Black Dog

Thirty

When Stone got to his office the following morning, Joan was waiting for him. “Wonderful party last night,” he said. “I never knew you were such a hostess.”

“Thank you. I’ve had too few opportunities to show it,” she replied. “My mother taught me well.”

“I’ll look forward to the next one. What’s on this morning?”

“Do you know a Judge Fitzroy Barron?” she asked.

“Everybody knows him,” Stone said, “though we’ve not met.”

“Yes, you have. You shook his hand at the party last night.”

“Oh God, and I didn’t even recognize him?”

“He recognized you. He’d like you to come to see him at ten o’clock this morning. At 740 Park Avenue.”

Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour. Tell Fred to saddle the Bentley, while I change into a better suit.”

Stone walked into the lobby of the fabled building, widely thought to be the finest residence in the city. He gave his name to the desk man and took the elevator upstairs. He was greeted by a butleresque figure in a black suit. “Mr. Barrington, please follow me.” The man led him through two other rooms into a library that would have been at home in the depths of Harvard. The judge rose to greet him from a wing chair before the fire. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.

“Judge Barron. I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend more time with you last evening.”

“That’s all right. You seemed to be every woman’s favorite dance partner, so how could I impose? Please have a seat. Coffee, or something stronger?”

“Strong coffee would suit me fine,” Stone said, taking a chair. The butler must have anticipated him, for he appeared at Stone’s elbow with a silver tray bearing a fine china cup of coffee. “Thank you, Judge.”

“I’d like it if you’d call me Fitz,” the elder man said. “There’s too much formality in my life.”

“Thank you, Fitz. And I’m Stone.”

“I’ve followed your career with interest since you joined Woodman & Weld,” he said.

Stone gulped.

“Oh, I know about all those cases nobody over there wants to talk about. We all handled a few of those in our extreme youth.”

Stone couldn’t imagine one of America’s most distinguished jurists handling those cases. Barron had retired from the Supreme Court at seventy-five, on principle, and he still seemed a vigorous man.

“Last night,” the judge said, “I couldn’t help noticing your handling of Edwin Charles Jr.”

“I’m sorry you noticed, sir,” Stone said. “It took me a couple of tries to get it right.”

“Well, you didn’t actually kill him,” Barron replied, “and I imagine that required great restraint.”

Stone chuckled. “Not that it didn’t cross my mind.”

“I sympathize. I’d like to shoot him between the eyes myself.”

“Your numbers are legion, Fitz,” he said, forcing himself to use that name.

“Is it true that you represent him?”

“It is not, sir. I am merely the appointed trustee of a trust set up for him by his stepmother, Annetta.”

“Ah, Annetta,” Barron said with a little smile. “We all remember her well.”

Stone was afraid he knew what that meant. “So I hear. She asked me to draw up her will and to be the executor of hers and her husband’s estates.”

“So, you exercise some authority over Junior?”

“Only the authority, I fear, to control his withdrawals from his trust.”

“Off the record, of course, do you think Junior murdered Annetta?”

Stone shrugged. “He had a motive, of course, or at least he thought he did.”

“Oh? Did he inherit?”

“No. Annetta surgically removed that possibility when she signed her last will. Of course, Junior didn’t know that at the time.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Barron said.

“I think it’s a distinct possibility. Though, like the police, I can’t prove it. Indeed, if it went to trial, I think a good lawyer might get him off, if he could impose a little courtroom decorum on his client.”

“If that trial ever happens, I’d like a seat in the courtroom,” Barron said. “Though not on the bench.”

Stone finished his coffee, and the cup was immediately replenished by the butler.

“I’d like to retain you,” Barron said.

Stone was surprised. “Oh?”

“I have a granddaughter who has been seeing rather too much of Junior.”

“Oh,” Stone replied. “My condolences.”

“I’d like you to make him go away.”

“Fitz,” Stone said regretfully. “If I knew how to do that, he would already be gone.”

“Quite,” the judge said. “Nevertheless...”

“I have a friend who has a solution for problems like Eddie Jr.,” Stone said.

“And what is his solution?”

“Shoot him in the head, and don’t get caught.”

The judge laughed aloud for a moment, then composed himself. “Nevertheless.”

“I’d be grateful if you would complete that thought,” Stone said, “because I can’t complete it for you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve imposed on your good nature, Stone — not to mention your ethical standards. I apologize.”

“No offense taken, Fitz.”

“I suggested a TRO to my granddaughter,” Barron said.

“And?”

“She won’t have it. She finds him too entertaining.”

“I think that, after more exposure to him, she will find him a little less entertaining.”

“I had thought that, too,” Barron said. “But it hasn’t worked out that way, and I’m afraid that waiting for it to work will require a great deal more patience than I possess.”

“Si non nunc, quando?” Stone said.

“ ‘If not now, when?’ An excellent personal motto.”

“Fitz, I’m still working on this problem, for my own mental health. If I find something that works, and won’t get either of us arrested, I’ll be in touch.”

“I would be grateful to hear from you,” Barron said.

Stone rose, thanked him for the coffee, wished him well, and then left.