Shakeup

31

The following morning Stone had the thought of inviting Dino to join them at lunch but decided against it, until he had made his own assessment of Maren Gustav. He idled through the morning, then walked up to the Seagram Building and into the Grill’s street-level entrance. He walked up the stairs into the bar, and the maître d’ approached. “Ms. Gustav is waiting for you on the back row,” he said, nodding toward the rows of table.

Her face was hidden behind a menu as he approached. “Ms. Gustav?” he said, and the menu went to half-staff, revealing a Swedish blonde who, sitting down, appeared to be quite tall.

“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, shaking hands. It was a hand with long fingers.

Stone sat down. “Please call me Stone,” he said.

“And I’m Maren.”

“As Swedish names go, isn’t there usually a ‘son’ on the end of a Gustav?”

“There was, but I found it inconveniently long, and I got tired of spelling it for people.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“Let’s order, then we can talk.”

The waiter poured him a glass of champagne, and he ordered the Dover sole.

“Make that two,” she said to the waiter, “and we’ll stick with the champagne.” She handed her menu back and turned toward Stone. “Now, please tell me everything you know about the Deana Carlyle case.”

“Actually, Ms. Carlyle’s corpse is the second in line, after Patricia Clark’s.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve read that file, too.”

“I believe the two murders are part of the same case,” Stone said. He picked his way through the story, trying not to leave anything out. By the time he had finished, a Dover sole was staring back at him from his plate.

“Let’s eat, then we’ll talk more about the case,” Maren said. They did so, and she pressed him for his personal history. He gave her the two-minute bio, instead of the sixty-second summary.

“Now, you,” he said.

“I was born in a lovely house in the Stockholm archipelago of Sweden.”

“Did the Bureau give you a hard time about not being a born citizen?”

“No, the house belonged to my grandparents. My parents had emigrated to the States years before, but my grandmother felt her grandchild should be born in her house, and not in a New York railroad apartment, which was where my parents lived at the time. They registered my birth at the American embassy, so there would be no nationality problems. I grew up on the Upper West Side, went to Columbia for my BA and my JD, and was recruited by the Bureau out of law school. That was more years ago than I am willing to admit. You look as though you’re thinking about something else.”

“I’m sorry. There are one or two things that may not be in the two case files you read,” Stone said.

“Now, that’s the sort of stuff I like to hear.”

“Right. Here goes: Donald Clark has had threesomes with Deana Carlyle and Deborah Myers.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “This case is going to be more fun than I thought.”

“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” Stone replied.

“Then do go on.”

“Also Deana’s boyfriend, Art Jacoby, a homicide lieutenant with the DCPD, was the unwarranted first suspect in the case. That position, as you can see, is now up for grabs.”

“Heavens to Betsy,” she said, fanning herself with her hands.

“And,” Stone continued, “Dean Casey, who is now supervising, is said to be Debby Myers’s favorite toady. Art Jacoby feels that that makes Little Debby, as many like to call her, a suspect.”

“Where is Agatha Christie when we need her?” Maren asked.

“You,” Stone said, “are now the Agatha Christie in this case, and good luck to you.”

They walked out of the building together, where a black SUV awaited her.

“May I give you a lift?” Maren asked.

“Tell me, how does a special agent rate a car and driver?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I told you: I’m the deputy director for criminal investigations.”

“It’s not all that far,” Stone said, “but you can drop me.” He gave her his address.

“Tell me again,” she said as they drove away, “how did you become involved in this case?”

“It was easy,” Stone said. “I returned to my suite at the Hay-Adams after the inaugural address, and the body of Patricia Clark was waiting for me on the living room floor.”

“So, you were suspect number one, then?”

“For only a few minutes. The police commissioner of New York and his wife were a few steps behind me. And when Deb Myers turned up, they were able to assure her that I had been with them at the time of the death — and also with our new president. We dropped her at the White House after the ceremony, then changed cars for the trip to the hotel.”

“How did you come to know the New York police commissioner?”

“During my service with the NYPD, which I told you about, he and I were partners, working homicide.”

“Well,” Maren said, “that’s the most ironclad alibi I’ve ever come across.”

They pulled up at Stone’s house.

“Very nice,” she said, checking it out through the tinted window.

“May I offer you coffee?” he asked.

“You may. Then I can satisfy my curiosity.”

Curiosity about what? he wondered. “Your driver can park the car off the street,” he said, using his remote control to open the garage door.

“Pull in there, Terry,” she said, and the driver did.

Stone took her inside and pointed down the hallway. “My home office is down there.” Then he took her upstairs.

“I love this,” she said, admiring the living room.

“And this is my study,” Stone said, showing her in and settling her on the sofa facing the fireplace. He picked up a phone. “May I have coffee for two, please?” He hung up. “Would you like an after-lunch drink?” he asked.

“Just some club soda with ice,” she replied. He poured it and sat down.

“Tell me about the rest of the house,” she said.

“Well, as I said, my office is downstairs, my secretary’s, too. Down there is a small gym and the kitchen, which faces the common garden around which all the houses in Turtle Bay are built. Upstairs, there are two floors of guest rooms and one more floor up is the master suite. I also own the house next door, where my staff live, and the two houses together give me a large garage, which you have just seen.”

Fred came in with the coffee and Stone introduced the two. “Would your driver like some coffee, Maren? Or you can send him home, and Fred will deliver you to your hotel whenever you like.”

“Fred,” she said, “would you please tell my driver that he’s finished for the day and can leave?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fred said, and left.

“Now I’ll have that after-lunch drink: Grand Marnier, if you have it.”

“I have it in abundance,” Stone said, then poured them each one. “May I ask you the question you are most often asked?”

“Six feet, in my stocking feet,” she replied. “It helps when the need arises to intimidate a special agent.”

“I can imagine,” Stone said. “What else may I do for you?”

She gave him a warm smile. “I’ll give you a hint,” she replied. “It’s most easily accomplished from a kneeling position.”

“Are you sure that’s what you’d like?”

“Very much,” she replied.

Stone got up and closed the door.