Dirty Work

20

Carpenter picked up the phone, dialed Stone’s home number, and got an answering machine. She hung up without leaving a message. She tried his cell phone number and got a recording saying he was out of the calling area.

She was sitting in a barely furnished office kept for visitors in the New York headquarters shared by MI5 and MI6, neither of which was supposed to have a presence in New York. She was tired, out of sorts, and hungry, and she wanted Stone to take her to dinner, and he wasn’t cooperating. She grabbed her coat, signed out at the front door, and was buzzed out of the building. P. J. Clarke’s was only a couple of blocks away, and she headed there. She didn’t give a thought to the notion that she might be followed.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and the dining room was busy. “We’re not going to have anything for forty-five minutes,” a waiter told her, “but if you’re really hungry, you can order at the bar.”

She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their hard hats, who apparently didn’t want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.

“A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the New York Post.

“Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.

“Been in New York long?”

“Actually, I live in San Francisco. I’m just here on business.”

“One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.

“One of everybody’s,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“What firm?”

“I left a job last week, and I’m just starting the search.”

“Any luck so far?”

“I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”

“I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I’m eating here, since there’s not a table available.”

“Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”

The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.

“I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”

“Actually, I’m not all that interested in wine, though I’m happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”

“What’s your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.

“Postrio,” Carpenter replied.

“Oh? I thought that was closed.”

“Nope. They’ve redone it, and they have a new chef. It’s wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn’t go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.

“Where are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.

“At the Carlyle.”

“Pretty expensive for business travel, isn’t it?”

“I’m a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.

“That’s great.”

“It ain’t bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”

“Uptown, East Eighties.”

“I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.

Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.

“Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.

“Jordan Cabernet.”

“Yes, it’s a nice one.”

“Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn’t such a bad idea.”

“See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”

“Four years,” the woman replied.

“Is it easy to meet men here?”

She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”

“That’s how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”

The woman laughed. “It’s the same here.”

They finished their steaks.

“Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.

“What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.

“I like the walnut apple pie, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

“Sold!”

“Make it two,” the woman said, “though I’ll regret it tomorrow when I weigh myself.”

“Never weigh yourself,” Carpenter said.

They finished their apple pie, and Carpenter asked for the check. She paid it with one of her Susan credit cards. “This one’s on me,” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“Susan Kinsolving,” Carpenter said, offering her hand.

“I’m Ginger Harvey,” the woman said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

“Thanks, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m really tired. Maybe I’ll see you in here again sometime.” Carpenter waved goodbye, walked outside, and found a cab. “The Carlyle hotel,” she said. “Seventy-sixth and Madison.”

“Right,” the cabbie said.

“Do me a favor, will you? Check your rearview mirror and see if there’s a woman getting into a cab behind us.”

“Coming out of Clarke’s?” the man asked. “Yeah.”

“Take your time going uptown,” she said. “Don’t jump any lights.” Carpenter got out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “I think I’ve been made, and I think it’s our friend. I’m in a cab, heading up Third Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and she’s right behind me. I’m going to the Carlyle hotel. Call the manager there and set me up quickly, get me registered. I don’t suppose you can get anybody there in ten minutes? I didn’t think so. No, don’t call the cops. We’re going to have to handle this the best way we can, and all by ourselves.” She hung up.

“That’s funny,” the driver said.

“What’s funny?”

“You didn’t have an English accent when you got into the cab.”

Carpenter handed him a fifty. “Forget you heard it,” she said. “Drop me at the hotel, leave your meter running, and don’t pick up a fare until you’re at least twenty blocks away, all right?”

The driver looked at the fifty. “Yes, ma’am!”

Carpenter got out of the cab at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the Carlyle and walked briskly to the front desk. “My name is Carpenter. May I have my key, please?”

The man at the desk looked at her for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed her a key. “High floor, interior suite, as requested,” he said.

“Anybody asks for me, call the number you were given,” she said. “There’ll be somebody here soon.”

“Sleep well,” the clerk said.

Carpenter got onto an elevator before she looked at the number taped to the key. She gave the operator the floor number. Her cell phone vibrated as soon as the elevator began to move. “Yes?”

“It’ll be twenty minutes before we can get a team into place,” the voice said.

“So long?”

“We’re scattered. Don’t answer the door until you get a call first.”

“Right.” She snapped the phone shut and got off the elevator. She found the door and let herself into a small suite, chaining the door behind her. The view was of an air shaft, but she closed the curtains anyway before turning on lights. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“All right,” she said, “check this: Name Ginger Harvey, lawyer, lives in the East Eighties.”

“Hold, please.”

She could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“East Eighty-first, near Lexington,” he said.

“Get somebody over there now. If no one answers, go in and call me back.” She hung up, shucked off her shoes, and paced the floor. It worried her that Ginger Harvey was real.