6 Stone Barrington Novels (117 page)

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.

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.