Desperate Measures

35

As Stone was finishing up his day, Joan came in. “Mr. Mikeford Whitehorn’s assistant called and asked if you’d turn up at his dinner party tonight a few minutes early. I accepted for you.”

“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” he said, glancing at his watch. He could make it. “And please tell Fred we’re leaving early.”

She returned to her office, and Stone went upstairs to shower and dress. He found a tuxedo that had recently been pressed, buttoned on the suspenders, and got into it. He chose a black tie and neatly knotted it in one smooth motion, something he had once seen Cary Grant do in a movie. He had practiced for days until he got it right, and he regretted that there was no witness to compliment him. He slipped into the waistcoat and got his gold Patek Philippe pocket watch and chain from the safe, wound the watch, attached the bar to its little buttonhole, and slipped the watch into its right pocket. The counterweight, a small gold folding knife, went into the left. He put on the jacket and selected a white silk pocket square and tucked it into the breast pocket. He put his iPhone and pen into their proper pockets and examined the result: presentable. His dowager dinner partner would be knocked out.

Fred was waiting downstairs and drove him uptown to 740 Park. The elevator opened onto a private foyer, where the butler was waiting to show him into the library. There was a Knob Creek on the rocks waiting for him on a small table between two wing chairs facing the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze burned.

Mikeford “Swifty” Whitehorn appeared almost immediately, right after his own glass of scotch. “Good evening, Stone,” he said.

Stone stood and took his hand. “Good evening, Swifty,” he replied. They sat down, raised their glasses, and sipped.

“Thank you for coming early,” Whitehorn said. “I thought, perhaps, I’d give you the news, if you haven’t heard.”

“I haven’t seen or heard any news since the Times this morning,” Stone replied.

“Well, in tomorrow morning’s Times you will learn that the district attorney has given my grandson immunity in return for his testimony, and the DA has used that news to persuade the two perpetrators to accept life terms with the possibility of parole.”

“Which they are unlikely ever to receive, because of the number and savagery of their crimes,” Stone said.

“Your Herbert Fisher wrapped up the whole thing in an afternoon, apparently sealing the bargain in the assistant district attorney’s bed, if my driver’s judgment is any good. I loaned Mr. Faber my car for the day, and he passed it on to Mr. Fisher.”

“I’m delighted to hear it went well,” Stone said. “If you’re pleased with the outcome, perhaps you might sometime direct some business Herb’s way. He’s very versatile and can handle just about anything.”

“I have already done so,” Whitehorn replied.

“On Herb’s behalf and that of Woodman & Weld, I thank you.”

“And now I’d like to do something for you,” Whitehorn said.

“That’s not necessary,” Stone replied.

“Such things are always necessary,” Whitehorn replied, “or Earth would not turn on its axis. Your dinner partner this evening will be an old friend of mine, Edith Beresford. Edie is a widow and a divorcée, the two events occurring almost simultaneously — fortunately before her ex-husband had time to change his will. So, instead of getting half his estate, she got everything, there being no children to squander it all.”

“She’s to be complimented on her timing,” Stone said.

“Edie needs a bit of help in setting her affairs in order,” Whitehorn said. “She tends to be impulsive about such things and is sometimes inclined toward people whose motives are, shall we say, questionable.”

“I suppose that’s always a danger for wealthy widows,” Stone said.

“I ran a Dun & Bradstreet on you and poked around in other places, and I’m satisfied that you don’t need her money.”

Stone didn’t think thanks were in order for Swifty’s prying, so he said nothing.

“I hope that doesn’t offend you,” Whitehorn said after a pause, “and if it does, well, tough.”

Stone laughed into his bourbon. “I’m not offended, Swifty. You’re not the first to have a look under the stones of my life.” He was already wondering who he could palm off Edith Beresford on — not Herbie Fisher — perhaps Bill Eggers, who liked old ladies with piles of money for clients.

“There’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you, Stone,” Whitehorn said, staring into his scotch.

“Certainly,” Stone replied.

“It’s my grandson, Mike Adams, who this afternoon received his freedom.”

“How can I help?”

“I realize you haven’t met the boy, but I’ve always felt he had more to offer than we’ve seen from him. His father, Howard Adams, is not very well, and I fear we’ll lose him in a year or two. Then Mike will be awash in money, which may not be the best thing for him. Howard owns the commercial real estate company that owns the hotel where Mike was given the night clerk’s job. They’re going to close the hotel immediately; it was scheduled for a gutting and renovation anyway, but its new infamy would kill any existing business. They want to turn it into more of a businessman’s destination.”

“Do you think that Mike, if given major responsibility, might rise to it?”

“That is in line with my assessment of him. However, he has disappointed his father so often that I think he is unlikely to be given such responsibilities.”

“Do you have any influence with the boy’s father?”

“I daresay I do. I put him in business and invested heavily with him.”

“Has your investment paid off?”

“It certainly has, and beyond my expectations.”

“Then, perhaps, his father might be susceptible to a suggestion from you that he put Mike in charge of the revitalization of this hotel. The boy should know something about it, having worked there for a year or two.”

Whitehorn looked thoughtful. “And, if Mike looks like he is screwing it up, the brakes could be applied.”

“He could start by reconceptualizing the hotel, perhaps as something better than a businessman’s destination. There are a lot of hotels in the city that cater to a younger crowd, who seem to have a lot of money to spend, but they’re mostly downtown; none in that neighborhood.”

“By God, that’s a fine idea!” Swifty said. “I’ll have lunch with Howard tomorrow and put it to him.”

The butler entered the room. “Mr. Whitehorn, Mrs. Edith Beresford,” he said, “and there are others arriving, too.”

The butler was followed into the library by a tall, slim woman in her thirties, wearing a clinging sheath of a dress that featured a lot of gold thread and accented her full breasts.

“Edith,” Swifty said, “may I present Mr. Stone Barrington? Stone, this is Edith Beresford.”