by Stuart Woods
“He’s not a Nazi war criminal,” Stone said. “It’s unlikely that he would have a network of supporters; he’d have to disappear on his own. Of course, he probably had time to set up an identity, and he probably was acquainted with people who could supply documents.”
“What country are we talking about, Stone?” Cantor asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to know fucking everything you can tell me and because it might matter.”
“Britain.”
“Then he’d lose his accent for starters. A Brit accent is too easy to remember.”
Peter Leahy was looking at the photo. “He might have lost some hair, too. He’s got kind of a high forehead, and the hair in front of his sideburns is thin.”
“He’s had twelve years to go gray, too,” Willie said. “And most guys gain some weight in early middle age.”
Cantor spoke up. “British guys love their tailors; I’ll bet he’s still wearing Savile Row suits but not from whoever made his clothes in the old days. That’s one of the things the tracers would check first. Let’s find out what English tailors are working in town.”
“Good idea,” Stone said, “and I’m sure you’ll have some others. But right now the Seagram Building security tapes are our best bet.”
“I agree,” Bob said, standing up. The Leahys stood up with him.
“Let’s talk in the morning,” Stone said. “Things will come to you in your sleep.”
The three men filed out, and Joan appeared at the door. “Herbie Fisher is here to see you,” she said, then raised a hand to stop his response. “He knows you’re here, because he just saw his uncle Bob come out of your office, and he’s paid for your time in advance.”
Stone sighed. “All right, send him in, but interrupt me after five minutes. Make up a meeting or something.” He sat down and awaited his fate.
6
Herbie Fisher walked into Stone’s office wearing a surprisingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking my case.” ingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking
“What case?” Stone asked.
“My case,” Herbie said plaintively. “I told you last night.”
“You told me somebody was trying to kill you.”
“Right,” Herbie said. “That’s my case.”
“Herbie,” Stone said with as much patience as he could muster. “You are an attorney, are you not?” Herbie had gotten some sort of degree from an Internet diploma mill and had actually passed the bar exam-or, more likely, had paid someone to take it for him.
“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said, “I’m a bona fide lawyer.”
“Well, you’re a member of the bar,” Stone said. He had seen evidence of the fact in a list of those passing the exam in a legal newspaper. “And as such, you should know that people trying to kill you is not a legal case.”
“Sure, it is,” Herbie replied, with the confidence of a newly minted pseudo-attorney.
“How is it a case?” Stone asked. “Are you suing somebody? Is somebody suing you?”
“Not yet,” Herbie said, failing to choose an option. “But I’ll sue, if I can find out who’s trying to kill me.”
“Well, Herbie, you let me know when you find out, and I’ll sue them for you.”
“Great!” Herbie said, as if his prayers had been answered.
“Anything else?” Stone asked, looking at his watch.
“That’s a nice watch,” Herbie said. “What kind is it?”
“It’s a Cartier,” Stone said.
Herbie produced a small notebook and took a pen from his pocket. “How do you spell that?”
“T-H-A-T.”
“No, that Cardeay name.”
Stone spelled it for him.
“Where did you buy it?”
“From Cartier,” Stone replied. “They have a big store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.”
Herbie wrote that down, too.
“Is that an English suit you’re wearing?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, do you like it?” Herbie replied.
“It’s very becoming. Who made it for you?”
“An English tailor.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sam Leung,” Herbie replied.
“Leung is a Chinese name,” Stone pointed out.
“Yeah, but he makes English suits. He makes any kind of suit you want.”
Stone jotted down the name. “Where is he?”
“Lex and about Sixty-fourth, upstairs.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “Anything else?” Why the hell hadn’t Joan interrupted him?
“Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t we just talk?”
“Talk about what?” Stone asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation.
“I don’t know,” Herbie said, shrugging. “What do lawyers and clients talk about?”
“Legal problems,” Stone said.
“Like wills?”
“Sometimes.” Stone looked at his watch again.
“You gotta be somewhere?”
“I have another meeting,” Stone said.
“With who?”
“With a client.” Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“You said to interrupt you after five minutes.”
“It’s been at least half an hour,” Stone replied.
“No, it just seems that way when you’re with Herbie.”
“You have a point. Send him right in as soon as he arrives.”
“Herbie?”
“No, my other client.”
“Oh, that client,” Joan said, then hung up.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Herbie,” Stone said, looking at his watch again.
“Why? What did you do?”
This was turning into an Abbott & Costello routine. “Another client is due here right now, and I have to see him.”
“Can’t I stay until he arrives?” Herbie asked.
“No, he wouldn’t like that. It’s a client confidentiality thing.”
“Can’t I just wait outside until he’s gone?”
“I’m afraid not, Herbie. Good day.”
“Good day,” Herbie repeated. “I like that-‘Good day.’ ”
“Good day,” Stone said again. “It means you’re leaving.”
“Oh, okay,” Herbie said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good day. I’ll see you when you have a legal problem to discuss.”
Herbie shook his hand. “Good day, Stone.”
“Good day and good-bye,” Stone said. He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out.”
“Won’t I run into your client if I go out that way? That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”
Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.
Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.
“Cantor.”
“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”
“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “Herbie was wearing a very nice suit.”
“Yeah, he’s dressing better since he got rich.”
“He said his suit was made by a tailor named Sam Leung at Lexington and Sixty-fourth. You might show Mr. Leung the photo of Stanley Whitestone.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll call Willie. He and Peter are canvassing tailor shops right now.”
“Any luck with the Seagram Building security tapes?”
“I got somebody running them down right now.”
“Let me know if you come up with anything.”
“Well, yeah, Stone. What else did you expect?”
“Bob, was Herbi
e dropped on his head as a baby?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Cantor replied. “See ya.”
Stone hung up. Then Joan came in again.
“I’ve got news,” she said.
“What news?’
“Dolce is hanging out across the street again. You want me to shoot her?”
Stone thought for a moment. “No, but call Eduardo Bianchi’s secretary and find out if he’ll see me for lunch tomorrow.”
7
Stone drove out to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, to Eduardo Bianchi’s elegant Palladian home on the beach. He was greeted at the door by the wiry and slightly sinister butler who had served Eduardo for as long as anyone could remember. Rumor had it that the man had once served as an assassin for Eduardo back in the days when he had been operating as a Mafia chief of such rank that his name was not known even at the capo level. No law enforcement agency had ever recorded him, followed him or, apparently, even known of his existence.
Now Eduardo Bianchi operated at a level where mayors, governors and even presidents sought his counsel, and he served on the boards of a number of New York’s most prestigious arts organizations and charities.
Stone joined Eduardo-now probably in his late eighties if not older-at a table shaded by a wide umbrella overlooking the Roman-style pool.
“Stone,” Eduardo said, rising and offering his hand, which was cool, dry and strong, “How very good to see you. Please sit down and have some lunch.”
Stone took a chair and, once again, marveled at the old man’s youthful appearance and elegant tailoring. “You’re looking very well, Eduardo.”
“Thank you, Stone,” Eduardo said, pouring him a glass of Pinot Grigio from a chilled bottle. “What are you working on these days? Your career is always so interesting to me.”
“At the moment, I’m trying to locate a gentleman who left a British intelligence agency some years ago with a great deal of knowledge that he put to work in the marketplace.”
“Fascinating,” Eduardo replied. “And for whom are you trying to locate him?”
“For his former employers.”
“You actually know people in British intelligence?”
“Only one person, really, but she is well placed in that community.”
“And what will they do with this gentleman when you have found him? Slit his throat in some quiet, English-gentlemanly way?”
“I have been assured that that will not occur, or I would not have accepted the job.”
Eduardo smiled. “Ah, you are such an ethical man, Stone. You know, it is often said that violence never solves anything, but I have found over the years that the correct degree of violence, discreetly applied, can solve a great many things.”
Stone was surprised; Eduardo rarely made reference to that part of his past.
Lunch was served: langoustine on a bed of saffron rice with much garlic butter. The Pinot Grigio was a perfect accompaniment.
Stone waited until the dishes had been taken away and coffee served before speaking of why he had come. “Eduardo, there appears to be a problem that I need your help in resolving.”
“Something requiring violence?” Eduardo asked, a small smile playing across his lips.
“Nothing like that,” Stone said. “It’s a family matter.”
“I was of the impression that all your family had passed on,” Eduardo said.
“I was referring to your family, Eduardo.”
A shadow seemed to pass over the old man’s face. “Most of my family have passed, too, except my sister and my daughters, Anna Maria and… Dolce.”
“It is of Dolce I speak,” Stone said.
“Ah,” Eduardo replied.
“She has been spending considerable amounts of time across the street from my house, accompanied by a large man.”
“Yes,” Eduardo said, “a reliable fellow.”
“I have begun to feel uncomfortable about her presence, and my secretary is very worried.”
Eduardo looked surprised. “Does Dolce have some problem with your secretary?”
“Oh, no,” Stone said quickly. “It’s just that her office window is at street level, and she sees Dolce standing there two or three days a week. This has been going on for about a month.”
Eduardo looked bleakly into his coffee cup, then took a small sip. “I am afraid I have been foolish, Stone,” he said. “Dolce seemed to have improved greatly over the past months, becoming again much the sweet daughter she once was. As a result, I have permitted her to leave the house and make trips into the city, accompanied by Mario, of course. He is quite fond of her.”
“I thought that in view of my past… difficulties with Dolce that you might wish to know of her visits to my neighborhood.”
“Yes,” Eduardo said. “You are quite right to inform me of this. You, as well as anyone, have personal knowledge of how dangerous Dolce could be when she was-how shall I put it?-not herself.”
Stone nodded. “I am concerned for her safety,” he said.
Eduardo shook his head. “I believe you should, perhaps, be more concerned with your own.”
“Then you think she may be relapsing?”
“I am very much afraid that she has already relapsed,” Eduardo said.
Stone said nothing.
Eduardo took a deep breath and sighed. “She did not come home yesterday,” he said.
“She eluded Mario?” Stone asked.
“Mario is recovering in a hospital,” Eduardo replied, “from a knife wound. Either he was very lucky to survive or Dolce was extremely skillful. She was taught these things by my man.” He nodded in the direction of the butler, who was standing a discreet distance away, watching everything. “She could not have been more than fourteen years,” he said sadly.
“I see,” Stone said, because he could not think of anything else to say.
“You may be sure that she is being sought by acquaintances of mine,” Eduardo said. “I have so far been able to avoid involving the police, and I hope that you will do so as well.”
“Of course,” Stone said.
“And I would be grateful if your secretary could call mine should Dolce visit your neighborhood again.”
“Certainly,” Stone replied.
ON THE DRIVE home, Stone felt a dread he had not felt since the day Dolce had shot him. The wound, he realized, had been deeper than he had believed.
He drove around his block, looking for Dolce, before he pulled into his garage and closed the door behind the car.
He went into the house and to Joan’s office.
“How was lunch?” she asked, and she wasn’t asking about lunch.
“Yesterday Dolce knifed her bodyguard, then disappeared,” he said. “I want you to keep the outside office door locked. Don’t let anyone in until you have seen who it is.”
“Don’t you worry,” Joan said. She opened her desk drawer, removed the officer’s Model 1911.45, racked the slide, put the safety on and put it back into the drawer with the hammer cocked.
8
When Stone walked into Elaine’s, Dino was already half a drink ahead of him.
“You look worried,” Dino said, as Stone sat down.
“I didn’t know it showed,” Stone replied, as a waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before him.
“Always,” Dino said.
“Dolce’s on the loose,” Stone said, taking a swig from the drink.
Dino’s face fell. “Bring us both another one,” he said to the waiter, then turned back toward Stone. “How the hell did she escape?”
“I had lunch with Eduardo a few weeks ago, and to my shock she made an appearance at the table.”
“She was running around loose?”
“She appeared to be her old, premurderous self. Eduardo allowed her to go to the city on shopping trips, accompanied by an ape named Mario, and she started hanging around across the street from my house. It gave Joan the willies.”
“I’m armed,” Dino said, “and it
gives me the willies.”
“Then yesterday Dolce slipped a knife into Mario and vanished.”
After looking carefully around the restaurant, Dino summoned a waiter. “Go look in the other dining room and see if there’s anybody in there.” Elaine used the other room for parties.
“There’s nobody,” the waiter said. “The lights aren’t even on.”
“Go look anyway,” Dino said, “and look good.”
The waiter went, looked and returned. “Nobody in there,” he said.
“Thanks,” Dino said.
“Don’t get all squirrely on me, Dino,” Stone said, but he was happy when the second drink arrived.
“I suppose Eduardo’s got the troops out looking for her,” Dino said. He had once been married to Eduardo’s other daughter, Anna Maria, who, in rebellion, called herself Mary Ann. He knew the family well.
“Does he still have troops?” Stone asked.
“Eduardo knows people who know people who have troops. The last thing he wants is for Dolce to do something that gets noticed by the media.”
“Like Mario?”
“Mario was smart enough to call somebody. He’d have died on the street before he’d have gone to an ER. You, on the other hand, would be calling 911 before you hit the pavement.”
“You bet your ass I would,” Stone said, sipping his new drink. “The really weird thing is, Eduardo told me that his butler-what’s that guy’s name?”
“Pietro,” Dino said. “That guy really gave me the willies.”
“Pietro taught Dolce to use a knife when she was a teenager. Eduardo implied that she was good enough to disable Mario without killing him.”
“Now that is very good indeed,” Dino said. “Somehow I don’t think she’ll have as much consideration for you, unless it’s to let you die more slowly. She would want to watch.”
“We’d better order dinner before I order another drink,” Stone said.
“I think you’d better keep your wits about you,” Dino said. “Where’s Felicity?”
“She called and said she was hung up in a meeting; she’ll join us here.” A waiter brought menus.
Felicity came in and sat down before they could order. She gave them both a kiss on the cheek. “Order for me, will you, Stone?”
