointed out how valuable you had been to us, they agreed.”

“But I was supposed to be helping the British.”

“Well, yes, but you were really helping us all the time.”

“Did the British know this?”

Lance pursed his lips. “Not exactly, but they do now. After all, I helped rid them of a man in their midst who was willing to sell their technology to anybody. Why do you care?”

“As it happens, I’ve spent a good deal of time in the company of one of their people, a woman called Carpenter.”

“Felicity Devonshire?” Lance laughed aloud.

“I didn’t even know that was her name until a few months ago.”

“She’s a piece of work, that girl. Did you know that, at this very moment, she’s being considered to replace Sir Edward Fieldstone as head of her service? If she gets the job, she’ll be the first woman to do so. She was prominently mentioned in the last Birthday Honours List, too. She’s now Dame Felicity.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” Stone said. “We parted on less than the best terms.”

“Pity,” Lance said. “She’s a remarkable woman. My people are rooting for her to get the job.”

“Good for her. Now, why did you come to see me, Lance?”

Lance chuckled. “I thought I might send some more business your way.”

6

STONE’S FIRST REACTION was to send Lance on his way, but, as it happened, things had been a little slow in the way of work, and a fresh injection of business could help his cash flow. “What are we talking about?” he asked.

“Just a little legal work,” Lance replied, studying his well-manicured nails.

“Look at me when you lie to me, Lance.”

Lance looked up. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Because you’ve never said anything to me that was the truth. Ever.”

Lance shrugged. “Surely you understand that that was business. I was carrying out an assignment important to the national interest, and you were helping.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that.”

“I wasn’t allowed to tell you, and it was important that you didn’t know. In fact, you never would have been involved at all, if I hadn’t been in a situation of, shall we say, temporarily interrupted cash flow. I needed your quarter of a million, which you very kindly supplied, and you made a very tidy profit from the arrangement. Where else could you have gotten a return of four hundred percent in less than thirty days?”

“Everybody was lying to me, especially Hedger.”

“Hedger is dead. Did I mention that?”

Stone took a quick breath. “No, you didn’t. Do I want to know how and why? I assume he didn’t keel over of a coronary.”

“No, he was expertly stabbed by somebody who worked for you.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Stone demanded.

“Remember those two retired British cops you hired to follow me around London and bug my house?”

Stone hadn’t known that Lance knew about that, so he said nothing.

“You’ll remember that Hedger’s people beat up one of them very badly, so badly that he later expired.”

“Go on.”

“Well, his mate took exception to that and held Hedger accountable. He knifed him in a mews a short walk from the Connaught, while you were still in London.”

“I didn’t know,” Stone said.

“Scotland Yard hushed it up, the knifer having been one of their own. Had an exemplary military record, too, killing people in the Special Air Services. That detective inspector, Throckmorton—unlikely name, isn’t it?—didn’t think a shady American spook’s life was worth a blip in the happy retirement of one of their former officers.”

“And what did the Agency have to say about that?”

“Almost nothing. Somebody gave Throckmorton a good lunch and received the details. They shook hands and went their separate ways. Hedger is now a star on the memorial in the lobby of the headquarters building at Langley.”

“The more I learn about your business, the less I want to learn about it.”

“You shouldn’t feel badly about Hedger. He was a bad apple; been using his position for years to enrich himself in various underhanded ways, and the Agency was sick of him. Good riddance and no trial or publicity. His death didn’t even make the tabloids, let alone the Times. His alumni newsletter ran a nice obit, though, most of it lies.”

“An ignominious end,” Stone mused.

“In Hedger’s case, deservedly so.”

“What is this legal work you want done? It isn’t illegal work, is it?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that. It’s pretty simple, really: A fellow we hired for some contract work got himself into a scrape with the local law, and—”

” The local law where?”

“Right here in Gotham, actually.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a DUI and some other minor stuff involved. He needs a lawyer, and we feel honor bound to provide him with one. We’ll pay five hundred an hour.”

Stone’s normal fee for that sort of thing was three hundred an hour. “That is not ungenerous.”

“We don’t want it to go to trial, you see; could be embarrassing and might even reveal information detrimental to national security.”

“You mean, detrimental to the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Same thing. Do we have a deal?” Lance held out his hand to shake.

“Oh, all right,” Stone said, shaking the hand. He picked up a pen and pad. “What’s your client’s name?”

“Herbert Fisher, a professional photographer by trade.”

Stone nearly choked. “Oh, no, no, no, no,” he said, holding out his hands as if to ward off evil.

“You know Mr. Fisher?” Lance asked, looking surprised.

“I know him far better than I want to,” Stone said.

“Well, come to think of it, he did ask for you. I’m glad you’ve agreed.”

“Wait a minute, Lance. I’m not doing this. The guy is trouble from beginning to end—he won’t take legal advice, won’t do anything he’s told.”

“Stone, Stone, it’s a simple matter, really. We just want you to negotiate something for him—get him off, if possible, sure, but we can’t let it go to trial.”

“Lance, sometimes these things go to trial, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Stone, we can do something about it, if necessary, but we’d rather let you handle it in the normal way.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Lance.”

Lance held up a placating hand. “Now don’t go reading a subtext into my words.”

“Do you know Herbie Fisher?” Stone asked.

“We’ve met.”

“Well, let me tell you about him. Last year, I hired him—on the recommendation of a guy who does a lot of good work for me—to take some photographs. A domestic matter. Herbie fell through the skylight while taking the pictures, got himself arrested, then, when I got him out, jumped bail and ran for the Virgin Islands. I had to go down there and get him back to make his court appearance and get my bail money back.”

“Well, he does sound lively, doesn’t he? He did come well recommended.”

“Lance, you don’t want anything to do with this guy, and neither do I.”

“Fine with me, Stone. See him through this, and we’ll both kiss him off.”

“You’re not listening, Lance. I won’t represent him.”

“But you’ve already agreed, old sport, and you’re a man of your word.”

“But I didn’t know who we were talking about.”

“Then you should have asked before we shook hands on it, not afterward.”

“Lance . . .”

“Tell you what: We’ll make it seven-fifty an hour, in cash, and I’ll send you over a retainer of twenty-five thousand. You can bank the unused portion, or stuff it into your mattress.”

That stopped Stone in his tracks just long enough for Lance to place a card on his desk, get up, and walk out of his office.

“Thanks, Stone,” Lance called over his shoulder. “Herbert will be in touch. Let’s have dinner.” He closed the door behind him.

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.

7

STONE WAS DRESSING when Holly and Daisy returned from their walk.

“Hi there,” she said.

Stone looked at his watch. “That was a long walk.”

“We went all the way to the north end of the park and back; really had a workout.”

“You’d better grab a shower, then. Dino called and said he has some information for you. We’re meeting him at Elaine’s in an hour.”

“I’ll feed Daisy and change my socks,” Holly said, and headed upstairs.

They settled into their table, and Elaine came over and sat down. “What’s up?”

“This is my friend Holly Barker, who’s visiting from Florida,” Stone said.

The two women shook hands.

“Are you the lady cop?” Elaine asked.

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“I read the papers. Not that Stone would have ever mentioned you.”

“There wasn’t a lot to mention,” Stone said. “We met only once, before this week.”

“Once has always been enough for you,” Elaine said, rising to hop to the next table.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Holly asked.

“Pay no attention to Elaine,” Stone replied. “She likes to needle me.”

“About women?”

“About whatever she can think of.”

Dino came in, hung up his coat, sat down, and ordered a Scotch.

“What would you like, Holly?”

“A three-to-one vodka gimlet, straight up, shaken, very cold,” she said to the waiter.

“Make it two,” Stone said.

“Sounds good. Cancel my Scotch and make it three,” Dino echoed.

“I’m glad to be able to influence opinion,” Holly said. “What information do you have for me, Dino?”

“You’re right. Your guy, Rodriguez, is in town. He’s been hanging out at the La Boheme coffeehouse in Little Italy.”

“Holly’s a little ahead of you, Dino. We had lunch down there, and she spotted Trini and gave chase.”

“No shit? What do you need me for?”

“Well,” Holly said, “I didn’t know about the La Boheme coffeehouse.”

“It’s a mob joint. There’s at least two bookies and a loan shark working out of there.”

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop in for a cup of coffee.”

“Not without a SWAT team to back you up,” Dino said. “They don’t cotton to the company of women in that place.”

“Maybe it’s time I brought them up to date.”

“Not unless you enjoy the sound of your bones breaking. They’re not friendly to outsiders of any kind, but especially women.”

“I’m sure there’s a New York City ordinance that prohibits such behavior. Why don’t you come down there with me and enforce it?”

“Because no law enforcement agency, local or federal, wants to disturb the action in the joint. Just between you and me, there’s probably more audio and video equipment installed in the walls there than at the Wiz.”

“What’s the Wiz?”

“A great big audio and video store.”

“I get the picture. Maybe I should just go down there and park outside until Trini shows up, then take him.”

“Holly, you’re not listening. You try to take somebody in that coffee shop, and a shooting war will break out. I wasn’t kidding about the SWAT team.”

“Can you arrange a SWAT team for me, Dino?”

“You got an extradition warrant?”

“It’s in my handbag, right next to Stone’s Walther.”

“Tell you what: If you can get the governor of Florida to call the governor of New York, and the governor to call the mayor of the city, and the mayor to call the police commissioner, and the commissioner to call the chief of detectives, and the chief to call me and order me to do it, then I’ll do it.”

“Dino, you sound reluctant.”

“What gave you that idea? Was it something I said?”

Stone spoke up. “Holly, the best you’re going to get out of the NYPD, except in the circumstances Dino described, is for them to look the other way until you’re on an airplane south with Trini trussed up like a turkey.”

“Dino, did you hear anything about what name Trini is using in the Witness Protection Program?”

“He’s using Trini at the La Boheme. Outside, who knows?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Holly said, digging her cell phone out of her purse.

“That’s it,” Dino said. “Call the director of the FBI. I’m sure he’ll be helpful.”

Holly dialed two zeros, then another digit. “Hello, may I please have the number, under the United States Government, Department of Justice, for the Federal Bureau of Investigation field office in American Samoa? S-A-M-O-A. It’s a bunch of tiny islands in the South Pacific. I’ll hold.” She turned to Stone. “Got a pen?”

Stone handed her his.

“Yes, that’s right.” She grabbed a cocktail napkin and jotted down a long number. “And everything but the last seven digits is the dialing code? Thank you very much.” She punched off.

“What time is it in Samoa?” Dino asked.

“I don’t even know what day it is,” Holly said, dialing the long number. “It’s ringing. Hello, may I speak with Harry Crisp, please? Tell him it’s Holly Barker calling.” She nodded at Stone and waited.

“Hello, Harry? Can you hear me okay?. . . Why, Harry, that’s not a very nice thing to say. And I was trying to be helpful. . . . How? Well, I’ve been feeling badly about your getting transferred to the Pacific Rim, and I thought I might be helpful in getting you back to the States. . . . Well, I don’t know for sure if I can do that, but I can certainly put in a word with Deputy Director Barron, the guy who shipped you out there. . . . Well, of course there’s a tit for tat, Harry. Did you think you’d get my help for free? Actually, it’s a very easy one for you. All I want is the name the Bureau gave Trini Rodriguez in the Witness Protection Program. . . . Yes, Harry, I’m aware that that’s highly confidential,” Holly continued, “but when you weigh a slight breach of confidentiality against a ticket home, well . . . Look, Harry, you’re the guy who put him into the Program. You don’t even have to tap a few computer keys; the name is right there, lodged in your frontal lobe. They haven’t lobotomized you, have they, Harry? . . . Now, how could this possibly get you in trouble? Nobody will know except me. I just want to look up Trini and say hello. He’s of no further use to you, not that he ever was. You were just trying to keep me from arresting and trying him in my jurisdiction.

“Come on, Harry, cough it up. Look, I can’t specify a new assignment for you, but honestly, wouldn’t anywhere be better? . . . I didn’t even know you had an office in Alaska. Would you like me to request Nome for you? Only joking, Harry. Now give me the name and you won’t hear from me again. And if you don’t give me the name, you might never hear from anybody again.” Holly listened and jotted something on her napkin. “Thank you so much, Harry. I’ll give Deputy Director Barron a call tomorrow, first thing. No, it’s dinnertime here, Harry. Bye-bye.”

She hung up and held up the napkin for Stone and Dino to see.

“Robert Marshall,” Stone read aloud.

Dino took Holly’s hand. “Holly, would you like to come work for the NYPD as liaison with the Feds?”

8

HOLLY GOT UP and went to the ladies’ room, leaving Stone and Dino alone.

“So, how’s it going?” Dino asked.

“Well, I stepped in a steaming pile of shit today.”

“What else is new? What is it this time?”

“Remember Lance Cabot?”

“The rogue ex-CIA guy in London?”

“Yes, but it turns out he’s not a rogue, just CIA. The rogue was Hedger, the guy who hired me. Lance is in New York and he turned up at my office today and asked me to represent a guy who’s been doing some contract work for them. Apparently, he’s had a DUI and a couple of other things, and the Agency wants his mess cleaned up. I didn’t want to do it, but he offered me seven-fifty an hour, and he sent around a brown envelope stuffed with twenty-five thousand in crisp, new hundred-dollar bills.”

“That doesn’t sound so shitty. What’s the problem?”

“The guy I’m representing is Herbie Fisher.”

“That schmuck that we had to hunt down in the Virgin Islands?”

“One and the same.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? There isn’t enough money to make dealing with that guy worth it.”

“Well, yes, but I agreed to represent him before he told me the name. We shook hands on it.”

“Well, unshake his fucking hand.”

“I gave him my word.”

“Stone, Lance Cabot and the people he works for would screw you in the blink of an eye, if it was worth their while, and maybe just for the fun of it.”

“Actually, my dealings with Lance have been, if not exactly straightforward, then conducted in an honorable manner.”

“Stone, this is the guy who hustled you into putting up a quarter of a million dollars to finance a theft from the British government, then disappeared into thin air.”

“I got my money back, remember?”

“Yeah, but he promised you a million-dollar profit, too. Whatever happened to that?”

“It’s in my brokerage account, less taxes.”

Dino stared at him, stupefied.

“No kidding.”

“You never told me that.”

“Where is it written that I have to tell you everything?”

“Where is it written that I can’t put a gun to your head and pull the trigger? You’d fucking well better tell me everything. I was involved, remember?”

“As I recall, your involvement was pretty much confined to lying around the Connaught Hotel, watching cricket matches on TV and gaining weight on room service.”

“Not all that much weight,” Dino said defensively.

“Have you lost it?”

“Most of it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, it was a pretty good hotel, and your friend Hedger was paying.”

“By the way, Hedger is dead. He was knifed near the Connaught by an ex-cop that I had hired to follow Lance.”

“You had him snuffed?”

“Of course not; it was nothing to do with me. Well, not much to do with me.”

Dino shook his head. “Wherever you go, people drop dead, and women take off their underwear. I don’t know how you do either of those things.”

Holly returned to the table. “So, have you been talking about me in my absence?”

“No,” Dino and Stone said as one man.

“Well, that’s insulting. I thought you might have said something nice about my ass as I walked away.”

“It’s a very nice ass,” Dino said. “I mentioned that to Stone.”

“You did not.”

Stone turned to Holly. “He did not. I noticed, though. I just didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, sure,” Holly replied. “What’s for dinner?”

“I’m having a spinach salad, chopped, and the spaghetti alla carbonara,” Stone said.

“Me, too.”

“All right,” Dino said, “I’ll join you. Why confuse the waiter by ordering something different?”

Frank appeared, and they ordered.

“I’m confused,” Frank said. “You all had the same drinks, and now you’re having the same dinner?”

“What’s confusing about that?” Dino asked.

Frank shook his head and walked away.

Stone’s cell phone vibrated, and he dug it out and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Stone?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“It’s Herbie Fisher! How are you?”

Stone groaned. “I’m in the middle of dinner, Herbie. Call me in the morning.”

“Isn’t this great? You’re representing me again!”

“No, it’s not great, Herbie, and my food is getting cold. Call me in the morning.”

“Do I take two aspirin?”

“What?”

“You know, take two aspirin and call me in the morning. Isn’t that what lawyers say?”

“That’s what doctors say, Herbie.”

“Whatever. So you’re going to make these charges go away?”

“I’m going to do the best I can for you, Herbie.”

“Lance said you were going to make them go away.”

“What did you do? What are the charges?”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got the ticket here somewhere.” There was the sound of papers rustling.

“That your new client?” Dino asked, smirking.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Why do I have to shut up?” Herbie asked.

“Not you, Herbie. Did you find the ticket?”

“Well, yeah, but you wanted me to shut up.”

“Herbie, I was talking to somebody else. I’m in a restaurant, having dinner with friends. Or, at least, I was, until you called.”

“Yeah, I got the ticket right here.”

“What does it say the charges are?”

“Let’s see: DUI, driving with a suspended license, and—you’re not going to believe this, Stone—resisting arrest with violence.”

“And why wouldn’t I believe that, Herbie?”

“You know me, Stone. I’m not a violent person.”

“What did you do to the cop, Herbie?”

“It’s kind of hazy. I’d had a couple beers.”

“Did the cop Breathalyze you?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the reading?”

“Two-point-oh.”

“Jesus, Herbie, that’s more than double the legal limit! Could you even walk?”

“Not good. Like I said, it’s all pretty hazy.”

“Why was your license suspended, Herbie?”

“Oh, I guess that was that other DUI.”

“You had a previous DUI? When?”

“I don’t know, two, three weeks ago.”

“So you’ve had two DUIs in less than a month?”

“I guess.”

“What did the judge give you for the first one?”

“Community service and DUI school.”

“Have you performed any community service?”

“Not yet. I been pretty busy.”

“Did you attend DUI school?”

“Not all of it.”

“How many times did you go?”

“Uh, once.”

“It’s three classes, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And you went to just one?”

“Stone, you have no idea how boring those classes are.”

“Herbie, you have no idea how boring it is in a cell on Rikers Island.”

“Well, you’re not going to let that happen, are you? Lance said you’d make it all go away.”

“Herbie, back to the resisting arrest with violence: What did you do to the cop?”

“Well, we argued a little.”

“That’s not violence. What did you do to him?”

“It’s all pretty hazy. I might have kicked him.”

“Oh, Jesus. Kicked him where?”

“Maybe in the balls.”

Stone made a whimpering noise. “I have to finish dinner, Herbie. Call me in the morning.”

“I have to be in court in the morning.”

“You mean there’s another charge?”

“No, it’s the same one.”

“And your court appearance is tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

“At what time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“That’s just great, Herbie. I’ll meet you in the hallway outside the courtrooms at nine-thirty, and you’d better be there, sober and neatly dressed.”

“All right, I’ll be there,” Herbie said, sounding chastened.

Stone hung up.

“Where did Herbie kick the cop?” Dino asked.

“In the balls.”

Dino and Holly collapsed in laughter.

9

STONE GOT TO the courthouse at eight a.m. and went upstairs to the warren of cubicles and offices that housed the assistant district attorneys.

“Hey, Maria,” he said to the middle-aged Italian-American woman who ruled the front desk. “You’re looking beautiful today.”

“You’re so full of shit, Stone,” the woman replied sweetly. “What brings you downtown? Haven’t seen you since the Christmas party.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully.

Stone ignored the reference to the Christmas party. “A client has an appearance this morning. Can you tell me who caught his case?”

“What’s his name?”

“Herbert Fisher.”

Maria giggled. “Oh, him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s the one who kicked the cop in the crotch, isn’t he?”

“It is so alleged,” Stone said. “Who’s the ADA?”

“Oh, that would be Dierdre Monahan.”

Stone winced.

“Yeah.” Maria giggled again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, there have been rumors.”

“Don’t ever believe rumors,” Stone said. “Is Dierdre in the same stall?”

“Are you saying she’s horsey?”

“Cubicle.”

“No, she’s moved up a little. She has an office now, but no window.” She waggled a thumb. “Down at the end, there.”

“Thanks, Maria.” Stone walked around the desk and started down the hallway, feeling nervous. He and Dierdre had gotten drunk and had a little thing after last year’s Christmas office party at the courthouse. The thing had occurred on a conference table next to the chief deputy DA’s office, and the door hadn’t been locked. He hadn’t seen her since. He rapped on the glass door.

“Come in, but it had better be good!” she shouted.

Stone opened the door and stuck his head in. “Morning, Dierdre. Got a minute?”

Dierdre was a striking woman of thirty-something who came from a long line of Irish cops and had four brothers currently wearing the uniform. “Faith and begorra,” she said sardonically. “And I was thinkin’ you was dead in your grave.” She dropped the Irish accent. “Come in and sit down, Stone.”

Stone went in and sat down. “So, how have you been?”

“Since last Christmas, you mean? You could have called and asked.”

Stone felt his ears redden. “It’s been a crazy year,” he said weakly.

“You’re blushing, Stone. Don’t tell me the memory of our little time together embarrasses you.”

“Well . . .”

“Just because the chief deputy walked in on us? Now, why should you let a little thing like that bother you?”

“Well . . .”

“I’ve had to take the brunt of it around here. The razzing got so bad I managed to parlay it into a sexual harassment complaint that got me, among other things, this office.”

“I’m glad you were able to turn the situation to your advantage,” Stone said, trying hard to sound sincere.

“I’m glad you’re glad, Stone. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a client at bat this morning at ten,” Stone said, grateful for the change of subject. “Maria says you caught the case.”

“Name?”

“Fisher.”

Dierdre emitted a deep chuckle. “Oh, Mr. Fisher! What a perfect pairing of client and attorney! And I suppose you’ve come to propose a deal?”

“Well, this sort of thing is really a waste of the court’s time—not to mention yours—and since Mr. Fisher is contrite and unlikely to repeat—”

“Mr. Fisher has already repeated,” Dierdre said. “That’s why I caught the case instead of one of the rookies.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, but—”

“And the cop in question—Mr. Fisher’s victim—missed two days of duty because of his injury.”

“Mr. Fisher is very sorry about that. He was very drunk at the time, and—”

“Which is why he was stopped in the first place,” Dierdre replied. She consulted a sheet of paper. “A two-point-oh reading on the Richter scale,” she said. “Judge Goldstein is going to just love that.”

“Judge Goldstein is hearing the case?” Stone’s heart sank. Goldstein’s wife had been injured in a collision with a drunk driver a couple of years back, and he was known as a hanging judge where DUIs were concerned.

“Isn’t that lucky?” Dierdre said. “What sort of deal did you have in mind, Stone?”

“I was thinking a written apology to the officer and community service,” Stone said hopefully. It was only an opening gambit.

“Tell you what: If he pleads out, I won’t ask for the death penalty.”

“Heh, heh,” Stone said.

“I’m glad you find this amusing. So do I.”

“Come on, Dierdre, give me a break here, will you?”

“The poor cop didn’t get much of a break, did he? There he was, just doing his duty, protecting the public from a driver too drunk to stand up straight—”

“All right, spare me,” Stone said, throwing up his hands in surrender. “What can you do for me, Dierdre?”

“How about three to five in Attica?” she proposed.

“Dierdre, please. Let’s be realistic; nobody died.”

“Have you ever been kicked in the balls, Stone?”

“Once, a long time ago.”

“I’m glad you had the experience. I was going to do it myself, just so you’d know the pain involved. Was it fun?”

“No, it hurt a lot.”

“Funny, that’s what the cop said. He’ll be using a cane to make his court appearance today.”

“Why don’t we spare him the court appearance, Dierdre? Make me an offer I can take to my client.”

“Six months and no license for five years.”

“Dierdre . . .”

“He’s lucky I don’t want his license for life.”

“Dierdre . . .”

“Propose what you feel is an appropriate punishment, Stone, all things considered.”

“He doesn’t deserve to go to jail, Dierdre.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Let me explain something else: I’ve been retained by a branch of the federal government that I cannot name. He was doing their bidding at the time he was arrested.”

Dierdre clapped a hand to her breast. “Oh, God, he was drunk and violent for the CIA, is that what you’re telling me? I gotta admit, I’ve never heard that one before, though it’s right up there with the dog ate his driver’s license.”

“Shhhh,” Stone said, making tamping motions with his hands. “I didn’t say that, and you mustn’t repeat it.”

“Is that your way of saying he actually was working for the CIA?”

“I can’t go there,” Stone said, pleading in his voice. “Please believe me when I tell you.”

“All right, Stone,” she said. “Since it’s you, and you’re a pretty good lay when no one is watching, here’s my best offer: thirty days at Rikers, a thousand-dollar fine, and his license in my desk drawer for three years.”

Stone slumped. Herbie wasn’t going to like this. “I’ll take it to my client,” he said.

“Don’t sound so down, Stone. You did pretty well for the guy, considering.”

Stone didn’t ask, Considering what? He said his goodbyes and left.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Dierdre called after him down the hallway.

“Thanks, Maria,” Stone said as he passed the front desk.

“Did I mention that the cop was Dierdre’s baby brother, Colin?” Maria asked.

“No, Maria, you didn’t mention that.” Stone got out the door as quickly as he could.

10

STONE WENT DOWN to the hallway outside the courtroom and was mildly surprised to find Herbie Fisher, dressed in a sober blue suit and tie, waiting for him, and on time, too.

“Hey, Stone,” Herbie said. “How’s it hanging?”

“You’re the one who’s hanging,” Stone said. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“Stone, it was only a DUI, that’s all.”

“It was your second DUI, and you haven’t bothered to do your penance for the first one, which was less than a month ago.”

“Well, hell . . .”

“Let me tell you a few other things that you ought to know,” Stone said. “The cop who received your kick in the crotch was the younger brother of the lady DA who’s prosecuting your case, and the judge who’s hearing it has a wife who was hurt in an accident caused by a DUI. He loves stringing them up by their thumbs.”

Herbie seemed to pale a little. “Can’t we get the DA and the judge, whatchacallit, excused? I mean, they’re both prejudiced against me.”

“Recused. It’s not going to happen because I’ve already gotten you the best possible deal.”

Herbie blew out a sigh of relief. “I knew you’d come through for me, Stone. Lance said you’d make it go away.”

“I didn’t say it was going away. I said I got you the best possible deal.”

Herbie looked worried. “What kind of a deal?”

“You do thirty days, pay a thousand-dollar fine, and lose your license for three years.”

“WHAT?” Herbie yelled. “I’m not doing time for this, and I’m sure as hell not going to give up driving. I just bought a new car!”

“You’re lucky they’re not taking the new car,” Stone said. “When Giuliani was mayor, that’s what they did—first DUI, they towed it away.”

“Stone, Lance promised me . . .”

“Then talk to Lance about it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Lance is sort of hard to get hold of, you know? He always called me.”

“That’s tough, Herbie. You’ve fucked yourself, so you may as well lie back and enjoy it.”

Herbie was shaking his head vigorously. “I’ll go to trial,” he said. “I’ll get a better deal than that from a jury.”

“Are you insane?”

“I know how to talk to a jury,” Herbie said. “They’ll believe me.”

“So your idea of dealing with this is to perjure yourself?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll tell the truth.”

“You’ll tell a jury you were on your second DUI in a month, with a blood alcohol level of more than double the legal limit, and that you kicked a cop in the balls? Do you want to end up in Sing-Sing?”

Herbie was still shaking his head. “Lance said you’d make it go away.”

“What do you want me to do, bribe the judge?”

Herbie brightened. “How much would that cost?”

Stone dragged Herbie over to a bench and sat him down. “Now you listen to me,” he said. “You’ve behaved stupidly by driving drunk twice in a row. You’ve injured a young policeman who is the brother of the ADA prosecuting you, and the judge has a thing about DUIs. What do you think that adds up to?”

“Okay, I’ll do the fine and the license thing, but no jail time. I’m too pretty to go to jail. I’ll get raped the first day.”

“First of all, you’re not all that pretty. Second of all, you’re extraordinarily lucky to have to do only thirty days. The DA’s first offer was six months, and if you went to trial, you’d probably get a year. Can’t you understand that you’ve fucked up royally, and that now you’re going to have to take responsibility for your actions?”

Herbie brought himself up to his full five feet six. “I have no problem taking responsibility. I just won’t do time, that’s all.”

“Herbie, that’s how you take responsibility.”

“Stone, do you know how to get hold of Lance?”

“Lance can’t help you here, Herbie; only I can help you. You can help yourself by being a stand-up guy and taking your punishment.”

“I am a stand-up guy,” Herbie protested, his voice taking on a whine.

“Herbie, do you know who Lance is? Do you know who he works for?”

Herbie looked around furtively. “Well, I do have my suspicions. He’s mobbed up, isn’t he?”

“Worse than that, Herbie.”

“What’s worse than mobbed up? Russian mob?”

“Worse.”

“I can’t think of anything worse than the Russian mob.”

“Herbie, think about the work that Lance hired you to do.”

“You mean photographing that ambassador guy with his boyfriend?”

“I don’t want to know that, Herbie,” Stone said, throwing up his hands defensively. “But think for a minute: Who would want that kind of work done?”

Herbie thought about it. “You don’t mean . . .” “Go ahead, Herbie, say it.”

Herbie licked his lips and gulped. “The National Enquirer?”

Stone buried his face in his hands. “Herbie, Lance works for a branch of the federal government, a branch that does dirty little things like photographing ambassadors with their boyfriends. Can’t you think of who that might be?”

“You’re not talking about the CIA, are you?”

“Congratulations, Herbie, you’re coming out of the fog.”

Oddly, Herbie seemed pleased. “You mean I’m working for the CIA?”

“Not anymore.”

“Man, that should get me laid.” Herbie chuckled.

“Herbie, it could get you a lot worse than laid,” Stone said.

“What do you mean?”

“Lance intimated to me that, if your case came to trial, his people might use other means to stop it.”

“You mean like bribing the judge?”

“No, Herbie.”

“Well, anybody who’d want an ambassador photographed with his head buried in another guy’s crotch wouldn’t have a problem with bribing a judge, would they?”

“Herbie, you’re not thinking this out to its logical conclusion. These are people who own weapons with silencers, if you get my drift.”

“You mean, they might shoot the judge?” He didn’t seem displeased at the thought.

Stone shook his head. “No, Herbie. It would be a lot simpler just to shoot you, wouldn’t it?”

Herbie froze.

Stone thought he’d finally reached Herbie. “Of course, they’d probably make it look like an accident; a suicide, maybe.”

Herbie seemed speechless now.

“You see where this is headed, Herbie? Look, I’ll see what I can do to make life a little easier for you inside.”

“How can you do that?” Herbie asked.

“You can buy nearly anything in jail, Herbie. Do you have any money?”

Herbie shook his head. “My credit cards are pretty much maxed out.”

“Herbie, they don’t take MasterCard at Rikers.”

“Well, I sure don’t have any cash.”

“Maybe I can get some money out of Lance,” Stone said. He saw his retainer getting smaller.

“You really think this is the right thing to do, Stone? I mean, as my lawyer and my friend, you think this is right?”

“Herbie, it’s the only thing to do, trust me.”

“I trust you, Stone.”

“Thanks, Herbie.”

“I just don’t want to go to jail.”

“The best you can do now is to try not to do anything ever again that will get you sent to jail. Now come on, it’s time for court.” Stone grabbed Herbie’s wrist, hauled him off the bench, and towed him toward the courtroom.

“You’re sure we can’t bribe the judge?” Herbie asked.

“Shut up, Herbie,” Stone said.

11

STONE LED HERBIE into the courtroom, tightly holding his wrist so that he couldn’t run. His client came along only reluctantly. Stone shoved Herbie into a seat and sat down beside him.

Herbie stood up. “I gotta go to the men’s room.”

Stone grabbed his coattail and jerked him back into his seat. “Sit on it, Herbie,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re done here.”

“But I gotta go.”

“You should have gone when you had the chance. Am I going to have to handcuff you?”

Herbie stared at his feet. “I didn’t bring nothing that I need for jail, no toothbrush or anything. I thought you were going to make this go away.”

“They have a little store at Rikers where you can buy what you need. They’ll let you keep twenty dollars.”

“And I wore my good suit.”

“They’ll keep it for you, Herbie, and they’ll supply all the clothes you need. It’s a free service to guests.”

“All rise!” the bailiff yelled, and the courtroom crowd got to its feet.

Stone looked to his left and saw four uniforms sitting in the front row directly behind the table where Dierdre Monahan sat. He nudged Herbie. “Those are the four brothers of the ADA,” he said.

“Which?”

“The ones in police uniforms. The youngest is carrying a cane. You knocked him off duty for two days.”

“They’re big guys,” Herbie whispered.

“Very big.”

The judge came out of his chambers and headed for the bench. To Stone’s astonishment, Lance Cabot came out the same door immediately afterward and took a seat on the other side of the courtroom. He didn’t look at Stone. What the hell was going on here?

The judge rapped sharply. “Order! Court is in session!” He turned toward Dierdre. “Ms. Monahan, approach.”

Dierdre got up and approached the bench. There was a brief conversation, and the judge did nearly all the talking.

Dierdre went back to her seat, taking time to glare at Stone on the way.

“Why is she pissed off at you?” Herbie asked.

“I don’t know, but I think we’re about to find out.”

“If she’s pissed off at you, does that mean more jail time?”

“Herbie, she couldn’t be more pissed off at me now than she was an hour ago, believe me. Listen, this is going to take a while. Our case is pretty far down the docket, and I don’t want to hear any more whining about the men’s room.”

The bailiff looked at his clipboard. “People versus Herbert J. Fisher!” he yelled.

“Oh, shit,” Stone said under his breath.

“What’s the matter? This means we get out of here sooner, doesn’t it?” Herbie asked.

“Herbie, try and get this through your head,” Stone said, dragging Herbie toward the gate in the rail that separated the lawyers from the courtroom. “You’re not getting out of here, except in a police van. Got it?”

The judge watched Stone drag Herbie through the gate, and his gaze could have melted ice. He looked down at his papers. “Mr. Fisher, you’re charged with driving with a suspended license, DUI, and resisting arrest with violence. How do you plead?”

“Well, Your Honor . . .” Herbie began.

Stone leaned toward him. “Say guilty and nothing else.”

“Guilty and nothing else,” Herbie called out to the judge.

Stone winced.

“Mr. Barrington, do you have any objection to sentence being imposed at this time?”

“No, Judge,” Stone replied.

“Ms. Monahan,” the judge said, “do you have a sentence recommendation?”

Dierdre stood up. “Yes, Judge. The people recommend suspension of Mr. Fisher’s driver’s license for five years, twelve months’ imprisonment, and a ten-thousand-dollar fine.”

“WHAT?” Herbie yelled.

“Shut your mouth,” Stone said. Something had gone terribly wrong here.

“That sounds good to me,” the judge said. “Mr. Fisher, you are sentenced to suspension of your driver’s license for five years, a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and twelve months’ imprisonment.”

Herbie began to cry.

The judge looked down at his desk and said, quietly enough so the full courtroom could not hear him, “Imprisonment suspended on condition of good behavior.”

The four policemen sitting behind Dierdre were on their feet, protesting loudly, while Dierdre tried to calm them.

“Pay the clerk,” the judge said, rapping his gavel. “Next case?”

Stone took Herbie’s arm and dragged him out of the well of the courtroom, hoping to get him out before the Monahan brothers regrouped and came after Herbie.

Lance moved out of a row of seats and met them at the rear of the courtroom. “Let’s step outside,” he said, and they went into the hallway.

“You said you’d make it go away!” Herbie wailed.

Stone grabbed him by a lapel and shook him. “It did go away. Didn’t you hear the judge?”

“He said a year!”

“He also said suspended.”

Herbie wiped away a tear. “He did?”

“He did,” Lance said. He took an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Stone. “Pay his fine, and let’s get him out of here. Go ahead, we’ll wait here.”

Stone went back into the courtroom, found the clerk, and paid Herbie’s fine with the ten thousand dollars in cash in Lance’s envelope. He got a receipt, then rejoined Herbie and Lance in the hallway.

Lance led them out of the courthouse, and they paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Herbie,” Stone said, “do you know what ‘suspended’ means?”

“It means I’m a free man, doesn’t it?”

“No, it means you’re a free man until the second you fuck up again—until you get a ticket for jaywalking or for playing your car radio too loud—for anything at all. That happens, you’re doing a year at Rikers. You understand that?”

“Yes,” Herbie said.

“Herbie’s not going to fuck up again,” Lance said, staring at Herbie. “You remember your little sojourn in the Virgin Islands last year, Herbie?”

“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said.

“Did you like it there?”

“Yeah, it was great. I had this great deal going where I took pictures at the hotels.”

Lance took an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Herbie. “I’m glad you liked it, Herbie, because you’re going back. Here’s your ticket.”

“I am?”

“Your flight leaves at six-twenty this evening. A man will pick you up at your home at four o’clock. You have until then to sell your car and pack.”

“I have to sell my car?” Herbie wailed. “But I just bought it!” He pointed at a new Mustang parked at the curb ten yards from where they stood. There were three parking tickets on the windshield.

“I’m afraid there’s no car ferry service to the Virgin Islands,” Lance said. “And since you can’t drive that or any other car for five years, you’ll have no need of it. By the way, there’s a voucher in the envelope for two weeks in a small hotel in Charlotte Amalie and transportation from the airport. There’s also two thousand dollars in cash, to help you get on your feet.”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “if you get into the slightest trouble in Charlotte Amalie, your previous and current convictions will pop up on the police computer, and you’ll find yourself back here, in Rikers, in a heartbeat. Do you understand?”

But Herbie wasn’t listening. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing at his car. A tow truck had pulled to the curb ahead of it. Herbie sprinted to the car, dove inside, got it started, and roared away from the curb, scattering parking tickets in the wind.

“I can’t believe he’s driving home,” Lance said.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” Stone replied. “Lance, what did you say to Judge Goldstein?”

Lance shrugged. “Let’s just say the judge is a patriot. Nice doing business with you again, Stone.”

“Please, Lance, no more.”

“We’ll see,” Lance replied and strolled toward a black Lincoln parked at the curb with its motor running. Lance opened the door and paused. “Dinner tonight?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Elaine’s, eight-thirty.” He got into the car and it pulled away.

Stone noted that the car had a diplomatic license plate. He wanted one of those.

12

STONE GOT HOME around noon and went to his office. “Where’s Holly?” he asked Joan.

“Oh, she borrowed your car and went somewhere.”

Stone blinked. “She borrowed my car?”

“She said you said it would be okay, so I gave her the extra set of keys.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“Not a clue.”

Stone went into his office and signed some letters, then picked up the phone and dialed his car phone number. It rang four times before she figured it out.

“Hello?”

“Holly, it’s Stone. Where are you?”

“Sitting outside the La Boheme coffeehouse, in Little Italy.”

“You’re not going to get my car full of bullet holes, are you?”

“A brochure in the glove compartment says it’s armored.”

“Well, it is, sort of, but I’ve never actually tested the armor. I’d prefer it if you returned it in the same shape as when you drove it away.”

“Well, sure, I’ll try.”

“When, exactly, did I say you could borrow my car?”

“At dinner. Don’t you remember?”

He did not. “I guess. When are you coming home?”

“A couple of hours, if Trini doesn’t show up. If he doesn’t come for lunch, I’ll leave it until later. Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

“No, but a guy from the CIA will buy us both dinner at Elaine’s.”

“The CIA? No kidding?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’ve never met anybody from the CIA. This ought to be interesting.”

“I hope not. I’ve just spent an all-too-interesting morning in court because of him. I’ve learned that you don’t want interesting, where the CIA is concerned.”

“Holy shit!” Holly yelled.

Stone heard his car start. “What’s going on, Holly?”

“It’s Trini! He’s leaving the La Boheme right now and getting into a Cadillac!”

“Holly, please don’t try a car chase in downtown Manhattan. It’s not like at home in Orchid Beach.” He heard the car’s engine rev.

“I don’t think he saw me,” she said.

“Holly, don’t hang up the phone.”

She hung up the phone.

Stone was left holding a dead receiver. He hung it up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Joan, call my insurance agent and confirm that my car is insured for any driver. If it’s not, add Holly Barker as an insured driver, and hurry.”

“Will do.”

Stone tried to think what he could do about this, and he came up with a quick answer: absolutely nothing. This hick-town cop was loose in Manhattan with his seventy-thousand-dollar car, and involved in a chase with an FBI-protected murderer at the front end of things. He buzzed Joan again.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Did you get that insurance thing done?”

“I have them on the other line now.”

“Make sure it’s effective immediately.”

It was after five when Holly returned to Stone’s house.

“Hello?” she called up the stairs.

“Come on up,” Stone called back.

Holly came into his bedroom, shucking off her coat. Daisy padded along beside her, then hopped up onto the bed with Stone, who had been reading the Times.

“Hello, Daisy,” Stone said, half expecting her to reply. She gave him a big kiss, then lay down and snuggled against him.

“She likes you,” Holly said.

“I’m relieved to hear it.” To his surprise, she started undoing buttons.

“Mind if I use your shower?” she asked, continuing to undress. “The water pressure isn’t too great upstairs.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Stone replied. “In New York, we have these water tanks on the roof, and sometimes the upper floors don’t get the best pressure.” As she continued to undress he reminded himself not to get the water pressure problem fixed.

“Water tanks? No kidding?”

“You can go up and take a look,” he said, “but I wouldn’t go like that.” She was down to a bra and panties, or more accurately, some sort of semi-thong thing. “You’d have the neighbors climbing out windows.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” she said, flashing him a big smile. She turned and went into the bathroom, reaching behind her for the bra hook while displaying the backside of the semi-thong thing and a fine pair of buns. She left the door open, but he couldn’t see her. He heard the shower turn on, though.

“How was your day?” she called from the bathroom.

“Hairy,” he replied. “A very strange morning in court.”

“You can tell me about it later,” she said.

He heard the shower door open and close.

Five minutes later, she came out, loosely dressed in his terry robe, toweling her hair. She hopped onto the bed and turned toward him, close. Daisy was between them. “So, tell me about your morning in court.”

“I had this extremely annoying client, Herbie Fisher, with whom I’ve dealt before. He was charged with—”

” The one who kicked the cop in the balls?”

“Yes, and the cop was there with his three big brothers. Their sister was prosecuting.”

“Stacked deck, huh?”

“You might say that.”

“How many years did he get?”

“Twelve months, suspended, a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and loss of his license for five years, which is a godsend to the community.”

“Suspended? Wasn’t this his second DUI?”

“Right.”

“We’re tougher in Florida. You must be some kind of lawyer.”

“I employed no lawyering skills this morning. The CIA guy fixed the judge.”

Holly lifted her head off the pillow. “You’re kidding.”

“I kid you not. Now Herbie is on a plane to Saint Thomas, and the world is a better place, except in Saint Thomas.”

“How did he fix the judge? Pay him off?”

Stone shook his head. “I don’t think Judge Goldstein is the sort who would take a payoff. Lance said the judge was a patriot.”

“Lance is the CIA guy?”

“Right.”

“So he said something to bring out the judge’s patriotic instincts?”

“Apparently.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t want to know. By the way, did I mention that we’re having dinner with Lance?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Stone admitted. “I’d just as soon not see him again.”

Holly planted a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the bad CIA guy.”

“I don’t know that he’s bad. I used to think so, but now I’m not sure.” He liked the kiss. He wanted to put his arm around her, but Daisy was staring right at him.

“Daisy,” Holly said, “get off the bed and lie down.”

Daisy immediately hopped off the bed and lay down beside the bed.

“Go to sleep,” Holly said.

Daisy laid her head on her paws and closed her eyes.

“Is she really asleep?” Stone asked.

“Close enough,” Holly said. She turned his head toward her and kissed him on the lips.

13

STONE WOKE WITH a crick in his neck, the result of napping most of the afternoon with Holly’s head on his shoulder. That was all they had done, nap, and he wasn’t too happy about that, but somehow, he hadn’t felt it was the right time to go further.

The sound of his hairdryer was coming from the bathroom, then it stopped, and Holly emerged, stark naked, her underwear in her hands. “I’m going to take Daisy for a nice long walk,” she said. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Wear something,” he called after her, while appreciating the sight of her departure. “I wouldn’t want you to get arrested.”

She laughed and disappeared upstairs.

Stone got up, still groggy, and got into a shower. He emerged feeling brighter. The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. Dinner?”

“Sure, meet me at Elaine’s. Lance Cabot will be there.”

“No shit? The CIA guy?”

“One and the same.”

“How’d Herbie’s courtroom appearance go?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Stone told him.

“I don’t believe it.”

“See?”

“Goldstein did that? I thought he was Mr. Ironass.”

“Lance says he’s a patriot.”

“He’s lucky Goldstein didn’t have him arrested on the spot. I wouldn’t mess with that guy on a bet, especially about a DUI.”

“A DUI that included violence upon the crotch of a police officer. Turns out the cop was Dierdre Monahan’s little brother, and she caught the case.”

“You’re lucky Lance showed up.”

“Herbie was lucky. I had negotiated thirty days in Rikers for him, and he got off with a suspended sentence because of whatever Lance said to Goldstein.”

“Go figure.”

“Yeah. Eight-thirty?”

“See ya.” Dino hung up.

Holly came back into the room, this time, to Stone’s disappointment, fully dressed. “Is there some sort of park that’s closer to your house than Central Park?” she asked.

“Not so’s you’d notice it,” Stone said. “In Manhattan, a park is often the space where a building used to be. By the way, did I mention the leash law?”

“No, but I figured. Not in the park, of course.”

“Especially in the park. It’s a hundred-buck fine.”

“That’s cruel to dogs.”

“And to dog owners.”

“You’re perfectly serious about this?”

“You didn’t believe me about picking up the dog poop, either, did you? We do things differently in New York.”

“This is taking some getting used to.”

“Daisy seems to be managing.”

“She’s very adaptable, like me.”

“You’re adaptable?”

“Of course. Have you heard any complaints from me? I mean, any at all?”

“Only about having to pick up dog poop.”

“That’s about Daisy, not about me.”

“You’re the one picking it up. Daisy is just doing what comes naturally.”

“All right. Have you heard any complaints from me, except about Daisy?”

“Not so far.”

“That sounds as though you’re expecting some.”

“I hope not.”

She came over, grabbed him by the front of his robe, and kissed him. “Don’t worry about it.” She turned and walked down the stairs, followed closely by Daisy.

They got a cab to Elaine’s. As they approached the restaurant, Stone noticed a man standing out front, just uptown from the yellow awning, holding a briefcase. He looked out of place somehow. Stone wasn’t sure how. “Driver, stop here,” he said. The cab halted a couple of doors up, and Stone looked hard at the man. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and switched hands with the briefcase. Stone noted a Cadillac double-parked just downtown from the entrance.

“That’s seven-fifty,” the cabbie said.

“Drive around the block,” Stone said.

“Huh?”

“Start the meter again and drive around the block to your right, slowly.”

“Whatever you say, mister.” He pulled away from the curb.

Stone got out his cell phone.

“Are we early?” Holly asked. “Do you have a thing about being early?”

“Shhh,” Stone said. “Dino?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way.”

“Listen, do you remember a few years back we had that weapons guy come into the precinct and show us a lot of stuff?”

“Vaguely,” Dino said. “What about it?”

“Do you remember that Heckler & Koch thing he showed us with the H&K machine gun in the briefcase? There was a hole in one end that took the barrel, and the shell casings were routed to the bottom of the case when the thing was fired?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Well, there’s a suspicious character standing outside Elaine’s holding a briefcase that looks just like the H&K one, and it has a hole in it.”

“Where are you?” Dino asked.

“Driving around the block, slowly,” Stone replied.

“Keep doing that until you hear from me,” Dino said. “I’m on it.”

Stone closed his cell phone.

“What’s going on?” Holly asked.

“This afternoon, you said you were following Trini in a Cadillac?”

“Yes.” She put a hand to her mouth. “And there was a Cadillac double-parked outside Elaine’s. It was black, too, just like the one I followed.”

“Yeah. I didn’t ask you what happened with your pursuit.”

“I lost him in Brooklyn. I think it was Brooklyn, anyway. I followed him across a bridge.”

“Any chance the Cadillac could have followed you back to my house?”

Holly sank down in her seat. “Oh, my God. You were right. New York is not like Orchid Beach.”

14

THE CAB WENT around the block again, and when they turned downtown on Second again, Stone told the driver to stop at the corner before the restaurant. He opened the door and got out so he could see better. Holly did the same on the other side.

Dino’s car was double-parked a few yards ahead of them, and Stone could make out a commotion on the sidewalk in front of Elaine’s. A man Stone recognized as Dino’s cop driver was pointing a gun into the Cadillac and barking orders.

“Holly, do you have my Walther with you?” Stone asked.

“In my purse,” Holly said.

“Get back in the cab and hand me the gun.” He leaned down, reached across the backseat, and accepted the pistol.

“There’s one in the chamber and six in the magazine,” she said.

“Please stay in the cab until I wave you in.” Stone gave the cabbie a twenty, then closed the door and went to the sidewalk and started down the street toward Elaine’s with the Walther in his hand. He could see now that Dino was on the sidewalk, cuffing the man with the briefcase.

Then, as he approached and Dino was dragging the man to his feet, the rear door of the Cadillac opened, and Lance Cabot got out, his hands in the air.

“Stone!” he yelled. “That guy is mine!” He nodded toward the handcuffed man.

Stone walked up to Dino. “Hang on,” he said. “That’s Lance Cabot over there at the car, and he says this guy belongs to him.”

Dino looked back and forth from his captive to the Cadillac. “All right, Mike,” he yelled to his driver, “we’re clear, no problem.” He unlocked the handcuffs and handed the man his briefcase. “Is there a machine gun in here, pal?” he asked him.

“Talk to Cabot,” the man said.

Lance walked up and offered his hand to Dino. “I’m Lance Cabot,” he said. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”

Dino shook his hand. “Don’t worry about it. It was all Stone’s fault.”

“That’s right,” Holly said from behind Stone. “I’m a witness.”

“Thanks so much, everybody,” Stone said. “How did I call this wrong?”

“Well, you weren’t entirely wrong,” Dino replied. “You just didn’t know who you were dealing with.”

“It’s dinnertime,” Stone said, and they went into Elaine’s.

Elaine was at a front table, and she waved them over. “Are you guys having street fights outside my place again?”

“Just a misunderstanding,” Stone said. “Elaine, this is Lance Cabot, and, Lance, you haven’t met Holly Barker, either.” Everybody shook hands, and Stone didn’t like the way Holly was looking at Lance.

They settled in at a table.

Lance turned to Holly. “Are you the police chief in Orchid Beach, Florida?”

“That’s right,” Holly replied, looking stunned. “How could you know that?”

“Anybody who pays attention knows that,” Lance said.

Holly seemed to melt a little in her seat, annoying Stone. “So, Lance,” he said, “do you normally travel with bodyguards who have machine guns in briefcases?”

“No, not normally,” Lance replied smoothly, as if he had been asked if he wore pleated pants. “Just today.”

“What’s so dangerous about today?” Stone asked.

“Well, around lunchtime today I picked up a tail.”

Stone felt a penny drop. “Yes? Where?”

“I was in Little Italy doing some business, and I picked up on an evil-looking black Mercedes following me. We lost it in Brooklyn, but policy is, when you pick up a tail, you increase security.”

Holly hid behind her menu.

“A wise policy,” Stone agreed. “Holly, can we get you a drink?”

Holly lowered the menu to eye level. “Knob Creek on the rocks,” she said, then raised the menu again.

“Make it two,” Lance said.

“Three Knob Creeks on the rocks and whatever poison Lieutenant Bacchetti is having this evening,” Stone told the waiter.

“Dino,” Lance said, “your reputation precedes you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dino asked.

“We have a list of reliable police officers in various cities who we sometimes deal with. You’re on it.”

“That’s news to me,” Dino said.

Lance turned to Holly. “I’ll see that your name is placed on it, too.”

Holly put down the menu. “How nice,” she said, noncommittally.

“He’s turning us all into spies,” Dino whispered loudly.

“Oh, nothing as sinister as that. Sometimes, during the course of our work, we stumble across criminal activity that, technically, is outside our purview. When that happens, it’s nice to know some people in local law enforcement.”

“Tell me,” Stone said, “in the course of your work have you run across somebody named Trini Rodriguez?”

Lance furrowed his brow. “I don’t believe so.”

“How about a Robert Marshall?”

Lance shook his head. “Nope.”

“I think I’d better come clean,” Holly said. “It was Stone’s car that was following you today.”

Lance turned to Stone and looked at him askance.

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Stone said. “Go on, Holly.”

“And I was driving it.”

The drinks arrived, and Lance raised his glass. “To coincidence,” he said. “You put enough coincidences together, and what you get is . . .” He gazed at Holly. “. . . fate.”

Holly blushed. “Let me explain. I’m in New York looking for a man named Trini Rodriguez, who may be using the name Robert Marshall.”

“Why?” Lance asked.

“Multiple homicides,” Holly replied. “Today, he came out of the La Boheme coffeehouse and got into your car.”

“That was Trini Rodriguez?” Lance asked.

“Yep. What was he doing with you?”

“Well, I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you it was nothing to do with multiple homicides.”

“What name did he give you?” Holly asked.

“I was told he was called Bobo. He was to assist me in some enquiries, as the British would put it.”

“Did he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“Swell,” Holly said. “First, the FBI protects this bastard, and now the CIA.”

Lance looked around and made a tamping motion with his hand. “Please. I wish I could help you, Holly, but until today I’d never clapped eyes on Mr. Rodriguez, and I never expect to again. However, if he should cross my line of vision again, I’ll be glad to call you. May I have your number?”

Holly gave him her card while Stone rolled his eyes.

“Anything else you can tell me about him or about the people who sent you to him?”

“Alas, no,” Lance said sadly. “The nature of the work, I’m afraid.” He turned to Stone. “By the way,” he said, “have you, by any chance, heard from Herbert J. Fisher?”

“No, I haven’t,” Stone said. “Should I have?”

“Just a thought. Herbie didn’t make his flight to Saint Thomas this evening.”

“I thought you had a man on him,” Stone said.

“I thought so, too, but Herbie, the little shit, eluded him. Herbie is out there in the land, somewhere, in his red Mustang, moving about with reckless abandon.”

“That’s just terrific,” Stone said. “If I hear from him, what shall I tell him?”

“Tell him to go and stand on the corner of Forty-second Street and Broadway, then call me,” Lance replied. “I’ll have someone go there and shoot him.”

Stone wasn’t at all sure he was kidding.

15

THEY HAD FINISHED dinner and were standing on the sidewalk in front of Elaine’s, saying their goodbyes. Dino got into his waiting car and was driven away.

“May I give you a lift?” Lance said to Holly and Stone.

They spoke at the same time. “No,” Stone replied. “Yes,” Holly said.

Lance opened a rear door and motioned them in. “Stone, I know where you live. Holly, where can I take you?”

“You can take us both to my house,” Stone said.

“Ah,” Lance mused. He gave the driver an address, then pressed a button and a thick glass partition rolled up, separating them from the two men in the front seat. “Actually,” Lance said, “there’s something I’d like to talk to the two of you about.”

“Shoot,” Holly said. She was sitting between Lance and Stone.

“You may have read in the papers that the Agency is working very hard on terrorism since nine/eleven.”

“I believe I’ve seen reports to that effect,” Stone said.

“As a result, we’re stretched a little thin these days, and we’ve had to neglect some other matters, particularly those which require attention on our own soil.”

Stone snorted. “And I thought you folks were proscribed from dealing with home matters.”

“Formerly, yes. Since nine/eleven, things have changed a bit.”

“I’ll bet,” Stone said.

“Stone,” Holly said, “could you just shut up so we can hear what Lance has to say?”

“Thank you, Holly,” Lance said. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Stone smoldered in silence.

“As I was saying,” Lance continued, “we’re stretched a little thin these days, and, as a result, I have been authorized to add a few . . . consultants, shall we say, to our roster.”

“Consultants?” Holly said. “What do you mean?”

“People who are sometimes in a position to render services to us, but who are not permanent employees.”

Stone couldn’t stand it anymore. “You mean people to whom you don’t have to pay pensions or offer medical plans?”

“You misunderstand,” Lance said. “I’m referring to people who have built lives outside our service, and who have independently acquired information or contacts that might be of use to us in the future. Let me give you a couple of examples. Stone, you were recently involved, quite inadvertently, of course, in a British intelligence operation dealing with an assassin who was causing problems in Europe and New York.” He paused.

“If you say so,” Stone said, surprised that Lance knew about this.

“We would have liked to know about this during the fact, instead of afterward,” Lance said. He didn’t wait for Stone to respond. “Holly, you were recently involved in a major federal investigation in Florida, and, as I understand it, you had a great deal to do with its successful conclusion. We would have been very pleased to know about that at a much earlier date. Is this making any sense at all to the two of you?”

“Sure,” Stone said, “you want us to become CIA snitches.”

“No, no,” Lance said placatingly. “We would like for you both, from time to time, to perhaps participate more actively in certain situations that might arise. Of course, we’re always receptive to pertinent information.”

“What sort of situations?” Holly asked.

“For instance, Stone has been of help to us in dealing with the Herbie Fisher problem, and, although that problem has not yet been entirely solved, that certainly isn’t Stone’s fault. Holly, you might similarly be of help in some other situation, on your own home turf. One never knows when.”

“I see, I think,” Holly said. “We’d just be on call, sort of.”

“Yes, sort of. And we’d never wish to interfere with your own duties in your main work.”

“And this is work for which we’d be paid?” Holly asked.

“Of course, and generously. Ask Stone.”

Stone spoke up. “There isn’t enough money in the CIA’s coffers to make it worthwhile dealing with Herbie Fisher and his problems.”

“Still, you didn’t come off all that badly, did you?” Lance asked. “What did you spend—a couple of hours?”

“Well, yes, it didn’t occupy a great deal of time,” Stone admitted, “and I was well paid.”

“You see?” Lance said, spreading his hands. “We’re starting to be of one mind.”

“And,” Holly said, “if we were consulting, so to speak, and we had some little problem, then the CIA might be helpful to us.”

“What sort of problem did you have in mind?” Lance asked, sounding slightly suspicious.

“Oh, nothing at present,” Holly said, “but you can never tell what might come up in the future, can you?”

“I suppose there might occur, at some point, circumstances in which we might be informally helpful,” Lance said, “but of course, I can’t make you any promises about that, it being so vague.”

“Of course not,” Stone said. “Tell me, is there a contract for this sort of service?”

“I suppose there could be,” Lance said, “if it were deemed necessary.”

They had pulled up in front of Stone’s house. “Tell you what, why don’t you send the contracts to me, and I’ll take a look at them,” Stone said.

“You’d be representing Holly, then?”

“Yes,” Holly said, “he would be.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can put together.”

“Good night, Lance,” Stone said, opening the door, “and thanks for the lift.”

“Same here,” Holly said.

Stone closed the car door and they walked up the front steps.

“Did you think that was really, really weird?” Holly asked as they entered the house.

“I think that anything to do with Lance is really, really weird,” Stone replied. They got on the elevator and headed upstairs. When Stone got off, Holly followed him to his bedroom.

She took him by the lapels and kissed him.

Stone kissed her back. “That was very nice,” he said.

“Just what do I have to do to get you into bed?” Holly asked, kissing him again.

“Well, I. . .” He was stopped by a tongue in his mouth.

“I mean, I’ve been parading around here half naked—no, entirely naked, and that usually gets results, but you actually fell asleep.”

“I’m sorry, I . . .”

She pushed off his jacket and began untying his tie. “A girl could feel hurt by such treatment, you know.” She was working on his buttons.

“Doesn’t Daisy have to go out?” Stone asked weakly.

“Daisy is half bladder; don’t worry about it.” She was working on her own buttons now. “You think I could have a little help here?”

“Anything at all I can do,” Stone said, feeling for her buttons, zippers, and snaps. “I certainly don’t want you to feel neglected.”

“I feel neglected,” she said. “Make it better.”

Stone did what he could.

16

STONE FELT A gentle kiss near his ear. He turned toward Holly and, for his trouble, received a much bigger, wetter kiss, full on the mouth. It was accompanied by more tongue than he was accustomed to.

He opened his eyes to find Daisy’s head between his and Holly’s. This was made possible because he and Holly were lying crossways on his bed. He gave Daisy a scratch behind the ears and pushed her head gently away.

Holly turned toward him and opened her eyes. “Wow,” she said.

“Wow, indeed.”

“Why don’t we have any covers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Stone replied. “Why are we sideways in the bed?”

“I think we boxed the compass,” she replied.

Daisy made a tiny grunting noise.

“Uh-oh,” Holly said, “I think I forgot something last night.” She sat up. “I’m coming, Daisy.” She looked down at Stone’s naked body. “Although there are things I’d rather do.” She hopped out of bed.

When Stone woke up again she was sitting on the edge of the bed in his terry robe, toweling her hair dry.

“Good morning,” she said.

“I must have dozed off.”

“Why? You couldn’t possibly be tired; it’s after nine. We must have gotten, oh, two or three hours of sleep.”

Stone rolled over on his stomach and put his head in her lap. “Scratch my back,” he said. “That’s all I have energy for.”

She began scratching his back. “You have sheet marks on your back. That’s what comes from sleeping on wrinkled sheets.”

“It’s the price you have to pay,” Stone muttered, burrowing his head farther into her lap.

“Now that’s a nice place for your head,” she said.

He pulled the robe back and burrowed into her, feeling with his tongue.

“Nicer still.” She lay back on the bed and turned toward him, giving him more access, then she took him in her mouth. They both were becoming excited now. Two minutes later, they shared an orgasm.

“I didn’t know I had that left in me,” Stone said.

“I’m glad you did. Want to do it again?”

“You want me to die right here and now?”

“Poor baby. You take a nap.”

Stone woke from his nap to find a tray next to his head bearing a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

“See what you get when you’re nice?” Holly asked.

Stone struggled into a sitting position and found the remote control for the bed, raising it to support his back. “What about you?” he said.

“I had lunch in the kitchen, so as not to disturb you. Daisy and I have already been for another, longer walk, too.”

“Such energy!” he said, biting into the sandwich.

“Such a long time since I watched a naked man eat a sandwich,” she replied, smiling at him.

“So what’s your plan for the day?”

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to keep watch at the La Boheme again,” she said. “I must have scared Trini out of Little Italy by now. You think Lance knows more than he’s telling about Trini?”

“I think Lance always knows more than he’s telling. He surprised me last night, with this consultant thing.”

“I think I might do it,” she said, arranging herself next to him. “This is a very nice bed. Does it vibrate?”

“Yep.”

“I’m getting tired of my job,” she said.

“Which job? Me?”

“No, my chief’s job in Orchid Beach.”

“I thought you loved it.”

“I did for a long time, but it’s becoming more and more routine. I mean, I’ve improved the department, trained people better and all that, but it’s not as though I have to do it for a living.”

“That’s right, you’re retired army; you have a pension.”

“Yes, and Jackson left me very nicely fixed, too.”

“That was very nice of Jackson. Why don’t you travel, see some of the world?”

“I’m an army brat,” she said. “I’ve seen the world twice.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m enjoying myself in New York, but I’m not sure I’d want to live here.”

“New York is a better place to live than to visit,” Stone said.

“If you say so.”

“You’ve hardly started to see it. We haven’t eaten anywhere except Elaine’s.”

“Do you ever eat anywhere but Elaine’s?”

“On occasion,” Stone said dryly. “Why don’t I take you somewhere else tonight?”

“I’m yours.”

After lunch Stone showered and went down to his office.

“Good afternoon,” Joan said pointedly.

“Don’t start. I’m still tired.”

“I won’t ask why.”

“I just didn’t get much sleep, that’s all.”

“I won’t ask why.”

“Anything happening?”

She handed him a large brown envelope. “This was hand-delivered half an hour ago.”

Stone took the envelope to his desk and opened it. Inside were two contracts, for Holly and himself. Lance hadn’t wasted much time. The employer was listed as the Woodsmoke Corporation; its address was in the Seagram building. He read Holly’s first.

It was surprisingly brief and straightforward. It guaranteed her a thousand dollars a day, or any part of a day, and deluxe travel, should she need to.

His was much the same, but he crossed out the daily fee and inserted the words “his usual hourly or daily rate.” That should keep Lance from calling on him too often.

He called Holly, and she came downstairs. “Lance has been busy,” he said, handing her the contract. “This seems all right to me. If you want to sign it, I’ll messenger it back to Lance.”

She read it and signed it. “By the way,” she said, “could you please stop being jealous of Lance?”

Stone looked shocked. “Me, jealous? Of Lance?”

“There were a couple of times last night when I thought you were going to slug him.”

Stone blushed a little. “I’m sorry if I seemed that way. I’ll work on it.”

“I should think that, after last night, you wouldn’t have anything to feel jealous about.”

Stone got up and closed the door.

“What, on the desk?” Holly asked. “There’s a bed upstairs, as I recall.”

“I just don’t want Joan to overhear this. She’s giving me a hard enough time already.”

“Oh, I was looking forward to doing it on the desk.”

“I’m already a shell of my former self,” Stone said, sitting down.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “You’ve got a lot more mileage left in you.”

“If I have a month to rest.”

She got up and opened the door. “You’ve got until after dinner,” she said, then she went back upstairs.

Stone hoped he could recover in time. He gave the signed contracts to Joan and told her to copy and return them to Lance.

17

STONE TOOK HOLLY to the Four Seasons, because it was the most elegant New York restaurant he could think of, and because it was within walking distance.

Holly had spent the afternoon shopping and had come home with bags from Armani and Ralph Lauren, the result of which was a black Armani dress that made Stone forget he had had too much sex the night before. They settled into a good table in the Pool Room.

“What would you like to drink?” Stone asked.

“A vodka gimlet, three-to-one, straight up, shaken so cold the bartender’s fingers stick to the shaker.”

“Two,” Stone said to the waiter.

“Would you like a particular kind of vodka?” the waiter asked.

“Anything will do,” she replied. When the waiter had gone she said, “Vodka is nothing but grain alcohol that has been cut in half with water. I don’t know what the big deal is about brands. It’s not as if it’s eighteen-year-old Scotch.”

“I agree,” Stone said. “Do you always give such explicit directions when you order a drink?”

“Just with vodka gimlets,” she replied. “Bartenders never measure, and they always put too much vodka in them.”

“You’re a control freak, aren’t you?”

“Just with vodka gimlets.”

“The dress is. . . You make that dress look gorgeous.”

“Well put, and just in time. I thought you were going to tell me the dress makes me look gorgeous.”

“Certainly not,” said Stone, who had been about to do just that. “You don’t look like a cop at all this evening.”

“Even higher praise! You know, there just isn’t any way to look feminine in a police uniform, unless you’re wearing shorts.”

“You wear shorts?”

“We’re in Florida, remember? Actually, I don’t, but I encourage some of my female officers to.”

“Which female officers?”

“The ones who look good in shorts. It encourages tourism.”

Their drinks arrived, and they sipped them appreciatively.

“Now that’s a vodka gimlet,” Holly said. “You can tell if it’s right by the color. It should have a pretty, green tinge.”

“And it does.”

“Stone, I need your advice about something.”

“Shoot.”

“This is legal advice and must remain confidential.”

“Shoot.”

“I have five million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars I don’t know what to do with.”

“Buy a jet airplane.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You want me to introduce you to my broker?”

“No.”

“What do you want to do with the money?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“You could give it to your favorite charity.”

“That would involve a paper trail.”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“This is illegal, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

“Okay, where’d you get the money?”

“Well, last year I was investigating this thing where the proceeds of various crimes were being put into a vault back home. I was watching some of these guys unloading a van filled with suitcases and boxes. And, wanting to know what was in them, I snatched one of them, a large briefcase, which turned out to be filled with five million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

“And where is the money now?”

“In a tree.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I climbed a tree and wedged the briefcase into the branches.”

“This is in Florida?”

“Yes.”

“They have hurricanes in Florida. What if there’s a hurricane?”

“Then there will be hundred-dollar bills all over Indian River County, and my problem will be solved.”

“All right, let’s go to basics: This is illegal; you’ve committed a crime.”

“I figured.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Well, I took the briefcase to find out if they were transporting cash, so I could hardly hand it back to them. I hid it, and I didn’t even think about it until a couple of weeks after we had arrested the whole bunch.”

“Why didn’t you give it back then?”

“Give it back to whom? The criminals? They were all in jail.”

“Did you tell anybody about this?”

“Yes. I told Grant Harrison, my FBI friend. Well, former friend. This was before he became such a bureaucratic ass.”

“And he didn’t arrest you?”

“I told you, we were, ah, friendly at the time.”

“How friendly?”

“Very friendly.”

“And he didn’t do anything about this?”

“About the money? No.”

“Well, that makes him an accessory.”

“Funny, that’s what I told him the last time he mentioned it to me.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. In fact, he stopped talking altogether for quite a while.”

“Why don’t you just give it to the FBI?”

“I suggested that to Grant, but he turned pale. He wanted to know how I could explain the long delay in turning it in. I told him we would have to explain.”

“And what was his reaction?”

“He told me to shut up and never mention it to him again.”

“Were there any witnesses to this conversation?”

“No, we were in bed at the time.”

“Then I guess you weren’t wearing a wire.”

“Good guess.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever run into a problem quite like this,” Stone said.

“Me, either.”

“I suppose you’ve thought about spending it.”

“Well, yes, but I have everything I need, and I can afford a lot more, so what would I do with it?”

“You could put a big ribbon on it, leave it on the doorstep of your favorite orphanage, ring the bell, and run like hell.”

“I’ve thought of that, but I’m sure somebody would see me, and I’d get caught. Anyway, I don’t have a favorite orphanage.”

“You could just leave it in the tree until some lucky lumberjack chops it down and finds the money.”

“I’d worry about it. I’m tired of worrying about it.”

“How about this: You give the money to your lawyer . . .”

” Yeah, sure.”

“Wait a minute, I’m not finished. Then your lawyer calls the local chief of police and says he has a client who has come upon some money that he suspects is illegal, and the client wants to turn it in, if he can do so anonymously.”

“I’m the local chief of police. Aren’t we talking about a conspiracy?”

“A conspiracy to do the right thing?”

“I think you’re beginning to see the size of my problem.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Stone, you have an airplane, right?”

“Yes.”

“There’s an airstrip on the property. Why don’t you and I fly down there tonight, get the money, and bring it back up here. I’ll split it with you, fifty-fifty.”

Stone held up his hands as if to ward her off. “Oh, no, you’re not sucking me into this. Anyway, I’ve had a vodka gimlet. I can’t legally fly for eight hours. By the time we got down there it would be broad daylight.”

“So, we’ll do it tomorrow night.”

“Holly, I need some time to think about this.”

“I’ll bet you know how to get this into an offshore account, don’t you?”

“Sure, that’s easy. We just fly my airplane down to the Cayman Islands, find a bank, deposit it, and fly back. Customs doesn’t search you on the way out.”

“I like the sound of that,” Holly said.

“Of course, we’d have to sign a form saying that we haven’t taken more than five thousand dollars in cash or negotiable instruments out of the country. If we lied about it, that would be a felony.”

“It seems like such a little felony, doesn’t it?”

“That’s it. I’m not having any more to drink.”

“So you can fly?”

“So I’ll stop thinking like this. You’re making me crazy.”

She leered at him. “It’s about time.”

Later, in bed, they forgot about the money.

18

STONE WAS AT his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“Lance Cabot is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Lance came into Stone’s office carrying an envelope. “Good morning,” he said, his usual affable self.

“Good morning, Lance. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your contract.”

“All right.”

“Holly’s is fine. I’ve sent it on to Langley, where it will be countersigned, dated, and a copy returned to her. Your contract, however, has a problem: I can’t include words like ‘his usual hourly or daily rate.’ We must be specific.”

“All right, five hundred dollars an hour.”

“I think it would be to your advantage if we kept it at a daily rate, like Holly’s contract.”

“All right, four thousand dollars a day.”

“I was thinking two thousand.”

“Thirty-five hundred.”

“Three.”

“Done.”

Lance removed the contract from the envelope. “Do you think your secretary could retype this page?”

“Of course.” He buzzed for Joan.

Lance made the changes and handed the page to Joan, who disappeared.

“So, we have a deal?” Lance said.

“Yes, we do.”

“Good. I’d like you to go to London today.”

Stone managed not to look amazed. “Today?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“That will be explained to you when you arrive at the Connaught, which is where we’re putting you up.”

“How long will I be gone?”

“One, possibly two nights.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“I have a houseguest.”

Lance sighed. “Holly can’t go with you.”

“It’s only a Concorde ticket.”

“Not even if you pay for it yourself, and I was thinking business class.”

“My contract calls for deluxe travel.”

“Oh, all right.” Lance raised his hands in surrender.

“When and how will my expenses be paid?”

“Our travel agent will make your travel arrangements. You can bill us for anything other than your plane tickets, hotel, and airport transfers. My people will send you an expense form. It’s a pain in the ass, but your secretary can do it.”

“Do what?” Joan asked, entering the room. She handed a sheet of paper to Lance.

“My expenses,” Stone said.

“What expenses?”

“From my London trip.”

“What London trip?”

“The one that starts today.”

“Is this for the Woodsmoke Corporation?”

Lance spoke up. “Exactly.”

“What, exactly, is the Woodsmoke Corporation?”

“Thanks, Joan,” Lance said. “That’ll be all for the moment.” Lance spread the contract on Stone’s desk, and they both signed it.

“There,” Lance said. “All done. I’ll have your tickets and hotel confirmation sent over in an hour or so. You’d better start packing.” He turned to go.

“Wait a minute. What am I supposed to do when I get there?”

“Get a good night’s sleep, if that’s possible, then expect a phone call in the morning. Somebody will mention Woodsmoke. Have a good trip.” Lance walked out.

Stone went upstairs and found Holly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappear for a couple of days,” he said.

“Why?”

“I have to go to London.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sounds like Lance.”

“It is. You’ll have a signed copy of your contract soon, he says.”

“Why don’t I go with you?”

“I asked. He says no, and it’s his party.”

“Party?”

“So to speak. Make yourself at home in the house.”

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

“By all means. I’d like to think of you sleeping in my bed.”

“And in London, whose bed will you be sleeping in?” she asked archly.

“The Connaught Hotel’s bed. I don’t believe they supply sleeping partners.”

“Good. You won’t tell me what you’re going to be doing there?”

“I told you, I don’t know what I’m going to be doing there, and I may not be able to tell you, even after I find out.”

“I love all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” she said.

“No, you don’t. You’d rather know what’s happening.”

“Well, that’s true, I guess.”

“I have to pack,” he said, going to his closet and taking down a carry-on suitcase.

“Can I watch?”

“Watch?”

“I want to see what you take.”

“Whatever turns you on.” He packed three changes of underwear, socks, and shirts, a couple of nightshirts, and folded a suit on top of it.

“No toiletries?”

Stone took down a small duffel from a shelf. “Already packed.”

“That was pretty simple.”

“I can go just about anywhere with a blazer and a blue suit.”

“What if you get a black-tie invitation?”

“If I think that might happen, I’ll take a dinner jacket, but that’s for a longer trip. Worse comes to worst, I can wear a black bow tie with the blue suit, or I can rent.”

“What are you taking for shoes?”

“A pair of black alligator loafers. They’ll work with anything.”

“Everything is so simple for men.”

“Yeah? Try shaving every day.”

“Stubble is in.”

“Along with bad haircuts and three-button suits, which are as ridiculous as stubble and bad haircuts.”

“Why?”

“They’re boxy and unflattering.”

“Have a good trip. Daisy and I are off to the park. Call me when you get there, just to let me know you’re still alive.”

“If I don’t call, I’m dead.”

“You’d better be.” She kissed him goodbye and left with Daisy.

19

AS THE CONCORDE began its takeoff roll, Stone started to think about Carpenter, whose real name was Felicity Devonshire. They had parted on not very good terms a few months before, and he wasn’t sure if she’d want to see him. Come to that, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her.

He took a nap and woke up as a flight attendant announced their descent into Heathrow. He made short work of Immigration, and he had no checked luggage. He walked through customs without being stopped and began looking for his name among the drivers gathered outside customs, waving cards with their passengers’ names on them. His was not among them. So much for deluxe travel.

A man wearing a dark suit stepped up to him. “Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

The man relieved him of his case. “Please follow me.” His accent was American.

Stone followed the man outside, where a black Mercedes waited at the curb, a driver at the wheel. Stone got into the back, while the man stowed his luggage in the trunk, then got into the front seat beside the driver. The car moved swiftly away.

“I had expected an American car,” Stone said.

“Too much of a tip-off to the opposition,” the man said. “The Mercedes is more anonymous in London.”

“What opposition?”

“Whoever.”

“Any news on what I’m doing here?”

“Somebody will call you in the morning. I’m told you may be finished in time for an afternoon flight tomorrow. If so, we’ll pick you up at the Connaught.”

Nothing was said for the remainder of the drive into London.

Stone checked into the Connaught and was given a handsome suite on the top floor. He booked a dinner table downstairs, had a nap, showered and changed, and went down to dinner.

Something was wrong. He looked around the handsome, paneled room as he was shown to his table. The big chandelier was gone; there was an odd, contemporary carpet on the floor; there were strange new sconces on the walls; the waiters were not dressed in their usual tailcoats; Mr. Chevalier, the restaurant manager, was nowhere to be seen; the elaborate menu had been replaced by a much shorter one.

“Where is Mr. Chevalier?” he asked the captain.

“He has left the Connaught. I understand he’s at Harry’s Bar now.”

“What about the chef?”

“Gone, too. We have a new chef.”

Stone’s dinner was good but different. It wasn’t the Connaught dining room anymore. He felt as if he’d lost an old friend.

Stone was wakened at seven a.m. by the telephone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carpenter.”

“Hello. How’d you know I was here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t because you called me, was it? You needn’t have spent the evening alone.”

Stone didn’t know what to say.

“A car will pick you up at eight-thirty this morning,” she said. “Please be out front. And think carefully before you speak.”

“Speak about what?” But she had hung up.

Stone had a full English breakfast, then dressed and went downstairs at the appointed hour. The doorman opened the door to an anonymous black sedan, a Ford, Stone thought, and he got inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” one of the two men in the front seat said. His accent was Cockney.

“Good morning. Where are we going?”

“We have a twelve- or fifteen-minute drive, depending on traffic,” the man said.

“But where?”

“Please make yourself comfortable.”

Stone looked out the window as the car drove down to Berkeley Square, up Conduit Street to Regent Street, down to Piccadilly Circus, then Shaftsbury Avenue to Cambridge Circus. They turned off into a side street, then into an alley, and the car stopped.

The man got out, looked carefully up and down the alley, then opened Stone’s door. “Just here, Mr. Barrington,” he said, indicating an unmarked door.

Stone got out, and the door was opened for him just before he reached it.

“Please follow me,” a young man in a pin-striped suit said. His accent was upper-class. Stone followed the young man to an elevator with unmarked buttons, and they rode up a few stories and got out. He was shown into a small room containing a leather sofa and some chairs.

“Please be seated, Mr. Barrington. You’ll be called in a few minutes.”

“Called for what and by whom?” Stone asked, but the door had already been closed. He felt as if he were in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office.

Stone rummaged through a stack of old Country Life magazines and chose the most recent, which was more than a year old. He sat down and leafed through it, reading about country houses for sale in Kent and the Cotswolds. Perhaps twenty minutes passed and then a door at one side of the room opened.

A middle-aged man in a good suit stood in the doorway, holding a file folder under one arm. The shrink? “Mr. Barrington, will you come in, please?” He stood back to let Stone pass.

Stone walked into a conference room. Four men, ranging in age from their early fifties to their early seventies, sat at the opposite end of a table that seated twelve. A chair was pulled out at Stone’s end, and he sat down.

“Good morning,” said a gray-haired man seated down the table from Stone.

“Good morning,” Stone said. He had the feeling that either he was present for a job interview or he had done something terribly wrong and was being called to account. Then the man who had shown him into the room handed him a Bible and a sheet of cardboard.

“Please take the Bible and read aloud from the card,” he said.

Stone took the Bible and read, “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I am about to give in this proceeding is the truth.”

The man took back the Bible and the card.

Was this a court? A grand jury? He noticed for the first time that a woman sat in a corner before a stenographic machine.

The man at the other end of the table answered Stone’s unasked questions. “This is an inquiry,” he said, “into the events which occurred at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City earlier this year in your presence, Mr. Barrington. Also present were a Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti and a person you know as Carpenter. Do you recall the occasion?”

“Yes,” Stone said, “I believe so.”

“The three of you were in pursuit of a young woman named Marie-Thérèse du Bois?”

“Yes, we were.”

“We have heard testimony that Mademoiselle du Bois took refuge in a hotel room.”

“That is correct.”

“Please tell us what transpired after you and Lieutenant Bacchetti and Carpenter arrived at the room.”

“Think carefully before you speak,” Carpenter had said.

Stone took a breath; he would keep his account to a minimum. “Marie-Thérèse du Bois emerged from the room, riding on the back of a large man, using him as cover.”

“Was she armed?”

“Yes, she was pointing a semiautomatic pistol at the man’s head.”

“Were the three of you armed?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened next?”

“The large man surprised us by slamming Mademoiselle du Bois against a wall, stunning her.”

“Go on.”

“She raised her pistol as if to fire at us, but Carpenter fired first.” This statement obscured the truth somewhat.

“Did Mademoiselle du Bois fire her weapon?”

“No, there was something wrong with it, I think.”

“Do you know what?”

“I suppose it jammed or misfired.”

“We have heard testimony that her weapon contained no ammunition. Do you know if that was the case?”

“I did not examine her weapon,” Stone said, avoiding a direct answer.

“Mr. Barrington, did you feel that your life was in danger during these events?”

“Yes,” Stone said.

“How many times did Carpenter fire?”

“Twice, I believe. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Did Lieutenant Bacchetti fire?”

“No.”

“Did you fire?”

“No.”

“If you felt your life was in danger, why did you not fire your weapon?”

“Carpenter was quicker than we were, and it was obvious that further firing was unnecessary. Mademoiselle du Bois had been shot in the head.”

“Do you feel that Carpenter was justified in shooting Mademoiselle du Bois?” the man asked.

Stone hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” he lied.

“Have you anything to add to this statement?” the man asked.

Stone looked down at the table for a moment, then at the man again. “No,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, “that will be all. We are grateful for your testimony.”

Before Stone knew it, he was back in the alley, in the car. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the Connaught. As he walked into the room, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Thank you,” Carpenter said.

“Did you get the job?”

“I’ve been acting in the job since returning to London,” she said. “This morning’s proceeding was part of an investigation to determine whether I shall keep it.”

“I lied,” Stone said. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

“Yes, I did,” Carpenter replied. “But thank you. I hope I’ll see you again before long.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.” She hung up.

Stone was back at home in Turtle Bay by late afternoon, New York time.

Holly greeted him warmly. “That was quick,” she said. “What was it about?”

“I have a feeling I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said. “You want to go to Elaine’s for dinner?”

“Dino called and suggested we meet there; so did Lance. I said yes to both of them.”

20

LANCE’S CADILLAC WITH the diplomatic plates was double-parked outside Elaine’s, and the man with the briefcase with a hole in it was back in his old spot by the awning. Lance got out of the car almost as soon as Stone and Holly got out of the cab. They all shook hands, and, as they entered the restaurant, Lance whispered something to Holly.

Before they could sit down at their table, Holly said, “Excuse me, I have to go to the powder room.”

Stone and Lance sat down. “Did you send her to the powder room?” Stone asked.

“Yes. How’d it go in London this morning?”

“You mean you don’t already know?”

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

“I lied for her. You knew I would, didn’t you?”

“You might recall that not only did I not ask you to lie, I didn’t even tell you why you were going. Should anyone in an official position ever inquire about the hearing, you might remember to mention that.”

“Is anyone in an official position likely to inquire?”

“In the words of the immortal Fats Waller, ‘One never knows, do one?’ ”

“Will she get the job?”

“There will have to be a cabinet meeting on the subject, but I’m reliably informed that she is being favorably considered. Your testimony this morning was the final piece of evidence taken. She will be the first woman to hold the job, but her credentials are as top-notch as those of any man they could have considered, including the fact that both her father and grandfather were in the service, going back to the Second World War.”

“She mentioned that once.”

“The father mostly fought his battles with the IRA. It was the grandfather who was the swashbuckler. Did she tell you about him?”

“Not much.”

“He spent half his childhood in France—his father was a diplomat assigned to the Paris embassy—so he had the language. He was parachuted in not long after France fell, with instructions to organize and arm resistance units. He was captured twice by the Gestapo, with all that that entailed, and escaped twice. On both occasions he killed several of his captors with his hands. On D-Day, units he organized blew up roads and railways that the Germans could have used to bring in reinforcements and armor. I met him once; he was the perfect English gentleman: erudite, courteous to a fault, and, it was said, the most cold-blooded killer anybody could remember from the war.”

“I guess that’s where Carpenter gets it,” Stone said.

“She won’t be Carpenter anymore; she’ll be Architect, if all goes well, and it should. I’d like you to make it your business to keep in as close touch with her as you can manage. Consider it an assignment.”

“At my contract daily rate?”

“I won’t be charged for phone calls; you’re not being used as a lawyer. But I’ll consider dinner with her a day’s work. Anything beyond that you can think of as a bonus.”

Holly came back from the ladies’ room. “Was I gone long enough?” she asked Lance.

“Quite,” Lance said, offering her a wide grin. “Stone has been debriefed.”

“So happy to have been of service,” she said. “By the way, when will I actually be of service?”

“Be patient,” Lance said. “Your time will come.”

“Is patience the most important attribute of an agent?” Holly asked.

“No. Suspicion is. One must doubt everybody.”

“That sounds like a corrosive way to live.”

“If you say so.”

They were ordering drinks when Dino arrived, looking tired. He sat down and loosened his tie. “A double Johnnie Walker Black,” he said to the waiter.

“What’s happened?” Stone asked.

“A cop got killed today, in Little Italy.”

Holly spoke up. “Not at the La Boheme coffeehouse, I hope?”

“No, but not far away.”

“Somebody undercover?” Stone asked.

“Nope, a beat patrolman. He’d parked his squad car and was ordering coffee at a deli, when somebody walked in and put one in the back of his head. An assassination, pure and simple.”

“Of a beat cop?” Stone asked. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“No, it doesn’t. We’re looking at, maybe, a gang initiation, or maybe just somebody who hates cops.”

“How are you involved with something so far downtown?” Stone asked.

“I’m not, really. I was at a meeting with the chief of detectives when the call came in, so we both went to the scene. I loaned them a couple of detectives. How was London?”

“Quick. In and out.”

“Did you see Carpenter?”

“I spoke to her, briefly.”

“What were you doing there?”

“You’ll have to ask Lance.”

Dino looked at Lance.

“None of your business,” Lance said. “Why don’t we order dinner?”

Holly spoke up. “Did you get a description of the shooter?”

“White male, six feet, maybe more; well built. Black ponytail.”

“It’s Trini Rodriguez,” she said.

“Why the hell would your perp kill a New York City cop?” Dino asked.

“For the fun of it,” she replied.

“Excuse me.” Dino got up and walked away, his cell phone clamped to his ear.

Stone looked at Holly. “Your chances of nailing Trini have just gone up,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “Dino’s chances have. I’ll never take him home now.”

21

STONE WAS HAVING breakfast the following morning when Holly and Daisy returned from the park.

“I had a call on my cell phone this morning,” she said. “My FBI ex-friend, Grant Harrison, is in town, and he wants to see me; says it’s business.”

“So, see him,” Stone said. “You want to ask him over here?”

“I said I’d meet him for lunch, but I didn’t know a good place.”

“Tell him La Goulue, Madison at Sixty-fifth. I’ll book a table for you.”

“Will you come along?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I’m just not comfortable with this. He’s less likely to shout at me if you’re along.”

“Oh, all right.”

Grant Early Harrison was standing in front of La Goulue when their cab stopped.

“That’s him,” Holly said, pointing.

He was better-looking than Stone had imagined.

They got out of the cab and approached him.

“Hello, Grant,” Holly said, “this is my friend Stone Barrington.”

Grant managed a perfunctory handshake. “I thought I was seeing you alone.”

“Why did you think that?” Holly asked. “Anyway, anything you have to say, you can say in front of Stone. He’s also my lawyer.”

Grant cut Stone a sharp glance. “Do you need a lawyer?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Holly said.

Stone kept a straight face. “Shall we go in?”

They were greeted by Suzanne, and Stone gave her a kiss. “Something in the back, I think,” he said.

“Right this way.” She led them to a table.

“Does this place get crowded?” Grant asked.

“It’ll be jammed in fifteen minutes,” Stone replied.

They ordered a glass of wine and looked at menus. When they had ordered lunch, Grant started in. “I got a call from our New York office last night,” he said. “The NYPD is all over them about Trini Rodriguez. What did you have to do with that?”

“Last night, Trini apparently shot a New York City cop, in a deli in Little Italy,” she said. “I had nothing at all to do with that.”

“Why do they think it was Trini?” Grant asked.

“Oh, I had something to do with that. The perp’s description matched Trini’s, and I mentioned that to an NYPD detective.”

“Great, thanks a lot.”

“What, you wanted nobody to bother Trini? Gee, I’m awfully sorry about that.”

“He’s working something very important to us.”

“So, he killed a cop on his coffee break?”

“You don’t know it was Trini.”

“You don’t know it wasn’t.”

“He denies it.”

“So you’ve talked? What did you expect him to say?”

Grant turned to Stone. “How do you come into this?”

“Holly is staying at my house,” Stone said, “and I sometimes give her legal advice. Otherwise, I’m not in it.”

“Then that’s where you should stay,” Grant said, “not in it.”

“Leave Stone out of this, Grant,” Holly said.

“That’s what I’m hoping to do.”

“Tell me, exactly why is the FBI so interested in keeping a cop killer on the streets?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Grant said.

“Is what he’s doing more important than the lives of cops on the street?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why haven’t you turned him in to the NYPD?”

“We only need another day or two to wrap up this whole thing, then they can have him, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’d better hope to God the newspapers don’t get wind of this,” Holly said.

“Oh? Are you going to tell them?”

“I hadn’t planned to, but . . .”

“That’s what I thought. If you blow this case, Holly, I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what?”

“Hey, hey,” Stone said. “Let’s hold it down, all right? People are staring at us.”

Grant threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “If you screw up this case, I’ll have you for obstruction of justice, and I may throw in that money thing, too.”

“Oh? What money thing is that?”

“Your five million dollars.”

“What five million dollars?”

“Just remember what I said,” Grant said, and stalked out of the restaurant.

Stone thought the other customers looked relieved. “Now why did you want to go and piss him off?” he asked.

“I enjoy pissing him off,” Holly said.

A waiter brought three lunches and went away.

“Holly, speaking as your sometime lawyer, he has a point about interfering with a federal investigation.”

“Oh, sure. You think he’s going to arrest me and let it get out that the FBI has been harboring a cop killer?”

“Well, probably not.”

“That was just a lot of bluster. Grant blusters a lot.”

“Especially where you’re concerned, I’ll bet. And he knows about the money?”

“He’s known about it almost from the day I put it in the tree.”

“Does he know which tree?”

“He has no idea where it is. He can’t even prove that it exists, and even if he could, he’d have a hard time explaining why he’s known about it for months and didn’t report it. Don’t worry, Grant isn’t going to cause any trouble for himself.”

“Holly, I’ve been thinking about this, and I think you should leave the money in that tree.”

“And wait for the putative lumberjack to discover it?”

“If somebody finds it, then you can confiscate it as the fruit of a crime.”

“Anybody who found it would be a fool to tell anybody.”

“And you’d be a fool to go back to the tree. Right now, you’re clean. Only Grant knows about it, and, as you’ve pointed out, he’s unlikely to mention it to his superiors. But if you go back to the tree and get it, there’s always the chance that someone will see you do it or that something else might go wrong. You just can’t take the chance.”

“Okay, I’ve had your full views on this subject. Can we change it now, please?”

“Sure, what would you like to talk about?”

“How can I take Trini before the NYPD does?”

“Holly, you’d better forget about Trini. Let them take him, then you can get in line to prosecute him.”

“Which means never.”

“Lots of people could match that description, surely you know that.”

“It’s Trini. I know it in my bones.”

“If it is, wouldn’t you just as soon see him get the death penalty in New York as in Florida?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I want to sit in a Florida prison and watch him take the needle.”

“Dino can arrange for you to sit in a New York prison and watch. Wouldn’t that do?”

“No. I want to arrest him.”

“You want to kill him, don’t you?”

“If he gave me an excuse, I would.”

“Don’t you realize that he’d have as good a chance of killing you, maybe better?”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“So you’re going to pursue Trini with reckless abandon.”

“Right up until the moment somebody takes him off the street, and I hope it’s me.” Holly set her empty plate aside and started eating Grant’s lunch.

22

STONE WAS ABOUT to ask for a check when Lance strolled up to their table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sliding into the banquette seat next to Holly.

“We’ve just finished lunch,” Stone said.

“I won’t keep you long. Let me buy you coffee.” He was sitting too close to Holly for Stone’s comfort.

A waiter appeared, and Lance looked at Holly.

“Decaf cappuccino,” Holly said.

“Stone?”

“Double espresso, please. The real thing.”

“Same for me,” Lance said.

“How did you know we were here?” Holly asked.

“The CIA knows all,” Stone said wryly.

“Oh, not all, perhaps,” Lance said. “Truth said, one of my people followed Agent Harrison and called me.”

“And why is the CIA following the FBI?” Stone asked.

“We have come to expect a certain . . . how shall I say? . . . lack of candor from our colleagues at the Bureau,” Lance said.

“Even after nine/eleven?” Holly asked.

“They’ve become more candid about certain things since nine/eleven,” Lance said, “and less candid about others.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because they’re the Bureau,” Lance said.

“Oh. I knew that.”

“Frankly, in part because of this behavior, I don’t expect them to survive as a discrete entity much longer.”

“Oh, come on,” Stone said. “Congress would never allow the Bureau to expire as an agency.”

“Mark my words, Congress will insist on it,” Lance replied. “They have become too devious for their own good. When senior officials start lying to congressional committees, the Bureau does not enhance its longevity.”

Stone snorted. “Whereas Congress expects the Agency to tell the truth?”

Lance nodded gravely. “Certainly not. They simply expect a certain lack of frankness, given the work we do.”

“So why are you here, Lance?” Stone asked. “Certainly not for the coffee.”

Lance sipped the cup that had been set before him. “A plentiful reason for being here,” he said, looking around. “I’ve always liked this place. It’s like Paris without the French.”

Holly laughed, but Stone restrained himself. “Come on, cough it up.”

“I merely came to suggest that you watch the six o’clock news this evening.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want me to take all the fun out of it by telling you in advance, do you?”

“Yes,” Stone replied. “Besides, wouldn’t you enjoy watching the expressions on our faces?”

“Well, there is that,” Lance said, smiling. “Oh, all right: On tonight’s local news you’ll learn that the killing of the policeman in Little Italy was the result of a random gunshot from the street, not an execution.”

Stone and Holly gaped at him.

“You’re right, Stone, the expression on your faces was worth it,” Lance said.

“Tell me,” Holly said, “how do you get a witness’s description of the shooter from a random incident?”

“An excellent question,” Lance said.

“So who is manipulating the media, and why?” Stone asked.

“An even better question. Look at it this way: Who benefits from the altered perception of the incident?”

“Trini Rodriguez,” Holly said quickly.

“Of course, but not just Trini.”

“I think I’m picking up the thread,” Stone said.

“Enlighten us.”

“If the cop was killed as a result of a stray bullet, then the NYPD is no longer investigating an execution, but an accident—manslaughter, not murder.”

“Very good!”

“So what?” Holly said.

“Detectives loaned from other precincts will be sent home, and the investigation will become much less intense,” Stone explained. “And that takes some of the pressure off Trini, at least for the moment.”

“But why would the NYPD want to take pressure off a cop killer?” Holly asked.

“Not the NYPD,” Lance offered. “The FBI.”

“Excuse me,” Holly said, “but this is way too sophisticated for my simple mind.”

“You have an excellent mind, Holly,” Lance said, “but not as devious as that of the collective guile of the Bureau.”

“Holly,” Stone said, “Grant has just told us that Trini’s use to the Bureau is important for only another couple of days.”

“Bingo!” Lance said.

“So they want Trini on the street long enough to complete whatever the FBI wants him to?”

“Bingo again!” Lance said. “And would you like to know what Trini is doing for the Bureau?”

“Yes, please,” Holly replied.

“Now I must remind you that you two are, each in your way, arms of the Agency, and as such, you may not reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

Stone sighed.

“Specifically, you may not reveal it to Dino,” Lance said.

“Why not?” Holly asked.

Stone spoke up. “Because Dino is NYPD, and he would be outraged to learn that the Bureau is messing with the investigation into a cop killing for its own purposes, and he might intervene.”

“Exactly,” Lance said. “Are we all in the tent now?”

Stone and Holly nodded.

“Well,” Lance, said, looking around to make sure he was not being overheard in the crowded restaurant, “it seems that our Trini has somehow convinced the Bureau that there is a financial connection between his mob friends and a certain Middle Eastern terrorist fraternity, the name of which shall not escape my lips.”

Stone shook his head. “The Mafia financing a terrorist organization? Not possible.”

“Stone, you forget that the Mafia is a terrorist organization, in its small way, and that their sympathies become altered when there is money to be made.”

“No, Lance, the mob is—in its small way, as you put it—a bunch of patriotic guys who are very grateful for the opportunities the United States has given them to become rich—stealing, extorting, and killing.”

“You have a point, Stone. Perhaps it is the case that the mob has been let in on the little secret—given an opportunity to do something patriotic.”

“And what would that be?” Holly asked.

“The boys have a great many money-laundering connections that our Middle Eastern foes covet. Since the Treasury Department has cracked down on wire transfers to suspect locales, and since the National Security Agency has greatly increased their surveillance of Middle Eastern cell and satellite phones, not to mention penetration of their websites, it has become much more difficult for them to move money around the world. On the other hand, the increased scrutiny of terrorists has had the happy effect, for the mob, of diverting attention from their own financial transactions.”

“I suppose it makes a kind of weird sense,” Stone said.

“Not to me,” Holly replied.

“Look at it this way, Holly,” Lance said. “Would you be willing to put your pursuit of Trini Rodriguez on hold for a couple of days, if the payoff were to destroy a terrorist money-management cell and confiscate a lot of their available cash?”

Holly looked into her cappuccino. “If I had to, I suppose.”

“Voilà!” Lance exclaimed. “A patriot!”

“And what happens after this little operation is over?” Holly asked.

“Then,” Lance said, “I might be able to help you achieve your objective.”

“You swear?” Holly demanded.

“I swear to try,” Lance said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with that.”

“Oh, all right,” Holly said.

23

STONE LET THEM into the house and closed the door behind him. “Pack some things,” he said. “Casual—jeans, et cetera, something you can wear to a good restaurant, but still casual.”

“Where are we going?” Holly asked.

“Away for the weekend. Daisy will love it.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Holly said.

Daisy looked pleased, too, when she heard the news.

Stone had previously backed the car into the garage. Now he pressed the remote, and by the time the door had opened, he had started the car and had it in gear. He pulled across the sidewalk gingerly, then turned toward Third Avenue, driving as quickly as he could and frequently checking the rearview mirror. A touch of the remote closed the door behind him.

“Why are we leaving town?” Holly asked.

“One, it’s a weekend; New Yorkers leave town on weekends. Two, it’s good for Daisy. Three, I need some country air. And four, to keep you out of trouble for the next couple of days.”

“And why do you think I need to be kept out of trouble?”

“I know damned well that if we stay in the city this weekend, you’ll be looking for Trini. You won’t be able to help yourself.”

“I said I wouldn’t interfere for a couple of days. Why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?”

“For safety reasons,” Stone replied. “New Yorkers are very careful drivers.”

“Not from what I’ve seen. Who do you think might be following us?”

“Maybe the two men who were watching the house.”

“What?”

“There were two men in the block: one across the street, wearing a black leather jacket, and one a few buildings up, wearing blue coveralls, looking in a shop window.”

“What’s so odd about a man looking in a shop window?”

“It’s a knitting and sewing shop,” Stone explained.

“Maybe he knits?”

“Maybe he’s FBI, if we’re lucky. Maybe he’s a friend of Trini, if we’re not.”

“How would Trini know where to find us?”

“You do recall chasing him all over Little Italy?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that annoyed him. Maybe a friend of his got the license plate number of my car when you were camped outside La Boheme.”

“Oh.”

Stone turned left on Sixty-fifth Street and, eventually, crossed Central Park. Daisy looked longingly at the trees and grass.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Holly cooed. “We’re going to find you a place to play.” She looked at Stone. “We are, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “Lots of grass and trees.”

“How long a drive?”

“An hour and forty-five minutes, if we beat the worst of the traffic. If we don’t, who knows?” He tapped a number into the car phone.

“Mayflower Inn,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hi, this is Stone Barrington. May I have a table for two at eight?”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington. We’ll see you then.”

“We’re going to a country inn?” Holly asked.

“Only for dinner.” He left the park, turned right on Central Park West, then left onto Seventy-second Street.

“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” Holly asked.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like surprises?”

“I like them if they’re pleasant ones, and when they happen suddenly,” Holly said. “But not when I have to ponder them for an hour and forty-five minutes.”

“Daisy isn’t worried.”

“Yes, she is. She’s just being polite.”

“You be polite.”

“All right, I’ll shut up.” She laid her head against the headrest.

Stone switched on the radio and pushed a button, tuning it to 96.3 FM. Classical music filled the car. “Mozart,” he said.

“I know.”

He turned onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, then reached under the dash and fiddled with something. A loud beeping ensued, accompanied by flashing red lights. Then everything was quiet.

“What was that?”

“That was my super-duper radar detector and laser diffuser.”

She leaned over and looked at the speedometer as he changed lanes and accelerated. “I’d arrest you in Florida,” she said.

“I’ll get arrested in New York, if my detector doesn’t work. Would that make you happy?”

“Very. I like to see justice done.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Soon they were taking the curves of the Saw Mill River Parkway.

“Aren’t radar detectors illegal in New York State?” she asked.

“I’m not going to answer that without a lawyer present.”

“There is a lawyer present.”

“Oh, yeah. My lawyer just advised me not to answer. Anyway, we’re just passing through.”

“You mean, we’re going to another state?”

“Other states are not very far away, when you live in New York City.”

“You ever heard of the Mann Act?”

He laughed. “You think I’m transporting you across a state line for immoral purposes?”

“I certainly hope so,” she replied.

They turned onto an interstate, then, after a few minutes, another. Twenty minutes after that, they were driving along country roads with forest on both sides.

“We’re in Connecticut,” she said.

“You recognize the trees?”

“No, I was tipped off by the sign a few miles back that said, ‘Welcome to Connecticut.’ ”

“No wonder you’re such a good cop.”

“I don’t miss much,” she said.

Holly dozed and woke up as they came to a stop sign. “Where are we?”

“Still in Connecticut; a town called Washington.” He turned left, went up a steep hill, then turned left at a white church. “This is the village green,” he said. A moment later, he turned into a drive and parked before a shingled cottage with a turret.

“Who lives here?” Holly asked.

“I do, when I can.”

They got out of the car, and Daisy immediately bounded into some bushes. Stone got the bags out and unlocked the front door. “Welcome to Washington,” he said.

“It’s lovely,” Holly replied, walking in and looking around. Daisy joined them and seemed to approve. “Who decorated it?”

“I sought various counsel,” Stone said.

“You mean various women.”

“Now I’m going to fix us a drink, then we’ll take Daisy for a walk on the property next door.”

“Will the owner mind?”

“He is not in residence. A writer used to live there, but he sold it to a producer, who never moved in. It’s back on the market.”

“How much?”

“You couldn’t afford it.”

“You forget: I have five million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars stashed in a tree.”

“That might do it, but then you couldn’t afford the taxes. This place used to be the gatehouse, but the properties got separated fifty years ago. Bourbon?”

“Good.”

He made her the drink and handed it to her. “Now I want you to take three deep breaths.”

She did.

“Now drink your drink and stop thinking about what’s in New York.”

“Did those guys follow us?”

“I don’t think so. My guess is, they didn’t expect us to drive away.”

“Neither did I,” she said, sipping her bourbon.

24

STONE LED HOLLY and Daisy through an opening in a hedge, and they emerged onto a broad lawn decorated with magnificent old trees before a large, comfortable-looking, American shingle-style house.

Daisy ran here and there, sniffing the ground and poking her nose into bushes.

“I could live here,” Holly said.

“So could I, but I’ll never be that rich.”

“No hope at all?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Can we break a window and see the inside of the house?”

“You’re suggesting breaking and entering? And you a law enforcement officer? As your attorney, I advise against it.”

“Oh, all right.”

Daisy had discovered the large swimming pool and was sniffing the surrounding bushes when a deer rocketed out of the brush and ran across the lawn, sending Daisy fleeing back to Holly.

“She’s never seen a deer before,” Holly laughed. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said, patting the dog, “I won’t let the bad deer get you.”

After half an hour’s walk they left Daisy in the house with her dinner and drove to the Mayflower Inn.

“Don’t you lock the door?” Holly asked.

“No need, it’s a peaceable sort of place.”

They drove past a pond and up a steep driveway, emerging from the trees to find a large, shingled building with broad porches on two sides.

“It’s beautiful,” Holly said. “It reminds me of the house we just saw—what was it called?”

“The Rocks. It belonged to an architect named Ehrick Rossiter, who designed twenty-seven houses and public buildings in this little village, twenty-two of which still stand. The Mayflower is one of them, and it’s been gorgeously renovated.”

Stone and Holly sat at a table overlooking the back lawn and garden, which were surrounded by old trees.

“So, is a country house a big part of living in New York?” Holly asked.

“A very big part of it. A lot of people have houses out on the eastern end of Long Island, in the Hamptons, but that’s too expensive and too crowded for me. Washington is just perfect—nice village, maybe the most beautiful in Connecticut, lovely countryside, and interesting people.”

“Nobody in Florida has a country house,” Holly said. “I wonder why?”

“Not enough contrast between first and second houses.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

They dined on salads, veal chops, and a bottle of California Cabernet. The waiter had just brought coffee when Holly suddenly sat up straight. “Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Didn’t you like the food?”

“No, not that. Something’s wrong back at the house.”

“Are you telepathic?”

“No, but Daisy may be. We have to go.”

Stone signed the bill, and they hurried back to the car. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

“No, never before, but it’s a very strong feeling. Drive faster.”

Stone did the best he could, and five minutes later they turned into his drive and got out of the car. The door to the cottage stood wide open. “I didn’t leave the door open. Did you?”

“No. Where’s Daisy?”

They arrived at the front door to find Daisy sitting in the front hall, staring at the door. She ran to Holly.

“Hey, baby,” Holly cooed. “What’s wrong?”

Stone reached down and picked up a piece of blue cloth dotted with blood. “Somebody’s missing part of his pants,” he said. “Is my Walther in your purse?”

She dug it out and handed it to him. “I don’t think anybody could still be here, not with Daisy sitting calmly in the hall. Not unless our intruder is dead.”

“He did some bleeding,” Stone said, handing her the spattered piece of cloth. “I just want to be sure.” He left her in the hall with Daisy, looked around, and came back, handing Holly the gun. “All clear.”

“Who do you think belongs to this?” Holly asked, holding up the fabric.

“One of the men outside my house in New York was wearing blue coveralls,” Stone said, fingering the cloth. “This is the same sort of utilitarian fabric.”

“I don’t like this,” Holly said.

“Neither do I,” Stone replied.

Later, in the middle of the night, Stone came awake. He had heard something downstairs. He eased himself out of bed, so as not to wake Holly, rummaged quietly in her handbag until he found the Walther, then tiptoed down the stairs and looked around the rooms. Nothing.

He went back to the entrance hall and bent over to pick up the scrap of blue cloth that Holly had apparently left there. As he did, something icy and wet made contact with his bare buttocks. Emitting an involuntary cry, he spun around to find Daisy standing there, looking at him as if he were crazy.

“You have a very cold nose,” he said, rubbing her head.

“What’s going on?” Holly asked from the stairs. She came down to join him, as naked as he in the moonlight filtering through the windows.

“I heard something down here,” Stone said, “and I came to investigate.”

“That would have been Daisy. She tends to patrol during the night.”

“She has a cold nose,” Stone said, rubbing his ass.

Holly laughed. “She certainly does, and she loves sticking it where it shouldn’t be. Don’t worry, there’s no one in the house. Daisy would have let us know.”

Stone looked her up and down. “You look very nice in the moonlight.”

She placed a hand on his chest. “You look pretty good yourself,” she said. “Daisy, guard.”

Daisy went and sat by the door, and Holly took Stone by the hand and led him back upstairs. She took the gun from him and dropped it in her purse, then she went to the bed and pulled Stone on top of her. “As long as we’re awake,” she said, wrapping her long legs around him.

“Funny,” he replied, “I’m not in the least sleepy.”

She reached down and put him inside her. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, thrusting.

25

STONE WOKE TO find Holly sprawled across his chest. Gently, he rolled her over until she was beside him, on her back.

“Am I awake?” Holly asked, her eyes still closed.

“Probably not.”

“I think I am. You must be, too.”

“I think we should go back to the city this morning,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don’t like the idea of somebody following us up here, especially since I don’t know who or why.”

“Neither do I, come to think of it.”

“I’d feel better in the city. I’m not sure why.”

“I’ll trust your judgment.”

Stone showered, got dressed, and scrambled them some eggs, while Holly took Daisy for her morning walk around the Rocks, next door.

When they had finished breakfast, they put their things and Daisy into the Mercedes and drove away from the house.

“Why are you driving so fast?” Holly asked.

“Because I like driving fast; because for once, nobody is in front of me on these roads; and because if these people are still keeping tabs on us, I don’t want to make it easy for them.”

“All good reasons,” she said. “Anyway, you drive well, and I don’t see how anyone could drive this car slowly. Do you ever get tickets?”

“Not as long as I carry a badge,” Stone replied.

“You do? Let me see it.”

Stone reached into an inside pocket and fished out the wallet that held his ID card and badge. “It’s not the real thing,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s something like a seven-eighths reproduction. Most retirees carry one.”

“It says ‘retired’ down at the bottom of your ID card,” she said, “but in very small letters.”

“You learn to cover that with a finger, when you’re flashing it,” Stone said.

“Does this allow you to carry a weapon?”

“No, but the department gives you a carry license when you retire. It’s in the wallet, behind the ID, along with a Connecticut carry license.”

Holly looked at them. “Do you carry a lot?”

“Not a lot, just when I feel nervous about the situation.”

“I can’t imagine you being nervous.”

“All right, wary.”

“Wary is more like you.”

They turned onto the interstate just north of Danbury, and Stone caught sight of a black SUV a quarter of a mile behind them. “There they are,” he said.

Holly didn’t look back. “What are they driving?”

“Black SUV, probably an Explorer.”

“That sounds like government, not something Trini’s friends would drive.”

“You could be right. After all, your boyfriend is pissed off; he could be keeping tabs.”

“He’s probably jealous,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh.

“Good.”

“You enjoy annoying the Feds?”

“Always.”

“What do you have against them?” she asked.

“I find them untrustworthy. When I had to work with them as a cop, they always wanted the collar and the press, and they usually got it. They were lousy at sharing information, and you couldn’t trust it when they did.”

“That pretty much sums up my experience, too,” she said. “Why do you suppose they’re that way?”

“It’s the federal culture, I think. They think they’re the pinnacle of law enforcement, and they tend to look down on anybody at the local level as backward children.”

She laughed.

“I don’t find them all that good at solving crimes, either.”

“Stone, you’re driving nearly a hundred miles an hour.”

“It’s Sunday morning, and the traffic is light.”

“Doesn’t this car attract cops like flies?”

“If they’re around, and if they feel like a pursuit.”

“Is the Explorer keeping pace?”

Stone glanced in his mirror. “So far.” He turned off I-84 and accelerated through a long curve and onto I- 684. “There’s a place a few miles down the road where the New York State cops like to lie in wait with their radar gun.” He accelerated some more.

“You just passed a hundred and twenty,” she said.

“Don’t worry. Our speed is electronically limited to a hundred and fifty-five.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “I feel better now.”

A beep sounded and a tiny red light on the steering column began to flash.

“Radar detector?”

“Yep.”

“Why aren’t you slowing down?”

“I want to try something.” He pointed ahead. “There they are.”

A state police vehicle was parked in the meridian, a radar gun hanging out a window.

Stone took out his wallet, rolled down the window a bit, and held his badge in the slipstream, creating wind noise. They flew past the police car, and Stone rolled up the window and checked his mirror. “They’re not budging,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. Hang on, there go the cops.”

Holly looked back. “They’re after the Explorer,” she said.

“I guess they’re not flashing a badge,” he said, checking the mirror again. “Yep, light’s on, they’ve got him.” He accelerated again.

“A hundred and forty,” she said. “Do you always drive this fast on the interstate?”

“Well, we know the cops are all involved with the Explorer,” he said, “so unless they radio ahead for a trap, we’re home free. Something else: If the guys in the Explorer are Feds, they’ll call ahead for somebody to pick up the tail at the other end. The goombahs wouldn’t think of that.” He pressed on through the light traffic, passing cars doing eighty as if they were standing still.

In what seemed an incredibly short time, they were turning into Stone’s block.

“Two guys on my front steps,” Stone said, slowing.

“It’s Ham!” Holly said. “What’s he doing here?”

“Who’s Ham?”

“My father.”

“Oh, God,” Stone said.

“You don’t want to meet my father?”

“The other guy on the steps is Herbie Fisher.”

“Who?”

“The guy Lance had me represent in court. I told you about him.”

“What does he want?”

“I dread to think.”

26

HAM BARKER WAS taller than Stone, and skinnier. Stone stuck out his hand. “Hello, Ham, I’m Stone Barrington.”

“Good to meet you,” Ham said gravely.

“Herbie,” Stone said, “what the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the Virgin Islands.”

“I just thought I’d drop by,” Herbie said, offering his hand.

Stone ignored it. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Drop by.”

“Aw, Stone . . .”

Ham spoke up. “Stone, there are two men in your block, watching this house.”

“Oh, my God!” Stone said. “Herbie, they’re after you!” He stuck a hundred-dollar bill in Herbie’s hand. “Get out of here, quick!”

“Where am I going to go?” Herbie wailed.

“Go to your mother’s place, in Brooklyn. They’ll never think of looking for you there. Get out of here!”

Herbie sprinted down the block and was gone.

“Sorry about that,” Stone said to Ham. “Herbie’s a pest, hard to get rid of.”

“Quick thinking, there,” Holly said. “Ham, what are you doing here?”

Stone picked up Ham’s bag. “Let’s talk inside. The Feds may be able to read lips.”

“Is that who those two guys are?” Ham asked as Stone unlocked the front door and turned off the burglar alarm.

“Yep,” Stone said. “Holly’s boyfriend put them on us. Where are you staying, Ham?”

“Haven’t figured that out.”

“We’ve got room here.” He punched the elevator button and set Ham’s bag in the car. “Third floor, second door on your right.”

“Why, thank you,” Ham said.

“When you’re settled, come down and we’ll have some lunch.”

Ham got onto the elevator and started upstairs.

“Is your stuff out of my bedroom?” Stone asked Holly.

“Mostly. There are some things drying in the bathroom. Why?”

“Because if your father spots them, I’m dead. He’s a killer. You can see it in his eyes.”

“Oh, stop it, Stone. Ham knows I’m a grown-up.”

“He’s a father, and you’re his little girl; that’s all he knows. You’re sleeping in your own room while he’s here. Why is he here?”

“I don’t know. When he comes downstairs, I’ll ask him.”

“Why are you here, Ham?” Holly asked. They were eating pasta that Stone had prepared.

“Somebody messed up your place,” Ham said.

“What?”

“I went by to check on the house, and the front door was off the hinges. The place had been ransacked.”

“Anything missing?” Holly asked.

“How would I know? They had a go at your safe, but didn’t get in.”

“Not much in there—some papers and a couple of handguns.”

“Oh,” Ham said, reaching into an inside pocket. “I brought you a piece; thought you might need it.” He handed her a small pistol.

“Sig-Sauer P232,” she said, hefting it. “Nice. Thanks, Ham.”

“The magazine’s full, and there’s one in the chamber. The rest of a box of cartridges is upstairs, when you need it.”

“How’d you manage to get it here?”

“I showed the airlines my badge and declared the weapons. They were locked in a little case inside my bag.”

“What badge?” Stone asked.

Ham put a wallet on the table.

Stone opened it. “Lieutenant, Orchid Beach PD?”

“Ham’s kind of a consultant,” Holly said. “Dollar-a-year man.”

“Good idea. Makes carrying firearms easier, doesn’t it? What are you packing, Ham?”

Ham reached under his tweed jacket and put a Beretta 9mm on the table.

“Can you hit anything with that?” Stone asked.

“I fired expert in the army with the old automatic,” Ham said.

“I couldn’t hit a wall with that thing,” Stone said.

“Ham fired expert with everything the army had,” Holly said. “He’s the best shot in the world.”

Ham shook his head. “No, just the best shot you ever saw.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said, glancing at Holly, who made a face at him.

“Be nice to my little girl,” Ham said.

Stone turned to Holly. “See?”

“Oh, Ham, shut up,” Holly said. “Don’t go scaring the men off.”

“I’m just saying,” Ham said.

“It’s all right, Ham,” Stone replied. “I understand.”

“Good. Good spaghetti, too,” he said.

“It’s penne, actually.”

“It’s all spaghetti to me.” He stuffed another forkful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Did you do anything about my house?” Holly said.

“I got you a new door and installed it. Ginny was cleaning up the place when I left for the airport.”

“So you came up here to rescue me?”

“I just thought you might need somebody to watch your back.”

“The Feds seem to be doing that,” Stone pointed out. “After all, she’s the one who’s dogging their witness.”

“Any luck?” Ham asked.

“A couple of sightings, no collar.”

“Want me to collar him for you?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Ham. The Feds are involved, so is the Mafia. Grant’s up here. That’s why those guys are out in the street. They followed us to Connecticut, too.”

“I guess that boy is taking a proprietary interest in you.”

Stone laughed, and Holly shot him a glance.

“Don’t worry, it’s all business.”

“I liked him, till he got to running the Miami office,” Ham said. “After that, he was just another bureaucrat.”

“That’s what I hear,” Stone said.

“So who the hell are you, Stone?” Ham asked.

“Lawyer,” Stone replied.

“Oh.”

“Don’t take it so hard, Ham,” Holly said. “He’s also a retired cop.”

“Little young to be retired, aren’t you?”

“Bullet in the knee,” Stone said, realizing that he was adopting Ham’s mode of speech.

“Uh-huh,” Ham said. “Must of hurt.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You two are going to be comparing scars in a minute,” Holly said.

“Who was that Herbie character?” Ham asked.

“Former client and current nuisance,” Stone replied.

“He’s dangerous.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You can smell it on him. He’d sell you to save his own ass.”

“You’re a fine judge of character, Ham.”

“I trained a lot of young men in the army. You get to know what to expect of them.”

The doorbell rang. Stone picked up a phone, pressed a button, and listened for a moment. “Come on in,” he said, pressing another button. He turned to Holly. “It’s Lance.”

“Who’s Lance?” Ham asked.

“Tell you what, Ham,” Stone said. “You meet him and tell me.”

27

LANCE AMBLED INTO the kitchen, dressed in a yellow cashmere turtleneck, a tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers, and short alligator boots. He might have been a visiting movie star. Introductions were made, and he sat down. Daisy walked over and sniffed him. Lance scratched the top of her head, then ignored her.

“What’s up?” Lance asked.

“The Feds are all over us,” Stone said. “Followed us up to Connecticut yesterday. They’re camped outside right now.”

“Well,” Lance drawled, “I guess they take exception to Holly’s trying to arrest their man.”

“Their murderer,” Holly said.

“Or is there some other reason they’d be interested in the two of you?” Lance asked.

“You take that one, Holly,” Stone said.

“Oh, a guy I went out with a few times works for them, followed me up here.”

“You were living with him,” Ham said.

Holly turned beet red. “Herbie was here when we got back,” she said, looking for cover.

Lance permitted himself a small groan. “Stone, I wish you’d take charge of your client.”

“He’s not my client anymore, Lance. You shipped him off to Saint Thomas, remember?”

“Except he didn’t ship.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Where did he go?”

“I gave him some money and told him to go to his mother’s place, in Brooklyn.”

Holly laughed. “Stone told him they’d never think of looking for him there. I think he bought it.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about our Herbert,” Lance said, “it’s never to expect him to do as he’s told.”

Ham nodded. “I know the type.”

“You’re ex-army,” Lance said.

“Yep.”

Lance regarded him coolly for a long moment. “I read your service record,” he said.

Ham evinced mild surprise. “Did you, now?”

“I did. You want to shoot somebody for me?”

“Who’d you have in mind?”

“Herbie.”

Ham chuckled. “I can see why, but he doesn’t seem to be a threat to national security just yet.”

“Would you shoot him if I told you he was?”

“I wouldn’t believe you if you told me he was.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think I know who you work for, and folks in your line of work tell the truth on only the rarest occasions.”

Lance laughed. “You judge us too harshly, Ham. But then, you’ve had some experience with us, in Vietnam.”

“I have.”

“I was too young for that godawful mess,” Lance said, “and I’m glad of it. But you shouldn’t judge us now for how we operated then. You might find some satisfaction in working with us again.”

“Lance is recruiting,” Stone said.

Ham shook his head. “No, thanks. You want somebody shot, you do it yourself.”

“I was speaking metaphorically before,” Lance said.

“No, you weren’t,” Ham replied.

Stone was proud of him.

For the slightest moment, Lance looked nettled, but then he relaxed. “Holly, I came to tell you that it’s going to be another day or two before you can put your hands on Trini Rodriguez without an unduly large reaction from the federales.”

“Shit,” Holly said. “I’m getting impatient. Ham, you want to shoot Trini for me?”

“Him? It would be my pleasure. Just point him out.”

Stone couldn’t tell if they were kidding. “Hang on,” he said. “We don’t need a shoot-out on our city streets.”

“Wouldn’t be a shoot-out,” Ham said. “Just a single pop.” He made a little gun with his fingers and fired it.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Lance said.

“Because there’s nothing in it for you,” Stone replied.

“You have a point,” Lance admitted. He got to his feet and stretched. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch date up the street.” He shook Ham’s hand, waved goodbye, and was gone.

“Your assessment, Ham?” Stone asked.

“Now that,” Ham said, “is your large-bore, fully automatic Agency spook. Where the hell did you come by him?”

“I came by him in London a while back,” Stone said. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you someday when I’m less sober.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Ham said. “He’s more dangerous than Herbie.”

“Why?” Holly asked.

Ham got to his feet and moved his shoulders around. “Because he thinks of himself as a patriot, and they’re always the most dangerous. Well, I think I’ll have a nap. It’s an old man’s prerogative, and I’ve been traveling since dawn. See ya.” He headed upstairs, leaving Stone and Holly to ponder his assessment of Lance Cabot.

28

HOLLY GOT INTO some sweat clothes, stuffed the Sig-Sauer into her jacket pocket, clipped on Daisy’s leash, and headed uptown.

She and Daisy walked briskly until they entered the park, then Holly started to jog, with Daisy easily keeping pace. They ran past the zoo, then the pond where people raced model boats, and the statue of Alice in Wonderland, then they cut cross-country. Somewhere north of Alice, Holly became aware of another jogger not far behind.

Everything was perfectly normal until Holly noticed that there was something red attached to Daisy’s back. She stopped to pull it off and discovered that what was in her hand was a dart. Daisy sat down, panting, then collapsed, and then something struck Holly in the head.

Stone was napping in a big wing chair in his library, a book in his lap, when the phone woke him. “Hello?”

“Is this Stone Barrington?” A man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“This is the desk sergeant at the Twenty-second Precinct in Central Park. There’s been a homicide in the park; I think you’d better get up here.”

“Who’s dead?”

“I don’t have that information. Just get up here, okay, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’m on my way. Will you get hold of Lieutenant Bacchetti at the one-nine and ask him to meet me there?”

“Okay.” The cop hung up.

Stone thought of waking Ham, but changed his mind. He ran outside and hailed a cab.

Stone walked into the precinct, and he was scared. He presented himself to the desk sergeant.

“Right,” the sergeant said. “See Detective Briscoe back there.” He nodded toward a door.

Stone walked into a small squad room and looked at the only detective there.

“Barrington?” the man asked.

“Yes. What’s happened?”

“You were a detective over at the Nineteenth, weren’t you?” the man asked.

“What the hell has happened?” Stone demanded.

“Are you acquainted with a cop from Florida named Holly Barker?”

“Yes, she’s staying at my house.”

“Come with me.” He got up and walked down a corridor with Stone at his heels. He opened the door to an interrogation room. “In here.”

Stone walked in and the door closed behind him. Holly was sitting at the table stroking Daisy, who was stretched out on the tabletop.

Holly looked up at him. “It’s okay,” she said. “She’s coming around.” She stroked Daisy’s head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just take your time. You’ll be all right in a minute.”

Stone sank into a chair and gave Daisy a pat. “I thought you were dead,” he said.

“No.”

“The desk sergeant who called me said there was a homicide.”

“There was a shooting—self-defense.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know; a guy. There were two of them. The second one ran when I shot the first one.”

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Because he was trying to kill me with a knife.”

“Where did all this happen? Start at the beginning.”

“Daisy and I were running, and she was shot with a dart, then somebody hit me upside the head, but not hard enough to put me out. I rolled over a couple of times and got hold of the gun Ham gave me. It was in my jacket pocket. The guy was walking toward me with the knife, as if he didn’t expect any opposition. I shot him.” She held up a corner of her jacket, where the bullet had gone through. “I didn’t have time to draw.”

Stone put a hand to her cheek. “You’re cold,” he said. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I am now,” she replied. “I had a case of the shakes for a while. A cop on horseback found me. I guess he heard the shot.”

“Can I leave you here for a couple of minutes?”

“Sure, we’re all right. Daisy’s going to have a hangover, but she’s not hurt.”

Stone got up, went back to the squad room, and found Briscoe. “She’s told me what happened. It was a good shooting.”

“Looks that way,” Briscoe said, “but I don’t have the final call on that.”

Stone noticed for the first time that Holly’s new Sig-Sauer was on Briscoe’s desk in an evidence bag, and her badge lay beside it. “She’s on duty,” he said. “She’s got a fugitive warrant.”

“I got that,” Briscoe replied. “That ought to cover it. We want to see the warrant, though.”

“It’s at my house. I’ll get it to you. Will you release her to me?”

“Oh, we’re not holding her. She can go. She can have her gun and badge back, too.” He handed them to Stone. “We took a sample round for the file.”

Dino burst into the room. “What happened?”

Stone told him.

“Are we all square here?” Dino asked Briscoe.

“Yes, Lieutenant. We need a phone number for her, and we want to see her fugitive warrant, but that’s it. It’s clearly self-defense.”

“You got an ID on the guy with the knife?”

“He had nothing on him but the knife, but we’ll run his prints.”

“What happened to the second guy?”

“He beat it out of there. The gunshot must have scared him off.”

“Thanks, Briscoe,” Dino said. He pulled Stone aside. “How’s Holly taking all this?”

“She’s okay, I think. She’s mostly worried about Daisy.”

“Where are they?”

“In an interrogation room back there. Are you in a car?”

“Yeah. Let’s get her back to your place, and I’ll pick up the fugitive warrant.” He gave Briscoe Stone’s number.

By the time they were back at the house, Daisy was walking, but slowly.

As they walked in the front door, Ham came down the stairs. He pointed at Holly’s jacket pocket. “Was the bullet going in or out?”

“Out,” Holly said.

Ham put an arm around her. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Ham . . .”

” Tell me about it later.”

When Holly and Daisy were tucked in, Stone and Ham went down to the kitchen and had a beer.

“She can take care of herself,” Ham said.

“Apparently so.”

“What’s going on here, Stone?”

“My best guess? Trini doesn’t like being dogged, and he decided to do something about it. From what I’ve heard about him from Holly, he wasn’t there today, because Holly’s alive. I guess he put a couple of his pals on her.”

“So the two guys outside your house weren’t Feds?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Stone had an idea. He picked up the phone and got the number for the New York State Police in Albany. He called, identified himself, and asked about the traffic stop on I-684 earlier that day. He was transferred to the relevant field office and, good luck, managed to get one of the traffic officers who had made the stop.

Stone identified himself. “You stopped a black SUV on 684 this morning?”

“Yes, we did.”

“I was the guy out front in the black Mercedes.”

“How fast were you going?”

“I’ll take the fifth on that, but I was transporting an officer on duty. Did you get an ID on the guys in the SUV?”

“Yeah. They were FBI, and they wouldn’t tell us what they were doing. I wrote ’em a ticket for grossly excessive speed.”

“Good for you. Thanks, that’s all I needed to know.” Stone hung up and turned to Ham. “Well, it looks like absolutely everybody is following us.”

“What’s your take on what happened in the park?” Ham asked.

“I think they wanted it to look like a mugging, and they didn’t want to attract anybody with the noise of a gunshot. They used a dart on Daisy, then tried to knife Holly. They would have knifed Daisy, too, once she was out. So somebody would have stumbled on a jogger and her dog, both dead.”

“Why not use a silencer on both?” Ham asked.

“Because it would then look like a professional hit. The dart thing is funny, though. It’s not the sort of thing mob guys would normally think of using.”

“This Trini guy is not a normal mob hood,” Ham said. “He’s a lot smarter and a lot worse. He would think of the dart.”

“Maybe so.”

“Good thing I came up here,” Ham said. “While I’m in New York, she doesn’t leave this house without me watching her back.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stone said.

“Oh, and you may as well move her back into your room,” Ham said. “I get the idea that’s where she wants to be.”

Stone gulped. “Up to her.”

29

HOLLY AND DAISY slept straight through until the following morning. When they came down for breakfast Stone was scrambling eggs, and Ham was having coffee.

“Daisy looks like she had a few too many beers last night,” Ham said, rubbing her flanks.

“She’s fine, just a little groggy,” Holly replied.

Stone set three plates of eggs on the table and they all dug in.

“This is good, Stone,” Ham said. “What’s in it?”

“Smoked salmon and a little cream.”

“You’re going to make some girl a wonderful wife one of these days,” Ham said.

Holly spoke up. “I guess that means Ham approves of you, Stone. Otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to marry me off to you.”

“I never said—” Ham began.

“Oh, shut up, Ham. You’re transparent.” She turned to Stone. “Ham has suddenly decided it’s time I got married. I think he wants grandchildren.”

“Now, I—”

“Well, not much chance of that, Ham.”

“I can live without grandchildren,” Ham said. “You do what you want. That’ll make me happy.”

“I want Trini Rodriguez, and I don’t want to wait another couple of days for the FBI to spirit him out of town. You know they’re not going to hand him to me, don’t you, Stone?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Stone replied. “You got any ideas?”

“Well, I can canvas Little Italy for him again.”

“I may have a better idea,” Stone said.

It had been quite some time since Stone had visited the old man in the outer reaches of Brooklyn, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He finally decided that what had made him reluctant was not the father, but the daughter who was locked in an upstairs room of his house.

He parked his car and was met at the front door by Pete, the short, thick former hoodlum who served as Eduardo Bianchi’s butler and bodyguard.

“Long time,” Pete said.

“Yeah,” Stone said, and followed the man through the house and out into the back garden, where Eduardo sat at a wrought-iron table, wearing a dark suit, as was his custom. He rose to meet Stone, and it took him a little longer than on Stone’s last visit. “How are you, Stone?” Eduardo asked.

“I’m fine, Eduardo. Are you well?”

“I’m better than a person of my years can reasonably expect to be. Please sit down. Lunch will be here soon.”

“You look wonderful.” Stone paused. “And how is Dolce?” Dolce was Eduardo’s youngest daughter, to whom Stone had once been married for a few minutes before she had degenerated into a murderous psychotic.

“I wish I could tell you she was well,” Eduardo replied, “but she’s not. Her condition has worsened to the point where she has tried to kill everyone who has anything to do with her, including me. She has a degenerative brain disease, something like Alzheimer’s, that has caused all her behavior. Now she doesn’t even recognize her family. I’ve had to have her removed to a facility where she can be made comfortable and where she can be secured from harming herself or others.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Stone said. “She was a beautiful and intelligent girl.”

“My mother died the same way,” Eduardo said, “and an aunt of hers, as well. Of course, they didn’t understand the reason in those days. It seems to be passed down to one daughter in each generation, so Anna Maria will be all right.” Anna Maria, who was married to Dino, preferred to be called Mary Ann.

“It’s a tragic situation.”

“Yes, and thankfully, rare. Anna Maria has told me that she plans to have no more children, for fear of having a daughter, so the disease will die out with Dolce.”

“I didn’t know about this.”

“Neither does Dino,” Eduardo said. “I would be grateful if you would not tell him. I don’t want him to be worried.”

“As you wish.”

Lunch arrived, and Stone labored through three courses of old-fashioned Italian cooking, doing the best he could.

When the dishes had been cleared away, and Pete had brought them small glasses of Strega, Eduardo turned to Stone. “Now, why have you come to see me? I believe you must need my help.”

“Yes, I do,” Stone said, “for a friend. I want to locate someone who is hiding in the . . . Italian community in New York.”

“For what purpose?”

“So that he can be tried and imprisoned.”

Eduardo shrugged. “I appreciate your candor, but that is not the sort of reason that would engender cooperation in the community.”

“I know that, but you must understand that this man is a multiple murderer, who kills without thought or feeling, and who does not limit his killing to reasons of business. He once put a bomb in a coffin and exploded it during a funeral.”

“That is an outrage,” Eduardo said.

“Do you know a man named Ed Shine?”

Eduardo permitted himself a small smile. “I’ve known him since the day he got off the boat from Italy. He was a valuable man to friends of mine. Of course, he is in prison now. Ed could not remain retired. He could have lived out his life in peace, but he got greedy.”

“Yes. The man my friend wants to find is Shine’s out-of-wedlock son with a Cuban woman in south Florida. He goes by the name of Trini Rodriguez.”

Eduardo nodded. “I’ve heard of him, and I haven’t liked what I’ve heard, but he was under Ed’s protection.”

Suddenly, Stone had a thought. He might end this whole business by simply imparting a small piece of information to Eduardo. “Have you ever wondered who else’s protection he might be under?”

Eduardo looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to the people who are helping him that he would not be a free man without the protection of. . . well, those who would, normally, put him away?”

“And that would be the federal men, would it?”

Stone shrugged. “He would be far too important a fugitive to be allowed to roam New York City without the protection of someone.”

“You have a point,” Eduardo said. “It makes you wonder.”

“I wonder, too.”

“Perhaps it is because he has convinced them that, while he may be protected by these federal people, he is not truly working for them.”

“Perhaps. It’s my understanding that he is helping them root out a Middle Eastern terrorist organization that wants to use his friends to help them launder large amounts of money.”

“Certainly, no one I know would knowingly help such an organization,” Eduardo said smoothly.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Perhaps this is complicated,” Eduardo said.

“I’ve no doubt of that.”

“I do very little business these days, but I will ask a few questions and see what this man means to the people who are helping him.”

“I’m sure the answers would be interesting,” Stone said. “I think there is one thing of which you may be sure: that Trini Rodriguez is acting in his own interests, and not those of either the federal people or those who are helping him.”

Eduardo stood up. “Thank you for coming to see me, Stone. Perhaps you will come again soon, now that Dolce is not in the house. I know her presence made you uncomfortable.”

“I hope you will forgive me that, Eduardo. I would like very much to come again soon.”

“Someone will call you to arrange a meeting, when I have something to tell you,” Eduardo said. “It should not be long.”

The two men shook hands, and Stone followed Pete back through the house to the car.

30

STONE LEFT THE Bianchi house and drove back toward Manhattan, thinking about his conversation with Eduardo. The old man had seemed genuinely concerned about the situation with Trini Rodriguez, but that didn’t mean he was going to help. Over the years he had distanced himself from his past criminal associations, concentrating on the work of his foundation and his membership on the boards of the museum, the opera, and others of the city’s cultural institutions, and he seemed reluctant to revisit old acquaintances.

Dolce had helped him in these endeavors until she had begun to behave erratically, then violently. Eduardo was a lonely man now, Stone reflected, and he really should make an effort to see him at a time when he didn’t want something from the old man.

Stone had made his way across Brooklyn in fairly light traffic, making good time. He paid little attention to other cars along the route, but now a motorcycle cop caught his eye in his rearview mirror. Instinctively, he slowed down, and as he did the bike drew alongside him.

Stone was reaching for his badge when an alarm bell went off in his mind. There were two men on the motorcycle, and cops didn’t ride tandem. They were no more than three feet from his window. They wore black leather and white helmets with goggles, and one of them had something in his hand.

Simultaneously, there was a loud noise, and two splatters appeared in the window’s glass. Stone braked sharply, and the motorcycle shot past him, then slowed, as the man on the passenger seat twisted around for another shot. Two more splatters appeared, this time in the windshield, but the bullets did not penetrate the armored glass.

Stone, unarmed, fought back with the only weapon he had at his disposal: his car. He slammed the accelerator to the floor, and the tachometer needle shot up as he aimed at the rear of the motorcycle. The driver hadn’t been expecting that, and he failed to react quickly enough. Stone’s car struck the motorcycle hard, propelling the bike across the central divider of the bridge, directly into the path of an oncoming cement truck. The cycle and its two riders ricocheted off the grille of the truck, and Stone lost sight of them. Behind him he could hear the screech of brakes and the blowing of horns.

He braked to a halt and got out of the car, looking back. The driver of the car behind him had done the same thing, and traffic had come to a halt on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Stone watched the detective as he laboriously wrote the last of his notes. He had been in the police station for more than four hours.

“Anything else you can remember?” the man asked.

“No. Did somebody call Lieutenant Bacchetti?”

“Who knows? You think you need the help?”

“That depends on your attitude,” Stone said. His badge and ID card lay on the table between them.

“Not my call,” the detective said, standing up and stretching. “That’s my watch commander’s, but just between you and me, I think you did the world a favor by what you did. There’s a few greasy spots on the Brooklyn Bridge, but what the hell?”

The door opened, and Dino walked in. “First, Central Park, now Brooklyn,” he said. “Is there a precinct left where you aren’t up to your dick in homicides?”

“Dino, it was a hit. They tried to kill me. Twice.”

“Yeah, I saw your car outside. Nice to know that armored glass helps.”

The detective spoke up. “I forgot to ask: How come you drive an armored car?”

“It’s not an armored car,” Stone said. “It’s lightly armored. It will repel small-arms fire. I was car shopping, and it was in the showroom, and I thought, what the hell, why not?”

“Well,” the detective said, “it was a good idea, because if that had been regular glass between you and the shooter, it would be your brains spattered all over the Brooklyn Bridge instead of the two guys on the motorcycle.”

“You get an ID on them yet?” Dino asked.

“Nah. They weren’t carrying anything. Maybe their prints will ring the bell.”

“Don’t count on it,” Stone said to Dino. “The guy that Holly shot in the park still doesn’t have a name, does he?”

Dino shook his head. “He ain’t going to, either. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“I don’t have to talk to anybody else?”

“Nah, I had a chat with the watch commander. They’ll call you if there’s anything else they want to know.”

The two walked out of the precinct together, and Stone took another look at his car. “Follow me to the Mercedes garage?” he asked.

“Why not?” Dino replied. “It’s not like I have to work for a living.”

The car sat in the middle of the shop, surrounded by half a dozen Mercedes-Benz mechanics in blue coveralls.

“This is my first one of these,” the service manager said. “We’ve sold a few of these cars, but it’s the first time one of them ever came back with bullet holes in it.”

“How about the bumper?” Stone said.

“We’ll have one here tomorrow, but it’s got to be painted. The armored glass is going to take longer, maybe two or three weeks. It has to come from Germany, and there’s customs and all of that.”

“Put regular glass in it,” Stone said. “I’ll bring it back when the armored stuff comes in.”

“In that case, we’ll have it together by the end of the week,” the service manager said.

“Can we go now?” Dino asked.

Stone signed the service order and followed Dino back to his car.

“You thought about how you’re going to explain this to your insurance company?” Dino asked as they drove away.

“I don’t think I’ll mention it to them,” Stone said, “because I didn’t mention to them in the first place that the car was armored. I thought it might upset them.”

“Stone, maybe you ought to take Holly and get out of town for a while,” Dino said.

“That’s an attractive idea,” Stone replied, “and I’ll talk to Holly about it, but I don’t think she’s going to want to go. She’s mad now, and she’s going to get madder when I tell her what’s happened.”

“Better mad than dead,” Dino said. “Whoever’s doing this has wasted three men trying, and you may have pissed him off by now.”

“You think it’s Trini?” Stone asked.

“You got somebody else in mind?”

“Maybe,” Stone replied.

31

DINO SLOWED DOWN as he turned into Stone’s block, pointing ahead at a cluster of people outside Stone’s house. “You must be dead, because you’re attracting flies.”

Stone groaned. “Stop here.” Dino pulled over. Stone got out his cell phone and called his secretary.

“The Barrington Practice,” Joan Robertson said.

“Joan, it’s me.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m right outside. I want you to go to the garage, count to five, and open the garage door. As soon as we’re inside, close it.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Slowly,” Stone said. Dino edged his unmarked car up the block and, when he saw the garage door start to move, accelerated. He turned into the drive, crossed the sidewalk, and braked before he could run into the rear wall. The door closed behind them.

Stone had seen at least two television cameras in the mob. “Come on in, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I can’t get out anyway, without running down a few members of the fourth estate.”

“What happened on the Brooklyn Bridge?” Joan asked. “It’s all over the TV.”

“Come on upstairs, so I won’t have to explain it more than once,” Stone said.

Holly and Ham met them at the top of the stairs. “You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine, except I just killed two men.”

“That ain’t good,” Ham said.

Stone led them into his study and poured everyone but himself a drink, then he explained what had happened. “Holly, I think we’ve got to get out of town.” He held up a hand. “I know you don’t want to get any farther from Trini than you already have, but that crowd outside makes staying here impossible. We won’t be able to move without them tagging along.”

“Why don’t you go up to Connecticut?” Dino asked.

“Can’t do that. Some of the people who’ve been following us know about the house.”

“Yeah,” Holly said, “but they’re FBI. You think they’re trying to kill us?”

“I doubt it, but somebody on their team may be talking to somebody on Trini’s team, or we may be dealing with another team entirely.”

“And what team would that be?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

“Then let’s go to Florida,” Holly said. “I have a perfectly good house, and if we get rumbled there, we can go to Ham’s place.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ham said. “You two can sleep in the hammock on the porch. Hasn’t been anybody there to feed the mosquitoes.”

“You make it sound irresistible, Ham,” Stone said. “How quickly can you two get packed?”

“Ten minutes,” Holly said.

“Dino, can you give us a ride to Teterboro?”

“Sure.”

Stone picked up a phone and called Atlantic Aviation. “Please top off my inboard and outboard caps,” he said. “Be there in half an hour.” He hung up, then dug out a chart, called Flight Services and got a weather report, then filed a flight plan. He went upstairs, threw some things into a couple of duffels, and came back down to find everybody waiting for him. “Okay,” he said, “let’s run the gauntlet.”

They trooped downstairs and got into Dino’s car while Joan stood by the garage door switch.

“I’ll be on my cell phone,” Stone said. “Hit it.”

Joan opened the door, and Dino started backing up. He switched on his flashing lights and hit the whooper for a minute, and the crowd scattered. As he pulled away from the house, reporters ran alongside the car, shouting questions, while photographers fired their strobes. They lucked their way through the traffic light at the corner and, with the help of the lights and whooper, were soon out of range.

At Teterboro, Dino faked his way through the security gate and pulled up to Stone’s airplane, which had been pulled up front. The fuel truck was finishing the top-off.

Stone stowed everybody’s luggage in the rear compartment, then did a preflight inspection of the airplane.

“Wish I was going with you,” Dino said. “I could use some sun.”

“I’ve got plenty of room for you and your wife,” Holly said.

“I’ll ask her.” He shook Stone’s hand. “Call me in a couple of days, and I’ll let you know if things have cooled off.”

“Will do.”

“By the way, we were followed out here by a black Lincoln Town Car. I wasn’t sure until we made the last turn.”

Stone laughed. “Let them try to follow us now.” He got onto the airplane, showed Holly and Ham how the door worked, then settled in the pilot’s seat, with Holly beside him. “Everybody buckle up.” He worked his way through the checklist, got a clearance from the tower, and taxied to runway 24. He did a run-up, then called the tower and was cleared for takeoff. A moment later they were climbing through a thousand feet, with the setting sun to their right, bright orange through the New Jersey haze.

Stone climbed to flight level 250, switched on the CD player, and, having gone through his cruise checklist, relaxed. He noted that Holly and Ham were both already dozing.

With the autopilot flying the airplane, Stone began to think back over the events of the day, but the scene that kept flashing through his mind was the memory of the motorcycle propelled across the meridian of the Brooklyn Bridge into the path of the cement truck. He tried not to think of the aftermath.

Finally, he checked the airplane’s Garmin AirCell phone to be sure he had a signal, then he called a New York cell phone number, pressing a button on the audio panel to isolate his headset from those of Holly and Ham.

“Yes?” a familiar voice said.

“Lance, it’s Stone.”

“Nice to hear from you,” Lance said smoothly. “I’ve been hearing about you on the news. Are you okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“What’s that noise in the background?” Lance asked.

“Just road noise,” Stone replied. “I’m in the car.”

“Where you headed?”

“Out of town.”

“Where?”

“If I wanted to get Holly and myself killed, I’d tell you.”

There was a long silence before Lance spoke again. “That’s an odd thing to say,” he said finally.

“I suppose it is,” Stone replied, “but you’re the only person in all this who has the resources to make what’s been happening happen.”

Another long silence. “That’s not an outrageous conclusion to come to, but why do you think I would want you dead?”

“I’m still thinking about that,” Stone said. He pressed the end button on the phone and put it back into its cradle. It was dark now, and the lights of the cities and towns of the Atlantic seaboard stretched out before them. He was glad to be leaving them behind.

32

STONE WOKE, DISORIENTED, with the sun streaming through the windows. He was alone in bed, and he couldn’t hear anyone downstairs.

He found a robe in a closet, put his cell phone in a pocket, and walked downstairs. Nice place, he thought, looking around the living room and the kitchen. He opened the sliding glass doors and stepped outside. Dunes stretched away to his left and right, and the Atlantic Ocean was only yards away. The air was warm and soft, and the small surf made a pleasant noise.

He looked up and down the beach and found himself alone, so he shucked off the robe and ran naked into the sea, running as far as he could, then diving in and swimming away from the shore. Fifty yards out, he turned and swam back in, found his robe, and went back into the house. He found juice, cereal, and milk in the kitchen and made himself some breakfast. He was having coffee when the telephone rang. He let the machine get it.

“Stone, it’s Holly,” she said. “If you’re awake, pick up.”

Stone picked up the phone on the kitchen counter. “Hi.”

“What time did you get up?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I had a swim and some breakfast.”

“Great. Make yourself at home. Daisy and I are at work, and I’ve got a lot of mail to clear up. Did you bring a gun with you?”

“Yep, I brought the Walther.”

“Good. I don’t like to think of you being unarmed, what with all that’s happened.”

“Neither do I. Can I carry in this state?”

“Not with the word ‘retired’ on your police ID. When you get dressed, come to the station and ask for my secretary. She’ll fix you up with something.” She gave him directions. “Use my car. The keys are in a bowl on the kitchen counter.”

“Sounds good.”

“I won’t be here when you come, and I won’t be home until around seven. Can you amuse yourself?”

“I’ll try.”

“See you then.” She hung up.

Stone took a shower and dressed in light clothes, then drove into town and, following Holly’s directions, found the station and asked for her secretary.

A middle-aged woman came to the front desk to get him. “Morning, Mr. Barrington. Would you come this way, please? We’re all ready for you.”

He followed her through the squad room to the rear of the building, where she stood him before a wall and took a photograph of him with a Polaroid passport camera.

She handed him a form and a pen. “Please sign at the bottom.”

Stone signed. She went away and came back with a laminated ID card and a badge in their own wallet.

“Congratulations, you are now a consultant lieutenant with the Orchid Beach Police Department, without pay.”

“Thank you.”

He went back to the car, opened the glove compartment, and took out the Walther in a Galco Executive shoulder holster. He got into the light harness and put his windbreaker on over it. “Now I’m armed and dangerous,” he said aloud to himself.

That evening Stone, Holly, Ham, and his girlfriend, Ginny, a lovely redhead, were at a table at the Ocean Grill, in nearby Vero Beach, sipping vodka gimlets.

“Stone,” Holly said, “do you think Lance could have had anything to do with the people who’ve been trying to kill you and me?”

“It crossed my mind,” Stone said. “Certainly, he has the resources to do it.”

“I can’t think of a motive, can you?”

“Not so far. I can’t think of anything we know that we shouldn’t know. I think it’s a better guess that somebody in the FBI is talking to Trini about us, but I can’t see the FBI sanctioning the killing of two citizens. The whole thing is baffling.”

Ham spoke up. “I think it’s Trini, one way or another, and I don’t think he needs the FBI to help him. From what Holly has told me, he could have followed her to your house, so he would know about you. And just because the Feds are following you, that doesn’t mean that Trini’s people can’t follow you, as well. Lance doesn’t have any reason to kill two people who are supposed to be working for him.”

“Apart from that,” Holly said, “Lance just doesn’t strike me as the killer type.”

“There are all sorts of killer types,” Stone said.

“Too true,” Ham echoed.

Their dinner arrived and they turned the conversation to other things.

They had just arrived back at Holly’s house when Stone’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Lance.”

“Good evening.”

“Our last conversation set me to thinking. I ordered a DNA check of our three anonymous assassins, and I just got a call from my people with the results.”

“You have a database to check the results against?”

“Yes, but they’re not in our database, or the FBI’s.”

“So the tests were useless?”

“As far as identification goes, yes; but the tests turned up some other useful information.”

“What kind of information?”

“It was possible to conclude that all three men were Arab—very likely Lebanese or Syrian.”

“You can tell that from DNA?”

“Yes. Also, they were related—not brothers, but certainly cousins.”

Stone looked at Holly. “So you’re saying that the people who are trying to kill Holly and me are a family of Lebanese or Syrian assassins?”

“You make it sound like something out of The Arabian Nights. More likely, the three cousins are members of the same terrorist cell, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, that’s all? That’s more than enough. Why would a terrorist cell have an interest in Holly and me?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” Lance said.

“Well, you’re going to have to make it even more obvious if I’m going to get it.”

“Think about it: Trini Rodriguez is dealing with an Arab group on this money-laundering thing, right?”

“Right.”

“So he tells his contacts that you and Holly are a threat to their transaction.”

“Okay, now it’s obvious.”

“What is also obvious is that by killing three of them, you’ve probably annoyed the other members of the group, so I think you and Holly should stay in Orchid Beach until the FBI has thrown a net over these people.”

“Wait a minute. Why do you think we’re in Orchid Beach?”

“Because you filed a flight plan for Vero Beach, which is the airport serving Holly’s hometown.”

“You figured that out, huh?”

“Yes, but I doubt if your Lebanese friends did. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that I’m not trying to kill you.”

“And do I know that? You could be making all this up.”

“Stone, use your head. The reason you should know I’m not trying to kill you is that you’re still alive.” He hung up.

Stone turned to Holly. “You’d better sit down,” he said.

33

HOLLY LISTENED TO Stone’s report of his conversation with Lance. When he had finished she shook her head. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Neither do I.”

“I mean, the part about the Arab assassins would be funny if you and I hadn’t already killed three of them. I wouldn’t believe it, otherwise.”

“Neither would I.”

“And he said they wouldn’t know we’re in Orchid Beach?”

“He said that he figured it out, but they wouldn’t.”

“I hope to God he’s right.”

“So do I.”

“Still, I’m sleeping with a gun.”

“Good idea.”

“Speaking of sleeping . . .”

“I’m right behind you.” Holly let Daisy in from her nightly run in the dunes, then led Stone upstairs. “Daisy, get in your bed,” she said, and the dog curled up where she had been told.

“Good,” Stone said, stroking her hair, “I don’t want anybody between us tonight, and I’m glad Ham’s out of the house, too.”

“I’m glad, if you’re glad,” she said, helping him shuck his shirt over his head.

Stone worked on her buttons and unhooked her bra. “Alone is good,” he said, kissing her breasts.

She pulled him to her and pushed down on his shoulders until he was on his knees, pulling off her clothing. “Ooooh, that’s the place,” she said, running her fingers through his hair.

He pushed her onto the bed, and she opened her legs. For the next few minutes he concentrated on making her happy, and the noises she was making confirmed her feelings.

She came with a series of cries and little convulsions, then she pulled Stone on top of her. “I want everything tonight,” she said.

Stone slipped inside her. “The works,” he said, kissing her ear as he moved slowly in and out.

“The works!” she cried and moved with him.

For the better part of an hour they explored each other with fingers and tongues. They changed positions and laughed at the intensity of their pleasure. Then they took turns coming and collapsed in each other’s arms.

“It occurs to me,” Stone panted, “that my heart must be in pretty good shape, because if it weren’t, I’d be dead right now. That’s the best stress test in the world.”

Holly rested her head on his shoulder and threw a leg over his. “Okay, the Arab assassins can shoot me now.”

“I hope not.”

“If they showed up right now, I wouldn’t be able to hold a gun. I can’t make a fist.”

“Then we’re both helpless.”

“We could rely on Daisy.”

“We’d have to.”

Stone suddenly thought of something. “I just had a troubling thought.”

“Not now, please.”

“If they don’t know we’re here, who ransacked your house a few days ago?”

“Don’t make me think about it now.” Her voice trailed off. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh, no. You have to answer that question. You’re not sleeping until I’m sleeping, and I can’t sleep thinking about that.”

“What was the question again?”

“Who broke into your house?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Didn’t your police force investigate?”

“Yes, but they didn’t leave any prints.”

“Who do you think it was?”

“Are you saying it was Arab assassins?”

“It would certainly seem to be Trini-connected, wouldn’t it?”

“Trini’s a Florida boy. If he wanted my house broken into, he wouldn’t need Arab assassins, he’d just make a call to some of his homeboys.”

“Well, I’m relieved that it wasn’t Arab assassins.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Is the burglar alarm on?”

“No, but there’s a keypad right here by the bed.”

“Would you turn it on, please?”

With a groan, Holly rolled over and tapped in the code, then rolled back. “There you go.”

“Good. I think I can sleep now.”

“But I’m wide awake.”

“I’m sleepy.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, taking his testicles in her hand and squeezing.

“Hey, I can’t sleep with you doing that.”

“That’s the idea.” She stopped squeezing and began lightly kneading instead.

“You don’t really think I can . . .”

“Sure you can.”

“It’s impossible after what we’ve just done.” “Then why is this working?” she asked, continuing. “Oh, God.”

Holly rolled on top of him and put him inside her. “In fact, it’s working very well indeed.”

“I can’t argue,” Stone said, arching his back. “But I’ll never be able to come again.”

“Wanna bet?” she asked.

34

WHEN STONE WOKE up he was lying on his side, and Holly was curled up with him, in the spoon position. Stone had a notion of starting something, but Daisy was staring at him intently from across the bed. She was difficult to ignore.

“You want to go out, girl?” he asked.

“No,” Holly replied sleepily.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

He got out of bed and walked downstairs naked with Daisy. He opened the sliding door to the beach and left it open so that she could come back in.

Holly came down the stairs, getting into a robe. “I like you naked in my house,” she said.

“Why are you up?”

“It’s after eight, and I really ought to at least check in at the station before I come back and fuck your brains out.” She pinched him on the ass as she passed.

“So I have to wait?”

She made coffee and switched on the TV to CNN.

“In New York City last night,” a reporter was saying, “the FBI pulled off a major sting against a large terrorist organization. After setting up a bogus money-laundering apparatus, they lured the terrorists’ financial people to an address in Little Italy and, posing as members of the Mafia, videotaped their transaction, then arrested everybody. No names have been announced yet, but sources say that seven members of the as yet unnamed terrorist organization were arrested and more than ten million dollars in Euros and Swiss francs was confiscated.”

The scene switched to a group of smiling men at a microphone. “We’re very pleased about this,” a man was saying.

“Look, there’s Grant Early Harrison in the back row,” Holly said. “They’ve done it. I can go after Trini now.”

“I guess so,” Stone said. “Lance didn’t mention this last night.”

“I guess the FBI didn’t let him in on the timing. You ready to go back to New York?”

Stone shrugged. “Sure. I don’t know how much more of this sunshine and sea and clean air I can take, anyway. Can I have breakfast first?”

“Sure.” She went to work in the kitchen.

An hour later, Holly left the house in uniform. “I’ve got a couple of hours’ work at the station. You go ahead and file your flight plan. I’ll bring sandwiches for lunch on the airplane.”

“Are you going to call Ham?”

“I’m going to leave Daisy with him. I’ll tell him then.”

“Whatever you say.”

She left, and Stone phoned for a weather forecast, which was favorable, and filed a flight plan, then he called the airport and asked for the airplane to be refueled. Holly dropped Daisy off with Ham, who didn’t like her going back to New York without him.

“You call me if you need me,” he said.

“I will,” she replied, kissing him on the cheek.

With Holly in the copilot’s seat they climbed out of Vero Beach airport and headed north, by way of Ormond Beach and Charleston, South Carolina. Stone noted a nice, thirty-knot tailwind, so they made good time along the route.

They had just passed Charleston when the AirCell phone rang, and Stone answered it. “Hello?”

“Stone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Eduardo. I hope you don’t mind my phoning you on the airplane. Your secretary gave me the number.”

“Not at all. It’s good to hear from you, Eduardo.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ve been in Florida for a couple of days, and I’m headed home now. I should land at Teterboro in about two and a half hours.”

“I have some information for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“The business you and I discussed apparently took place last night.”

“Yes, I saw something about it on television this morning.”

“Your Mr. Rodriguez took part in the process, and when the arrests had been made, he left the scene in an FBI car. My, ah, acquaintances do not now know where he is. They haven’t heard from him at all.”

“Do they expect to hear from him?”

“Apparently so, but they didn’t expect him to leave with the FBI. They’re assuming he has either been arrested or is being questioned about some other matter.”

“I see. Thank you very much, Eduardo. I’m grateful for your assistance.”

“I’m glad I could be of service, and I hope the information I gave you is of some use.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Please come and have lunch again soon.”

“I will, and thank you again. Goodbye.” Stone punched off. “You heard that on your headset?” he asked Holly.

“Yes,” she said. “Maybe they’re holding him for me.”

“You think?”

“Can I use the phone?”

“Sure.” He handed it to her.

“How do I get information?”

“Dial four-one-one, just like on the ground.”

She did that and got the number of the FBI office in New York and was connected. “Special Agent Grant Harrison,” she said to the operator.

“Just a moment. I’ll see if he is in the office. Who’s calling, please?”

“Chief Holly Barker of the Orchid Beach, Florida, Police Department.”

Half a minute later, Grant came on the line. “Holly?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Where are you? What’s that noise?”

“I’m in an airplane between New York and Florida.”

“There’s good news: We made our bust last night.”

“I saw it on television this morning. Where’s Trini Rodriguez now?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Trini has been given immunity from prosecution for his cooperation, and he’s back in the Witness Protection Program.”

Holly turned red. “Grant, you can’t give somebody immunity from multiple state murder charges.”

“He has immunity from all federal charges.”

“I have a warrant for his arrest on twelve counts of murder one, resulting from the bombing at the church.”

“I understand that, but I can’t tell you where he is.”

“So, by hiding him, you’re effectively giving him immunity from state charges?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but you can characterize it as you wish.”

“This really stinks, Grant.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Holly. This operation was vital to national security, and we couldn’t have pulled it off without Trini’s help. Listen, I’m headed back to Miami later today. You want to get together this weekend?”

“No, I don’t. Not this weekend or ever again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping we could . . .”

“I’m afraid that, from now on, you’re going to have to do that to yourself,” she said, and hung up. She turned to Stone. “You heard?”

Stone nodded. “Not good.”

“What am I going to do now?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

35

STONE AND HOLLY were already having a drink at Elaine’s when Lance arrived.

He settled himself at their table and ordered a drink. “So, how was sunny Florida?”

“Sunny,” Stone replied. “I don’t know how they stand it down there.”

“Yes, it’s a hard life. Holly, are you keeping the criminal elements of Orchid Beach in check?”

“Oh, that’s not hard. It’s mostly traffic and the occasional drug bust or burglary.”

“Aren’t you bored?”

“Funny you should mention that.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ve told Stone I’m thinking about making a change. God knows, life is good down there, but it’s not very interesting.”

“Perhaps I can be of help,” Lance said. “Let me work on that.”

“Sure.”

Stone spoke up. “Actually, you can be of help on something else, Lance.”

Lance smiled. “Trini?”

“Right,” Holly said.

“I saw the news reports. When I heard that they’d taken Trini away in an FBI car I suspected they’d be hiding him. Is he back in the Witness Protection Program?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Have you spoken to anyone at the FBI?”

“Yes, but I’m never speaking to him again.”

“Holly, surely you know by now that the FBI is never going to stretch to help anybody in local law enforcement.”

“I knew that, but it’s been brought home to me afresh.”

“Perhaps your best move would be to humiliate the FBI into turning Trini over to you.”

“Humiliate them? That sounds like fun.”

“Of course, you’d be burning your bridges. They’d never return another phone call of yours.”

“Just tell me how to humiliate them.”

“I know a well-placed reporter at The New York Times. I’m sure he’d like a story about how the FBI is hiding a mass murderer, keeping him from being prosecuted. Would you like to meet the gentleman?”

Holly grinned and opened her mouth to speak, but Stone threw up a hand.

“Hang on,” he said.

“What?” Holly asked.

“This is a very big step.”

“Well, yeah, I guess it is.”

“I think you ought to give some thought to the consequences before you act on this. First of all, you’re going to enrage the FBI.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

“You might not. Suppose you need them on an important case. I mean, you still have to use their lab, their computer databases, their expertise. You might find all that suddenly unavailable to your department—not overtly, just in small ways. They might ‘misplace’ your lab samples, or your computer connection might suddenly go down.”

“Stone has a point, Holly,” Lance said. “If you go to the Times, it would be like a declaration of war on the FBI, and they could make things uncomfortable for you.”

“You still have to answer to your city council, don’t you?” Stone asked.

“Well, yes.”

“You wouldn’t want key members of the council to start getting phone calls from highly placed people at the FBI, complaining about you.”

“I guess not. Maybe I should just resign. That would fix all the problems you’ve brought up.”

“But then a whole new set of problems might arise,” Stone said. “God help you if you should ever get into some kind of trouble with the Feds.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You might be caught up a tree, so to speak, and need the Bureau’s help, or at least their inattention.” He waited to see if the penny would drop about the tree. It didn’t.

“What do you mean, ‘up a tree’?”

“Just a figure of speech, but a pertinent one.”

The penny dropped. “Oh,” she said.

Stone turned to Lance. “Isn’t there something else you might be able to do to help Holly locate Trini—something that could be accomplished without tossing a grenade into the Bureau?”

“I’d need more to go on than I have,” Lance said. “If I had Trini’s name in the Witness Protection Program, for instance.”

Holly sat up straight. “Robert Marshall.”

“What?”

“That’s Trini’s name in the Program. I got it from . . . a source.”

“And how long have you known this?”

“Since not long after I came to New York.”

Lance pulled out his cell phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Robert Marshall,” he said. “New listing.” He took out a notebook and wrote down something, then hung up. He ripped the page off the notebook and handed it to Holly. “Eighty-eighth Street,” he said. “Two blocks east of here.”

“You’re kidding,” Holly said.

“Nope.”

“You’ve got a CIA thing that can give you that?”

“No, I called New York City information.”

“Four-one-one?”

“Exactly.”

Holly looked embarrassed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I don’t know, why didn’t you think of that?”

Stone began laughing. “All this time and trouble, and all we had to do was call information!”

“Well,” Holly said, standing up, “let’s go get him.”

“Not until I’ve had dinner,” Lance said, picking up a menu. “There are preparations to be made.”

They ordered dinner, then Lance got out his cell phone again. “Write this down,” he said when the phone was answered, and he read out the address. “I want a car and two men on the building now. Check the mailboxes for a Robert Marshall and figure out which apartment it is. Check the file on one Trini Rodriguez for a description. Call me back when you’ve got it nailed.” He closed the cell phone. “We don’t want to just go strolling in there, do we?”

“I guess not,” Holly said.

36

AS THE WAITER was taking away their dishes, Lance’s cell phone went off. “Yes?” He listened for a minute or so. “Right. Soon.” He hung up. “Your boy came home five minutes ago. So kind of him not to disturb our dinner.”

Stone waved to a waiter for a check and signed it.

“Is everybody armed?” Lance asked. “Or do I have to think of everything?”

Stone and Holly nodded.

“Do you have cuffs, Holly?”

“Yep, two pair.”

“Then shall we?” Lance pushed back from the table and led them outside to his car. “Take a left,” he said to the driver, “then a block and a half straight ahead. One of our cars is there.”

The driver did as he was told, and they came to a stop beside another black car. Lance rolled down a window and waved at the darkened windows. A man got out and got into the front seat of Lance’s car.

“Tell me,” Lance said.

“Your man came home ten minutes ago. He matched the file photo, ponytail and all. He lives on the top floor front; you can see his lights.”

Lance looked out the window. “Mmmm, yes. The fire escape is on the front of the building. I’ll want your partner at the bottom. Then there’s the roof to deal with.”

“I’ve had a word with the super and a look inside. There’s a door and a stairway leading to the roof from the top floor.”

“All right, you go up to the roof and wait for somebody to come running through that door, and for Christ’s sake don’t shoot one of us. My friends would prefer to take the man alive, but don’t put yourself in peril to make that happen. We’ll give you a three-minute head start, then we go in.” The man got out of the car and went into the building.

“Here’s what I’d like to do,” Lance said. “The three of us go into the building and ascend the stairs to the top floor, front apartment. Holly, you knock on the door, then stand with your back to it, so he can see only the back of a woman’s head through the peephole. As soon as he cracks the door, Stone and I rush in, with you right behind. We’ll concentrate on Trini. It will be your job to keep anyone else who happens to be in the room from shooting Stone and me. That okay?”

“It’s good for me,” Holly said.

Stone nodded.

The three of them got out of the car, approached the building, and let themselves through the front door, which had had the bolt taped open. Lance put a finger to his lips, then led the way quietly to the fourth floor. He ducked under the peephole and took up a position on the left side of the door, while Stone took the right side. Lance nodded at Holly.

Holly rapped lightly on the door. No response. She rapped harder, then turned around.

“Who’s there?” a muffled voice said from inside.

“Escort service,” Holly replied, her back still to the door.

They could hear the rattle of the chain being undone, and the door opened an inch. “We didn’t call for anybody,” he said.

Simultaneously, Lance and Stone rushed the door, knocking the man off his feet. They ran into the room, guns at arm’s length, with Holly behind them.

The man on the floor wasn’t Trini, and there were three other men in the room, two of them pointing guns at Lance, Stone, and Holly. Trini was there, but he had no gun.

“Freeze, FBI!” one of the armed men shouted.

“Police!” Holly yelled, showing her badge. “I have a warrant for Rodriguez! Let’s see some ID.”

An agent reached for his ID without disturbing his aim. “Who are these two guys?”

Stone showed them his Orchid Beach badge.

“Fellow traveler,” Lance said. “Can we all stop pointing guns at each other?”

The agents didn’t move, and now the one they had knocked down was on his feet with a gun, too.

Holly got the warrant out of her purse and held it up for them to see. “This is a fugitive warrant from the State of Florida for Trini Rodriguez. I’m taking him back for trial on multiple murder charges.”

“Okay, everybody relax,” the agent said. “Holster your weapons.”

The FBI men did so, and Holly, Stone, and Lance complied.

“All right, lady,” the agent said, “just hang on a minute. Can I see your ID again?”

Holly handed him the wallet with her badge and ID.

“Okay, Chief, I’ve got to make a phone call.” He picked up a phone on the coffee table and dialed a number. “Put me through to Harrison,” he said. He tapped his foot for a moment, then practically came to attention. “Mr. Harrison, this is Carson, at the Eighty-eighth Street apartment. I’ve got a lady cop here who’s shown me a fugitive warrant for our guest.”

Holly turned her attention to Trini, who was staring at her as though he’d like to strangle her. “You’re all done, Trini,” she said. “You’re mine now.”

Trini managed an evil smile. “We’ll see,” he said. “I’m going to kill you, after I’ve fucked you a few times, and I’m going to kill your daddy and your dog, too.”

“I can’t wait for you to try,” Holly said.

“Yes, sir,” the agent was saying. “I’ll convey that to her.” He hung up the phone and turned to Holly. “Your warrant is superceded by an existing federal warrant and national security considerations. I’ll have to ask you and your people to leave.”

“What do you mean, a federal warrant? Let’s see it.”

“It’s on file in our New York office. I can have it faxed to you tomorrow, if you’ll give me a number. In the meantime, my orders are to ask you to leave this apartment, and if you refuse, to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“Now you listen to me,” Holly said.

Stone spoke up. “Holly.”

“What?”

“We have to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“We have to leave, or we’re going to end up in the federal detention center downtown.”

“He’s right, Holly,” Lance said, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the door.

Stone took her other elbow and they got her into the hall. The door was closed firmly behind them, and they heard locks turning.

“Thanks for the support, guys,” Holly said.

“Stone is right, Holly. You’re in a bad position legally.”

They had started down the stairs.

“Holly,” Stone said, “if you want him, you’re going to have to go to a federal judge and get a court order vacating Trini’s Witness Protection status and giving your warrant precedence.”

“How long will that take?” Holly asked as they were leaving the building.

“The U.S. Attorney’s office will fight it. There’ll be a hearing—maybe more than one. Weeks, at least.”

They got into the car.

“Or,” Lance said, “you could just kill him.”

Holly grinned. “You sure know how to make a girl feel better,” she said.

37

THE THREE OF them sat in Lance’s car, half a block from the building. They had been waiting for half an hour.

“Why do we think they’re coming out soon?” Holly asked.

“Because they’re not going to keep him in a place that’s no longer safe from you,” Lance replied. “They’ll get him out as soon as they can arrange another location.”

Another half an hour passed, then a dark van turned into the block and stopped in front of the building. There was a radio antenna on top. A moment later, Trini and the four FBI agents came out of the building, two of them carrying suitcases.

“You were right, Lance,” Stone said. “They’re moving him.”

Lance spoke to his driver. “Follow the van, but stay well back.”

The van pulled away, went around the block, and turned down Second Avenue. Traffic was fairly heavy. They followed it down Second Avenue to Sixty-sixth Street, where it turned right and drove west, continuing through Central Park.

“Looks like they’re moving him to the West Side,” Stone said. “I wonder why they still have him in New York? Why didn’t they send him to Minneapolis or Seattle or someplace no one would think to look for him?”

“Because somebody as exotic-looking as Trini would stand out like a sore thumb in a white-bread city,” Lance replied. “They’d send him to the Southwest. Except they haven’t, of course.”

The van left the park and continued west to Eleventh Avenue, then turned downtown.

“Maybe Chelsea?” Stone said.

“Maybe not,” Lance replied. “Let’s wait and see.”

As the van approached Forty-second Street it moved to the left lane.

“They’re headed for the Holland Tunnel,” Stone said.

The van turned left, then right and went into the tunnel.

“Stay well back,” Lance reiterated.

The van left the tunnel and got onto Route 3 West.

“This is starting to seem familiar,” Stone said.

“What do you mean?” Lance asked.

“It’s the route I take to Teterboro Airport.”

“Ahhh,” Lance said. “Maybe they’re really moving him.”

The van turned north on Route 17.

“Yep,” Stone said.

A few miles along, the van turned right at the airport sign.

“Okay, which FBO?” Lance asked.

“The big ones are Atlantic, Millionaire, First, and Signature,” Stone said. “They’re all on the west side of the field.”

“They’re turning into Millionaire,” Lance said.

“Better stop here. They’ll check IDs at the gate. Driver, continue on to Atlantic Aviation.”

“Why?” Lance asked.

“Because I can get us onto the field there,” Stone said. He got out his NYPD badge and his Teterboro ID card, and in a moment they were being buzzed through the gate to the ramp. “Turn off your lights, turn right, and drive slowly south until you get to the Millionaire ramp.”

They drove on for a hundred yards.

“Stop,” Lance said, pointing. “Only one airplane ready for takeoff.” He dug a pair of small binoculars out of the glove compartment and trained them on the airplane. “Can’t see the registration number.”

“Just wait,” Stone said. “The airplane will turn right as it leaves the ramp, and you’ll be able to see it.”

The door to the jet closed, and it began to taxi. As Stone had predicted, it turned right.

“Got it,” Lance said, jotting down the number. “Don’t move the car, just let them taxi right past us.” He got out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number. “This is Echo 4141,” he said. “I need the current flight plan for the following aircraft registration number.” He read out the tail number. “It will be activated at Teterboro, New Jersey, momentarily. I need the destination and any stops in between.” He put a hand over the phone. “They’re logging on the FAA’s Air Traffic Control computer now,” he said to the backseat. “Yes? Thank you. I’d like a trace on the aircraft in case it changes destinations, and I’d like to know what time it is projected to land. Right.” He hung up. “Their destination is Santa Fe, New Mexico,” he said.

“I wonder why Santa Fe?” Holly asked.

“Trini will blend in with the large Hispanic population there. It sounds like a final destination, too. If they were going to put him on a commercial flight, they’d go to Albuquerque. Santa Fe has few commercial flights, and none late at night.”

“Can you get someone to cover the arrival and follow them to their destination?” Stone asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t stretch my authority that far, since I’m based in New York. I’m not even sure we have anybody on the ground in Santa Fe. Maybe Albuquerque, though.”

They watched as the jet took off and turned to the southwest.

“We may as well go home,” Lance said.

“Did they give you an ETA for Santa Fe?” Stone asked.

“They’ve flight-planned for four hours and ten minutes,” Lance replied.

Stone looked at his watch.

“It’s two hours earlier in Santa Fe. You know somebody out there?” Holly asked.

“I used to, but it’s been a long time,” Stone said.

“It’s worth a try,” Holly said.

“What the hell, I’ll try,” Stone said, getting out his cell phone. “I did some work once with a lawyer out there. If he remembers me, maybe he’ll help.” He dialed information. “A number in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for the residence of Ed Eagle,” he said. “Please connect me.” While the number rang, he turned to Holly. “You really want to chase him down?”

“More than anything.”

“Hello,” a deep voice said at the other end of the phone.

“Ed?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Ed, this is Stone Barrington, in New York. We did a little work together a few years back.”

“Of course, Stone. How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you. I hope you are, as well.”

“I can’t complain. Business is brisk and life is sweet.”

“Well, you can’t ask for more than that. Ed, I need something done in Santa Fe, and I hope you can help me.”

“I will if I can. What do you need?”

“I need a private detective, or just somebody smart, to meet a private jet that’s going to be landing in Santa Fe in about four hours. There are three to five men aboard, and I want them followed to their destination.”

“I think I know a fellow who can handle that,” Eagle said. “Anything else he should know?”

“One of them is wanted in Florida on a fugitive warrant. The others are FBI agents, and they’ll probably be met by an FBI car.”

“A fugitive traveling with FBI agents?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain it when I get there.”

“You’re coming out, then?”

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning in my own airplane; probably be there in time for dinner. Can you recommend a hotel?”

“How many are you?”

“Myself and a lady cop.”

“Can you share a room?”

“You betcha.”

“Then I insist you stay with me. Call me at your fuel stop and give me an ETA, and I’ll meet you.”

“Thank you, Ed. If the destination of these parties is not local, then I’ll need to know that. It might cause a change of plan.”

“I’ll call you by eight tomorrow morning, your time, and give you my man’s report on their destination.”

“Thank you, Ed. I’ll speak to you then.” He hung up and turned to Holly. “Okay, we’re going to Santa Fe.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t fly commercial?”

“I don’t fly commercial, except overseas.”

38

THE FOLLOWING MORNING at 7:45, Stone had just finished packing when the phone rang.

“Hello?

“Stone, it’s Ed Eagle.”

“Good morning, Ed.”

“My man was at Santa Fe Airport last night when the jet in question landed and was met by a van with federal plates. He followed the group to a house out on the north side of town, in a semi-remote area. After a few minutes, the van left the house with three occupants, which indicates that your fugitive is in the house with at least two agents.”

“That’s great news, Ed. Thanks very much.”

“Stone, I don’t know if you’ve considered the ramifications of trying to arrest a fugitive who’s already in federal custody.”

“I’m just helping out a friend,” Stone replied, “and I’m constantly reminding her of the difficulties involved, but she’s determined to take this guy back to Florida for trial.”

“We’ll talk some more when you get here,” Eagle said.

“Okay. We’re refueling in Saint Louis, and I’ll call you from there with an ETA.”

“A word of advice. If you can stretch your fuel for landing at Wichita, it’s a faster in-and-out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. We’ll have to see how the actual, as opposed to forecast, headwinds work out.”

“See you tonight then.”

“Thanks again, Ed.”

Holly came into the room. “What’s up?”

“They’re in Santa Fe, and Ed’s guy followed them to a house there, so it may be Trini’s final destination.”

“I’m ready to go when you are.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Joan drove them to Teterboro, where Stone did a preflight inspection and got a clearance. They were rolling by nine o’clock.

Their route took them over Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, and the headwinds proved light enough for Stone to make Wichita for refueling. He called Ed Eagle from there and gave him an ETA of nine p.m., Santa Fe time.

Ed Eagle was standing on the ramp when Stone taxied up to the Santa Fe Jet Center, and ten minutes later they were headed to Eagle’s house.

“I’ve had a man watching the house all day,” Ed said, “and nobody has left the place.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s about five miles north of the center of town, off Tano Road, on Tano Norte. The area has some new houses, but it’s not all built up yet. There’s a lot of empty land around it. I know the house, because I knew the guy who built it, and I went to a couple of dinner parties there.”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“A single story—there are restrictions on building height out there—three bedrooms, a library, living room, dining room, kitchen, garage—about six thousand square feet. A subsequent owner built an elaborate wall along the road, so you can’t see the house from the road.”

“Does the wall go all the way around the house?”

“No. You could approach it on foot, but the terrain is a little rough—arroyos and ravines on the property. I did the closing when the original owner bought the property, and as I recall, he bought half of a twenty-five-acre tract. There are no other houses within, say, five hundred feet. There’s also a swimming pool and cabana, a tennis court, and a guest house.”

“Sounds pretty elaborate for somebody in the Witness Protection Program.”

“I thought the same thing. It may just be a way point on the way to his final destination.”

“Sounds pretty elaborate for an FBI property, too.”

“Yeah. My guess is it’s owned by somebody friendly to the Bureau—I’ll have to check the property records to find out who—and that they’ve got your man stashed in the guest house. If that’s the case, it might make him a little easier to get out of there. The guest house has its own access to the road.”

“Can we take a look at it tonight?” Holly asked.

“You don’t want to do that. You’re tired, and you don’t know the territory, and dinner’s waiting for us.”

“Relax, Holly,” Stone said. “It doesn’t sound like Trini’s going anywhere.”

“Oh, all right,” Holly sighed.

Ed drove them through the village of Tesuque, north of Santa Fe, and up into the hills above the village, then turned into a driveway marked by a large stone eagle perched on a big boulder.

The house was spacious and comfortable, and the guest bedroom was inviting.

“Freshen up. There’s a drink waiting for you, and dinner in a few minutes,” Ed said.

Stone splashed some water on his face and brushed his hair. “You ready?” he asked Holly.

“You go get us a drink. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Stone found Ed in the kitchen, where there were sizzling noises coming from a skillet.

“Booze is over there in that cabinet,” Ed said, pointing. “Help yourself.”

Stone found a selection of half a dozen bourbons and poured Holly and himself some Knob Creek.

“That lady of yours sounds hot for this guy,” Ed said.

“That’s putting it mildly. She’s going at him with reckless abandon. We had the guy nailed in New York last night, only to find a bunch of FBI agents guarding him.”

“How’d you find out he went to Santa Fe?”

“We followed them to Teterboro and a friend got a report on their flight plan. That’s when I called you.”

“Stone, I don’t know what your relationship is to this lady, but I can guess. Are you sure you’re not following your dick around?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Stone replied. “I keep asking myself that question, but I just got caught up in this business, and I’d like to help her see it through.”

“I’m happy to help you as much as I can, Stone, but see that I don’t get mixed up in a kidnapping.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of it, Ed. How’s life these days?”

“Life is very good. I got married a few years back, but she’s at a spa in California this week, toning up and all that good stuff.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”

“Another time.”

Holly joined them, and Stone handed her her drink. “Is there any way we can find out tonight who owns that house?” she asked. “That’s been worrying me.”

Ed picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Sharon? Ed Eagle. You remember the house you built out on Tano Norte? . . . That’s the one. Any idea who owns it now? . . . No kidding? Since when? . . . Just curious. Thanks very much.” He hung up. “That was the lady who was the contractor on the house. She says it’s owned now by Byron Miller.”

“Who’s he?” Holly asked.

“He’s the U.S. Attorney for our district, and I’d advise you not to try to take your man off his property. He could do bad things to you.”

“Swell,” Holly said, pulling on her bourbon.

39

ED EAGLE WAS waiting when Stone and Holly came into the kitchen for breakfast. “You’re on the move early,” Stone said.

“I’ve got a hearing at nine o’clock, and I didn’t have time to prepare fully for it yesterday,” Ed said. He spread a map over the kitchen table. “I want to show you exactly where the house on Tano Norte is,” he said, pointing. “You go back into Tesuque, then take the main highway south. There’s a lot of construction, and they’ve sealed off the old entrance to Tano Road, so you’ll have to go this route and turn right at the first exit.” He drew a line on the map with a Hi-Liter. “Tano Norte turns off Tano Road right here, and the house is another mile and a quarter down the road. You’ll be able to see the house from a hill right here, but when you get to the place you’ll just see a wall. My man is still out there, and I’m going to pull him off the surveillance this morning, unless you want to fork out three hundred bucks a day for his time.”

“Pull him off, and I’ll reimburse you for his time so far,” Holly said. “My department has discretionary funds for this sort of thing.”

“I’m just guessing, but I don’t think Byron Miller is going to host a felon for very long. Either he wants something from the guy, or the place he’s headed for isn’t quite ready yet, but I think they’re going to move him soon.”

“What sort of guy is Miller?” Stone asked.

“A hard-ass. None of the lawyers I know like him, and he enjoys his reputation for being tough. If you cross him, he’ll screw you first and ask questions later.” Ed handed them a card and some car keys. “Here’s my office number and the cell, too, and you can use the Jeep outside for as long as the wife is out of town, and she’s not due back until next week. There are some binoculars in the center console. Have you got a cell phone?”

Stone wrote down both their cell numbers.

“Okay, have a good time,” Ed said, and he was gone.

Stone and Holly followed Ed’s directions, and Stone stopped the Jeep Grand Cherokee at the top of a hill. “That’s the house out there,” he said, pointing to an adobe-colored lump on the land nearly a mile away. “Let’s get a closer look.” He drove slowly down the road, enjoying the view to the north, until they came to a long wall.

“The place looks like a monastery,” Holly said, pointing at the bell over the gate.

“We’d better turn around,” Stone said, pointing at a sign that told them the road was a dead end. “We can’t just camp out in front of the place.” He drove back to the hilltop where they could see the house. “Anybody who leaves is going to have to come this way. There’s no other road.” He turned off on a dirt track that ended in a clearing, then pointed the car toward the house. “Good view,” he said, rolling down the windows and taking the binoculars out of the center console.

“So we’re just going to sit here?” Holly asked.

“We can’t bust in there and take Trini,” Stone said. “You know whose house it is.” He trained the binoculars on the house. “Nobody’s moving.”

They sat for three hours, listening to a local radio station and watching the house. The day grew warm.

“This is really boring,” Holly said.

“Sounds like you’ve never done a lot of stakeout work,” Stone replied.

“No, I haven’t, and now I know why. I like to keep on the move.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you drive back to Tesuque and get us some sandwiches? I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the house.”

“What happens if Trini moves?”

“I’ll call you on your cell phone. You can head them off.”

“And leave you sitting here?”

“I’ll call Ed or a cab, if you have to follow somebody,” Stone said, getting out of the car.

Holly got into the driver’s seat. “What do you want?”

“A sandwich and a diet soda will do.”

“See you soon.” She started the car and turned back toward Tano Norte.

Stone settled himself under a piñon tree and took in the landscape. To the west a series of mountains rose, and from the map he figured out that was where Los Alamos was. The Rio Grande was supposed to be somewhere over there, but he couldn’t see it. He picked out various spots on the landscape with the binoculars, occasionally checking the house.

He began to get drowsy and stood up to get his circulation going. What the hell was he doing out here in the high desert, watching a house, hoping Trini would move? He should be in New York, getting some work done, making some money, instead of letting this girl drag him all over the country.

Holly returned with their sandwiches, and they had just begun to eat when there was movement at the house.

“Some people down there,” she said, grabbing the binoculars.

Four or five people had materialized from somewhere and were standing around a car, talking.

“Is one of them Trini?” Stone asked.

“I think so. It’s hard to tell.”

The people continued to talk, then they got into two cars and left the house, driving up the road toward them.

“They’re moving,” Holly said.

Stone started the car and drove the few yards back to Tano Norte. “Let’s get a look in those cars.” He turned into the road, then pulled over to one side and got out the map. “I’m going to pretend to be looking at this. You watch the car as it passes and see if he’s inside.”

“Okay.”

Stone played the studious tourist, and a minute later the two cars overtook and passed him.

“Second car,” Holly said. “Trini’s in the backseat. Let’s go!”

“Wait a minute. Let’s not follow too closely.” He gave the car a good head start, then got moving. As they reached the paved part of the road he pointed into the distance. “There it is.”

“Don’t lose it,” Holly said.

Stone increased his speed to keep the car in sight. He followed it back onto the main highway, and they headed into the town. He followed the car until it turned into the parking lot of a large building only a short distance into town. He pointed at a sign. “It’s the federal courthouse,” he said. “They must be taking him to the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“Or Trini is testifying in a case.” Holly opened the door.

“Where are you going?” Stone asked.

“I’m going to follow them,” she said. “You park the car.”

“How will I know where you’re going?”

“If Trini is testifying, they’ll be going to a courtroom, won’t they?”

“I can’t argue with that.” Stone found a parking place and followed her into the courthouse.

40

STONE STOPPED AT the desk before the metal detector and showed his Orchid Beach badge. “I’m armed,” he said.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” the guard said, “only federal officers can carry inside the courthouse. You’ll have to check your weapon.” Stone gave the man his Walther and got a receipt, then he walked through the metal detector and into a hallway.

His cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. Elaine’s tonight?”

“Sorry, it’s too long a drive.”

“What?”

“I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

“What the fuck are you doing way the hell out there?”

“I’m with Holly. It’s the Trini thing; we followed him out here.”

“You’ve gone out of your fucking mind,” Dino said pleasantly. “I mean, I can see fooling around with this thing to get the girl in the sack, but . . .”

“Dino, this has nothing to do with sex.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, not much. I share her outrage that the Feds would let this guy take a walk, that’s all, and it worries me that she’s doing this alone.”

“Well, you’re going to worry yourself right into a federal prison, if you’re not careful. Lance told me about your attempt to bust this guy. You’ve been warned off. Why are you still in this?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m getting near the end of my rope. I’m ready to come back to New York.”

“Call me when you get in. We’ll have dinner, and I’ll straighten you out.” Dino hung up.

Stone put the phone away and looked up and down the hallway. No sign of Holly. He found a courtroom and peeked inside. It was half full of people, but there was no judge on the bench, yet. Holly was sitting in the back row of seats. He went in and joined her.

“What’s happening?”

“Trini and two FBI agents are sitting in the first row, behind the prosecutor’s table,” she said, nodding. “The guy at the table must be Byron Miller.”

Stone looked at the two men sitting at the table, their backs to him. “If the U.S. Attorney himself is trying a case, then it has to be an important one.”

A bailiff stood up and shouted the name of a judge, and the crowd stood until he was seated.

“Mr. Miller, call your next witness,” the judge said.

Miller stood up and called Trini, then waited while he was sworn and sat down. “Mr. Rodriguez,” he said, “were you, until recently, a member of organized crime?”

“Yes,” Trini replied. “Until late last year I worked for a family in Florida.”

“By ‘family’ do you mean a Mafia family?”

“Yes.”

“What were your duties?”

“I arranged loans for applicants and took care of collections.”

“Loans from the Mafia family?”

“Yes.”

“Were these loans made to people who could not obtain them from conventional banks?”

“Yes.”

“Were these loans made at very high interest rates?”

“Yes.”

“Was this, in fact, an illegal loan sharking company?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Did you attend a meeting of organized crime figures on June tenth of last year in Miami, Florida?”

“Yes, I did,” Trini said.

“What was the purpose of the meeting?”

“Some people from New Mexico wanted to get financing for a new racetrack.”

“Was anyone in this courtroom besides yourself present at this meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Could you point out these people?”

Trini pointed at the defense table. “Those two gentlemen right there.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Rodriguez is pointing to the two defendants, Roberto and Chico Rivera.” Miller turned back to Trini. “Did the organization you worked for make a loan to the Rivera brothers?”

“Yes, we did.”

“In what amount?”

“Two million dollars.”

“And what were the funds intended for?”

“To bribe public officials in New Mexico to pave the way for their getting a license to build the racetrack.”

“Did you ever learn if they were successful in bribing public officials in New Mexico?”

“Yes. We learned that they had been successful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez.” He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”

The defense attorney stood up and began to bombard Trini with questions.

Holly leaned over to Stone and whispered, “How long do you think this is going to go on?”

“My guess would be not long. Let’s go outside.”

They got up and went out into the hallway.

“We could take him when he leaves the courthouse,” Holly said.

“Not on federal property,” Stone replied. “Your warrant has no force here, unless you get a federal judge to sign off on it.”

“Then I’ll go to the judge in this case where he’s just testified,” Holly said.

Stone shrugged. “You can try.”

They went back into the courtroom.

“Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez,” the judge said. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess before continuing with the next witness.” He stood up and left the courtroom.

“Let’s go,” Holly said. She approached the bailiff and flashed her badge. “I’d like to see the judge, please.”

“On what business?”

Holly produced her paperwork. “I have a fugitive warrant for a witness in this case.”

“Just a minute.” The bailiff took the warrant and disappeared through a door. Five minutes passed, then the bailiff came back, approached the prosecutor’s table, and spoke with Byron Miller, who rose and followed him toward the judge’s chambers. The bailiff beckoned Holly and Stone to follow.

The judge was sitting at his desk eating a sandwich, his robe thrown over a chair. “You’re Chief Barker?” he said to Holly.

“Yes, Your Honor, and this is my associate, Stone Barrington.”

“This is the United States Attorney, Mr. Byron Miller,” the judge said, nodding toward Miller. “Everybody sit down.”

They sat.

“Mr. Miller, this police officer has presented me with what seems to be a properly executed fugitive warrant for your witness, Mr. Rodriguez, on charges of murder.”

“That’s twelve murders, Judge,” Holly said.

“Are you all done with Mr. Rodriguez?” the judge asked Miller.

“Yes, Judge,” Miller said, “but Mr. Rodriguez has been certified by the attorney general for the Witness Protection Program. He has recently played an important role in breaking up a terrorist ring in New York, and the FBI have informed me that he will be testifying in other trials to come. It’s important that he remain in federal custody until the government is done with him.”

Stone spoke up. “Your Honor, the fact that Mr. Rodriguez has been placed in the Witness Protection Program indicates that, even when the government is done with him, they have no intention of returning him to the Florida jurisdiction for trial on these murder charges. They’re going to let him walk.”

“Is that the case, Mr. Miller?” the judge asked.

“I can’t speak for the attorney general in this matter, Judge.”

“Well, you’ve been speaking for him up until now. Why are you getting so shy all of a sudden?”

“Your Honor, I can only tell you that this witness is crucial to more than one case against defendants who are far worse than he is, and that he needs to be kept in federal custody until he has finished testifying.”

“And how long do you anticipate that will be?”

“I can’t say, Your Honor, since the cases are spread over more than just this jurisdiction.”

The judge flipped through the warrant again. “Well,” he said, “I don’t like the sound of this at all. These are heinous crimes, and the government ought not to be able to ignore them and give this witness protection from being brought to justice. I’m going to authorize Chief Barker to serve her warrant, take Mr. Rodriguez into custody, and return him to her jurisdiction for trial. If the government wants him to testify in further trials, they can apply to the judge in the state case for temporary custody.”

“Thank you, Judge,” Holly said, beaming at him.

“Of course, your order will apply only to this jurisdiction, Your Honor,” Miller said smoothly.

“Yes,” the judge replied. He stamped Holly’s warrant and signed it. “All right, let’s get my court back into session and continue with our trial.”

Everybody stood up and left the chamber.

Holly walked over to the prosecution table, where Byron Miller was talking on his cell phone. “Mr. Miller, where is Rodriguez now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Miller said.

“He’s staying at your house. Can I find him there?”

“I’m on the phone here,” Miller replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The bailiff called the case again, and the court stood for the entrance of the judge.

“Let’s get out of here, Holly,” Stone said.

“What have they done with him?” Holly asked when they were in the hallway.

“I don’t know, but we’d better find him before he leaves the jurisdiction,” Stone replied.

41

STONE AND HOLLY went out to the parking lot and looked for the car that had brought Trini to the courthouse. It was nowhere to be seen.

“Let’s go to Miller’s house,” Holly said. “Now that we have a valid warrant, we can get in.”

“Right,” Stone said. He retraced his route to Tano Road and turned down Tano Norte. “I can’t believe we’ve finally got a legal handle on this guy. You said you brought cuffs?”

“Two pair,” Holly said. “I’ll truss him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

They arrived at Miller’s house and found the gates still closed. Stone reached out the window and pressed the button on the intercom.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice responded.

“This is the police. Please open the gates.”

There was a buzzing noise, and the gates swung slowly open. Stone parked the car, and they walked to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later a Hispanic woman came to the door.

“Yes?”

“I have a warrant for the arrest of Trini Rodriguez,” Holly said.

“There’s nobody here,” the woman replied.

“How about the guest house?”

“No, I just cleaned it. The three men staying there went to the airport.”

“How long ago?” Holly asked.

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”

“How do I get to the airport?”

“You go back to Tano Road, then turn right at the intersection, then right again on the four-lane highway. That takes you straight there.”

They ran for the car and sped back toward Tano Road, then found the divided highway. Stone was shortly doing a hundred miles an hour.

Holly sat grimly in the passenger seat, clutching her warrant. “I wish we had a siren,” she said.

“I don’t think this thing would go any faster if we had a siren.”

They followed the signs to the airport, left the car, and ran into the Santa Fe Jet Center, straight through the building and out onto the ramp. The jet they had followed from Teterboro was taxiing away, and Holly started to run after it.

“No, no!” Stone yelled after her, and she stopped. “He’s going to be doing twenty or thirty miles an hour on the ground.” He pointed at the tower. “That’s where we need to go.”

They ran the short distance to the main terminal building and up the stairway to the control tower. At the top they found a locked door and an intercom. Stone rang the bell.

“Yes?”

“This is the police. We have to stop an airplane from taking off.”

The door buzzed open, and the single occupant of the tower stood up. “Let’s see some ID,” he said.

Stone and Holly flashed their badges. “It’s the jet that’s taxiing now,” Stone said. He ran to the window and pointed. The jet was just taxiing onto the runway.

“I just got their IFR release and cleared them for takeoff.”

Stone grabbed a microphone and called the airplane.

“Yes, tower?”

“This is the police. We have a warrant for one of your passengers, Rodriguez. Enter a left downwind for two zero and return to the airport.”

“Stand by, Santa Fe.” There was half a minute’s silence, then the pilot came back. “Sorry, Santa Fe, the FBI has given me orders to continue my flight. Good day.”

“Shit!” Stone said.

“What can we do?” Holly asked.

The tower controller spoke up. “I can call Albuquerque Center on a land line. That’s their handoff controller.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Stone said. “They’d get the same answer we did.”

“So we’re screwed?” Holly asked.

“That’s about it,” Stone replied. “Thanks for your help,” Stone said to the controller.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Can you check their flight plan for their destination?”

The controller picked up a tape and consulted it. “Teterboro, New Jersey. Time en route is three hours and fifty minutes.”

“Thanks very much.”

They left the tower and walked back to the car. “So we go back to Teterboro?”

“Yes, but they’re going to be hours ahead of us. Our flight time back is going to be about seven hours, including a fuel stop.”

“So we’ve lost him again.”

“Maybe not completely.” Stone got out his cell phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Dino, it’s Stone.”

“You still in Santa Fe?”

“Yes, but we’ll be heading back today. I wanted to ask a favor.”

“So what else is new?”

“A jet just left Santa Fe with Trini Rodriguez aboard.” He gave Dino the tail number.

“You want me to shoot it down?”

“Not quite. It’s going to be landing in Teterboro in about three and a half hours, stopping at Millionaire. Can you get somebody to meet the jet and follow the occupants to wherever they’re going?”

“I certainly can’t send a cop to New Jersey to do that, but I guess I can do it myself.”

“I’m going to owe you for this one.”

“You sure are. The next four dinners at Elaine’s are yours.”

“Done. You can reach me on my cell phone.” He hung up and started the car. “Dino’s going to meet the flight and see where they take Trini.”

“That’s great news.”

“Let’s go back to Ed’s house and get our clothes, then we’ll follow.”

They drove back to Ed Eagle’s, went into the house, and started packing.

Holly lay down on the bed. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “Can we take a nap first?”

Stone lay down beside her. “So am I.”

They were still sound asleep when Ed Eagle walked in and woke them up. “How’d it go?”

“We both fell asleep,” Stone said.

“You’ve got altitude sickness,” Ed said. “Everybody feels lousy for the first twenty-four hours in Santa Fe. The city is at seven thousand feet of elevation, and my house is at a little over eight thousand. Come have some dinner.”

“We’ve got to get back,” Stone said, trying to clear his head.

“I’m not letting you fly out of here in your condition,” Ed said. “You wouldn’t get there until dawn, anyway.”

Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“They’re on the ground,” Dino said. “I’m on it.”

42

THEY DEPARTED SANTA Fe Airport early the following morning, feeling better but still tired, having thanked Ed Eagle profusely for his help. They followed the same route back, but stopped at Terre Haute, Indiana, to refuel, and it was starting to get dark when they set down at Teterboro. A car service took them back to the city, and they met Dino at Elaine’s for dinner.

“So where did you follow them to?” Stone asked, when they had ordered a drink.

“To an apartment a couple of blocks from here, on Eighty-eighth Street.”

Holly groaned. “Not again. We’ve traveled, what, a couple of thousand miles, and we’re back where we started?”

“So, why don’t you go over there and get him?” Dino asked.

“We tried that before, and we were met by three or four FBI agents with drawn guns.”

“Oh, yeah, Lance mentioned that.”

“Stone,” Holly said, “why can’t we do in New York what we did in Santa Fe?”

“You mean go to a federal judge?”

“Yes. It worked once, didn’t it?”

“To tell you the truth, I was astonished that it worked.”

Dino spoke up. “You mean you got a federal judge to sign off on your warrant?”

“That’s right,” Stone said.

“I’m astonished, too.”

“I think what we would have to do is to force the FBI to show cause why they shouldn’t release him to you. Then there’d be a hearing, where the U.S. Attorney in New York or his staff would argue the motion, and they’d probably win. I think it would be a waste of your time and mine, and speaking of my time, I’ve got to go back to working for a living, instead of chasing Trini Rodriguez all over the country.”

“So you want me to go back to Orchid Beach with my tail between my legs?” Holly asked.

“I wasn’t suggesting a position for your tail, but I think you might have better luck with a federal judge in your own jurisdiction.”

“I think I like Lance’s suggestion better.”

“What, kill Trini?”

“I didn’t hear that,” Dino said.

“I’d love to, really I would,” Holly said brightly.

“Maybe Lance’s other suggestion would be more effective, without getting you put in jail.”

“The New York Times?”

“Right.”

“You said that could make trouble for me and my department.”

“And you said you were tired of it anyway. Want to go out in a burst of glory?”

“Or down in flames?”

“Same thing.”

Dino spoke up again. “Could I just remind you both that the last time you annoyed Trini there were very serious attempts on both your lives? Talk about going down in flames!”

“There is that,” Stone said. “They might get luckier next time.”

“The Times idea is looking pretty good right now.”

“Think about it,” Stone said. “Suppose you convince the Times, and they run a big story. Then you’ll have a media horde camped on your doorstep—rather, my doorstep—clamoring for interviews. America’s Most Wanted will be after you, as will every supermarket tabloid in the country. You think that will help?”

“I don’t know,” Holly said. “I’m so tired. I feel like I’m still in Santa Fe, with altitude sickness.”

“So am I,” Stone admitted. “Why don’t we think about this tomorrow?”

“Just like Scarlett O’Hara,” Holly said, downing her drink. “Let’s get out of here.”

Stone and Holly were sound asleep in his bed when there was a loud noise in the bedroom. Stone sat up. “What was that?”

A very bright light blinded him. “That was the sound of your body hitting the floor,” a man’s voice said.

“What’s going on?” Holly asked, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her breast.

“Now your little quest is at an end,” the voice said.

“It’s Trini,” Holly said to Stone.

“Swell.”

There was the sound of a semiautomatic pistol having its action worked.

“Could I just point out something?” Stone asked.

“Be quick. I want to kill you, then go to bed.”

“You haven’t committed a crime since you’ve been in the Witness Protection Program—at least not one they can hang on you.”

“They can’t hang this one on me, either,” the voice said.

“Oh, yes they can. The New York City Police Department knows about you, knows where you live. You kill us, and your federal protection will evaporate like the morning mist. You’ll be a fugitive from the Feds as well as the Florida authorities. Your picture will be all over television, all over those most-wanted shows, and there’ll be a big reward out for you. You’ll never have another day’s peace for the rest of your life.”

There was a long silence, then the voice spoke again. “This is your last warning. Next time, you both die, and you know I can do it.” Suddenly, the light went out, and footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

“Now’s my chance,” Holly said. “If I can kill him before he leaves the house, it’ll be a good shooting.”

Stone grabbed her wrist. “Hang on. You don’t know if he has somebody with him. They could be guarding the stairs until he’s out of the house, and you’re not going to have any night vision for a few minutes after having that light in your eyes. Let it go.”

Holly sat down on the bed. “You’re a pretty good lawyer,” she said. “You talked him out of killing us.”

“Next time, he’ll have an alibi, and he’ll kill us.”

“Next time, set the burglar alarm, will you?”

“Yeah, I did forget that.”

“You’re forgiven, since I’m still alive, but if you forget again, I’ll never forgive you.”

Stone got up and went to his safe.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting the Walther out of the safe. He could change his mind.”

“You think you could set the alarm now?”

And he did.

43

STONE WAS SCRAMBLING eggs when Holly came downstairs, wrapping a robe around her naked body.

“Good morning,” he said.

“No, it isn’t. That son of a bitch would have killed us last night if you hadn’t talked him out of it.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do the alarm every night.”

Holly picked up a phone and dialed a number.

“Who are you calling?”

“A certain cell phone.” She waited, tapping her foot. “Grant? Listen to me: Your star witness got out of his cage last night, came into my bedroom with a gun, and threatened to kill me. I’m filing a formal complaint with the NYPD about this. . . . What?” She put her hand over the phone and turned to Stone. “Turn on the TV.”

Stone switched it on. “What are we looking for?”

“Try CNN.”

He switched to CNN. A reporter was standing in front of Trini’s apartment building on East Eighty-eighth Street. “So one FBI agent is dead and another wounded, apparently by a man being held as a material witness. We don’t have a photograph yet, but his name is Trini Rodriguez, also known as Robert Marshall. He is in his mid-thirties, six feet two inches tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, and of Latin and Italian extraction. We expect to have a photograph of him later this morning.”

“So,” Holly said into the phone, “you got one of your people killed and another hurt? . . . Of course you did it! You’re responsible!” She held the phone away from her. “He hung up.”

“So, Trini is on the streets?” Stone asked.

“Since early this morning,” Holly said. “Grant couldn’t tell me anything more than CNN did.”

“You and I go armed everywhere,” Stone said.

“Too right. Where do we start looking for him?”

“Let me call Dino.” Stone dialed Dino’s cell phone number. “I hear our boy is off his leash,” he said.

“And in a big way,” Dino replied. “We’re taking a backseat to the Feds on this, since killing an FBI agent is a federal crime.”

“So you’re not actively looking for him?”

“Oh, sure. We’ve sent a photograph to all precincts and issued an APB.”

“You have any clues to his whereabouts?”

“If I did, he’d be in a cell right now.”

“Will you keep me posted?”

“Sure, that’s my only job, isn’t it?”

“Thanks, Dino.” He hung up. “The NYPD is on it, but the Feds are taking the lead. He’ll turn up.”

“You don’t understand,” Holly said. “I want to turn him up. I want to find him before they do.”

“And how do you expect to do that?”

“Call your Mafia friend again. Ask him what he knows.”

“I’ll call him, but he won’t know anything. He can put the word out, and if anybody is sheltering him, he might call me.”

“Then we’ll know something the NYPD and the Feds won’t.”

“If we’re lucky.”

“It’s about time we got lucky.”

Stone couldn’t disagree with that.

“Let’s go to Little Italy,” she said.

“After breakfast and a shower.”

Hungry and unshowered, Stone drove slowly up and down the narrow streets of Little Italy. He stopped the car in front of a deli. “Go in and get us a roll and coffee.”

“Keep driving,” she replied.

“This car isn’t moving until I’ve had breakfast.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, getting out and slamming the door. She came back shortly with a paper bag and two cups of coffee.

Stone dug in. “This is when it happens,” he said, looking around the street.

“When what happens?”

“When we see him. When I’m right in the middle of eating. Remember last time? I never got lunch.”

“Oh, stop your bitching,” she said, sipping her coffee. “We’ve got a real chance of catching this guy now.”

“I don’t think you want to catch him.”

“What?”

“You just want to go on hunting him. You enjoy it.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve already admitted that you’re bored stiff in your job. You just want to get out of that little town in Florida and see some of the world, and Trini Rodriguez is your ticket.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but less heatedly.

“If we catch the guy it’s going to be a real downer for you, assuming you survive the experience, which, if the events of last night are any indication, you may not.”

“Oh, I’m going to survive. Don’t you worry about that. Trini’s chances are not so hot, though.”

“Let me tell you what to hope for.”

“What?”

“Hope the NYPD catches the bastard, because they just might honor your warrant as a way of pissing off the FBI, which they love to do. Also, hope Trini doesn’t kill a cop in the process, because if that happens, they’ll never release him to you or the Feds.”

“I hope I see him on the street, so I can get just one clear shot at him.”

“Holly, this is not the O.K. Corral, and you are not Wyatt Earp. This is New York City; millions of people live here, and most of them are on the street every day.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Stone sighed. “I hope to God you do.”

“Did you call your friend Eduardo?”

“And when would I have had a chance to do that?” Stone put his empty cup into the paper bag and handed it to Holly. “All right, I’ll do it now.” He got out his cell phone and dialed the number. Pete answered and connected him.

“Good morning, Stone,” Eduardo said. “Have you had any luck finding this Trini fellow?”

“No, Eduardo, and this morning he killed an FBI agent who was guarding him and wounded another.”

“This man must be stopped,” Eduardo said.

“He’s on the run now, and I’d be grateful for any help you could give me in locating him.”

“I’ll make some calls,” Eduardo said. “Are you at home?”

“No, I’m on my cell phone.” Stone gave him the number, and Eduardo hung up.

“Happy?” he said to Holly.

“Deliriously,” she said grumpily.

A man in a raincoat walked up to Stone’s side of the car. “Excuse me,” he said.

Stone turned and looked up at him, only to find himself looking into both barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.

“I’ve got one over here, too,” Holly said.

“What can I do for you?” Stone asked, placing his hands on the steering wheel.

“You can do what you’re told,” the man said.

“Shoot,” Stone replied. “No, scrub that—I mean, your wish is my pleasure.”

“You got a good attitude,” the man said. “Get out of the car.”

44

THEY WERE MARCHED across the street and down the block by the two men wearing raincoats and carrying shotguns. As they moved down the street a pair of steel doors opened ahead of them and a freight elevator appeared.

“Hop on,” one of the men said.

They got on, the platform descended into the darkness below the sidewalk, and the doors closed above their heads. Before their eyes could become accustomed to the gloom, hands searched them and removed their weapons. Then they were shoved along a basement filled with crates of canned food and bottles of olive oil to a storeroom at the rear, where they were shoved rudely inside. The door was closed and bolted.

“All right, what now?” Holly said.

Stone couldn’t see her, or his own hand in front of his face. “You think I have a solution for this problem?”

“You’re resourceful. Think of something.”

“It’s your turn.”

She sighed loudly. “You want to just wait around here until Trini arrives and shoots us?”

“You think that’s the plan?”

“Well, I don’t think those two guys were with the FBI or the NYPD, do you?”

“Come to think of it, I don’t believe either of those groups ordinarily arms its people with sawed-off shotguns.”

“Well, that’s an astute observation.”

“It’s the best I can do in the dark.”

A light came on. It was a tiny flashlight, and Holly was holding it.

“You always carry a flashlight?”

“It’s on my key ring,” she said, aiming it around the room. All four walls were brick, and the floor concrete, with a large drain in the middle. Along the ceiling was a row of meat hooks.

“Uh-oh,” Stone said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing’; what?”

“Turn off the light and save the batteries for when we need them.”

“Need them for what?”

“For seeing.”

“We need them now for seeing.”

“There’s nothing to see.”

“There’s those hooks. I don’t like the look of them.”

“Me, either. That’s why I said, ‘uh-oh.’ ”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

“I’d appreciate your thoughts on just how to do that.”

There was a long silence.

“Well?”

“I’m thinking about it,” she said.

Stone put his hand against the door and pushed. “Solid oak,” he said. “Firmly bolted.”

“Maybe if we both put our shoulders against it?”

“We’d bruise our shoulders quite badly.”

“What would you suggest?”

“We can wait for somebody to unbolt it, then put our shoulders against it. We might surprise them.”

“Fuggedaboutit!” said a voice from outside the door.

Holly reached out and grabbed for Stone, then put her lips close to his ear. “I think they can hear us.”

“I think so, too,” Stone whispered back.

“Maybe we’d better shut up.”

“Good idea.”

“Don’t stop thinking, though.”

“I’m still thinking.”

A long silence.

“You come up with anything yet?” she whispered.

“Not yet.”

Another loud sigh. She switched on the light and turned it on some crates against the wall. “We can sit down,” she said.

They sat down.

“There’s even room to lie down,” she said.

“Are you sleepy?”

“No, I’m horny.”

“At a time like this?” he whispered.

“Well, it looks like we’re not going to live very long. It might be our last chance.”

“I don’t think I could rise to the occasion,” he whispered.

She put her hand on his thigh and felt for his zipper. “I’ll bet you can.”

“Holly.”

“What?”

“Not now.”

“If not now, when?” She got the zipper undone and began to feel around.

“You have a point,” he said, reaching for her.

45

SOMETHING WOKE STONE, and when he opened his eyes he was dazzled by the light from a single bulb in the ceiling. He shook Holly.

“Again?” she asked.

“Not right now. Look.” He pointed toward the door. A bottle of wine with the cork half removed and a paper bag were on the floor near the door.

Stone got up and retrieved them. Inside the bag were two paper cups, a large slice of Parmesan cheese, and a loaf of Italian bread. They fell upon the food.

“What time is it?” Holly asked, her mouth half full.

Stone consulted his watch. “A little after eight. Man, this is good cheese.”

“Bread, too,” she said. “Night or morning?”

“I don’t know. Night, would be my guess. More wine?”

“Please.”

He poured it for her, then gulped. “I just had a thought,” he said.

“Share it.”

“Last meal?”

“Stop sharing.”

They heard a noise coming from outside the door, steel clanking against concrete. It went on for some time, then it changed to the sound of a pick and shovel in dirt.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Stone said.

“Maybe it’s construction work.”

“Somehow, I don’t think so.”

“I told you to stop sharing.”

Stone walked over to the door and listened. The sounds were clearer and even less encouraging. He could hear two men grunting at their labor. “Why would they feed us, then kill us?” he asked.

The answer came back from the other side of the door. “Because I’m a romantic.”

“You’ve been listening to us, ah . . .”

“Screwing? Yeah. How could I help it?”

“Well, thanks for the food and wine.”

“Don’t mention it. Nice Chianti, huh?”

“Very nice,” Stone replied. He went and sat by Holly.

“I think that answers your question,” he whispered.

“More wine,” she said.

Stone poured for both of them.

“You’re taking this a lot better than I am,” Holly said.

“No, I’m not. I’m just . . .” Stone stopped and listened. “The digging stopped,” he said.

“Oh, shit. More wine.”

Before he could pour, the door opened and a man stepped inside holding a shotgun.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said.

Stone recognized the voice from the other side of the door. “I wonder if we could talk about this for just a minute?”

“Nope. You’re all out of time.” He waved the shotgun toward the door.

Stone and Holly got up from their crates and walked out of the room. The lights were on in the cellar. They were led between rows of stacked goods to the other end, where two sweating men with shovels stood by a large hole. Two bags of lime sat next to the hole.

The smells in the cellar were of cheese, fresh fruit, and fresh earth. These were the last scents they would ever smell. “I wonder if I could get you to make just one phone call before you do this?” Stone asked.

“Nope.” He shoved them so that they were standing at one end of the hole, then he and another man with a shotgun took up positions a few feet away.

“You’ve got my cell phone. The call is to Eduardo Bianchi,” he said.

The men stared at him dumbly.

“All you have to do is push send twice, and you’ll be connected. He was the last person I called, and the number is already in there.”

Nobody moved.

“I really do think it would be in your best interests to speak to Mr. Bianchi before you do this.”

The man finally spoke. “You know Eduardo Bianchi?”

“I know him very well,” Stone said. “I was nearly his son-in-law.”

“Dino Bacchetti is his son-in-law.”

“Dolce and I were engaged, before she . . . got sick.”

The man stared at him for a long time. “You understand it would be very embarrassing for me if I called Mr. Bianchi and he didn’t know you or want to hear from you?”

“I assure you, you won’t be embarrassed.”

“If I’m embarrassed, then I’m going to hurt you before I kill you. The lady, too. You understand?”

“I understand perfectly.”

The man held out a hand to one of his colleagues. “Gimme his phone.”

The man handed him Stone’s phone.

“Just press send twice,” Stone said.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” The man pressed the button twice and waited. “Nobody’s answering,” he said.

“He was there earlier, just before you, ah, invited us in here.”

“Hello?” the man said, then he started speaking Italian.

Stone caught the words “Don Eduardo.”

He stopped speaking, then started again, apparently speaking to Eduardo, then he stopped. “What’s your name?” he said to Stone.

“You were going to kill me, and you don’t even know who I am?”

“I know who the lady is; that’s enough.”

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

The man repeated this into the telephone. “Sì. Sì. Sì. Grazie, Don Eduardo.” He closed the phone and handed it to Stone. “Don Eduardo knows you,” he said.

Stone breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“He says to kill you anyway.”

Stone stopped breathing.

“Just kidding,” the man said, then burst out laughing. All the men laughed with him.

“I may die anyway,” Holly said to Stone.

“I know how you feel.”

When the man had gotten control of himself he held out a hand to Stone. “My name is Vito.”

Stone shook the hand.

“Don Eduardo says to take you back to your car.”

“Good.”

“But I gotta kill the lady.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Stone said.

“Yeah,” Holly echoed, “hang on!”

Vito burst out laughing again, and the others followed suit. “Come on,” he said finally, waving them toward the elevator. “I’m just kidding again.” His shoulders were shaking, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“So, we dug this hole for nothing?” one of the men with a shovel said to Vito.

“Don’t worry about it, it’ll get used,” Vito replied.

He rode up in the elevator with Stone and Holly and handed them their guns. “You can find your car from here?” Vito asked.

“Yes, we can,” Stone replied. “One more thing. We want Trini Rodriguez.”

Vito rolled his eyes. “Everybody wants Trini,” he said.

“Don Eduardo would like us to find him.”

Vito looked at him doubtfully.

“No kidding.”

“Trini is with the fuckin’ towelheads somewhere,” he said.

“Towelheads?”

“Yeah, the Ayrabs.”

“And where are the Ayrabs?”

“Around somewhere.”

“I thought all the Ayrabs got arrested when Trini pulled off his little deal with the FBI.”

“The FBI, what do they know?” Vito said, laughing.

“Will you be speaking to Trini?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, I guess. He’ll want to know how you died.” Vito began laughing again.

“Do me a favor, Vito. Tell him something he’ll like to hear.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll make him happy.”

Stone handed him a card. “Then find out where he is and call me.”

Vito took the card. “You gonna cap Trini?”

“No, the lady is going to arrest him and take him back to Florida to be tried for killing a dozen people at a funeral.”

“Trini did that?” Vito looked amazed.

“He did.”

Vito said something to himself in Italian. “It’ll be a pleasure to rat him out,” he said. “Buona sera.”

Stone and Holly walked down the dark street toward where they had left the car.

“As long as we’re down here, you want to get some dinner?” Stone asked.

“Thanks,” Holly said, “I already ate. I just want to get into bed, assume the fetal position, and suck my thumb for a couple of days.”

46

WHEN THEY GOT home, Holly did exactly what she had said she was going to do, except she didn’t suck her thumb.

Stone was tired, but oddly alert. He called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone, but it almost wasn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Some of Trini’s buddies from the Italian side of the equation stuck a shotgun in my ear in Little Italy and walked Holly and me to a nearby cellar, where they proceeded to dig a grave for the two of us.”

“Are you speaking to me from the grave? Because if you are, I want to record this conversation.”

“Fortunately, no. I was able to persuade the leader of this merry band of men, a guy named Vito, to call Eduardo before he unloaded his shotgun in our direction.”

“And Eduardo called them off?”

“Yes. Fortunately, he was at home.”

“You want me to arrest somebody?”

“No, after all, they only scared us half to death, and anyway, Vito might be able to help us locate Trini.”

“I thought you were ready to give up on Trini.”

“Oddly enough, my near-death experience has renewed my interest in finding the son of a bitch. In fact, I think I want to be a witness at his execution, if I don’t actually do it myself.”

“Funny, when the two guys on the motorcycle had a go at you, all you felt was bad about killing them.”

“Looking down the barrels of two shotguns concentrates the mind wonderfully.”

“I expect it does.”

“What’s the latest on Trini? Why did he shoot the two FBI guys?”

“Well, from what I hear on the grapevine, the two agents tried to get him out of bed too early in the morning, and it irritated him, so he shot them both.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. He just went nuts, according to the agent who’s still alive.”

“Well, since he was standing at the foot of my bed in the middle of the night, threatening to kill me, I guess he missed some sleep. Some people are just grumpy if they don’t get their eight hours.”

“So, what’s your next move?”

“Vito says he’ll be talking to Trini, who will want the details on how we begged for our lives.”

“Did you beg for your lives?”

“No. I concentrated on getting Vito to call Eduardo before he spread us around the cellar. But Vito is going to give Trini details that will please him and then call me and tell me where Trini is, if he can find out. He says Trini is with his Arab friends—or towelheads, as he prefers to call them.”

“I thought the FBI arrested all the towelheads.”

“So did I, but apparently there’s an abundant supply of them.”

“I think I’d like to talk to the towelheads,” Dino said.

“Tell you what: We work together on this, you take the towelheads, and we’ll take Trini.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Take him back to Florida and get him tried.”

“That’s a sweet idea. I hope it works for you.”

“You going to help?”

“Okay, you get me a location on Trini and his buddies and I’ll supply a SWAT team. I’ll get a judge to honor Holly’s warrant, and you three can hotfoot it to the airport. I’ll take the towelheads home with me.”

“You’ve got a deal, but no FBI.”

“Why would I want those guys around to take the credit?”

“Why, indeed?”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“You’re on.”

“And you’re still buying, remember?”

“I remember.”

Dino hung up, and Stone called Eduardo.

“Stone, are you all right?”

“Thanks to your help, I am, Eduardo.”

“I want to apologize for these people of ours.”

“No apology necessary. You can’t be expected to know everything.”

“I’m glad they called me.”

“So am I.”

“Have you had any luck in finding this Rodriguez fellow?”

“I’m working on it. One of the men who, ah, detained us says he may be speaking to him, and he’ll try to find out where he is. There are some Arab gentlemen involved, apparently.”

“I have heard of these people, and I would be pleased to see them caught and put into prison.”

“If we can get a location on them, that could very well happen. I’d be grateful to hear of any information that might come your way.”

“Of course. I’ll call you.”

“Thank you again for saving our lives, Eduardo.”

“Please, I was happy to.”

They both hung up, and now Stone was tired. He went upstairs, got undressed, and got into bed with Holly, who was sleeping as if drugged. Soon, he was, too.

Stone got up at mid-morning the following day and found Holly still sleeping. He reached out to give Daisy a pat, then remembered she was in Florida with Ham. Then he sat up in bed, wide awake.

He got into a robe, went downstairs, and called Ham.

“Hello?”

“Ham, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“How you doing, Stone?”

“I’m okay, and so is Holly. She’s still asleep.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve had a brush with Trini, and I think you ought to be on the lookout for his people around your place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think maybe you might think about changing locations. Why don’t you move into Holly’s place until we can nail this guy?”

“You really think he might be a threat to us here?”

“I do.”

“What does Holly think?”

“I don’t want to wake her to ask, but I think she’d agree with me.”

“All right, we’ll throw some things in a bag and go over there.”

“Thanks, Ham, I’d feel better if you did. Please give my best to Ginny.”

“Sure thing. Bye.” Ham hung up.

Stone went back upstairs, feeling he had done all he could for the moment.

47

HAM WALKED INTO the kitchen where Ginny was cleaning the fish he’d caught early that morning. One of the reasons he loved her was that she would clean his fish, something he hated doing himself. Daisy was asleep on the floor beside her.

“How would you like a little vacation?” he asked.

“Would I have to clean fish?”

“Nope.”

“I’d love it. Where you want to go?”

“Why don’t we get in that airplane of yours, and you fly us out to the Bahamas.”

“Where in the Bahamas?”

“You know them better than I do. Where’s the fishing good?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said, wagging a bloody finger.

“Oh, right; no cleaning fish. Where can we go that somebody else will clean the fish?”

“I know a little resort on Cat Cay that has its own airstrip. You could give your fish to the restaurant and let them worry about the cleaning.”

“Sounds good to me. Why don’t you stick those fish in the freezer and throw your toothbrush and a bikini into a bag, and let’s get out of here.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“I never knew you to be so spontaneous. Who was the phone call from?”

“Just a guy.”

“C’mon, Ham, what guy?”

“It was Stone.”

“And Stone suggested we take a vacation?”

“Sort of.”

Ginny began wrapping the fillets for freezing. “I want to know the whole story, Ham.”

“What whole story?”

She put the fish in the freezer and came and put her arms around his waist. “You know, you’ve been working on that poker face of yours for so long you think you can fool anybody, but you can’t fool me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can see right through your eyes into your brain, and right now I see deception.”

“Not much deception. After all, can it be so bad if I’m offering you a trip to the Bahamas?”

“Seems to me I’ve heard you say more than once that the Bahamas are boring, all that sun and sand.”

“Not if I can fish.”

“And what do I do while you’re fishing?”

“I don’t know, what do you do here while I’m fishing?”

“That’s right, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

“Well, I’m not here when I’m fishing, am I?”

“I get naked and do witchcraft incantations.”

“You can do witchcraft incantations in the Bahamas, can’t you?”

“No, I’d frighten the natives.”

“You’d frighten the native here, if I’d known what you were doing. I like the naked part, though.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

“I sure would. You gonna get packed?”

“Not until you tell me why we’re going.”

“Stone thought it would be a good idea.”

“Why did Stone think that?”

“He had a little brush with Trini Rodriguez.”

“He said ‘a little brush’?”

“Sort of.”

“And what do you think he meant?”

“Well, usually, having a little brush with Trini involves a death experience, but he was still talking, so I guess he and Holly are all right.”

“So now he thinks we’re going to have a death experience?”

“I think he wants us to avoid that.”

“By going to the Bahamas?”

“No, he just wanted us to move into Holly’s house for a while. The Bahamas was my idea.”

“So you’re more worried than he is?”

“No, I just thought the Bahamas would make a nice change until somebody shoots Trini in the head.”

“Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll go pack.” She gave him a little kiss and turned toward the bedroom.

Ham caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; somebody outside. He’d only seen a shoulder and an elbow. “Don’t do that right now,” he said.

“What?”

He went into the living room, opened his gun safe, and took out an Ithaca riot gun he’d had for years. He handed her the shotgun and a box of shells. “Take this into the broom closet and load it,” he said. “Take Daisy, keep her quiet, stay down low.”

She regarded him calmly for a moment, then took the shotgun and went back into the kitchen.

Ham took his Beretta 9mm from the safe, shoved a loaded magazine into it, and worked the action. He put two more magazines into his pocket, then took out the Browning automatic shotgun that he used for bird hunting and loaded it, putting extra shells into another pocket. He went to a closet in the living room where he kept his fishing clothes and got inside, leaving the door ajar so he could see the front door. He tuned out the birds in the trees outside, tuned out the cars crossing the bridge over the Indian River half a mile away, and listened to everything else.

He heard the tiny creak of a board from the back porch; he heard the scuff of a shoe sole from the front porch. He heard the squeak of a hinge on the screen door to the back porch. He knew they were listening, too, and they weren’t hearing voices anymore. He thought about saying something, but the closet door he stood behind was flimsy and would not stop a round. He held the shotgun in his left hand, ready to bring up the barrel, and the old automatic in his right.

Then he saw the shoulder and elbow he had seen out the window, and they were attached to a head and a neck. The man was short and stocky, and he held an Uzi in his hands.

Why do these yahoos think they need machine guns? he asked himself.

The man stopped just inside the front door and, looking toward the rear of the house, held a finger to his lips, then waved for his companion to approach.

That’s it, Ham said to himself. You two fellows just get a little closer together.

The first man was making hand motions now, directing his friend toward the kitchen. No more waiting.

Ham kicked open the closet door. “Freeze,” he said, but he knew they wouldn’t. The short barrel of the Uzi was swinging around, and he fired the shotgun at it once, while pointing the Beretta 9mm at the other man.

The first man and the Uzi parted company, and he flew backward, landing on and smashing the mahogany coffee table. The second man dropped his weapon and threw his hands into the air.

“Good evening,” Ham said in a low voice. “How many more of you?”

“None,” the man said. “Let me out of here, and you’ll never see me again.”

“That’s a possibility,” Ham said, “but not until I get some answers. Lie down on the floor.” He didn’t call Ginny out yet, because he wasn’t sure there weren’t others.

48

STONE WAS AT his desk, working his way through a pile of work he had dictated days before, when the phone rang.

Joan buzzed him. “Ham Barker on line one, and he wants to talk with both you and Holly.”

“Buzz Holly in the bedroom,” Stone said. He watched the lights on the phone blinking, then turning red again. He picked up the instrument. “Ham?”

“Yeah, Stone. Holly’s on the line, too.”

“What’s up?”

“Well, we were about to start packing for a little vacation when we had a couple of visitors.”

“Are you both all right?”

“Oh, yeah, we’re fine. One of our visitors is suffering from being dead, though, and the other one is taped to a kitchen chair. Don’t you just love duct tape?”

“Ham,” Holly said, “was this a good shooting?”

“Well, if you think having an Uzi pointed at you with intent is a good reason for a shooting, then it’s a good shooting.”

“Have you called the station?”

“Not yet. I wanted to have a little chat with the other one first.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Holly said.

“Oh, I’m about ready to call now. I just wanted to let you and Stone have the results of our chat first.”

“Okay, what are the results?”

“Well, the fellow was a little reluctant to talk at first, until we made him take off his pants and then taped him to the chair and then told him about how Daisy was trained to eat genitals, how they’re her favorite thing.”

Holly burst out laughing. “I’ve got to remember that one.”

“After that, and after Daisy stood in front of him and showed her teeth, he got real talkative.”

“And what did he have to say?” Stone asked.

“Trouble is, he doesn’t really know all that much. Turns out he works for some bad people in Miami, and he and his former buddy had traveled up here at the request of your Mr. Rodriguez. That didn’t come as much of a surprise.”

“No,” Holly said, “it wouldn’t.”

“What did come as a surprise was exactly what Trini wanted them to do to Ginny and Daisy and me when they got here.”

“Do I want to hear this, Ham?” Holly asked.

“Probably not. Suffice it to say that he wanted to cause us all some pain before we shuffled off this mortal coil.”

“Tell my cops about this in detail,” she said.

“Wilco. Now I thought you might have an interest in how this fellow got his instructions from Trini.”

“Oh, yes,” Holly said.

“It seems Trini called him on his cell phone.”

“Oh, good. That means the calling number might still be in the phone.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Ham said. “I’ve got the last number, which is where Trini called from, and nine other numbers, four of them in New York. Seems Trini has been moving around the past day or so.”

“I’ve got a pencil,” Stone said.

Ham read off the list of numbers in reverse order. “I expect you know somebody who can run down those numbers.”

“You bet I do,” Stone said.

“Stone, you still think we should vacate the premises for a while?”

“Yes, I do. Trini may be persistent.”

“Okay. Soon as we’re squared away with the cops, we’ll be on our way. Holly, you can reach us on our cell phones.”

“Okay, Ham, and you tell Hurd Wallace at the station to call me if he needs any help dealing with your visitors.”

“Wilco, baby. You take care of yourself, and Stone, too.” Ham hung up.

“Stone, you still on the phone?” she asked.

“Still here.”

“Who are you going to get to run down those numbers?”

“Dino would be best.”

“Couldn’t you get it done more . . . privately?”

“Holly, listen to me: You and I are not going to go after Trini all by ourselves, and neither are you going to do it alone, even if I have to hog-tie you.”

“Well, being tied up is an interesting thought, but what do you think that Dino could do that you and I couldn’t do just as well?”

“Well, just for starters, he can conjure up a SWAT team, who stand a much better chance of success than you and I busting into some room full of well-armed Arab terrorists, without getting somebody besides them shot.”

“You’re such a sissy, Stone.”

“That’s why I’m still alive,” Stone replied. “I learned as a cop not to bust down doors myself when I could get a dozen guys in black body armor to do it for me.”

“Oh, all right, call Dino.”

“My very thought. Bye-bye.” He hung up and dialed Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Hey.”

“Two of Trini’s hoods tried to kill Holly’s father and his girlfriend this morning, down in Florida.”

“Everybody okay?”

“One of the shooters isn’t, and the other gave up a cell phone with ten numbers in it, four of them in New York, at least the last one from a call made by Trini himself.”

“Shoot.”

Stone read off the numbers.

“I’ll have addresses on these in five minutes, and we’ll raid all five.”

“Great, but Holly and I want to come along on the raid on that last number, the one Trini called from.”

“Stone, you know I can’t do that. If one of you got hurt, the chief of detectives would fall on me from a great height.”

“Listen, we’re both sworn officers of a Florida police department, and with a fugitive warrant. You can make a case for us being entitled. And we’ll stand in back of your team. I think that after what Holly has been through with this guy, she’s entitled. Trini gave his hit men instructions to torture Ham and Ginny and the dog, too, before they died.”

“Oh, all right, but you’re both going to have to dress up in body armor, helmets, the whole thing, and you don’t fire any shots at all. You got that?”

“I’ve got it, and I’ll explain it forcefully to Holly.”

“Okay, then. I’ll call you back when I’ve got an address and a team assembled. Give me an hour.” He hung up.

Stone trudged upstairs to explain to Holly that she wasn’t going to get to personally remove Trini’s liver. Not yet, anyway.

49

STONE STRIPPED DOWN his Walther, inspected it, wiped the parts with an oiled rag, reassembled it, loaded a round into the chamber, shoved in a full magazine, put the safety on, and stuck it into his shoulder holster.

Holly had been watching him. “How good a shot are you?”

“Pretty good. Dino is Deadeye Dick.”

“Yeah?”

“Twice—at least twice—he’s saved my ass by killing somebody with a difficult shot. Most cops I know have never fired their weapons, except on the range. How about you? How good a shot?”

“Very good indeed, but not a patch on Ham. He’s the best I ever saw, maybe the best shot alive—and with any weapon. He has this gift, and of course, he’s worked hard at it. I’ve seen him explode a cantaloupe at a thousand yards with a sniper rifle, and he unerringly hits moving targets with a pistol.”

“Like you say, it’s a gift; genetic.”

“Unfortunately, I got only half his genes.”

“I’d say you got some pretty good ones.”

She smiled. “Thanks. You think we’re near the end of this?”

“God, I hope so. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it.”

“I could do it forever.”

“I know. Reckless abandon and iron will are a powerful combination. I’m glad you’re not hunting me.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“Uh-oh.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t threaten your precious bachelorhood.”

“What makes you think it’s so precious?”

“Well, you’ve created this perfect existence for yourself. You’d never let anybody disturb that, would you?”

“You’ve created a pretty perfect existence for yourself, too.”

“Yeah, but since Jackson’s death, it hasn’t been the same. And I’ve already told you I’m bored with the work.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Lance has offered me something.”

“What? When?”

“At Elaine’s, the last time, when you were in the john and Dino was on the phone.”

“What did he offer you, exactly?”

“He was vague but intriguing. He said I’d have to do some training at a place called the Farm, in Virginia. Four months, probably.”

“I thought those guys recruited from the bottom.”

“You mean, not middle-aged, retired soldiers and policemen?”

“Middle-aged, you?”

“Sure. You, too.”

“Well.”

“It might be fun.”

“The training would be a pain in the ass.”

“I like that sort of thing. I did a lot of it in the army, training and retraining, then passing the training on to others.”

“Maybe you’re cut out for it then. But would the work be fun?”

“Lance seems to enjoy it.”

“Sometimes I think he enjoys it too much.”

“I know what you mean. Still, he’s serving his country, so what does it matter if he enjoys it too much?”

“I hope I never find out. So, you want to go work in an embassy somewhere?”

“No, the work he’s talking about is domestic and mostly urban. The Agency has a new role in homeland security now, and the change has made them understaffed. The money is no better than decent, but I’ve got my military pension, and I’m fully vested in my police pension, too. Plus what Jackson left me.”

“Sounds like I should marry you for your money.”

“I’m not ever going to marry.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am. It just isn’t out there for me. You’re a catch, but you’re too much like me. Jackson was a wholly different person, calm and wise and funny. He wasn’t brilliant, but he knew how to do the right thing in any situation.”

“That’s as much a gift as Ham’s shooting.”

“You’re right, and he cultivated it every day. But he’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Did they ever catch the people who did it, that cult group, or whatever they were?”

“No, but Lance says I’d have a better chance with the Agency. I could never run them down in law enforcement. Either I’d have a department to run, like now, or I’d be caught up in a bureaucracy with some supervisor’s shoe on my neck. I don’t think it would be like that with Lance.”

“Maybe not.”

“I could always quit, if I didn’t like it.”

“I suppose.”

The phone rang and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. The address is less than two blocks from your house.”

“Jesus.” He got a pencil and wrote it down. “We’ll meet you there.”

“No, come here. We’ve got the building plans on the way, and we need to plan this well.”

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Bring your weapons and Holly’s warrant.”

“Will do.” He hung up.

“Got your warrant?” he asked Holly.

“You bet your ass.”

“Then let’s go.”

On the way uptown, in the cab, Stone reached out for Holly’s wrist and felt her pulse.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s about ninety,” he said. “You want to calm down. Take some deep breaths. It’s going to be at least a couple of hours before we go in.”

“I want to do it now.”

“I know, but you have to be patient.”

“No, I don’t,” she replied.

“You’ll do a better job if you pace yourself.”

“Maybe.”

“Certainly.”

She began taking deep breaths, and her heart rate started to come down.

“That’s better,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” she replied.

50

THE TEAM MET in a conference room at Dino’s precinct. There was a pile of equipment near the door, and men, and a couple of women, were milling around, talking.

“Okay, everybody, settle down,” Dino said, setting a blowup of a floor plan on an easel. A blown-up photograph of Trini Rodriguez was pinned to a wall.

People took seats or leaned against the walls.

“We’re lucky on this one. The building’s under renovation, so current floor plans were filed for the new building permit. What we’ve got is a five-story walk-up, just like the ones on either side, with a fire escape down the back. We’re lucky, too, that the fire escape on our building has been removed, pending replacement, so there’s no way down, except the main staircase.

“The phone number we tracked down belongs to the top-floor apartment, though there’s not supposed to be anybody living in the building while the fire escape is down, but the neighbors say there are still people living there. The building is owned by a Muslim charity, and the tenants appear to be Muslim, too, so we should treat anybody inside as noncooperative but not hostile, unless they behave that way.

“It’s possible that, if the occupants see us going up the stairs, they might give the alarm, and that would make this work more dangerous, so anybody who sees us should be hustled inside his apartment and told to shut up. Anybody who tries to give the alarm should be arrested and gagged until we’re done.

“We’ve got a twelve-man team. I want four on the roof—you can access it from the building to the east—and eight going up the stairs. We’ve got two officers from a Florida department who have a fugitive warrant for Rodriguez, and they’ll be bringing up the rear, so I’ll keep them with me.

“According to the neighbors across the street, there are a lot of people living in each apartment, so you should expect there to be as many as half a dozen people in the apartment. They should all be immediately restrained, unless they point weapons at officers, in which case you should respond with armed force. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said a burly young man sitting at the table. “You have any idea what they might be armed with?”

“My best guess is handguns, but you should be ready to deal with automatic weapons.”

“If automatic weapons are a possibility, then I suggest we use a stun grenade before going in.”

“Negative,” Dino said. “There may be women or even children in there, and since that incident last year when the woman died of a heart attack after a stun grenade was used, we can use them only in dire emergencies when we’re certain who’s in there.”

“Have we used any listening devices on the place?”

“We’ve pointed a mike at an upstairs window from across the street, but the blinds are drawn, and all we’ve heard is a kind of low muttering, which we take to be men’s voices, and not much of that. We think they may be sleeping.”

The man nodded.

“Anybody else?”

The SWAT team leader walked to the easel and pointed. “Going in, try to confine any shooting to this direction, to the east, because we’ve got a double-brick wall there. If possible, avoid shooting toward the walls, here and here, that have windows. Even though we’re using frangible ammo, I don’t want any rounds going through an open window and flying around the neighborhood. Clear?”

Nobody said anything.

“Is the search warrant here yet?” the leader asked Dino.

“It’s on the way,” Dino replied. “We won’t go until it’s in hand. It’s for the whole building.”

“Do we have arrest warrants for anybody but Rodriguez?”

“Not specifically, but anybody in the apartment should be arrested for harboring a fugitive.”

“Women, too?”

“Yes. There’ll be a couple of people from Children’s Services on hand to take charge of any children in the apartment, and one of them is an Arabic speaker.”

“One of my people speaks Arabic and Urdu, too,” the leader said, pointing at one of his men. “He’ll do all the talking until we’ve established who speaks English.”

“Trini Rodriguez speaks English,” Holly said.

Everybody turned to look at her.

“He might pretend not to, and I’d suggest that if he’s armed and he’s slow obeying commands in English, somebody shoot him.”

“This is Chief Barker from the Orchid Beach, Florida, PD,” Dino said. “She’s had considerable experience with Rodriguez. Anything else to offer, Holly?”

“He’s a stone killer,” she said, “and he’ll do anything to avoid being arrested, including shooting police officers. He won’t hesitate, and neither should you.”

“Okay,” Dino said. “We’ve got four detectives in the block observing the house, two in the building across the street on the same floor as our target apartment. We’ll be in two vans, and we’ll stop on the avenue and check with them before moving in.” He looked around the room. “You guys look ready to me. Let’s go!”

The men picked up their equipment and filed out.

Dino walked over to a pile next to the door. “This is our stuff,” he said. “Let’s suit up. We’re aiming for entry at six p.m.”

51

IT WAS HOT in the van in which Stone, Holly, and Dino were riding, and the heavy equipment made things worse. It was past six p.m. A few of the SWAT team were exchanging macho banter, but most were quiet. Stone wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m going to need a shower after this.”

“Me, too,” Holly said.

“Hey, driver!” Dino called out. “Crank up the AC, will you?”

“It’s going full blast, Lieutenant,” the man called back.

A minute later, the van pulled to a stop, and Dino picked up a handheld radio. “Ricardo, you there?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“What’s happening inside?”

“Some women in Muslim dress went into the building carrying groceries, but I couldn’t tell what floor they went to.”

“Anybody leave?”

“No, sir.”

Dino looked at the SWAT team leader. “We’re good to go.”

“Okay, everybody,” the leader said, “fast across the sidewalk, slow up the stairs. I want complete silence from everybody except me and Lieutenant Bacchetti, and we’re using earplugs with the radio.”

Somebody opened the door, and men from both vans spilled onto the sidewalk and ran up the stairs to the front door, while four others ran to the building next door to gain roof access. Somebody defeated the lock to the street door, and everybody crowded inside, with Stone and Holly bringing up the rear. Stone and Holly had earplugs for their radios, and they could hear any conversation between the SWAT team leader and Dino.

The first element of the team made their way slowly up the stairs, being as quiet as possible, but there was some noise—equipment brushing against the banister, the occasional slip of a boot. They climbed the stairs like a giant caterpillar, snaking around the landings and making their way inexorably upward.

Stone and Holly, right behind Dino, were on the fourth-floor landing when the team leader spoke.

“Stop,” he breathed into the radio. “Dino?”

“Right here,” Dino whispered.

“There are two doors on the fifth floor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Could be two apartments.”

“That wasn’t in the plans.”

“I know.”

“Then let’s go in both doors.”

“We’ve only got one ram to take out the doors.”

“How tough do they look?”

“Heavy, brand-new, only got primer on them.”

“Okay. Knock on one door, say it’s the plumber. As soon as somebody cracks it, knock down the other one and go in both.”

“Okay. Hang on, one of my men will have to unsuit so he’ll look okay through the peephole.”

“Okay.”

They waited as patiently as they could on the landing, and then they heard a knock.

“Plumber,” a male voice said. “I gotta turn off the water for a few minutes.” A pause. “Look, pal, the landlord says I go in there right now. You aren’t even supposed to be in the apartment, so let me in.”

They heard a chain rattle, then the door opening, then all hell broke loose. They heard the ram hit the second door.

“Police! On the floor, everybody!” Other voices added to the din. Shots were fired, then the shooting stopped.

Dino ran up the stairs, followed by Stone and Holly. Both doors were open, one off its hinges, and the hallway was empty. Dino ran through the second door.

Stone and Holly were right behind him. The scene that presented itself was of half a dozen men, all dressed in white, lying on the floor with their hands secured behind them with plastic strips. One man lay faceup on the floor, his chest a mass of blood and holes. He didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Is he here?” Holly asked.

“Hang on a minute,” Dino said, “we got another door.”

A team member was swinging the heavy ram toward what appeared to be a bedroom door. The steel tool struck the door and bounced off, leaving a dent.

“We got a steel door,” he said, “and it’s braced.”

“Keep at it,” the team leader yelled.

The man continued to batter the door, then gave up the ram to a second, fresher man.

“This ain’t working,” the team leader said. “Bring up the saw.”

A team member carrying a large black nylon bag unzipped it and produced a battery-operated radial saw. He went to work on the walls around the door, slicing through the timber studs, then he stood back.

“Once more with the ram,” the team leader said.

A man picked up the ram and swung it at the door with all his might. The door skidded off the timber bracing it and fell into the room, creating a cloud of dust, and the team poured through the opening, shouting. A moment later, the shouting stopped.

“What’s happening?” Holly yelled, pushing her way into the room, followed by Stone and Dino.

“Holy shit,” somebody said.

They were all standing around a hole about eighteen inches in diameter that had been punched through the outer wall and into the building next door. Men were stripping off their armor so they could squeeze through.

“Put that equipment back on!” the team leader shouted. “Nobody goes in there without armor!” He held the radio to his lips. “Roof team, start down and search every apartment on the way!”

“Hang on,” Dino said, “our warrant doesn’t cover the building next door.”

“I want four men on the front door of the building next door,” the team leader said, pointing to men, and they ran out of the apartment.

“I’m going through there,” Holly said, pushing her way forward.

“You don’t want to do that, Holly,” Dino said. “You want a good bust out of this. We’ll have the building sealed in a minute, then we’ll send for another warrant.”

“It’s hot pursuit, Dino. You don’t need a warrant to pursue.”

“Okay,” Dino said to the team leader. “Let’s get that hole made bigger and get some men through it. We can’t search the other apartments, but we can search the one on the other side of the hole and the hallways.”

SWAT team members went to work with tools left in the apartment, and ten minutes later, they were able to get men in armor through the hole.

Stone and Holly followed them and emerged into an empty apartment under renovation.

“Who was on the roof?” Holly asked.

Two men raised their hands.

“Did you see anybody come onto the roof from this building?”

They looked at each other sheepishly. “We had our backs to it,” one of them said, “watching the exit from the other building.”

“Is there a fire escape on this building?” Holly asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Holly turned to the SWAT team leader. “Then let’s get going. We have to pursue.”

“Hang on, Holly,” Dino said. “The guy’s been gone for, what, fifteen minutes? All he had to do was catch a cab. He’s gone for now. We’ve still got a city-wide APB out on him, and we’ll get his picture on the news. That’s all we can do for now, and all you can do is wait.”

“Shit, shit, shit!” Holly said.

“My feelings exactly,” Dino replied.

“Let’s go home,” Stone said.

52

HOLLY, STONE, AND Dino trooped disconsolately down the stairs and out into the street, still wearing their body armor. As they hit the sidewalk a television van pulled into the block, and a reporter sprinted toward Dino.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti!” she was hollering. “Give us a minute?”

Dino stopped. “What can I do for you?”

“What just went down here?”

“Call information services, they’ll give you a statement.”

“Yeah, sure,” the woman said.

“Why don’t you talk to Chief Holly Barker of the Orchid Beach Police Department?” he suggested, grabbing Holly’s arm and dragging her forward.

“Chief Barker?” the woman said. “Who did you arrest here?”

“I’m afraid we didn’t arrest anybody,” she said. “I’m in New York with a fugitive warrant for one Trini Rodriguez. We entered this building with the help of the NYPD, believing him to be here, but he apparently had a well-planned escape route, and we missed him.”

“Isn’t that the man wanted for killing an FBI agent and wounding another?”

“Yes, it is, but I want him for a dozen murders committed in the state of Florida.”

“We interviewed Special Agent Grant Harrison from the FBI’s Miami office less than an hour ago, and he’s posted a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for Rodriguez. If he’s caught, who gets him?”

“I suppose that depends on who catches him,” Holly said.

“If you catch him, are you going to hand him over to the FBI?”

“If I catch him, I’m going to take him back to Florida and see him tried.”

“What about the FBI?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t they have precedence?”

“Says who?”

“Says Agent Harrison.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Excuse me.” She went to the van where Stone was waiting and stripped off her equipment. “Let’s get out of here.”

When they arrived at Stone’s house, he switched on the TV and saw Holly’s interview on the all-news channel.

“You did very well,” Stone said.

“Hang on,” Holly said, “here comes Grant.”

“In an interview five minutes ago, Special Agent Grant Harrison of the FBI’s Miami office disagreed with Chief Barker,” the anchorman was saying.

“Chief Barker apparently doesn’t understand procedure in this case,” Grant said. “The FBI will take custody of Mr. Rodriguez when he’s caught, and he’ll be tried in federal court for the murder of a federal agent and the attempted murder of another.”

“But the NYPD has an all-points bulletin out for this man right now,” the reporter said. “Do you think they’ll give him up if they capture him?”

“We’ve already seen an example of how the local department works,” Grant said. “They made an attempt to arrest Mr. Rodriguez today. They failed, and now he’s at large again. They should have left this to us.”

“We understand that it was Chief Barker and the NYPD who tracked Mr. Rodriguez to the East Side address,” the reporter said. “Did the FBI know his whereabouts?”

“That’s all I have to say at this time,” Grant said. “We’re offering a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Trini Rodriguez.”

The anchorman came on-screen again with a photograph of Trini.

“The reward is going to do it,” Holly said. “Somebody will turn him in to the FBI for the money, and I’ll be back where I started when I came to New York.”

“They seem to have overlooked the fact that the NYPD arrested half a dozen terrorist suspects and killed one in the raid,” Stone said. “That must have pissed off Grant.”

“I want a nap,” Holly said.

“We’re having dinner with Dino,” Stone said. “I’ll wake you in time.”

They arrived at Elaine’s to find Dino already sitting with Lance Cabot.

“Good evening,” Lance said.

“Hi,” Holly managed.

Stone and Lance shook hands.

“I was just congratulating Dino on bagging four men who are at the top of our most-wanted list,” Lance said, “and two others who would have been, eventually.”

“Yeah, a lot of good it did us with the press,” Dino said.

“Dino,” Stone said, “you had an opportunity to tell the TV people about the arrests today. Why didn’t you?”

“I hate talking to those people,” Dino said.

“That’s why you’re not the chief of detectives,” Stone replied.

“I wouldn’t have the job. I’d never see my wife and kid.”

“You never see them now,” Stone pointed out.

“What do you mean? I’m home for dinner almost every night.”

“You’re in here almost every night,” Stone said.

“Hey, fellas,” Holly interjected, “can we have a drink in peace?”

“Don’t worry,” Lance said. “You’ll bag Trini. He’s running out of places to hide, and his picture is all over TV.”

“Can you help?” Holly asked.

“I’ve got a few ears to the ground.”

They ordered drinks, and they had hardly arrived when Herbie Fisher appeared at their table, like an imp from a magic lantern.

“Hey, everybody,” Herbie said brightly. “Hey, Stone, Holly, Lance, Dino.”

“It’s Lieutenant Bacchetti to you,” Dino said.

“Can I have a drink?”

“No,” Stone said. “Go away.”

“But I’ve got some information for you,” Herbie said, sounding hurt.

“Shoot him, Dino,” Stone said.

“I want the reward,” Herbie protested.

“Then go see the FBI,” Dino said. “It’s their reward.”

“But don’t you want Trini Rodriguez?”

“Herbie,” Dino said, “if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call a patrol car and have you arrested.”

“For what?”

“For annoying the police.”

“Then maybe you better take a look at this,” Herbie said. He tossed a five-by-seven photograph on the table.

Lance picked it up. “Where did you get this?”

“I processed it.”

Holly looked at the photograph. “It’s Trini.”

“Where did this come from?” Stone asked, looking at the picture.

“A guy brought two rolls of film into the store this afternoon. This negative was on one of them.”

“Who was the guy?”

“I have his name and address,” Herbie said slyly, rubbing his fingers together in a fashion indicating he wanted money.

“You still want me to shoot him, Stone?”

“Not until he gives us the name and address,” Stone replied.

“So, do I get the reward?”

Stone clapped him on the back. “Sit down, Herbie, and have a drink. Good to see you.”

53

HERBIE TOOK A sip of the twelve-year-old Scotch he had requested. “Looks like I’m getting more popular,” he said to nobody in particular.

“It’s an illusion,” Stone said. “Who brought the pictures in?”

“This guy.”

“Which guy?”

“This Italian guy.”

“How did you know he was Italian?”

“You think I don’t know a goombah when I see one?” Herbie took another sip of Scotch. “And he had an Italian name.”

Stone took out his notebook and a pen. “Spell it for me,” he said.

“G . . .” Herbie blinked. “Hey, what about the reward?”

“It’s like this, Herbie: The FBI said on television that they were offering a reward for the arrest of Trini Rodriguez. They didn’t say that they had to arrest him.”

“So, they’ll give me the reward even if Dino arrests him?”

“Well, that is certainly what I inferred from their announcement. Do you have any reason to think differently?”

Herbie scratched his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, there you are.”

“Where?”

“There.”

“Where’s there?”

Stone sighed. “Herbie, do you know what obstruction of justice is?”

“Sort of, I think.”

“Well, if you don’t give me the name, Dino will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“Why give it to you? You’re not a cop, Dino is.”

“Then give it to Dino.”

“Dino, if I give you the name, do you promise I’ll get the reward?”

“Herbie, if you give me the name and address of the guy who brought the film in for processing, I promise I’ll do everything in my power to get you that reward. I’ll even write the FBI a letter, saying you’re the guy who deserves the reward.”

Herbie brightened. “Okay.”

“That’s if we arrest him and on your information,” Dino said. “If he’s not at this guy’s address, there’s no reward.”

“Yeah, that seems fair,” Herbie said.

“So, give me the name.”

“And I’ll be a hero?”

“Herbie, you’re going to be a dead hero if you don’t give me the name right now.” Dino stuck his hand under his jacket, as if reaching for his gun.

“Okay, okay,” Herbie said, raising his hands. “The name is Galeano—G—”

“I know how to spell it,” Dino said. “What’s his first name?”

“Vito.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Dino said. “I know that guy. He runs a numbers operation, and God knows what else, out of a grocery store in Little Italy.”

“That’s the address he gave me,” Herbie said, taking Stone’s pad and pen and laboriously writing out the address.

“What’s he doing getting film processed in Brooklyn?” Dino asked.

“He lives in the neighborhood. I’m not sure exactly where. He comes in all the time with his wife’s pictures.”

“Stone and I are acquainted with the gentleman, too,” Holly said, inspecting the photograph. “Oh, oh, take a look at this, Stone,” she said, pointing. “I think this nails down the location, don’t you?” She handed him the photograph.

Stone inspected it carefully. “Aha,” he said, “I believe that’s our grave in the background.”

“Your grave?” Dino asked. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Remember, I told you about that? Mr. Galeano and his friends dug this hole in the basement of his grocery store especially for Holly and me.”

Dino took the picture and looked at it closely. “So, why aren’t you in it?”

“Because I persuaded him to call your father-in-law first. Eduardo suggested he not do it.”

“When did he dig the grave?”

“Yesterday,” Stone replied.

“So we know Trini was there yesterday.”

“Right.”

“And how do we know Trini isn’t in the hole?”

“Because he was at that apartment today.”

“Did you actually see him?”

“No, but one of the SWAT team identified him just before he slammed the escape door in their faces.”

“When do I get the hundred grand?” Herbie asked.

“Herbie,” Dino said, “do you remember the conditions attached to the reward?”

“Sort of.”

“Let me review them for you: Number one, we have to arrest Trini on the information you supply. Number two, the FBI has to sign off on it.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to write them a letter.”

“Herbie, as eloquent as I am on department stationery, not everybody does everything I ask them to. Especially the FBI.”

Herbie frowned. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Dino said.

“Can you find out where Vito lives?” Stone asked Dino.

“Yeah, sure, but Trini’s more likely to be at the grocery store than at Vito’s house. Those guys never bring business home to the family, especially business like Trini.”

Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“Is this Stone Barrington?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Vito. You remember me?”

“Vito! How could I ever forget?”

Vito chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t, in the circumstances.”

“Have you got a line on Rodriguez?” Stone asked.

“I think I might,” Vito said. “You want to meet me down at my place of business in the morning?”

“I have to wait until morning?”

“Well, I’m not going to be able to do anything for you until midday, at best, but if you want to spend the night in my basement . . .”

“No thanks, Vito, I’ve seen enough of your basement.”

“Okay. Come down tomorrow morning about eleven, and I’ll see what I can do. You remember the address?”

“Oh, yes.”

“See you then.” Vito hung up.

“Herbie,” Stone said, “I’m afraid there’s been a little hitch in getting you the reward.”

54

HERBIE FINALLY SEEMED to take a hint and left. Lance watched him walk out of Elaine’s. “You know, that is one of the densest human beings it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

“I have to agree,” Stone said. “And he’s one of the most annoying, too.”

“Then why do you keep messing with him?” Dino asked.

“I don’t keep messing with him. He keeps messing with me.”

“You, too, Lance,” Dino said.

“I know, I know. He was there when I needed him for a photograph, and now I can’t get rid of him. He’s convinced that he’d be perfect for Agency operations.”

“Can’t you find a suicide mission to send him on?” Stone asked.

“Herbie is the kind of guy who’d walk into a suicide mission and walk out with a smile on his face and everybody else dead, and he wouldn’t have had a thing to do with it.”

“How the hell did you ever come up with him?” Stone asked.

“An operator I know gave him to me; Herbie’s his nephew.”

“You, too? You know Bob Cantor?”

“You know Bob Cantor?” Lance responded.

“He works for me all the time.”

“Well, he has more than one client.”

“No wonder he’s busy when I call him these days,” Stone said.

“Okay,” Dino said, “what’s the deal with the phone call you just got?”

“It was Vito.”

“I got that part.”

“He says he may be able to put his hands on Trini tomorrow. He wants us to come down to his grocery store tomorrow morning.”

“You’d better take this seriously,” Dino said. “Vito Galeano is a serious guy.”

Holly spoke up. “He certainly seemed serious when he was about to shoot us and bury us in his cellar,” she said.

“Believe me, he was,” Dino replied. He turned to Stone. “What made you think to ask him to call Eduardo?”

“If I’d asked him to call the mayor, it wouldn’t have worked,” Stone said. “Come on, Dino, who else do I know who’s connected?”

“You could have told him to call me.”

“A guy’s about to shoot us, and I should tell him to call a cop?”

“I’ve known Vito since we were kids. He’s a coupla years older than me, but we went to the same school. He pulled a bunch of bigger kids off me once and slapped them around, so I always felt I owed him. Once, when he was in a tight spot, I had a chance to help, and he’s been grateful. Here’s some advice: If you know him now, next time you get in trouble with some wise guys, tell them to call Vito, instead of Eduardo. Not one in a hundred of them knows Eduardo, but they all know Vito, and they don’t mess with him.”

“I guess that’s good advice,” Stone said. He turned to Lance. “I hear you’re trying to recruit Holly to your organization on a more full-time basis.”

“Stone!” Holly hissed.

“It’s all right, Holly,” Lance said. “Stone’s family.”

“I am?” Stone asked.

“You signed up, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did at that. Holly, maybe Lance is the guy to help you with your little money problem.”

Holly turned red. “Stone, you’d better shut up right now.”

“Are you in need of funds, Holly?” Lance asked, sounding concerned.

“No, I am not,” Holly replied.

“Far from it,” Stone chipped in.

“I don’t understand,” Lance said.

“It’s better that way,” Holly replied.

“Come on, Holly,” Stone said, “who better than Lance?”

“Yes,” Lance said, “who better than me? If you have a problem, I’d like to help.”

Holly looked around the table.

“Maybe I’d better go to the john,” Dino said, half rising.

“Sit down, Dino. All right, I’ll tell you about it.” Holly went through her story. Everyone was rapt, except Stone, who seemed to have trouble not laughing.

When she had finished, Lance patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, my dear, we’ll think of something.”

“Think of what?” Stone asked.

“Yes, what?” Holly echoed.

Lance looked around to be sure he wasn’t being overheard. “You have a large sum of money obtained from an illegal operation—money you didn’t report. You want to get rid of it in a, shall we say, profitable manner?”

“I suppose.”

“This is called money laundering, and there are a number of ways to do it.”

“I’ll bet,” Stone said.

“All of them carry a certain amount of risk,” Lance explained. “Perhaps the safest thing to do is for you to get the case to me, and I’ll deal with it. After a little time has passed, you’ll have a sizeable sum deposited in an overseas bank account. You’ll receive a credit card in the mail, and from then on, you charge whatever you wish to the card. You’ll have to keep track of what you spend in your head, because you don’t want the mailman bringing a monthly statement, do you?”

“That’s it?” Holly asked.

“That’s it.”

“It sounds too simple.”

“Well, you’ll have to pay a service charge on the original deposit, say, ten percent.”

“To whom?”

“It’s better you don’t know. But you’ll still have more than five million in the bank, should you ever need it, and it would be invested in any manner you wish.”

“So, I’d be earning money?”

“I should think at least an eight percent return.”

“Nice.”

“Of course, you’ll owe taxes on what you earn, but you can invest in tax-free municipals. You can buy just about anything with a credit card these days—a car, for instance—but you’d want to stay away from buying anything that would create a legal record, like a house.”

“A car creates a legal record,” Holly said.

“Not an important one. It wouldn’t show up on your credit report, for instance, if you didn’t finance it.”

“There you are,” Stone said. “Problem solved.”

“Not exactly,” she replied. “I’ve still got to get it to Lance.”

“Put it in your car and drive it up here,” Stone said.

“Or in your airplane.”

“Forget that. I’m not getting involved. I have a law license to protect.”

“Do it while you’ve still got a badge to flash,” Lance said, “in case you’re stopped by a highway patrolman who wants to search your car.”

“I’ll think about it,” Holly said. She turned to Stone. “Can we go home now?”

“Sure.”

Dino spoke up. “I want to go with you to Vito’s place tomorrow.”

“Why?” Stone asked.

“You’ll be better off with me there.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Good with me,” Holly said.

“And don’t you go into that store until I say so.”

55

STONE AND HOLLY were having breakfast the following morning.

“I don’t like this,” Stone said.

“What don’t you like?”

“Before, when we went into that apartment with Dino, we had a SWAT team ahead of us, and there was shooting. Now we’re just supposed to walk into Vito’s grocery store and walk out with Trini? It doesn’t add up, and if it did, I still wouldn’t want to go in there like that.”

“What do you suggest?”

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“I don’t like it, Dino.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Stone, dummy. You don’t recognize my voice after all these years?”

“What don’t you like?”

“I don’t like walking into that grocery store with no SWAT team and no backup.”

“Vito’s your backup.”

“The last time I saw Vito he was backing me into a freshly dug grave.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“Why should I trust him? Because he didn’t kill me?”

“That’s a start.”

“That was because he was afraid of Eduardo.”

“Because he respected Eduardo.”

“Whatever. He didn’t back off because he’d suddenly taken a liking to me.”

“Maybe he liked Holly.”

“He was going to kill her, too.”

“You got a point.”

“Of course I do. The point is, what’s going to happen when we walk in there? If we walk in there.”

“You’ll be with me.”

“You’re not big enough to hide behind.”

“He respects me.”

“Why, because he saved your skinny little ass from bullies when you were ten?”

“No, because I saved his fat ass from a long time upstate, and he appreciates that.”

“Okay, that takes care of you. What about Holly and me?”

“It’s transferable.”

“What?”

“The respect.”

“Look, these goombahs are murdering people they respect all the time, you know? The respect seems to kind of vary from day to day—one day you’re a prince of a guy, the next you’re in a fifty-five-gallon drum of lime in a New Jersey swamp, waiting for Judgment Day.”

“Stone, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so nervous.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had more reason to be nervous. I’ve been threatened and shot at and dragged all over the country, and—”

Holly broke in. “I did not drag you all over the country,” she said. “You came voluntarily.”

“That was only because I wanted to get you in the sack.”

“You had already gotten me in the sack. How soon you forget!”

Dino broke in. “You wanted to get me in the sack?”

“Oh, shut up. You know I was talking to Holly.”

“How do I know who you’re talking to? I can only hear you.”

“We’ve got to have a plan, Dino.”

“What sort of plan?”

“The kind of plan where men in black suits and body armor with automatic weapons and stun grenades go in first and let us know when they’ve got Trini handcuffed.”

“You don’t understand. Vito has a certain standing in his community, you know? He would not respond well to assault teams running up and down the aisles of his grocery store, tossing stun grenades. It would not reflect well on him in his neighborhood.”

“Well, we need some kind of a plan,” Stone said.

“What kind of plan do you want?”

“Suggest something.”

“I don’t know what to suggest. I’m okay with just going in there and talking to Vito.”

“How about you send a few undercover people in there to do some shopping and reconnoiter?”

“Oh, sure, and they’re not going to stick out like tourists from Alabama? The whole neighborhood would know.”

“Well, think of something, Dino.”

“I’ll call you back,” Dino said, then hung up.

“Hey!” Stone shouted down the phone. “Don’t hang up on me!”

“He hung up?” Holly asked.

“He hung up; said he’d call me back.”

“So, he’ll call you back.”

“You heard me voice my concerns?”

“I heard. I don’t really see what the problem is. Vito said just to come down there.”

“So now you trust Vito? The guy who was going to put two in your head and bury you in his cellar?”

“I kind of like him.”

“He’s a fucking mafioso, and you kind of like him?”

“Well, your friend Eduardo is a fucking mafioso, and you like him.”

“First of all, he’s not a fucking mafioso, he’s more of . . . an elder statesman of Italian-American diplomacy.”

“He’s a fucking mafioso.”

“And I’ve had a lot more experience of Eduardo than you’ve had of Vito.”

“Granted. Why don’t we just wait to hear what Dino has to say?”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“Okay, listen . . .”

” Who is this?”

“Now you don’t recognize my voice?”

“What is it?”

“I talked to Vito, and it’s okay.”

“That’s your plan? You talked to Vito, and it’s okay?”

“That’s my plan.”

Stone sighed. “Okay, what do we do?”

“Vito suggested we come in my car, since yours is getting to be a little too well known in the neighborhood, so I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”

“Okay.” Stone hung up.

“He talked to Vito, and it’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s the plan?”

“Yeah.”

56

STONE LED HOLLY upstairs to his safe and opened it. “I’m not comfortable going after this guy with your Sig-Sauer and my Walther,” he said, rooting around in the safe. “They’re both .380s, and we need more stopping power.”

“What did you have in mind?” Holly asked.

Stone handed her a gun. “This is a Sig P239,” he said. “It’s a little larger than your P232, and it’s nine millimeter.”

“I own one. What are we using for ammo?”

He rooted around some more and came up with a magazine. “This is loaded with MagSafe ammo. You know about it?”

“Sounds familiar; remind me.”

“Instead of a lead slug, it’s epoxy with fairly large buckshot encapsulated. It will penetrate soft body armor, but the great thing is that even if it goes all the way through a body, it won’t ricochet, and it won’t kill some bystander. Makes a big wound in the original recipient, though.”

“Why doesn’t everybody use it all the time?”

“Because it costs something like three bucks a round. It’s best saved for special occasions.”

“And what are you carrying?”

Stone handed her a pistol. “It’s a Sig Pro. Guy I know sent it to me. Got a fifteen-round magazine.”

“I want this one,” she said, tucking it into the belt of her jeans.

“Oh, all right, I’ll take the P239.” He handed her the Pro’s magazine and closed the safe. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Dino said as they headed downtown at mid-morning, “here’s what Vito told me. You ready?”

“We’re ready,” Stone said.

“He’s luring Trini down to the store with a really good story.”

“What’s the story?”

“The story is, a truck is going to make a delivery to Vito’s grocery store, and half of the truck is given over to a compartment rigged up as a room. It’s air-conditioned, it has a bed and a chair and lights and a chemical toilet and a lot of dirty magazines. The truck actually exists, according to Vito.”

“What’s the truck got to do with this?” Holly asked.

“Vito has told Trini that they’re going to take him to Florida in the truck, two guys driving nonstop. He’s got food and water and the magazines in the back, and they’re there in twenty-four hours.”

“Trini wants to go back to Florida?”

“He says he can get lost among his homeboys down there, and then he’ll get a ship out somewhere. Anybody stops the truck, the rear part is stacked to the ceiling with cartons of Italian foodstuffs. Pretty slick, huh?”

“Pretty slick,” Holly admitted.

“So that’s how Vito knows for sure Trini will be there today?”

“Right. He’s due at noon.”

“And Vito is just going to hand Trini to me?”

“That’s the idea.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“What?”

“What’s in it for Vito?”

“He makes Eduardo happy.”

“Eduardo is still in this?” Stone asked.

“Up to his ears, apparently, and Vito always likes to make Eduardo happy. In his business, you make Eduardo happy, good things happen to you.”

“This is just crazy enough to work,” Holly said.

“Wait a minute,” Stone said.

“What?”

“Trini was behind Vito’s kidnapping us, right?”

“Right, I guess,” Dino said.

“Well, I’d like to know what Vito told him.”

“Why can’t you just relax and let this happen?”

“Oh, all right, I suppose Vito could tell him something.”

“You bet your ass he could.”

“What’s the plan when we get there?”

“Vito will tell us then.”

57

THE THREE WALKED into Vito Galeano’s grocery store at eleven sharp. The place was not terribly big—four rows of shelving running up and down the space, a counter at the rear, and, up half a flight of stairs, a loft office from which Vito had a view over half glasses of the entire store. It was old-fashioned and fragrant with hanging sausage and spices. Vito came down the stairs, checking each of the half-dozen customers in the place, and finally, checking out Stone, Dino, and Holly.

“Buon giorno,” he said to Dino.

“Buon giorno,” Dino replied.

“How you doin’?” he said to Stone and Holly.

“Good,” they replied simultaneously.

“This is Gino,” he said, nodding at the aproned man behind the counter, who nodded at them all.

Vito reached under the counter, pulled out an apron, and handed it to Dino. “Here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said. “Dino, you’re the only one who looks like he could work here, so you put on the apron and stand behind the counter with Gino. Pay attention to the way he works while we’re waiting, so you won’t look stupid when Trini comes in.”

“Right,” Dino said. He took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and put on the apron.

“You were born to this,” Stone said.

“Aw, shut up.”

“You two,” Gino said, nodding at Stone and Holly, “get over to one side of the store, so the shelves will hide you. Trini comes in, he’ll walk down the center aisle, like everybody. When that happens, Gino, Dino, one of you sing out, ‘Vito, gimme a price on a whole Genoa salami!’ That means Trini is in the store.” He looked out to the street. “Here comes the truck.”

They all turned to see a beautifully painted black truck pull up to the curb. Painted on the side was the legend “Gaetano Galeano & Sons, Premium Provisions” in a florid style.

“Beautiful truck,” Stone said.

“Thanks,” Vito replied. “My old man designed it before the Genoveses got to him on the bocce court at the coffeehouse.”

“Sorry about that,” Stone said.

Vito shrugged. “It’s our game,” he said. “Anyway, Trini comes down the center aisle, you hear the thing about the price of salami, and you two come around the shelves into the aisle behind Trini. You’re carryin’?”

They nodded.

“Don’t shoot nobody, okay? Except Trini, if you have to.”

They shook their heads.

“There’ll be a man up in my office with a shotgun. Dino and Gino are carryin’; Trini’s bracketed.” He looked at Holly. “You got cuffs?”

She nodded. “Three pair.”

“You frisk him and cuff him, then we hustle him over to the stairs.” He nodded to his right, where a door led to stairs to the basement.

Stone didn’t want to think about the basement. “Then what?”

“Then we talk.”

“What’s to talk about?” Holly asked.

Dino held up a hand. “You’ll talk.”

Holly shrugged. “We’ll talk.” She shot a glance at Stone that meant she didn’t like this.

Stone shook his head slightly; this was no time to argue.

“Is the truck real?” Holly asked.

“What, real?” Vito asked. “You never seen a truck?”

“I mean, does it really have the hidden compartment?”

“Comes in handy from time to time,” Vito replied. Then he looked at Dino. “You already forgot this, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dino said.

“Anybody hungry?” He took a tray of sliced salami and olives from under the counter. “We got free samples.”

Everybody took something to be polite, except Stone, who took it because he was hungry.

“Okay, spread out, and let’s do this,” Vito said.

Dino hopped over the counter and took up his position. Stone and Holly moved to where they had been told. They couldn’t see the store entrance.

“What’s your plan?” Stone asked.

“What Vito said,” Holly replied.

“I mean after we’ve taken him. What are you going to do with him?”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” she said, taking the Sig Pro from her purse and pumping a round into the chamber.

“It’s time you did,” Stone said. “In a few minutes you’re going to have a dangerous criminal on your hands, and you’d better figure out how you’re going to handle him.”

“I’m going to take him home,” she said.

“How?”

“Airlines?”

“Think about how much trouble Trini could make on an airplane with a couple of hundred civilians watching. Then you’ve got to get him to Orchid Beach.”

“We’ll get a flight to Palm Beach, and I’ll have a squad car meet us.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?”

“I know a guy out at Teterboro who can produce a jet charter on demand—something light, like a Lear or a CitationJet.”

“What’s it going to cost?”

“A guess? Eight, ten thousand.”

“I can spring for that. My department’s got a discretionary fund for emergency expenditures.”

“That’s our best bet. We bundle Trini into Dino’s car, drive him to Teterboro where the jet’s waiting with the engines running. Two and a half, three hours and you’re home.”

“You coming?”

“Once he’s on board, you won’t need me,” Stone said.

“Oh, I need you,” she said, leering at him.

“I thought we satisfied that need last night.”

“Only temporarily.”

“We’ll work on that.”

“Vito!” Dino yelled suddenly, “gimme a price on a whole Genoa salami!”

“Trini’s in the store,” Stone whispered. “Here we go.”

58

STONE PEEPED AROUND the shelves and saw Trini walking toward the counter, with a large semiautomatic pistol stuck in his belt in the small of his back. Stone motioned to Holly, and they fell in behind him.

Dino was waiting for him with half a smile on his face. “Buon giorno,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, where’s Vito?” Trini responded.

Dino reached behind him, produced a weapon, and stuck it in Trini’s face.

Trini reached for his gun, but Stone grabbed his wrist, shoved it up between his shoulder blades, while Holly grabbed the gun and snapped handcuffs onto Trini’s wrist.

Holly hit him in the back of the head with the heel of her hand. “Bend over the counter, stupid, and give me your other hand.”

Stone put some pressure on the hammerlock for emphasis. “Do as the lady says.”

Reluctantly, Trini offered the other wrist, and he was now handcuffed.

Holly stuck her gun in her bag and went over him thoroughly—front, back, and crotch.

“Hey, you want to eat that, baby?” Trini smirked as she felt him up.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “there’ll be a lot of guys who’ll want it where you’re going, and you’ll find yourself on the receiving end, too. You’ll end up as some big guy’s bitch.”

Trini began kicking and spitting at her, until Stone hit him in the crotch. Then he became more manageable.

“Did I mention,” Holly said, “that you’re under arrest and that you have the right to keep your mouth shut?”

“Let’s get him downstairs,” Dino said.

Two of Vito’s men materialized and hustled Trini down to the basement. Vito beckoned Dino into a corner, and the two men began to talk earnestly. Holly and Stone were left at the counter.

“I can’t believe it,” Holly said. “Just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“and it’s over.”

But Stone was watching Dino and Vito as their conversation, though whispered, became more animated. “Maybe it’s not over yet,” he said, nodding toward the two men.

Holly watched them for a moment. “What’s going on?”

Dino turned and began walking toward them.

“I have a feeling we’re about to find out,” Stone said.

Dino looked embarrassed. “There’s a problem,” he said.

“What problem?” Holly asked.

“A problem about Trini.”

“What, do they want to put him in that grave downstairs?” Stone asked.

Dino shook his head. “No, they want him alive. They want the reward.”

“What reward?” Holly asked.

“The hundred grand the FBI is offering for Trini.”

Holly seemed to be hyperventilating.

“Hey, wait a minute, Dino,” Stone said, “we had a deal.”

Dino looked away. “Apparently, we don’t have a deal anymore.”

Holly found her voice. “Dino, you tell Vito . . .” She stopped. “Never mind, I’ll tell him myself.”

“Holly . . .” Dino made a grab for her arm, but she shook him off and walked toward Vito, who didn’t seem glad to see her coming.

Stone steered Dino away from them. “Let her try. It can’t hurt.”

“No, I guess it can’t hurt. I’m really embarrassed about this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Vito says we didn’t close the deal; we never shook on it.”

“Shook on it? What is this, high school?”

“Apparently. Anyway, the hundred grand seems to overrule any argument I could make.”

Stone glanced at Holly and Vito, though he couldn’t hear them. They were talking earnestly, but Holly wasn’t waving her arms or shouting. “Look at that,” he said.

Dino looked toward the two. “She seems awfully calm,” he said. “I was afraid she’d shoot him.”

“Now she’s smiling.”

“Vito is smiling, too.”

Then, to the mutual astonishment of Stone and Dino, Holly and Vito shook hands.

Holly walked back to where they stood. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

They walked back to the car, and Stone waited until they were inside before he began talking. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dino echoed, “what did you two have to say to each other?”

Holly looked smug. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Stone and Dino, who were in the front seat, looked at each other.

“What the fuck?” Dino said.

“Dino, would you do me a great big favor?” Holly asked, digging her cell phone out of her purse and dialing a number.

“Sure, anything.”

“Would you take me by Stone’s house, wait while I throw my stuff into a bag, then drive me to LaGuardia?”

“Why not?” Dino said.

Holly began talking to an airline reservations clerk.

Stone looked at Dino. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Dino shrugged. “I think the lady is sick of you, and she’s going home.”

“Holly,” Stone said, “what’s going on?”

She waved him quiet. “I’m on the phone,” she hissed.

59

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, back in Orchid Beach, Holly left her office at dusk and drove north on A1A, with Daisy in the passenger seat, her nose out the window, sniffing the damp Florida air.

Holly turned left down a side road and, after half a mile, came to the rear gate of the real estate development that had once been called Palmetto Gardens, and later, Blood Orchid, and which was now in federal hands. She stopped and, leaving the motor running and the lights on, got out and went to where the gate was chained and locked. She knew the combination to the lock because she had locked it herself. A moment later, she took off the chain, then drove her car inside. She locked the gate behind her and bore to her left, along a road that ran alongside the golf course.

The course looked good, since the Feds had kept on the grounds crew until they could sell the place. The auction was scheduled for a week hence, and they had been working hard to make the grounds look good.

Holly pulled into a dirt road and drove fifty yards, then stopped the car, switched off the engine, and got out, followed by Daisy. Using her SureFire tactical flashlight, she walked purposely through the woods, switching on the light a second at a time to find her way. Daisy ran ahead, scaring up rabbits and sniffing at everything.

She came to a live oak tree about thirty feet tall, then stopped. She stood quietly for a few minutes, letting her night vision develop and looking around for other human beings. The property seemed deserted, and as she waited, a full moon rose in the east, making the flashlight unnecessary.

She put the light back into its holster, took off her heavy gun belt, and began climbing the tree, while Daisy watched, baffled. A little more than halfway up, at about twenty feet, she stopped. The case was still there, though it was covered in pine pollen. She looked down. “Daisy,” she said, “go over there.” She pointed, and Daisy followed her instructions. “Sit.” Daisy sat. “Stay.” Daisy stayed.

What the hell, she thought, it was a sturdy case. She took it by the handle, dangled it for a moment, and let go. The case hit one limb, slowing it, then it fell unimpeded to the pine straw–padded floor of the woods. It bounced once, then fell on its side, intact.

Holly climbed down the tree, picked up the case, and put it into the trunk of her patrol car. Then she got Daisy back inside, let herself out the gate, and headed toward town.

She drove into the basement garage under the police station, parked the car, and got the case out of the trunk. It was heavier than she had remembered, and it was something of a struggle to get it upstairs and into her office. There were only two people in the squad room, a duty officer handling the phones and radio and a detective catching up on his paperwork. The rest of the night shift was on patrol.

She got the case into her office, dampened some paper towels, and wiped the pine pollen off the case, making its black aluminum surface look nearly like new. Then she hoisted the case onto a table and opened it. She was greeted with the sight of rows of hundred-dollar bills, sorted into stacks of one hundred, each secured with a heavy rubber band. She counted out twenty of the stacks and packed them into a small zippered duffel from her locker. Then she counted out another ten stacks, dropped them into a Federal Express envelope, and wrote out a note on her stationery. She put the note into the envelope, sealed it, filled out a FedEx waybill, and stuck it to the envelope.

Then she picked up the heavy case and took it into the darkened evidence room. She went through the procedure for setting the combination locks on the case, then locked them and looked around for just the right spot. She found a place among some filing boxes that had been seized during a drug raid, and set it there. Then she got an evidence sticker, put her name on it, and fixed it to the side of the case. If anyone came across it, they wouldn’t be able to open it, and if they asked about it, she could say she’d forgotten to log it in.

She went back to her office, picked up the duffel and the FedEx package, and set them on her desk, looking at her watch. It was nearly ten. The call should come soon. She switched on her desk light, picked up a law enforcement magazine, put her feet on the desk, and started to read. Twenty minutes later, her cell phone vibrated on her belt. “Yes?”

“Hey, you ready for us?”

“Yes.” She asked where he was, then gave him directions, then she hung up, picked up the duffel and the FedEx package, and walked down to the garage with Daisy clicking along on the tile floor behind her.

She got some gear out of her car, then waited in the garage for another twenty minutes, until headlights appeared outside. She walked out and held up a hand for the truck to stop.

Two men got out. “Hey, how you doin’?” the passenger said.

“I’m good. You got my package?”

“Sure. You got my package?”

She handed him the duffel. “It’s in stacks of one hundred hundreds. Count it.”

He counted it carefully. “It’s good,” he said, and he led the way to the rear of the vehicle.

Holly watched as the two men removed a dozen boxes from the back of the truck. Then one man climbed in and walked forward a few steps. He knocked on something. “Hey, man, we’re here,” he called. “You ready to come out?”

Holly switched on her flashlight, illuminated the inside of the truck, and pulled out her gun.

“Here we go,” the man said, opening the door.

Trini Rodriguez stepped out into the bright glare of the tactical light, holding up a hand to spare his eyes. He would be effectively blind for a minute or two. He followed the other man forward, then hopped down from the truck. “Hey, what’s with the light?” he said.

Holly held the light so that it illuminated her gun, which was pointed at his head. “Lie down on the ground,” she said.

“What?”

“You see the gun? Lie down on the ground, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Trini prostrated himself.

“Is he clean?” Holly asked the men.

“Oh, yeah. We didn’t let him have a piece.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Trini asked.

Holly handed the belt to one of the men. “Put this on him,” she said, “buckle to the rear.” She watched as they buckled the belt on him and rolled him over. Then she handed them the cuffs. “Run these through the ring and handcuff him, hands in front,” she said, and they did. “Now get him on his feet.”

They stood him up, then stepped back.

“Guard, Daisy,” she said, pointing at Trini.

Daisy took up a position in front of him and bared her teeth, making a low growling noise.

“You keep that dog away from me!” Trini hollered.

“Behave yourself, or I’ll show you how she’s been trained to eat genitals,” Holly said. She turned to the two men. “Gentlemen, our business is concluded. Please thank Vito for me, and give him my very best.”

They bade her good night, got into the truck, and drove away.

“Now,” she said to Trini, “you’re under arrest. We’re going to pretend that I read you your rights, and I hope that, between here and the cell that’s waiting for you, you’ll give me an excuse to set the dog on you and shoot you in the head. Now turn around and march.”

Trini turned around and marched.

Ten minutes later, Trini was secured and logged in. “He’s being arraigned tomorrow morning,” she said to the duty officer who had helped her. “The paperwork is all done. Put him down for some breakfast.”

Trini looked at her sullenly through the bars. “I’m gonna get you,” he said.

“Trini,” she replied, “you’re all through getting people, and you’ve just spent your last day on earth as a free man. All the rest of your days, which are numbered, you’ll be looking at the world through bars, right up until the moment they put the needle in your arm.”

On the way home, Holly stopped at a FedEx box and dropped her package into it.

“Now let’s go home and get some dinner,” she said to Daisy.

Daisy made a little noise in anticipation. She knew what “dinner” meant.

Holly drove home with a wonderful sense of satisfaction. Now her only worry was what to do about Lance Cabot’s offer of work. In her head, just for fun, she began composing a letter of resignation to the city council of Orchid Beach.

60

STONE WAS SITTING at his desk when Joan came in with a Federal Express package.

“This just came for you,” she said. “You want me to open it?”

“I’ll do it,” Stone said, glancing at the return address on the label. He ripped open the package and dumped the contents onto his desk as his secretary watched.

“Holy shit,” Joan said, uncharacteristically.

Stone picked up the note among the bundles of cash. “ ‘For services rendered,’ ” he read aloud.

“Those must have been some services,” Joan said.

Stone laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I never thought she’d use the cash,” he said.

“Who?”

“Holly Barker. Log this in, put it in the safe, and include the taxes in the next quarterly payment to the IRS.”

“Yes, boss,” Joan said, sweeping the money back into the envelope. She left his office.

Stone took out a sheet of his stationery and began writing.

Payment received. I don’t know what you’ve decided to do about Lance’s offer of work (and of assistance with foreign banking), but I hope your decision brings you back this way soon. It would be fun to know you without the burden of chasing somebody else. Best to Ham, Ginny, and Daisy.

Fondly,

Stone

He addressed and sealed the envelope, got his jacket, and dropped the envelope on Joan’s desk on his way out.

“Where you going?” she asked.

“To look at Porsches,” he said, closing the door behind him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to express my gratitude to my editor, David Highfill, and all the people at Putnam who work so hard to get my work to its readers.

I’d also like to thank my literary agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit for their fine representation over the past twenty-two years. Their fine work is much appreciated.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me email. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my email, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an email and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their email address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: email, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you email, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get email addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may email it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to David Highfill at Putnam, address above. Do not email your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Two-Dollar Bill

A G.P. Putnam's sons Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2005 by Stuart Woods

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguin.com

ISBN: 978-1-1012-1012-3

A G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS BOOK®

G.P. Putnam's sons Books first published by The G.P. Putuam's sons Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS and the “P” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: June, 2005

Contents

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1

ELAINE’S, LATE. For some reason no one could remember, Thursday nights were always the busiest at Elaine’s. Stone Barrington reflected that it may have had something to do with the old custom of Thursday being Writer’s Night, an informal designation that began to repeat itself when a lot of the writers who were regular customers gathered on Thursdays at the big table, number four, to bitch about their publishers, their agents, the size of their printings and promotion budgets, their wives, ex-wives, children, ex-children, dogs and ex-dogs.

The custom had withered with the imposition of smoking rules, when Elaine figured that number four needed to be in the smoking section, and since the new, no-smoking-at-all law came into effect, Writer’s Night had never been revived. Anyway, Stone figured, every night was Writer’s Night at Elaine’s, and that was all right with him.

On this particular night, every table in the main dining room was jammed, and the overflow of tourists and nonregulars had filled most of the tables in Deepest Siberia, which was the other dining room. The only times Stone had ever sat in that room were either when Elaine had sold the main dining room for a private party, or when he was in deep shit with Elaine, something he tried to avoid.

Tonight, however, Elaine was fixing him with that gaze that could remove varnish. He had been to a black tie dinner party and had stopped by for a drink afterward, just in time to secure his usual table, the last available. Now he was sitting there, sipping a brandy, and not eating dinner. Elaine strongly preferred it if, when one sat down at a table, especially on a night as busy as this, one ordered dinner. She didn’t much care if you ate it or not, as long as it got onto the bill.

To make matters worse, Dino had wandered in, having also dined elsewhere, and had sat down and also ordered only a brandy.

Suddenly, Elaine loomed over the table. “You fucking rich guys,” she said.

“Huh?” Stone asked, as if he didn’t know what she meant.

She explained it to him. “You go out and eat somewhere else in your fucking tuxedos, then you come in here and take up a table and nurse a drink.”

“Wait a minute,” Dino said, “I’m not wearing a tuxedo.”

“And I’m not nursing this drink,” Stone said, downing the rest of his brandy and holding up his glass, signaling a waiter for another. “And you may recall, we were in here last night, eating with both hands.”

“A new night begins at sunset,” Elaine said. “Now get hungry or get to the bar.” She wandered off and sat down at another table.

“You feeling hungry?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, a little,” Dino replied.

Stone handed the waiter his glass. “Bring us an order of the fried calamari,” he said, “and get some silver and napkins on the table, so it’ll look like we’re ordering.”

“You think that’ll work?” Dino asked, looking sidelong at Elaine.

“Maybe she’ll get distracted,” Stone said. “Bring us a bottle of the Frascati, too, instead of the brandy,” he said to the waiter. “And some bread.”

“The bread is a good move,” Dino said. “You don’t think she really meant that about going to the bar, do you?”

The bar crowd and the restaurant crowd at Elaine’s were occupied by different tribes, each of whom acknowledged the presence of the other only when eyeing their women. Neither Stone nor Dino had ever had a drink at the bar.

“Nah,” Stone replied. “It’s just her sense of humor.” He looked up and was elated to see Bill Eggers, the managing partner of Woodman & Weld, the law firm to whom Stone was of counsel, coming in the front door. Stone waved him over and pumped his hand.

“Sit down and order dinner,” Stone said.

Eggers sat down. “I already ate,” he said.

“Shhh, Elaine will hear you. Order something for Christ’s sake.” Stone shoved a menu at him.

“Why?”

“You want to drink at the bar?”

Eggers opened the menu. “I guess I could eat some dessert.”

“Good.”

“I’ve been out with a new client,” Eggers said. “He’ll be here in a minute; he went to get his limo washed.”

“Huh?”

“He wants to make sure it’s hand washed,” Eggers explained, “and he doesn’t trust his driver to do it right.”

“And you want this guy for a client?”

“Actually, you want this guy for a client, because he wants you for his lawyer.”

“You mean he asked for me?”

Eggers nodded. “Go figure.”

A new client did not usually ask for Stone; he first came to Eggers with some embarrassing, awful problem: a private detective in the employ of his wife had photographed him in bed with a bad woman; his son had been accused of the date-rape of his headmaster’s daughter; his wife, drunk, had driven his Mercedes through a liquor-store window. Like that. Eggers then hunted down Stone, whose lot it was to handle the sort of thing that Woodman & Weld did not want to be seen handling. In return for this service, the firm would occasionally hand him a nice personal-injury suit that could be settled quickly.

“What’s his problem?”

“He doesn’t have one, that I know of,” Eggers said. “He’s a rich Texan, which may be redundant; he’s a good-looking guy who attracts women like blackflies on a May day in Maine; and he’s unmarried.”

“What kind of problems could he possibly have?” Dino asked. “Has he killed somebody, maybe?”

“Not that he mentioned.”

“How’d you come by him?” Stone asked.

“He was recommended by another Texan client, a very valuable one, a client you are not to go anywhere near.”

“And he just asked for me, out of the blue?”

“Out of the clear blue. He said, and I quote,” and here Eggers lapsed into a broad drawl, “ ‘I hear you got a feller, name of Barrington, does some stuff for you. I want him to handle my little ol’ account.’ ”

“He must be planning to kill somebody,” Dino said. “Maybe drum up some business for me?” Dino was the NYPD lieutenant in charge of the detective squad at the 19th Precinct, sometimes called the Silk Stocking Precinct because it covered the Upper East Side of New York City. He had been Stone’s partner, back when Stone had been a police detective.

“Here he is now,” Eggers said, nodding toward the front door.

A man of about six-four and two hundred and twenty pounds, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, wearing a western-cut suit and a broad-brimmed Stetson, filled the front door.

“He looks like one of the Sons of the Pioneers,” Dino said.

Stone hated him on sight. “Make sure he orders dinner,” he said to Eggers.

2

THE TEXAN had a bone-crushing handshake. “Hey,” he said to the table, then he started crushing bones. “I’m Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

“That’s Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York Police Department,” Eggers said, “and that’s Stone Barrington.”

“Did you say ‘Barnstormer’?” Stone asked incredulously.

“Yep,” Billy Bob replied. “My grandaddy was a pilot in World War One, and after that he barnstormed around the country for a while, before he started up Southwest Airlines.”

“I thought Herb Kelleher and Rollin King started Southwest,” Stone said.

“Them, too,” Billy Bob replied blithely. “Like I said, he was barnstorming, and his name was originally Barnstetter, so it made sense to make the change while he was doing that work. He got used to it, I guess, so he had it changed, legal-like.”

Dino looked nervously at Elaine and slid a menu across the table. “Have some dinner.”

“Thanks, me and ol’ Bill, here, already ate.”

“Bill is having dessert,” Dino said.

“I think I’ll have some bourbon for dessert,” Billy Bob replied. He turned to the waiter. “What you got?”

“We’ve got Jack Daniel’s and Wild Turkey and Knob Creek, but Stone is the only one who drinks that, except for that writer.”

“I’ll have me a double Wild Turkey straight up,” Billy Bob said, then turned his attention to Stone, giving him a broad, pearly smile. “I heard some good things about you,” he said.

“What did you hear?” Dino asked. “We never hear anything good about him.”

Stone shot Dino what he hoped was a withering glance.

“Well, even back in Texas we get some news from the East ever now and then. Can I buy you fellers a drink?”

“We’ve got one already,” Stone said. “What sort of problem have you got, Billy Bob?”

Billy Bob looked puzzled. “Problem?”

“Why do you need a lawyer?”

“Well, shoot, everybody needs a lawyer don’t they?”

“Hard to argue with that,” Eggers agreed.

“You planning to murder anybody?” Dino asked hopefully.

“Not this evenin’,” Billy Bob replied, flashing his big grin again. “They got a pissing place around here?”

“Through the door, first on your left,” Stone said, pointing.

Billy Bob got up and followed directions.

“That ol’ boy has either the best teeth or the best dental work I’ve ever seen,” Dino said.

“How did you come up with this guy again?” Stone asked Eggers.

“I told you, he came recommended by a good client in Texas. Stone, just talk to the man, will you?”

Billy Bob arrived back at the table simultaneously with his bourbon. He peeled a bill off a fat roll and handed it to the waiter.

The waiter looked at it. “A two-dollar bill? I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

“Coin of the realm, my friend,” Billy Bob said.

“The Wild Turkey is eight dollars,” the waiter said.

“That’s on my bill,” Eggers said.

“And the Jefferson is for you,” Billy Bob told the waiter.

The waiter pocketed the money and went away shaking his head.

“Jefferson?” Dino asked.

“Thomas Jefferson is on the two-dollar bill,” Stone said.

“I thought he was worth more than that,” Dino said.

“Me, too,” Eggers interjected. “Madison is on the five-thousand-dollar bill, except there isn’t one anymore. I don’t know who’s on the ten-thousand-dollar bill.”

“Chase,” Stone said.

“There’s no president named Chase,” Eggers replied.

“Salymon Portland Chase,” Stone said. “Secretary of the Treasury and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”

“How do you know that?” Dino asked doubtfully.

“I know a lot of stuff,” Stone replied.

“So, Billy Bob,” Dino said, “is that whole wad in your pocket two-dollar bills?”

“Naw,” Billy Bob said. “I got some hundreds in there, too.”

Stone’s calamari and Eggers’s dessert arrived. Billy Bob tossed down his Wild Turkey and ordered another.

“When did you get into town?” Stone asked, trying to keep a conversation going.

“This evenin’,” Billy Bob replied. “My GIV sucked a bird in a engine out at Teterboro, so I’m going to be here a few days while they stick a new one on it.”

“I always wanted a Gulfstream Four,” Eggers said wistfully.

“Sell you mine when my Gee Five gets here,” Billy Bob said. “I got one on order.”

“What’s the difference?” Dino asked.

“The Five is bigger, faster, got more range. Shoot, I can go from Dallas to Moscow on that thing, not that you’d want to. Don’t know why anybody would want to go to Moscow. Freeze your balls off.”

Everybody nodded gravely. Conducting a conversation with Billy Bob Barnstormer was not going to be easy.

“What business are you in, Billy Bob?” Stone asked.

“Why, whatever turns a two-dollar bill,” Billy Bob replied. “You name it, I’m in it. Me and Warren Buffett got a little start-up goin’, but I cain’t talk about that, yet.”

Stone tried again. “What’s your main interest?”

“Money.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“American dollars.”

Stone sighed.

Eggers jumped into the breach. “Stone, most of our clients are in more than one business. Sounds like Billy Bob, here, is an investor.”

“I like that,” Billy Bob said. “An investor. Yeah.”

“Where you staying while you’re in town?” Dino asked.

“Well, usually I take the presidential suite at the Four Seasons,” Billy Bob said, “but all their suites are booked up for some kind of convention, so I guess I got to scare up some other accommodation.”

“New York hotels are tight this time of year,” Dino said. “Stone, why don’t you put up Billy Bob at your house? You’ve got a lot of room.”

Stone aimed a kick under the table at Dino, but Dino was too quick for him. “Well, I think Billy Bob is looking for a higher level of service than I’m able to offer,” Stone said.

“It would be very kind of you, Stone,” Eggers chimed in. “After all, it’s very late, and Billy Bob is a client.”

Stone looked desperately for an out.

“Why, thank you, Stone,” Billy Bob said, sounding truly grateful. “That’s the nicest thing anybody ever did for me. And I thought all New Yorkers was tight-assed sons of bitches.” He shook his head in wonder.

“Oh, not all New Yorkers,” Dino said. “Stone is a prince of a fellow.”

“He certainly is,” Eggers agreed, pursing his lips to suppress a laugh. “A king, even.”

“If I were a king,” Stone said, “neither of you two would have a head.”

“Now, Stone,” Dino said, “that’s unkind. And just when Billy Bob was thinking well of you.”

“I still think well of him,” Billy Bob said, tossing back another Wild Turkey. “Well, I think I’m about ready to hit the bunkhouse. You ready, Stone?”

“Yes, I guess I am,” Stone said, rising. “You get the bill,” he said to Eggers.

“Sure thing, Stone.”

“C’mon, boy, I’ll give you a ride in my limousine,” Billy Bob said.

Stone followed him toward the door, stopping at a table to give Elaine a peck on the cheek. “Good night, Elaine.”

“Good riddance,” she said.

3

STONE STEPPED OUT into the bitterly cold night and turned up his overcoat collar. Billy Bob joined him, overcoatless, and pointed at an absurdly long white limousine at the curb.

“Just hop in there, boy,” he said.

As he climbed into the enormous car, Stone tried to remember the last time someone had called him “boy.” Probably when he was a boy, he concluded.

Billy Bob climbed into the car and settled in beside him, then, simultaneously with the slamming of the door, the window beside Stone suddenly crazed over, apparently because of a bullet hole in its center. This was followed quickly by two more bullets, and this time, Stone could hear the gun. He had not even had time to duck. He looked out the now-absent window in time to see a black Lincoln Town Car turn left onto Eighty-eighth Street, against the light, and disappear down the block.

He turned to speak to Billy Bob and found him no longer there. Stone hipped his way across the seat and got out of the curbside door, looking for Billy Bob. The Texan stood in the street, holding an old-fashioned Colt Single-Action Army six-shooter with a pearl handle, looking for a target.

“Are you nuts?” Stone yelled at him.

“Huh?” Billy Bob asked, noticing Stone for the first time.

Stone snatched the pistol out of his hand. “Give me that!”

“Hey, what are you doin’?” Billy Bob demanded.

Stone stuck the weapon into his inside overcoat pocket. “You can get three years at Riker’s Island just for holding that thing in this town.”

“You mean New York won’t support a man’s Second Amendment right to bear arms?”

“Let’s just say that the New York Police Department has a different interpretation of the Second Amendment than you do.”

Stone walked back toward Elaine’s.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the police,” Stone called over his shoulder. “Somebody has just tried to kill you, and if I were you, I’d get out of the street before they come back.” He went back into the restaurant and walked back to the table he had just left. “You’d better get some people over here,” he said to Dino. “Somebody just took a few shots at Woodman & Weld’s newest client.”

“What!!!” Bill Eggers shouted.

“Yeah, you can really pick ’em, Bill.”

Dino got on his cell phone and called the cavalry.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dino’s detectives were conducting their preliminary investigation of the incident, and a criminalist was searching the car for bullet fragments.

One of the detectives walked over to Billy Bob, notebook in hand. “You’re Mr. Barnstormer, is that right?” the detective asked.

“That sure is right,” Billy Bob said.

“You got any identification, sir?”

Billy Bob produced a Texas driver’s license.

“Is this your current address?” the detective asked, checking the license.

“It sure is.”

“Are you armed, Mr. Barnstormer?” the detective asked.

“Hold it, Billy Bob,” Stone said, placing a hand on his arm. “My name is Barrington. I’m Mr. Barnstormer’s attorney,” he said to the detective. “I’d like to point out that your question is inappropriate, in the circumstances, since Mr. Barnstormer is the intended victim here, and I instruct him not to answer. I will tell you, though, that Mr. Barnstormer is not carrying a weapon.”

“Okay,” the detective said, making a note. “Anybody see the car?”

“I did,” Stone replied. “I was sitting next to the shot-out window, and I saw a black Lincoln Town Car make a hard left onto Eighty-eighth Street, running the light. It had New York plates, but I couldn’t get the number.”

“Okay,” the detective said. “Mr. Barnstormer, can you think of anyone in New York City who might want to cause you harm?”

Billy Bob looked at Stone.

“You can answer that one,” Stone said.

“Nope.”

“No one at all?”

Billy Bob looked at Stone again, and he nodded.

“Nope.”

“Do you know anybody in New York, Mr. Barnstormer?”

“Sure, I know lots of folks. I know Lieutenant Bacchetti over there, and I know a feller named Mr. Michael Bloomberg.”

“You know the mayor?” Stone asked, surprised.

“Yep, we’re real tight, Mike and me.”

“I think that’s all I need to know for the moment, Mr. Barnstomer,” the cop said. “Where are you staying?”

“You can reach him through me,” Stone said, handing the detective his card. “Can we go now? You through with the car?”

The criminalist walked over.

“You find anything?” the detective asked him.

“No bullet fragments,” the young man said, “but I found some residue on the broken glass.”

“What kind of residue?”

“Whoever did the shooting used frangible ammo, the kind of stuff you use at the firing range. The slugs disintegrated on impact with the glass, which is why the window on the opposite side of the car didn’t take any hits. Looks like you’ve got an environmentally conscious shooter.”

“A real citizen,” Stone said. “Is the car released?”

“Sure,” the criminalist said.

“Are you through with Mr. Barnstormer?” Stone asked the detective.

“For the moment.”

“Thank you and good night,” Stone said, climbing into the car. “Let’s go, Billy Bob.”

The car pulled away from the curb, and Stone gave the driver the address before turning to his new client. “All right, Billy Bob,” he said, “what the fuck was that all about?”

“How the hell should I know?” Billy Bob responded.

“You don’t know who your enemies are?”

“I don’t have no enemies, to speak of.”

“What about the ones not to speak of?”

“Well, you know, you do business, you piss off a few people along the way.”

“You do much business in New York?”

“Now and again.”

“You do business with anybody of a criminal nature?”

“Well, you never know what folks do in their spare time.”

“You know anybody with connections to organized crime?”

“I do business with businesspeople, that’s all,” Billy Bob said, sounding defensive.

“You piss off anybody in New York?”

“Not that I know of,” Billy Bob said.

Stone was having trouble speaking, now, since he was sitting next to the blown-out window and the icy air was blowing in his face at thirty miles an hour, and his lips didn’t want to move. He put his gloved hands over his face and waited for the car to reach its destination.

THE CAR PULLED UP in front of Stone’s town house in Turtle Bay, and everybody got out. The driver went to the trunk and began unloading luggage, while Stone, in amazement, counted. Eight pieces of black alligator luggage with brass corners were disgorged. Stone reckoned there was fifty thousand dollars’ worth of reptilian baggage there. It took all three of them to get it up the front steps of the house and into the entrance hall.

“Pick me up at nine o’clock in the morning,” Billy Bob said to the driver, “and get me a car with a back window.”

“I’d advise you to travel in something less conspicuous,” Stone said, “since people are shooting at you. Try a black Lincoln, like the shooter; there are thousands of them in the city.”

“Okay,” Billy Bob said to the driver, “something shorter and blacker.” He tipped the man and sent him on his way.

Stone and Billy Bob humped the luggage into the elevator, and Stone pushed the button for the third floor. “Left out of the elevator, first door on your right,” he said. “I’ll walk up; we wouldn’t want to break the cable.”

“What time do you get up?” Billy Bob asked. “I fix a mean breakfast.”

“Not early,” Stone said. “Kitchen’s on the ground floor; help yourself.” He let the elevator door close and headed for his own room, thinking only of how to get the man out of his house at the earliest possible moment the following morning.

4

STONE WAS WAKENED by the smell of seared meat. He rolled over and checked the bedside clock: 8:30 A.M. He had overslept. He struggled out of bed, got into a robe and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Billy Bob Barnstormer was standing before the Viking range, turning over a thick strip steak on the integral gas grill, while stirring something in a saucepan on an adjacent burner. He looked over at Stone. “Hey! G’mornin’! I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“You did. What are you doing?” Stone looked at the steaks; he had bought them at Grace’s Marketplace, at hideous expense, with the idea of cooking them in the company of a woman he knew.

“Why, I’m just rustlin’ up some grub for us,” Billy Bob said. “I had to go with what I could find in the icebox, ’cept for the grits. I brought those with me.”

“You travel with grits?” Stone asked.

“Only when I go north,” Billy Bob explained. “You cain’t get ’em up here. How you like your beef cooked?”

“Medium to medium rare,” Stone said, annoyed with himself for cooperating in this endeavor. “I’m not sure I can eat a steak at this hour of the day.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll have the grits and some eggs to cut the grease. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, y’know.” Billy Bob picked up a bowl of what looked like a dozen eggs, whisked them briefly with a fork and dumped them into a skillet holding a quarter pound of melted butter. “Have a seat,” he said. “Oughta be two minutes, now.” He turned the steaks again.

Stone got a container of fresh orange juice out of the Sub-Zero and poured two glasses, put some coffee on, then set the table and sat down. Reconsidering, he got up and found two steak knives, then sat down again.

Billy Bob forked the steaks onto the two plates, then scooped out some grits, then filled the unoccupied portion of the plates with scrambled eggs. He took a bottle of Tabasco sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his eggs, but when he tried for Stone’s plate, Stone snatched it away.

“Hold the Tabasco,” Stone said. “You’re trying to put me in the hospital, aren’t you?”

“Aw, it’s good for you.” Billy Bob sat down and sawed his steak in half. It was blood rare, blue in the middle.

So was Stone’s. He got up and put it back on the grill, then sat down and started on his eggs and grits.

“You like your meat burnt, then?” Billy Bob asked through a mouthful of food.

“I like it medium to medium rare,” Stone said, getting up and flipping the steak. He waited another couple of minutes, then removed the meat to his plate.

“Real nice morning out there.” Billy Bob said. “I brought in your paper.”

“The forecast for this morning was six degrees Fahrenheit,” Stone said.

“Yeah, I guess it’s about that,” Billy Bob agreed.

“You call that a real nice morning?”

“Well, the sun’s shining bright,” Billy Bob said. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Did you come to New York without an overcoat?” Stone asked.

“I never really needed one,” Billy Bob said. “I spent a week in Nome, Alaska, on an oil deal once, in the middle of the winter, and I got by all right without one. What’d you do with my gun?”

“I locked it in my safe,” Stone said. “You can have it back when you’re on your way out of town.”

“You folks sure are fussy about what a man carries,” Billy Bob said.

“It’s not us folks; it’s the NYPD.”

“You’re my lawyer; get me a license for the thing.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” Stone said. “The process is so long and drawn out that most people stop when they see the forms. And in the end, you only get it if you can prove you carry diamonds or large amounts of cash.”

“How large is a large amount of cash?”

“I don’t know, fifty grand, maybe.”

“Well, shoot, I’m carrying that right now. I mean, it’s in my briefcase. That’s pocket money where I come from.”

“In New York it’s an invitation to get hit over the head. You think that had anything to do with your getting shot at last night?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking on that, and you know what? Them bullets was fired at your side of the car.”

Stone stopped eating. “They were not fired at me.”

“Well, we just don’t know that, do we? You made any enemies lately?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Stone said. “People don’t shoot at lawyers.”

“Why, shucks,” Billy Bob said, “in Texas, every lawyer I know is packin’. Don’t you ever pack?”

“Sometimes, when it’s called for.”

“Well, there you go.”

“They weren’t shooting at me. Nobody has ever shot at me, except when I was a cop.”

“Maybe there’s bad people you put in the pokey; maybe they’re all pissed off about it.”

There had, in fact, been such a case in Stone’s past, but only one, and he was not about to admit it to Billy Bob Barnstormer. “Nope.”

“Well, how ’bout that feller with the German name that got after you and Dino that time?” Billy Bob asked.

“How’d you hear about that?” Stone asked.

“I got my sources. You think I’d hire you without checking you out?”

“You haven’t hired me, Billy Bob, and it’s my considered opinion that there’s no reason why you should.”

“I don’t see how you figure that,” Billy Bob replied. “I needed a lawyer last night.”

“Not really; all you needed was somebody to disarm you. I just made the investigation go a little faster.”

“Funny, I thought it was when I mentioned Mike Bloomberg that things got to going faster.”

“Right, you see? You don’t need a lawyer.”

“Well, I think I’m going to be the judge of that,” Billy Bob said, taking an envelope from a pocket and laying it on the table.

“What’s that?”

“Your retainer,” Billy Bob said.

“My retainer for what?”

“For representing me as my lawyer. It’s a check for fifty grand.”

Stone gulped and washed down some eggs with some orange juice. “What are you involved in, Billy Bob?”

“Why, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, you got shot at last night, and you seem real anxious to have a lawyer.”

“Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Everybody ought to have a lawyer. I have a lawyer ever’ place I do business.”

“And how many lawyers is that?”

“A whole mess of ’em.”

“At fifty grand a pop?”

“Well, I pay less in the boondocks, but when you’re in a place like New York, you got to go first class.”

“I appreciate that, Billy Bob, but if I’m going to be your lawyer, you’re going to have to level with me.”

“Stone, I promise you, the second there’s something to level with you about, I’ll level with you.”

Stone eyed the envelope with the check. He had been prepared to instruct his secretary to sell some stock this morning, since he was cash poor.

“Well, all right, I’ll represent you, but you’ve got to keep me up-to-date on what you’re doing, if I’m going to be effective.”

“Why, sure I will,” Billy Bob said soothingly.

Stone didn’t feel soothed. He felt stuffed like a pig, having just eaten the biggest breakfast of his life. All he needed now was an apple in his mouth. He read the Times and tried to forget his stomach.

The phone rang, and Stone picked up the kitchen extension. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” a man said. “May I speak with Billy Bob Barnstormer, please? This is Warren Buffett calling.” Stone was stunned into silence for a moment.

“Hello?” Buffett said.

“Sorry, just a moment.” Stone held out the phone to Billy Bob. “It’s for you.”

Billy Bob took the phone. “Hello? Hey, Warren, how you doin’? Just fine thanks. We ready to go? Shoot, I been ready for a month. You want some money? How much? Thirty? That gonna be enough to give us a decent cash reserve? You sure you don’t need more? Well, it’s there if you need it. I’ll get it to you this morning. Nah, I got your account number from last time. Great, you take care now.” Billy Bob hung up. “Mind if I make a long-distance call on your phone? I’ll pay, of course.”

“As long as it’s not to Hong Kong, be my guest.”

Billy Bob dialed a number. “Hey, Ralph. You up yet? Okay, when you get to the office wire Warren Buffett thirty million dollars. Yeah, same account as last time and the time before that. You know the drill. Okay, talk to you later.” Billy Bob hung up. “Well, we’re off!”

Stone stared at him, wondering. Well, he’d seen Buffett on television lately, and it had sounded like him.

5

STONE WORKED in his office most of the day, clearing his desk of papers that had piled up over the past couple of weeks. It went like that, usually—he neglected things, then got them done in a rush. He had his secretary, Joan Robertson, deposit Billy Bob’s check, and she looked relieved to have the money in the bank.

Late in the afternoon he went upstairs and looked for Billy Bob, but he had, apparently, checked out of the Stone Hotel. For a moment, Stone was confused by the pile of alligator luggage still in the guest bedroom. Then he found a note: “Thanks for the sack, Stone. Keep the luggage as a house present. I got some more. Billy Bob B.”

Stone gazed at the cases in disbelief, pushing at them with a toe as if they might bite. They felt empty. He’d leave them there and argue with Billy Bob about it later.

He had a big event, starting at six o’clock—Woodman & Weld’s annual firm party at the Four Seasons restaurant. He got out a fresh tuxedo, shirt, shoes, jewelry and a bow tie, then shaved and got into a shower. He had just finished and turned off the water when he heard a noise from the direction of his bedroom and the murmur of voices.

He grabbed a terry-cloth robe and walked toward the sounds. Two men in suits were having a look around his bedroom. “Who the hell are you?” Stone demanded.

The two men turned and looked at him, unsurprised. “FBI,” one of them said, and they both flashed IDs.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Your secretary let us in and told us to wait.”

“She didn’t tell you to wait in my bedroom.”

“She wasn’t specific.”

“What do you want?”

“The United States Attorney wants to see you.”

“Well, tell him to call and make an appointment.”

“Wants to speak with you now.”

Stone checked the bedside clock. “At this hour of the day?”

“Get dressed,” the man said.

What the hell could the U.S. Attorney want with him? Stone wondered. He went back into the bathroom, dried and combed his hair, then went back into the bedroom. The two FBI agents were still standing there, looking bored. He went into his dressing room and got his clothes on.

“The occasion isn’t formal,” an agent said, when Stone reappeared.

“I always dress for the U.S. Attorney,” Stone said. “Let’s go.” They went downstairs, and Stone grabbed a heavy, black cashmere topcoat, a white silk scarf, a black hat and some warm gloves. New York was in the midst of its coldest winter in years. They went outside and got into a black Lincoln that was idling at the curb, apparently driven by another agent.

“We have to go all the way downtown?” Stone asked. “It’s rush hour; it’ll take at least an hour, and I have to be somewhere.”

“Relax, we’re not going far,” an agent said.

Ten minutes later they stopped at the Waldorf-Astoria, at the Towers entrance. The agents led him to an elevator, and they went up many floors, stopping near the top of the building. The elevator opened into a large vestibule, and Stone could hear the sound of many voices beyond a set of large double doors. An agent opened a side door and showed him into a small study.

“Be right with you,” the agent said, closing the door behind him.

Stone shucked off his overcoat and tossed it onto a sofa, next to somebody’s mink coat. He looked around the room: It didn’t appear to have been done by a hotel decorator but seemed actually to be used as a study. Behind him, a door opened and closed, and Stone turned around. A tall, blond woman in a tight black cocktail dress walked toward him, her hand extended.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. I’m Tiffany Baldwin, the U.S. Attorney for New York.”

Stone shook her hand. “The last time I saw you,” he said, “you had a different name and were six feet six and wearing a double-breasted suit.”

“I believe you’re referring to my predecessor,” she said.

The change was news to Stone. “When did he predecess?”

“He handed over the reins an hour ago. He’s the new Deputy Attorney General; I’m replacing him tomorrow morning at nine. Those voices you hear through there are a welcome-aboard party for me.” She waved him toward a chair and took one, herself.

“U.S. Attorneys are not named Tiffany,” Stone said, “and they don’t look in the least like you.”

“Thank you, I think,” she replied. “Sorry about the name, but by the time I graduated from Harvard Law, it was too late to change it. I’ll never forgive my parents, of course, but what are you going to do?”

“Well, now we know why you’re here,” Stone said. “But what am I doing here? Are you going to offer me a job as your deputy?”

She smiled sardonically. “Hardly.”

“What do you mean, ‘hardly’?” Stone said, sounding wounded. “I went to law school, too, you know, though not at Harvard.”

“Well, that immediately disqualifies you, doesn’t it?”

“Watch it. I’ll spread the word, and you’lll spend all your time in New York being given a hard time by old NYU Law grads.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Now to business. I want to talk with you about a client of yours.”

Not Billy Bob Barnstormer, Stone thought. Not already. “What client is that?”

“Rodney Peeples.”

“Rodney who?”

“Peeples.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Come now, Stone; confirming that you represent him is not a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.”

“I’m not being confidential, I’m being baffled,” Stone replied.

Tiffany Baldwin sighed. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”

“Like what, baffled? I am genuinely baffled. I have never heard of Rodney Peeples, and I suspect neither has anyone else, name like that.”

“It does seem improbable, doesn’t it?”

“My whole evening, so far, seems improbable,” Stone said. “Whose apartment is this?”

“It belongs to the Ambassador to the United Nations; the Attorney General borrowed it for the event.”

“The Attorney General is in there?” Stone asked, pointing at a door.

“He is.”

“I’d like to leave now; I don’t want to catch anything.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid that if I breathe the air I might leave here as a tight-assed, right-wing, fundamentalist, anti–civil libertarian with a propensity for singing gospel music. And I don’t think that’s treatable.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Come on,” she said, rising. “Let’s get out of here.”

Stone stood up. “You’re afraid of catching it, too, aren’t you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, helping her into the mink coat from the sofa.

“To the same party,” she said.

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. I may as well give you a lift.”

“You’re just a party animal, aren’t you. Do you have another one after Woodman and Weld’s?”

“My last party of the evening.”

Stone grabbed his coat and followed her into the vestibule, where an FBI agent had the elevator door held open. They rode down in the elevator in silence, then got back into a waiting Lincoln, which was longer than the other one, while the two agents accompanying them got into a black SUV behind them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this many chaperones on a date,” Stone said. “And armed, too.”

“This isn’t a date,” she said. “It’s a coincidence.”

6

TIFFANY BALDWIN pressed a button, and a glass partition between them and the driver slid up. “Okay,” she said, “it’s not a coincidence.”

“Oh?”

“Nope. I’m new in town, and I needed a date for this party, and I once saw you across a crowded room, and I figured, what the hell?”

“I’m flattered. And is this Rodney Peeples fiction?”

“Nope, he’s real, but elusive. We heard a rumor that you were involved with him, so it was a good excuse to call you.”

They pulled up in front of the Four Seasons, and the doorman got the door.

“Let’s leave our coats in the car,” Tiffany said. “Then we won’t have to stand in line for the coat-check room when we leave.”

Stone tossed both coats and his hat into the rear seat and hustled her into the building, his teeth chattering. They climbed the big staircase and emerged into the Grill Room, which had been mostly cleared of tables so those present could drink and pump each other’s hands without bumping into the furniture. A string quartet was sawing away at some Mozart in a corner, and great quantities of food and drink were being consumed.

Stone snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and they waded into the crowd.

“Well,” Tiffany said, “this is a good introduction to New York City. I recognize a lot of faces here; how many of them do you know?”

“Hardly any, except for the lawyers I run into in the hallowed halls of Woodman and Weld, but I recognize the same faces you do.” They were former cabinet members, politicians, a couple of United States senators, the mayor, the police commissioner and enough city councilmen, CEOs and movers and shakers that if laid end to end would reach somewhere into the northern regions of Central Park.

Bill Eggers elbowed his way through the mob and, ignoring Stone, gave Tiffany a big hug and kiss. “Welcome home, kiddo,” he said.

“Home?” Stone asked.

“I interned at Woodman and Weld for two summers during law school,” she said.

Eggers took her by the hand and led her up some stairs to a level overlooking the party. Somebody rang a silver bell, and the crowed quieted a bit.

“Good evening, everyone,” Eggers said. “On behalf of Woodman and Weld I want to welcome you all here to our annual profit-draining salute to our clients and friends. I will keep you long enough only to introduce you to the newest member of the New York legal fraternity, who has just been appointed the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Formerly, as a law student, she worked summers at Woodman and Weld, and I firmly intend to use that connection every chance I get on behalf of our clients. May I introduce Ms. Tiffany Baldwin!” There was loud applause. Tiffany raised a glass to the crowd and mouthed a thank you, but said nothing. She descended the stairs with Eggers, and Stone could not get near her for an hour, such was the press to meet her.

It was not until he had been swept into the main dining room for dinner that he found her again, his place card opposite hers.

“I assume you met everyone in the place,” he said, sitting down.

“Twice,” she said, fanning herself with her hands. “What happened to you?”

“I was flotsam in the tide, but you were right, this event is an excellent introduction for you. Now half the movers and shakers in the city can say they know you when their friends say, ‘Who the hell is Tiffany Baldwin?’ ”

“Call me Tiff,” she said. “It takes some of the sting away.”

“What were your parents thinking?”

“Louis Comfort Tiffany was a distant relative by marriage,” she said, “and giving me his name gave my mother an excuse to tell people about the kinship every time she introduced me to someone. Never mind that trailer trash from Maine to California were naming their daughters Tiffany, even if they didn’t always spell it correctly. You’d be astonished at the number of ways the name can be misspelled.”

“What were you doing before your new appointment?”

“Well, until this morning I was an assistant attorney general.”

“So, you’re a Republican?”

“No, but the AG doesn’t know that, and my father is a major contributor to the party and a friend of the First Family, and that passes for political credentials.”

“You must have won a lot of cases for the Justice Department,” Stone said.

“Yes, indeed, and always the tough ones that the boys didn’t want to try. They were mostly during the Clinton years, though. The boys began to catch on that the tough cases got them noticed.”

“So, now you’re the one who’s going to try to put that nice Martha Stewart in jail?”

She raised her hands as if fending off the remark. “Nope, that one belongs to my predecessor and his chosen people. I wouldn’t touch it with a very long pole. I take it, from your view of the AG, that you’re a Democrat?”

“A Yellow Dog Democrat.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s somebody who would vote for a Yellow Dog before he’d vote for a Republican.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” she said, looking around. “This is a very Republican-looking crowd to me.”

“Nah, they’re mostly rich Democrats, though in a setting like this it can be hard to tell the difference.”

Her eyes were fixed on the entrance. “Well, it’s real hard to tell what that is.”

Stone looked over his shoulder to see Billy Bob entering the room. He was wearing a western-cut tuxedo that seemed to be sprinkled with stardust, and on his arm was a six-foot-tall woman who looked like a stripper who had been redone by Frédéric Fekkai and Versace. “Oh, that’s my newest client, one Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“I am not.”

“Where did he get that suit? It looks like he’s playing Vegas.”

“Texans have places to get things like that,” Stone said. “They keep them from the rest of us.”

“Thank God for that. Who is he? What does he do?”

“It’s hard to say, exactly. He goes out into the world and gathers money from trees. He flew into Teterboro in a GIV last night and stayed at my house, leaving many pieces of alligator luggage behind as a house gift. And he got a phone call this morning from Warren Buffett.”

“I should have such house guests,” she said.

“Do you have a house, yet?”

“They’re putting me up in a government suite at the Waldorf Towers until either I find a place or they need it for somebody more important, whichever comes first.”

“I would extend your residence there as long as possible.”

She shook her head. “No, I have to pay my own room service and laundry bills. Do you have any idea what they charge for dry cleaning a silk blouse?”

“A week’s pay?”

“Very nearly, and breakfast this morning was forty-five bucks.”

“I hope you ate well.”

“Better than I intended to. I felt I had to finish it.”

“I know how you feel. Billy Bob cooked me breakfast this morning—a strip steak and half a dozen eggs. I couldn’t eat lunch, and I’m not very hungry now.”

He looked back at Billy Bob and his date, posing for a photograph with the mayor, whose head hovered at about the height of the date’s nipples, which were threatening to become visible. They all seemed the best of friends.

Stone was still thinking about that phone call that morning. “Excuse me a second,” he said. He walked out of the dining room and into the hallway, next to the huge Picasso weaving and called Bob Cantor, who did all sorts of technical investigations for him.

“Hello?”

“Bob, it’s Stone; are you near your computer?”

“Always.”

“Can you do your magic and tell me the origin of a phone call that came to my house about nine-fifteen this morning?” Stone could hear the tapping noises from Bob’s keyboard.

“Did you get a lot of calls this morning?”

“That was the only long-distance call before about ten.”

“Here we go: It came from the residence of somebody named Warren Buffett, in Omaha, Nebraska. Holy shit, are you getting calls from Warren Buffett?”

“It would appear so. Thanks, Bob.” He hung up and returned to his table.

“Everything all right?” Tiff asked.

“Seems to be,” Stone replied. He was going to have to start taking Billy Bob Barnstormer seriously.

WHEN THE DINNER was over, they went back to her waiting car.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” she said. She lowered the partition window slightly and gave the driver the address.

“You know my address?”

“You’d be amazed at what I know about you.”

Shortly, they stopped in front of his house. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Let me call you when I see how my first day is going,” she said. “Will you take me to Elaine’s? I’ve never been.”

“Sure.” He gave her his card. “The cell-phone number is on there, too, if I’m not in my office. But then, you probably already know my cell-phone number.”

“Of course I do,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “Thanks for squiring me tonight; I’d have felt awkward alone.”

“I doubt if you’ve ever felt awkward in your life,” Stone said. He slid out of the car and ran up the front steps, carrying his coat.

7

WHEN STONE got to his bedroom, Billy Bob’s house present was stacked up at the foot of his bed, and Stone was confused. Maybe Joan had worked late and moved the luggage, but how had she even known about it?

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone woke at his usual seven o’clock, and this time, to the smell of frying bacon. He got into a robe and went down to the kitchen. Billy Bob was at the stove again, and his date of the night before was perched on a stool at the counter. Stone wondered if they had the mayor tucked away somewhere.

“Hey, Stone,” Billy Bob said. “You’re out of steak.”

“Sorry about that,” Stone said.

“This here is Tiffany,” he said, nodding at the young woman.

She extended a hand. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Stone wasn’t sure he could stand another Tiffany in his life. “I thought you’d gone to a hotel,” he said to Billy Bob.

“Well, I thought so, too, but the Four Seasons won’t have my suite until tomorrow night. I still had your key; I hope it ain’t too much of a imposition.”

“Oh, no,” Stone said. “Make yourself at home. You, too,” he said to the new Tiffany.

“I already did,” she said. “I fucked Billy Bob’s brains out last night in your guest room.”

Billy Bob laughed loudly.

“I’m so pleased for you both,” Stone said. “Billy Bob, I’ll eat two of those eggs and two strips of bacon, and no more. I still have indigestion from yesterday.”

The phone rang, and Stone answered it. “It’s for you,” he said. “Warren Buffett again.”

Tiffany Two held the phone to Billy Bob’s ear, so he could talk and cook at the same time. “You got it, Warren? Good. Everthing all right, then? Good. We got to talk about that other deal pretty soon. Yeah, I’ll be at this number until tomorrow, then at the Four Seasons. Watch your ass, Warren; bye-bye.”

Stone hung up the phone, feeling this was all wrong. One didn’t tell Warren Buffett to watch his ass. Or did one? He didn’t really know.

STONE WAS READING in his study when Tiff called. “How’s your first day going?” he asked.

“Meeting after meeting, mostly just to get introduced to everybody. I’ve been brought up-to-date on a couple of cases.”

“You sent up Martha Stewart, yet?”

“I told you, I’m keeping my distance from that. I didn’t even ask about it.”

“My guess is, you’re going to get your ass kicked.”

“Not my ass, sweetheart; I’ve got full deniability on that one. Looks like I’m okay for dinner, though. What time?”

“Pick you up at eight-thirty?”

“Why don’t I pick you up? The car goes with the job.”

“Do we really have to arrive at Elaine’s with a security detail? I’ve got my reputation to think about.”

“Tell you what, I’ll ditch the Suburban, if the FBI will let me, but the driver will still be an agent. The office has had some threats, and the AG doesn’t want me smeared all over a New York sidewalk. Like a lot of yokels, he thinks the city is a very dangerous place.”

“I hope your office doesn’t record your calls,” Stone said, “or you’re going to find yourself on the sidewalk job hunting.”

“Good point. How does one dress at Elaine’s?”

“Any way you like. I probably won’t wear a necktie, if that helps.”

“Okay, see you at eight-thirty; I’ll dress sloppy.”

SLOPPY TURNED OUT TO BE a sheepskin coat over a cashmere sweater and tan slacks that showed off her ass beautifully.

They settled at a table and ordered a drink, then Elaine came over.

“Elaine,” Stone said, “this is Tiff Baldwin, the new U.S. Attorney.”

“I heard,” Elaine said, shaking her hand. “You leave Martha Stewart alone, you hear?”

“Not my case! Before my time!”

“Fuckin’ Attorney General!” Elaine said. “Next, he’ll be after me!” She got up and went to greet some friends.

“You know,” Tiff said, “practically everybody I’ve met so far in this city, including everybody last night, has hit me with that?”

“It’s a good thing you’re not running for office,” Stone said.

“Thank God for small favors. You sleep well last night?”

“Well, I tossed and turned for a while, thinking of you, but I finally got a few hours. Woke up this morning to find the Texan in my kitchen again, this time with his date. Oh, guess what her name is.”

“Oh, God, don’t tell me.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You see the cross I bear.”

“I do.”

“What do you eat here?”

“Try the osso buco, unless you’re dieting.”

“I never diet; I exercise instead. The Waldorf has a very nice gym. Do you work out?” she asked, poking him in the belly with a finger.

“I hate it, but I do. I’ve got some equipment in the basement.”

“It looks like a nice house; you had it long?”

“I inherited it from a great-aunt a few years ago and did most of the renovation myself.”

“Nice to have a great-aunt, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I’ll show you the place sometime; my father did all the cabinetwork and millwork.”

“Your father was a builder?”

“A cabinet and furniture maker. His father was a textile mill owner in Massachusetts, but they parted company over politics.”

“What was the disagreement?”

“My grandfather was a Republican; my father was a Communist.”

“No kidding?”

“Don’t tell the AG; he’ll come after me.”

“Don’t worry, his time is taken up with Islamists these days. Where’d your first name come from?”

“My mother’s name was Matilda Stone.”

“The painter?”

“Yes. You know her work?”

“I saw an exhibit of hers at the Morgan Library once, years ago. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“They both are. Your folks still alive?”

“Very much so. Daddy is a Washington lawyer, and Mother is, well, a hostess and a great beauty. For a living.”

“Baldwin and Peet?”

“The very same.”

“So your daddy’s rich, and your ma is good-lookin’?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Tough.”

“Yes, it’s been a hard life.”

“You ready to order?”

“The osso buco sounds great.”

Stone ordered it for both of them, along with a bottle of Amerone.

Dino came in, hung up his coat and sat down at their table.

“What are you doing here?” Stone asked. “Can’t you see I’m trying to seduce this woman?”

“Introduce me,” Dino said.

“Tiff, this is Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, commander of the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. Dino, this is Tiff Baldwin, the new U.S. Attorney.”

“I heard about you on TV,” Dino said. “Why are you trying to crucify Martha Stewart?”

Tiff buried her face in her hands and pretended to weep.

“It’s not her fault, Dino,” Stone said, “now go find another table.”

“Okay, okay, I know when I’m not wanted,” Dino said, getting up. “By the way, I talked to my guy who’s heading the investigation of the shooting the other night. He thinks you were the target, not Billy Bob. See ya.” And with a wave, he went and sat down with somebody else.

“Somebody’s shooting at you?” Tiff asked.

“Ignore Dino,” Stone said. “He’s making it up.”

“Are you really trying to seduce me?”

“Not yet.”

Tiff dropped Stone off at his house at midnight.

“You going to be around this weekend?” he asked.

“Yep, I’m apartment-hunting all day Saturday.”

“You’ll be tired when you’re done; why don’t I cook you some dinner that night?”

“Sounds great; I want to see your house.”

“And I want to show it to you.”

8

STONE WOKE to the smell of absolutely nothing—no steak, no bacon. Maybe Billy Bob and his girl were sleeping in. Then, as he got out of bed, he noticed a sheet of his stationery on top of the pile of luggage at the foot of his bed. He picked it up.

“Hey, Stone,” it read. “I got to go to Omaha right away to set up a deal. Tiffany is going to her place. I’ll be back at the Four Seasons tomorrow night. Let me buy you some dinner. Billy B.”

There was no date or time on it. He got himself together and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast, this time, his usual bran cereal. Helene, his Greek housekeeper, was tidying up.

“Good morning, Mr. Stone,” she said, in her heavily accented English.

“Good morning, Helene. You can clean the big guest room; the occupants have checked out.”

“Yes, sir,” Helene said, and she went about her work.

Stone was halfway through his cereal when he heard her scream. He ran toward the back stairs and met her halfway up, coming down.

Helene seemed unable to speak, but she was pointing up the stairs.

Stone ran all the way up to the top floor, which was more exercise than he had planned on that morning, and into the guest room. Tiffany was lying on her back in the bed, and he didn’t have to look for a pulse to know she was dead. Her eyes and mouth were open, and there were big bruises on her throat. When he felt for a pulse she was cold.

Stone stepped back and looked at her, then around the room. Nothing was in disarray; her clothes were hanging neatly in the closet, and the guest bathrobe she had worn at breakfast the day before was thrown over a chair. He found her handbag under the robe but didn’t touch it. He went back to his own bedroom and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Whatsamatter? You sound funny.”

“Billy Bob’s girlfriend is dead in my guest room; looks like she was strangled.”

“Did you screw with the scene?”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll be there with troops.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, there were cops, crime-scene analysts and EMTs all over his house. Stone sat in his study, answering questions from two cops, Morton and Weiss, while Dino watched and listened.

“Where is the note?” Morton asked.

“In the trash basket next to my bed, where I threw it after I read it.”

“Where is this Billy Bob guy?”

“The note said he had gone to Omaha. He’s doing some kind of deal with Warren Buffett.”

“How do you know that?” Dino asked.

“First, he told me so; second, he’s had two phone calls from Buffett, on successive days. I checked out the first one, and it originated from Buffett’s residence in Omaha.”

“You check it out, too,” Dino said to the two detectives. “And talk to Buffett. We got a time of death, yet?”

“The ME is upstairs working on it,” Weiss said.

As if on cue, the ME came into the room, and he didn’t waste any time. “Preliminary conclusions, death by strangulation, between nine and eleven, last night.”

Stone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where were you between nine and eleven?” Morton asked.

“At Elaine’s.” He pointed at Dino. “He can confirm.”

“I can confirm,” Dino said. “I got there a little before nine, and he was already there; I left a little before eleven, and he was still there.”

“I didn’t leave until about eleven forty-five,” Stone said. “Elaine or the headwater, Gianni, can confirm that.”

Weiss had left the room, and he came back with Billy Bob’s note, holding it by a corner in his rubber-gloved fingers. “It’s on your stationery,” he said to Stone.

“I keep it on my desk in the bedroom, and in a pigeonhole over there.” He pointed at a bookcase in the corner. “I guess Billy Bob found it when he was looking for something to write the note on.”

A young man came into the room. “No prints,” he said.

“Whadaya mean, no prints?” Dino demanded.

“No prints anywhere in the bedroom or bathroom, not even the corpse’s. It’s been wiped clean, the whole area.”

“I like your purse,” Dino said, nodding at the bag hanging on the young man’s arm.

“It’s the corpse’s. Her name is Hilda Marlene Beckenheim, lives in Chelsea. There’s credit cards, a Pennsylvania driver’s license, a thing of birth-control pills and enough condoms to start a whorehouse.”

“Hooker,” Dino said.

“I’m so glad her name isn’t Tiffany,” Stone said.

“What?”

“Billy Bob introduced her to me at breakfast, yesterday, as Tiffany. One Tiffany in my life is enough.”

“Had you ever met her before that?”

“No, but I saw her at a party at the Four Seasons the night before last. Somewhere there’s a photograph of her with Billy Bob. Oh, yes, and with the mayor.”

“The mayor?” Weiss asked.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a scandal; it’s just a party photograph.”

“Where else in the house might Billy Bob have left his fingerprints?” Morton asked.

“On that note,” Stone said, pointing, “and in the kitchen. No, forget the kitchen, my housekeeper has already been in there this morning, wiping everything down. She’s very thorough. By the way, she discovered the body. She’s lying down in the second-floor guest room. Maybe she’s recovered enough to talk to you by now.”

Weiss headed for the stairs.

Joan Robertson, Stone’s secretary, came into the room. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Joan,” Stone said, “when did you last see Billy Bob?”

“Yesterday morning around ten, when he was on his way out. He said he had to go to Omaha, and he’d be back in the city tonight, at the Four Seasons.”

“Do you have any idea why he didn’t come see me before he left?”

“I thought you had gone out. Were you in the house?”

“I was here, in the study, reading, all day.”

“When you didn’t come down to the office, and when Mr. Barnstormer came down, I just assumed you had gone out.”

Dino spoke up. “Did you see him leave the house?”

“Yes; a driver put his luggage into a black Lincoln and they drove away.”

“How did you meet this Billy Bob?” Morton asked Stone.

“The head of the law firm I work for introduced him to me as a new client.” He gave the man Eggers’s name and number.

“I was there for that, too,” Dino said. “Make a note; somebody took a shot at Billy Bob’s limo the other night. DiAngelo caught the case; he’ll give you details.”

“Billy Bob’s original name was Barnstetter,” Stone said. “He says his grandfather changed it to Barnstormer, but it might help in running down his background. He came into Teterboro on a Gulfstream Four corporate jet, and he said an engine had to be replaced because of a bird strike.”

“Where in Texas is he from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anything else about him you can tell us?”

“He leaves a trail of two-dollar bills wherever he goes,” Stone said. “Tips, mostly.”

Weiss came back. “I called the Four Seasons Hotel. They know Barnstormer, and they have a reservation for him tonight, for a week.”

“Be there when he arrives,” Dino said.

TWO HOURS LATER, the corpse was gone, and people were trickling out of the house. Stone took Dino aside.

“You’ll notice I didn’t bring Tiffany Baldwin into this.”

“I noticed.”

“Can we keep it that way?”

“I don’t see why not; we can confirm your alibi without her.”

“Good; the press would be all over it, if her name came into play.”

“I’m not going to be able to keep your name out of the papers,” Dino said. “They’re already outside your door.”

“Think you could give them a statement, exonerating me and saying I’ve left on a Caribbean vacation?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dino said.

“I want to be there when your people question Billy Bob.”

“Let’s have dinner; they’ll call me when he gets in, and we’ll go over there.”

“Tell them they’re not to ask him any questions until I get there.”

“You think he needs to lawyer up?”

“Wouldn’t you lawyer up, in the circumstances?”

9

STONE GOT TO ELAINE’S first and made a show of asking for menus. Dino got there ten minutes later.

“Anything new?”

“Nah. Morton and Weiss are at the Four Seasons, waiting. You have a number for Billy Bob’s airplane or his cell phone?”

“No, neither.”

“How about a home or office address?”

“Neither. Eggers doesn’t have them, either; I called him.”

“You lawyers really keep track of your clients, don’t you?”

“He’s new, okay? Don’t give me a hard time.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

“Shut up and order a drink.” Stone nodded toward the approaching waiter. They ordered.

“Let’s jump ahead in time,” Dino said. “Suppose Billy Bob can prove he was in Omaha. What does that do for you?”

“For me?”

“You were alone in the house all day with the girl.”

“The ME said she died between nine and eleven last night. I was here, remember?”

“That was a preliminary estimate,” Dino said, “before the autopsy. What if he comes back and says she died earlier or later?”

“You’re just winding me up, aren’t you Dino?”

“I’m just telling you to be prepared to answer some questions. If it turns out that the girl died at a different time, and you spent the whole day as the only two people in the house, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Was Helene there yesterday?”

“It was her day off.”

“Swell, you just might end up fucked.”

“Dino, I met the girl once, at breakfast yesterday. What motive would I have to kill her?”

“Well, let me put my detective hat on, here,” Dino said, scratching his head. “You fucked her; it went wrong; she pissed you off; you strangled her.”

“Get out of here.”

“Or maybe you were playing that game where you almost strangle somebody to enhance the orgasm, and you were just a tad heavy-handed.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Of course, maybe he hadn’t checked the girl’s neck for prints; maybe he’ll find Billy Bob’s there.”

Stone gulped. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I touched her neck, feeling for a pulse.”

“How many fingers?”

“Two or three.”

“Well, I don’t think we need to bother Billy Bob; I can just arrest you now and save everybody a lot of time and trouble. You want to cop to, say, man one? I’ll speak to the DA.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Aw, come on, with good behavior—and you always behave well, Stone—you’d be out before it was time to collect Social Security. I mean, there was no malice aforethought. You didn’t mean to kill her, right?”

Elaine came over and sat down. “What’s up?”

Dino grinned. “We found a dead hooker in Stone’s bed, and I’m going to arrest him as soon as we finish dinner.”

“I found her and called you,” Stone said, “and she wasn’t in my bed, she was in the guest room.”

“Well, that’s certainly daintier, isn’t it?” Elaine said. “I’d never think Stone would have a hooker in his bed, but in the guest room . . . ?”

“All right, you two.”

“You think you know somebody,” Elaine said, warming to the idea, “but you never know about their secret perversions, do you?”

“Not until the guy does a hooker in the guest room,” Dino said.

Dino’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Bacchetti. Yeah, I’m on my way, and don’t question him until I get there.” He closed the cell phone. “Billy Bob’s back.”

“But we haven’t even had dinner,” Stone said.

“You don’t have to come; I can go over to the Four Seasons and help my guys question Billy Bob. Come to think of it, you might be better off if you don’t protect him too much. I’d just as soon bust him as you; I just want to clear the case.”

Stone threw down his napkin. “Let’s go.”

“Did you get the check?” Elaine asked.

Stone threw some money on the table.

“American dollars! How nice!” She tucked the money into the top of her dress.”

“Watch it, Elaine,” Dino said. “Stone knows people at the IRS.”

“Get outta here, both of you,” she growled.

BILLY BOB was sitting on the sofa of his large suite, watching a shopping channel, which was selling awful jewelry. “Hey, Stone, Dino,” he said. “What are these cops doing here? They wouldn’t say anything until you got here.”

Stone crooked a finger. “Come with me,” he said. He led Billy Bob into the bedroom.

“What is going on?” the Texan demanded.

“Account for your movements yesterday,” Stone said.

“What? What for?”

“Billy Bob, we don’t have much time. Tell me what you did and where you went after I saw you at breakfast yesterday.”

“You sound serious, Stone.”

“There are three cops waiting in the other room. Is that serious enough?”

“Awright, we ate breakfast and me and Tiffany went upstairs. Then I . . .”

“Did you have sex with her?”

“What?”

“Did you fuck her, Billy Bob? Let’s have it.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Then I got myself together, packed my stuff and left.”

“Why didn’t you take her with you?”

“Well, she was kind of tuckered out when we finished, and she wanted to take a shower.”

“Was she in the shower when you left?”

“No, she was still in bed, but she was thinkin’ about it.”

“Where did you go, then?”

“I went down to your office, but your secretary said you wasn’t there, so I got in a car and went to Teterboro and flew to Omaha, to see Warren.”

“I thought you had an engine down.”

“Gulfstream service is real good; they flew one up and got it on there yesterday.”

“All right, we’re going back in there, now. Tell them what you told me. Have you left anything out?”

“What the fuck is going on, Stone?”

“It’s better if they tell you. Have you left anything out?”

“No, that’s it.”

“All right, come on.” He led the way back into the living room.

“Have you rehearsed your client enough, Stone?” Dino asked.

“Ask him your questions.”

They asked their questions, and he gave the same answers he had given Stone.

“Can you prove you were in Omaha?” Detective Morton asked.

Billy Bob dug into a pocket and came out with a card. “Warren Buffett’s office number is on here,” he said. “You can get him tomorrow morning. I happen to know he’s out tonight.”

“Berkshire Hathaway,” Morton read from the card. “What’s that?”

“It’s just about the biggest investment company in the world,” Billy Bob said. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ another word until somebody tells me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Dino asked Stone.

“I wanted to give you that privilege,” Stone said.

“Billy Bob,” Dino said, “Tiffany was murdered in Stone’s guest room some time yesterday. She was strangled. Did you have rough sex with the girl?”

“Hell, no, I was tender as a lamb!” Billy Bob said. “Who the hell killed her?”

“We were thinking you might tell us,” Dino said.

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t kill her, and I don’t have no idea who did! Why would I want to kill her?”

“Did you give her any money before you left her?”

“Yep, I gave her six thousand bucks, in hundreds.”

“There was no money in the room or in her purse,” Morton said.

“Well, there you go,” Stone chipped in. “You’ve got robbery for a motive. Somebody got into the house, robbed and murdered her.”

Morton took a packet from his pocket. “We’re going to need a DNA sample,” he said.

“We’ll stipulate that Mr. Barnstormer and the girl had sex yesterday morning, before he left.”

“We still need the sample. If a robber had sex with her, we’ll need to differentiate the sperm.”

“Give them the sample, Billy Bob,” Stone said.

Billy Bob opened his mouth and let the detective run a swab inside his cheek.

“Is that it, gentlemen?” Stone asked.

“For the moment,” Morton said. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Barnstormer.”

“Is he under arrest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Billy Bob, you can go wherever the hell you want to, but keep in touch with me.”

“I’m gon’ be in New York for at least four or five more days,” Billy Bob said, “maybe a week.”

Stone stood up. “Good. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Morton gave Billy Bob and Stone his card. “Call me if you think of anything else.” Stone took Billy Bob aside. “Give me the key to my house.”

Billy Bob dug into a pocket and forked it over.

“Now get a sheet of hotel stationery from the desk and write down your office and home addresses and phone numbers, your cell-phone number, the number of the phone on the airplane and your Social Security number.”

“Why?”

“Because I like to be able to contact my clients when the police come looking for them.”

Billy Bob went to the desk, wrote for a couple of minutes, put the paper in an envelope and handed it to Stone.

“Mind if we have a copy of that?” Dino asked.

“You can contact him through me,” Stone said.

They left Billy Bob to get some sleep, and Dino dropped him off at home.

“What did you think?” Stone asked.

“He was plausible,” Dino said. “But I wish I liked him more for the murder.”

“Why?”

“Then I wouldn’t have to think about arresting you.”

10

STONE WAS HAVING BREAKFAST the following morning when Helene came into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mr. Stone,” she said.

“Good morning, Helene.”

“That was a terrible business yesterday with that girl.”

“Yes, it was; I’m sorry you had to be involved.”

“She must have been very cold natured,” Helene said.

“How’s that?”

“I mean, the house is heated pretty warm, and there was a down comforter on the bed.”

“I’m sorry, Helene, I don’t understand.”

“So why would she want to use an electric blanket?”

“Helene, I don’t own an electric blanket.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You told me to buy one last year, when you had a guest who was cold in that room, remember?”

That stopped Stone in his tracks. “Yes, I think I do, now that you mention it.”

“Well, she had it on, and it was turned all the way up. How do you think she could stand that?”

“I don’t know,” Stone said, and his mind was racing. He reached for the phone to call Dino, then stopped. What was his obligation, here? If the girl had been under an electric blanket after she was murdered, her body would have cooled more slowly, and the ME’s estimate of time of death, which would have been based on liver temperature, could have been off by hours. Reporting this fact to the police could tend to incriminate both his client and himself. The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino.”

“Good morning.”

“Not really, not for you and your client, anyway.”

Stone’s heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“The ME called this morning; when he gave us the time of death yesterday, he didn’t know that the girl’s body was under an electric blanket. Apparently, one of his techs moved the blanket and didn’t remember to tell him until later.”

“Helene told me about the electric blanket just a minute ago. I was about to call you.”

“Yeah, sure you were. We got a whole new ball game here, you know.”

“Well, neither Billy Bob’s story nor mine is going to change.”

“Actually, Billy Bob’s ass is covered.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One of my people just talked to Warren Buffett’s office; they confirmed that Billy Bob was there in time for a two o’clock meeting yesterday and didn’t leave until four. That gives him time to leave your house when he said he did, drive to Teterboro and fly to Omaha in time for his meeting.”

“Good for Billy Bob.”

“Unfortunately, while his ass is covered, yours is not.”

“Oh, come on, Dino.”

“I don’t really think you killed the girl, Stone, not even accidentally, but the consensus around here is that you’re looking like the only suspect, and I can’t squelch that. You know as well as I do that investigations follow the path of least resistance until some new fact stops them. Right now, the path to you is free and clear and well oiled. You better come up with some new facts.”

Stone was about to reply, when the phone made a noise that indicated someone was at the front door. “Hang on a minute, Dino.” He punched the hold button, then the button for the front door intercom. “Yes?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Detectives Morton and Weiss; please open the door.”

“I’m buzzing you in,” Stone said. “I’m in the kitchen.” He pressed the button for the buzzer, then went back to Dino. “I’m back.”

“That was Morton and Weiss at your front door, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. What do they want?”

Morton and Weiss appeared in the kitchen, and Morton held up a document. “We’ve got a warrant to search your house,” he said. There were four uniformed officers standing behind them.

“Anything in particular?” Stone asked.

“We’ll need the combination to your safe,” Morton said.

“There are two of them; give me a second, and I’ll open them for you.” He turned back to the phone. “I guess you know about this.”

“Yeah. Sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. Call me when they’re done.”

“Right.” Stone hung up and pressed the intercom button for his secretary’s office.

“Yes, Stone?” Joan said.

“The police are here to search the house; open your safe, but lock the filing cabinets containing clients’ files.”

“Okay,” she said.

Stone turned back to the two detectives. “My secretary is opening the big safe in her office, but not the clients’ files. Those are privileged, and your warrant doesn’t cover them.”

“Let’s get it done,” Morton said.

“Come upstairs, and I’ll open my personal safe in my dressing room.” He led them up to his bedroom and opened the safe. “Help yourself,” he said, standing back.

Morton and Weiss shone a flashlight into the safe and began removing items, beginning with the handguns stored there.

“You have a permit to keep these weapons?” Morton asked. He held up Billy Bob’s Colt sixgun.

Stone got out his wallet and handed them his permit. “The serial numbers are listed on the back of the license,” he said, hoping they wouldn’t check and find out that the Colt wasn’t on his license.

“And you have a license because you’re a retired cop?”

“That’s right. Retired cops are entitled to them, just as you will be when you retire.”

“I’ve got cash here,” Weiss said, rummaging in the safe.

“I keep some cash in there,” Stone said. “Never more than a few thousand dollars.”

Weiss was holding a stack of hundred-dollar bills in his rubber-gloved fingers, dropping them into a plastic envelope. “I’ve got what looks like about five, six thousand dollars, in hundreds.”

“That’s what Barnstormer said he gave the girl, isn’t it?”

“A coincidence,” Stone said. “There are a lot of fifties, twenties and tens in there, too. I cashed a check for ten thousand dollars a couple of weeks ago; there’s at least eight of it in that safe.” He took his personal checkbook from his desk and handed it to Morton.

Morton looked through the register. “Yeah, here it is. Only problem is, it’s the last check you wrote.”

“That’s why I got the cash—so I wouldn’t have to write checks.”

“Still, you could have dated it earlier, couldn’t you?”

“Check with my bank; I’ll call them for you, if you like.”

“After we’ve run the bills for prints,” Morton said. “Let’s go see the downstairs safe.”

Stone led them downstairs and showed them the safe in Joan’s office. “Help yourself. This is my secretary, Joan Robertson, Detectives Morton and Weiss. Oh, Joan cashed the ten-thousand-dollar check for me; she can confirm the date.”

Joan did so, and Morton handed Stone back his checkbook.

“We’ve got cash in here, too,” Weiss said.

“There are times when we have a fair amount of cash in the safe,” Joan said. “Occasionally, a client prefers to pay in cash.”

“And it’s always reported as income,” Stone said.

“I can confirm that,” Joan said. “I get the tax stuff together for the accountant.”

“We’re not the IRS.” Weiss bagged the hundreds in the safe and wrote out a receipt.

TWO HOURS LATER, when the police had gone, Stone called Dino. “Your guys are done,” he said.

“I heard. I heard they found about six grand in hundreds in your upstairs safe, too.”

“And they won’t find Billy Bob’s fingerprints on them,” Stone said, “and not the girl’s either.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dino said.

“No, you don’t; you’re enjoying this.”

“Dinner tonight? We never got around to it last night.”

“See you at nine.”

11

STONE AND DINO arrived at Elaine’s simultaneously, Stone in a cab and Dino in his umarked police car with driver. They walked in, and the first thing Stone saw was Billy Bob, sitting at Stone’s regular table.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“You mean you’re not thrilled to see your client?” Dino asked.

“Shut up.”

“Hey, y’all,” Billy Bob said, delighted to see them. “Well, I’m glad I don’t have to eat by myself. Y’all have a drink.”

“So, Billy Bob,” Dino said, “did your lawyer tell you you’ve been eliminated as a suspect in the girl’s murder? We checked with Buffett’s office, and they confirmed that you were in Omaha.”

“Naw, Stone didn’t mention that,” Billy Bob said, looking askance at Stone.

“First time I’ve seen you,” Stone said.

“Stone isn’t off the hook, though,” Dino said. “In fact, he’s our prime suspect.”

“Now why would ol’ Stone want to kill Tiffany? You wouldn’t do that, would you, Stone?”

Stone sipped his bourbon and ignored the question.

“Well, what we look for in a suspect,” Dino said, “is motive, means and opportunity. Stone had the means—his hands—and the opportunity—he was alone in the house with the girl all day—and as for motive, well, two out of three is often enough for a jury.”

Stone ended his silence. “Dino forgot to mention that he needs physical evidence or an eyewitness,” Stone said. “And, of course, he has neither.”

“No, no physical evidence, though we did find his fingerprints on her throat.”

“I felt her throat for a pulse,” Stone said to Billy Bob.

“And the DNA from the sperm inside her,” Dino added.

“Whose DNA?” Stone asked.

“His,” Dino said, pointing at Billy Bob.

“He told you he had sex with her before leaving for Omaha,” Stone pointed out.

“And that room was completely wiped clean of prints,” Dino said.

“And why would either Billy Bob or I bother to do that? It’s my house—perfectly normal for my prints to be found there, and Billy Bob was a guest, living in that room. Normal for his prints to be there, too. Would I bother to do that in my own house?”

“Right,” Billy Bob said.

“Dino,” Stone said, “has it occurred to you that the murderer took his time? He wasn’t in a rush, what with wiping down the room and putting an electric blanket over the body.”

“That’s kinda weird, ain’t it?” Billy Bob asked. “Why would somebody want to keep her warm?”

“To screw up our estimate of when she was murdered,” Dino said. “For instance, if you had killed her before you left for Omaha that morning, the blanket would have made it seem that she died much later, because the body wouldn’t have cooled as quickly. What have you got to say about that, Billy Bob?”

“Don’t answer that,” Stone said.

“Oh, we’re completely off the record here,” Dino said, smiling.

“Don’t say a word, Billy Bob.”

Billy Bob was looking worried, now.

“So, Dino, what’s the ME’s new stab at time of death, now that he knows about the electric blanket?”

“Earlier than before,” Dino said.

“Earlier? That’s it? No ballpark?”

“Turns out the ME has never had a case where somebody tried to keep a body warm with an electric blanket,” Dino said. “He’s working on it, though, doing some tests.”

“What kind of tests?” Stone asked. “Is he going to strangle somebody, then put a blanket over the body and take its temperature every ten minutes?”

“Something like that,” Dino said, “except for the strangling part. He’ll nail it down; don’t worry.” Dino excused himself and went into the men’s room.

“Billy Bob,” Stone said, “the police turned up at my house this morning with a search warrant, and they found your gun in my safe.”

Billy Bob grinned. “Good thing I didn’t shoot that girl.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” Stone said, “and be careful what you say around Dino. Don’t forget, he’s the police.”

“But Dino’s your buddy, right?”

“Right, but he’s still a cop. He’s not going to let either of us off the hook, unless he has to, and if the medical examiner comes up with a supportable estimate of time of death that includes the time before you left for Omaha, then Dino is going to come calling on you. And by the way, the next time you leave town, come get that cannon of yours. My secretary will give it to you. It’s a good thing Dino’s detectives didn’t check the serial number against my license, or we’d have both been in trouble.”

Dino came back from the men’s room and began rummaging in his overcoat pockets. He came up with a clear plastic bag full of hundred-dollar bills and tossed it on the table. “Almost forgot,” he said. “You can have your money back. We didn’t find Billy Bob’s or the girl’s prints on any of it.”

Before Stone could remove the money, Elaine came and sat down. “Hey,” she said, “you’re getting to be a pretty good tipper.”

Stone stuffed the money into his own overcoat. “I’ve always been a good tipper,” he said, “but not that good.”

“Strangled anybody else lately?” she asked Stone.

“Stop it, you’re worse than Dino.”

“I think a woman did it,” Elaine said.

“How come?” Dino asked.

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Some woman Stone dumped probably did it.”

Dino nodded. “Women are born killers, like cats. Who’ve you dumped lately, Stone?”

“I haven’t dumped anybody; I get dumped, not the other way around.”

“That’s true,” Dino said, nodding vigorously. “Stone gets dumped a lot.”

“Well, not a lot,” Stone said, “but once in a while.”

“More than that,” Dino said.

“Just once in a while.”

“Okay, who’re you seeing at the moment?”

“The U.S. Attorney,” Elaine said, “but she hasn’t had time to dump him, yet.”

“Why don’t you two just get dumping off your minds?” Stone asked.

“What’s-her-name dumped him,” Dino said. “You know, the one that married the billionaire from Palm Beach.”

“Right,” Elaine said. “And there was Arrington, she dumped him. You know, Dino, Stone does get dumped a lot.

“Let’s order dinner,” Stone said, picking up a menu.

“About time,” Elaine said, getting up and wandering over to another table.

AFTER DINNER, Billy Bob grabbed the check, tossed a wad of two-dollar bills on the table and stood up. “Y’all got to excuse me,” he said. “Got a late date.” He put on his coat and left.

“More two-dollar bills,” Dino said, poking at them with a finger. “Where does he get them?”

“I have no idea,” Stone said, “but there never seems to be a shortage.” He took a bill from the pile, stuck it in his pocket and replaced it with a pair of ones. “Souvenir,” he said.

“Oh,” Dino said, digging into his coat pocket. “I meant to give Billy Bob back Warren Buffett’s card.” He handed it to Stone. “You can give it to him next time you consult with him.”

Stone glanced at the card and put it in his pocket. “Will do.”

12

ON SATURDAY NIGHT, Tiff arrived at Stone’s house at seven, bearing an armload of shopping bags and looking a little frazzled.

“Whew!” she said, giving Stone a kiss. “I’m beat!”

“You need a drink,” Stone said, steering her toward the kitchen. They passed through the living room and the library.

“This is a beautiful house,” Tiff said. “Is this the cabinetwork your father did?”

“It is, all of it. The doors, too.”

In the kitchen, she dropped her bags. He deposited her on the sofa tucked into a corner and took a green-tinted bottle of vodka from the freezer.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A specialty of the house,” Stone replied. He found two thin crystal martini glasses, poured the liquid into each and returned the bottle to the freezer. He handed her a glass. “Try that.”

Tiff sipped and smiled. “That’s wonderful! What is it?”

“It’s a very special vodka gimlet.”

“Sounds powerful. What’s in it?”

“Not as powerful as a martini. It’s three parts of vodka and one part of Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice. What’s special about it is the intensity. Normally, you’d pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, shake it until your fingers freeze to the shaker, then strain it into a glass. What I do is take a full fifth of vodka, pour six ounces of it into another bottle and replace that with the lime juice. Then I put it into the freezer for a few hours. That way, when it’s poured, it’s colder than ice, because the vodka doesn’t freeze, and it hasn’t been watered down by the melting ice in the shaker.”

“Heaven.” She sighed, sinking into the sofa.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Spectacular. I found an apartment.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s what you New Yorkers call a classic six, on Park Avenue in the sixties, and it’s already been renovated, so it’s in move-in condition. It had been sold, and the owners moved out, but the co-op board turned down the buyer, so it’s sitting there, empty, ready for me.”

“Sounds great, but how long will it take for you to get board approval?”

“The board meets at the end of next week, so if I can get all the paperwork together in a hurry, I’ll know then. My real-estate agent says the board will like the idea of a U.S. Attorney living in the building, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Co-op boards can be tricky,” Stone said.

“I’ll get the AG to write a letter of recommendation—the president, if I have to. Say, can I borrow your shower? I’ve been apartment-hunting and shopping all day, and I haven’t had time to change.”

“Sure, follow me.” He led her up the back stairs into his bedroom, carrying her shopping bags. “There’s a robe on the back of the bathroom door,” he said.

“I won’t be long,” she replied, setting her gimlet on his desk.

Stone went back to the kitchen and began organizing dinner.

SOON, SHE CAME DOWN the stairs, her hair wet, wearing tan leather pants and a tight sweater.

“New clothes?” he asked.

“Fresh from Madison Avenue’s finest shops.”

He poured her another gimlet. “I’m going to start dinner, now,” he said. “I’m making risotto, so I may need some help stirring.”

He emptied a packet of arborio rice into a copper pan, with half a stick of butter and some olive oil, and cooked it until it was glossy, then began adding hot chicken stock to the pan, a little at a time. Halfway through the process, he tossed a pair of thick veal chops onto the grill of the Viking range and let them brown for a few minutes on each side.

When the risotto had absorbed all the chicken stock and the rice was tender, he added half a cup of crème fraîche and a considerable amount of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese and stirred them in, then set the pan on a trivet on the kitchen dining table, forked the veal chops on two plates and added haricots verts that he had cooked earlier. He opened a bottle of Far Niente cabernet and held a chair for her to sit down.

“It looks wonderful,” she said.

“We’ll see.”

She tasted the risotto. “Marvelous!”

They dined slowly, enjoying the food and wine. When they had finished, he took away the dishes and served them each a tiny slice of Italian cheesecake from a deli he knew.

He made espresso and poured them each a brandy.

“I feel so much better,” she said. “You heard anything from Rodney Peeples?”

That brought Stone up short.

“We going to talk shop?”

“Just for a minute.”

“This is only the second time I’ve heard that name—both from you. I am not acquainted with the gentleman.”

“And he is not your client?”

“I would have to be acquainted with him for him to be my client.”

“Good point.”

“But, as long as we’re talking shop, could I ask a favor of you?”

“Maybe.”

“Your office handles cases with the Treasury Department, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You know anybody in the Secret Service you could have a word with?”

“Probably.”

Stone dug into a pocket and came out with Billy Bob’s two-dollar bill. “Could you ask someone there to run the serial number on this bill and see if anything pops up?”

She took the bill and looked at it. “Why?”

“Just a favor.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Stone took back the bill. “Never mind.”

“That was a very odd request. Do you think the bill might have been stolen?”

“No, I’m just curious to see what I can learn about it. You don’t see a lot of two-dollar bills.”

“I’m going to have to have a better explanation than that if you want me to have it run.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a better explanation than that,” Stone said. “Let’s just forget it.”

She grabbed the bill back. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll call in a favor and have it run on an informal basis.”

“That would be great.”

“You’re sure you don’t know Rodney Peeples?”

“Will you stop with that name, Tiff? I’ve told you repeatedly that I don’t.”

“Okay, okay.”

“How long will it take to run the two-dollar bill?”

“I’ll make the call on Monday; a day or two, I guess. This isn’t going to get me into trouble, is it?”

“If I thought it were, I wouldn’t ask you to run it. It’s just that I’m curious, and I don’t have any contacts in the Secret Service. I’m only looking for information; I’m not asking anybody to intercede on behalf of a client.”

“You have contacts in other federal agencies?”

“One or two,” Stone said. “I recently had dinner with the United States Attorney for New York.”

She laughed. “Yes, you did, didn’t you? Now what?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“So am I,” she said, kissing him back.

13

STONE WAS WAKENED by a ringing cell phone, and he knew it wasn’t his. He opened an eye and found it filled with a naked breast, a pleasing sight. He reached across Tiff and grabbed her handbag from her bedside table, then he laid the handbag on her belly.

“Your belly is ringing,” he said into her ear.

She made a noise and turned onto her side, away from him.

“Tiff, it’s your cell phone.”

“Shhhhhh,” she said.

The cell phone stopped ringing.

Stone turned and snuggled up next to her back, enjoying the feeling of her buttocks against his belly.

Tiff made another, more approving noise and pushed against him.

Stone responded, and in a moment, they were both awake, working together to guide him inside her. That accomplished, they moved in concert, faster and faster, until they both came loudly.

“That was good,” she said, when their breathing had returned to normal.

“It was better than good,” Stone murmured, resting his cheek on her moist back.

She rolled over, threw a leg over him and put her head on his shoulder. “You’re right,” she said.

“I’m never wrong about these things.”

She laughed, then seemed to fall asleep. Stone was nearly asleep, himself, when she jerked awake.

“Is that my cell phone ringing?” she asked.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe they left a message.”

“I don’t want it,” she replied. “What are our plans for the day?”

“Eggs Benedict, mimosas and the New York Times.”

“I get the crossword.”

“I’ll make you a copy and race you to the finish.”

“You wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Big talk.”

“I’ll finish it in half an hour.”

“On Sunday? I’ll finish it . . . quickly.”

“I’m hungry,” she said.

“You’re saying you want me to leave you and make breakfast?”

“No, I’ll leave you and make breakfast.”

“Do I have to watch?”

“No, you can sleep, and I’ll bring it up here.”

“There’s a dumbwaiter,” he said. “Just press the button.” Then he fell asleep.

Stone was awakened by the clanging of the dumbwaiter bell, and by the time Tiff had climbed the stairs, he had the trays arranged on the bed. He was surprised to see that she was still naked.

“You always walk around naked?” he asked as she climbed into bed and arranged her pillows.

“Always,” she said. “Except at the office.”

They dug into their food.

“Wonderful hollandaise,” he said. “Just the right amount of lemon.”

“Thank you, sir. Your risotto last night was wonderful, too. Lovely flavor.”

“You were wonderful last night. This morning, too.”

“I’m going to be wonderful again, as soon as I finish breakfast.”

“You have an optimistic view of my capabilities,” he said.

“I have an optimistic view of my capability to excite your capabilities.”

“It’s hard to argue with that.”

“Then don’t; just get rid of these trays.”

He put the trays on the dumbwaiter and sent it downstairs, then returned to bed.

She was reaching for him again when her cell phone rang.

“Shit!” she said.

“Let it ring.”

“Nobody has that number but my office,” she said. “If they’re calling on a Sunday morning . . .” She dug into her handbag and came out with the phone. “Hello? Yes, I’m awake, but I wasn’t when you called earlier. What’s up? That’s good. You’re kidding—on a Sunday morning? An hour, then, in his suite.” She hung up. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“The AG has got a bug up his ass about a case, and he flew to New York this morning.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe that?” Stone asked.

“Well, you wouldn’t, if you knew the case and the AG. The whole business is crazy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t,” she said, “I have to get into a shower right now. I can’t show up for a meeting, smelling of sex, with a religious fundamentalist.”

“You never know, it might make his day.”

“I very much doubt it.” She struggled out of bed and he watched her backside appreciatively as she ran to the bathroom. A moment later, he heard the shower come on.

Stone fell back on the bed, a little relieved at not having to perform again so soon.

STONE HAD FINISHED the Times and was struggling with the Times crossword puzzle when the phone rang. He glanced at the instrument and saw the doorbell light illuminated. He looked at his watch: two-thirty P.M. Who the hell would be calling on a Sunday afternoon? He picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Stone Barrington?”

“That’s right.”

“This is Agents Williams and Marconi of the United States Secret Service. We’d like to speak with you.”

“On a Sunday afternoon?”

“That’s correct.”

Stone sighed. “I’ll buzz you in; find the living room and have a seat while I get dressed. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

“Very good.”

He buzzed them in, then got up, brushed his hair, put on some clothes and walked downstairs.

Two men in business suits rose as he entered the living room. They flashed their badges and introduced themselves, then everybody sat down.

“What can I do for you?” Stone asked.

Agent Williams produced a plastic bag containing a two-dollar bill and handed it to Stone. “I believe you wanted some information on this two-dollar bill?”

Stone looked at it and handed it back. “I wanted information on a two-dollar bill; I can’t guarantee it was this one.

Williams nodded. “Here’s your information,” he said. “It is one of a very large number of two-dollar bills stolen from Fort Dix army base in New Jersey in 1955.”

Stone blinked. “You keep track of fifty-year-old robberies?”

“When the robbery is of four hundred thousand dollars and change.”

“I commend you on your record keeping,” Stone said.

“Thank you. Where did you get the two-dollar bill?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“What?”

Stone searched for the right words. “I’m sorry, but answering your question would violate the canon of legal ethics.”

“Which part of the canon?” Williams asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either.”

“I was told you’d be cooperative.”

“Who told you that?”

“The United States Attorney for New York.”

“Well, she was right, in the sense that I wish to be cooperative, within the bounds of professional ethics, but, as I’ve said, revealing the source of the two-dollar bill would entail compromising legal ethics, and any court would back me on that.”

The two agents stared at him in silence.

“Perhaps you can tell me why you are so interested in solving a crime, the statue of limitations on which expired decades ago?”

“Two army officers were murdered during the course of the robbery. There’s no statute of limitations on that.”

“I see. Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid the only thing I can do is to make inquiries of my own into the origins of the bill and, if I’m able to, let you know what I find out.”

Williams handed Stone a card. “Please do so, and call me. You can always reach me on the cell number.”

Stone shook the two men’s hands and let them out of the house. Then he went to the phone and called the Four Seasons Hotel. Billy Bob’s suite didn’t answer, and Stone left a message for him to call back.

14

ON MONDAY MORNING, when he still hadn’t heard from Billy Bob, Stone called the Four Seasons again and was told that Billy Bob had checked out early that morning. Stone called Bill Eggers.

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning, Bill; we have a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“You know our client Billy Bob?”

“I believe he’s your client, Stone.”

“He’s a client of the firm, is he not?”

“To whom did he make out his retainer check?”

“Well, to me, I guess.”

“Good guess. Now, whose client is he?”

“All right, my client. Would you like to hear about the problem?”

“Not really.”

“There are ethical problems that might reflect badly on the firm.”

“Since Mr. Billy Bob is not now nor has he ever been a client of the firm, I don’t see how any of his problems could reflect on the firm in any manner whatever.”

“His photograph in the company of the mayor, taken at the firm party, has appeared in the newspapers.”

“We didn’t tell the mayor who he could or could not bring to our party.”

“You mean, he came with the mayor.”

“I believe he did.”

“Are you aware that, the day after the party, Billy Bob’s date was found murdered in his bed?”

“Good God! The Four Seasons must have gone nuts!”

“They weren’t at the Four Seasons; they were in my guest room.”

Eggers managed a vocal shrug. “Well, Stone, I don’t see how that relates to the firm.”

“It was at your request that Billy Bob was a guest in my home.”

“It was just a suggestion.”

“So, I’m stuck with Billy Bob, is that it?”

“Looks that way.”

“Then perhaps you would give me some advice on the ethical ramifications of representing him.”

“Would this entail your sharing details of your relationship with Billy Bob?”

“It might.”

“Then my advice is don’t violate attorney-client confidentiality. I’ve got a meeting; let’s have dinner.” Eggers hung up.

Stone resisted a very strong urge to rip the phone from its connection and bang it repeatedly against the wall. Calming himself, he found the slip of paper on which he had written Billy Bob’s phone numbers and dialed his home. A woman answered.

“Good morning, the Barnstormer residence.”

“May I speak with Mr. Barnstormer, please; it’s Stone Barrington calling.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Barnstormer is traveling today.”

Stone consulted the paper for the GIV’s number and found it not present. “May I have the phone number for his airplane?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give out that number. I should be speaking with Mr. Barnstormer later today; can I tell him you called?”

“Please. He has the number.” Stone thanked her and hung up. He buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Joan, have you already deposited Billy Bob’s retainer check?”

“Sure, I told you that. We’d have had to sell stock without it.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and fumed for a moment, then he dug out Warren Buffett’s card and called his Omaha office.

“Good morning, Berkshire Hathaway,” a woman said.

Stone was about to speak but he stopped himself. He was sure that the voice he was hearing from Omaha was the same voice he had heard at Billy Bob’s home in Dallas. He hung up and looked at the area code on Buffett’s card: 402. He got out a phone book and looked up the area code for Omaha: 402. He looked up the area code for Dallas; there were three, one of them 469, same as Billy Bob’s. But the same woman was answering both phones. He called Omaha information and asked for a number for Berkshire Hathaway. He was given a number different from the one on Warren Buffett’s card. He dialed the number, and a woman answered.

“Good morning, Berkshire Hathaway.” Different voice, different accent.

“Good morning, can you tell me if this is the only number listed for Berkshire Hathaway?”

“It’s the only one in Omaha,” she said.

“Thank you.” He hung up and looked at the Warren Buffett card. This Buffet was spelled with one t.

Stone reached for the phone to call Dino, then stopped. He couldn’t give the police unfavorable information about his client. Not that he had a hell of a lot of information about his client. He turned to his computer, went online and did a Google search for Billy Bob Barnstormer. He got a lot of aviation hits, and to his surprise, learned that quite a number of people were actually named Barnstormer. He got two hits on a Billy Bob, both of them on Web sites that reported society news in New York, both of them referring to Billy Bob’s presence at the Woodman & Weld party, one of them featuring the photograph with the mayor. Nothing before that date. Apparently, Billy Bob Barnstormer had not existed before that, at least on the Internet.

He did another search, this time for addresses and phone numbers. That service had never heard of anybody named Barnstormer. He tried Barnstetter and got the same result.

Stone sat at the computer, thinking hard. Then a tiny lightbulb went on in his brain, accompanied by a sinking feeling. He went back to Google and typed in “Rodney Peeples.” To his astonishment, he got three thousand, four hundred and twenty-two hits. For the next hour he scrolled laboriously through them and found two that mattered: a Web site for a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and another for a firm of certified public accountants in Enid, Oklahoma. The used-car Web site had photographs of the California Peeples standing in his car lot, a flashy girl on each arm. The man had a big mustache and sideburns, but he was, without doubt, Billy Bob Barnstormer. On the Web site of Peeples & Strange, accountants, he found photographs of the partners. This time he wore a conservative suit, button-down shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, but he was, nevertheless, Billy Bob.

So Billy Bob, in addition to being a Texas entrepreneur, was also a flamboyant used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a nerdy CPA in Enid, Oklahoma. Stone wondered how many other identities the man had. The mind boggled. He buzzed Joan again.

“Yes?”

“Joan, call my broker and tell him to sell a hundred thousand dollars of stocks, and to minimize the tax consequences. Have him wire the funds to our checking account immediately, and draw a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars, payable to Billy Bob. Then send the following letter to Billy Bob Barnstormer at the address we have for him: ‘Dear Mr. Barnstormer, this firm is unable to continue to offer you legal representation. We enclose a cashier’s check in the amount of $50,000, representing a return of your retainer.’ Send it Express Mail, return receipt requested, and get it out today.”

“As you wish.”

“And ask the bank to let you know when the cashier’s check is paid.”

“Okeydokey.”

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“This is a confidential informant,” Stone said. “Listen carefully: Call Warren Buffett’s office again, but this time, get the number from Omaha information.”

“Okay,” Dino said. “You want to have dinner?”

“Why not?”

“Elaine’s, nine o’clock?”

“Sure.”

15

STONE WAS HALFWAY through his first drink when Dino arrived and sat down. “So, what’s this confidential informant crap?” he asked.

“If anybody ever asks where you got that information, I want you to be able to say, truthfully, that you got it from a confidential informant.”

“Well, that’s very lawyerly of you,” Dino said, signaling a waiter for a drink.

“It’s what I do. Did you call Berkshire Hathaway?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And we’ve both been had. Warren Buffett has never heard of Billy Bob.”

“You could say that. Something else I can tell you, since I no longer represent Billy Bob, is that you should go on the Internet, do a Google search for one Rodney Peeples, and pay particular attention to the hits you will get on a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a firm of accountants, Peeples and Strange, in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“Why?”

“I think you will find the experience rewarding.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stone, stop talking like Alistair Cooke and tell me what’s going on.”

“You will find that the Rodney Peeples of San Mateo and the Rodney Peeples of Enid are both Billy Bob Barnstormer. Or vice versa. Or they’re all somebody else.”

“Oh? So Billy Bob made a complete fucking schmuck out of you, then?”

“Not quite. He paid me fifty thousand dollars for my trouble.”

“So, you’re only a schmuck, then.”

“Except that I gave him back his fifty grand and told him to get lost.”

“So, you are, after all, a complete fucking schmuck.”

“One could say that.”

“What’s Billy Bob’s game?” Dino asked. “Besides murder, I mean.”

“I have no idea what his game is, but what do you mean, murder?”

“I mean the ME came back with a definite time of death of between eight A.M. and noon.”

“When Billy Bob was still in the house?”

“Correct.”

“Then I’m off the hook?”

“Not exactly. You haven’t yet proved that the two of you weren’t in it together.”

“You mean, you think that Tiffany may have been strangled by one of Billy Bob’s hands and one of mine, working in concert?”

“Could be something like that.”

“My God, the entire Nineteenth Precinct detective squad, along with its lieutenant, is going to have to repeat junior detective school.”

“We are more in the business of implicating than exonerating.”

“Is there a warrant for Billy Bob yet?”

“First thing in the morning; I only got the ME’s verdict an hour ago. Do you know where he is?”

“No, but if you will telephone Mr. Barnstormer’s former attorney’s secretary tomorrow morning, she might give you his address and phone number in Dallas.”

“Will he be there?”

“I have not been vouchsafed that information.”

“There you go again—what is this, Masterpiece Theatre?”

“Or you could try him in Enid, Oklahoma, or San Mateo, California.”

“Well, I have to say that Billy Bob, or whoever he is, is the most interesting co-murderer I’ve run across for a long time.”

“You want my theory?”

“I’m going to hear it, whether I want to or not.”

“I think his murdering Tiffany, or Hilda, or whatever her name was, was more in the way of an accident.”

“You mean you subscribe to that theory about strangling adding punch to the orgasm?”

“Either that, or they got rough, and he went too far. He doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer.”

“Guys like Billy Bob strike you as whatever they want to. He’s a con man, a pro, and guys like that will go to great lengths to protect whatever identity they’ve chosen for themselves, up to and including murder.”

“You mean you think she got hold of his wallet or his passport or something and figured out he wasn’t who he said he was?”

“Yeah, or maybe he confided in her, and she threatened to turn him in.”

“A little blackmail?”

“Hookers have been know to indulge in that sport.”

Stone glanced toward the front door in time to see Tiff enter. He waved her back to the table.

“Hi, there,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, back. Hey, Dino.”

“Good evening.”

“Good to see you,” Stone said, trying and failing to remember if he’d invited her to Elaine’s.

“I thought you might be here, and I didn’t have anything else to do tonight.”

“So the AG is done with you?”

“Not by a long shot, but he’s on his way back to D.C., thank God.” The waiter approached, and she ordered a drink.

“What was the panic about?”

“More enthusiasm than panic, but, of course, I can’t tell you.”

“I’ll trade information with you,” Stone said.

“What have you got to trade?”

“Info about your friend Rodney Peeples.”

“I thought you didn’t represent him.”

“Technically, I didn’t; however I’ve come into some information about your Mr. Peeples that connects him to someone I do, or rather, did represent. At one time.”

“And who would that be?” The waiter returned with her drink, and she sipped it.

“You remember my client, now former client, the large Texan with the glittery tuxedo and the Tiffany, at the Woodman and Weld party?”

“How could I possibly forget?”

“Turns out he’s not only my former client; he’s also Rodney Peeples.”

Tiff nearly choked on her drink. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought I was clear.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to the Secret Service guys who called on you? Don’t you know it’s a felony to lie to a federal investigator?”

“Because, when I spoke to them, I didn’t know that Billy Bob and Peeples were one and the same.”

“And how did you find out? Did he tell you?”

“I found out by doing a Google search for Peeples, an investigative technique available to any six-year-old with a computer, and one that I recommend to your Junior G-Men.”

“And what did you find out about Peeples?”

“That he is a used-car dealer in San Mateo, California, and a CPA in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“And you’re sure that he’s my Rodney Peeples?”

“No, just that he’s my Rodney Peeples. Both Web sites sport his photograph.”

“Well, we didn’t know about either San Mateo or Enid. Did you get the two-dollar bill from Peeples/Billy Bob?”

“I can’t say.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Having received information, it is your turn to impart it.”

“Let’s just say that we have evidence of other activities of Mr. Peeples, but not the two you mention.”

“Exchanging information with you is an unrewarding experience,” Stone said.

“If I told you, I’d have to lock you up, so you couldn’t tell anybody else.”

“You’d do that?”

“Not if I could help it, but the AG would do it in the blink of an eye, if he thought you knew about it.”

“You intrigue me.”

“That’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me all day,” she said, batting her eyes furiously. “My office is buying dinner,” she said, reaching for a menu, “in return for the information.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not becoming a confidential informant for the feds, and don’t you dare write my name down anywhere.”

“I’ll have to tell some people where I got the information about Peeples.”

“Tell them you got it from Google, which is the truth, sort of.”

“Okay. If you insist on buying, let’s split the porterhouse.”

“Gold digger.”

16

STONE WAS WAKENED from a sound sleep by the ringing of his bedside telephone. He answered it as quickly as possible, to avoid waking Tiff, who slumbered beside him, her hand on his belly.

“Hello?” he half whispered.

“Hey, Stone.” The line was staticky and faint.

Stone felt a wave of irritation. “Billy Bob.”

“You left me a message to call.”

“Not at . . .” he looked at the bedside clock “ . . . three-thirty in the morning.”

“Sorry about that. It ain’t three-thirty here.”

“Where are you?”

“Maui.”

“Hawaii?”

“Got a little deal going out here. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Stone checked the caller ID window on the phone. Unavailable. “It’s hard to remember in the middle of the night.”

“Well, I might not be able to get back to you for a few days. We’re headed out for a little cruise on a big ol’ yacht in the morning.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. I’ve resigned from representing you as your attorney. I sent you a letter and a refund of your retainer to your Dallas address.”

“Well, shoot, Stone. What’d you want to go and do that for? Ain’t my money no good?”

“I don’t represent clients who conceal their identities from me, or who employ more than one identity.”

A silence.

“Or who murder women in my guest room.”

“It wasn’t murder, exactly,” Billy Bob said, and he managed to sound sheepish.

“Exactly what was it?”

“She wanted me to choke her a little; said she got off better that way. I told her to tap me on the hand if she wanted me to stop, but she didn’t. I don’t know why.”

“You’re a big, strong guy, Billy Bob,” Stone said. “Strong hands, I expect. By the way, the electric blanket was a clever idea. It threw the medical examiner for a loop, until he figured it out.”

“I needed to buy me some time,” Billy Bob said. “Are the cops looking for me?”

Stone wasn’t going to become an accomplice to flight. “I can’t comment on that.”

“I’m looking for advice, here, Stone; that’s what I’m paying you for.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve sent you a cashier’s check for the full fifty thousand, so you haven’t paid me a penny.”

“So that’s the way it is, then?”

“That’s the way it is. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t contact me again.”

“Oh, you’ll be hearing from me, Stone.”

“And Billy Bob? The next time you print up some cards for Warren Buffett, try and remember that he spells his name with two t’s.”

Silence, then Billy Bob hung up.

Stone tried to get back to sleep, but he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

STONE FELL ASLEEP about a minute before Tiff woke him, moving her hand down his belly. He groaned. “I got a phone call in the middle of the night and never got back to sleep. Forgive me if I’m not too responsive this morning.”

“So Billy Bob is in Hawaii?”

“I thought you were asleep. You’re a sneaky person.”

“Where in Hawaii?”

“Let me think about this for a moment.” He thought about it. “He told me where he was while he still thought I was his attorney, so I can’t tell you.”

“God, but you’re a pain in the ass.”

“I cherish my license to practice law,” Stone replied.

She grabbed his balls. “I’ll bet I could torture it out of you.”

“We’re not at Guantanamo, missy,” he said. “Oh, Billy Bob did confess to murder, and that was after I told him I wasn’t his lawyer anymore.”

“Murder?”

“You haven’t heard?” He told her about Tiffany’s death. “Actually, he didn’t confess to murder; he said it was an accident.”

“Murder isn’t a federal crime, unless the victim is a federal official.”

“If it helps, I have no way of knowing if Billy Bob was actually in Hawaii; he just said he was. The time zone works, though; it’s what, six hours earlier there?”

“Seven, I think.”

“So it would have been midevening in Maui—oops, forget I said that.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, tickling his balls. “And you’re becoming more responsive, too.”

She was right.

STONE WAS SITTING in his office at midafternoon, trying to stay awake, when Dino called.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner; it’s been busy here. What’s up?”

“Billy Bob called in the middle of the night; said he was in Maui.”

“You believe him?”

“Who knows what to believe? He could be anywhere. Oh, he said he was going on a cruise on a yacht for a few days.”

“Where do you cruise to in Hawaii?”

“Hawaii, I think. Anything else is a long way away.”

“I could ask the Hawaii state police for an APB, I guess.”

“Must be lots of yachts in Hawaii, so that’s a lot of work, and if Billy Bob was lying about his whereabouts, the cops out there won’t appreciate the wild-goose chase. Oh, something else: Billy Bob owned up to killing Tiffany, but your theory was right, or he says it was. He said she asked him to choke her, because it gave her a better orgasm. She was supposed to ask him to stop, but she didn’t.”

“Did you tell him we were looking for him?”

“I declined to address the subject.”

“So he knows?”

“Probably. Another reason why he might not be aboard a yacht in Hawaii. He wouldn’t be doing what he said he’d be doing, if he knew there was a warrant out for him.”

“Okay, so I won’t ask for a Hawaii APB.”

“The phone call was kind of scratchy, like it was from a long way away.”

“A cell phone, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“He could still be in the city, then?”

“Could be. He checked out of the Four Seasons, though; I called yesterday.”

“Could have changed hotels.”

“And names. Did you add Peeples to the warrant?”

“Yeah; that’s on the record, now. Does he know we know about the Peeples identity?”

“I didn’t tell him, but the feds are looking for him under that name, and they’ve got a head start. If they find him first, lots of luck on ever getting him back for a murder trial.”

“Yeah, I’d like to get my hands on him first.”

Joan came into the room, and she didn’t look happy.

“Dino, hang on for a minute. What’s up, Joan?”

“The bank called; the cashier’s check cleared.”

“Boy, that was fast.”

“They wired the funds to a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

“You hear that, Dino?” he said into the phone.

“Yeah, we’ll never track him that way.”

“There’s something else,” Joan said.

“What?”

“The check Billy Bob gave us bounced.”

“What?”

Joan shrugged.

“I heard that,” Dino said. “Stone, you are a complete, absolute, gold-plated, fucking schmuck!”

Stone could not find a reason to disagree.

17

JOAN KNOCKED on Stone’s office door.

Stone looked up. “Yes?”

“Don’t look so depressed.”

“I have good reason to feel depressed,” he said. “Somebody just stole fifty thousand dollars from me.”

“Not to make it worse, but that leaves us overdrawn at the bank, and if I don’t get some money in there pronto, our checks are going to start bouncing.”

Stone sighed. “All right, tell my broker to sell another fifty thousand and wire it.”

“Ah, that would only replace Billy Bob’s fifty thousand, and we’ve already sent him that much, so we’re going to need to raise a hundred and fifty thousand, if we’re going to pay this week’s bills.”

“All right, a hundred and fifty thousand,” Stone said. That meant that, in a single week, he had cashed in 20 percent of his portfolio.

Joan disappeared.

Stone grabbed his coat and walked down the hall to her office. “I’ve got to get out of the house, or I’ll go crazy,” he said.

“Go shopping,” Joan suggested. “That usually makes you feel better.”

“That makes women feel better,” Stone said. He left by the street door and started walking west. A cold wind whipped around him, blowing down his neck. He had forgotten to wear a muffler or a hat. By the time he got to Park Avenue he was freezing, and he was certain he was being followed. Crosstown traffic was heavy, of course, not moving much faster than he was, but the same black Suburban with darkened windows kept pulling even with him, then dropping back, allowing other traffic to pass. New York drivers did not allow other traffic to pass; in fact, most of them would rather block traffic completely than let anyone else pass. It was unnatural.

He turned right on Park, walked to Fifty-seventh Street and turned west again. A few steps from Park, he went into Turnbull & Asser, his shirtmakers. He went up to the second floor and looked idly at ties, choosing a couple, then he found a cashmere scarf he liked. He looked at hats and chose a soft, foldable one, then he walked to the window and looked down: the black Suburban was parked across the street, next to a fire hydrant.

Stone went to the rear of the shop, to the custom department, and started flipping through the book of Sea Island Cotton fabrics. He grabbed a pad and jotted down numbers of swatches, then a salesman approached.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “May I help you?”

Stone tore the sheet off the pad and handed it to him. “I’d like to order these numbers, please.”

The man got an order pad and made note of the numbers.

“How long?”

“Eight to ten weeks.”

That wasn’t exactly the instant gratification Stone was looking for. He charged the things he had selected and put on the scarf and the hat, then he walked back downstairs. The black Suburban was still there, its engine running.

Stone looked down the street and saw a meter maid, or whatever they called them these days, coming. He cracked the front door. “Excuse me, miss,” he said.

She walked over to the door. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, that enormous black car over there has been parked next to that fireplug for at least an hour. I hate to see the law flouted like that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. She jaywalked across the street, to the rear of the car, took out her pad and began writing a ticket.

Stone stood and watched. The driver’s door of the Suburban opened and a man got out, wearing only a business suit, in spite of the cold wind. The man pointed at the license plate and said something. The meter maid didn’t even look up, just kept writing. The man reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it and showed it to her. She ignored him, finished writing the ticket, walked to the other end of the truck and put it under the windshield wiper.

The man pursued her, waving his arms and yelling.

Stone pulled up the scarf to obscure part of his face, pulled his hat brim down, slipped out of the shop, walked to the corner and crossed the street. As he approached the Suburban, he checked the license plate: U.S. Government. Swell.

He walked down Fifty-seventh Street, then turned north on Madison Avenue, feeling better. A moment later, the Suburban passed him, then turned right on Fifty-ninth Street, apparently missing him. He went into Barney’s, a department store in the low sixties, found the restaurant and ordered a double espresso. He got out his cell phone and called Tiff Baldwin. He got her secretary, who seemed to recognize his name and put him through.

“So,” Tiff said, without preamble, “are you having an attack of bad conscience?”

“About what?”

“About not telling me how to find Billy Bob.”

“You know everything I know, kiddo,” he said.

“I doubt it.”

“Is that why you’re having me followed?”

“What are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Tiff, I left my house a while ago, and a black Suburban with government plates and men with badges has been following me ever since.”

“They’re not mine,” she said.

“Then whose are they?”

“They could be anybody’s,” she replied. “Could be the Department of Agriculture or the Bureau of Weights and Standards—anybody.”

“Well, that’s helpful. Why would fed types be interested, if you didn’t sic ’em on me?”

“Consult your conscience for the answer to that one, my dear. You want to talk dirty, or something? Because I’ve got people waiting, and if I’m going to stay on the phone with you I need a good reason.”

“Let’s do it tonight.”

“Do what?”

“We’ll figure out something.”

“Okay. By the way, I need some letters of recommendation for my co-op board application. Will you write me one?”

“I’d love to, but I have to tell you, it’s probably not a good thing to have a lawyer write a letter.”

“Why not?”

“Because there might be somebody on the board who’s been on the other side of some disagreement with one of his clients, and who remembers the situation unfavorably. Call Dino, and ask him. They’d love a letter from the head of detectives at the One Nine.”

“I see your point, and that’s a good suggestion. I’ll pick you up at eight tonight, and I’ll book the table.”

“You’re on, and ask around and see if any of your people are on my back, will you?”

“Maybe.” She hung up.

As Stone was putting away his cell phone a man sat down at his table.

Stone blinked. “Hello, Lance,” he said. Lance Cabot was a CIA officer he had had some dealings with a couple of years ago.

“Good morning, Stone,” Lance said. “That wasn’t very nice, what you did to my guy a few minutes ago.” Lance was impeccably dressed, as always, in a camel-hair polo coat with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket.

“I think everybody should obey the law, most of the time,” Stone said. “So he was yours?”

“He was and is.”

“And why are you interested in where I buy shirts?”

“Not so much that, as where you’re going and who you’re seeing these days.”

“And why would you care?”

“Oh, we like to look in on our contract consultants from time to time, make sure they’re not moving in bad company.”

Stone had signed a contract with Lance a year ago to offer counsel when requested. “Oh, that’s right, I’m a consultant for you people now. You know, I haven’t seen a nickel out of that contract.”

“We haven’t needed your help until now,” Lance said.

“What’s up?”

“It’s about a client of yours, one Whitney Stanford.”

“Never heard of him,” Stone said, then a light went on. “Unless . . .”

18

LANCE’S SMOOTH BROW furrowed, for once. “Who are Billy Bob Barnstormer and Rodney Peeples?”

“They are at least two of the names that a former client of mine has used.” Stone told him about the Google search.

“And why do you think this fellow might also be Whitney Stanford?”

“Just a hunch; tell me about Whitney Stanford.”

Lance ordered a cappuccino and looked at his watch. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“You’ve got time to follow me around New York,” Stone said. “Come on, who is he? Maybe I can help.”

“Whitney Stanford is an old-money New Yorker who runs a private investment firm.”

“And why are you interested in him?”

“Because his name has come up in connection with a possible sales transaction involving, shall we say, unusual goods to not very nice people.”

“Lance, when you signed me on as a consultant, did you run a background check on me?”

“Of course.”

“And, as a result, do I have a security clearance?”

“Purely as a matter of form, yes. You have a top-secret security clearance.”

“Then why are you being so cagey with me about this guy? I’m trying to help you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever seen him?”

Lance produced a cell phone and pressed a single button. “Bring me the file folder on the front seat,” he said, then closed the phone. “No, I’ve never seen him, but I have a photograph.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Just what is Stanford supposed to be selling, and to whom?”

“A new kind of rifle-launched grenade, to an organization suspected of terrorist connections.”

“This does not sound like my guy,” Stone said.

“Why not?”

“Because I think my guy is a garden-variety con man. Oh, and a murderer.”

“Whom did he murder?”

“A prostitute, and in my guest room.”

“Stone, really,” Lance said, wincing.

“Don’t look at me like that; the guy came to me through Woodman and Weld, recommended by another of their clients.”

“Which client?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“Oh, and did I mention that the guy has stolen fifty grand from me?”

“How?”

Stone told him.

Lance looked amused. “Let me get this straight: You took a bad check from this fellow, then refunded his money by cashier’s check?”

“Don’t rub it in; that’s Dino’s job.”

“How is dear old Dino?”

“What’s the matter, aren’t you following him, too? Dino’s just fine.”

A man in a business suit appeared, handed Lance a file folder and left.

Lance opened the folder and handed Stone a photograph.

It was of a gray-haired man in a business suit taken in what looked like the lobby of an expensive hotel.

“That’s Billy Bob Barnstormer,” Stone said. “And Rodney Peeples. By the way, the Attorney General has an abiding interest in arresting Rodney Peeples.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know the AG wants him?”

“Because the U.S. Attorney for New York hauled me in and asked me about him. I denied all knowledge, until I put one and one together, and now that adds up to three.”

“This is all very queer.”

“No queerer than your following one of your own people on a shopping trip. By the way, what are your people doing in an SUV with government plates? Aren’t you supposed to be spies? And if so, doesn’t that imply a certain stealth?”

“It was all the motor pool had,” Lance said, looking annoyed. “Do you know how to find this Billy Bob character?”

“He called me in the middle of last night, said he was in Maui, about to go on a cruise aboard a yacht. But I wouldn’t believe that any more than anything else he might tell me.”

“Did he mention the name of the yacht?”

“He said it was big, and that was it.”

“Did you check your caller ID?”

“Yes. It said, ‘not available.’ It could have been a cell phone; the connection sounded a little funny.”

“This is all very annoying.”

“What?”

“This triple-identity thing with Stanford.”

“Yes, well, criminals can sometimes be irritatingly difficult to catch.”

“I don’t want to catch him; I want to track the sale of these grenades, then catch the buyers.”

“Then it would annoy you, if the NYPD or the AG arrested him?”

“It most certainly would. I’m going to have to take steps to see that that doesn’t happen.”

“Good God, Lance, you’re going to try to prevent the arrest of a murderer and illegal arms dealer?”

“Stone, it’s not as though he is an imminent danger to anyone. You have to stack up the benefits of preventing very powerful grenades being used against American soldiers in Afghanistan or Iraq against the significantly smaller benefit of jailing Mr. Whoeverheis.”

“Well, I guess I still have a policeman’s mentality; I tend to want to get perpetrators off the street as quickly as possible. And, of course, I’d like my fifty grand back.”

“Well, I’m sure Dino will take a different view, when I’ve explained things to him.”

“And the AG? I’m told he has a very keen interest in capturing this guy.”

“That may take a little longer,” Lance replied. “Now, Stone, I’m going to have to insist that, if you hear from this fellow again, you contact me instead of the police or the feds.”

“The police I can handle, but I’m not going to put myself in the position of lying to federal investigators. Oh, did I mention that Billy Bob has been distributing two-dollar bills stolen in a robbery at Fort Dix fifty years ago, during which two army officers were killed?”

“You did not. Fifty years ago?”

“I kid you not. The waiters at Elaine’s are calling him ‘Two-Dollar Bill.’ ”

“And how is dear Elaine?”

“As ever. Drop in and see her sometime.”

“Why don’t you and I have dinner there this evening?”

“I have a previous engagement with someone even more beautiful than you.”

“Tomorrow, then? Nine o’clock? Perhaps I’ll have more to tell you then.”

“Okay, if you promise to pull your dogs off me.”

“I’ll make them disappear like that.” Lance snapped his fingers.

“By the way, have you spoken to Holly Barker lately?” Holly was a friend of Stone’s who was a police chief in a small Florida town.

“Oh, yes; she’s coming to work for me as soon as she can disentangle herself from her current life in Florida.”

“I rather thought she might,” Stone said. “She seemed bored with the work.”

“She won’t be bored much longer,” Lance said, standing up. He handed Stone a card with only a phone number on it. “See you tomorrow evening.” He tucked the file folder under his arm and walked out of the restaurant.

Stone was feeling better, now. He thought he might look at some shoes.

19

STONE ARRIVED HOME to find the two detectives, Morton and Weiss, walking up his front steps.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Stone said. “What can I do for you?”

Morton held up a document. “We have a warrant to search your house.”

“Well, it’s déjà vu all over again, isn’t it?” He glanced through the document and saw particular mention of safes. “All right, come on in.”

He hung his coat in the front hall closet.

“Let’s start with that big safe in your dressing room,” Weiss said. “Might save us some time.”

Mystified, Stone led them up to his bedroom and into his dressing room. His safe was a big Fort Knox, with an electronic keypad. He entered the code, turned the spokes on the door and stood back to give them access. The light in the safe came on, revealing his electric watch winder, some files, cash and a gun rack. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling.

Morton pulled on a latex glove and reached into the safe. He came out with Billy Bob’s six-shooter, then he looked closely at it and turned to Weiss. “It’s a forty-four,” he said, and the two exchanged a little smile.

“That doesn’t belong to me,” Stone said quickly.

“Oh?” Weiss asked. “It just made its way into your safe?”

“It belongs to a former client. I took it from him and stored it so that he wouldn’t be in violation of New York City law.”

“And who would the client be?” Morton asked.

“You’ve met him,” Stone said. “That’s all I can say.”

“Thanks, Mr. Barrington, we’re done,” Morton said. He dropped the gun into a plastic bag, and the two detectives left.

“Shit!!!” Stone screamed at himself. Why hadn’t he just shipped that gun to Billy Bob’s Dallas address?

“Did you say something, Mr. Barrington?” Morton called from the stairs.

“No, nothing. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Morton and Weiss were just here.”

“I know.”

“They took Billy Bob’s six-shooter.”

“Good.”

“Why do you want it?”

“We had a murder in the precinct a couple of weeks ago, and the ME dug a forty-four slug out of the victim. Weiss finally remembered that you had an old-fashioned six-shooter.”

“I told you, it’s Billy Bob’s. I took it from him outside Elaine’s that night, when somebody took a shot at him.”

“Well, that turns out not to have been very bright, doesn’t it?”

“He had just become my client, and I couldn’t allow him to be arrested for carrying a gun in a strange city.”

“Commendable,” Dino said.

“I meant to give it back to him when he left town, but I forgot.”

“Not so commendable.”

“So now you’re going to try to tie me to another murder?”

“Stone, I’m not trying to tie you to anything. My guys are just doing their jobs. Now, after the appropriate fingerprint and ballistic tests, then they may try to tie you to something.”

“Who was murdered?”

“An investment banker named Owen Pell. In his Fifth Avenue apartment. It was in the papers.”

“I think I saw something about it, but I didn’t know the man.”

“Well, that’s a good start for your defense. You might start dreaming up an alibi.”

“When did it happen?”

“Let’s see, it was . . . two weeks ago today, in the evening.”

“I’ll check my calendar. What time?”

“The ME says between eight and midnight.”

“Hang on.” Stone went to his desk and flipped through his diary. “Here it is. I had dinner with you at Elaine’s.”

“Two weeks ago, today? I don’t remember that.”

“Oh, stop it, you know damned well we had dinner. Mary Ann threw you out of the house, or something.”

“Oh, yeah, that night. I guess you’re covered.”

“There’s something else, though.”

“What?”

“I don’t want word of my possession of the gun to reach the License Division of the department.”

“Oh, yeah, that could cause them to yank your carry permit, couldn’t it?”

“I think I could win the fight, but I’d rather not have to go through it.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You want to have dinner tonight?”

“I’m seeing Tiff.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I’m seeing Lance Cabot.”

“Whatever happened to Lance?”

“Who knows? I ran into him this afternoon, when he was having me followed by a carful of spooks.”

“Why were they following you?”

“You’re going to love this. They’re looking for somebody called Whitney Stanford, a venture capitalist.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s Billy Bob and Rodney Peeples.”

“You’re shitting me! Another alias?”

“You bet. Lance was shocked to learn that his guy was our guy. By the way, you can expect a phone call from Lance; he doesn’t want you to arrest Billy Bob.”

“Lance can go fuck himself.”

“Tell him that, after he hoses you down with national security.”

“Lance is protecting this guy?”

“Just until he can catch him himself and put him out of business.”

“If he does that, we’ll never get our hands on him.”

“You’re right about that. They’ll either turn him to get at some other people, or send him to Leavenworth, and you’ll get your crack at him in twenty years.”

“Well, I hope Billy Bob’s forty-four doesn’t match our bullet; it’ll make it easier to give Lance what he wants.”

“And Lance always gets what he wants.”

“We’ll see.”

“Thanks for your help; see you later.”

“ ’Bye.”

Stone hung up. He was beginning to really hate Billy Bob Barnstormer, or whoever he was.

He called Tiff Baldwin.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone.”

“I know, my secretary told me.”

“You want some new information on Billy Bob, or you want to be a smart-ass?”

“Gee, that’s a tough one; okay, what’s your information?”

“He’s turned up with another alias.”

“What is it this time?”

“Whitney Stanford.”

“Hey, I know that name; he’s under investigation by this office for some kind of stock fraud.”

“He may also have murdered an investment banker named Owen Pell. The NYPD is running a ballistics test right now.”

“No kidding? I would have thought he was too smart to leave the gun at the scene.”

“He didn’t exactly leave the gun at the scene.”

“Then how did the cops get ahold of it?”

“He left it in my safe.”

Tiff burst out laughing. “So Billy Bob has figured out yet another way to leave you holding the bag?”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just my sense of the ridiculous.”

“You better get a grip on your sense of the ridiculous, if you ever expect me to cook you dinner again.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, making an unsuccessful effort not to laugh.

“You’d better be.”

“My co-op board meeting is tonight.”

“Hey, that was fast.”

“Lucky timing, that’s all. I just barely got my financial statement and my letters together in time. They’re passing those around among themselves now. I haven’t felt this naked since the last time I was with you.”

“Yeah, they’re probably showing that stuff to the guys at their clubs, too. Think you’ll pass the investigation of your sex life?”

“What!!!?”

“You didn’t know they do that?”

“They don’t.”

“There were two detectives on my doorstep when I came home this afternoon.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I had to tell them everything . . .”

“Everything?”

“I had to; it’s a felony to lie to a detective in a sexual investigation. Haven’t you read the whole text of the Patriot Act?”

Then she began laughing. “Good one; you almost had me. But I’m going to make you pay for that.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

20

STONE WAS WAITING when Tiff’s car pulled up out front. It had begun to snow, lightly at first, but now fat flakes were being deposited in large numbers, collecting on the sidewalks, while cars beat them to pulp in the streets.

“Good evening,” she said as he got into the rear seat with her.

Stone kissed her. “Good evening. Where are we off to?”

“Rao’s,” she said. “Do you know it?”

“I’ve been there, but not nearly often enough. How did we get a table?” You didn’t get a table at Rao’s; you owned it, or you didn’t: It was as simple as that.

“One of my colleagues willed it to me.”

“He died?”

“He went back to Washington; it’s the same thing. So I get his table, same night every week.”

Rao’s was in Spanish Harlem, way uptown, and they took the FDR drive up the East Side of Manhattan, while the Lincoln’s wipers tried valiantly to deal with the increasing snow.

They arrived to find the usual collection of limos and expensive cars outside, some of them abandoned, with the keys left in them, in case somebody needed to move them. Prominent among them was a bright red Hummer, with a driver.

“Who the hell would drive a Hummer in New York?” Stone asked.

“It’s your town; you tell me,” Tiff said.

Inside, the place was packed, as it was every night. Their booth, along the south wall, was ready for them, and Stone took the seat facing the bar, where it was easier to see a waiter. It was also easier to see the motley crowd at the bar—people who had congregated there, hoping that somebody would have a coronary on the way to the restaurant and, thus, make a table available. The place seemed to draw its share of wiseguys, too. A few months back, one of them had shot another of his ilk, when he drunkenly complained too loudly about a dinner guest who had spontaneously begun to sing an aria. The events had been exhaustively covered in newspapers and magazines, and now a lot of people seemed to think that a shooting was a regular occurrence at the restaurant, though it was the only instance in the more than one hundred years of its existence.

A waiter brought them drinks, then Frank Pellegrino, the owner and grandnephew of the founder, came over and pulled up a chair. Frankie looked familiar even to people who had never been to Rao’s, because he was also an actor, most recently playing a recurring role on the FBI team assigned to bring Tony Soprano’s mob to justice.

Kisses and handshakes were exchanged.

“So what’s it going to be tonight?” Frankie asked. A detailed discussion of what was available ensued, and they ordered more dishes than they could possibly eat.

“It’s okay,” Tiff said, “I’ll take the leftovers home to the Waldorf Towers.”

Stone ordered a bottle of wine and looked around the room: His eyes came to rest on the nose of a man in a booth across the room. Most of the rest of him was blocked by the wing of his booth; the nose was terribly familiar, but Stone couldn’t quite place it.

Dishes began to arrive, and they tried, but failed, to keep up. There was veal, shrimp, an eggplant dish, chicken and, of course, pasta.

“You know, this is the best plain tomato sauce I’ve ever tasted,” Stone said. “I don’t know how Frankie does it.” Frankie also cooked.

“You’re right. In Washington I used to buy it by the jar at my neighborhood grocery store.”

They ate and ate, until they couldn’t eat any more, then the remains were packed up for Tiff to take home. As they were waiting for the check, the man across the room rose from his booth and, with his female companion, began to move toward the door, picking his way through the expanding crowd at the bar. To Stone’s annoyance, he managed this with his back turned to their table. Then, as the man disappeared out the front door, it struck him. “Billy Bob,” he said.

“What?”

“I swear, that was Billy Bob who just left.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“I could only see him from behind.” Stone got up. “I’ll be right back.” He made his way through the crowd to the front door and stepped outside. The red Hummer was pulling away, driven by a chauffeur. The rear windows were darkened, and Stone couldn’t see inside. He watched it disappear up the street, undeterred by the accumulating snow, which now amounted to about eight inches. He got out his cell phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone; I’m at Rao’s, and I’m sure Billy Bob just left.”

“Sounds like you’re not really sure.”

“I never got a look at the guy’s face, but I’m sure it was Billy Bob. He should be easy to pick up, he’s in a bright red Hummer.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Oh, did you retire from the NYPD when I wasn’t looking?”

“It’s nothing to do with me; I handed this one off to Lance, remember? You were there. Call Lance.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Lance’s cell phone.

“Yes?” he drawled.

“It’s Stone; I’m pretty sure I just spotted Billy Bob.”

“Where?”

“Leaving Rao’s. You know the restaurant uptown?”

“Of course; I’m a regular.”

“You’ve got a table at Rao’s?”

“Every week.”

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Frankie and I go way back. Tell me about this person you think was Billy Bob.”

“He was eating at a booth across the room from us, and I never got a clear look at his face, but I’m pretty sure it was him.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Downtown, I imagine,” Stone said dryly. “Where else would he go but downtown? And in a bright red Hummer.”

“Did you get the plate number?”

“It’s a bright red Hummer, for Christ’s sake! You don’t need a plate number.”

“Probably from a service; if I had a plate number, I could track it down and maybe back to Billy Bob.”

“Well, I didn’t get it; I’m up to my ass in snow, here, and the visibility isn’t too good.”

“It’s snowing?”

“Where are you, in a cave?”

“I’m in my study.”

“Well, take a look out a window sometime. I’ve done my duty; good night!” He hung up and went back into Rao’s brushing snowflakes off his shoulders and hair. He was slightly damp all over, now. He sat down in the booth. “I called it in, but Dino wasn’t interested.”

“Wasn’t interested? Isn’t the guy wanted for murder in this city?”

“He’s handed the case off to Lance.”

“Who the hell is Lance?”

Stone realized he’d said too much. “Ah, I can’t really talk about that.”

“What do you mean? You’re not making any sense at all.”

“Are you going to call in this sighting to your people?”

“What can I tell them?”

“That a guy I’m pretty sure is Billy Bob is headed downtown from Rao’s in a red Hummer.”

“He was in the Hummer we saw?”

“Yes, and he’s getting farther downtown every minute. Don’t you think your feds would want to know that?”

Tiff got out her cell phone and dialed a number. “Tell your boss that someone strongly resembling Rodney Peeples has been seen leaving a restaurant in Spanish Harlem and is on his way downtown in a red Hummer.” She listened for a moment, then covered the receiver. “Did you get a license number?” she asked Stone.

Stone shook his head. “Poor visibility; it’s really snowing hard, now.”

“No license number; poor visibility, but how many red Hummers can there be in New York City? Great, pass it on.” She hung up. “Okay, I reported it; can we go home and make love, now?”

“You betcha,” Stone said.

21

BY THE TIME they had had coffee and an after-dinner drink, the snow was a foot deep in the streets. They piled into the Lincoln.

“Home, James,” Tiff said. “I’ve always wanted to say that,” she said. “And his name really is James.”

The car fishtailed slowly up the street and turned downtown. “I wish I had chains,” the driver said.

“You’re doing fine,” Tiff replied.

The driver worked his way downtown and over to Park Avenue, passing cars in various levels of disarray along their route. They had just turned south again when Stone pointed ahead. “Look!”

Tiff peered through the windshield. “All I see is snow.”

“It’s the red Hummer,” Stone said. “Stop right here, driver.”

“I’m afraid that if I stop, I won’t be able to get going again,” James replied. They were passing the Hummer, now, which had apparently stopped to help another car out of a drift.

“Pull over right here, goddammit!” Stone orderd.

“Pull over, James,” Tiff said.

James pulled over.

“Now what?” Tiff asked.

“James, are you an FBI agent?” Stone asked.

“No, sir, I’m just a hired hand.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“James is an employee of the Justice Department, and he’s armed, but he’s not a law-enforcement official,” Tiff said. “He can’t arrest anybody.”

“James, will you loan me your gun, please?” Stone asked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington, but I can’t do that,” James replied.

Swearing under his breath, Stone got out his cell phone and called Lance again.

“Yes?”

“Lance, I’m in a black Lincoln, stopped at the corner of Ninety-fourth and Park, and the red Hummer is right behind me, pulling another car out of a drift.”

“Hold, please,” Lance said.

Stone could hear him ordering up people on a landline.

“I’ve scrambled some cars, but in the present circumstances, it’s going to take them some time to get there. Are you armed?”

“No.”

“In the future, I would prefer that you carry at all times. This fellow is dangerous.”

“I’m aware of that, and we have an armed driver, but he can’t arrest anybody, and he won’t loan me his gun.”

Stone looked out the window and saw the Hummer drive past. “The Hummer is on the move,” he said, “driving down Park.”

“Stay with him, and keep me posted; I’ll stay on the line.”

“Let’s go, James,” Stone said. “Stay with the Hummer.”

“Right,” James replied. He put the Lincon in gear and pressed the accelerator. The car did not move. “Oh, shit,” James said.

“Try rocking it back and forth,” Stone said.

James tried doing that, but it didn’t help.

“Lance,” Stone said, “We’re stuck in the snow, and we’re losing the Hummer. Are your people anywhere near?”

“Hang on.” Lance went back to the landline, then returned. “They’re making their way up Park from about Thirty-fourth Street,” he said.

“Well, all you can do is to keep them on Park, looking for a red Hummer. If they spot him, then they can make a U-turn.”

“That’s what they’re doing,” Lance said. “I’m going to hang up, now; I’m missing Letterman’s Top Ten.” He clicked off.

“So much for the CIA,” Stone muttered, putting away his cell phone.

“You’ve been on the phone with the CIA?” Tiff asked.

“Try and forget I said that.”

“This Lance guy is CIA?”

“I told you, I can’t talk about him.”

“Stone, I’m a high federal official; you can talk to me about the CIA.”

“No, I can’t; I’ve signed a contract that . . .” He stopped himself. “I’m going to shut up now.”

James was still trying to rock the Lincoln back and forth.

“I’m not going to leave you alone until you tell me about this,” Tiff said, goosing him.

“Nope.”

She grabbed his crotch and squeezed.

“Easy, there!” Stone cried. “That will get you a lot, but not the information you want.”

Then the car started to move. “I got it going,” James said.

“Stay on Park and find the red Hummer,” Stone said.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, all right, do it, James.” Tiff sighed. “I’m never going to get you into bed, am I?” she whispered to Stone.

“Yes, you are,” Stone said, “but let’s take Billy Bob, first.”

“I can’t see ten feet in front of me,” James said. “It’s crazy to be driving in this stuff.”

“James,” Tiff said, “If you don’t see the Hummer by the time we get to the Waldorf, we’re stopping there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want Billy Bob,” Stone said.

“You may have to settle for me,” Tiff replied, snuggling up to him, leaving her hand, more gently, on his crotch.

Presently, James turned left, and the Waldorf swam at them out of the snow.

“Continue on to my house,” Stone said.

“Oh, all right. Do it, James.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By some miracle, they made it to Stone’s, and they got out and made their way toward the front steps. Suddenly, Tiff pushed Stone, and he went facedown in a drift.

“I’m going to get you for that!” Stone cried, struggling to his feet and throwing a handful of snow at her as she trudged up the front steps.

“Do it in bed!” she yelled back.

22

WHEN STONE ARRIVED at Elaine’s the following night, Lance was already seated, and Dino was next to him. “Evening, all,” Stone said. “And I thought it was just you and me, Lance, tête à tête.”

“Oh, we have no secrets from Dino, Stone; you know that.”

“I wish I had some secrets from him,” Stone replied, as a waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before him.

“Never happen, pal,” Dino said. “You’ll always be an open book to me.”

“Isn’t it nice to have good friends?” Lance observed.

“It is, when they’re not trying to hang a murder charge on you.”

“Dino would never do that.”

“He’s done it twice in the last week.”

Dino shrugged. “All I do is follow the evidence, wherever it leads. It’s just more fun when it leads to Stone.”

“This is just great,” Stone said, raising his glass, “Lance is following me wherever I go, and my best friend is trying to send me to prison for the rest of my life. Who needs enemies?”

Elaine sat down. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Only if you’re willing to defend me.”

“Against what?”

“Whatever these two come up with.”

“I’m staying out of this one,” she replied.

“I’m hungry,” Stone said. “Let’s order.”

“Well, that makes a nice change,” Elaine said, then she got up and moved to another table.

The three of them ordered.

“So,” Stone said, when the waiter had left, “did you two come to an understanding on . . . let’s see, it’s Whitney Stanford, this time, isn’t it?”

“We did,” Lance said.

“In spite of the ballistics test,” Dino said. “The slug from your forty-four was a perfect match.”

“I told you, it’s not my forty-four.”

“Well, if Lance is going to take Billy Bob off my hands, you’re all I’ve got left.”

“Lance,” Stone said, ignoring Dino, “come on, give us the real poop on your Whitney Stanford guy.”

“I told you, he’s trying to sell some new hand grenades to bad people.”

“What new hand grenades?”

“That’s top secret, I’m afraid.”

“Dino and I already have that clearance, and anyway, if Billy Bob knows about them, why can’t we?”

“The army has developed a new, rifle-launched grenade that’s about ten times as powerful as their current ordnance.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Stone said.

“That’s why it’s rifle launched. It can’t be activated by hand; it’s activated by the rifle, when it’s fired, and it has a range of up to three hundred yards.”

“Sounds more like a mortar,” Dino said.

“In many ways it is. You can imagine what terrorists could do with it in a crowded city. From the top of a building they could lob the things in all directions at, say, a street demonstration or a parade.”

“Or in Times Square,” Dino observed.

“I shudder to think,” Lance said.

“How did Billy Bob get ahold of them?”

“Stolen from an army proving ground in New Mexico; probably an inside job. An investigation is under way.”

“How many did he get?”

“Thirty-six.”

Stone rolled his eyes. “I can see why you want him so badly.”

“And before he sells them,” Lance said. “It exacerbates the situation that they’re small and can be carried in a couple of briefcases.”

Their dinner arrived.

“He has an airplane, you know,” Stone said.

“Who?”

“Billy Bob.”

“What kind of an airplane?”

“A GIV. That has a range of, what, forty-five hundred miles?”

“How do you know this?” Lance asked.

“Actually, I don’t know it. The first time Dino and I met him, he said he’d just arrived at Teterboro and an engine had eaten a bird and had to be replaced. For all I know, the airplane may just be another of Billy Bob’s lies. God knows, everything else he’s told me has been a lie.”

“Not everything,” Lance said. “He told you the truth about being in Hawaii.”

“You found him?”

“We found out he’d been there, but he had checked out of a cottage at the Hana Ranch on Maui by the time we got there. We’re checking on yachts now. I wish I’d known about the GIV earlier; he may already be gone, and he could go just about anywhere in that thing. I’ll phone it in when I’ve finished this steak. I don’t suppose you have a tail number?”

“Nope. You think he’s already moved the grenades?”

“Maybe not; he’s missing one thing.”

“What?”

“The modification to the standard rifle launcher that arms the grenade when it’s fired. All the ones in New Mexico are accounted for, and if he sold it to these people without the arming mechanism, he’d get a bullet in the brain, or worse.”

“The grenades can’t be fired any other way?”

“Nope. You could dribble one like a basketball, and it wouldn’t explode. The mechanism does everything—launches it and arms it, with a single pull of the trigger.”

“You know,” Stone said, “every time we invent some new method of killing, the bad guys get it. That’s been true from the slingshot to the atomic bomb, and now the administration wants to spend a lot of money developing tiny nuclear weapons. Don’t they ever learn?”

“If they did, I’d be out of work,” Lance said.

23

STONE WAS DOING the Times crossword in bed the following morning, when the intercom buzzed. Stone picked it up. “Yes, Joan?”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Did you listen to the phone messages when you came in last night?”

“No.”

“There’s one from Bill Eggers: He wants you at an important meeting at ten A.M., at Woodman and Weld.”

Stone looked at his bedside clock; it was nine twenty-five. “Oh, God.”

“Maybe it’s something that will produce some income,” she said. “You can’t keep selling stock.”

“I’m running,” Stone said, heading for the shower.

HE ARRIVED at the meeting in Eggers’s office ten minutes late.

“Good afternoon,” Eggers said pointedly.

“I’m sorry. I got your message only a few minutes ago.”

He turned and looked at the other person seated on Eggers’s sofa. She appeared to be in her midthirties, dressed in a beautifully designed suit and expensive shoes, wearing a tasteful diamond choker and a heavy-looking engagement ring and wedding ring. “I’m Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.

She took it, smiled briefly, but said nothing.

“This is Barbara Stanford,” Eggers said.

The name caused Stone to stop breathing for a brief moment. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Sit down, Stone,” Eggers said.

Stone sat and regarded Barbara Stanford. He guessed that, when she stood up, she would be tall. She had chestnut-colored hair and tawny skin, and the silk blouse under her suit didn’t bother to cover too much cleavage.

“Barbara has a rather unusual problem,” Eggers said.

“Perhaps I’d better explain the situation to Mr. Barrington,” she said in a beautifully modulated, accentless voice.

“Go right ahead, Barbara,” Eggers said.

“A little over a year ago, I was married to a man I’d only known for a short time. During the time we’ve been married, we’ve spent a total of only a few months together, since he travels widely on business and prefers to do so alone.”

Stone saw it coming, and he dreaded it. “May I ask his name?”

“Whitney Stanford,” she replied.

Stone gulped. “Please go on.”

“I began to think there might be another woman,” she said, “and I began poking around among his things. I found a passport. I thought it odd, since he was in Paris at the time and would have needed his passport to travel there, but when I opened it, it was in another name: Forrest Billings. The photograph, however, was of my husband. I had barely gotten over the shock when a magazine called Avenue was delivered to my apartment.”

Stone knew the magazine. It was a society journal that was delivered to every apartment building on the Upper East Side.

“The magazine features a lot of photographs of people taken at parties, and to my astonishment, I saw a picture of my husband with another woman and—you won’t believe this—the mayor.”

Eggers, who had seemed drowsy, was suddenly alert.

“The caption for the picture said he was somebody called Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

Eggers got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think it would be best if the two of you talked alone.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Stone said. “Sit down, Bill.”

Eggers sat down, grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table and dabbed at his forehead.

Stone nodded. To Barbara Stanford he said, “Please continue.”

“That’s about it,” she said. “It appears I’m married to a man with several identities, and I don’t know which one is real. What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?” Stone asked. “I mean, what was your first instinct, when you learned about this?”

“Well, I thought about having him arrested for bigamy, but then it occurred to me that I don’t know if he has another wife.”

“Suppose you’re his only wife: What would you wish to do then?”

“I think that depends on whether he is who he represented himself to be, or whether one of these other identities is real.”

“Suppose none of his identities is real,” Stone said, “including Stanford.”

“Then I would want an immediate divorce,” she replied.

“May I ask,” Stone said, “have you given your husband any money?”

“No, he’s insisted on paying all of my bills from the moment we were married—clothes, credit cards, the maintenance fees on my co-op—everything.”

“You owned the apartment before you were married?”

“Yes, my first husband, who is deceased, left it to me.”

“Well, I think that’s good news,” Stone said.

“Of course, there are the investments.”

“He invested money for you?”

“Yes, that’s his business, and he’s very good at it.”

“May I ask, on what basis do you assume he’s good at it?”

“Well, his lifestyle, I suppose. And what he’s said in conversation. He’s had a number of telephone conversations with Warren Buffett about a start-up they’re doing together. And he’s never been short of money.”

“How much did he invest for you?”

“Oh, not all that much; the bulk of my assets are overseen by a money manager who was the best friend of my late first husband. I let Whit invest only what was in my money market account at the time.”

“And how much was that?”

“Something over eight million dollars.”

Stone winced. “In what did he invest the money?”

“He put it into various companies that he had developed. The investments were quite well diversified.”

“Have you seen monthly statements on the investments?”

She was looking worried now. “No. Do you think there might be something . . . funny about what he did with the money?”

Stone didn’t answer her question immediately. “In recent days, has anyone called or visited your apartment looking for him?”

“Why, no. He hasn’t had a single phone call or visitor since he left for Paris.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Not quite three weeks ago.”

“Have you heard from him during that time?”

“Yes, he called daily until the day before yesterday. That was when I discovered the passport. The magazine arrived yesterday. He hasn’t called since then.”

“May I ask, what was your first husband’s name?”

“Morris Stein,” she said.

“Of Stein Industries?”

“That’s right.”

Well, Stone thought, she’s never going to miss the eight million dollars. Stein had been well up among the top ten on the Forbes list of the world’s richest people. “Mrs. Stanford,” Stone said, “I don’t think it will be necessary for you to obtain a divorce.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would appear that your husband married you under an assumed name, and if we can demonstrate that he did so, then you would be legally entitled to an annulment.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief.”

“Did Mr. Stanford leave a lot of his things in your apartment?”

“Yes—most of his clothes and a lot of personal effects. Can you arrange the annulment?”

“Yes, but there are some steps we should take first.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Barrington.”

“To begin with, I’d like to bring some people to your apartment to go through his things and look for evidence of any other identities he might have used.”

“All right; just let me know when you’d like them to come.”

“Then, when they’ve been through everything, you should have Mr. Stanford’s possessions packed up and put into storage. You should have the locks on your apartment changed and instruct the building superintendent that Mr. Stanford is not to be allowed in the building or in your apartment. You should also inform the management of your building that you will henceforth be known by your previous name, and you should inform anyone you do business with, and your friends, of that fact. In short, you will want to erase Mr. Stanford from your life as quickly as possible.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any joint bank or brokerage accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Are you able to give instructions on those accounts without Mr. Stanford’s permission or cosignature?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should open new accounts in your own name immediately and transfer all assets in the joint accounts to the new accounts.”

“This is going to be quite a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Should I report Whitney to the police?”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“Should I hire a private investigator to look into Whitney’s background?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Stanford—perhaps I should say, Mrs. Stein—I think I should bring you up-to-date on what I already know about your husband.”

“You know him?”

“In a manner of speaking.” As gently as possible, Stone told her nearly everything. When he was done, Mrs. Stein sat silently, looking pale. Bill Eggers was no less pale.

Finally, she spoke. “And you still don’t think I should hire someone to look into his background?”

“Mrs. Stein, there is a sufficient number of people already looking into everything about him,” Stone said. “Does he have an office?”

“He works from an office in his old apartment, where he lived before we were married.”

“Do you have a key to that apartment?”

“I believe there’s one among his things.”

“If I may, I’ll accompany you home to get that key.”

“All right.”

Stone ushered her to the elevators. “Just a moment,” he said. He went back to Eggers’s office and stuck his head through the door. “I want you to cut me a check for the fifty thousand dollars that your Billy Bob stole from me,” he said. “Have it hand-delivered before the end of the day.”

Eggers nodded, and Stone closed the door.

24

STONE WALKED Barbara Stein downstairs.

“Would you like to come and get the key now?” she asked. “You can ride with me.”

“Yes, thank you.” They got into her car, while the chauffeur held the door for her. Stone looked around the interior. It was the new Maybach, made by Mercedes-Benz, and he hadn’t been in one before.

“Go ahead and play with the seat,” she said, pointing to the controls. “Everyone wants to.”

Stone tried the switches and discovered that it was much like a first-class airline seat. He could nearly recline.

“Fun, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.

Stone thought she looked very nice in a smile. “Yes, it is. I drive the small economy version of your car.”

“I would never have bought the thing, but Morris ordered it before he died, and I thought, what the hell?”

“How long were you and your husband married?” Stone asked, as they made their way silently through traffic.

“Twenty-one years,” she said. “I was twenty-two and working as a flight attendant on the transatlantic route. Morris flew with me twice, then asked me to dinner in London. I was swept off my feet. He had been widowed for less than a year.”

Stone was doing the arithmetic. She was older than he had thought, but apparent youth was common among the well-tended women of the ultrarich class.

“Do the math, yet?” she asked. “You’re blushing. It’s so rare to meet a man with blond hair these days; you even have blond eyebrows. What are your national origins?”

“English on both sides, all the way back to the Bronze Age, but I suppose a Viking rapist must have insinuated himself, somewhere along the way.”

“I expect it gets blonder in the summertime.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’m Polish, myself,” she said. “My maiden name was Murawski.”

“A handsome people, the Poles.”

She laughed. “I like you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Please call me Stone.”

“And I’m Barbara. Where did the name come from?”

“My mother’s name was Matilda Stone.”

“The painter?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen her things at the Metropolitan, in the American Wing.”

The car drew to a smooth halt in front of 1111 Fifth Avenue, and they got out and went inside.

Barbara Stein lived in a three-story house, it turned out, but it was situated at the top of a fourteen-story apartment building. The elevator opened directly into the foyer, and a butler stood waiting to open the doors to the living room, which was on the top floor.

“There are two other floors downstairs,” she said, “but we always enjoyed entertaining up here, because of the terrace. She led him through French doors to a beautifully planted terrace stretching the width of the building, with spectacular views west and south over Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum.

“Breathtaking,” Stone said.

“Would you like something to drink? Iced tea, perhaps?”

“Thank you, perhaps another time. I’d really like to get that key and get some people over there as quickly as possible.”

“Of course; please follow me.” She led him down a floor to a gigantic bedroom and thence to a large, mahogany-paneled dressing room, filled with a man’s clothing. She rummaged in the top drawer of a built-in stack and came up with a key. “Here it is.” She gave him the address.

“Do you know if he has a safe there?”

“I expect so; there’s one here, too, behind his suits.”

“Then, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to bring some people back here to go through his things and open the safe.”

“Of course; whenever you like.”

“In the meantime, you might ask your staff to pack all these things, and they needn’t be careful about how they do it.”

She laughed. “I’ll see that they make a mess of it.” She led Stone back upstairs and to the foyer. “Thank you so much for your advice. When can we start on the annulment?”

“First, let me see what we come up with in the search, then we can make a decision.”

She rang for the elevator and held out her hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” She held onto his hand just a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll phone you later today,” Stone said. “Are you in the book?”

“Under B. Stein.”

He gave her his card. The elevator arrived, and Stone rode down. On the sidewalk, he phoned Lance.

“Yes?” Lance drawled.

“Meet me at . . .” Stone looked at the address and read it to him. “Between Lex and Third.”

“Why?”

“Because I have the key to Whitney Stanford’s apartment at that address.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, and bring some help and a safecracker. Later, you’ll need to go to an apartment on Fifth Avenue, too, where his wife lives.”

“Wife?”

“Of some months. She was formerly married to Morris Stein.”

“The Morris Stein?”

“The same.”

“Good God!”

“Fifteen minutes.”

THEY ARRIVED at the building, in the East Sixties, simultaneously, Lance with two companions. It was a small apartment building, with no doorman. They took the elevator to the top floor and let themselves in. “We have Mrs. Stanford’s permission, so a warrant won’t be necessary,” Stone said.

“A warrant is rarely necessary,” Lance replied drolly. The place was a two-bedroom floor-through, professionally decorated in an impersonal style, with a roof terrace at the back.

“All right,” Lance said, “take the place apart, but this is a covert search; everything must be left exactly as it was. Jim, find the safe and get started on that first.” The two men went to work, and so did Stone and Lance.

“Watch me for a minute,” Lance said. He donned a pair of latex gloves, went to a desk in the living room, pulled out a drawer, and set it on top of the desk, then he removed and replaced precisely the contents of the drawer. “Like that,” he said. “I realize you haven’t been trained to do this, so go slowly, and check the bottoms of the drawers, too.” He handed Stone some gloves.

He left Stone to the desk and went to another room. Stone went through the drawers very carefully, and under the right-hand top drawer he found a small piece of paper taped in place.

“Lance,” he called.

“Yes?”

“You’re not going to need to crack the safe; I’ve found the combination.”

Lance returned, looked at the piece of paper once, then went away again. A moment later, he called out, “Stone, come in here.”

Stone found his way to the master bedroom and into a dressing room. Lance stood before an open safe.

“My God,” he murmured. There were four passports stacked up in a corner of the safe, next to stacks of cash in dollars, pounds and Euros. Stone picked up a stack. “Two-dollar bills,” he said, “unused and with consecutive serial numbers. The rest seem to be hundreds.”

“Photograph everything,” Lance said to his men, “then put it all back. I want an individual, readable shot of every page of every passport. Take down the serial numbers of every bank note.”

Lance left them to it while he and Stone went quickly through the other rooms of the apartment. Except for the contents of the safe, not another scrap of paper yielded any useful information.

TWO HOURS LATER they had finished and returned everything in the apartment to its original state. As they were about to open the door, there was a noise from the other side. Lance held a finger to his lips, and he and the other two men produced guns and stood away from the door.

There was a scraping noise that went on for, perhaps, thirty seconds, then the door opened and two men walked in, followed by a woman.

The woman was Tiffany Baldwin.

25

TIFF STARED AT STONE. “What the hell are you doing here, and who the hell are these guys?” She gestured at Lance and his two men.

Lance showed her his ID. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, looking appreciatively up and down her. “My name is Lance Cabot.”

“How do you do?” she said, then turned back to Stone. “You really are mixed up with the CIA?”

“ ‘Mixed up’ is a good way to put it,” Stone said.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Tiff replied. She turned back to Lance. “What are you doing here?”

Lance spoke up. “It would appear that we have a mutual interest in the gentleman who resides here. I should think we also have a mutual interest in not disturbing the contents of his apartment. If he knows either of us has been here, he’ll bolt.”

“I assume you’ve already turned over the place.”

“You assume correctly. The only items of any interest were four passports from as many English-speaking countries and some cash. They’re all in a safe, and we left it undisturbed. May I suggest that, if we have anything further to discuss, we do it outside? The man could come home at any moment.”

“All right,” Tiff said. She led the way out of the apartment. The elevator had to make two trips to get them all downstairs.

On the sidewalk, Lance spoke to her again. “I assume you’re after Mr. Stanford for financial crimes?”

“You could say that,” Tiff replied.

“We are here on a matter of national security,” he said, “and I’m afraid that trumps your investigation. I must ask you to stay away from the man. There’s a great deal more at stake here than you realize.”

“We’ll see about that,” Tiff said.

“Have your boss call my boss,” Lance said. “So good to meet you.” He herded Stone and his two men toward an anonymous-looking sedan.

Stone stopped and whispered in Tiff’s ear. “Dinner tonight?”

“You’re on,” she said.

“Elaine’s at nine o’clock. See you there.”

Lance held the door of the sedan, and Stone climbed in.

He phoned Barbara Stein. “May I bring over my people now?”

“Of course,” she said. “I have an appointment at my hairdresser’s, but I’ll instruct the butler to let you in and give you the run of the place. I won’t be back before five this afternoon. I’m leaving a note with the doorman for Whitney.”

“Thank you, Barbara; we’ll leave the place as neat as possible.” He hung up and turned to Lance. “We’re on.” The car drove away.

“I’m impressed with your resourcefulness, Stone, not to mention your acquaintanceship.” Lance said. “I was optimistic about your eventual value to us, but you’ve surpassed my expectations.”

“I’ll bill you,” Stone said.

“How ever did you learn about the wife and the apartment?”

“I have my methods.”

“We must discuss those sometime. You know, I think it might be valuable for you to take a little trip down to rural Virginia for a few weeks sometime, to undergo some useful training.”

“Useful to whom?”

“To us and to you. I think you might find the experience entertaining.”

“Is this the famous ‘Farm’ you’re talking about?”

“Camp Peary, to be precise.”

“Lance, I would not find it entertaining to run around in the woods, being barked at by drill sergeants. I’m a little . . . mature for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, it’s not like that at all. You’d enjoy learning some of the dark arts.”

“You make it sound like Hogwart’s Academy.”

“Well, I suppose it is, in its way.”

They pulled to a halt in front of Barbara Stein’s building and got out of the car.

“You know,” Lance said reverentially, “someone once said that, if there is a God, he probably lives at Eleven Eleven Fifth Avenue.”

Stone spoke to the doorman, and they were sent upstairs, where the butler greeted them.

“Gentlemen,” the man said in a tony British accent, “my name is Smithson. Mrs. Stein has told me that you are to have access to the entire apartment, and that I am to assist you in any way I can.”

“Thank you, Smithson,” Stone said, “but I don’t think we’ll need anything.”

“There are bells scattered around the three floors, for butler, maid and cook. Should you require my help, please press the ‘butler’ button.”

“Thank you.” Stone turned to Lance. “Let’s start with our man’s dressing room; there’s a safe in there.”

Stone led them downstairs to the master bedroom and thence to Stanford’s dressing room.

“The man does live well, doesn’t he?” Lance said, looking around at the racks and cubicles full of expensive clothing.

Stone pushed back some suits, revealing the safe.

“Get started on that,” Lance said to one of the men. “The rest of us are going to go through the pockets of every jacket and pair of trousers in this room, collecting every stray piece of paper we find.”

Stone took a suit off a rack, hung it on a hook, and started to go through it.

DOWNSTAIRS THE DOORMAN watched as a red Hummer trundled to a stop at the end of the building’s awning, and Mr. Whitney Stanford got out.

The doorman stepped directly into the man’s path. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanford,” he said, removing an envelope from his pocket and handing it to him.

Stanford accepted the envelope. “I’ll read it upstairs,” he said, starting to move around the man.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said. “But Mrs. Stein has asked me to tell you that you may not enter the building.”

“What?”

“I believe the letter in the envelope will explain.”

Stanford ripped open the envelope and read the letter, which was short. He tucked it into an inside pocket. “Please tell Mrs. Stanford that I’ll be at my apartment, and ask her to phone me.”

“I’ll give Mrs. Stein the message, sir. Good day.” He opened the rear door of the Hummer. Stanford got in, and the truck drove away.

“ALL RIGHT, what have we got?” Lance asked.

“The contents of the safe are much like those of the one in his own apartment,” one of the men said. “Three passports—Irish, South African and British—and about a hundred and twenty thousand in dollars and Euros. And a stack of two-dollar bills.”

Stone pointed to a paper on the dresser top. “We’ve got credit card receipts, one from a tailor and several phone numbers jotted on scrap paper,” he said.

“Write everything down and put it all back,” Lance said.

“Mrs. Stein is moving all this stuff into a storage facility tomorrow,” Stone said.

“In that case, we’ll take the paper with us—the passports and cash, too.” He turned to Stone. “How do you suppose he’s generating all this cash?”

“Various scams, I guess, but he’s working with eight million dollars that he claims to be investing for his wife.”

“That should keep him going for a while,” Lance said. “Does Stanford have a study here?”

“His wife says not.”

“Then we’re done; let’s get out of here.”

The went back downstairs, and as they left the building, the doorman spoke.

“Excuse me, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“You might like to know that Mr. Stanford was here less than an hour ago.”

Lance took an immediate interest. “Do you know where he went?”

“He said that he was going to his apartment, and Mrs. Stein could phone him there.”

“Let’s go,” Lance said, heading for the car.

“Oh, and he was riding in a red Hummer,” the doorman called after them.

26

THEY PILED BACK into the car and drove back to the Stanford apartment building. As they got out, Lance looked at Stone.

“Are you armed?”

“Ah, no.”

“Do you recall my advising you that you should be armed at all times, until we catch this man?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Then why aren’t you armed?”

“I forgot.”

“Wait here.”

“I’ll keep to the rear,” Stone said.

“You’re vulnerable, and that makes us vulnerable. Stay here.” Lance turned and led his two men into the building.

Stone looked up at the top-floor windows. A moment later Billy Bob appeared on the roof, a cell phone clapped to an ear, a briefcase in the other hand. He looked down at the street for a second, saw Stone, then starting running along the rooftops toward Lexington Avenue.

Stone grabbed his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button for Lance’s number. Busy. He began jogging toward Lexington, watching the rooflines of the buildings he passed. Once he caught a glimpse of Billy Bob’s head, then he didn’t see him anymore. As he reached the corner, the light changed, and a flood of traffic started downtown, among the cars and trucks, a red Hummer.

“Shit,” Stone said aloud. He tried Lance’s number again.

“Yes, Stone?”

“He got out over the roof and made it down to Lex, where the red Hummer was waiting.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Stop him? He was five floors up. I don’t know how the hell he got from the roof down to the street.”

“And you couldn’t shoot him, because you weren’t armed.”

“No, but I wouldn’t have had a shot at him, even if I had been armed. I only got a glimpse of him. Anyway, I didn’t know we were out to kill the guy.”

“We’ll be right down,” Lance said.

Stone waited by the car, and a minute later, Lance and his two men came out of the building.

“Which way did he go?”

“Downtown on Lex, but that was three or four minutes ago; he could be anywhere by now.”

“Outstanding,” Lance said sourly.

“I don’t need the attitude, Lance; there was nothing I could do, except watch him drive away. Tell me, how did he get away from you?”

“The living-room television was on when we burst in,” Lance said. “It was displaying the images from four video cameras that we never saw. He saw us enter the building and scampered, first cleaning out the safe.”

“Well, at least you have photographs of the passports in the safe and the serial numbers on the currency.”

“Yes, there is that. I’ll flag the passports at all ports of entry and exit.”

“What would you like me to do now?”

“Do you actually own a firearm?”

“Several.”

“I want you to go home, select one, strap it to your body in some fashion and don’t take it off until I tell you to, unless you’re in the shower. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Stop giving me orders, Lance.”

“While you’re at home, read your contract with us; it allows me to give you orders and obligates you to follow them.”

Stone thought about that.

“Trust me, it does. Until we find this man I want you to think of yourself as on active duty with us. Keep your cell phone handy at all times. If I need you, drop whatever you’re doing and follow my instructions. Is that perfectly clear?”

“I’ll read the contract,” Stone said.

“Sorry we can’t drop you,” Lance said, getting into the car and driving away.

Stone got a cab home, went straight to his office and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Joan, please get me that contract that I signed with Lance Cabot last year.”

“Right.” A moment later she came into his office and handed him the contract.

“Thanks.”

“You’ll be glad to hear that Woodman and Weld sent over a check for fifty thousand dollars.”

“I am very glad to hear that.”

Joan went back to her office, and Stone began to read the contract with increasing alarm. How the hell had he ever signed such a document? Lance could do with him as he wished and probably shoot him, if he objected. He went upstairs, opened the big safe in his dressing room, and chose a Colt Defender that he’d had custom-converted from a .45 to a 9mm. He shoved it into a holster and threaded that and a double magazine holder onto his belt.

“All right, Lance, goddammit,” he said aloud, “I’m armed.”

TIFF WAS LATE for their dinner date at Elaine’s, and Stone was on his second Knob Creek when she arrived.

“I want one of those,” she said, sitting down. “A double.”

Stone gave her order to a waiter. “Rough day?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Because of your CIA buddy, I had to sit still for an hour on a conference call with the AG, while he chewed me out in front of a dozen people.”

“I take it Lance’s claim to Billy Bob trumped yours?”

“The AG tried to take it to the president, but the White House chief of staff slapped him down. He is very, very pissed off.”

“The experience will be good for him,” Stone said.

Tiff sucked up a quarter of her drink, swallowed it and sighed. “Okay, how did you get involved with the Agency?”

“I can’t tell you much,” Stone said. “I read my contract this afternoon, more carefully than the first time, and well . . .”

“You mean, if you tell me, you’ll have to shoot me?”

“No, but if I tell you too much, they’ll probably shoot me. I met Lance a couple of years ago in London, and I became embroiled in an Agency operation that I didn’t even understand. I thought the whole thing was completely screwed up, until Lance explained that that was what I was supposed to think. He asked me to sign on as a consultant—Dino, too, and another friend of mine named Holly Barker. I was flattered, the money was good, and it sounded intriguing.”

“And none of that turned out to be the case?”

“All of it turned out to be the case, but I find myself in a position where I have to follow orders, something I have never enjoyed doing.”

“Welcome to the club. Why does the Agency want Rodney Peeples?”

“Look, we’ve got to agree on what to call him; it’s too confusing. Can we just call him Billy Bob?”

“Oh, all right. Why do they want Billy Bob?”

“I can’t tell you that, on penalty of God knows what. Why do you want him, Tiff? Surely that can’t be a secret, since you’re out of the picture anyway.”

“The guy has pulled off a series of scams. He used the car dealership in San Mateo to screw a dozen loan companies out of millions, financing nonexistent cars; he used the accounting firm in Oklahoma to set up phony tax shelters that nobody in his right mind, except a doctor or dentist, would invest in, soaking a group of them for more than thirty million dollars; and now there are half a dozen Dallas zillionaires—all of them heavy contributors to Republican causes—who got rooked out of millions and who are screaming bloody murder and wanting Peep . . . Billy Bob’s balls nailed to the barn door, and people like that get listened to by this administration.”

“Okay, I get the picture.”

“And, as far as the AG is concerned, I dropped the ball. Shit, I went to that apartment to arrest him. I can’t help it if the Agency one-upped us.”

“No you can’t,” Stone said sympathetically.

“Try explaining that to the AG.”

“What you need is a good dinner and lots of sex.”

“You’re right, and that’s the only good idea I’ve heard all day.” She picked up a menu. “Let’s get started.”

27

STONE GAZED UP at Tiff, who sat astride him, lit by shafts of moonlight through the window. Tiff was moving rhythmically up and down, a small smile on her face.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said.

“Better than this one?” Stone asked, panting.

“Nothing to do with this.”

“Then let’s concentrate on this and talk about it later.”

“What’s the matter, can’t you think about two things at once?”

“Not at the moment.” He gave her a bigger thrust.

“Oooo,” she said. “Being able to hold two opposing thoughts at once is a sign of high intelligence.”

“I’m thinking about this and doing it at the same time. That’s as smart as I get.”

“Come now, Stone.”

“I’m trying.”

“Can you watch a TV movie and do a crossword at the same time?”

“If the movie’s bad enough.”

“So, the sex would have to be bad for you to be able to discuss my idea at the same time?”

“Bad sex is an oxymoron.”

“Surely you’ve had bad sex at some time.”

“Not that I can recall.”

“You’re getting smaller, I can feel it.”

“You’re distracting me.”

She reached behind her and took his testicles in her hand. “Is this distracting?”

“Not in the least.” He thrust again.

“I see I’ve got your undivided attention.”

“You have.”

“So, can we discuss my idea now?”

Stone thrust again.

“Now you’re trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

“Sort of.”

“Then concentrate on the task at hand.”

“You think of this as a task?” she said.

“I was speaking figuratively.”

“You like my figure, then?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She bent over him and swung her breasts across his lips. “Have some.”

He caught a nipple and gently bit it.

“What were we talking about?” she asked.

Stone thrust again. “Coming.”

She increased her tempo. “Now?”

“Yes, oh, yes!”

“Me, too!”

They both made noises for a little while, then she rolled over and lay beside him. “Now can we talk about my idea?”

“Talk?” Stone panted. “I can’t even move my lips.”

“You don’t need to; I’ve seen to that.”

He took a deep breath and expelled it. “Okay, what’s your idea?”

“My idea is that you should tell me everything you know about the CIA’s investigation of Peep . . . Billy Bob.”

“Have you had much experience with the CIA?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Then you can’t tell me what they’d do to me, if I told you about their investigation?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I think before we discuss your idea further, I should know what the consequences might be. I mean, there’s a full range of possibilities, considering the way my contract reads. They could shoot me; they could torture me; they could put me in an airplane and kick me out over the ocean.”

“They wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You’ve just admitted that you’ve had little experience with them. How do you know what they might do?”

She kissed him on a nipple. “Well, whatever they did to you, it would be worth it.”

“Worth it to you, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“So you’d sacrifice me to further your career?”

“Of course. I’m an ambitious woman.”

“God save me from ambitious women.”

“Come on, Stone, I want to know why they’re interested in a con man and thief.”

“Maybe they want to hire him.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them, but I think it’s more than that.”

“What reason do you have for thinking it’s more than that?”

“Now you’re trying to pump me for information,” she said, slapping him on the belly.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing to me?”

“Well, yes, but I’m the girl; it’s my job.”

“How’d you ever get out of Harvard Law with reasoning like that?”

“How about if I tempt you sexually?”

“I think you’ve just removed sexual temptation from the equation, considering my current state.”

“I’ll bet I could get you going again.”

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? Are you working for the CIA?”

The phone rang. Stone looked at his bedside clock: a little past two A.M. “That’s gotta be Lance,” he muttered, picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, there, Stone.”

“Billy Bob?”

“Sometimes.”

“Your accent is slipping.”

“Well, we don’t need that anymore, do we?”

“Why do you always call in the middle of the night? You aren’t in Hawaii this time.” He looked at the caller ID screen on his phone: a 917 number, a New York cell phone.

“Because in the middle of the night, I know where to find you. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“My sleep.”

“Oh, come on, Stone; you’re not sleeping, not with the lovely U.S. Attorney in your bed.”

Stone sat up and began looking for a pen. He found one and jotted down the calling number.

“What is he saying?” Tiff asked, trying to listen in on the call.

“Have you been following me, Billy Bob?”

“Well, someone has, obviously. How else would I know Ms. Baldwin is in bed with you?”

Stone found the thought disturbing. “Listen, can we drop this Billy Bob stuff? What’s your name?”

“What? You expect me to tell you my real name, so you can use it to track me down? Tell you what: You tell me what you’re doing messing with the CIA, and I’ll tell you my real name.”

“I’m a consultant to them,” Stone replied. “Now, what’s your real name?”

“Well, I don’t guess it can hurt. The name I was born with is Harlan Wilson.”

“When did you stop using it?”

“Right after I got out of the army,” he replied.

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, the CIA can tell you that.”

“They don’t talk to me all that much.”

“Sure, they do. You talk all the time. Why, you were at my wife’s apartment with them this afternoon, weren’t you?”

“How many wives do you have, Harlan?”

“Don’t call me that; I prefer Billy Bob.”

“The waiters at Elaine’s call you Two-Dollar Bill.”

Billy Bob laughed. “I like that.”

“Where’d you get the two-dollar bills, Billy Bob?”

“I bought ’em at a nice discount from a fella I know.”

“The same fella that stole them from Fort Dix and murdered two army officers?”

Silence. “I’m getting bored with this conversation,” Billy Bob said.

“Oh, you didn’t know about the robbery? Surely, you didn’t think you could buy money at a discount, unless it was hot.”

Silence. Then he hung up.

Stone replaced the receiver.

“I want to know everything he said,” Tiff said, digging him in the ribs.

“He said you were in bed with me,” Stone said.

28

STONE WOKE UP to an empty bed. Tiff was gone, and it was nearly ten o’clock. There was something he had to do, but he couldn’t remember what, until he rolled over and looked at his bedside table. The slip of paper he’d written Billy Bob’s number on was gone. That woke him up.

He sat on the edge of bed and called up the list of caller ID numbers, people who had called him. Billy Bob’s 917 number wasn’t there. Shit.

He called Lance.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone.”

“I can see that from my caller ID.”

“Billy Bob called me last night.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know; he was on a cell phone, a New York number.”

“What’s the number?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have caller ID, don’t you?”

“I tried that; it didn’t register somehow. Technical glitch, I guess.”

“Then how did you know it was a 917 number?”

Stone tried to get his mind in gear; it wasn’t working.

“Stone?”

“I asked him his real name, and he said it was Harlan Wilson.”

“Harold Wilson?”

“Harlan.” Stone spelled it for him.

“Why would he tell you his real name?”

“Maybe he’s lying, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Right. The bastard is so arrogant, he might actually tell you.”

“Maybe he did.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Stone?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you have Billy Bob’s number?”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Were you alone last night?”

“Funny, Billy Bob asked me the same thing. Or rather, he told me.”

“He told you you were in bed with somebody?”

“Yes.”

“And that would be Ms. Baldwin.” It wasn’t a question.

Stone said nothing.

“And did you write down the number?”

“Sort of.”

“And was it still there when you woke up?”

“Not exactly.”

“And had it been deleted from your caller ID log?”

“Possibly.”

“You incredible schmuck.”

It was out of character for Lance to employ Yiddish epithets, Stone thought. He must be really pissed off. “I can’t argue with that.”

“What else did you tell her?”

“Nothing. I told her that my contract with the Agency prohibited me from discussing it.”

“Except you told her that you had a contract with the Agency.”

“I think she figured that out when she found me with you in Billy Bob’s apartment. She’s not stupid.”

“No, she’s not, but she’s a pain in the ass. Right now, she’s running down that number and putting an electronic watch on it, which means that she and her people have a better shot at getting their hands on Billy Bob than we do. I do not like that.”

“I understand.”

“It’s much easier to deal with the Attorney General when he doesn’t actually have custody of the man we’re looking for.”

“Look, Lance, I don’t want to get involved in your interagency warfare.”

“You already are involved, Stone. When you signed that contract, you joined our little army, and right now, you appear to have committed treason.”

“I didn’t commit anything,” Stone said. “She stole the piece of paper and erased the number while I was asleep. That makes me a victim, not a perpetrator.”

“And that’s the only thing that is preventing me from hauling you before a . . .”

“A what?”

“Never mind; just know that you can be hauled before it, should something like this happen again.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“See that you do. Now, you said that Billy Bob told you you were in bed with Ms. Baldwin?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Don’t leave the house; I’m sending a tech over there right now to sweep the place.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Don’t you?”

“All right, send him over. Goodbye.” Stone hung up, got out of the bed and showered and shaved. His ears burned the whole time. He was in the middle of breakfast when the doorbell rang.

Stone picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Our mutual friend sent me.”

“I’m in the kitchen; ground floor, rear.” Stone buzzed the door open.

A moment later a young man appeared. Jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, longish ratty hair, stubble. A fashion plate, by current standards. “I’m Sandy,” he said. “Where’s the room you slept in last night?”

Stone pointed to the spiral back staircase. “Second floor, rear.”

Sandy disappeared up the stairs.

Stone finished his breakfast and put his dishes into the dishwasher. He began reading the Times and was on the editorial page when Sandy came downstairs.

The young man walked over to the kitchen table and tossed four small devices onto it, each about the size of a walnut. “I hope you smiled; you were on Candid Camera.”

“Those are cameras?” Stone asked disbelievingly, picking one up.

“The latest thing—color, sound, high resolution, wireless and almost invisible. When you came home last night, was there a van parked outside?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Had to be,” Sandy said. “The range on these things isn’t all that great. Whoever did this is well equipped.”

“I guess so.”

“I’m going to go over the rest of the house, now,” Sandy said. “Where should I start?”

“My office,” Stone said, pointing. “I’ll tell my secretary you’re coming.” He picked up the phone and spoke to Joan.

Stone was finishing the crossword puzzle when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Are you near a computer, Lance?”

“Yes.” There was a laptop on the kitchen counter.

“Go to the Justice Department Web site.” Lance gave him the address, then hung up.

Stone put down the crossword and went to the laptop, which had a wireless Internet connection. He typed in the address and waited a few seconds for the front page of the Justice Department Web site to appear. It did not appear. What came up was a fairly good, color photograph of the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, her back arched, her teeth bared, her hair down. Naked. Sitting on a body that Stone knew to be his own. What was more, it moved, and her voice could be heard, making an animal sound. It was on a loop, repeating about every ten seconds.

Though stunned, Stone managed to feel grateful that the face on the body underneath her was out of frame.

29

STONE TOOK A FEW deep breaths and tried to think. Better she should hear it from him, he thought. He dialed Tiff’s direct office line.

“Tiffany Baldwin.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Now, don’t start with me about the number, Stone.”

“That’s not why I called, but since you mention it, couldn’t you have at least left it on the caller ID list?”

“Certainly not; that would give the CIA an advantage.”

“They’re supposed to have an advantage, because the call came to me, and I am their consultant.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Don’t talk to me like a judge.”

“If that’s your attitude, I’m not going to talk to you at all. Good . . .”

“Hold it. There’s something you need to know.”

“What? And be quick about it; I’ve got a hellish morning ahead of me.”

“You have no idea. Go to the Internet and to the Justice Department Web site. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Hang on.” She set the phone down, and he could hear the clicking of keys. There was a brief pause, then an angry, wounded-animal shriek, as if she might have taken an arrow in the chest.

“Tiff?” Stone said. All he heard was a long silence.

Finally, she picked up the phone, and her voice was cold and calm. “That is not me! Do you understand? Why would you do a thing like that to me?”

“I didn’t do it, Billy Bob did. This morning a technician found four tiny video cameras in my bedroom.”

“How do you know it was Billy Bob?”

“Because, last night, on the phone, he told me he knew that you and I were in bed together. He just didn’t tell me how he knew. I thought he had guessed.”

“I say again: That is not me. Do you understand?”

“If that’s your story, okay.”

“It’s your story, too. Got that?”

“Okay.”

“I will deny this to my dying day, and you’d better, too.”

“Okay, I understand.”

“Until your dying day, which will be sooner than you think, if you utter so much as a word implicating me.”

“Tiff, there’s no need to threaten me; I’m with you on this.”

“If I hear a word; if I read a snippet; if a rumor starts, I will unleash the full force of federal law enforcement upon your person.”

“Tiff, I told you not to threaten me. I understand, and I will support your denial.”

“Threat? You think that’s a threat? I haven’t even begun.”

“Goodbye, Tiff.”

“Goodbye, indeed.” She hung up.

Stone hung up and dabbed at the mist of sweat that had formed on his brow. Then he noticed that Sandy was standing there.

“They’re hell, aren’t they?” the tech said.

“What?”

“Women. They’re from hell.”

Stone sighed. “Sometimes.”

“This guy really did a number on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are two devices in your office, and your phones were bugged. Kind of redundant.”

Stone sagged. “Swell.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve removed everything, and I’ve installed some equipment that will let us know if anyone tries anything like that again. Say, how did this guy get access to your office and bedroom?”

“He was a house guest for a few days. He had all the time in the world.”

“You better get pickier about who you invite to stay.”

“No kidding. Thanks for the advice.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“I don’t believe so. Thank you very much for your help.”

“Glad to do it.” Sandy turned to go.

“Hang on a minute,” Stone said.

Sandy stopped. “Yeah?”

“You any good with computers?”

“They are my métier.”

Stone turned the laptop around so he could see the screen. “This video has been placed on the Justice Department’s Web site. Can you do anything about getting it off?”

Sandy peered at the screen. “Wow,” he said. “Who is that?”

“I have no idea; can you get it off?”

Sandy watched the screen, a little smile on his face.

“Stop watching it!” Stone said. “Can you get it off their Web site?”

Sandy pointed at the screen. “Looks like that’s being taken care of.”

Stone turned the computer around again. A message had appeared on the screen, replacing Tiff’s image: “This Web site is temporarily down for repairs. Please try again later.”

“Thanks again for your help,” Stone said. “Goodbye.”

Sandy turned and left.

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

Dino’s voice. “Man, have you seen the Justice Department Web site this morning?”

“Sure. I start my every day by checking out the Justice Department Web site.”

“Well, if you haven’t, you should, because your current girlfriend, the gorgeous Tiffany, is all over it, and you’re underneath her.”

“That is not Tiffany, and I am not underneath whoever that is.”

“So you did check it out?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so.”

“And you deny that that’s Tiffany and you?”

“Most emphatically.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me why your mother’s painting of Washington Square is on the wall, just over her shoulder.”

“Nonsense.”

“Not that anybody would ever notice it while Tiffany is on the screen.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Who would ever have thought that the fucking U.S. Attorney would . . .”

“It is not she.”

“Did you take the video and put it on that Web site?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then who did?”

“If it didn’t happen, nobody did it.”

“Do you think Tiff has had a boob job?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because, if those are original equipment, they are really something.”

“Dino . . .”

“This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. The whole squad room is going nuts.”

“Did you tell anybody about the picture on the wall?”

“Let’s see, I’m not really sure.”

“Because if you did, I’m going to come down there and kill you with my bare hands.”

“Relax, nobody knows but me.”

“And Tiffany will have you taken out and shot, right after she has me taken out and shot.”

“So, I take it, your position is, you’re denying everything.”

“I’m denying everything. We’re both denying everything. And I’d be grateful if you would plant the notion in the minds, if such exist, of the gentlemen in the squad room that the person appearing in the video is not, repeat, not who they think it is or who you thought it was.”

There came a disappointed roar through the phone.

“What was that?” Stone asked.

“Hang on, I’ll check,” Dino said. A moment later, he came back. “Somebody at Justice caught on; they’ve shut down the Web site. My detectives are crushed.”

“Excellent. Do not ever speak to me about this again. Goodbye.” Stone hung up and buried his face in his hands.

After a moment, he went upstairs and moved his mother’s picture to another spot in his bedroom.

30

STONE WENT DOWN to his office and sat at his desk, wondering if there were anything he could do to short-circuit the mess he was in. Joan buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“There’s somebody from Page Six at the New York Post on the phone for you. You want me to tell them to get lost?”

Worst thing he could do. “No, I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone, pressed the line one button and tried to sound bored. “Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Henry Stead, Page Six at the Post.”

“Good morning.”

“Have you visited the Justice Department Web site this morning?”

“Are you kidding? Who visits the Justice Department Web site?”

“A number of our readers, as it happens. Our phone is ringing off the hook.”

“What are you telling me? Have I been arrested and held without bail and deprived of legal counsel? I hadn’t noticed.”

“No, but there was a very interesting piece of video on the site this morning.”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me about it.”

“Are you acquainted with a Tiffany Baldwin, who is the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York?”

“What, is there more than one Tiffany Baldwin who is the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York? Yes, I know Ms. Baldwin.”

“Well, the video on the Web site features a woman who bears what some think is a striking resemblance to Ms. Baldwin.”

“Mr. Stead, I have a busy morning ahead of me. Do you have a point?”

“Well the woman in the video is naked and is apparently having sex with a man underneath her whose face is not visible.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t sound like the U.S. Attorney I know.”

“My question is, are you that man?”

“Mr. Stead, to the best of my knowledge, I have never been photographed having sex with anybody, let alone with the U.S. Attorney.”

“To the best of your knowledge, maybe. Could you have been videotaped having sex with Ms. Baldwin without your knowledge?”

“Certainly not.”

“So there has never been any video equipment present when you were having sex with Ms. Baldwin?”

“Mr. Stead, Ms. Baldwin has never been present when I was having sex. Are you beginning to get my drift?”

“Mr. Barrington, have you seen the video?”

“No, I have not. It doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

“So you think having sex with Tiffany Baldwin is not fun?”

“I would not be so ungallant as to characterize in that manner sex with a woman I have never had sex with.”

“But you and Ms. Baldwin have been seen in public together, having dinner at Elaine’s.”

“Mr. Stead, it is a very large leap from dining at Elaine’s to making sex videos for the Internet. Now you have my denial on record, and if you don’t already have Ms. Baldwin’s denial, I’m sure you soon will. Speaking as an attorney, I think you should consult with your newspaper’s legal counsel before printing any preposterous nonsense.”

“I will certainly do so, Mr. Barrington. Just one more question. Your mother was the painter, Matilda Stone, was she not?”

“Yes, all my life.”

“Do you have a painting of hers hanging in your bedroom? Because one appears in the video.”

“That’s two questions, Mr. Stead, but I should tell you that a number of my mother’s paintings have been reproduced and sold in the thousands in the shop at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I imagine that they adorn many bedrooms. I bid you good morning.” He hung up, sweating again. He was getting tired of sweating.

Joan buzzed him again.

“Yes?”

“Lance Cabot has been holding on line two.”

“Great.” Stone pressed the button. “Lance, sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Stone, have you done anything to deal with the Internet video problem?”

“I’ve just denied everything, except knowing Tiffany Baldwin, to the New York Post, and I will continue to deny it to anyone who brings up the subject. I’ve also spoken to Tiffany, who denies it.”

“Good idea.”

“What is it, Lance? Am I somehow compromising the CIA’s reputation?”

“Not yet. Tell me, is there one of your mother’s paintings hanging on your bedroom wall?”

“I’ll tell you what I told the Post: My mother’s paintings have been reproduced and widely sold.”

“I’m going to send Sandy back over there to check out your alarm system.”

“Why?”

“Stone, there are, after all, publications that would stoop to sending photographers to surreptitiously enter your home and photograph your bedroom.”

“Oh, all right, send him over.”

“And, if I were you, I’d take that particular picture down, hide it, and hang a nice Keane portrait of a small child with big eyes in its place.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“When you spoke to Ms. Baldwin, did you mention the matter of Billy Bob’s cell phone number?”

“As it happened, she mentioned it and took full credit.”

Joan buzzed and spoke on the intercom. “Stone, Tiffany Baldwin is on line one, and I think you’d better speak to her.”

“I’ll have to call you back, Lance.”

“Don’t bother.” Lance hung up.

Stone pressed the line one button. “Tiff?”

“You miserable sonofabitch,” she said. “Did you tell Page Six that I’m no fun in bed?”

“Absolutely not. Did they say that?”

“Yes, and a lot more.”

“I simply denied everything, as you asked, and as I would have done even if you hadn’t asked.”

“What about that picture on your bedroom wall?”

“That’s being dealt with.”

“Burn it.”

“My mother painted it.”

“All right, I’ll buy it from you.”

“It’s not for sale. Tiff, calm down. The video was taken off the Web site almost as soon as it appeared.”

“Yes, I saw to that.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. This will go away by tomorrow, and then . . .”

“And then nothing,” she said. “I never want to see you again.” She hung up.

“And just when it was going so well,” Stone said aloud to himself. He hung up the phone.

Joan buzzed again. “Stone?”

“Now what?”

“Someone to see you.”

“Who?” But his question was answered before she could speak. He looked up to find Arrington Carter Calder standing in the door to his office.

“Hello, Stone,” she said.

She stood there in a tight, short, brown dress, her hair golden, a sable coat over her shoulders, looking better than he had ever seen her. Something inside him melted, as it always did when she entered a room. She had not entered a room of his for more than two years, and a dinner they had had together in London a year before had ended disastrously. Involuntarily, as happened every time he saw her, he wondered whether he or the late movie star Vance Calder was the father of her son, Peter. And he wondered why she was here.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked.

He got to his feet and walked around the desk to greet her. “Of course.” He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned so that their lips met. “Come in and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

She sat down on the sofa. “I’d like some lunch, but would you answer a question, first?”

“Sure.”

“This morning, on the Imus show, they were talking about something that seemed to involve you, something about your appearing in a sex video with the United States Attorney? Surely you aren’t gay, Stone, not you.”

31

THEY LUCKED INTO a table in the busy Grill Room of the Four Seasons, probably because Arrington was Vance Calder’s widow. When a bottle of Chardonnay had been brought and their lunch had been ordered, Stone began to explain.

“First of all, the U.S. Attorney is female; second, she has denied that the video is of her; third, I am not the person in bed with whoever the woman is.”

Arrington nodded. “All right, whatever you say.”

“Do I detect a note of disbelief in your voice?”

“Yes, you do. This is just the sort of trouble you’re always getting yourself into, Stone, and I know very well that there is one of your mother’s pictures on your bedroom wall.”

“I have done nothing whatever to get myself into trouble; it’s been done for me. And there are thousands of reproductions of my mother’s paintings on bedroom walls all over this city. They seem to have replaced Utrillo prints as the thing to exhibit one’s good taste in art.”

“Whatever you say.”

“While we’re speaking of my troubles, I’d like to take this opportunity, not having previously had one, to explain what happened when we were having dinner in London.”

“Are you referring to the occasion when you walked out of the Connaught Hotel’s restaurant and vanished into the night without a word?”

“I was arrested, sort of.”

“How do you get arrested, ‘sort of’?”

“The London police turned up at the Connaught and demanded to see me. They took me up to my suite and grilled me for more than an hour and would not allow me to leave or make phone calls. When I finally came back downstairs, you, quite understandably, were gone. All my efforts to contact you and apologize were fruitless.”

“Well, that’s a very entertaining story, even if I didn’t find it entertaining at the time. What were they grilling you about?”

“I can’t tell you; it’s a client confidentiality thing.”

“How convenient.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. The London police found a car with two dead Israeli Mossad agents in the trunk; one of them was wearing my raincoat.”

Arrington burst out laughing. “Stone, you should be writing novels, really you should. You’re able to come up with the most preposterous stories at the drop of a hat.”

“Arrington, have I ever lied to you?” This was a dangerous question, he knew.

“Of course you have.”

“On what occasion?” he demanded, trying to sound wounded.

“All right, all right, Stone,” she said, patting his hand, “I believe your story, even if it is preposterous, but may I ask a question? Just to see how quick you are?”

“What?”

“How did the dead Israeli agent end up wearing your raincoat?”

“He owned a nearly identical raincoat, and apparently, we had inadvertently exchanged them at a pub or a restaurant. Fortunately, I was able to show the police his raincoat, which was hanging in my closet.”

“You are a wonder, really you are.” She took his hand. “I’ve missed you.”

The melting inside him started again. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said, without missing a beat, and meaning it, even if she didn’t. “What brought you to New York?”

“You did, of course. I wanted to be near my New York friends—and you—again, so I’m looking at apartments.”

“If you really want to be near me, you needn’t buy an apartment; I have a perfectly good house.”

“I think it’s best if we don’t rush into things, don’t you? Our . . . distance, for want of a better word . . . has been a strain, at least on me, and . . .”

“On me, too.”

“Well, then, let’s take it slowly and see where it leads us. Anyway, I can’t be here all the time. Peter is starting school in the autumn, so I still have to be in Virginia much of the year.”

“It may surprise you to learn that there are very good schools in New York City.”

“I think the country life and the horses are better for him than adventure trips to Central Park. I’m not sure he’s the sort of boy who would thrive in the big city.”

“What sort of boy is he?”

“Sensitive, a bit shy. Happy to ride his pony, or spend the afternoon alone in the barn, grooming him.”

“He sounds a lot like me.”

“Now, let’s don’t start that again. As far as I’m concerned, Vance was his father.”

“Don’t you want to know for sure?”

“What would that solve?”

“It might supply him with a father. Don’t you think he needs one?”

“I don’t think he needs the confusion, and I would not look forward to explaining things to him. Now, let that be an end to it, please.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Ah, just the words I long to hear from a man.”

“You’ve been manless for too long.”

“Oh? What makes you think so? There is an ample supply of men in Albemarle County.”

“Chinless wonders in baggy tweeds; wastrel trust-fund boys with no character.”

“Well, there is an element of that, but there are other types. Tell me, who have you been seeing?”

“Until this morning, the U.S. Attorney, but apparently, never again.”

“Are those the words she used?”

“That was a direct quote.”

“Well, you can hardly blame the woman, can you? What with all this unwanted notoriety.”

“I can’t be blamed, either, although she’s blaming me, anyway. It’s not my fault she has a doppelgänger disporting herself on the Internet.”

“But how did this get on the Justice Department Web site?”

“I’ve no idea, but it seems to have been done to embarrass her before her peers, and I certainly had no reason to do that. It seems the only thing I can do now is to try to stay out of federal court, lest I encounter her.”

“That would seem a good idea, in the circumstances.”

A young man in a bad suit with spiky hair stepped up to their table. “Hello, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “and Mrs. Calder.”

Stone looked at him, baffled. “Could you excuse us, please?”

“Well, yes, but the U.S. Attorney probably won’t. Do you have any comment for our viewing audience?”

“What viewing audience?” Stone asked, looking around.

The young man pointed to his lapel, to which was pinned a round object. “Right here,” he said. “Twenty million Americans watch us every night, right after the news. Our viewers want to know your side of the Internet sex scandal.”

The headwaiter suddenly appeared at their table, looking distastefully at the young man. “Is everything all right, Mr. Barrington?” He asked.

“This gentleman seems to be using a hidden camera to videotape your guests,” Stone said. “I think he needs your assistance in leaving.”

The headwaiter took the young man’s elbow and marched him toward the stairs. “My apologies, Mr. Barrington,” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about that,” Stone said to Arrington.

Arrington shook her head. “Not the way I wanted to reenter New York life,” she said, folding her napkin and laying it on the table. “I’d like to go now, and we’d better find another way out of the restaurant. I have a feeling there will be a knot of cameras at the front door.”

Stone waved for a check.

32

WHEN STONE GOT BACK to his house, after putting Arrington into a cab for the Carlyle Hotel, a thicket of seedy men with cameras surrounded his doorstep.

“What do you want?” Stone asked, playing the innocent.

A hail of questions swept over him. He held up his hands for silence. “Listen carefully; I’m going to give you a statement.”

They became suddenly rapt.

“This morning somebody called me about a videotape on a government Web site. I haven’t seen it; I had nothing to do with it; I’m sure it did not contain images of any government official. Sounds to me like you’ve all confused that image with some innocent person. Go away.” He elbowed his way through the crowd and let himself into the house, leaning on the door to catch his breath.

“Hi.”

Stone jumped about a foot. “Sandy, what are you doing here?”

“Lance sent me over to look at your alarm system, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“It had been disabled.”

“What?”

“Somebody had set it up so that it seemed to behave normally when you entered your code, either arriving or departing, but it was doing absolutely nothing. They could have kicked in the door, come upstairs and shot you in your bed, and the alarm would have been completely useless. I’m referring to video shooting, of course.”

“Did you fix it?”

“Yes, but—I’ve already told your secretary this—I would be very careful from now on about who you let into the house. Be suspicious of plumbers and, especially, electricians.”

“I will be suspicious of them. Thank you.”

“Call Lance if you need me again.”

“I certainly will. Maybe you’d better leave through the garden, unless you want to be on Hard Gossip tonight. I don’t think Lance would like that.”

“Right.”

Stone let him out into the garden and instructed him on how to reach the street, then he went to his office.

Joan came in. “Did Sandy tell you about the alarm?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What’s going on?”

“I wish I knew.”

She leaned against the doorjamb and grinned. “So, how’s Arrington?”

“As you saw her.”

“She going to be around for a while?”

“Maybe; she’s looking at apartments.”

“How nice.”

“Get out of here, please.”

Joan went back to her office, chuckling.

Stone called Lance.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for sending Sandy back. Turns out, the alarm system had been disabled, but he fixed it. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“It seems that Billy Bob has decided to make your life hell.”

“Why?”

“I would imagine, because you’re making his life hell.”

“No, you are.”

“You’re helping; he’s seen you doing so. Because of you, his wife has kicked him out of her very nice apartment, and he can’t go back to his own place. He’s pissed off.”

“I suppose he is. Of course, he left a corpse in my house and stole fifty thousand dollars from me.”

“Billy Bob is a sociopath; he doesn’t consider your feelings when he acts. His actions are taken only to gratify himself, and right now, he finds it gratifying to make you miserable.”

“I know about sociopaths; I dealt with a lot of them as a cop.”

“I doubt if you ever dealt with one as ingenious and as well financed as Billy Bob. The man has technical resources, too, so he’s clearly not working alone. He’s managed, in one fell swoop, to cause both you and Ms. Baldwin a great deal of difficulty. I imagine that a nude photograph of her is on half a dozen bulletin boards at the Justice Department by now. This could, conceivably, end her career, depending on how she handles it. You know how our Attorney General feels about exposed body parts.”

“How are you going to catch Billy Bob?”

“It might help if we had the cell phone number he called you from.”

“Don’t start with that again, Lance. Tiff is now not speaking to me at all, so I can hardly get her to give it to me. Maybe her people can track him down with the number.”

“That is not what we want, is it?”

“Does it really matter who puts the guy in prison, as long as he ends up there?”

“They want him for financial crimes; we want to destroy an operation that is stealing military hardware and selling it to God-knows-who. Which do you think is more important?”

“I think they’re equally important.”

“We’ll see if you still think that after Billy Bob lobs one of his newly stolen grenades through your bedroom window.”

“You think he’s that pissed off?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

“What’s your next step in finding him?”

“I’ve got every available man on the streets with several photographs of him; we’re trying to track down the red Hummer.”

“How many red Hummers can there be in New York City?”

“We’re going to find out, I assure you. By the way, I understand that Arrington Calder is back in your life.”

“What the hell do you know about Arrington and me?”

“Oh, everything, I should imagine. Do you think I would have signed you on without the most thorough investigation of your habits? And Arrington certainly seems to qualify as a habit. I understand there’s some question about the paternity of her son, too.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Would you like me to find out whether you or Vance Calder is the father?”

“You can do that?”

“Certainly.”

“How?”

“I don’t think I should go into that.”

“Well, don’t, please; Arrington is very sensitive about it, and I don’t want to run her off. What else do you know about my life?”

“Stone, if you’ve lived it, if it’s happened to you, I know about it. I know everything about everybody who works for me.”

“That’s very scary.”

“Why? Isn’t your conscience clear, Stone?”

“Of course, it is.”

“Maybe I should have allowed my people to put you through our polygraph program.”

“Thank you, no.”

“Are you refusing to take a polygraph, Stone? In the Agency, that’s the first step on the road to perdition.”

Stone didn’t want to know what the CIA considered perdition. “I’m not refusing; I just would prefer not to do it.”

“You’re lucky you’re dealing with me and not some case officer out of Langley, you know. I don’t think you would enjoy the rigors of full-time employment with us.”

“I cannot but agree.”

“Watch your ass, Stone; Billy Bob is dangerous.” Lance hung up.

Stone remembered that he had forgotten to go armed again. He went upstairs, opened the safe and strapped everything on. Then he took his mother’s picture from the wall, wrapped it carefully in a bedsheet and tucked it away at the back of a closet.

33

STONE WENT to the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich, his lunch having been interrupted. He was eating it when the phone rang. He let Joan pick it up. A moment later, she buzzed him.

“It’s Arrington, on line one,” she said.

“You’re sure it isn’t somebody from the National Perpetrator?”

“There’s no such publication.”

“Well, there should be.” He punched line one. “Hello?”

“You’re talking with your mouth full.”

He gulped down the bite of sandwich. “There, is that better?”

“Much.”

“I’m sorry our lunch was interrupted.”

“So am I, but I know it wasn’t your fault. At least, I’d like to believe that it wasn’t your fault.”

“Thank you for that resounding vote of confidence.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

“I would. There’s only one place we can go where we’ll be safe from photographers.”

“Where’s that?”

“Elaine’s. The photographers are scared of her.”

“All right. My driver is bringing my car up from Virginia this afternoon; I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty.”

“You’re on.”

“Until then.” She hung up.

Stone hung up, too, hope renewed.

THAT NIGHT, Stone left the house and settled into the wonderfully comfortable rear seat of Vance Calder’s dark green, long-wheelbase Bentley Arnage. Arrington kissed him lightly.

“Do you remember this car?”

“Yes, from L.A.”

“It’s a bit out of place in Albemarle County, but I couldn’t part with it.”

“It’ll be perfect for New York,” Stone replied. “The traffic moves at an average of nine miles per hour here, and it’s better being stuck in this English drawing room on wheels than suffering the broken-down backseat of a New York City taxicab.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Have you started looking for an apartment, yet?”

“Not only have I started looking, I’ve found one.”

“Wonderful! Where?”

“Fifth Avenue, overlooking the park. All I need is a designer, and I have some ideas about that.”

Elaine’s was only half full when they arrived, and they were shown to Stone’s usual table. The waiters fawned over Arrington, welcoming her back, and she stopped to speak to a couple of people on the way to the table.

“I’d forgotten what a nice place this can be,” she said, as they sat down. “One always knows somebody.”

“True. What would you like to drink?”

“A cosmopolitan, I think.”

Stone ordered that, and his usual Knob Creek came with it. They raised their glasses.

“Renewed friendships,” Stone said.

“We are friends, aren’t we?” she asked. “I mean, in addition to having been lovers, we’ve always been friends.”

Well, not always, Stone thought. “Of course we have.”

Elaine came through the door at the stroke of nine and spotted them immediately. She came over and gave Stone a hug and a kiss but offered only a hand to Arrington. “Hi,” she said, then went to another table.

“Well, that was rather frosty,” Arrington said.

“Oh, you know how Elaine is with women,” Stone said.

“I know she prefers the company of men, but I thought we always got along well.”

“Once you’re a regular again, all will be well. Elaine likes regulars. It doesn’t matter to her that you haven’t been coming because you live in L.A. and Virginia; all she cares about is that you haven’t been coming.”

“All right,” Arrington said, sipping her cosmopolitan. Then her face lit up. Dino was coming through the front door. She waved, and he came over and gave her a big hug.

“It’s great to see you back, Arrington,” he said.

“And it’s always good to see you, Dino. Please join us for dinner.”

Stone aimed a kick at Dino under the table, which he deftly avoided. “I’d love to, and I know Stone would love it, too.” He waved to a waiter for a Scotch.

“And how are Mary Ann and Benito?”

“My wife and son are both thriving.”

“And when did you last see them?” Arrington asked, archly.

“As a matter of fact I just had dinner with them at home,” Dino said. “Ben is now doing his homework, and his mother is doing whatever she does when I’m here.”

“Which is, what, every night?”

“Only five or six nights a week. We have to go out to her father’s for dinner one night.”

“And how is the mysterious Eduardo?”

“Old, but hardy.”

“Dare I ask about Dolce?”

“Mrs. Barrington is in a rubber room, or Stone would be dead now.”

Stone made a face at Dino to ward him off the subject, but it didn’t help. He had once been married to Dino’s sister-in-law, Dolce, for a few minutes, before she turned out to be raving and murderously mad. “It was never legal in this country,” Stone said.

“Thanks to Eduardo,” Dino drawled.

“Stone still thinks of himself as a bachelor, not a divorcé,” Dino said.

Arrington laughed. “Stone still thinks of himself as a virgin.”

The two of them thought this uproariously funny, while Stone pretended to be amused.

“So, Stone,” Dino said, “you had any offers from the porno industry, yet?”

“Dino . . .”

“Are you referring to the business of the naked U.S. Attorney on the Justice Department Web site?” Arrington asked.

“What else?” Dino replied. “Hilarious, isn’t it?”

“Priceless.”

“I want you both to stop this,” Stone said. “Both she and I are victims of mistaken identity, and that’s the whole of it.”

“Sure, Stone,” Dino said. “Whatever you say.”

“God, it was only on the Web site for a few minutes, and the whole world seems to have seen it.”

“I heard that some kid in Jersey taped it and is already selling it on the Internet,” Dino said.

Stone groaned. “Anybody hungry?” He waved frantically for a waiter to bring menus.

“Starved,” Arrington said.

Stone looked up from his menu to see Tiffany Baldwin walk into the restaurant, accompanied by a well-dressed man.

“Stone, what’s wrong?” Arrington said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Her gaze followed his toward the door.

“Not a ghost,” Dino said. “A video porn star.”

34

STONE NEARLY CHOKED on his bourbon. Tiff glided by, flashing Stone a brilliantly threatening smile that seemed to say, “If you speak to me I will cut your heart out.”

“Evening, Stone,” she said, as she passed.

“Evening, Tiffany.”

“Oh,” Arrington said, “so that’s the fabled United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

Dino laughed. “I’m surprised she’d show her face in here.”

“Why not?” Arrington said. “I hear she’s already shown everything else.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Stone said through clenched teeth. “She’ll hear you.”

“She’s really quite lovely, Stone,” Arrington said. “I hope your roll in the hay was worth the consequences.”

“What consequences?” Dino asked.

“From what I hear, Stone is just about the most famous man in New York, and tomorrow’s papers aren’t even out, yet.”

“God, is there no end to this?” Stone said aloud.

Arrington patted his hand. “Probably not, my dear, at least not until someone else does something even more outrageous, if that’s possible. Dino, do you think you could get me a copy of that videotape from that fellow in New Jersey?”

“Just go to Google and type in ‘U.S. Attorney,’ ” Dino said. “The tape will be right at the head of the list.”

Stone glared at him. “You sound as if you’ve already been there.”

Dino shrugged. “A couple of guys at the precinct stumbled onto it. Several of my detectives have already ordered their personal copies. You’re their hero.”

“I want both of you to listen to me very carefully,” Stone said, keeping his voice low and calm. “Either we are going to have a moratorium on this subject from this moment on, or the two of you can dine together without my company.” He was volcanically angry, but he was not going to allow himself to show it.

“Why, Stone,” Arrington said, taking his hand, “you’re angry. I’ve never seen you angry before.”

“And I hope you never do again,” Stone replied. “Now, shall we order?” He thanked God his back was to Tiff. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.

THEY WERE FINISHING dinner when Stone’s cell phone vibrated again, and still he ignored it. A moment later, it went off for a third time. He looked at the phone and read the number from caller ID—Lance. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Stone said.

“Of course,” Arrington replied.

Stone got up and walked toward the front door, while answering his phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Lance.”

Stone stepped outside into the cold. “What is it?”

“I need you right now.”

Stone cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry, you’re breaking up.”

“Don’t hand me that,” Lance said. “I need you right this minute. A car will pick you up in front of Elaine’s in about thirty seconds.”

“I’m sorry, I still can’t read you,” Stone said. “Try again later.” He turned off the cell phone and walked back inside, shivering.

“Who was it?” Arrington asked.

“A client. We had a bad connection, so I couldn’t hear him.”

“Do a lot of clients call you at eleven o’clock in the evening?” Arrington asked.

“More than I would like.”

“It’s gotta be a girl,” Dino said.

Stone had to put a stop to this right now. “It was Lance.”

“Lance who?” Arrington asked.

“Lance Cabot,” Dino said. “He would be the New York station chief for the CIA, if they have a New York station.”

“I used to know a Lance Cabot years ago,” Arrington said.

“What did he look like?” Dino asked.

Arrington pointed toward the front door. “Very much like that,” she said.

Lance strode through the restaurant to the table. “Why, Arrington,” he said, his usual charming self, “how nice to see you after all these years.”

“And you, Lance,” Arrington said, offering her hand. “I hear you’re with the CIA these days.”

A flicker of annoyance ran across Lance’s face, but he kept his composure. He turned to Stone. “I need to speak to you outside.”

“I’m sorry, Lance, but we’re about to have dessert,” Stone replied. “Would you like something?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t time right now, but I do need to speak to you.”

Stone turned to Arrington. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Stone jerked his head in the direction of the mens’ room and walked back there. It was a small facility, but he checked the booth to be sure they were alone.

Lance leaned against the door. “Now,” he said.

“Lance, I’m having dinner with friends. You’ll have to get along without me tonight.”

“Are you armed, Stone?” Lance asked.

“No,” Stone replied.

“Another breach of my instructions.”

“Lance, your instructions are becoming a pain in the ass.”

Lance reached under his arm and produced a very small semiautomatic pistol. Simultaneously, he took a small tube from his pocket and began screwing it into the barrel. The whole assembly was no more than six inches long. “Please don’t underestimate the power of this little weapon,” he said. “It can put an end to your life instantly, or, more appropriate to this occasion, destroy a knee, which will require a mechanical replacement, if you don’t bleed to death while waiting for the paramedics to arrive.”

“No,” Stone said.

Lance pointed the gun at Stone’s right knee and fired a round, making a soft pffft noise.

Stone moved at the last second, and he felt something tug at his trouser leg. He looked down to see both an entry and an exit hole through the inside knee of his pants.

“Hold still,” Lance said, taking aim again. “I wouldn’t want to hit the femoral artery.”

“All right,” Stone said, holding his hands out before him. “That won’t be necessary; I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you so much,” Lance said. “Now say your goodbyes, and we’ll be on our way.”

Stone walked back into the restaurant and to his table. “Arrington,” he said, “I must apologize, but something urgent has come up, and I have to accompany Lance somewhere. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“If I must,” she replied.

“Arrington,” Lance said, “I hope we’ll have an opportunity to renew our acquaintance at more length soon. Good night.”

“Good night, Lance, Stone.”

Stone got his coat and followed Lance from the restaurant. They got into a black car.

“Now,” Lance said, “where did Arrington hear that I am connected with the Agency?”

“She didn’t hear it from me,” Stone said.

“Did Dino tell her?”

“She didn’t hear it from me,” Stone repeated.

“All right.”

“So what’s the emergency?” Stone asked.

“We’ve caught Billy Bob.”

“What? Where?”

“He was sitting outside your house in the red Hummer; he was armed with a silenced nine-millimeter handgun and two of the rather special grenades I told you about.”

“Outside my house?”

“That is correct. Stone, if you once again fail to follow an instruction of mine, I’ll have you inducted into the armed services with the rank of private, so that if you should ever ignore another order, I can have you court-martialed and sent to Leavenworth for a few years. We have a rather special little detention unit there.”

“All right, all right,” Stone said.

“And if I find you unarmed again until this is over, I will, I promise, shoot you in a particularly painful place.”

Stone slumped in his seat and wished he were at home in his bed.

35

LANCE BEGAN idly unscrewing the silencer from his little pistol.

“What is that, some CIA secret weapon?” Stone asked.

“Hardly,” Lance replied. “It’s a Keltec three-eighty, weighs ten ounces, loaded. Of course, our gunsmiths have done a little work on it, but it’s a wonderfully concealable weapon and very effective, if the range isn’t too great. I’ll send you one.”

“I don’t understand why you need me.”

“I want you to interrogate Billy Bob.”

“And why do you think he’ll talk to me more readily than to you?”

“He seems heavily invested in you; no one else has so captured his attention, so, even if he’s just angry with you, he’ll communicate.”

“I don’t see how this is going to work.”

“You’re going to be the good cop,” Lance explained. “After I’ve shouted at him or threatened him, you’re going to interrupt. Surely, you’ve done this a thousand times.”

“Very nearly,” Stone said. He had always played the good cop to Dino’s bad, when questioning suspects. “Where is Billy Bob?”

“In your garage,” Lance replied.

“What?”

“It was convenient to the scene of his capture.”

“How did you get into my house?”

Lance looked at him, almost with pity. “Really, Stone.”

Stone sat back and shut up.

“Now, here’s the way it’s going to go,” Lance said. “Two of my men are with Billy Bob now, two very . . . ah, capable gentlemen. They may have slapped him around a bit by the time we get there, depending on his attitude. They’re both rather short-tempered.”

“Dino and I never got to soften them up,” Stone said, half to himself. “Dino would have loved that.”

“We do not operate under the same strictures placed upon the NYPD,” Lance said, “or any other law-enforcement agency.”

Stone wondered how far Lance would take that. “And just how far would you take that?” he asked.

“As far as necessary,” Lance replied. “I hope it won’t be necessary to spill Billy Bob’s brains onto your garage floor. Incidentally, it’s good of you to have a two-car garage and only one car. Otherwise, we’d have to do this in your office.”

“Whatever I can do to help,” Stone said, sarcastically.

“Now you’re beginning to understand your position,” Lance said. “I did not recruit you simply for legal advice or for the people you know, or for the table you have at Elaine’s. I did so, because there are times I need someone like you, someone with a semipublic face, with gainful employment, who lives in full view of the world, or nearly so, and has some skills, no matter how rudimentary. It helps that you inadvertently made contact with and gained the attention of Billy Bob through other means.

“I recruited Dino, because there are times when I need the resources of a big-city police department without having to deal with its hierarchy.”

“Why did you recruit Holly Barker?”

“I need Holly for other, more operational reasons. She is considering a more permanent offer from us as we speak, though I think it might take a few weeks or months for her to gather the resolve to leave her present, quite pleasant circumstances and join us.”

They turned the corner onto Stone’s block and stopped in front of his house.

“Let’s go in through your office,” Lance said, using a key of his own, to Stone’s annoyance.

“I don’t recall our contract saying anything about your using my house at will for surreptitious interrogations.”

“There’s a part of your contract that reads ‘render all reasonable assistance,’ ” Lance suggested. He led the way through Stone’s office, into his basement, then into the garage. Billy Bob sat in his shirtsleeves, tied to an armless kitchen chair with a wicker seat, which Stone had stored in the garage because he didn’t need it, but it was too nice to throw away. Billy Bob’s hands were tied behind him. He glared at Stone but said nothing.

“Now, Harlan,” Lance said. “I know that may not be your name, but . . . oh what the hell, we’ll just call you Billy Bob. Stone is used to that.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Billy Bob replied, not unpleasantly.

“I can see this is going to be more fun than I had hoped,” Lance said. He turned toward his two men, who were leaning nonchalantly against the garage wall. “I would like for you two to cause Billy Bob, here, considerable pain, without marking him up too badly. I want him relatively bruise-free when we deliver him to Guantanamo, if possible. If not, then . . .”

“Sure thing,” one of the men said, pushing himself off the wall and striding toward Billy Bob, whose expression did not change.

“Hold it a minute, Lance,” Stone said. “Give me a few minutes alone with Billy Bob.”

“Oh, all right,” Lance said, as if it were against his better judgment. He beckoned to his two companions. “Come with me,” he said. At the door he turned back to Stone out of Billy Bob’s hearing. “Five minutes, Stone, and I want to know three things: One, who is his contact at the New Mexico weapons installation; two, where are the other thirty-four grenades he and Billy Bob stole; and three, the name, address and telephone number of the person to whom he intended to sell them.” Lance left, and Stone returned to the garage.

He leaned against his car. “So, you were going to kill me?”

“I still am,” Billy Bob said.

“Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“You inconvenienced me.”

“That hardly stacks up against your murdering that girl in my house and trying to blame me for it, then stealing fifty thousand dollars from me.”

“I was only getting started,” Billy Bob said.

“You’re in over your head, now, Billy Bob. Let me explain things to you: You’re not under arrest; you’re not going to be arraigned or allowed to see an attorney, except me; and when Lance’s two thugs are done with you, if there’s anything left, you’re going to find yourself in a cage at Gitmo with a lot of companions who speak only Arabic or Urdu, and nobody will ever know you’re there. You’ll spend the next few years being interrogated a couple of times a day, until they’ve milked you dry, and then you’ll disappear even from Cuba. Now, if you give me the information Lance wants, then maybe I can ameliorate those circumstances a bit, do some kind of a deal.”

“What, no jail time?” Billy Bob asked, contempt in his voice.

“That’s not impossible,” Stone said, “but let’s start with no torture, no death, and work from there, a bit of information at a time. If you’ll tell Lance everything—and I mean everything he wants to know, then I’ll see that you walk out of here by morning. Then you can take your stolen money and disappear, and Lance won’t care. Only the police and the feds will be looking for you, and you don’t seem to have had too much trouble evading them, up to this point.”

“Oh, stop it,” Billy Bob said. “I’m going to get whatever I’m going to get, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”

“So, you absolutely refuse to tell me anything?”

“Only to stick your slick personality and your legal skills up your ass.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Billy Bob, and I wish they hadn’t chosen to do this in my garage. Have you ever tried getting bloodstains out of a concrete floor?” Stone walked slowly to the door and opened it. “Lance?”

Lance came back into the room with his two henchmen.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to persuade him to talk to you,” Stone said.

Lance turned to the two men. “Strip him, and cut the cane seat out of that chair so his genitals will be exposed. I’m going to get some tools; I’ll be right back.” He motioned for Stone to follow him, then closed the door behind him and started up the stairs.

“Let’s see what being naked does to his self-confidence,” Lance said, as they emerged into the first floor of the house. He went to the bar in Stone’s study and poured them both a Knob Creek.

“You’re not really going to torture the guy, are you?”

“No? Stick around.”

“I don’t want any part of this,” Stone said.

Lance sipped his drink. “You’re too squeamish, Stone,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind what we did to him, if you didn’t know him, if he wasn’t in your house, would you?”

“I would, wherever you had him,” Stone replied. “I believe in the rule of law, even for Billy Bob. I’d be content to see him in prison for the rest of his life, and God knows, there’s enough evidence to put him there—two murders, that we know about, just for a start.”

“Oh, I’m not going to torture him, Stone, but a few minutes with that thought in Billy Bob’s mind might do wonders to loosen his tongue.”

There was a rattling noise from downstairs.

“What’s that?” Lance asked.

“That is the sound of my garage door opening.”

Lance set down his drink and started for the stairs. “What are those two fools doing? We don’t want people passing by looking into your garage, do we?”

As Stone followed him down the stairs, the rattling noise came again. “They’re closing the garage door,” he said.

Lance strode across the basement and flung open the inside door to the garage, which was in total darkness. “Where’s the fucking light switch?” he demanded, groping along the wall.

Stone found the switch, and the garage was, once again, flooded with flourescent light. One of Lance’s two men lay on his back, his throat gaping and blood pooling around him; the other sat on the floor, leaning against Stone’s car, clutching his chest and coughing blood down the front of his shirt. One of them couldn’t be helped, and Stone didn’t know what to do for the other.

Lance calmly flipped open his cell phone and pressed a single button. “This is a Mayday,” he said, slowly and clearly. I need paramedics and a cleaning crew now, at the Barrington residence, garage entrance.”

The man leaning against Stone’s car coughed once more and keeled over sideways, coming to rest with his head on the concrete floor and his eyes open.

“Hang on,” Lance said. “Scrub the paramedics; just send the cleaning crew.”

36

STONE SAT in his study with Lance. They were on their second Knob Creek.

“Don’t worry,” Lance said. “These fellows are very good; when they’re through, not even luminol will pick up the bloodstains.”

“That’s a great comfort,” Stone replied. He stared at Lance, who seemed perfectly calm, even a little bored. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “Two of your men are dead, and you’re just sitting there, calmly drinking bourbon.”

“What else is there for me to do?” Lance asked. “I’ve alerted my people to look for Billy Bob. I’m here now, only to see that the cleanup people do a good job, so you won’t think I left a mess.”

“The two dead guys are a mess.”

“They’ve been cleaned up, too.”

“What about their families? Shouldn’t you be contacting them?”

“They don’t have families,” Lance said, “and they didn’t seem to love anyone, except each other. It’s one of the reasons I chose them, along with their special-operations backgrounds.”

“So, they were trained killers?”

“Indeed.”

“It seems that Billy Bob was even better trained.”

“I’ve been pondering that,” Lance said. He must have had a knife they didn’t find when we picked him up. When they untied him to undress him, well . . .”

“So, where did Billy Bob get good enough to kill two of your former special ops guys with a knife?”

“He had the advantage of surprise.”

“There are only two ways somebody could do that—training or experience. Or both.”

“There’s always luck,” Lance said.

“You don’t believe that for a moment.”

“No, I don’t. We’re doing a records check on Harlan Wilson; if that’s his name, and if he was ever in some special unit, we’ll find out. We’re also questioning the driver of the Hummer and going over the car for fingerprints. One way or another, we’ll find out who he is and where he sprang from.”

“Let’s get back to you,” Stone said.

“Me?”

“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get to be this cold and hard?”

Lance shrugged. “I am who you know me to be. As you said, training, experience. Both, actually. And commitment. You lack commitment, Stone.”

“Commitment to what?”

“To anything.”

“I’m committed to the law and to . . .” Stone stopped.

“Yes? Finish that statement, please.”

“No, you tell me what you’re committed to.”

“I,” Lance said, “am committed to the preservation and success of my country and its way of life, and to the means my people have contrived to ensure that state of affairs.”

“Well, that’s succinct. Do you have no doubts about the means?”

“Not so far,” Lance said. “Perhaps one day I’ll run into a situation that might cause doubts. If so, I’ll deal with them as best I can.”

“Where do you draw the line? Murder? Mass murder?”

“The people who oppose us have no line,” Lance said. “Otherwise, the World Trade Center would still be standing and three thousand dead people would still be alive. We cannot fight this enemy with reservations and qualms. If we do that, they will win.”

“And how long must we do that? A year? A century?”

“For as long as it takes; forever, if necessary. Until we kill them or until they crawl back into their holes and pull the dirt in after them.”

“There are hundreds of millions of potential recruits for them, standing in line, waiting their turn.”

“They’ll tire of their sport, when they don’t win. Anyway, perhaps our leaders and diplomats will eventually find a solution someday. Until then, there is only me—and people like me—to stand between them and my country, between them and you.”

“And what about Billy Bob? Is he worth the effort you’re making, the price you’ve paid?”

“Billy Bob is one of an army of ants, and the only way to stop ants is to kill them all. He’s a particularly harmful ant, since he’s found a way to help that army use our own deadliest weapons against us. By the way, he took back the two grenades we found on him, so he has all thirty-six again. Do you want to see them used in Times Square on New Year’s Eve? Isn’t it worth whatever we have to do to Billy Bob to keep that from happening?”

”I wish I knew,” Stone said.

“And what are you willing to do to him, Stone, to keep him from killing you? That seems to be his most immediate plan.”

“Yes, he told me. I’m willing to kill him, if I have to, to keep him from killing me, but I’m not willing to torture him to death.”

“Would you be willing to torture him to death to keep him from causing the deaths of those thousands in Times Square?”

“I don’t know. I envy you your certitude, Lance; it relieves you of conscience or ethics. You’re like those religious fundamentalists who believe that they know all the answers.”

“Who knows?” Lance said. “Maybe they do.”

“People who believe they have all the answers are always wrong,” Stone said.

“I know my position may seem harsh, but I wouldn’t trade places with someone who can’t decide what his position is.”

A man Stone hadn’t seen before came up the stairs from the basement, carrying a wooden box, half the size of a briefcase. “They’re about done down there,” he said, “and they did a good job. You want to check?”

“Yes,” Lance said, standing up.

“And you asked me to bring this.” The man held out the box.

Lance took it and handed it to Stone. “This is for you.”

Stone opened the box and found a Keltec .380 pistol, a silencer, three loaded magazines, one in the gun and two in a pouch, and a small holster.

“This is my personal advice to you, Stone, off the record,” Lance said. “When you encounter Billy Bob again, shoot him twice in the head immediately. If you try to take him or reason with him or wound him, he’ll kill you. My people don’t want him dead, and that’s supposed to be what I want, but I’m fond of you, in my way, and I wouldn’t want to lose your life because you underestimated Billy Bob, as I have tonight.”

Lance went down the stairs, leaving Stone alone with his conscience.

37

STONE SLEPT, or rather, didn’t sleep, with a .45 under his pillow, cocked and locked. As his mind raced through the night, considering alternatives, he considered Arrington. He had been out with her in public twice, and had perhaps been photographed or videotaped in her company, and that troubled him. He waited until after 7 A.M. to call her.

“Hello?” she said sleepily.

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Good morning,” she said, her voice husky with sleep and, maybe, something else. “Did you conclude your business last night?”

“Not really,” he said. “May we have breakfast together in your suite?”

“All right.”

“Order me some bacon and eggs; I’ll be there by the time room service delivers.”

She gave him the room number. “See you then.” She hung up.

Stone grabbed a shower and threw some things in a bag, then packed a Halliburton aluminum case with a couple of guns and ammunition. Then, with considerable reluctance, he went down to the garage. The place looked as it had before two men had been murdered there, but cleaner and neater. He got the car started and backed into the street, checking all around him, fore and aft, for any strange vehicle.

He pulled away and turned up Third Avenue, watching to see if a car, any car at all, followed him. None did. He drove up to the Carlyle on the Upper East Side, parked his car in the hotel’s garage and walked next door to the lobby, again watching his back.

Arrington answered the door in a beautiful nightgown with a matching pegnoir, her blond hair brushed back but with no makeup. “Good morning.”

“I’m sorry to get you up so early,” he said, “but it’s important.”

The doorbell rang. Stone sent Arrington back to the suite’s living room and looked through the peephole. A room-service waiter gazed blankly back at him. He let the man in and let him set up the rolling table; Arrington signed for their breakfast, and he left.

Arrington raised her orange-juice glass. “Remember the old Chinese curse? ‘May you live in interesting times.’ ”

“It’s appropriate,” Stone said.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m going to tell you this as concisely and as straight as I can,” Stone said. “None of what I have to say is hyperbole.”

“All right.”

“A week or so ago, Bill Eggers introduced me to a new client, who he said had asked for me. His name was Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

“And you believed that?”

“It doesn’t matter. For reasons we needn’t go into, Eggers talked me into putting him up at my house. He was there for several days, then he left, leaving a dead prostitute in my guest room.”

Arrington’s eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.

“He arranged things so that I would be considered a suspect in her murder, then he vanished. Then I was introduced to Barbara Stein, a wealthy widow who had come to see Eggers, because she had seen a photograph of her husband, who was supposed to be out of the country, in Avenue magazine, with the mayor, and the same prostitute. It was Billy Bob, though she knew him as Whitney Stanford.”

“I know that name,” Arrington said. “Someone from Dallas recommended him to me as some sort of a financial whiz.”

“You didn’t meet him, I hope.”

“No, but we talked on the phone. He was supposed to call me when I got to New York, but he hasn’t.”

“Good. He bilked a number of people in Dallas out of millions, and Barbara, as well, though you must keep that to yourself—client confidentiality, and all that. Did I mention that Billy Bob also murdered an investment banker in New York a couple of weeks ago?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, he did. Now, about last night: As Dino mentioned, Lance is CIA.”

“I knew him when I was a freshman at Mount Holyoke, and he was a senior at Harvard. I lost track of him after that.”

“Some months ago, I signed on as a consultant to the Agency, and that is why Lance commandeered me. Last night.”

“Did he also put a bullet hole in your trousers?” she asked. “I thought that looked odd.”

“Yes, he did. When I declined to go with him, he became . . . persuasive.”

“Where did you go?”

“Turns out, Lance’s people had caught Billy Bob, waiting outside my house, apparently for me. He was armed with a silenced pistol and two explosive devices. Lance took him into my garage to interrogate him, and for some reason, he thought Billy Bob might talk to me more easily, since we had somehow formed this relationship where he wanted to kill me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Arrington said.

“A lot of what the CIA does doesn’t make any sense to me,” Stone replied. “I chatted with Billy Bob for two or three minutes, during which time he confirmed that he intended to kill me.”

“But why?”

“I honestly don’t know. He says I inconvenienced him by getting his wife to throw him out, but it’s got to be more that that, I just don’t know what.”

“Well, you’re safe from him, now that Lance has caught him.”

“I’m afraid not. Lance and I left him alone with two of Lance’s men, large men, who were supposed to, well, soften him up for interrogation. During the short time we were gone, Billy Bob managed to free himself and kill both men with a knife he had, apparently, concealed on his person.”

“By kill, you mean, dead?”

“Very.”

“In your garage?”

“Yes.”

“With a knife?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t imagine what your garage must have looked like.”

“Lance’s people cleaned it very thoroughly, and did God knows what with the bodies.”

“So Billy Bob is on the loose again?”

“He is.”

“Which is very dangerous for you?”

“Well, yes.”

She looked at him narrowly. “Are you here to tell me that I am in some sort of danger?”

“You are, possibly, in some sort of danger.”

“And what do you recommend I do about that?”

“I have the house in Connecticut, and Billy Bob doesn’t know about it. I think you should come up there with me, and . . .”

“When?”

“Right now, or as soon as we finish breakfast.”

“Has Billy Bob seen the two of us together?”

“Possibly, I don’t know. He had cameras in my house, but they had been removed by the time you arrived. He might have seen us at the Four Seasons, or at Elaine’s.”

“And if he did, he knows who I am?”

“Again, possibly. After all, he had your name, and you spoke to him on the phone.”

“Stone, you must remember that, when Vance was murdered, my photograph was in every newspaper in this country.”

“I do.”

“So, if he saw us together, he might very well know who I am?”

“Perhaps. In any case, if he had been planning to con you out of money, he would have researched you thoroughly.”

“And he would know that I have a child?”

“Yes.”

Arrington got up and started for the phone. “I’m going home to Virginia,” she said.

“I don’t think you should go there, or to L.A., either.”

“My little boy is there.”

“Sit down and listen to me.”

She sat, the frightened-deer look in her eyes.

“I think you should come to Connecticut with me. My car is downstairs; you should pack and send your luggage down. Do you still have access to the Centurion Studios airplane?”

“Yes, whenever I want it.”

“I think you should ask them to send the airplane to Virginia and have Peter brought to Connecticut. There’s an airport twenty-five minutes’ drive from my house. It will take the GIV. We’ll meet Peter and take him to my house. No one will know we’re there, so Billy Bob can’t find us.”

Arrington was quiet for a moment, but it was obvious that she was thinking fast. “What’s the name of the airport?”

“Waterbury-Oxford. It has a five-thousand-foot runway and jet fuel.”

“All right,” she said. She got up and went to the phone again. She made two calls and returned. “We’re in luck; the Centurion airplane is landing in Washington in an hour, after a flight from L.A. They’ll refuel and go directly to Charlottesville, where Peter and his nanny will be waiting for them.”

Stone shoveled down the last of his eggs. “Then let’s get moving.”

38

STONE CHECKED OUT the bellman through the peephole, then let him enter and take the luggage. He called the garage and asked them to have his car ready, then instructed the bellman to precede them and load the luggage. They waited five minutes, then, with Stone going first, his hand under his jacket on his gun, made their way down the hall and into the elevator.

Stone asked Arrington to remain on the elevator while he checked out the lobby, then he escorted her quickly to the garage, where the car was waiting, its motor running. He tipped everybody, then got moving. He drove around the block twice to be sure he was not being followed, then crossed the park at Seventy-second Street, made his way to the West Side Highway, then north to the Saw Mill River Parkway.

“How long have you had this car?” Arrington asked. It was the first time she had spoken.

“Three years, I guess.”

“It seems very powerful.”

“It is; it’s the E55 model, with the AMG-tuned engine, the fastest Mercedes made. And it has the advantage of being armored.”

“Armored? Did you anticipate events?”

“No, it was serendipitous. I arrived at the dealership as they were wheeling it in. It had been ordered by an Italian-American gentleman, who felt he had enemies, but the car arrived exactly one day too late. His widow asked the dealer to resell it, and I couldn’t resist.”

“How armored?”

“It’ll stop small-arms fire.”

“That’s comforting to know, in the circumstances.” Then she went quiet again.

Stone took the Saw Mill all the way to I-684, then to I-84 and thence to exit 16. A left turn from the ramp took them to Oxford airport in two minutes. He checked his watch. They had been on the road for an hour and forty-five minutes. “We’ll have a wait,” he said.

They made themselves comfortable in the little terminal, and an hour and a half later, the GIV, with the trademark Roman centurion on its tail, touched down and taxied to the terminal. The engines died, and the door opened. The first person out was a small boy in a blue overcoat, carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a Gameboy in the other.

As Peter rushed into his mother’s arms, Stone was struck by his appearance—dark hair, handsome face—and it suddenly occurred to him that Peter Calder, ostensibly the son of Vance Calder, bore an uncanny resemblance to Malon Barrington, Stone’s father.

“Peter,” Arrington said, “I want you to meet a very good friend of mine. This is Stone Barrington.”

Peter extended his hand and said gravely, “How do you do, Mr. Barrington?”

“Hello, Peter,” Stone said, taking the boy’s tiny hand, “and please call me Stone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peter replied.

Arrington then introduced Ilsa, the knockout Swedish nanny, and a moment later, they were headed north toward Washington, Connecticut.

Peter took in the bare trees and patchy snow. “It’s colder here than Virginia,” he said.

“I hope you packed warm clothes,” Arrington said to Ilsa.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ilsa replied.

THEY ENTERED the village from the south, drove past the Mayflower Inn and turned left at the Congregational church.

“This is Washington Green,” Stone explained, “and my house was once the gatehouse for the big place next door, called the Rocks.”

“Then you should call your house the Pebbles,” Peter said.

“The Pebbles it is, from this day forward,” Stone replied, turning into the short driveway.

“Oh, this is charming, Stone,” Arrington said. “Look at the little turret, Peter.”

But Peter was already out of the car, peering through the windows.

Stone got the door open and turned up the thermostat. “Keep your coats on for a few minutes, until it warms up.” He took Arrington aside. “There are only two bedrooms.”

“Well,” she said, “it won’t be the first time we’ve shared, will it?”

Stone and the nanny got the bags upstairs and distributed, and by the time he got back downstairs, the furnace was producing heat. “Make yourselves at home,” he said. “I have to make a couple of phone calls.”

He called his office first.

“The Barrington Practice,” Joan said.

“Hi, it’s Stone. I’m at the Connecticut house, and I expect to be here for a few days.”

“Okay, I have some things I can work on.”

“No, I want you to take a few days off, too. Put an announcement on the answering machine saying that I’m away but that I’ll pick up my messages. You can check it a couple of times a day and call me about anything important.”

“Okay, boss.”

“I’ll call you when it’s time to come back to work.”

“Okay, I’ll just do a few things this morning, then go home.”

“Joan, I want you to lock up and go home right now, and I don’t want you to come back, even for a minute, until I call you.”

“Uh, oh,” she said. “What’s up?”

“A bad guy is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find either of us.”

“I’m out of here,” she said. “ ’Bye.”

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“What was that little dance you and Lance were doing last night, and why was there a bullet hole in your pants?”

“Lance picked up Billy Bob, but he managed to escape. It appears that killing me is high on his to-do list.”

“Billy Bob’s or Lance’s?”

“Billy Bob’s. Lance was just trying to get me to come with him.”

“I guess it worked.”

“I guess it did. But listen, Billy Bob might be mad at you, too.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t seem to need a reason, but I want you to watch your back for a few days.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Maybe even assign a man to watch it for you.”

“You think Billy Bob’s that dangerous?”

“Last night, he killed two of Lance’s best people with a knife.”

“In my precinct?”

“It’s been dealt with; it won’t come to your attention.”

“Good.”

“I’m at the Connecticut house, but don’t tell anybody, not even Elaine. You can reach me here if anything happens.”

“Okay, take care of yourself. Is Arrington pissed off at you again?”

“No, she and Peter are here with me.”

“How cozy.”

“Oh, shut up, and as I say, watch your back.”

“And you watch your ass.”

Stone hung up and went into the living room, which was warm now. Peter was expertly hooking up his game machine to the television.

“You can do that with the sound off,” Arrington said.

“Don’t worry, Mom, I brought my earphones.”

Stone sat and watched, fascinated, while the little boy played his computer games.

LATER THAT NIGHT, when Peter and Ilsa were asleep, Stone showered, then slipped into bed with Arrington. She was not wearing a nightgown. He touched her shoulder. “You’re very warm.”

“Come closer, and I’ll warm you, too.”

They came together as if they had never been apart.

39

FOR THREE DAYS, they lived quietly, dining at the Mayflower Inn or cooking at home. They drove the country roads, gazing at the Connecticut winter. It snowed. Peter and Stone made a snowman in the front yard.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, while Arrington and Peter were napping and Ilsa was helping to get dinner started, Stone drove down the hill toward Washington Depot, the little business district, to get some wine for dinner. His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Episcopal church, remembering that this was a place where cell-phone reception was possible.

“Hello?”

“It’s Lance.”

“Hello, Lance.”

“Where are you?”

“Out of town.”

“Where out of town?”

“I don’t think I should say on the phone.”

“I’ve been trying to call you.”

“Cell-phone reception is dicey here.”

“Don’t you ever check your voice mail?”

“Not since I left the city. What’s up?”

“We identified Billy Bob from a single thumbprint found in the Hummer.”

“And?”

“It’s not good news.”

“Tell me.”

“His real name is Jack Jeff Kight.”

“You mean, Knight?”

“Without the n. Kight.”

“So, who is Jack Jeff Kight?”

“Born in Plainview, Texas, thirty-nine years ago, son of a used-car dealer and a waitress mother. Attended the local schools, barely got out of high school. Juvenile delinquent, of a sort—joyriding in other people’s cars, fights at the local roadhouses, that sort of thing. Got a local girl pregnant, stole some money to buy her an abortion in Juarez, got caught. He was given a choice—two years in jail or three years in the military. He picked the Marines.”

“Sounds pretty ordinary.”

“He wasn’t. He tested very bright in the Corps. Very physical, breezed through basic at Parris Island, breezed through advanced infantry training. He qualified for the Navy Seals and was about to start training, when an Agency recruiter came across him.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Well, yes. He was lifted from the Corps fifteen years ago and sent to Camp Peary.”

“The Farm.”

“Yes. He did extraordinarily well there, learned many skills, seemed made for covert work, the wet kind. Then he killed another trainee. With his hands.”

“So why isn’t he at your little establishment in Leavenworth?”

“Claimed it was self-defense; a couple of witnesses backed him up. Another witness claimed he provoked the other guy, but he got through the investigation and was returned to training. Less than a month later, he got into a fight with an instructor and got his ass kicked, but when the instructor was walking away, Jack Jeff picked up a board and fractured the man’s skull. This time, he got the boot. The Corps didn’t want him back, so a general discharge was arranged, and Jack Jeff vanished into the hinterland. Five weeks later the instructor whose head he had broken had a seizure, collapsed and died. Apparently, too much time had elapsed between the original injury and the death to prove murder, and anyway, our boy was gone. The Agency never heard of him again, until now.”

“What were some of those skills he picked up at the Farm?”

“Hand-to-hand combat, explosives, weapons, communications, document forgery, the opening of locks and safes, the bypassing of alarms of all sorts and how to create false identities and cover his tracks. Among others. He was there for nine months.”

“Everything a boy needs to know to carve out a criminal career for himself.”

“Everything but experience. He got that over the next decade and a half, doing the con jobs that we know about and, probably, a lot that we haven’t discovered, yet. Apparently, he didn’t kill anybody until the hooker at your house, but we can’t be sure of that. Are you at your place in a nearby state? I’ll send some people up to watch you.”

“Don’t bother; we’re doing just fine.”

“You took Arrington with you? What about her child?”

“Him, too. Look, Lance, we’re okay. There’s no way Billy Bob could know about this place.”

“How about the little piece about your house in Architectural Digest two years ago?”

Stone felt ill. “How would he run across that?”

“How’d you find out about Billy Bob’s past?”

“Google. That’s a long shot.”

“It’s how I found you.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. You must learn that working for us entitles you to certain protections.”

“I suppose you want to put us in the Agency’s Protect Your Consultant’s Ass program and ship us off to Omaha, or someplace?”

“Tell the truth, I’d rather send a team up there and hope Jack Jeff shows up.”

“You want to turn us into bait?”

“Bait is alive. Corpses are dead.”

“All right, but can you do it without Arrington noticing?”

“I can do it without you noticing.”

“I’d rather notice.”

“If you see a very Irish-looking fellow—thirtyish, red haired, red faced, chunky—he’s mine. Name of McGonigle. There’ll be others. McGonigle is all you need to notice.”

“All right, when?”

“They’re already on their way.”

“Are you going to tell the local cops? You don’t want to get them rousted.”

“I’ve been in touch with them. I trust you are now armed?”

“To the teeth.”

“Don’t let Arrington or the boy go anywhere without you. The team won’t be as effective, if they have to split up.”

“Oh, there’s a nanny, too, Swedish, name of Ilsa.”

“Keep everybody close. If there are errands to be run, send Ilsa. I’ll let McGonigle know about her. Oh, there was one other piece of information, goes to the motive of our boy.”

“What’s that?”

“You remember a little German man named Mitteldorfer?”

“Oh, Christ, yes.” Stone and Dino had sent him to prison, and, once out, he’d made repeated attempts to kill them.

“There’s a nexus: Jack Jeff has visited him a number of times in prison, using other names. We’ve no idea how they first made contact, but apparently, he’s annoyed with you at having Mitteldorfer put away a second time.”

“Yeah, he kept trying to kill us. Get some people on Dino, too, will you?” Stone said.

“I’ll do that. Talk to you later.”

“Lance?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” But Lance had already hung up.

Stone drove on to the wine shop, but he hurried. He returned to find the house still quiet. Even Ilsa wasn’t making any noise in the kitchen.

He went in there to put the wine in the kitchen rack, and Ilsa was still sitting at the kitchen table, where she had been shelling peas, but now, she had fallen asleep, her head on the table.

Stone put away the wine and went to wake her, then he stopped, confused. She had been shelling peas, not cutting tomatoes. There were no tomatoes for dinner. Still, there was a lot of tomato juice on the kitchen table, and some had spilled onto the floor. He walked slowly around the table and saw where the red came from.

Ilsa’s throat had been cleanly, surgically cut.

40

STONE TOOK his 9mm from the holster on his belt, looked into the hallway, saw no one, then slipped out of his shoes and ran silently up the stairs, two at a time, his heart pounding, steeling himself for more gore. His bedroom door was open. He put his back against one side of the door, listened for a moment, then went in, ready for anything. The bed was empty, its covers mussed. Arrington’s shoes were still sitting neatly at one side.

He ran to Peter’s room. The door was closed. He put his ear to it and listened, heard a murmur and the squeak of bedsprings. He looked through the keyhole and saw a hand hanging over the side of the bed, then he quietly opened the door and looked in. Peter was sleeping on his stomach, undisturbed. He closed the door quietly and checked Ilsa’s room and the rest of the upstairs. Nothing, no one.

Stone started back down the stairs, then stopped. Through the glass pane of the upper door, behind the wrought-iron grillwork, lit from behind by a streetlamp, was the silhouette of a man. The man cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the front door, then moved away.

Stone ran down the stairs, opened the door, and, his weapon at the ready, looked around. The man was now peering through the kitchen window.

“Freeze!” Stone said, not too loudly, as he didn’t know if the man was alone. The man straightened up from the window. “Hands on top of your head,” Stone said. The man complied. “Turn and face me.”

The man turned, and the light from the kitchen window illuminated his face, which was red. So was his hair.

“I’m from Lance,” he said. “My name’s McGonigle.”

“Come here,” Stone said, still holding the gun on him.

McGonigle approached, his hands still on his red head.

“Show me some ID.”

McGonigle produced a leather wallet with an ID card.

“Inside,” Stone said. “You can relax.”

McGonigle stepped inside the house, and Stone closed the door behind them.

“What’s wrong with the woman in the kitchen?” McGonigle asked.

“Her throat has been cut,” Stone said.

McGonigle’s voice remained calm. “Anybody else hurt?”

“Arrington Calder has been lifted. Her son, Peter, is still upstairs, asleep. They apparently didn’t know he was in the house.”

McGonigle nodded. “Have you spoken to Lance?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. I was on my way into the village to pick up some wine when he called.”

McGonigle produced a cell phone.

“It won’t work here,” Stone said. “With the exception of a few spots, Washington is pretty much a dead zone. There’s a phone in the kitchen, on the wall, at the end of the counter.”

“I think you can put the gun away,” McGonigle said. “They’re gone.”

“Billy Bob won’t be happy until he has me, too.”

“That’s why he took the woman when he didn’t find you here. He can take you at his leisure, now. He knows you’ll come to him, when he wants you.” McGonigle went into the kitchen and used the phone to call Lance. They talked for a minute, then McGonigle called out, “Stone, he wants to talk to you.”

Stone went into the kitchen, trying not to look at Ilsa, and took the phone. “Yes, Lance?”

“I’m sorry we were too late,” Lance said.

“Thanks for trying.”

“Billy Bob didn’t know about the boy; that’s good.”

“Yes.”

“First things first. I’ll have to notify the local authorities; a civilian is dead. I’ll ask them to be discreet. I’ll also call the Connecticut, Massachusetts and New York State Police and ask them to put out a bulletin on Arrington.”

“Thanks.”

“As soon as you’re done with the police I want you and the boy to go with McGonigle and his people. We can’t leave you there.”

“All right.”

“Pack some things for both of you.”

“All right. You haven’t said that we’ll get Arrington back.”

“I don’t have to tell you why.”

“No, I guess you don’t.”

“We’ll get you through this,” Lance said.

“Goodbye.” Stone hung up.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and pack,” McGonigle said. “I’ll call you when the local cops arrive.”

“All right.” Stone went upstairs and put some clean clothes into a bag, then went to Peter’s room and packed for him without waking him. When he came back downstairs, there was a uniformed Connecticut State Trooper sergeant standing in the hall.

“Mr. Barrington? My name’s Coll.” He offered his hand.

Stone took it. “Sergeant.”

“I’m the local law. You want to give me your account of what happened?”

Stone did so, while Coll took notes.

“Thank you, I think that will do it. My people will take over here, now. You can go with Mr. McGonigle.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got a van out front,” McGonigle said.

Stone went back upstairs and thought of waking Peter, but he remembered how he had slept when he was that age. He picked up the boy, wrapped him in a blanket and walked downstairs with him. “Will you get our bags and his coat from upstairs?” Stone asked McGonigle.

“Sure.”

He went outside and got into the van. Another man and a woman were already inside.

“I’m Corey, he’s Tucci,” the woman said. Tucci backed the van into the street and drove away. “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Corey said. “It’s where we had planned to stay.”

Stone held Peter against him, the sleeping boy’s head on his shoulder. They drove through the village, in then out, then back, obviously checking for a tail. A few minutes later they turned into a driveway.

“I’m going to get out and open the door,” Corey said. “When I’ve checked out the place, I’ll call you, and you get Peter inside quickly.” She got out of the van, and a moment later came back.

“All right.”

Stone got out of the van and ran to the open door of the house. Inside, he was directed upstairs.

“You can put Peter in the first bedroom,” Corey said. “Let’s let him sleep.”

Stone put the boy to bed and came back into the hallway.

“In here,” Corey said.

He walked into a kitchen, and beyond that was a nicely furnished living room. The shades were all drawn. “Where are we?”

“We’re in the carriage house of the Rocks, the house next door to you. The owner is away, but he’s acquainted with Lance, so we’re all right for as long as necessary. We have half a dozen people watching this place and your house, in case they come back for you. We can hope that happens, because it will make it easier for us to find them.”

Stone nodded and sat down.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Corey asked.

“I’m not hungry. Peter will be when he wakes up, though.”

“We’ve got some groceries; I’ll make some soup.” She busied herself in the kitchen.

A moment later, Peter walked into the room, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?” he asked. “Where are Mom and Ilsa?”

“Come in and sit down,” Stone said. “We had a call that someone in Ilsa’s family is ill in Sweden, and she had to go home. Your mom has gone with her, to help her.”

“That doesn’t sound like Mom,” Peter said.

“She’ll be back next week sometime. In the meantime, you and I are going to stay here.”

“Where are we?”

“In the house next door to mine. We had a pipe break over there, and there’s water all over the place, so we moved over here, to a friend’s house.”

Peter looked around. “I don’t like this as well as your house.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said, “but we’ll be comfortable here until my house is fixed.”

“Hi, Peter,” Corey said. “I’m Annie; I’m a friend of Stone’s.”

“How do you do, Annie?” Peter said. He sat down and began to eat the soup she had put in front of him.

Stone tried to eat, too, and mostly failed. He had never felt so helpless.

41

THERE WERE FOUR bedrooms in the place, and they put Stone in the one next to Peter’s. It was windowless and not well ventilated, and Stone slept fitfully until nearly daylight, then he finally drifted off. He was aware of people coming and going in the flat; apparently there was another place downstairs, so there was plenty of room.

He finally came fully awake a little after 9 A.M. and lay there, thinking, going over every moment he had spent with Billy Bob, or Jack Jeff, or whoever the hell he was. Everything the man had told him was either a lie or invented to back up a lie, and the invented things—the phone numbers in Dallas and Omaha—would be gone and the people who answered them gone, too, and probably impossible to find. Billy Bob’s apartments in New York had already been thoroughly searched; Lance would have run down whatever Billy Bob had told the rental company who supplied the Hummer and driver; and Lance would have people tracking the Jack Jeff Kight name, but that would take time, and he didn’t have time. Sooner, rather than later, Billy Bob would reel him in with a threat to Arrington, and the best he could hope for in such a meeting is that he and not Arrington would be murdered. It didn’t seem an attractive prospect.

He called Joan at home.

“Where are you?” Joan asked. “I’ve been trying you at the Connecticut house and on your cell phone, but I couldn’t get an answer on either.”

“We had to leave the Connecticut house, but I can’t come back to New York, yet, and I still don’t want you to go to the house.”

“There’s a strange phone message on the answering machine,” she said. “I erased a couple of others that don’t matter, but you should listen to this one yourself. I didn’t understand it.”

“I’ll call now.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“I’ll call you every day. Bye-bye.” He hung up and dialed his New York number, then entered the code for the answering machine.

“Hey, Stone,” Billy Bob’s voice said. “I figured you’d check in for your messages sooner or later. We ought to get together real soon, because Arrington isn’t eating, and I don’t know how long she can last. Here she is.” There was a scuffling sound, and Arrington came on. “Don’t look for me,” she said quickly, “just get out.” This was followed by the sound of flesh striking flesh, and a cry, then Billy Bob came on. “Well, she doesn’t really seem herself today. The girl’s a good lay, though, if you tie her down. I’m going to let you think about that for a little while, then I’ll call this number again and leave you some instructions. If you don’t follow them explicitly, I’ll send you Arrington’s head in the mail. See ya!” He hung up.

Stone took deep breaths, trying not to feel what Billy Bob wanted him to feel. That had been the point of the message, and Stone had to fight it.

He had one other, very tenuous idea. He went to the living-room phone, where Corey couldn’t hear him, and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Lance told me; you okay?”

“Yes, considering.”

“I’ve sent Mary Ann and Ben out to Eduardo’s house; they’ll be safe. Is Arrington’s boy all right?”

“Yes. I told him his mother went to Sweden with the nanny. I’m not sure he bought it, but he’s not asking too many questions yet.”

“You heard anything?”

“I had a message on my answering machine, designed to shake me up and make me pliable.”

“Let’s get the fucker together; why should Lance have all the fun?”

“I had a thought; it’s a long shot, but . . .”

“Tell me.”

“A few months ago, the burglar alarm was acting up, and Bob Cantor came by to fix it. He did the original installation.” Bob Cantor was an ex-cop who supplied technical services to Stone when he needed them.

“Yeah, Bob’s good.”

“I was standing there, and when he finished and buttoned up the system, he wiped it down very carefully, and I asked him why. He said he wanted it clean, so that if anybody ever tampered with it, he could lift his prints.”

“Yeah, Bob’s careful.”

“Billy Bob, or someone who works for him, tampered with it last week, and one of Lance’s people came to fix it. That means that the prints of two people could be somewhere either on the alarm system box or on the main telephone box. Can you get somebody over there and see what you can lift from those two pieces of equipment?”

“Right away.”

“If you find prints and run them, there’ll probably be a government block on Lance’s man, but the other guy’s might get us a name, and that’s a start.”

“I’ll get on it. Where can I call you?”

“I’ll call you. And you can always reach me by leaving a message on the machine in Turtle Bay.”

“Your cell’s not working?”

“Off and on where I am. It won’t be reliable.”

“I’ve still got a key to your place. I’m on it.”

“Later.” Stone hung up. Immediately, the phone rang, and he let Corey answer it.

“It’s Lance, for you,” she said, handing him the phone.

“Yes, Lance?”

“I heard Billy Bob’s message on your answering machine. Don’t let him get to you; that was the purpose of the message.”

“I know that; I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Arrington was smart enough not to mention Peter. I don’t think Billy Bob has any idea he was with the two of you. He may check out the Virginia house and find out he’s not there and begin to suspect.”

“Let him suspect; it won’t do him any good. Peter’s well protected by your people.”

“He certainly is. They don’t come any better than McGonigle, and he has a first-rate team, Corey, especially.”

“I figured.”

“I’ve pulled out all the stops on this, Stone; we’re running down every piece of information on Billy Bob and each of the aliases we know about. Something will turn up.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I could get the Bureau in on this, but it would get leaked. You want that?”

Stone thought about it for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s better if we keep it tight.”

“Good. If I get to a point where I think it would really help, I’ll call them in.”

“All right.”

“Try to get some rest, and keep Peter entertained. I don’t want you to leave the house, though.”

“Where’s my car?”

“Still in your driveway; you won’t need it until this is over.”

“Right. Thanks, Lance.” He hung up. Peter had come into the kitchen. “Good morning, Peter.”

“Good morning, Stone.”

Corey gave the boy a brilliant smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” Peter replied.

Corey began making bacon and eggs. “How old are you, Peter?”

“Five and a half,” he replied, pulling up a chair.

“Big for your age, aren’t you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Everybody in my kindergarten class is about my size.” He turned toward Stone. “What are we going to do today?”

“Well, I saw some games over there on a shelf,” Stone replied. “There’s Monopoly and Scrabble and a couple of others, and you have your Gameboy.”

“Can’t we go outside?”

“Well, it’s real cold today, and it could rain or snow. Maybe we’d better stay inside, where it’s snug and warm.”

“Okay.”

Stone ate his eggs, counting the minutes until he could call Dino again.

42

STONE CALLED his home number every hour to check for messages. Nothing for the whole morning. Then, at one o’clock: “It’s Dino. I haven’t been able to reach you for a couple of days. Call me when you get this.”

Dino was playing it smart; he knew Lance might be listening in.

Stone started to call him on the landline, then stopped. If Lance were listening on his home number, he might be listening on this line, too. All the agents, except Corey, were out of the house at the moment, and she was playing Parcheesi with Peter. Stone got out his cell phone and began walking around the large apartment, checking for a signal at every window.

Finally, in the back bedroom, he got a one-bar signal. He called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“You’re weak, can you speak up?”

“No, I’m on my cell phone. What’s happening?”

“Sometimes you’re brilliant, Stone. Not all that often, but . . .”

“What is happening, Dino?”

“We got three sets of prints. One of them, as you said, was government blocked. I ran the other two and came up with two names. One is a Martin Block, no record; he was printed in the army twenty years ago. The other is a Rocco Bocca, who got out of Sing-Sing just over a month ago.”

“Did they send Mitteldorfer back to Sing-Sing?”

“Yeah, I checked. I almost had them put him in solitary, but decided against it. He might be able to tip off Billy Bob.”

“Have you found out anything about Bocca?”

“You bet. He was doing five to seven on multiple burglary charges, served five and a half. And get this, he was working as a burglar alarm installer and hitting his clients.”

“He’s our guy. You get an address?”

“I got his parole officer’s name, but the guy is out of the office all day, and I couldn’t get a cell number. I left a message, so if he calls his office, I’ll hear from him.”

“Good news.”

“You want me to pick him up when I find out where he is?”

“No, but if you can put a tail on him, do that. If he meets Billy Bob it might be wherever he’s holding Arrington.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll keep calling my home phone every hour. Leave a message, if you learn anything more.”

“Okay.”

Stone hung up and looked out the window. There was a narrow porch at the rear of the carriage house, with a door leading to it, locked from the inside. That was a way out, but not in daylight, because men were stationed outside. Maybe not at night, either, because two agents slept in this room. He walked around the apartment again, checking windows. The back porch was definitely his best bet.

STONE SPENT the afternoon playing games with Peter and checking his answering machine for messages. Nothing more came in, until close to dark, when Dino called again: “I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls,” he said. “You out of the country, or something?”

It was completely dark by six o’clock, and agents were coming in for dinner. They were taking turns cooking or bringing in pizzas from the local parlor in Washington Depot. Peter preferred the pizzas.

Stone ate one slice, then clutched his gut. “Jesus,” he said. “Please excuse me for a few minutes.”

He left them sitting around the table and went to a bathroom in the hallway, closing the door, then he got his overcoat from his room, put it on and crept down the hall toward the rear bedroom. There was a roar of laughter from the people at the dining table.

Stone walked quickly across the bedroom, opened the door and stepped out onto the rear porch, closing it quickly behind him. He didn’t want anyone feeling a cold draft in the house. There was a fire ladder at one end of the porch, and he climbed down it, then stood at the bottom, his back to the wall, and listened. Somebody coughed.

He peeked around the corner of the house and saw a cigarette glow in the darkness. One of McGonigle’s team. His house was only fifty or sixty feet away, separated from the mother property by a high hedge. Stone ran along the hedge and around a corner. He was in full view of the Rocks’s driveway, and if anybody drove in, he would be caught in the headlights.

He ran toward the road, looking for a gap in the hedge that had once been a passage between the main house and the gatehouse. It was mostly grown over, but it allowed him to push through the hedge without going to the main road, which might be watched.

He crept across the lawn to the kitchen door of his house and let himself in with his key. From there he ran upstairs in the dark to his bedroom and went to his dressing room. He had to feel for the keypad on the safe, but after a couple of tries, he got it open.

He stuck his small .45 in his pocket and a couple of extra magazines, then he took the box containing the little Keltec .380 that Lance had given him and went back downstairs. He let himself out the kitchen door and walked as quietly around the house as he could, looking for guards. He saw none.

His car was standing where he had left it, and there was no way to keep the interior light from coming on when he opened the door, so he did it and got in as quickly as he could. He put his key into the ignition and turned it to the first position, to disable the ignition lock, then he reached up and turned off the interior light, so it wouldn’t come on when he opened the door.

He got out of the car and, with the door open and his hand near the steering wheel, put his shoulder against the central pillar and began pushing the car backward. There was a slight incline to the street, and he picked up speed, turning the wheel when he had to. Once in the street, he continued pushing the car backward until he was nearly to the church. Then he got into the car, started it and, with the lights off, turned past the church and drove down to the main road. He drove past a number of the Gunnery school buildings and took his first right, before he switched on the headlights. He felt exhilarated, as if he had broken out of prison, but he had only a few minutes before they began knocking on the bathroom door, looking for him.

He couldn’t call Dino yet, because he wouldn’t get cell-phone reception until Bridgewater, if then. He concentrated on driving fast on the curvy country road, much faster than usual. He wanted to get as far away from Washington as he could, as quickly as he could.

Fifteen minutes later he was in Bridgewater, and he switched on his cell phone. The signal was weak, but he finally found a part of the road where it was stronger, where he pulled over and called Dino’s cell phone.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Okay, I finally got hold of the parole officer, at home. Rocco Bocca is living at his sister’s house in Queens, and I’ve got two guys watching it. There are two cars in the driveway, so he might be home.”

“Do this,” Stone said. “Have the detectives knock on the door and ask to see him. Tell him, or whoever’s there, that they’re checking his alibi for a burglary that fits his MO. At least we’ll know whether he’s home.”

“Okay. You on your cell?”

“Yes, I got away from the group.”

“What about Peter?”

“He’ll be fine with them; he likes the female agent.”

“Are you coming back to the city?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to go home; somebody might be watching.”

“My place?”

“No. Are you at home?”

“On the way.”

“Don’t go there. Go to the Carlyle and get a room, under the name of Bocca. I’ll come there.”

“Okay; I’ll go there now.”

Stone hung up the phone, which rang immediately. That would be Lance. They would have missed him by now. He didn’t answer.

He headed toward the city, staying off the interstate. It would take him longer, but he would be harder to spot. He felt better now, though there was not much reason to. At least he was doing something.

43

STONE’S CELL PHONE continued to ring, and finally, he switched it off. He entered the city from the East Side and drove to the Carlyle, parking in their garage. From the lobby, he asked for Mr. Bocca’s room, and called Dino for the room number.

Dino let him into a very nice suite. “The manager is doing me a favor,” he said. “You had dinner?”

“Half a slice of pizza, two hours ago. What’s happening?”

“Bocca is at his sister’s house, and the two detectives are sitting on him. They did the number about his alibi, told him he was clear and left. He’s none the wiser. You may as well order some dinner.”

Stone got the room service menu and ordered a steak and half a bottle of wine, while Dino poured him a bourbon from the wet bar. Then Stone called his home number and checked for messages.

“Hey, Stone,” Billy Bob’s voice said. “I’m ready to meet you now. What we’re going to do is set up an exchange of Arrington for you. She’s a pain in the ass, you know? Yeah, you know. I want to get rid of her, so I’m going to set up something for tomorrow afternoon around three. I’ll call your cell phone number, and you’d better answer it, if you want to see her again. I’ll give you instructions then. You get one shot at getting her back, and one shot only, so you’d better make it work. If you get the cops involved, or your CIA buddies, then people will die, among them Arrington and you. You dream about that tonight, and I’ll call you midafternoon tomorrow.” He erased the message and hung up.

“That was Billy Bob,” he said, and he repeated the message to Dino.

“When we get the instructions, we’ll set something up,” Dino said.

“It’s going to be tough. Lance has probably heard the message, too, and he’ll be all over us, if he finds out where we are.”

“Some of his people were following me; I told him to hold them off, that my guys could take care of it, and I think he did. I made sure I wasn’t followed here.”

Stone’s steak came, and he ate it hungrily, not having had much food for twenty-four hours. Then he stretched out on one of the beds and took a nap.

DINO SHOOK HIM AWAKE. “Bocca’s on the move,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“A little after one A.M. I’m on the cell phone with my guys. He’s headed toward the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge.”

“So Billy Bob is in Manhattan?”

“He may be on his way to New Jersey, for all we know,” Dino said. “Let’s just sit tight until we know more.”

“Let’s sit tight in your car,” Stone said. “We might have to move fast when we learn more.”

Dino spoke into his cell phone. “I’m going to my car. Call me in five minutes and let me know where you are.”

Stone and Dino went downstairs to where Dino’s car was waiting at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the hotel. They got into the backseat, and Dino told his driver to start the car. A moment later, Dino’s cell phone rang.

“Yeah?” Dino listened.

“We’ll pick you up at Seventy-sixth and Third,” Dino said, “then we’ll play switch with the two cars.” He hung up and spoke to his driver. “Get us over to Third fast; use the lights to get across Park and Lex, but no siren, and turn off the lights after Lex.”

The driver switched on the lights and moved down Seventy-sixth Street, made his way across Park against the lights, crossed Lex and switched off his flashing light.

Dino got back on his cell phone and pressed the speaker button. “Where are you?”

“We caught a light at Seventy-first, but we’re moving again, crossing Seventy-second,” the detective said.

“What’s our guy driving?”

“A beat-up Ford van, tan in color, New York plates.” They gave him the number. “We’re in a gray Toyota.”

“I’ll pick him up at Seventy-sixth, and you drop back, but keep me in sight. I’m in a black Crown Vic.”

“Gotcha.”

“When the light turns green, turn left on Third and double-park on the right,” Dino said.

The driver followed instructions, and a moment later, the van passed them.

“Now, you’re the tail,” Dino said. “Stay well back, but don’t lose him.” He spoke into the cell phone. “If you see our turn indicator go on, he’s turning in the opposite direction at the next corner, and you pick up the tail.”

“Gotcha.”

They followed the tan van up Third Avenue to Eighty-sixth, where it turned right.

“Give a left-turn signal and make a left,” Dino said, “then make a U-turn in the middle of the block. Don’t use your turn indicator.”

Stone looked back as the gray Toyota turned down Eighty-sixth after the van. A moment later, they made a U-turn and were back on the chase.

“Okay our guys are making a left-turn signal,” Dino said. “The van is turning right on Second; follow him.”

“Right,” the driver replied.

Now the van drove down Second Avenue. There was little traffic, so Dino’s driver stayed well back, and he and the Toyota changed positions frequently.

“What’s he doing?” Stone asked.

“He’s looking for a tail,” Dino’s driver replied, pulling over and double-parking in front of a news shop, to let the Toyota pass.

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to make us,” Dino said. “This guy’s a burglar; he don’t know from tails.”

The van went down to Twenty-third Street, made a right, went to Madison and made another right.

“This could go on all night,” Stone said.

“We got all night,” Dino replied.

“We’d better think about what we’re going to do when he stops,” Stone said.

“Call in the cavalry?”

“There are five of us; let’s keep it to that. We’re not storming a military installation. And we’re not going in anywhere, unless we have reason to believe Arrington is there.”

“Your call,” Dino said. “Hang on, the guy’s turning right on Thirty-second Street,” Dino said into his cell phone.

They did their trick and switched cars again. Dino’s driver made a U-turn and followed.

“He’s stopping in the middle of the block,” a voice said from the cell phone. “It’s a bar. I’m driving past him. He found a parking place, and he’s going in.”

Dino watched Bocca go into the bar as they passed. They turned a corner and Dino told his driver to stop.

“Okay, on foot, now,” Dino said into the cell phone. “You two guys walk past the place, one on each side of the street. Position yourselves where you can see the entrance, but where you can’t be seen. If he gets back into the van, call me. Look for more than just him leaving; look for a woman.”

“You think we ought to go in?” Stone asked.

“The guy could just be having a drink, you know. We go in, we’re blown.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Wait him out. If he leaves, we follow. If he leaves with a woman, we pounce. If the woman isn’t Arrington, we sweat him.”

“Makes sense to me,” Stone said.

“I’ll take the first nap,” Dino replied. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, rested his head against the back of the seat and immediately seemed to fall asleep.

Stone just sat and waited.

44

STONE WAS DREAMING that he was in bed with Arrington, when he suddenly woke to find himself in the backseat of a cop car. Dino and his driver were nowhere to be seen. He shook his head to clear it, then got out of the car and looked around. Nobody in sight. He walked to the corner and peered around the building into the block where the bar was. He could see nobody—not Dino’s two cops, not the driver, not Dino. What the hell was going on?

As he watched, Dino and his driver came out of the bar and began walking back toward their car. Stone was waiting for them when they rounded the corner.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Relax, we just went in and had a drink, chatted with the bartender.”

“Two to one he made you as cops.”

“You think I don’t know how not to act like a cop? Jesus, Stone.”

“What did you find out?”

“There’s an all-night poker game going on in the back room of the bar.”

“That’s what the bartender told you?”

“After I bought him a couple of twelve-year-old Scotches. I’m invited to come back and play tomorrow night; their rule is no new players when a guy first finds out about the game.”

“Why do you think he was telling the truth?”

“Two other guys went back there while we were drinking. It looks like a game; it smells like a game. When the door opened, it sounded like a game.”

They got back into the car. “Are we going to sit in on a poker game all night?”

“You got a better idea?”

“What was the other guy’s name? The one who owns the other set of prints found in my house?”

“Martin Block. No criminal record in any database.”

“Get somebody to find out more about him. Just because he doesn’t have a record doesn’t mean he’s not a criminal. After all, he was in my house, and I didn’t invite him.”

Dino made a call to the squad room, then hung up. “They’ll get back to me. Why are you so interested in this Martin Block?”

“I told you, he was in my house. He cannot be a good guy.”

“Maybe he works for the phone company—you think of that?” Dino’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah? What a big surprise.” Then he looked more interested. “Now, that is a surprise.” He hung up.

“What?” Stone demanded.

“There’s a whole bunch of Martin Blocks in the various New York City phone listings, but one of them lives in the same house that Rocco Bocca does.”

“His sister’s house in Queens?”

“I make him as Bocca’s brother-in-law.”

“Didn’t you say there were two cars in the driveway?”

“Yeah.”

“Run the plate on the other one.”

“My two guys down the street will have the make and plate number.” He made the call and got the information, then phoned the squad room again. He held on for the answer, then hung up. “A 2004 Lexus four hundred fifty, registered to Martin Block of Queens.”

“We followed the wrong guy,” Stone said. “Bocca is just a burglar; the other guy, the brother-in-law, is the smart one; he’s the one who’ll be dealing with Billy Bob.”

Dino called his two detectives. “Get back out to the Queens house and sit on it until a man leaves in the Lexus, then follow it wherever it goes and report to me.” He hung up. “We were pretty dumb, weren’t we?”

“You said it, I didn’t,” Stone replied. “Let’s go back to the Carlyle and wait to hear from your people. I doubt if Block is going to go to work in the middle of the night. In the meantime, get your people to find out everything they can on Martin Block—occupation, education, military service, high school, the works.”

Dino made the call, and they headed back uptown.

STONE AND DINO were having breakfast the following morning, when Dino’s cell phone rang.

“Bacchetti. Go ahead.” He punched the speakerphone button and held it up so Stone could hear.

“Block is a Queens boy, born and bred. After high school, he went into the navy, served a four-year hitch, then reupped, but was discharged after another year. He came back to Queens a year after that and opened a car stereo and alarm business, which grew into something bigger. Now he deals in all sorts of electronic stuff and parts, too.”

“Two questions,” Stone said. “One: Why was he discharged from the navy one year after his second hitch began? Two: What did he do during the year after he left the navy, before he came home to Queens?”

“I’ll look into it,” the man said.

“Get back to me fast,” Dino said, then hung up and turned to Stone. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything; I just find it odd that the guy left the navy a year into a four-year hitch.”

“Bad conduct discharge?”

“Maybe, but he couldn’t have reupped if he hadn’t had a clean record the first four years. Did he suddenly go bad? Did he do some time? If he did, would it show up in your criminal-records search?”

“We searched the Pentagon database, too; if he’d done time in a military prison, it would have turned up.”

“Maybe a hardship discharge? Sick mother, something like that?”

Dino got back on the phone again and asked for the reason for Block’s discharge from the navy.

Shortly, the detective called back. “Okay, here’s all I can get. The record of Block’s discharge from the navy is unavailable, and we’ve been unable to find any trace of him for the year following—no phone listing, address, employment, nothing. There’s no history for a year; it’s a blank.”

“Thanks,” Dino said, and hung up. “What do you think?” he asked Stone.

“I think we’re going to need Lance,” Stone replied.

45

WITH GREAT RELUCTANCE, Stone called Lance.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s not important; I need your help.”

“You bail out of a secure location that I went to great trouble to provide, go out into the world unprotected, endanger this operation and you want my help?”

“I just need some information,” Stone replied.

“You want information from me? After . . .”

“I knew you’d be like this,” Stone said.

“I ought to have you shot on sight.”

“Lance, we both know you’re not going to do that, so just calm down and . . .”

“I ought to bring charges against you. If there weren’t a civilian in jeopardy, I’d . . .”

“Lance, I’m a civilian.”

“No, you are a contract consultant, and as such . . .”

“I’m still a civilian, so will you just shut up and listen to me?”

Lance sighed deeply. “I’m listening.”

“It occurred to me that there might be fingerprints on the alarm system in my house, and . . .”

“There could be dozens of prints on it.”

“No, my own tech wiped it down the last time he worked on it. There were just three sets—your tech and two others.”

“And I suppose you got Dino to run the two others?”

“I did. They belong to a guy named Bocca who has done time for burglarizing homes after installing their alarm systems . . .”

“That’s interesting.”

“Not very. The other set of prints belongs to a Martin Block, who owns an electronics business in Queens. He is more interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because there are questions about his background.” Stone explained about Block’s unusual discharge from the navy and the blank year in his history.

Lance was quiet for a moment. “How do you spell his last name?”

Stone spelled it.

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Lance, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’ve heard from Billy Bob again.”

“The message about a meeting this afternoon? I heard it.”

“Oh. Well, get back to me. I don’t want to have to take that meeting, if I can possibly help it.”

“Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

“So?” Dino asked. “He’s going to help?”

“If he can find a way to help himself without helping me, he’ll do it.”

“He’s pissed at you, huh?”

“He’s pissed.”

Dino’s phone rang. “Yeah? Well, keep him in sight.” He hung up. “Block’s on the move in the Lexus.”

Stone looked at his watch. “Eight-thirty; he’s going to work.”

“Probably. They’ll let us know.”

Ten minutes later, Stone’s cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Lance. Block was recruited from the navy by the Agency and sent to the Farm for further technical training. After a year, he got drunk and told a girl who he worked for and how he was being trained; he told her about several devices that we used at the time.”

“And you caught him?”

“The girl worked for us, too; it was a test, and he failed it. He was bounced within days.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. His roommate at the Farm was Jack Jeff Kight.”

“Bingo.”

“I’m going to put people on Block immediately,” Lance said.

“No need to; Dino’s got people on him now. He left home a few minutes ago in his car, and we think he’s going to work.”

“He has offices and a warehouse on Queens Boulevard,” Lance said.

“Then that’s where Billy Bob is holding Arrington,” Stone said.

“That’s a big leap, and if you’re wrong and we go in there, we could get her killed.”

“You have a point. We’ll have to confirm that she’s there, before we can go in.”

“My man, Sandy, who did the work at your house, has bought equipment there in the past. I’ll send him back and see if he can learn anything. You sit tight, wherever you are. I’ll get back to you.”

“Lance, if Billy Bob calls and gives me instructions, I’ll have no choice but to follow them.”

“Before you do, you’d better call me; you’ll have a better chance of survival with my help. Whatever you do, don’t let Dino’s people handle your cover. They’ll stand out like sore thumbs.”

“Call me when you know something.” Stone hung up and turned to Dino. “Lance has no faith in the ability of the NYPD to operate undercover.”

“Fuck him.”

“He has a point, Dino; his people have a lot more experience at blending into the woodwork, and they don’t look like cops.”

“Cops don’t look like cops, sometimes.”

“Everybody in your squad room wears black shoes and white socks.”

“I put a stop to that,” Dino said.

“Maybe, but I’ll bet they still wear the same black shoes.”

“Some of them,” Dino admitted. “They got used to them when they were in uniform.”

“And every umarked police car might as well have an NYPD paint job; you can spot them a block away.”

“And Lance’s people drive black Surburbans with the windows blacked,” Dino pointed out.

“There is some truth to that,” Stone admitted, “but they have other transportation resources. Lance is sending a man into Block’s business, which is on Queens Boulevard.”

Dino’s phone rang, and he pressed the speaker button. “Yeah?”

“Block drove to his business on Queens Boulevard,” a detective said.

“Well, I’m glad he got there ahead of Lance’s man,” Stone said.

“He used a garage-door opener and drove inside,” the detective said. “The place covers a third of a city block.”

“Okay,” Dino said, “sit on him. One of you take a walk around the block and see if there are exits other than on Queens Boulevard.”

“Right,” the man said, and hung up.

“Life would be sweet, if Arrington is there,” Dino said.

“It would be sweet, if we could prove she’s there before raiding the joint. Lance pointed out that, if she’s not, we could get her killed. He’s got this tech named Sandy, who’s done business there; he’s sending him in now to case the place.”

“I could have done that,” Dino said.

“Dino, the guy has done business there before; you have anybody like that?”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s just sit back and let Lance do his thing for the moment, all right? I mean, you were happy to give him the Billy Bob problem only a short time ago, as I recall.”

“That was before I found out Billy Bob wanted to kill me,” Dino said.

46

SANDY PETERSON arrived at MB Electronics half an hour after Lance had dispatched him. He had been buying electronic components there for nearly a year, and the staff knew him, at least by sight. He always paid cash, and they liked that.

He parked across the street and looked at the building for a moment; it was a single-story building that covered a third of the block. On the corner was a retail electronics shop, which took up about a quarter of the building, and next to that was a corrugated steel door that could be operated with a remote control. He walked to the end of the block and a few steps farther. There was a wide alley behind the building, which had a loading dock. Across the street, he saw two men sitting in a car.

He walked back around the building, checking for windows—there were none on the side—and into the retail shop through the front door. He bought a hundred-foot reel of cat five wire and paid for it in cash, glancing at himself in the mirror behind the counter. “Is Marty in?” he asked the girl who was helping him. “I’d like to ask him about something.”

“I’ll check,” she said. She went to a door, knocked and went inside, behind the mirror. A moment later she came out, followed by a stocky man in his midforties, balding, dressed in suit pants, shirtsleeves and a loosened tie.

“I’m Marty Block,” ’ he said and pointed a finger at Sandy. “And you are . . . ?”

“Sandy Peterson; I’ve been doing business here for a while.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you in the shop, didn’t know your name. You don’t have an account, do you?”

Sandy shook his head. “I prefer dealing in cash.”

Marty grinned. “That’s okay; we take American dollars.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sandy asked.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“It’s kind of confidential.”

“Come into my office,” Marty said. He lifted the counter barrier, let Sandy through, then led him through the door into a large, comfortably furnished office with a six-foot-tall safe against one wall. “Take a seat.”

Sandy sat down. “I’ve got a particular job to do for a client, and I need something custom.”

“Tell me about your business,” Marty said.

“I got started putting in alarms for people, and I did good work, so my business grew, and once in a while, a client would ask me to do some special work—personal stuff, usually—guy suspected his wife of screwing around, suspected his business partner of stealing, stuff like that.”

“I know the kind of thing,” Marty said. He held up his hands. “Not that I’d ever do anything illegal.”

“Yeah, of course. It’s like this . . .”

Marty held up a hand and came around the desk. “Before we have this conversation, I’m going to have to frisk you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sandy said, standing up and holding his arms away from his body.

Marty proceeded to not just frisk him, but to do a body search more thorough than any Sandy had seen since he had finished his training at the Farm. He started with a normal search, looking for a recorder, then he went over Sandy’s clothing in a minute way that would have detected a hidden microphone. He took Sandy’s cell phone and set it on his desk, then he unbuckled Sandy’s belt, inspected it and handed it back to him.

“Let me see your shoes,” Marty said.

Sandy shucked them off and handed them over.

Marty inspected the soles, the insoles and the laces. He handed them back, then ran his fingers through Sandy’s hair and checked his wristwatch. After several minutes of this, he waved him back to his chair.

Marty picked up the cell phone, removed the back and the battery, then took a small screwdriver from his desk drawer and partially disassembled the phone. Satisfied, he reassembled it and handed it to Sandy.

“Sorry about that,” Marty said. “I can’t be too careful.”

“It’s perfectly okay,” Sandy said. “Believe me, I understand. Can I speak freely now?”

“Go ahead; what do you need?”

“I’ve got a client who’s in the middle of a big divorce. He wants me to bug his own house—he’s moved out. He wants a mike in every room—just audio, no cameras. My problem is, his wife rarely goes out for more than a few minutes. The most time I’m going to get inside without being disturbed is, maybe, thirty minutes. You think you could put something together that would work for me?”

“Sure, but it ain’t going to be cheap.”

“How long would it take you to get it together?”

“How about ten minutes?” Marty said.

Sandy grinned. “Ten minutes would be good.”

Marty went to a large safe in the corner, worked the combination with his body between Sandy and the safe, and opened it. He removed a plastic box, and as he turned to close the door of the safe Sandy was able to get a glimpse of the inside. It was filled with electronic components, what appeared to be a considerable amount of cash and two handguns on the top shelf. Marty locked the safe and returned to his desk.

“You recognize this?” he asked, opening the plastic box and handing Sandy a black, plastic object.

“Looks like a standard domestic circuit breaker,” Sandy replied, turning it over in his hand.

“How about this?” Marty asked, handing him a plastic object about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was hinged lengthwise, and short spikes protruded from the back.

“You got me,” Sandy said. “Never seen anything like it.” In fact, he had seen something exactly like it. Marty was copying things that the Technical Services Department at the Agency had been making for years.

“Well,” Marty said, sounding very pleased with himself, “here’s what you do with your client’s house. You go to the main breaker box and replace one of the breakers with mine. Then you go into each room of the house you want to bug, unscrew a power receptacle and crimp the other little thing so that the spikes penetrate both the positive and negative wires. Then you go outside and find an outdoor power receptacle and plug this into it.” He handed Sandy a small, black box with a short antenna attached. “What you’ve done is turned the whole house’s wiring grid into a receiver system that’s picked up and retransmitted by the box with the antenna. I’ll sell you a receiver with a dedicated, off-the-books frequency, and you’ll be able to hear and, if you want to, record everything that’s said in the house. You can even make it voice activated.”

“Wow,” Sandy said, pretending to be impressed. “How much?”

“The circuit breaker is eight grand, the crimpers are two hundred each and the retransmitter is two grand. Your receiver is a grand.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m the one paying for it,” Sandy said. “The client will pick up the tab.”

“How many crimpers you want?”

Sandy counted on his fingers. “Eighteen.”

Marty turned to a calculator on his desk and began tapping in numbers. “That comes to fourteen thousand six hundred bucks,” he said. “Call it fourteen thousand even, and with cash, no tax.”

“Done,” Sandy said. “I’ll need to make a run to get the cash; that’s more than I walk around with.”

“Sure; I’ll have everything packed up and ready for you in half an hour; you can pick it up anytime today.”

Sandy stood up to go. “You must have a great workshop here,” he said.

“I do. You want a gander?”

“God, yes, please!”

Marty walked him through another door and into a large, beautifully equipped workshop where four men were hunched over worktables, wiring and soldering. “There you go. I can build you just about anything you want in here.”

“This is really something,” Sandy said. “I mean, I’m working out of my basement, you know?”

“Listen, I used to work out of my basement,” Marty said.

“You’ve got a lot of building here,” Sandy said. “What do you do with the rest of it?”

Marty walked him through another door into a storeroom filled with components and wiring, then into a large garage. Sandy counted four unmarked vans and half a dozen cars. “I keep larger equipment and my vans in here, and my employees park here, too. That’s about as big a draw as health insurance. You got any idea what it costs to park in this city these days?”

“Tell me about it,” Sandy said. He turned and saw a staircase going up to a windowed office in the high-ceilinged garage. “More work space?” He noted that blinds were pulled down over the windows.

“Nah, just storage,” Marty said, steering him back toward the retail shop.

“I’ll be back in a little later with your fourteen grand,” Sandy said.

“You do that,” Marty said, turning back toward his office. “Bye-bye. Nice doing business with you.”

Sandy picked up his wire in the shop, then walked back to his car. He got out his cell phone and called Lance.

“Yes?”

“It’s Sandy. Martin Block gave me the ten-cent tour. He’s got four vans that the lady could be moved in, and there’s a room I didn’t get to see, up a flight of stairs in the garage. If Block has her, that’s where she’ll be. By the way, there are two cops in a Crown Vic sitting near the building, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.”

“Good work, Sandy.”

“Oh, one more thing, Lance.”

“What?”

“I’m going to need fourteen thousand dollars.”

“What?”

47

STONE’S CELL PHONE RANG, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“It’s Lance. My man is back; he’s cased the building, and there’s one room where Arrington is probably being held. Part of the building is a garage, and the room is up a flight of stairs. It’s the only logical place they would keep her.”

“Then let’s get in there.”

“No, I don’t think so. Billy Bob is supposed to call you midafternoon, right?”

“Right.”

“Billy Bob will give you some complicated routing to meet him at some place or other. They’ll track your movement, then, at some stage, either exchange you for Arrington or keep you both.”

“That had occurred to me.”

“They’ll move her in one of Block’s vans—he’s got four. We’ll raid the place as they’re leaving—they won’t be ready for us then.”

“And what if Arrington isn’t there?”

“Then we’ll sequester everybody on the premises, so they can’t call Billy Bob, and you’ll have to go through with the meet. If Arrington isn’t at Block’s business now, it seems likely that they’ll take you or both of you back there, and we’ll be ready for them.”

“And if Billy Bob doesn’t have Arrington there now, and if he doesn’t take her back there, what?”

“We’ll be on your tail. We’ll plant a transmitter on you, and we’ll have a chopper on the job. When he gets wherever he’s going, we’ll be right on top of him.”

“It sounds good, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Suppose he just shoots us both and dumps our bodies.”

“Well,” Lance drawled, “there is that. We can’t cover every contingency, can we? The upside is, we’ll at least take Billy Bob, and we’ll roll up Block’s operation.”

“I’m sure that will be very comforting to me when I’m dead. How is Peter?”

“He’s a sensible lad; he’s curious about your and his mother’s whereabouts, but Corey is handling him well, and he seems happy enough.”

“Bring him back to the city, will you? When we’ve got Arrington back, I want to reunite them immediately.”

Lance was silent for a moment.

“Take him to my house; I’m going there myself.”

“Is there another way in besides the front door and your office door?”

Stone explained how to get into the common garden behind the houses and to his back door.”

“All right, I’ll have him there in two hours. Where’s Dino?”

“He’s right here.”

“Tell him Sandy spotted two of his men, sitting outside Block’s in a Crown Victoria, eating doughnuts. Tell him to pull them off before Block spots them. I’ve already got a team in the neighborhood.”

“Right.” Stone hung up. “Lance’s man made your two guys outside Block’s. You see what I mean?”

“How does he know they’re mine?” Dino asked.

“They’re in a Crown Vic, eating doughnuts, how else?”

“Shit,” Dino said. He got on the phone and ordered the two men back to the precinct. “And when you get there,” he said to them, “you’d better not be wearing black shoes and white socks.”

“I’m going back to my place,” Stone said, standing up.

“You think that’s safe?”

“Billy Bob won’t expect me to be there, and anyway, he thinks he’s going to grab me later this afternoon.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dino said.

STONE AND DINO drove back to his house and parked in the garage, while Dino’s car and driver followed.

“Call your driver and tell him not to park in my block,” Stone said. “I don’t want anybody to make the car, if we’re being watched.”

“Oh, all right,” Dino said and made the call.

As they approached the house, Stone took Dino’s shoulder. “Get down in the footwell. If they’re watching, I want them to think I’m alone.”

Dino grumbled but followed instructions.

When they were inside the garage and the door was closed, Stone said, “All right, we’re in. You can get up.”

Stone looked at his watch. “One o’clock,” he said. He led Dino upstairs to his bedroom and began unpacking the guns and ammo he had taken with him. He handed Dino the box containing Lance’s Keltec. “Take a look at that.”

Dino opened the box. “Jesus, it looks like a toy.”

“It’s a three-eighty-caliber, and it weighs ten ounces, loaded.”

Dino handled the little gun. “Billy Bob is going to tell you to come unarmed,” he said.

“I suppose so.”

“Then go armed. Wear something on your belt. You got an ankle holster?”

“No.”

Dino pulled up his right trouser leg and undid the Velcro fastening of his own, which held a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 special. “You can take mine.”

“What’s the point?” Stone said. “He’s going to search me thoroughly.”

“You still got that Thunderwear I gave you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For Christmas, dummy, the Thunderwear.”

“Christ, I’d forgotten about that.” Stone went into his dressing room and rooted around in the bottom drawer of his dresser. “Here it is.”

“Put it on.”

“Dino . . .”

“Just do it.”

Stone took off his trousers and boxer shorts and put on the Thunderwear. Dino screwed the silencer into the Keltec, shoved a magazine into the butt, racked the slide and handed it to Stone. “See if it will fit with the silencer.”

Stone took the gun and slipped it into the pouch in the undershorts. “Too long.”

“Take the silencer off and try again.”

Stone unscrewed the silencer and stuck the gun into the Thunderwear, then inserted the silencer next to it. “Fits nicely.”

“Put your pants back on, you’re embarrassing me,” Dino said.

Stone put his pants back on.

“You’ve got a three-eighty or two, haven’t you?”

“In the gun safe.”

“Put on a three-eighty holster and a double-magazine pouch.”

Stone did so and stuck his Walther PPKS into the holster.

“Now put the two spare Keltec magazines into the pouch. When they search you, they’ll take the Walther, but probably not the ammo.”

Stone did so.

Dino handed him the ankle holster with the S&W. “Now put this on.”

Stone wrapped the Velcro around his ankle and secured it.

“Now, when they search you, they’ll find the Walther and the snub-nose—your piece and backup piece—but guys don’t like to feel around other guys’ crotches, so they’ll probably miss the Keltec.”

“It’s worth a try,” Stone said.

“You bet your ass it is,” Dino replied.

48

AT TWO-THIRTY, Stone and Dino were having a sandwich in the kitchen, when there was a soft knock at the back door. Stone opened it to find McGonigle, Corey and Peter standing there. “Come in,” he said, scooping up Peter.

“Stone,” Peter said, “where did you go?”

“I’m sorry, Peter, I had to sneak out for a while to run an errand. Did you and Corey have a good time?”

“We played all sorts of games, but we couldn’t go outside.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Central Park,” Stone said, setting the boy on the kitchen table.

“What’s Central Park?” Peter asked.

“It’s a great big, beautiful park, right here in the middle of New York, and you’ll love it. Have you had lunch?”

“We went to Burger King,” Peter said. “I had the double bacon cheeseburger.”

“I’ll bet your mother doesn’t let you have that.”

“No, she’s nutrition conscious. Don’t tell her.”

“Don’t worry, that’s just between you and me.”

“Oh, Dino, this is McGonigle and Corey; they’re Lance’s people.”

“I’ve heard about you, Dino,” McGonigle said.

“I haven’t,” Corey said, shaking his hand.

“Corey,” Dino said, “will you do me a small favor?”

“Maybe,” Corey said.

“Will you frisk Stone for weapons?”

“Sure,” she said. She turned to Stone and said, “Up against the wall, creep, and spread ’em.” She turned to Dino. “Isn’t that the way the NYPD does it?”

Stone assumed the position, and Corey quickly found the Walther and the S&W snub-nose. She didn’t take the magazines.

“Thanks,” Dino said. “You proved a point for me. You can give him back his guns, now.”

“You’ve got something in the crotch, haven’t you?” she asked.

Stone nodded.

“You’re too squeamish, Corey,” McGonigle said.

“You wouldn’t have found it, either, McGonigle,” Stone said.

“You’re exactly right,” Corey said. “Next time I put my hands on you, I’m going for your crotch,” she said to Stone.

“Promises, promises.”

Stone’s cell phone began to vibrate. He held up a hand for silence, grabbed a pad and pencil and answered it.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Stone,” Billy Bob said. “I’m looking forward to getting together in a little while.”

“Oh, me, too,” Stone said. “It’s been too long.”

“I assume you’re at home.”

“Right.”

“When we’ve finished talking and you’ve hung up, I want you to go to your front door, where you’ll find a small package. Inside is a handheld radio. Exactly ten minutes from now I want you to turn on the radio and back out of your garage in your own car. After that, you’ll receive instructions. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Bye-bye.” Billy Bob hung up.

“Corey,” Stone said, “there’s a package on my front doorstep; will you bring it to me, please?”

“Sure.” Corey left the room.

“What are your instructions?” McGonigle asked.

Stone waited until Corey had returned, then he opened the box. “I leave in nine minutes in my car,” he said. “I get my instructions on this.”

McGonigle was on his cell phone. “Lance, we’ve had the call. Stone is to leave the house in his car in eight and a half minutes; he’ll get his instructions on a handheld radio that was left on his doorstep. I’m looking at it, and there is no tuning knob, and it doesn’t have a brand name, so it will have a single frequency, and it will probably be off any of the commercial spectra. You’re going to need a wideband scanner.” McGonigle listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Stone. “He wants to speak to you.”

Stone took the phone. “Yes, Lance?”

“Time is short; I’m scrambling the chopper now, and we’ll be on you as quickly as we can. McGonigle is going to give you another radio, and you can use that to communicate with me on the chopper. We’ll be scanning all frequencies to try to pick up your other radio, but it won’t matter much. Just repeat all your instructions into our radio.”

“Will do,” Stone said.

“There’ll be a sharpshooter on board. If you think it’s worth the risk, just hit the dirt at any time, and pull Arrington down with you, if she’s there, and he’ll start firing. Don’t get up until everybody is dead.”

“Got it.”

“Is Dino with you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me speak to him.”

Stone handed the phone to Dino.

Dino listened. “I got you,” he said, and handed the phone back.

Stone took the phone back, and he could hear a helicopter’s engine whining as it started up. “I’m ready.”

“I hope so,” Lance said. “Go and get into the car; you’ve got five minutes before you open the garage door.”

“Goodbye, Lance.”

“You’re going to have to play your end by ear, Stone. Good luck.” Lance hung up.

“He told me not to get my people involved,” Dino said.

“I think it’s best that way.” Stone looked at his watch. “Four minutes.”

“I’m going to go and make sure the garage door is working right,” Dino said. “I’ll leave that way. Good luck.” He slapped Stone on the back and was gone.

Stone sat next to Peter on the kitchen table. “I have to leave again for a while,” he said. “But I’ll be back later, and if there’s still daylight, I’ll take you to Central Park.”

“Okay,” Peter said.

“Did I mention they have a zoo?”

“No, really? Do they have lions?”

“They sure do.”

“Oh, boy!”

Stone kissed the boy. “Corey will take care of you. See you later.”

“Bye-bye, Stone.”

McGonigle handed Stone a small handheld radio. “It’s on, and it’s on the correct frequency.” Then he picked up Billy Bob’s radio, removed the back, placed a chip about two inches square inside and closed it. “That will let Lance track you.” He handed it to Stone.

Stone took the radio and walked through the house to his car. Dino had left the garage door open. He got in and started the engine. A minute to go.

At the appointed minute, he put the car into reverse and backed out of the garage, closing the door behind him with the remote control. Then he almost panicked. He had forgotten to turn on Billy Bob’s radio. He switched it on, and immediately heard the voice.

“Stone? Are you there?”

Stone pressed the transmit button. “I’m here, Billy Bob.”

“Get headed east. I’ll give you more directions in a minute.”

“Right.” Stone got headed east. Stone didn’t pray much, but he prayed now.

49

STONE TURNED OFF Third Avenue onto Forty-eighth Street and headed east.

“Take a left on First Avenue,” Billy Bob said.

Stone turned left on First, then picked up Lance’s radio. “I’m headed up First Avenue in my car,” he said.

“Roger,” Lance replied.

Stone drove on for another dozen blocks.

“Get on the FDR Drive, going north,” Billy Bob said.

Stone made the turn and got onto the drive. “I’m on the FDR, heading north,” he said into Lance’s radio.

“Roger,” Lance replied.

Traffic was light, and he moved well. He picked up a radio. “Lance, do you have me in sight?”

“Roger,” Lance said. “We’re in what looks like a news copter. We’ve got you in sight, so there’s no need to report again. If we lose you, I’ll call. Relax.”

Stone tried to relax.

“Turn onto the Triborough Bridge,” Billy Bob said, “and keep left.”

Stone breezed through the tollbooth, because of the E-ZPass device on his windshield, and moved over to the left lane.

“Follow the signs to Randall’s Island,” Billy Bob said.

Randall’s Island is in the East River; Stone had never been there. He drove down the ramp and approached an intersection.

“Turn right.”

Stone turned right.

“Follow the road.”

It was like having a talking GPS navigator in the car. He was driving past a series of baseball diamonds. He had never known they were there.

“After the traffic circle, turn into Field One Twenty-one,” Billy Bob said.

Stone went around the traffic circle, came out and followed a sign to 121.

“Pull under the bleacher cover, get out of the car and leave the radio,” Billy Bob said. “Leave your other radio, too.”

Stone picked up Lance’s radio. “I’m at baseball diamond number one twenty-one on Randall’s Island. I have to leave your radio here. Billy Bob thinks I had another radio, so be prepared for some sort of surprise.”

Stone stopped under the bleacher cover, at a place where equipment could drive onto the field for maintenance. He got out of the car and, immediately, a man stepped out of the shadows with a shotgun and pointed it at his head.

“Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car,” the man said.

Stone did as he was told. The man rested the barrel of the shotgun against the back of his head and began to pat him down. Right away, he found the Walther in the holster on Stone’s belt. He found the magazines, too, dropped them and the pistol on the ground and kicked them under the car. Then he started down Stone’s legs from the crotch. He wasn’t shy about feeling everything, but he was doing it from behind, so he missed the Keltec .380 in Stone’s Thunderwear. He found the S&W snubnose, though, and kicked that under the car, too.

Stone felt a handcuff snap onto his right wrist.

“Give me your left hand,” the man said.

Stone did so, and his hands were cuffed together behind his back. The barrel of the shotgun against his head persuaded him not to object.

The man grabbed him by the collar and stood him up, facing the rear of the car.

“Now listen to me very carefully,” the man said.

Stone looked over his shoulder and saw the trunk lid of his car slowly open.

“My instructions are to kill you, if you give me the slightest difficulty,” the man said. He was standing with the short-barreled shotgun at port arms.

“Oh, I won’t give you any trouble,” Stone said. He saw Dino roll out of the trunk of his car, and he had never been so glad to see anybody. “But the guy behind you might.”

“Yeah, sure,” the man said.

Dino put a pistol to the back of the man’s head and said, “Drop the shotgun.”

The man dropped the shotgun.

“Oh, no,” Stone said aloud.

“What da ya mean, ‘oh, no,’ ” Dino said, and then somebody put another shotgun barrel against the back of his head.

“Oh, no, there’s a guy with a shotgun behind you,” Stone said.

“Swell,” Dino replied. He dropped his pistol on the pavement.

Stone watched as the second man put Dino against the car and searched and handcuffed him as had been done to Stone.

“What do we do with this one?” one of the men said.

“I dunno; there were no orders about that.”

“Call and find out.”

The first man produced a radio. “Boss, we’ve got two of them here,” he said.

“I told you it might happen,” he said. “Sit them down and carry out the rest of the plan.” The men put Stone and Dino on the ground, leaning against a light pole.

From somewhere out beyond the field, Stone heard a helicopter. “It’s Lance,” he whispered to Dino.

“It goddamned well better be,” Dino whispered back.

Then another man appeared from the shadows. He was Stone’s height and weight, with the same hair color.

“Let’s go,” one of the men said, grabbing the man by the arm.

Stone was baffled by this turn of events, but then he watched as the man with the shotgun marched the other man toward the center of the little ballpark. They stopped on the pitcher’s mound, and seconds later, a green helicopter swooped in and set down in a cloud of dust. The man with the shotgun pretended to force the other man onto the chopper, then it lifted off and flew away to the east.

“I think you just left by helicopter,” Dino said.

“Yes, and it wasn’t Lance’s.”

The shotgunner ran back under the shelter and waited. Stone could see the helicopter head out in the direction of Long Island, and, a moment later, he saw another chopper in pursuit, one with “News 6” painted on its side in huge letters.

One of the shotgunners spoke into a radio. “Okay, we’re good.”

A moment later, a silver Lincoln Navigator screeched to a halt under the roof, and Billy Bob got out. “God, your people are stupid,” he said.

Stone tried and failed to think of a snappy comeback.

“Put them in the luggage compartment and cuff ’em back to back,” Billy Bob said.

The two men put first Stone, then Dino into the rear compartment of the Navigator, and Stone heard another pair of handcuffs snapping shut. He and Dino could lean against each other’s backs, but they couldn’t turn around. Somebody then pulled a shadelike cover over their heads and fastened it. A moment later, the Navigator drove away.

“All comfy back there, Stone, Dino?”

Neither of them replied, but Dino was swearing a blue streak under his breath.

“I hadn’t expected you, Dino, but you’re welcome. I ought to be able to gain some sort of advantage by having a cop as my guest for a short while.”

“Thanks for coming,” Stone whispered to Dino.

“My pleasure,” Dino replied.

“Now you boys settle down back there,” Billy Bob said. “While your friends are chasing my rented chopper around Long Island, you and I have other fish to fry.”

“Where’s Arrington?” Stone asked.

“I didn’t expect you to keep your end of the bargain, Stone, so I didn’t keep mine. You’ll see her later, though.”

Stone tried to relax and count the car’s turns, figure out where it was going. After five minutes of left and right and U-turns, he gave up.

50

STONE COULDN’T LOOK at his watch, but he estimated they’d been traveling for nearly an hour when he heard the rattle of a metal garage door opening. The Navigator reversed, and the door came down again.

“Get ’em out,” Billy Bob said to somebody. The rear door of the truck opened, the blind was rolled back and Stone and Dino were hustled out of the vehicle.

“Set ’em down in the corner,” Billy Bob said.

Stone and Dino were pushed into a corner of the garage, which was lit only by daylight coming through small, high windows in the door. A moment later, the garage door opened again, and the Navigator drove out. Stone figured there was still a guard inside with them.

“Excuse me,” he said to the wall, “do you think you could cuff us a different way? This is very uncomfortable.”

There was no response.

Stone managed to turn toward the door and looked around the garage. “We’re alone,” Stone said.

“Now what?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “Since our hands are locked behind us, I can’t get to the Keltec.”

“And, even if you could, there’s nobody to shoot.”

From somewhere outside the garage came a faint woman’s voice. “Get me out of here!” she said, and there was a banging noise.

“Is that Arrington?” Dino asked.

“I’ve never heard her voice under these conditions,” Stone said, “but my best guess is yes.” He yelled as loud as he could. “Arrington?”

“Stone?” she shouted back.

“Where are you?”

“How the hell should I know?” she screamed. “It’s dark.”

“Just hang on. I’ll try and find you.”

“I’d help, but they’ve got me handcuffed,” she yelled back.

“You, too?”

“You mean you’re handcuffed?”

“Yes, but I’m working on it.”

Dino spoke up. “I don’t want to interrupt, but I’d like to know how you’re working on it.”

“Good news,” Stone said. “I have a handcuff key.”

“Why?” Dino asked.

“I’ve been carrying one in my wallet since I was on the force, just for times like this.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” Dino said. “Now could you unlock these cuffs?”

“There’s a small problem,” Stone said.

“What problem?”

“My wallet is in my left front pocket.”

“Nobody carries his wallet in his left front pocket.”

“I do. It’s very small and just has credit cards and my driver’s license, that sort of stuff, in it.”

“Can you reach your left front pocket?”

“Well, no. That’s the problem. Do you think you can reach it?”

“Let’s find out,” Dino said. “Sit still, and move your hands to your left.”

Stone moved his hands to his left, while Dino worked his way as far as he could to Stone’s side.

“I can’t reach,” Dino said. “I’m a good eight inches short, too. What now?”

Stone thought about that. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’m armed, and I can’t reach the gun, and I have a handcuff key, and I can’t reach that, either.”

“You don’t have to explain the situation to me,” Dino said. “I get it.”

“All right, you think of something.”

“I’m thinking.”

They both sat quietly, their backs against each other, and thought.

“I’ve got it,” Dino said.

“Tell me.”

“What we have to do is hang you up by your feet, and then your wallet will fall out of your pocket.”

“Swell, Dino; how are we going to hang me up by my feet?”

“Jesus, do I have to think of everything? It’s your turn to figure out something.”

“Let’s see if we can get to our feet,” Stone said. “Press your back against mine, and let’s work our feet back until we’re upright.”

“Worth a try,” Dino said.

They pushed against each other and began taking tiny steps backward. They were halfway up, when Stone’s feet slipped out from under him, and they both fell down, hitting the concrete floor hard.

“Shit, that hurt!” Stone said.

“Tell me about it. It’s those faggoty Italian loafers you’re always wearing,” Dino said. “The soles are too slippery.”

“I suppose you’re wearing those black cop shoes with the thick, rubber soles?”

“Sure, I am, and I didn’t slip, did I?”

“Let’s try it again.”

“And what’s changed that’s going to make it work this time?”

“We have to try. Billy Bob could come back at any moment.”

“All right, let’s go.”

They started pushing up again, and this time, after a good minute of trying, they were on their feet.

“Man, that was hard,” Dino said, puffing.

“You’re in lousy shape, that’s why,” Stone said.

“Yeah, sure, like you actually use that exercise stuff in your basement?”

“Of course, I use it.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Stone. You’re breathing just as hard as I am.”

“All right, all right. Now what are we going to hang me from?”

They started to move in a circle, looking at the walls of the garage.

“There are tools in here,” Dino said. “Shovels and stuff.”

“Yeah, it looks like some sort of maintenance facility.”

“You see anything useful?”

“Yes!” Stone almost yelled. “There’s a hose coiled up and hung on a hook!” He moved toward a wall, and Dino followed him, walking backward.”

Dino looked over his shoulder. “First, we have to get the hose off the hook, so we can use it.

The hook was chest high. Stone tried nudging the coil of hose with his knee, but couldn’t reach it. Finally, he bent over and pushed upward on the hose with his head. Most of it fell to the floor, leaving several coils on the hook. “I think that’ll do it,” Stone said. “The hook’s available; I’ve just got to get a leg up that high.”

“Try walking up the wall,” Dino said. “I’ll back up closer.” He did so.

“Push hard against me,” Stone said. He put a foot against the wall, then another. “It’s working,” Stone said. “About two feet higher. Push harder!”

Dino pushed, and Stone continued walking up the wall.

“We’ve got to move about a foot to the left,” Stone said.

Dino worked in that direction, taking tiny steps.

“I think I can . . .” Stone got a leg over the hook and put his weight on it. “Okay, I’ve got a leg hooked. You’ve got to get lower, and as slowly as possible.”

Dino eased himself down to a squatting position. “I don’t know how long I can do this,” he said.

Stone had all his weight on the one leg over the hook, now. He began to shake his hips back and forth.

“What are you doing?” Dino demanded.

“I’m trying to shake out the wallet,” Stone said. “It won’t come out.”

Dino began to jump up and down an inch or two from his squatting position.

“It fell out!” Stone yelled. “Now you have to stand up again, so I can get my leg off the hook.

Making loud groaning noises, Dino slowly pushed himself upright.

Using his other foot for purchase, Stone managed to get his leg off the hook, and the two of them fell to the floor in a heap. They lay there for a moment, panting.

“Where’s your wallet?” Dino asked finally.

“It’s around here somewhere. Feel for it with your feet.”

They scurried around in the dimly lit garage, feeling for the wallet.

“I think I’ve got it,” Dino said. “It’s tucked up under my ass. Let me see if I can reach it. Move backwards a little.”

Stone moved backward.

“Got it,” Dino said. “I pushed it between us. Feel for it.”

“I have it,” Stone said.

“Well, get the fucking key out!”

Stone got the wallet open and shook it. A tiny metallic sound came back. “It’s on the floor.” He felt for it. “Got it!”

“Unlock any bracelet,” Dino said. “Doesn’t matter which one.”

Stone got hold of Dino’s wrist, found the bracelet and the keyhole and turned the key.

“Yes!” Dino shouted, holding up his free hand. He turned to Stone. “Give me the key.”

Stone put it in Dino’s hand, and a moment later, he had a free hand, and a moment after that, they were both free of the cuffs.

Stone unzipped his trousers and fished out the Keltec and its silencer. He screwed the tube onto the barrel, then popped the magazine and counted. “I’ve only got five rounds,” he said. “The guy who searched me took the other two magazines.”

“Then make them count,” Dino said. “You got any qualms about putting one in somebody’s head, say so, and I’ll do it.”

“None whatever,” Stone said. “Now let’s find the switch that opens this door.”

“Before we do that,” Dino said, “you’ve got to hoist me up so that I can get a look outside and see what we’re up against.”

Stone stuck the gun in his belt and made a stirrup for Dino. Dino hopped up and had a look outside.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nobody. Just a wall.”

“You take that wall,” Stone said, pointing. “I’ll take this one. Look for the switch.”

They both groped in the semidarkness.

“Got it,” Dino said. “You ready?”

“Hit it,” Stone said, his gun at the ready.

51

DINO HIT THE SWITCH, and the door started up. Stone ducked under it and stepped outside, the gun pointing ahead of him. He checked both directions. “Clear,” he said, and Dino came out.

“What is this place?” Dino asked.

They were in a kind of alley between two long rows of garages.

“I don’t know,” Stone said. “Let’s find Arrington, then we’ll worry about it. It sounded as though she was nearby, but not too near. You take the other row.”

Stone and Dino began walking down both rows of garages, banging on the door and shouting Arrington’s name.

“Here!” Dino yelled, two doors down.

“Dino? Stone?” Arrington shouted.

“We’re right outside,” Stone said.

“Well, get me out of here.”

“First, we’ve got to figure out how to get inside. You said you were handcuffed. Are your feet free?”

“They’re tied together, and I’m lying on my side,” she shouted back.

“Can you get to your feet?”

“Maybe. What do I do then?”

Stone went over to the side of the garage door and tapped the silencer against it. “There’s a button that opens the door, and it’s probably right over here. If you can get to your feet, hop over this way and find the button.”

“I’ll try,” Arrington called back. There followed some grunts and groans. “Okay, I’m on my feet, hopping your way.” Her voice got closer.

“Do you see a button on the wall? It’s about shoulder high.”

“I see it.”

“Press your forehead against it and push.”

A moment later, the door started upward. Stone ducked under it and found Arrington, her head still pressed against the button. “You can stop pushing now; just hold it right there, and I’ll get the cuffs off you.” He unlocked the handcuffs while Dino untied her feet.

Arrington fell into Stone’s arms. “Oh, God, I thought I would never see you again. I thought I’d never see anybody again.” She hugged Dino. “How did you find me?”

“We were brought to you,” Dino said. “You have any idea where we are?”

“No.”

Stone pointed upward. “Seagulls; we’re near water.”

“That’s very helpful, Stone,” Dino said archly. “Come on, let’s look around.” He started down the alley, and Stone and Arrington followed.

They came to the end of the garages, and the alley joined a street.

“Look,” Stone said, pointing. A sign said “Field 121.” “We’re back where we started; Randall’s Island.”

“All that driving was just to confuse us,” Dino said.

“Where the hell is Randall’s Island?” Arrington asked.

“In the East River,” Stone replied. “Come on, let’s find my car.” He started across the street, and they followed. Then Stone caught a flash of silver at the end of the street, where it joined the traffic circle. “Quick,” he yelled. “Under the stands.”

They ran across the road and ducked under the grandstand of the ballpark. “Hit the dirt.” They all got on the ground.

Billy Bob’s silver Navigator turned into the street from the traffic circle and started toward them. It turned into the alley and drove toward the garages they had just left.

Stone was on his feet. “Come on, we’ve got to get to my car before they find out we’re gone!” They started running down the street toward where Stone had left his car. From somewhere behind them he heard car doors slamming. “They’re back in the Navigator!” he puffed. They were still a hundred and fifty yards from the car, he reckoned. Arrington fell, and they stopped to help her. “Hit the deck!” Stone said.

They were all on the ground again as the Navigator turned the corner and drove past them.

“They’re seeing if your car is still there,” Dino said. “When they find it, they’ll know we’re still here and on foot.”

The Navigator turned into the ball field.

“Come on,” Stone said, running toward his car.

“We can’t go toward them,” Arrington said, grabbing his arm.

“We’ve got to get to the car. I’ve only got five rounds in this thing, but there are two guns under the car. Anyway, when they find it, they’ll start driving around, looking for us.” He heard car doors slam again. “Hit the dirt!” They all did.

A moment later, the Navigator backed out of the ball field and drove slowly away from them. Obviously, they were searching.

“Come on, but stay as far under the stands as you can,” Stone said. They kept low and ran toward the Mercedes.

Stone could see the rear end of his car, now, and he saw the brake lights of the Navigator come on, then the reversing lights. “Go for it!” Stone yelled, and he sprinted, leaving Arrington behind. “Make for the car!” he yelled over his shoulder.

He made the car, but the Navigator was reversing toward them, and he had no time to get inside. Dino arrived at the car, and Arrington was close behind.

“You left me!” she said.

“One of us had to get here,” Stone said.

Dino was on the ground, looking under the car. “It’s too low,” he said. “I can’t get under it.”

“Keep the car between us and the Navigator,” Stone said. “It’s good protection.”

The Navigator stopped, the two front doors opened and the two men with shotguns got out, looking around.

“Arrington,” Stone whispered, “stay close to me.” He looked around, but Arrington was gone. Dino was huddled close, on his other side. “Where’s Arrington?” Stone asked.

“She was right here,” Dino whispered back. “Here come the shotguns.”

“They’re behind the car,” one of the men shouted, and the two brought the shotguns to their shoulders.

“What are you waiting for?” Dino asked. “Shoot somebody!”

“They’re too far away,” Stone said.

“You’re just chickenshit! You just don’t want to shoot somebody!”

“Give it a moment,” Stone said. He heard a shotgun being racked. He looked up, and one of the men was ten feet away. Stone took his shot. The side of the man’s head exploded, and he went down. As Stone ducked, he heard a shotgun go off and the sound of pellets striking his car.

“One down, one to go,” Dino said.

“If I stick my head up again, he’ll blow it off.”

“Come out from behind the car,” the man yelled.

A millisecond after he yelled, Stone heard a gunshot, and the man cried out in pain. He stuck his head up, and the man was gone. He stood up further and saw him on the ground, holding onto a bleeding foot.

The man saw him, too, and brought the shotgun around.

Stone fired, striking him in the shoulder, but he was still trying to aim. Another shot exploded, and the man stopped moving.

Stone looked under the car. “Arrington?”

“Did I get him?” she asked.

“You did. Stay where you are, and throw Dino a gun.” Stone began to run toward the Navigator. He could see nothing through the darkened windows, but if one rolled down, he was going to start shooting.

The Navigator roared away, and Stone fired twice at it. The rear window shattered, but the second shot went astray. Stone turned and walked back toward his car, spent.

Dino was pulling Arrington from under the car. She stood up, and they all looked at each other, dirty and skint, and they began laughing.

“Okay,” Dino said, finally, “it’s time for the cops. Fuck Lance.”

“Right,” Stone said. There was, after all, the matter of the two dead men with shotguns.

52

STONE TRIED LANCE’S radio but got no answer. He got the car started and headed back for the Triborough Bridge, while dialing Lance’s cell phone. No answer, so Stone left a message.

“Lance, it’s over; Dino and I are out, and we’ve got Arrington. We’re headed back to my house. There are two dead men back at Field One Twenty-one, and Dino has put out an APB for a silver Lincoln Navigator with no rear window, probably driven by Billy Bob. Call me.” He hung up.

“Where’s Billy Bob headed?” Dino asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe to Martin Block’s building in Queens. Lance has that covered. To tell you the truth, I don’t really give a damn. We’ve got Arrington back; that’s all that matters.”

“Now you’re talking,” Arrington said.

“And what was all this in aid of?”

“Billy Bob wants to kill me.”

“So, why didn’t he?”

“Beats me, but I’m not going to quarrel with the fact.”

“He was planning to,” Arrington said. “It was about some fellow with a German name?”

“Mitteldorfer,” Stone said.

“Not a friend of either of us,” Dino chipped in.

“They were in prison together,” Arrington said. “Until Billy Bob escaped.”

“Jesus, yet another crime of his,” Stone said.

“That means the whole world of law enforcement wants him,” Dino replied.

“I couldn’t care less, not anymore,” Stone said.

“So you don’t care about Billy Bob anymore?” Dino asked. “You don’t want him?”

“Let Lance worry about Billy Bob; I’m done with him.”

“Maybe he isn’t done with you, did you think about that?”

“He’d be a fool to keep trying to kill me,” Stone said. “He’s got to worry about surviving, now. Anyway, Lance is going to scoop him up in Queens.”

“You hope.”

“I hope? Why are you being such a pessimist?”

“So far, when it comes to Billy Bob, I haven’t found anything to be optimistic about.”

Stone hit the remote-control button and swung into his garage, closing the door behind him.

“Where’s Peter?” Arrington asked as they got out of the car.

“He’s in the kitchen with McGonigle and Corey.”

“Where’s his nanny?”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but she was a victim of Billy Bob or his people.”

Arrington put her face in her hands. “She was a sweet girl; God, I hope this is over.”

“I hope so, too.”

Arrington started running. “I want to see Peter,” she said.

“I promised to take him to the Central Park Zoo,” Stone yelled after her. He went into his office to let Joan know he was back and to try to call Lance again. Dino went with him.

Joan was at her desk. “ ’Morning,” she said.

“I’m back. Will you get me Lance Cabot on his cell phone?”

“Sure.”

Stone heard the scream from his office. He and Dino started running toward the kitchen. When they came into the room Arrington was still screaming, as much in anger as in fear. McGonigle lay on his face in a pool of blood. Stone checked for a pulse and found none. Corey was on the other side of the kitchen table, lying on her back, with a bad-looking chest wound. Dino was bent over her.

“She’s still alive,” he said. He got on his phone and called for help.

Arrington had stopped screaming, but she was pointing at the kitchen table. On its top, someone had written, apparently in Corey’s blood, “IT’S NOT OVER.”

Stone took Arrington in his arms. “We’re going to fix this,” he said. “We’re going to find Peter.”

Joan buzzed him. “I’ve got Lance on the phone.”

Stone picked up the extension. “Where are you?”

“Sitting on Block’s place in Queens.”

“We just got back to my house: McGonigle is dead, and Corey is in bad shape with a gunshot wound to the chest. Peter has been taken.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” Lance said.

“Don’t take Block’s building; Billy Bob may go there with Peter.”

“I got your message about the APB. That may not be helpful.”

“Why?”

But Lance had hung up.

THE PARAMEDICS had left with Corey and sedated Arrington by the time Lance arrived, and the coroner and a team of detectives were dealing with McGonigle’s body and the crime scene in the kitchen. Stone had put Arrington to bed, and he and Dino were sitting in his study when Lance came upstairs.

“I saw McGonigle,” Lance said. “Where have they taken Corey?”

“To Bellevue,” Stone replied.

Lance called somebody on his cell phone. “Corey is at Bellevue Hospital with a chest wound,” he said. “Find the best thoracic surgeon in New York, kidnap him, if you have to, and get him to her immediately.” He snapped the phone shut. “All right, Stone,” he said, “why did you call the cops?”

“Lance,” Dino said, “I called the cops. I am the cops. You blew catching Billy Bob, and we now have a trail of dead bodies that can’t be ignored. This is obviously bigger than your resources, and we needed an APB to find the Navigator.”

“Then there’s Peter,” Stone said. “We need the biggest possible net out there.”

Lance sat down. “This has all gone horribly wrong,” he said. “We chased that fucking helicopter all the way out Long Island Sound to Montauk and halfway back, before we had to stop to refuel and lost it. I thought you were aboard.”

“That’s what Billy Bob arranged for you to think,” Stone said. “I told you there would be some sort of switch. Has anything at all happened at Block’s place?”

Lance shook his head. “I sent Sandy back in there to buy some more stuff, and he reports that all was normal. Block is working in his office, and nobody seems suspicious.”

“Billy Bob is going to be in touch with him at some point. As far as we know, Block is all he’s got in New York.”

“We’ve tapped the phone lines; now all we can do is wait.”

They sat silently for a while.

“Waiting is not fun,” Stone said.

53

DINO’S CELL PHONE rang first. “Bacchetti. Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . shit! Keep me posted.” Dino stood up. “A patrol car spotted the Navigator trying to get into the Lincoln Tunnel, tried to stop him, but couldn’t. A pursuit is under way as we speak.”

Then Lance’s phone rang. “Yes? Where? Good. Hold it there, and . . . wait a minute.” He looked at Dino. “Which way is Billy Bob headed?”

“He was on Forty-second Street, headed east.”

Lance turned back to his phone. “Stand by there, and start questioning the pilot.” He snapped the phone shut.

“What?” Stone asked.

“My people caught up with Billy Bob’s chopper at the East Side Heliport five minutes ago.”

Dino’s phone rang again. “Bacchetti.” He listened, then covered the phone. “Billy Bob turned into a parking garage off Times Square, and he’s being pursued upward, level by level.

“Why would he corner himself like that?” Stone asked.

“What kind of building is it?” Lance wanted to know.

Dino went back to the cell phone. “What kind of building?” He covered the phone again. “Office tower, big one; the first six floors are parking.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Lance said.

“What?” Stone asked.

But Lance was already on his cell phone. “Look inside the chopper,” he said. “Is there a handheld radio there?” He waited impatiently. “Right,” he said. “Get the radio to the pilot; if Billy Bob calls him, make him answer, even if you have to put a gun to his head. I’m on my way.”

Dino was back on his cell phone. “Billy Bob made a run for the elevators and made it. He’s handcuffed to Peter, and he’s carrying a large, metal suitcase.”

“I knew it,” Lance said. “Stone, you come with me. Dino, you join your people in Times Square.”

“Okay,” Dino said.

“And I want you to empty Times Square immediately.”

“Jesus, I don’t have the authority to do that,” Dino said.

“Find somebody who does. Tell them that Billy Bob very probably has a suitcase containing thirty-six very powerful grenades and a rifle launcher. Are you getting the picture?”

“Holy shit,” Dino said.

“Stone, let’s get going.”

Dino was calling for his own car as Stone and Lance ran for the garage.

When Stone had made the street, he turned to Lance. “Now, tell me what is going on.”

“Billy Bob is headed for the top of that office tower,” Lance said. “He’s probably already there by now, and from the top of that building he can . . .”

“Threaten Times Square with the grenades,” Stone said, completing his sentence. “It’s what you predicted a while back.”

“I meant it as an illustration, not a prediction,” Lance said. “My people have Billy Bob’s helicopter at the East Side Heliport, and his driver, too. That’s got to be Billy Bob’s way out. I seriously doubt if he has two choppers at his disposal.

“What’s your plan?”

“Plan? I don’t have a plan; no plan will work. All we can do is react to what Billy Bob does and try to predict his next move. Right now he’s on top of a tall building with Arrington’s child and all those grenades. As crazy as he may be, nothing so far has indicated that he’s suicidal. He expects to get out of there, and how else but by helicopter?”

They turned into the heliport and abandoned Stone’s car in some executive’s parking space. Stone brought Billy Bob’s radio. He followed Lance into the building, and they were waved into a back office by one of his people.

The helicopter pilot, dressed neatly in his uniform of black trousers and white shirt with epaulets was sitting in an office chair, surrounded by Lance’s people. “I’m telling you that’s all I know about it,” he was saying.

“Tell me,” Lance said.

“Are you in charge here?” the pilot demanded.

“Tell me, and do it now.”

“This guy, Stanford, chartered our chopper; he’s been our customer in the past. He said he wanted to run through some routines for a movie he’s producing. I was to snatch the guy off a Little League baseball field on Randall’s Island, then fly out to Montauk and back doing a lot of maneuvers. I did it, and that’s all I know. I haven’t even been permitted to call my office.”

Lance nodded. “Has his helicopter been refueled?” he asked one of his people.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. He handed Lance a handheld radio. “This is what Billy Bob gave the pilot.”

“I’ve got another one,” Stone said, holding it up.

“Where’s our equipment?” Lance asked his man.

“Van, outside.”

“Get me the rifle and some loaded magazines.”

“Yes, sir.” The man left.

“What are we doing?” Stone asked.

“We’re waiting for instructions,” Lance replied.

“Instructions?”

“From Billy Bob.”

The man came back with a large case and a box of magazines.

“Let’s wait in the chopper,” Lance said.

“Where are you going with my chopper?” the pilot asked.

“Wherever your client tells you to. You’re still flying it.”

“Who are you people?”

Lance shoved an ID wallet under his nose. “Read it carefully,” he said.

“Okay, I got it.”

“The man you call Stanford is an enemy of your country. We have to deal with him. You’re the only person who can get us to him.”

“All right,” the man said. “Let’s go.”

Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“It’s Dino. Tell Lance I got to the police commissioner, and he’s given the order to close Times Square.”

Stone relayed the information to Lance.

“Thank God for that,” Lance said.

“Where are you, Dino?” Stone asked. Stone turned on the speakerphone.

“I’m in a subway entrance in the street below the building. There’s a SWAT team ready to take that roof.”

“Don’t do it, Dino,” Lance said. “If you try, Billy Bob is going to start lobbing grenades into Times Square, and you don’t want that. Are you in touch with the commissioner?”

“He’s on his way here, now; I can reach him by phone.”

“Good. Tell him to keep police and television helicopters away from that building, too.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do?”

“I’ll let you know in a few minutes.”

“Okay, Dino?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, I’ll wait for word.”

Stone hung up. “Why don’t we get this chopper started and get over there?”

“Because we have to wait to be asked. If we show up without an invitation he’ll regard us as hostile and start shooting.”

“And why do you think we’ll be invited?”

“How else is he going to get out of there?” Lance asked.

54

STONE SAT IN the left copilot’s seat of the helicopter and looked back at Lance, who had contrived a harness and some straps to keep him in the back of the helicopter. He was checking over a heavy rifle with a telescopic sight. The pilot sat nervously in the right front seat, waiting for instructions.

Suddenly, the radio in Stone’s hand came to life.

“Chopper One, this is Stanford.”

Stone handed the radio to the pilot.

“Stanford, Chopper One,” the pilot said.

“What’s your location?”

“East Side Heliport.”

“Are you refueled?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here are your instructions: Take off and fly down the river to Forty-second Street, then up Eighth Avenue to Forty-third, then down Forty-third to the Briggs Building. Do you know it?”

“Yes, sir, there’s a heliport on top.”

“Right. Set down there, and I’ll get aboard with a passenger.”

“What’s our destination from there, sir?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m aboard.”

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way; starting engine now.”

“See you shortly.”

The pilot looked back at Lance.

“Let’s go,” Lance said. He was practicing opening the sliding passenger door on the pilot’s side of the helicopter. “When you set down, I want this door pointing at Stanford,” Lance said. “I don’t care what the wind sock says, this door has to face him. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The pilot started through his checklist and a moment later, they were lifting off the heliport.

Stone put on a headset so that he could talk with Lance and the pilot over the noise of the engine. The pilot plugged Billy Bob’s handheld radio into a socket on his headset, so they could all hear it over the intercom.

The helicopter rose and turned toward the East River, gaining altitude rapidly. At a thousand feet the pilot headed down the river, and when he was abreast of Forty-second Street he turned right and followed it west across Manhattan. Stone had flown in helicopters before, but never in the cockpit, and he watched as the pilot maneuvered the chopper. For controls there was a stick and two rudder pedals, as on a conventional airplane, then there was a lever Stone knew was called the “collective,” which, apparently, had something to do with the propeller on the tail cone. Stone’s understanding was that it kept the chopper from spinning with the big rotors.

Stone looked back at Lance, who was on his feet, the big rifle slung over a shoulder, looking ready. “Lance?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You will remember that Billy Bob is handcuffed to Peter, won’t you?”

Lance did not reply.

“Lance?”

“Shut up, and be ready to follow me out of the helicopter,” Lance said.

“Any other instructions?” Stone asked.

“Yes, don’t let Billy Bob shoot either one of us.”

“Pilot,” Lance said. “I want you to land very slowly, more slowly than you’re accustomed to, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

They were passing Times Square. Stone craned his neck and saw that the NYPD had emptied it of traffic, that the only vehicles in the streets were black-and-white cars. He was amazed to see how quickly this had happened, but he knew the department had a procedure for clearing Times Square, as part of its response to terrorist threats.

“Eighth Avenue,” the pilot called out.

“Slow down,” Lance said. “I want him to have plenty of time to see you coming.”

The pilot eased back the throttle, and the nose of the chopper came up to allow it to maintain altitude.

“You see the building?” Lance asked.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. “I’m aiming for the big H on the roof. Wind’s from the north, less than ten knots, according to the wind sock on the roof.”

“Remember, land with the right side of the aircraft pointing at Stanford, regardless of where the wind is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone heard a magazine driven home and the rifle having its action worked.

“Remember Peter,” he said into his microphone.

No reply from Lance.

“I don’t see anybody on the roof,” the pilot said.

“Neither do I,” Stone replied.

“Neither do I,” Lance said.

“If I don’t see him, how do you want me to set down?” the pilot asked.

“Land into the wind.”

“Roger.”

Stone could see other helicopters in the distance, but they were all keeping well clear of Times Square. He wondered what arms Billy Bob had with him, besides the grenades. He supposed he was going to find out in a moment.

The helicopter turned south, flying a downwind leg to the building, and Stone’s side of the aircraft was now facing the building, perhaps a hundred feet below. He still saw no one on the roof. The chopper turned its base leg, to the east, then turned for its final approach, upwind to the north. The entire rooftop was laid out before them, empty.

The pilot brought the machine slowly down, and as they cleared the edge of the roof they were only about fifteen feet off the deck.

Stone glanced back at Lance. He was braced, the rifle ready in his right hand, his left on the door handle.

Ten feet, then five. Then Stone saw somebody.

55

THE SOMEBODY Stone saw was a man dressed in black with a helmet, full body armor and an automatic weapon. Then a dozen more of them stepped from behind air-conditioning units, ventilators and other objects on the roof. Stone caught sight of the back of one of them, and emblazoned across it were the letters “FBI.”

They surrounded the helicopter the moment it touched down, and one of them stood in front of the machine, his arms raised and crossed, which meant “Cut your engine.” The pilot did so.

Somebody threw open the sliding rear door of the helicopter to find Lance, strapped in place, with his rifle at port arms. Men were all over him, taking the rifle and cutting the straps. Lance was replaced by an FBI agent, who pointed his machine gun at Stone and the pilot.

“Out!” he screamed. “Out right now!!!”

Stone and the pilot were assisted violently from the helicopter, thrown facedown on the roof, searched and handcuffed. Then Stone looked up and saw a familiar face, under a mass of blond hair. “Tiff!” he yelled.

“You!” she yelled back. “What are you doing here? Get him on his feet!” she shouted to the agents.

They stood Stone up. “Gee, aren’t you glad to see me?” Stone asked.

“Throw him off the building!” she shouted to nobody in particular. Nobody moved, for which Stone was grateful.

“I asked you what you’re doing here,” she said to Stone.

“Uncuff me and don’t throw me off the building, and I’ll tell you,” Stone said.

Two agents marched Lance up to where they were standing.

“I believe you’ve met Lance Cabot, of the Central Intelligence Agency?” Stone said.

“So nice to see you again,” Lance said drily. “How do you do?”

“How do I fucking do?” Tiff screamed. “I do terrible! What are you people doing on this roof?”

“We are here to detain one Billy Bob Barnstormer,” Lance said, “a man of many aliases. What, may I ask, are you doing here?”

“I am the goddamned United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and I am here to oversee the capture of the same man. Where is he?”

“My information was that he was on this roof and desired helicopter transportation,” Lance said, “which I was planning to provide, after I had shot him.”

“Tiff,” Stone said, “would you kindly uncuff us, and maybe we can help.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, exasperatedly, “take the cuffs off them.”

Stone, Lance and the pilot were uncuffed.

“Now,” Tiff said, “tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m very sorry,” Lance said. “I didn’t realize you were hard of hearing. WE ARE HERE AT THE INVITATION OF BILLY BOB, TO TAKE HIM OFF THIS ROOF. DID YOU GET THAT?”

“Stop shouting at me, you . . . you spook!” she shouted at him.

“Tiff,” Stone said, “Lance has told you repeatedly why we’re here. We’ve been pursuing Billy Bob for some time, now. How did you and your band of merry men happen to be here on this roof?”

“We were in a meeting downstairs,” she said, “when all hell seemed to break loose in Times Square. I called the police commissioner, and he advised me that Billy Bob was on or on his way to the roof.”

“And everybody just happened to have handy one of those fetching black outfits with the body armor?”

“The fucking New York office of the FBI is in this building!” she screamed. “Now where is Billy Bob?”

“Well, he’s clearly not on the roof,” Stone said.

Lance spoke up. “Where are the NYPD?” he asked.

“In the fucking garage!” she shouted.

“Then, may I suggest a thorough search of the building, with the NYPD working their way up and your agents working their way down? If Billy Bob is in the building, perhaps you’ll encounter him.”

“SEARCH THE GODDAMNED BUILDING!!” Tiffany screamed, waving her arms at the agents.

“Tiff,” Stone said, taking her arm and steering her toward the door, “if you don’t calm down, you’re going to have a stroke. Take a few deep breaths.”

She stopped yelling and began breathing deeply. “Thank you,” she said, finally. “That’s better.”

“Now, why don’t you just phone the police commisioner and request that he start his people up, floor by floor,” Stone said, as soothingly as he could.

“Stop talking to me as if I were a child,” she said, whipping out her cell phone.

“You’re getting excited again,” Stone said. “Now, how can Lance and I help?”

“You can stay on the roof and out of the way,” she said.

Lance walked over. “Are you aware of what Billy Bob is carrying?” he asked.

“I heard he had a small boy and a suitcase,” Tiff replied.

“Do you know what is in the suitcase?”

“No.”

“It contains thirty-six extremely powerful new grenades developed by the army, and a rifle launcher. If he is allowed to start firing them, many people will die.”

Tiff looked appalled. “Nobody told me that.”

“Perhaps you should mention that to your agents?” Lance said.

She grabbed an agent. “Guard that door, and see that these three people stay on the roof,” she said, then she disappeared through the door.

“That,” Lance said, “is a madwoman.”

“Well, yes,” Stone said.

“It frightens me to think that she is in charge here.”

“I think she just wants to kill Billy Bob personally,” Stone said.

“You don’t mean to tell me she’s armed!”

“I don’t think she’ll need a gun; she’ll just claw him to death.”

“How did this go wrong?” Lance asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was something to do with the FBI being housed in this building?”

“But why didn’t Billy Bob make it to the roof?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should hang on to his radio; it’s in the helicopter.” Stone retrieved both his and the pilot’s. “What do we do now?”

Lance was on his phone. “I’m calling my director,” he said. “Perhaps he can free us from this rooftop prison.” He walked away and began speaking into the phone.

Stone walked over to the edge of the roof and looked over the chest-high parapet into Times Square. The only things moving down there were police cars and policemen. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“It’s Dino. Were you in that chopper that landed on the roof?”

“Yes. We were greeted by the insane U.S. Attorney and her mob of jackbooted thugs. Right now, we’re prisoners on the roof, but Lance is talking with Langley about changing that. Where are you?”

“I’m on the ground floor of the garage, and I’ve had instructions from the commissioner to start a search of the building. It has sixty-one floors, by the way.”

“Yes, Lance suggested that—quite sensibly, I thought. The FBI are working their way down, floor by floor. My guess is, the search shouldn’t take more than a month.”

“That was my estimate, too.”

Then the radio in Stone’s hand came to life. “Chopper One,” Billy Bob said. “This is Stanford. Do you read?”

Stone waved the pilot over. “Answer Stanford; find out where he is.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said into the radio. “I’m on the roof; where are you?”

Stone looked around for Lance, but he had disappeared, presumably behind some of the equipment on the roof.

“Here are your instructions,” Billy Bob said.

56

STONE LOOKED AROUND for Lance, but he was nowhere in sight. Billy Bob’s voice came back on the radio.

“I want you to start your engine and prepare to take off when I instruct you to do so.”

Stone looked over at the FBI agent guarding the door from the roof. The man was lying on his side, his helmet was next to him with a hole in it, and blood was pooling around his head. “Tell him yes,” Stone said.

“Yes, sir, will do,” the pilot said.

“Go and start the engine,” Stone said, “but don’t take off until I’m aboard.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said and strode toward the helicopter.

Stone ran around the roof, looking behind equipment, but Lance was nowhere to be found. He gave up and sprinted for the helicopter. Its rotor was already turning.

Stone dove into the back of the helicopter. He was on the floor between two facing rows of seats. He looked aft, found a baggage compartment and rolled over the rear seats into that area. There was a small window in the compartment, and he looked out both sides, wondering what was going to happen. He was looking west when Billy Bob’s head rose above the building’s parapet, followed a moment later by Peter’s head. Billy Bob was holding the boy in his arms.

As Stone watched, Billy Bob swung a large case over the parapet and dropped it onto the rooftop, then he got a leg over and dropped Peter, who landed on his feet. They were still handcuffed together, and Billy Bob had an assault rifle fitted with a suppressor/silencer slung over one shoulder. Stone was still being amazed by Billy Bob’s feat of levitation when it occurred to him that there must be a window-washer’s platform on that side of the building, one of those things that went up and down like an elevator to allow workers to clean the windows on each floor. The fucking FBI, he thought, had not bothered to look over the parapet when they searched the roof.

Billy Bob strode toward the chopper, dragging Peter, who was struggling to keep up. Stone unholstered his 9mm, but he knew that, because of Peter, he would not have a shot, until Billy Bob got into the helicopter. Stone ducked behind the seat to avoid being seen.

He felt a bump when Billy Bob dumped his case and climbed into the machine, but he could not see between the seats, only over them, and he did not want to risk popping up at a time when Billy Bob might be facing him. Also, he didn’t know Peter’s position.

“Take off now!” Billy Bob shouted over the whine of the engine, and the chopper immediately leaped off the roof.

The motion cost Stone his balance, and he toppled sideways. By the time he regained his knees they were moving forward. Stone knew they were beyond the help of anyone in the building, and that the NYPD helicopters had been told to stand off.

“Fly right up the middle of Broadway!” Billy Bob shouted, “and stay just above rooftop level!” He must have encountered some resistance from the pilot, because he began shouting again. “Do it, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

Stone popped his head up for a split second, then ducked. Billy Bob had been standing, facing forward, while Peter sat on the floor, still handcuffed. The sliding door on the right was open.

“Now you be still!” Billy Bob shouted, apparently at Peter. “I’m going to unlock the handcuff, and you don’t want to fall out, do you?”

Stone flicked off the safety on his pistol and waited a reasonable time for the cuff to be unlocked, then he sat up and pointed his pistol forward. Peter was free, and Billy Bob was still facing the pilot, the assault rifle pointed at the man’s head. Stone climbed over the seat and swung the barrel of his pistol at the back of Billy Bob’s head, hard. A gunshot could be heard over the noise of the engine, and Stone thought his pistol had gone off, but, as Billy Bob collapsed at his feet, he saw that the back of the pilot’s head was gone. Billy Bob’s weapon had fired a round when he was struck.

The helicopter began a slow, descending left turn, and Stone made a leap for the copilot’s seat. “Hang on, Peter!” he yelled, grabbing the boy’s hand and dragging him forward. Stone made the copilot’s seat and grabbed the stick, trying to get the chopper level, but then he saw the top of a building coming at him. He yanked back on the stick and cleared the building by a foot, then continued climbing, feeling the airspeed bleed off. They were going to stall any second.

Stone pushed the pilot’s body out of the way and found the throttle, pushing it forward. The chopper climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Peter was no longer next to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy tugging at the inert Billy Bob, one of whose legs was dangling out the open door.

“Come back to me, Peter!” he shouted, and in that moment of looking back, he lost control of the helicopter. It banked sharply to the left, and Stone desperately tried to correct. The chopper had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees before he could level it again and glance back. The good news was both Billy Bob and Peter had been thrown against the left side of the helicopter, away from the open door. “Come to me, Peter!” he shouted.

“No,” the boy shouted back. “He’ll fall out, if I let him go.”

“No, he won’t. Come to me!”

Peter shook his head and clung to Billy Bob.

Stone looked at the chopper’s instrument panel, trying to find something that looked like an autopilot. He found nothing but the usual flight instruments, like the ones on his own airplane. He was headed north again, toward Central Park. At least that was open space, he thought. He might have some chance of setting the thing down. He looked back at Peter.

“Listen to me!” he shouted. “He’s all right, he won’t fall out. I want you to climb over the backseat and stay there while I land. Sit down and don’t move!”

The boy looked at the rear seats, then at Billy Bob, then at Stone. He nodded.

Stone tried to keep the chopper level while Peter inched his way aft. He glanced back to see the boy disappear behind the rear seats. “Thank God,” he said, then he turned his attention back to flying.

It didn’t feel like an airplane, exactly, but it had a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle, like an airplane. He hoped to God he wasn’t going to need the collective handle, because he didn’t really know what would happen if he used it. They were crossing Fifty-seventh Street now, and the bare trees of Central Park beckoned.

Then he heard Peter scream, “Stone!!!” He looked back to find Billy Bob on his knees, his head bleeding and his assault rifle pointed at Stone. What was worse, he could see that a grenade had been attached to the rifle.

“Shoot me, and you die!” Stone shouted.

“Do what I say, or we all die,” Billy Bob shouted back. “The boy, too!”

57

STONE TRIED to think of something, but he could only concentrate on keeping the helicopter in the air.

Billy Bob slipped on a headset and handed Stone one. “We’re going back to Times Square,” he said.

Stone put on the headset. “I’ve never flown a helicopter before. I don’t know if I can make that kind of turn without dumping this thing.”

“Well, you seem to be doing okay,” Billy Bob replied. “Let’s give it a whirl. Say, where’s the boy?”

“I lost him trying to turn this thing. He was trying to keep you inside, and he went out.”

“And I had grown so fond of the little shit,” Billy Bob said. “To think he gave his all for me. Hey, why aren’t you turning?” He nudged the back of Stone’s head with the assault rifle.

Stone started a right-hand turn, keeping it shallow. He was making a wide arc to the east, now, and they were over Fifth Avenue before he was headed south.

“You know,” Billy Bob said, “there are an awful lot of cops around Times Square, and they probably have snipers set up by now. Maybe a nicer spot would be Rockefeller Center, and you’re right on course.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“I can put a grenade right into the skating rink,” Billy Bob said. “The area will be jammed with tourists this time of year.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stone asked. “What’s in it for you?”

“I know I’m not getting out of this alive,” Billy Bob said. “I may as well make a splash.”

“Look, I can fly this thing to Teterboro right now. Don’t you have an airplane out there?”

“Not anymore, Stone.”

“Then hijack one. There are always a dozen jets on the ramp with their engines running, waiting for passengers to arrive. Take one and get the hell out of here.”

“And where would I go?”

“Iceland doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.” This wasn’t true, but maybe Billy Bob didn’t know that.

“Iceland doesn’t have an extradition treaty? I’ve never heard that.”

“Few people know about it, but it’s true.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Then . . .” Stone was about to make another suggestion, but he was interrupted by the sound of the engine sputtering and dying. The helicopter began to descend.

“What the hell is wrong?” Billy Bob shouted.

“I don’t know,” Stone replied. He was scanning the instrument panel, looking for a warning light or some other reason. His eyes stopped on the fuel gauges: One of them showed full, the other empty. He found a lever and shoved it sideways, changing tanks. The engine came back to life, as if it had never been starved for fuel.

“Good work, Stone.”

But now they were low over Fifth Avenue. Stone eased the throttle forward, and the chopper began to climb again. “What’s wrong with Mexico?” he asked.

“Too far. They’d shoot me down before I could get there.”

“Then go offshore and head for South America. They can’t shoot you down over international waters.” This was a lie, too.

“You know, you might have something there.”

“So, we’ll head for Teterboro?”

“Yeah, but not yet; first I want to lob a couple of these grenades into Rockefeller Center, see how they perform. Call it a test.”

“You do that, and they’ll never stop looking for you, Billy Bob. Come on, you’ve got money offshore, right? Head south and lie low. Find some nice spot and buy a house and a few girls. Eventually, they’ll get tired of looking.”

“You make it sound so inviting,” Billy Bob said.

“It’ll never happen if you fire those grenades,” Stone said. “The cops will blow us out of the sky; they’ll be finding pieces of us around midtown for days. But, right now, they’re standing off. We can make Teterboro.”

“That’s a very tempting thought, Stone,” Billy Bob said.

“Turning right for Teterboro,” Stone said. He eased the chopper into a right turn. Then he felt the gun barrel at the back of his head again.

“I don’t think so,” Billy Bob said.

“Come on, why not?”

“Because I’m tired, Stone. I’ve run out my string, and this is going to be my last day on the planet. Yours, too. You know, I’m really sorry about the boy; he was a sweet kid.”

Stone leveled out heading west. He wasn’t going to be complicit in this. If he and Peter were going to die today, then they weren’t going to take hundreds of others with them. If a grenade had to go off, then the Hudson River, he decided, was the best place for it to happen. He didn’t think Billy Bob would have time to fire one and reload from the case before he could dump the helicopter into the icy river.

“Hey, you’re headed in the wrong direction,” Billy Bob said.

“No, I think you really want to go to Teterboro; that’s the best deal.” They had crossed Sixth Avenue, now, and Seventh was coming up fast. Five more crosstown blocks, and he’d make the water. Stone pushed the throttle farther forward and adjusted the trim to keep the chopper level, so it would pick up speed. He watched the airspeed climb from eighty-five to a hundred knots.

Billy Bob rapped him sharply on the head with the barrel of the assault rifle. “You’re not paying attention,” he said.

Stone felt a warm trickle of blood run down his scalp to his neck. “There’s something I’ve got to do before we go back to Rockefeller Center,” Stone said.

“What do you mean, there’s something you’ve got to do?” Billy Bob demanded. “This is my party, and we’ll go where I say.”

“Yeah, well you’re going to have to say it to that police helicopter on our tail. Those things are equipped with rocket launchers, you know, but if we can get across the Hudson, they can’t touch us. They’ll have to scramble Jersey State Police choppers on the other side, and that will take time.” He was coming up on Twelfth Avenue, now, and the river was just ahead.

“What police chopper?” Billy Bob asked. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s dead behind us, and gaining,” Stone said. “But we can make Jersey, and we’ll be okay. The chopper crossed the banks of the Hudson at a thousand feet, and then Billy Bob did something that Stone would always be grateful for.

He stepped back, transferred the assault rifle to his left hand, grabbed a handgrip bolted to the airframe and stuck his head into the slipstream, leaning out and looking behind them for the police helicopter.

Stone yanked back on the throttle, whipped the stick to the right and the chopper went into an impossibly steep right turn. He looked back to see Billy Bob hanging out of the helicopter, still gripping the rifle, hanging on to the handgrip for dear life. Stone kicked the right rudder, and the chopper’s roll became even steeper. It was more than Billy Bob’s grip could handle. His grip failed, and Stone watched him begin his plunge toward the icy Hudson a thousand feet below.

But Stone had no time to relish the moment, because the helicopter continued to roll. Stone could see the George Washington Bridge, in the distance, and it was upside down. Stone had a sensation of falling from the sky, and he closed his eyes. Then a huge explosion rocked the helicopter, and Stone knew Billy Bob had tested his grenade.

58

THE HEAT from the explosion caused a huge thermal, and the helicopter rode it upward, threatening to roll again. Stone got hold of himself and got hold of the stick. The airspeed had bled off to sixty knots, and he was afraid of stalling again. He shoved the throttle forward, and held the stick centered between his legs, hoping aerodynamics would do the rest. But now there was something new—a thumping vibration that rhythmically shook the chopper.

The instrument panel was a vibrating blur, so he looked outside to orient himself. He was flying up the river toward the George Washington Bridge, and he didn’t have enough altitude to clear it. He pushed the stick down, and a moment later, the bridge passed over him. He eased back the stick, trying to gain altitude without advancing the throttle. He thought he must have lost a rotor tip in the explosion, and he didn’t want to put any more strain on the machine.

Finally, he was at the top of the Palisades, the high cliffs overlooking the Hudson, then he managed to gain another couple of hundred feet. He remembered that Teterboro was southwest of the bridge, and he eased the chopper into a shallow left turn. The vibration increased, but soon, he was on the right heading. Then he saw a big business jet a few miles ahead, making an approach, and he followed its line of flight toward the runway. He had the airfield in sight.

He found a radio in the panel, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the frequency for Teterboro tower, so he tuned in 121.5 mhz, the emergency frequency, and pressed the push-to-talk switch. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said. “Helicopter approaching Teterboro from the northeast for emergency landing. Teterboro tower, if you can hear me, clear the way, because I’ve never landed a helicopter, and I think I have a broken rotor tip.”

“Stone?” A familiar voice

“Dino?”

“Right behind you, pal.”

“Helicopter, Teterboro tower,” an urgent voice said. “We have you in sight; cleared to land anyplace you want to put her down. Suggest runway one niner, if able.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” Stone replied. “Dino?”

“Shut up and fly the chopper,” Dino said.

Stone took his advice. He began trying to slow the helicopter; he was too hot, and he pulled back on the throttle and held his altitude to bleed off airspeed, the way he would do in an airplane. He could see the runway, now, and he was about two hundred feet above it. He pulled the throttle back to idle, and the thing began dropping like a rock. He added power, but he was still high and hot. He chopped the throttle again and yanked back on the stick. The sky filled the windshield, and with his peripheral vision he could see the ground coming up fast. He passed over the runway, losing altitude, in a nose-up position.

The helicopter struck tail first, and still Stone held the stick back. Then it slammed into the ground, and strangely, there was water everywhere. Stone, who was not wearing a seat belt, was thrown forward, striking his head on the windshield. The last thing he heard was the noise of the rotor chewing up the ground, then everything went quiet. THE VOICE came from a distance: “Stone?” A small voice. “Stone?” Somebody shook him and pulled him back into his seat. Stone opened his eyes and looked around.

“Peter?”

“Here I am, Stone.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, and I did what you said.”

“What?”

“I got behind the seat and stayed there. It was sort of like a ride at the carnival in Charlottesville, but not as much fun.”

The air was filled with approaching sirens, and Stone was aware that a helicopter was landing a few yards away. He looked out the window and saw that they had come to rest in shallow water, a swampy area between a runway and a taxiway. Twenty yards away he saw his own airplane, parked with others in the infield. Then he passed out.

HIS DREAMS were not good: They were a montage of Billy Bob, Arrington, Peter and Tiffany Baldwin, who always seemed to be screaming at him. Then, slowly, they faded and he found himself in a darkened room. Sunlight peeked from behind venetian blinds. Someone was holding his hand.

“Stone?” A woman’s voice.

“Go away, Tiff,” he said wearily. He had had enough of her.

“It’s Arrington.”

Stone turned his head and looked at her. “It is, isn’t it?” he said, relieved.

“You’re all right; you just had a couple of bumps on the head. You lost a little hair, and you have a few stitches, and your head is sort of swollen, but you’ll be just fine. All you have to do is rest.”

“I’m hungry,” Stone said. “Am I on drugs?”

“The doctor gave you something when they stitched your head up yesterday. He wanted you to rest.”

“Yesterday? And now it’s today?”

“That’s how it works, Stone: yesterday, then today.”

“Can I have a bacon cheeseburger?”

“I’m not sure that’s on the menu, but I’ll get you something.” She picked up the call buzzer and pressed it. A moment later a nurse came in, followed by Dino and Lance.

“Okay, Lance,” he said. “Now you can court-martial me.”

Everybody began laughing.

59

LANCE AND DINO took him home that afternoon, in Arrington’s chauffeured Bentley.

“Where’s Arrington?” Stone asked, as they got into the car.

“She and Peter had something to do,” Dino said. “She didn’t say what.”

“Let me tell you where we are,” Lance said. “We recovered thirty-five grenades from the helicopter you crashed.”

“Crashed? I thought that was a pretty good landing, considering.”

“Controlled crash was how the FAA described it,” Dino said. “The helicopter is a total loss.”

“That’s what insurance is for.”

“Billy Bob managed to fire one grenade while he was falling from the helicopter,” Lance said.

“Nearly blew the police chopper I was riding in out of the sky,” Dino said.

“The explosion broke a lot of windows along the New York bank of the Hudson, but nobody was seriously injured,” Lance said. “We rolled up Martin Block’s operation in Queens, and he’s singing like a bird. The feds have put a stop to three or four cons Billy Bob was running out of Block’s building, and they found all his bank records there, so they’re going after his offshore cash as we speak.”

“Where did he get all the two-dollar bills?” Stone asked.

“Billy Bob bought them at a sharp discount from the grandson of one of the robbers,” Lance said. “He met the kid at Sing-Sing, where he did a five-year stretch for financial fraud. Got out a couple of years ago. That’s also where he met your old friend Mitteldorfer, who asked Billy Bob, as a favor, to first ruin you, then kill you, after he got out. Mitteldorfer made him a lot of money with investment advice while he was inside, so he was happy to oblige.”

“Mitteldorfer sure knows how to hold a grudge,” Dino said, shaking his head. “I’ve asked the people up there to put him in solitary for as close to forever as the rules will allow.”

“Mitteldorfer will think the company is good,” Stone said.

“Tiffany Baldwin is annoyed with you for killing Billy Bob,” Lance said.

“The ungrateful bitch,” Dino muttered.

“She was so looking forward to prosecuting him,” Lance said. “At least she’ll have the pleasure of announcing all his operations that she’s rolling up. The Attorney General will like that.”

“And what does the Agency get out of it all?” Stone asked.

“We got thirty-five of thirty-six of the stolen grenades back, plus we nailed the guy in New Mexico who sold them to Billy Bob. Unfortunately, the stolen grenade-launching rifle is at the bottom of the Hudson. We’ve got divers looking for it.”

“How’s Corey?”

“Antsy, because she can’t work for a couple of weeks,” Lance said, “but she’s on the mend.”

“I’m sorry about McGonigle.”

“It wasn’t your fault; these things happen in my line of work.”

“Is that how you think of it? As a ‘line of work’?”

“It’s as good a description as any. Oh, by the way, Holly Barker is joining us; I’m expecting her signed contract tomorrow. She drove a hard bargain, though.”

“I’ll bet she wouldn’t leave the dog behind.”

“Good guess. Daisy will be joining the team, too.”

The car pulled up in front of Stone’s house, and he got out. “Lance, what happened to you on the rooftop when Billy Bob showed up?”

“Oh, I happened to see the FBI man take a bullet, so I lay low. By the time it was safe for me to come out, you were already in the chopper, and I felt I shouldn’t shoot it down.”

“Thanks,” Stone said drily. “You fellows want to come in for a drink?”

“Thank you, no,” Lance said. “I have a very long report to write.”

“Me, too,” Dino said. “You feel up to dinner at Elaine’s tonight?”

“Sure,” Stone said. “See you at nine.” He turned to go, but the chauffeur spoke.

“Excuse me, Mr. Barrington, but Mrs. Calder asked me to give you this.” He handed Stone a sealed envelope.

Stone went inside and upstairs to his bedroom; he wanted a nap before dinnertime. He sat on his bed and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored stationery.

My Dear Stone,

First, I want to thank you for protecting Peter. I would have gone crazy, if anything had happened to him. Thank you, too, for taking such good care of me, something you have always done so well.

I’m afraid that New York is just a little too exciting for Peter and me right now, so we’ve headed back to Virginia. Peter misses his pony, and I miss the peace. Of course, I’ll miss you, too.

I don’t think you’d transplant very well to Albemarle County, so I won’t even suggest that. But perhaps you’d like to come for a visit now and then. I think your son would like that.

Love, Arrington

Stone lay back on the bed and tried not to cry.

Author’s Note

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my Web site at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

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If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my Web site, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons publicity department with the request.

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A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note