Criminal Mischief

20

Stone’s doorbell rang at six-thirty. He pressed the intercom button. “Is that the FBI?”

“It is. Sorry I’m late.”

“Come straight ahead, I’ll meet you.” He pressed the button that opened the door and walked into the living room. He had just a moment to size her up, and the report was favorable. “I’m Stone Barrington.” He offered his hand.

She took it. “I’m Brio Ness. It’s a nice hand, but why doesn’t it have a drink in it?”

“I’ll lead you to the watering hole,” Stone said, walking her to the study.

“Nice living room,” she said, while passing through. “Nice study,” she said, when they had arrived.

“Thank you. We make a nice drink, too. What would you like?”

“A single malt Scotch on the rocks. It’s been that kind of day.”

“Laphroaig?”

“Whatever perfect is in Gaelic.”

He poured and handed her a thick Baccarat whiskey glass, then poured himself a Knob Creek and waved her to the sofa.

“Ahhhh,” she said, sinking in. “Your friend Zanian is getting me down.”

“We’re not friends. We’ve never met.”

“What shall I call him, your meal ticket?”

“I eat quite well without his help. Call him my quarry.”

“Done. God, this is wonderful Scotch.”

“I tend to agree, but I’m a drinker of bourbon, by habit.”

“I can’t stay for dinner,” she said.

“Of course, you can. I’ve already ordered, and it will be served shortly.”

“Well, since you put it that way.” She emptied her glass.

“There’s time for one more before dinner,” he said, repairing the damage.

“I just don’t want you to think that I’m that kind of girl,” she said.

“The kind who eats?”

“I don’t do that on a first date.”

“Eat? I recommend it three times daily.”

Fred appeared at the door with a dusty bottle of wine in his hand. Stone introduced him to Brio. “Will this do for dinner, sir?”

“What are we having?”

“Porterhouse steak.”

“That will do very nicely with beef. Please decant it, and a chardonnay with our first course.”

Fred disappeared.

“You have a butler?”

“We call him a factotum. He’s so much more than a butler: drives, decants, shoots bad people.”

“You get a lot of those in the house?”

“They turn up now and then. Fred was the national pistol champion of the Royal Navy, two years running. He was a Marine.”

“Pretty small for a Marine,” she said.

“He beats up larger opponents all the time.”

“I suppose that’s handy, if you’re in the wrong neighborhood.”

“It is. I don’t have the Federal Bureau of Investigation at my disposal. How did you make a career in the Bureau?”

“I figured out my last year in law school that I didn’t want to practice law, and it seemed an interesting refuge.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Nine years.”

“Are you satisfied with your career progress?”

“No, but they wouldn’t want me if I were. I’m doing okay.”

“Reporting directly to the director on the Zanian thing.”

“Once in a while something turns up that interests the higher-ups, but they don’t want to do the work, of course.”

“You do the work, and they take the credit, right?”

“Fairly right. I’ll get a notation in my record if I make them look good enough.”

“What, no decorations?”

“On rare occasions.”

Fred reappeared with the wines. “Dinner is served, sir.”

They started with a thick slice of smoked salmon, and a glass of a good Meursault. “The salmon is for the Scot in you,” Stone explained.

“And how did you come into all this?” she asked, waving a fork.

“I had the same feeling as you did about the practice of law,” Stone said. “So, I chose the NYPD and did fourteen years before they released me into the wild, working homicide the last few years.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe someone will murder Zanian, and you can put your old skills to work.”

“From what I’m hearing,” Stone said, “they’re waiting in line to do just that, once they’ve got their money back.”

“Not much chance of that, is there?”

“Is that what you’re telling the director?”

“No, but that’s what he believes. So, if I lay my hands on the guy, he’ll be thrilled, never mind the money.”

“The last big Ponzi guy was arrested in his office,” Stone said. “Zanian was better prepared, his Gulfstream at the ready.”

“My people are canvassing the Hawaiian airports,” she said.

The porterhouse arrived, beautifully sliced, with a baked potato and asparagus. Fred poured the red for tasting, and Stone approved, so Brio got some, too.

They had an apple tart for dessert, with a glass of port from a decanter, then they repaired to the sofa.

“Now,” Stone said, “we were discussing the kind of girl you’re not.”

“I’m reassessing my position on that,” she replied. “You’ve gone to such lengths. Perhaps another time, when Zanian has not tired me out so.”

“I understand,” Stone said.

“Also, I think that will have to wait until Mr. Zanian sees the inside of a federal detention center, and the money for that reward has been distributed. It wouldn’t look good for me to be associated with the collector of the money.”

“Good thinking.”

Fred drove her home in the Bentley.