Class Act

25

Stone took a call from Dino later that morning. “Hey.”

“Has she cleared the premises yet?”

“Who? What premises?”

“Guess who, and which premises.”

“Oh, you mean Hilda?”

“That’s right. She has a name.”

“She does. Feel free to use it when speaking of her.”

“You sound a little defensive,” Dino said. “That means she stayed the night, huh?”

“It was late when she finished her second set. I wouldn’t put a young woman out in the street in the dead of night.”

“Not if you could put her to bed instead,” Dino said.

“Why are you giving me a hard time about Hilda?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I believe I do. I’ve traversed that terrain before, and I’ve never regretted it.”

“Well, let’s hope she’ll be allowed conjugal visits at Bedford Hills Women’s Prison.”

“Why would she have any need to? She can just come here. By the way, ‘conjugal’ refers to her marital status. I never sleep with married women. Not on purpose, anyway.”

“I know at least three married women you’ve slept with.”

“Well, accidents will happen.”

“The Bureau thinks Hilda’s a contract killer.”

“Yeah? Who, exactly, at the Bureau?”

“Brian Goode.”

“All by himself, I expect.”

“I trust his judgment,” Dino said.

“But not mine.”

“I have more experience with yours.”

“So you trust the word of a boy wonder G-man, instead of your friend and partner of lo these many years.”

“Former partner.”

“I’m smarter now than I was then,” Stone said.

“I could buy that, if you weren’t sleeping with a contract killer.”

“That is an unsubstantiated characterization.”

“The Florida cops think she’s a contract killer, too.”

“So, we have to take the word of out-of-state cops to make good judgments?”

“Only when they’re right. Have they contacted her yet?”

“This morning.”

“What did she tell them?”

“Nothing they didn’t already know from her previous statement.”

“Did they read her her rights?”

“Not yet. I’ve told her that if they contact her again, she should say that she has nothing to add to her previous statement, and that she won’t address the issue again without the presence of her attorney.”

“Sounds like she’s talked to a lawyer.”

“I was conveniently located.”

“Stone, why, in the face of all the evidence, do you refuse to believe that she’s a hit person?”

“All what evidence?”

“Well...”

“Aha! There isn’t any, is there?”

“There’s no evidence to the contrary, either.”

“Wrong. She has three witnesses who saw her leave the house with Manny Fiore still alive inside.”

“And who would they be?”

“The two moving men who carted her stuff to storage, and the cabdriver who took her to the airport.”

“That’s their opinion?”

“It’s a fact, not an opinion. And who does your G-man and the Florida cops think set the house on fire after they left?”

“An arsonist.”

“Good guess!” Stone cried.

“A professional arsonist. One of those people Jimmy Breslin used to say earns their living by ‘building vacant lots.’ ”

“And when did this putative arsonist go to work?”

“He chose an appropriate moment.”

“Try telling that to a jury sometime. They’ll acquit before the coffee has dried on your upper lip.”

Dino licked his lips. “All right,” he said, “I’ll await further developments before I make up my mind on her guilt or innocence.”

Stone held up a cautionary finger. “I never said she was innocent.”

“She’s either guilty or innocent,” Dino said.

“Not necessarily. There’s an area in between.”

“What area?”

“Ah... knowing. That’s it, she’s knowing.”

“That must come in handy.”

“What else would you expect of a bright young woman?”

“Guilt or innocence?”

“Then once again, I choose innocence.”

“Okay, I’m outta here,” Dino said, then hung up.

Joan came in and placed an envelope on his desk. “I found this on your desk this morning,” she said. “It appears to have been there about ten days, unopened.”

Stone opened the envelope and found an invitation to dinner at the home of Jack and Hillary Coulter. For that evening.

“What? This is for tonight?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Joan said, being innocent of any contact with it.

Stone quickly dialed the number.

“The Coulter residence,” a butler intoned.

“This is Stone Barrington. May I speak with either one, please?”

“One moment, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

A moment later, Hillary came on the line. “Stone?”

“Yes, Hillary. My secretary has just handed me, unopened, your very kind invitation to dinner this evening.”

“Bad secretary,” Hillary replied, in the manner of speaking to a dog.

“I do apologize for her, and I’d be happy to come, if the invitation is still open. I perfectly understand if you’ve asked someone else.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll see you at seven for drinks. I suppose you have a date?”

“Yes, I do. Her name is Hilda Ross.”

“Noted. See you then.” She hung up.

Joan came back into the room. “I suppose you blamed me.”

“Of course, I did,” Stone replied, dialing Hilda’s number.

“Hallo, dahlink,” Hilda said, in a broad Hungarian accent.

“Good news,” Stone said. “We’ve had a great dinner invitation. Joan gave it to me ten minutes ago, unopened. It’s for tonight. I hope you’re up for it, because I’ve already accepted for both of us.”

“In that case, I accept, too. How are we dressing?”

“Black tie.”

“Then I’ll wear a work dress. They’re the nicest things I have with me.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it. All the gentlemen will, too, if not necessarily all the ladies.”

“I’m accustomed to that,” she said.

“We’re due at seven for drinks.”

“What? That only gives me eight hours to get ready!”

“You’ll manage.” Stone hung up. “You are forgiven,” he said to Joan.