by Stuart Woods
“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?”
“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.
