Two Dollar Bill (10 page)

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.

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...

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?