by Stuart Woods
“Who’s that?”
“The guy you used to work for.”
“Used to?”
“Not after our conversation. You’ve been Mr. Hayward’s guest once, and that was supposed to be it. Pat agreed, along with the other editors, that Mr. Hayward wouldn’t be bothered again.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Hayward’s attorney. How do you like the Mini?”
“It’s okay, why?”
“Because if I have to haul you into court, you won’t be driving it much longer. You do get to keep making the payments, though.” Stone handed him his business card. “Give that to your lawyer, and tell him he’ll be hearing from me if I see you in my rearview mirror again, or anywhere near Mr. Hayward.”
The kid stared stonily at him, then Stone went back to the Mercedes and drove away. The Mini sat in the road behind him, unmoving, then Stone turned onto Alameda and didn’t see it again.
“You must have had an effective conversation,” Laurence said, looking back.
“He seemed to get the picture,” Stone said. “Would you like to see some galleries?”
“I’d like that very much,” Laurence replied.
Stone turned into Canyon Road and parked. “Let’s walk up one side and down the other. We can grab some lunch at Geronimo’s.”
—
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER they had reached the top of Canyon Road and were seated at a table on the veranda, when the Mini drove by, and the driver took a snapshot as he passed.
“I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” Stone said.
“What can we do about it?”
“I know the guy he works for. He’s been a problem in the past, but I thought we’d worked things out. I guess I was wrong. Do you have a guest list for the press event?”
“I believe I still have it.”
“Let me know what the kid’s name is.”
“I’ll do that.”
—
AFTER THEY HAD had a good lunch, they walked back down the road, cruising the galleries. At the bottom they got back into the car and drove up the road, picking up Laurence’s purchases along the way. They arrived back at the house with a dozen paintings and sculptures in the luggage compartment; the larger pieces would be delivered. They spent the rest of the afternoon hanging his purchases and taking delivery of a few others.
Later in the day they sat down for a drink. “You said you bought a gun,” Stone said.
“I know, I know, you told me not to. Actually, I think you may have been right—I nearly shot at the kid stringer.”
“Laurence,” Stone said, in his sternest Dutch uncle voice, “do not, under any circumstances, bring the gun to New York. The city has very strict laws regarding the possession of weapons, even in one’s own home, and the penalties are severe.”
“Can I get a permit?”
“Permits are available but in very short supply. If you’re not carrying satchels of currency around on a daily basis, or in the jewelry trade, you will almost certainly be denied a carry permit.”
“How about a permit to keep it in my apartment?”
“Those are slightly less restrictive, but don’t bring a gun into your home until you have the permit in hand.”
“Okay,” Laurence replied.
37
STONE AND JINX arrived at Teterboro, where they were met by Fred in the Bentley.
At home, Stone introduced Jinx to Joan, and Bob made a fool of himself over her. Stone gave Jinx the tour, then dispatched her to her own apartment downtown after asking her to dinner. She had promptly agreed. “Fred will come for you at seven o’clock,” he had said, giving her a kiss.
Stone went into his office and called Dino.
“You made it back?” Dino asked. “I was beginning to doubt your return.”
“We spent a couple of days with Laurence and his girl, Theresa.”
“How is our young billionaire?”
“Half a billionaire—he started out with more, but after a few real estate investments and many pieces of art, his net worth is down a hundred million or so.”
“That’s gotta be tough on the kid.”
“Well, yeah.”
“I dreamed I came into that much money the other night, and I couldn’t think of anything to spend it on.”
“Sure you could, and if you couldn’t, Viv would take up the slack.”
“Good point.”
“Dinner at Patroon, seven-thirty? I’ll introduce you to a new jeune fille.”
“See you there.” They hung up.
Stone went through the mail and signed a stack of checks, while Fred unpacked for him. Joan sat down, handing him things to sign. “How’s our boy billionaire?” she asked.
“Half a billionaire,” Stone said. “There’s a difference.”
“What can a billionaire buy that a half billionaire can’t?”
“An office building, his own country, like that.”
“Ah.”
“By the way, the annual Strategic Services event is going to be held at Laurence’s apartment, instead of here. When the invite comes, accept.”
“Will do. Helene will be enormously relieved.”
“Why? She wouldn’t have had to do anything. The caterers would have handled it.”
“Yes, but she’d feel the responsibility to supervise them and count the silver when they’d gone.”
—
STONE WALKED DOWN to Patroon, while Fred went to pick up Jinx; he got there first and found Dino and Viv waiting for him. A waiter brought him a Knob Creek.
“You promised us a new girl,” Viv said. “Where is she?”
“She lives downtown—in an artist’s loft, I think. Fred will deliver her.”
“How convenient,” Viv replied.
“Dino,” Stone said, “if Laurence Hayward calls you to get your help with a gun permit, please turn him down.”
“I nearly always turn down people who make that request,” Dino said.
“Good.” He looked up to see Jinx enter the restaurant and stood up to make the introductions. Once Jinx had settled into their booth, Viv pounced, grilling her for a good ten minutes about her work, her apartment, and anything else she could think of.
“I’m sorry about that,” Stone said. “Viv is very protective of me.”
“Jinx has reassured me,” Viv said. “He’s all yours, Jinx.”
“I doubt it,” Jinx said.
“No kidding, he’s between flames.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Jinx said. “That reminds me, I arrived home to find the place full of scaffolding. I hired some painters weeks ago, and they picked now as the best time to come.”
“You can bunk with me for the duration,” Stone said.
“I presumed to bring a couple of bags. Fred is dealing with them.”
“He can probably guess where to put them,” Viv said.
“I like Fred. He seems a very competent person.”
“You have no idea,” Stone said. “He’s an ex–Royal Marine commando, tough as nails.”
“Yet charming.”
“He is that, when he’s not intimidating someone twice his size.”
“How does he do that?”
“I don’t entirely understand it. He can do a lot with a dead-eyed stare.”
They ordered and dined. After dinner, Stone and Jinx walked slowly home.
“It’s like a different city up here,” Jinx said as they turned into Stone’s Turtle Bay street.
“That’s the way I feel in your neighborhood,” Stone said. “I get a nosebleed if I go below Forty-second Street.” They climbed the stairs to the front door, and Stone reached for his key. To his surprise the door was slightly ajar.
“Did you leave it that way?” Jinx asked.<
br />
“I did not,” Stone said. “Will you wait here while I have a look around?”
“I’d rather come with you,” she said.
“All right, but stay close behind me. I’m often armed, but not tonight.” He put a finger to his lips and stepped inside and closed the door silently.
The living room was dark; he imagined that Joan had turned off the lights using an app on her iPhone. Stone stood and listened hard. He heard a tiny sound from below his feet, then beckoned Jinx to follow. They got into the elevator, the shaft of which was heavily insulated for sound, and rode down to the lower level. As the door opened, light from the car dimly illuminated his office. There was the scuffling sound of footsteps, and he heard the outside door near Joan’s office open and close. He hit a light switch, then ran down the hall, opened the door, and stepped outside. He heard the sound of running feet going down the block toward Second Avenue, but by the time he made the sidewalk, whoever it had been was gone. He walked back into his office.
“See anyone?” Jinx asked. She had made herself at home on his leather sofa.
“Heard, didn’t see. Somebody young, I think. He really sprinted down the block.”
“Don’t you have a security system?”
“Yes, but I didn’t arm it when I left.”
“Any cameras?”
Stone flinched, thinking of his advice to Laurence. “Sadly, no.”
“How about the front door?”
“That locks when you close it. Whoever got in probably picked the lock, then went downstairs. I suppose that whatever he wanted would be more likely to be found down here than upstairs.” He walked around his desk, opened and closed some drawers, had a look at the safe. “Everything seems in about as good an order as it gets. The safe is still locked, so I guess the intruder was no yegg.”
“Yegg? Is that some sort of omelet?”
“An old-fashioned word for a safecracker. Or maybe he just didn’t have time for that before we showed up. Let me check Joan’s office.”
He had a look in there and found it in good order, then returned to his office. “We may as well go upstairs,” he said. “Nothing more to do here.”
They got into the elevator and rode up to the top floor, then went down the hall to the master suite. “Your dressing room is there,” Stone said, pointing.
Jinx had a look. “The service is pretty good around here,” she said when she came back. “Fred even put away my thongs.”
“He probably turned that duty over to Joan. I don’t think he would be so bold.”
She snaked an arm around his neck. “I hope you’re feeling bold.”
He was, and he proved it to her.
38
STONE CALLED Mike Freeman at Strategic Services the following morning. “I’m afraid I need some security cameras,” he said, then told him of the previous evening’s intruder.
“I suggested that a long time ago, but you had Bob Cantor install a system anyway. Not that Bob doesn’t do good work, but you probably got all cheap on him.”
Stone ignored that. “I want them cleverly concealed,” he said.
“Hang on.” There was a click, and Stone was in the hold void, listening to, of all things, country music.
Mike came back. “I’ll have somebody over there in an hour to do an assessment.”
“Great. Since when did you start listening to country music?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, your customers do, while on hold.”
“Are you serious? Maybe it’s your own phone system.”
“Mine is mostly Mozart, occasionally some Oscar Peterson.”
“I’ll look into it,” Mike said, then hung up.
—
AN HOUR LATER, Joan buzzed him. “Mike Freeman’s security person is here.”
“Okay, send him in.”
“Take a deep breath,” Joan said, then hung up.
There was a rap at his door, which was ajar, and a blond head appeared, followed by a tall, willowy body in a tight black business suit. “Mr. Barrington?”
Stone stood. “Stone. Please come in.”
They shook hands. “My name is Heavenly Peace,” she said. He motioned her to a chair, and she crossed her legs fetchingly.
“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I feel as though I’ve just stepped into a Bond film.”
“That’s very good. Amazingly, I haven’t heard that one.”
“May I ask, how did you come by your name?”
“My father’s surname was Peace, and my mother was a religious fanatic.”
“You must get asked about that a lot.”
“Every day of my life—often, several times a day.”
“Ever get tired of it?”
“A very long time ago.”
“Still, you haven’t changed it.”
“Well, nobody has ever forgotten it. And everyone wants my business card.”
“That’s handy.”
“I’ve always found it so.” She recrossed her legs. “Now, what may I do to improve your day?”
Stone searched for a quip, then gave up. “Security cameras.”
“Ah. For what purpose—home movies? Narcissism? Pornography, perhaps?”
“Security.”
She smiled, revealing very white teeth against her fire-engine-red lipstick. “I’m sorry, my attention wandered for a moment. And how do you envision using these cameras?”
“Well, if I should come home and find my front door ajar and hear someone in this office, as I did last night, I would like to have images of that person or persons to remember him or her by.”
“Do you wish this person or persons to know that they are being photographed?”
“I do not. And I would like for the cameras to have the highest resolution available and to operate well in low lighting conditions. So often when I see security recordings, the people in them tend to be unidentifiable.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Do you presently have a security system of any sort?”
“I have one that does just about everything but employ cameras. It is my fond hope that you can install a camera system that is compatible with my present installation, rather than ripping it all out and starting over.”
She stood. “Let’s see what we can do. Where shall we start?”
“Well, since we’re already in my office, what about right here?”
“May I borrow a legal pad?” she asked. “I left my handbag in the car.”
Stone stood, produced one, and offered her a pen.
“You may remain seated,” she said, “while I do a little survey.”
Stone sat down.
She paced the room in every direction, taking notes all the while and occasionally adding a diagram. “Now,” she said, “we will presume that you want the exterior door covered, along with the elevator and— What is that door?” She pointed.
“It leads to the garage.”
“Ah.” She made a note. “Now, shall we drift upward?”
Stone pressed the button for the elevator and allowed her to precede him into the car, while appreciating the view from that angle. They emerged in the entrance hall, where she began by inspecting the front door lock. “We’ll want to replace that,” she said. “Apparently it was picked last night. The Israelis make something more formidable.” She made a note, then proceeded into the living room, making a diagram and marking camera locations on it. “Why do I feel there is a study?”
“Because you are gifted that way,” Stone replied, pointing.
She reached for the doorknob. “May I?”
“You may.” She opened the door and entered. “Such a nice room,” she said, “and so you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, if you would escort me to the top floor of the house, I think we
can skip what’s in between and save you some money, which Mike Freeman says is dear to your heart.”
“Mike exaggerates.” He led her back to the elevator and out onto the fourth-floor landing and into the master suite.
“Another very nice room. And is that a dumbwaiter?” She pointed.
“It is. Does it concern you?”
“Makes a nice ride up for a burglar, doesn’t it?”
“Touché.”
She opened a door. “Dressing room?” Then quickly closed it. “A lady’s.”
“From time to time.”
“I don’t think you’d look well in a thong.”
“That one is mine. Do you think it’s a target for a burglar?”
“Own any watches or other jewelry?”
“Touché again.”
She finished the room. “What’s on the ground floor rear?”
“The kitchen—opens to a common garden.”
“Better have a look.”
After her look at the rear of the house, she handed him a card. “Before you ask.”
“When will I hear from you?”
“Normally, that’s my line, but figure a couple of days to see a plan and some equipment. If you want to see an example of our work, visit Laurence Hayward’s apartment.”
“Good idea. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
“I’m glad,” she said, then departed.
Stone mopped his brow; that had been a near thing.
39
BUTCH CRANE was working on a display in the Purple Label room when he looked up to see Curly walk in. There were half a dozen people, clients and sales associates, in the room. He strode across the room. “May I help you, sir?” he asked with a stone face.
“Yeah, sure. Where’s the cash register?”
“The men’s room is on the lower level. Take the elevator,” Butch said, smiling. Then, sotto voce, “In the park, Fifth and Seventy-second, half an hour.”
“Thanks, pal,” Curly said, then left.
Butch went back to his work.
“Who the hell was that?” an associate asked.
“He was in the wrong store.”
