Shakeup

30

Stone was in bed with a book when Holly called. “We scrambled?” she asked.

“We are,” Stone replied. “How was your day?”

“No worse than it should have been. This early in a new administration, everybody works hard to get it right, to prove their competence and my good judgment in hiring them.”

“That’s an astute observation.”

“Thank you, I needed that. When you’re at the top, everybody wants to praise your efforts, whether you deserve it or not.”

“Another astute observation. They’re piling up. You should keep a diary, and you can publish it when you’re done.”

“Can you suggest a title?”

“How about Astute Observations?”

She laughed. “Too self-congratulatory.”

“Well, somebody’s got to congratulate you.”

“You’re doing just fine,” she said. “What, if anything, happened to you today?”

“Well, the suspect list for the death of Art Jacoby’s girlfriend has grown to three.”

“And who are they?”

“Donald Clark, Debby Myers, and a cop named Dean Casey, all suspected of being in cahoots.”

“Who’s Casey?”

“The case officer, oddly enough. And, rumor has it, he’s Little Debby’s favorite toady. She put him in charge of the investigation.”

“Well, that’s very cozy, isn’t it?”

“Any suggestions on how to proceed?”

“Is the girlfriend a federal employee?”

“I don’t know what she does — ah, did.”

“If she was, then killing her is a federal crime, and I can sic the FBI on them.”

“I’ll find out. Can you hang on a moment?”

“You’re putting your president on hold? That isn’t done.”

“Only for a moment.” He called Art Jacoby.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone. What kind of work did your girlfriend do?”

“She was a secretary at Justice.”

“Thanks.” Stone switched back to Holly

“You there?”

“Just barely. In all my time in this office, I’ve never been treated that way.”

“Awwww. Good news, though. Art’s girlfriend was a secretary at the DOJ.”

“I’ll goose the Bureau, then.”

“Can you have the goose get in touch with me? I’ll bring him up to date, off the record.”

“I suppose I can suggest that.” She sighed. “I miss you.”

“You mean, you miss the sex?”

“That, too.”

“As long as you don’t miss only the sex.”

Holly sang a few bars of “All of You.”

“That’s sweet!”

“You say that as though you’re surprised I can be sweet.”

“I’ve never doubted it.”

“But you think of me, more, as tart.”

“No, I don’t think of you as a tart, except in bed.”

“A lady in the parlor and a tart in the bedroom, huh?”

“Not the reference I would choose, but not inapt.”

“Good,” she said. “Now I have to go goose the Bureau. Expect a call.”

Stone hung up and tried to settle back into his book, but thoughts of Holly kept intruding. His phone rang.

“May I speak to Stone Barrington, please?” A woman’s voice, a very pleasant one.

“This is he.”

“This is Maren Gustav; I’m a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Stone hadn’t expected a woman; he hoped that didn’t make him a misogynist. Probably not, he decided. “Good evening.”

“You didn’t expect a woman, did you?”

“I had no expectations of any kind.”

“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, who lives in a large house in Washington.”

“I believe we must.”

“May I take you to lunch tomorrow,” she asked, “so we can discuss the matter?”

“That sounds good, but I’m in New York,” Stone replied.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Then when and where shall we meet?”

“At the Grill, at twelve-thirty?”

“Very good. How will I recognize you?”

“You can’t miss me. I’ll be wearing a badge, a helmet, and SWAT body armor.”

“I’m sure the other patrons will find that entertaining.”

“I’ll know you from the waltzing photos in People.”

“Oh, no.”

“Until then.” She hung up. Stone knew from past experience that it was unwise to form mental pictures of a woman, based only on her voice, but his bet was that she was not short, fat, and unattractive.