A Delicate Touch

by Stuart Woods

  “The builder says he’ll have the staircase in and sealed off in another week, so why bother. Anyway, Viv likes to come home, not to a hotel suite. And she deserves to experience what I’m experiencing, doesn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Also, the apartment is full of boxes—stuff she bought at the Armory Antiques Show. God knows what’s in them.”

  “The only good thing about this, Dino, is that you can afford it all. That, and the fact that someday, it will all be over, and you’ll have a bigger home with more stuff in it.”

  “We bought a Steinway grand piano, too, at their factory sale. When they’ve finished reconditioning it, you’ll have to come and play for us.”

  “Doesn’t Viv play?”

  “Sort of. I think she mostly wants it for parties.”

  “Parties? You give about one a year, don’t you? Maybe two?”

  “I have a feeling we’ll be giving more parties from now on.”

  “How are you going to explain all this newfound wealth to the department?”

  “Well, I already spilled my guts to the mayor. He’ll see that the news filters down into the right places. I’ll have a word with my chiefs, too.”

  “I’m happy to confirm your lawful good luck to anybody who needs knowing,” Stone said.

  “Thanks, I may need that.”

  “You know, I think our meeting with Jack Thomas could take the pressure off me.”

  “How so?” Dino asked.

  “Well, the search for the yacht was covert. If they’d found it, they might have been able to sink it with all of us aboard, without the incident coming back to bite them on the ass. Now, though, the Thomases have a reason for animosity toward me, which adds up to a motive if anything happens to me.”

  “Well, then,” Dino said, “we’d better devote some brain cells to their next move. I don’t think they’ll stop, do you?”

  “Not for a minute,” Stone said.

  23

  Since Dino’s home was mostly uninhabitable, he went home with Stone for a nightcap. Stone lit the fire in the study and poured them each a cognac.

  “You know,” Dino said, swirling his brandy and inhaling the aroma. “If the full story about the Thomases and the other eleven families became public knowledge, they would have no further reason to come after you. I know an ace investigative reporter at the Times who would be thrilled to have a look at the files and who would know exactly what to do with them.”

  “Dino, if I exposed the Thomases and their allies, they’d have a whole new motive to off me: revenge. And that’s what people like them do best, isn’t it?”

  “You have a point.”

  “Now, if somebody at the D.A.’s office leaked everything to your contact at the Times and kept my name out of it, that would be a different ball game.”

  Dino took a noisy sip of his brandy. “Do you have anybody in mind for the leaker?”

  “How about Ken Burrows?” Stone asked.

  “No, Ken would never do that. It would have to be one of his people.”

  “I don’t know any of his people,” Stone replied, “and even if I did, what would that person get out of leaking the story?”

  “You have another point,” Dino said. “It would have to be Ken himself. And once the story is out, they won’t have the guts to kill a D.A.”

  “You have to consider the danger to your guy at the Times, too. He wouldn’t be too big to go after.”

  “It’s not a he, it’s a she.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jamie Cox.”

  “She was one of those reporters who shared the Pulitzer for going after that movie producer, the sex maniac, wasn’t she?”

  “She was.”

  “No doubt she’s looking for a brand-new subject to investigate.”

  “Absolutely,” Dino said. “She called me yesterday and asked me if I had any ideas.”

  “So, if she wrote about the files, we could blame you.”

  “Don’t go there, pal. I’m not going to be anybody’s source.”

  “Is there still anybody watching my house?” Stone asked.

  “Ask Joan. She’s on station.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that I might invite Ms. Cox over for a chat.”

  Dino shook his head. “I don’t think you can take it for granted that they’re not watching you just because there’s no suspicious car on the block. If you have any notion of pursuing this, you’re going to have to do it with such secrecy that nobody will ever get a whiff of what you’re doing. You can’t invite Jamie over for a chat, and you can’t meet her anywhere in public. You’re going to have to pretend you’re Lance Cabot.” Lance Cabot was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and an acquaintance of both Stone and Dino.

  “So where could I meet her and show her the files? I’m not going to leave this house with a heavy package under my arm,” Stone said.

  “No,” Dino agreed. “You probably wouldn’t make it to the next corner.”

  “How about this?” Stone said. “She enters the common Turtle Bay garden from Second Avenue, a block up from my street. There’s a wrought-iron gate there, where she could be let in. Then she walks up the garden, not to my house, but to the house next door—where my staff live—and enters from the rear. Then it’s a simple matter for her to walk through the passage to my house.”

  “How’s she going to get through the gate from the street?”

  Stone walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and came back with a key and a tag. On the tag he wrote Wine Cellar, then he attached it and handed it to Dino. “Give her this,” he said.

  Dino looked at the key and the tag and smiled. “So you really want to do this?”

  “I want to talk to her,” Stone said. “Then I’ll decide.”

  “I’ll give her a call,” Dino said.

  “No. No telephone calls. You’re going to have to pretend you’re Lance Cabot, too.”

  Dino laughed. “If we don’t meet, how am I going to get the key to her?”

  “Up to you, Lance.” Stone wrote down the number of the cell phone that Joan had bought for him for his cruise. It remained unused. “Find a way to meet with her and tell her just enough to get her interested, then tell her to call me at this number, but not from her office, home, or cell number. She can buy a throwaway.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Dino replied.

  “Be subtle,” Stone said.

  “I will be the soul of subtlety.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING at his office, Dino buzzed for his assistant, an attractive female sergeant, Delta Hill.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “I need a throwaway cell phone, unused,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Ninety seconds later she walked into his office and handed him a cell phone and charger. “The number’s on a label on the back.”

  “Where the hell did you get this?” Dino said.

  “We bought a dozen for an operation. This one didn’t get used.”

  “Do you have any more?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bring me another one.”

  The sergeant went away and came back with an identical phone and charger. “They’re both fully charged,” she said.

  “Do you own any civilian clothes?” he asked.

  “Of course, I do,” she said. “Do you think I walk around seven days a week in a police uniform? I’d never get laid.”

  Dino laughed. “Okay,” he said, handing her one of the cell phones. “I want you to put this into an envelope, then get into some civvies and go uptown to the New York Times building, call Jamie Cox down to the lobby and hand her the phone, along with a slip of p
aper with this other throwaway number, and a message from me. She’s not to mention this to anybody.”

  “Gotcha,” Delta replied.

  * * *

  • • •

  DELTA DID as she was instructed and took the subway uptown. She walked into the Times building, then used the throwaway and called the editorial department.

  “May I speak to Jamie Cox, please,” she said to the woman who answered.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “That’s confidential,” Delta replied, “but you can tell her it’s official police business.”

  “One moment,” the woman said, then put her on hold.

  “This is Jamie,” she said. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I’m just a messenger,” Delta replied. “I’m downstairs in the lobby, and I don’t want to come upstairs, but I have a package for you from an important person, and I’d like you to come downstairs and get it.”

  “Will it explode?”

  “No.”

  “What do you look like?”

  “I’ll spot you,” Delta said, then hung up and sealed the throwaway in an envelope.

  24

  Jamie Cox went back to her cubicle and opened the envelope. Inside were a cell phone, a key labeled Wine Cellar, and a handwritten note:

  Meet me on the corner of 8th Avenue and 44th Street at two pm; I’ll be in a black SUV with darkened glass. Very big story. You’ll be out most of the afternoon.

  She looked at her watch: ten to two. She sighed, stuffed the envelope into her purse, grabbed a jacket, and told her secretary to cancel an appointment she had made and not to expect her back today. She had no idea who this was: she was running on gut.

  * * *

  • • •

  DINO SAW HER waiting from half a block away. As the SUV approached, he opened the back door. “Hop in,” he said.

  Jamie got into the vehicle and closed the door. “What the fuck, Dino? Are we spies now?”

  “I am, and you’re about to be if you like the story.”

  “What story?”

  “All will be revealed soon, at our next stop. Harry, next stop, please.” The car drove away.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “How big?”

  “As big as the sex maniac story,” Dino said. “If you write it right.”

  “I always write it right,” she replied.

  They made their way across town to Second Avenue in the forties, and the car stopped.

  Dino pointed. “You see that doorway over there?”

  “Yeah. There’s probably a drunk asleep in it.”

  “No, there’s a wrought-iron gate, leading to gardens on the other side. The wine cellar key will open it.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ll walk over to the downtown side of the garden and a little more than halfway to the other end. There will be a patio there with a geranium in a pot sitting on a teak table. Knock on the back door, and you will be admitted for a meeting.”

  “Who am I meeting?”

  “All will be revealed. Have a good time. And by the way, we never met or spoke, clear?”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” she said and got out of the car.

  * * *

  • • •

  JAMIE FISHED THE KEY out of her bag and walked through the doorway to the iron gate, then let herself in.

  The gardens were lovely, she thought. What a nice place to live. She walked to the downtown side, then toward the Third Avenue end and saw the geranium. She went to the back door and tapped on the glass with her ring.

  A woman in her fifties with gray hair answered. “Please follow me,” she said, and Jamie did. She was led through a kitchen, then through another door into a garage. There were three cars parked there: a Mercedes station wagon, a Bentley Flying Spur, and something with a racy profile under a cover. They went on, apparently into the house next door.

  * * *

  • • •

  STONE WAS SITTING on the leather sofa in his office, doing the Times crossword puzzle, when the woman entered, and the door closed behind her. She was fortyish, tall—five nine or ten—and slender, with ample breasts and long, tousled chestnut hair. He stood. “Good afternoon, Ms. Cox,” he said, extending a hand. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

  She took his hand. “Call me Jamie,” she said. “Half the world does.”

  “And I’m Stone.” He waved her to a chair. “I was about to have some tea. Would you like some?”

  “I’d prefer a double espresso, if it’s available.”

  “It’s available.” He picked up a phone and said, “Tea for me, please, and a double espresso for my guest.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry for the cloak-and-dagger arrangements.”

  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t have gotten into the car, if I hadn’t known the occupant.”

  “That’s wise. I admired your work on the sex maniac piece,” he said.

  “My work was indistinguishable from everyone else’s who worked on it,” she replied.

  “Then my congratulations to you all.”

  Their refreshments arrived, via Helene, who had brought Jamie in, and she had put a fat cookie on each saucer. She set them down and departed.

  “Now,” Stone said, “to business.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said. “I have an appointment.”

  Hedging her bets, Stone thought. “You’re probably going to want to cancel it,” he said. “But before you do, you must understand and accept the necessity of complete secrecy, and agree not to discuss this with any other person, including your colleagues and editors, without my prior agreement.”

  “Give me a hint first.”

  “Should you speak with anyone else about this, without permission, both my safety and yours would be in jeopardy.”

  “Go on.”

  “Not until I have your agreement on secrecy. At some point, you may stop me and leave the way you came, but your promise of secrecy remains in force.”

  “All right, enlighten me.”

  “I am an attorney . . .”

  “I know that. I’ve seen your photograph on that Times page about social events that should be called ‘Parties You Weren’t Invited To.’”

  Stone laughed. “You should suggest that to your editor.”

  “I have. It didn’t work.”

  “As an attorney,” he continued, “I am the executor of the estate of a very prominent businessman.”

  “Name?”

  “Not yet. He was well-known in the business and arts communities, having sat on a number of boards in each world. For decades there were rumors that, in his youth, he had rubbed elbows with another community of gentlemen who were engaged in activities more nefarious.”

  “You’re talking about Eduardo Bianchi,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Stone didn’t respond to her guess. “Sometime after his death, a large, concealed safe was discovered in his house.” He stood up and beckoned. “Come with me.” He led her into the storeroom next door and pointed. “This is the safe. No one could open it. But finally, a very old gentleman of German origin was found who had helped the builder construct the safe, and he was able to open it.”

  “What was inside?” Jamie asked.

  He went back to his office, and she followed. “We’re at the point where you have to make a decision,” he said.

  “But I don’t know anything,” she replied.

  “And, thus, you are not exposed to any danger. You can leave, and we’ll forget about it, as long as you don’t tell anyone about our conversation or the existence of the safe.”

  “You said I could leave at any point.”

  “I said ‘some point.’ This is the point.”

  “How much of my time will this take?”

  “
All of your time—for weeks, perhaps months. And you may require the help of some of your colleagues.”

  “At the end of all that, what will I have?”

  “Another Pulitzer, perhaps sole ownership. At the very least, a bestselling book. And, unlike with the sex maniac story, you will be in charge.”

  “I can publish everything I learn?”

  “Everything you want to publish.”

  “May I identify you as a source?”

  “You may not, and you may not mention Dino Bacchetti in that regard, either.”

  “What’s your connection to Dino?”

  “I used to be a detective on the NYPD. Dino and I were partners for some years. It would be helpful in protecting both you and me, if you could legitimately hint in your story that one or more of your sources is in the district attorney’s office.”

  “I can’t lie about that to protect myself.”

  “Certainly not, but I suspect you are already acquainted with people in that office, and that you might persuade someone to talk to you about it.”

  “All right, I’m in,” she said, polishing off her espresso. “Let’s get started.”

  25

  They sat over their dinner dishes in Stone’s study. Fred came and cleared them away, and Stone poured brandy. It was nearly ten o’clock, and they had never stopped talking.

  “Whew!” she said and took a swig of the brandy. “Have I been here all my life?”

  “It may seem that way,” Stone said. “You’ve read the Tommassini file and had a good look at the others. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s potentially everything you said it was. I’m going to need a couple of people from the Times,” she said, “and I’m going to need to get my editor’s approval, so that I can have the time and resources to do the job.”

  “Then swear him to secrecy.”

  “I’ll try. He may decline to assign me under those circumstances.”

  “I’m sure you’re more persuasive than that,” Stone said. “Tell him the Washington Post would probably like to one-up the Times on this story.”