Dirty Work

15

Dino’s driver took them to Stone’s house, where Carpenter packed her bags, then they were driven to the Lowell, a small, elegant hotel on East Sixty-third Street, off Madison Avenue.

They were met at the door by the night manager, who, without bothering to register Carpenter, took them directly to a suite on the top floor.

“Are you known here?” Stone asked when the manager had gone and the bellman had deposited her luggage in the bedroom.

“My firm is,” she said. “We’ve used the hotel often. We missed out on dinner; should we order something?”

They dined in the room on Dover sole and a good bottle of California Chardonnay, and without much conversation.

“So Dino,” Stone said when the dishes had been cleared, “I guess you’ve put out an APB for this woman.”

“Pretty tough, putting out an APB without a description,” Dino replied, looking at the dessert menu.

“Description? You’ve got a photograph of her!”

“Yeah, well,” Dino replied.

Carpenter went to her purse and brought back a sheet of paper. “Here’s what the CIA’s photo people were able to come up with,” she said, handing it to Stone.

He opened the paper to see a rather bland face, framed by long, dark hair—straight nose, big eyes.

“The photograph Herbie took was of her looking up, so only her hair, forehead, eyes, and nose were visible, no jaw, and the hair was a wig.”

“This could be nearly anybody,” Stone said.

“Exactly. La Biche’s stock-in-trade is looking like anybody. She can walk through the toughest airport security and pass herself off as an American businesswoman or a French fashion designer, an Italian countess, or a Spanish nun.”

“I thought, what with electronics, it was getting harder to use false passports. Every time I’ve used mine, it gets swiped through a reader, and my information pops up on a screen.”

“All true, but over the years there have been numerous thefts of blank passports from embassies and consulates all over the world, which solves the problem of paper authenticity, and if such thefts can be concealed for a few days or weeks, the numbers don’t come up as stolen when going through immigration. It’s very, very tough to catch somebody when your suspect is using real paper.”

“I would imagine,” Stone said.

The phone rang, and Carpenter went to answer it. “Yes? No, absolutely not. It would attract the attention of anybody who knew what to look for. Are you trying to make me a marked woman?” She paused and listened. “Well, that makes sense, I suppose, though the thought doesn’t really appeal. Oh, all right, send them over.” She hung up and returned to the table.

“What was that?” Stone asked.

“First, they wanted to put a team on me, which I thought was a bad idea. Even if they’re very good, they can be spotted.”

“But you agreed to something,” Stone pointed out.

“The CIA is sending somebody over to see me.”

The doorbell rang.

“That was quick,” Stone said.

“Too quick,” Dino said, shoving his chair away from the table.

“Go into the bedroom,” Stone said to Carpenter. He went to the door, while Dino took up a position beside it, gun drawn. He looked through the peephole and saw a young woman—light brown hair, medium height, slim. “It’s a woman,” he said. “Ready?”

Dino nodded.

Stone put the chain on the door and opened it. “Yes?” he said.

“Carpenter,” the woman replied.

“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “If you need a carpenter, see the manager.”

The woman produced an ID. “I’m here on official business.”

“It’s all right,” Carpenter said from behind Stone. “I know her. Come on in, Arlene.”

Stone unhooked the door and admitted the woman, who was carrying a small suitcase.

“Stone, Dino, this is Arlene,” Carpenter said.

Arlene nodded. “Let’s go into the bathroom,” she said to Carpenter.

Stone and Dino watched CNN while water ran and a hair dryer made noise behind the door. Forty-five minutes later, Arlene emerged from the bathroom. “May I introduce my friend, Susan Kinsolving?”

Carpenter emerged, nearly unrecognizable. Her brown hair was now a pronounced auburn, and though she usually wore little makeup, she was now pretty much a painted woman.

“Hi, there,” Carpenter said in a Midwestern American accent.

“Hate the accent,” Stone said.

“Get used to it, buddy,” Carpenter replied.

“Let’s get you outfitted with some ID,” Arlene said, opening her suitcase. “Have a seat.”

Carpenter pulled up a chair.

“Okay, here’s your American passport. It was issued three years ago and has a dozen stamps from Europe and the Caribbean. We’ve already changed the hair color. You’re a marketing executive with a computer company in San Francisco. Here are your business cards and some stationery. The company knows your name, and if anyone calls there, you have a secretary and voice mail. You were born in Shaker Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, thirty-four years ago, educated in the public schools there and at Mount Holyoke College, in western Massachusetts. You have, in your wallet, in addition to your California driver’s license and credit cards—all valid—an alumni association membership card. You’re registered at the hotel under the Kinsolving name.” She pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here’s your legend. Memorize it.”

Carpenter flipped through the sheets. “Very thorough.” She turned to Stone. “What do you think?” she asked, tossing her hair.

“Very nice, Susan. You want to have dinner sometime?”

Stone and Dino sat in the back of Dino’s car, rolling down Park Avenue.

“Dino, a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Since Larry Fortescue’s death has been established as murder, would you feel comfortable calling the DA’s office and letting them know that? I’d like to get the charges dismissed, and then I can plead Herbie down to a misdemeanor and get him probation.”

“Sure, I’ll call down there first thing. You know who the ADA is?”

“Call the deputy DA and do it through him. It’ll be faster.”

“Okay.”

They pulled into Stone’s block.

“Slow down,” Dino said, checking both sides of the street. “Stop here.” The car rolled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. Dino got out and looked around. “Okay,” he said, waving Stone out of the car.

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said, “you’re creeping me out.”

But Dino stood by the car, his gun in his hand, until Stone was inside.