Shakeup

4

They landed at Teterboro, and Dino’s official car dropped Stone off at home. As Stone was about to insert his key in the front-door lock, the door opened, and a man who looked familiar stood there, his right hand behind him.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Barrington. I’m Agent Jeffs.”

“Hello, Agent Jeffs,” Stone said. Jeffs holstered his weapon and shook Stone’s hand. “I’m alone, so you can stand down.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Washington has listed your residence and the Carlyle Hotel as places frequently visited by the president, so we’ll have one person on duty here at all times. Otherwise, whenever the president visits you here, we would have to perform a full-site security inspection, which might take a full day and would certainly be inconvenient for you.”

It was damned inconvenient, Stone thought. “Glad to have you aboard, Jeffs.”

“My first name is Jefferson,” the man said. “I’d be pleased if you’d call me Jeff.”

Stone blinked. “Of course,” he managed to say.

Fred, Stone’s factotum, got the luggage inside. Then Stone changed out of his suit and went down to his office, where he was greeted by his secretary, Joan Robertson.

“Oh!” she enthused. “You waltz so divinely!”

“If you keep that up,” Stone said, “I’m going to have to shoot you.” He went to his desk and started to go through the stack of mail and messages. “I assume you’ve made the acquaintance of Agent Jefferson Jeffs,” he said. “But you can call him Jeff.”

The phone on his desk rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington practice at Woodman & Weld,” she said, then handed the phone to Stone. “Dino for you.”

Stone took the phone. “Didn’t I just see you somewhere?”

“Yes, but I have news unavailable until now.”

“Shoot.”

“Deborah Myers called. Her department is trying to clear Donald Clark of anything to do with his wife’s killing.”

“Well, there goes the easy suspect. Who do they like for it now? Me again?”

“Her lover, possibly one of several.”

“How did he get into our suite?”

“There are ways to deal with electronic locks, and he apparently used one of them.”

“Who is he?”

“Unknown at this time. They got a phone tip from somebody, a woman, saying that Pat was screwing around and deserved what she got.”

“Call me when they make an arrest,” Stone said.

“Dinner tonight?”

“Give me a rain check. I still haven’t recovered from all the waltzing.”

“I thought you had more stamina.”

“Not for waltzing. That really takes it out of you.”

“Bye.” He hung up.

“Poor baby,” Joan said. “All tuckered out?”

“Completely tucked.”

“I’ll leave you to your nap, then.”

“Will you ask Helene to send me a ham sandwich and a beer upstairs? I’ll nap better if I’m fed.”

At the word fed Bob, Stone’s yellow Labrador Retriever strolled into the room, his tail clearly saying, I’ll have something, too.

“I’ll take care of it,” Joan said.

Stone scratched Bob behind the ears, then down his spine, his dog’s favorite thing. The tail told him Bob was glad to see him.

Stone woke at half past six, and his first impulse was to head up to Elaine’s, his favorite joint since he was on foot patrol in Germantown. Then he remembered that Elaine had died a few years back, and her restaurant had soon followed. He picked up the phone, glanced at his watch, and called Dino.

“What?” Dino said.

“I changed my mind. P.J. Clarke’s, half an hour?”

“Done.” Dino hung up.

Half an hour later, Stone strolled into Clarke’s. Dino was already drinking Scotch. The bartender saw him coming and put a glass of ice on the bar, then filled it with Knob Creek bourbon. Stone nodded his thanks.

“So,” Dino said, “what happened to your waltzing fatigue?”

“A nap cured it. Where’s Viv?”

“On her way to Hong Kong. Business, as usual.”

The headwaiter signaled from the door to the back room that he had found them a table, and they elbowed their way through the crowd at the bar and were seated.

“I got a call from a guy at DCPD that somebody saw Pat Clark with a man at the Hay-Adams.”

“Did they get an ID?”

“No, just a description.”

“Tell me.”

“Tall — six-three — on the slim side, dark hair, big hands.” He nodded toward the door where a tall, slim man with dark hair and big hands stood, staring at them. He started walking toward their table.

“Did you conjure him up?” Stone asked.

The man stopped, dug out a wallet, and flashed a badge. “Evening,” he said. “Art Jacoby, DCPD.”