Criminal Mischief

9

Stone lay back with Kitty’s head resting on his chest. “It’s Saturday,” he said. “You don’t have to go to work, do you?”

“Being a divorcée doesn’t make a lot of demands on my time. Would you go shopping with me today?”

“I’d be delighted. What will you be shopping for?”

“A Bentley,” she said.

“I expect you’ll want to go home and change.”

“Not really,” she said, picking up her handbag, reaching inside and coming out with a silk dress. “I’ll borrow a shower, though.”

“Right through there,” Stone said, pointing. “Let me know if you need anything.” He got up and headed for his own shower. He shaved, dried his hair, and put on khaki trousers, loafers, and a checked shirt, then got into a blue blazer. He emerged as Kitty did. She looked fresh and new, and he liked the dress.

Fred had the car out front, and Stone installed Kitty in the rear seat next to him. As he got into the car he saw a black Mercedes parked half a block down the street with the motor running. It didn’t mean anything, he thought, but it was noticeable, for reasons he couldn’t entirely fathom.

They were driven over to Eleventh Avenue, where the car dealerships had collected, and to the Bentley showroom. “I like that one,” Kitty said as they entered. The car was parked in the center of the showroom.

“It’s a Flying Spur, like mine.”

Kitty walked slowly around the car and paused at the window sticker.

A salesman materialized at her elbow. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“You may sell me this car, if we can agree on a price.”

“Will you require bank financing, ma’am?”

“I’ll write you a check.”

“One moment, please.” The man went to a phone and spoke briefly. He jotted something on a piece of paper, hung up, and handed it to her. “That includes a generous discount, and all taxes and other charges.”

“Done,” she said. She walked over to his desk, sat down, produced an alligator-bound checkbook from her purse, wrote a check, and signed it. “There you are,” she said. “I’ll have to move some money on Monday morning, but you can cash it by noon, I expect.”

Stone knew the salesman and saw him hesitate. “I’ll vouch for Ms. Crosse,” he said.

“I can have it cleaned and ready to go in an hour,” he said to Kitty.

She handed him a card. “Just drop it off at my building and leave the keys with the doorman,” she said. “Nice doing business with you.”

“A pleasure, ma’am. Mr. Barrington, thank you for the referral.”

Stone walked her back to his car, where Fred stood, braced, with the door open. “That was quickly done,” he said to Kitty.

“If you want something,” she said, “why fuck around?”

Stone hoped her check would clear. As they pulled into traffic, Stone looked at the front rearview mirror and saw a black Mercedes pull in behind them, a few car lengths back.

“Does your ex-husband drive a black Mercedes?” he asked.

She looked at him askance. “How would you know that?”

“Because there’s a black Mercedes following us a ways back. It was waiting outside my house when we left.”

“How many people in it?” she asked without looking back.

“Two,” Stone replied.

“He’s been abroad,” she said. “I guess he’s back.”

“How concerned should I be about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“When people follow other people around, they usually have some sort of intent. Does he go around armed?”

“He has a license to do so, but I’ve no way of knowing if he is at the moment.”

“Did he have the habit of carrying?”

“Now and then. He would never tell me why.”

“What’s his name?”

“Harry Hillman,” she replied. “He’s British.”

“Is he an American citizen?”

“No, he’s far too snobbish about being an Englishman.”

“Would you like to have him thrown out of the country?”

“He’s been pretty decent about the divorce, so I don’t think so. If he gets to be a nuisance, I may ask your help in that regard. Can you really do that?”

“I might be able to assist him on his way. I just don’t want him to shoot me between now and then. Has he ever shot anyone?”

“He used to brag about having shot a man when he was in the army, but I never knew whether to believe him.”

“Whose army?”

“The queen’s.”

“Did he brag about other things you doubted?”

“He certainly had a tendency to brag, but never to the extent that I doubted him. It was always something schoolboyish like a fistfight. He would brag that he had knocked a man out with a single punch, that sort of thing.”

“I must remember not to let him land a punch,” Stone said. “What size is he?”

She looked at him. “Size? Really?”

“Oh, please. Height and weight will do.”

“Sorry. Six feet four, two-twenty, or thereabouts.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Stone muttered. “Where will you park the car?” he asked, seeking to change the subject.

“There’s a garage in the building, and I own two spots. The doorman will know.” She got out her cell phone. “I’ll give him a heads-up.” She did so.

“How did you come to marry an Englishman?” Stone asked.

“Well, I was in England,” she replied, “and it just sort of happened. He can be quite charming if he feels like it.”

Stone kept checking the rearview mirror. They might have been towing the black Mercedes, he thought. “Where to now?”

“You can let me off at Bloomingdale’s. I can find my way home from there.”

“You don’t want company?” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Still there?”

“Still there,” he replied.

“I’ll manage,” she said.

“Ask your doorman to recommend a driver for your new car.”

“Good idea.”

He dropped her at Bloomingdale’s and, as he drove away, got a pretty good look at the large man in the passenger seat. It would be harder for the man to sneak up on him now.