Desperate Measures

14

The doctor arrived and was shown his patient. “This is Dr. Kevin O’Connor,” Stone said. “Kevin, Ms. Scott.” The doctor dragged up a chair and examined her ankle, pressing here and there, while she winced.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he said, “but we’ll get a picture.” He set up a contraption on the footstool and looked at the resulting X-ray on his laptop. “It’s not broken,” he said, “just badly sprained, and not for the first time. There’s quite a lot of scarring.”

“I’ve been spraining it since I was twelve,” Cilla replied. “On horseback, on tennis courts, on boats, and on golf courses.”

“You’re going to have to stay off of it for a few days,” he said, “and I mean off. Some of my patients believe that means on tippy-toe. It doesn’t. If I apply a trusty elastic bandage, will you promise me to stay off it for four days?”

“Four days?”

“If you won’t promise, I’ll put a cast on it.”

She sighed. “Oh, all right, I promise.”

He taped the ankle, then gave her some folding crutches and two pill bottles. “One is a nonsteroid anti-inflammatory, the other is a painkiller, one that you can’t combine with alcohol, unless you want to fall asleep and not wake up.”

“You keep the painkillers,” she said, “and I’ll continue with my medication of choice.”

The doctor packed up and Stone walked him to the door. “Send me the bill,” he said.

“What’s your connection with this ankle?” Dr. Kevin asked.

“It fell into my lap.” Stone closed the door and made Cilla another drink. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like a person who’s had a couple of drinks,” she replied. “I don’t know how the ankle feels. It’s not speaking to me.”

“Just as well. I’d invite you out for dinner, but you aren’t going anywhere tonight.”

“Then I’ll invite you to stay here for dinner,” she said. “This hotel still follows the quaint practice of serving food in its suites.”

“I accept,” he said.

“Back to your interrogation,” she said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer with a firm called Woodman & Weld.”

“What is your specialty?”

“Practicing as little law as possible.”

“Admirable. Where do you live?”

“I have a house in Turtle Bay.”

“I know it well. I had an aunt who lived there until her death a few years ago. As a little girl I used to play in the gardens.”

“It’s hard to believe you were ever a little girl,” he said.

“I still am.”

“My turn: Where do you live?”

“In Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house I shared until recently with a husband.”

“What brings you to New York?”

“I came to look for an apartment and to consult with my late father’s investment advisors. He died last month, and I’m trying to get a grip on his estate.”

“Do you have a Realtor?”

“No, I was going to ask you to recommend one.”

Stone looked through his wallet until he found a card. “Margot Goodale,” he said. “She’s excellent.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking the card into her bra. “Can you recommend a good divorce attorney?”

“I can,” he said, taking a business card from the wallet and writing a name on it. “Herbert Fisher. Is your divorce likely to be contentious?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Is this your first?”

“Yes. I want to present the man with enough legal firepower to let him know I won’t be a pushover.”

“Herb is your man. He’s our firm’s lead attorney in that field. Your husband’s attorney will know who he is and treat you respectfully.”

She bra-ed the card with the other one. “Shall we look at a menu?”

Stone went to the desk and found one. “The dover sole looks good,” he said.

“Same here, and the lobster bisque to start and some wine.”

Stone made the call and ordered for them, then walked back and sat down. “Do you work?”

“Look at my manicure,” she said, displaying her nails. “Does it look like I work?”

Stone laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of something in the mines.”

“I run two houses and this apartment,” she said, “and supervise everything else except my husband’s shopping.”

“What is his name?”

“Donald Trask. I kept my maiden name, thank God. He operates a hedge fund that was built on referrals from my father and me.”

“When did he start the firm?”

“Right after we were married.”

“Good, then he won’t be able to exclude the business from marital property.”

“If I so much as whisper to a friend or two that I’m pulling my father’s investment, he won’t have a business by this time tomorrow.”

“That sounds vindictive.”

“It’s not. Pulling the investment is why I’m meeting with the advisors. It’s done less well than the market.”

“Don’t whisper to your friends,” Stone said. “You might give him grounds for a defamation suit. Who owns the real estate?”

“We both own the Greenwich house and this apartment,” she said, waving a hand. “The Maine house was my father’s.”

“So you’ll sell both and divide the proceeds?”

“I believe that’s how it goes. I’d keep this place, but you wouldn’t believe the monthly maintenance charges.”

“Are you angry with your husband?”

“No, just disgusted. He’s the angry one because I caught him screwing around, and he’s afraid I’ll tell our friends.”

“Once again, don’t talk to your friends, until it’s all over and the divorce is final.”

“Good advice. I don’t want to talk about it anyway.”

Dinner came, and they washed it down with a good bottle of chardonnay.

“I’m so glad I fell into your lap this afternoon,” she said. “If I hadn’t, I’d be languishing in some ER right now, waiting to be seen.” She yawned.

“I expect you could use some rest,” Stone said. “If you’d like to blindfold me I’ll undress you and put you to bed.”

“Thank you, but I remember how to undress. If you’ll help me into the bedroom, I’ll do the rest.”

He did so, kissed her good night, and left her to it.