Dirty Work

29

Stone walked back into the kitchen where Carpenter was doing something to a sauce. “Smells good,” he said, pouring them both another drink. “What is it?”

“Chicken breast with tarragon sauce.”

“A red wine okay?”

“That’s fine. Who was on the phone? Who knows you’re here?”

Stone went to the wine cooler and found a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet. “Dino tracked me down. An Arab diplomat has been murdered on Park Avenue. Looks like a hit. That give you any ideas?”

“You mean, La Biche?”

“That’s what Dino’s wondering.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already back in the city, but why shoot somebody else when she’s looking for me?”

“I don’t know, maybe she doesn’t want to get rusty.”

“You get the guy’s name?”

“No. You want me to call Dino back?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Dino wants you to call him if you have anything to contribute. He wants to know what your people come up with.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She popped a pair of boned chicken breasts into some hot, clarified butter.

Stone liked the sizzle and the smell. “La Biche isn’t going to get tired of looking for you, is she?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You know anything about her you haven’t told me?” Stone asked.

“Well, let’s see. She’s unclassifiable as to type of killing. She’s used everything from pistols to ice picks to garrotes. A favorite means of avoiding arrests is what she’s just done in New York: She picks up a girl in a bar, usually a lesbian, goes home with her, murders her, takes her clothes and ID, then disappears. She did this three times in three days in Paris last year.”

“Makes her awfully hard to track, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does. We don’t know who to look for until the victim’s body turns up, and that can take days. By then, she’s somebody else.”

“You’ve seen her face-to-face, now. Can you improve on the CIA-generated portrait?”

“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot, that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”

“You think she’s a lesbian?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”

“I’ll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.

She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.

“Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I’ll serve us in here.”

Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.

“Bon appétit,” she said, raising her glass.

“Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.

“Don’t count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.

“What’s your feeling about this Park Avenue shooting?”

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Maybe we should just stay in Connecticut,” he said. “She’d never find us here.”

Marie-Thérèse walked into Elaine’s and looked around. She’d read about this place, most recently on Page Six, and she was surprised that it wasn’t fancier. What lay before her was a homey-looking neighborhood restaurant with a dining room stretching to the back of the building, checkered tablecloths, and a long bar on her left. The headwaiter was looking at her, but she pointed at the bar and took an empty stool at the end, her back to the window. She was wearing a sleek, black cocktail dress from Armani and some very nice pearls that she had stolen from a victim some time ago. The bartender came over.

“Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks,” she said, in her best American accent.

He brought the drink. “You having dinner?” he asked.

“Can I eat at the bar?”

“Sure. I’ll get you a menu.”

She sipped her Scotch and surveyed the crowd. She recognized two or three faces from the movies or the celebrity magazines, which she read voraciously. She liked the place. The bartender brought the menu, and she ordered a Caesar salad and a steak. “Have a drink on me,” she said to the bartender.

He poured himself a small Scotch, raised his glass to her, and sipped it.

She wanted him friendly.

She fended off a couple of passes from guys at the bar, and when her dinner came, she ate it and ignored them. When she was finished, she ordered a cognac.

The bartender brought it. “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”

“Nope. I’m from San Francisco. It’s my first time in New York.”

“Maybe you need somebody to show you the sights,” he said.

“Maybe I do, at that,” she replied, smiling. “Say, tell me something.”

“Anything at all,” he said.

She dug into her handbag and came out with a clipping. “I saw this on Page Six a few days ago.” She handed him the clipping.

He chuckled and handed it back. “Yeah, Elaine gets mentioned like that all the time.”

“Who’s the lawyer with the ‘hard’ name?”

“Oh, that’s Stone,” the bartender said. “Stone Barrington.”

“Who is he?”

“Used to be a cop, now he’s a lawyer. He’s in here two or three nights a week.”

“Is he here now?” she asked, looking around.

“Not tonight,” the bartender said. “You want to meet him, is that it?”

“Not really. I was just intrigued by the story about the guy falling through the skylight.” She smiled. “I think I’d rather be shown the sights.” She liked the bartender; he was cute.

Stone lay in bed, wide awake. They had made love half an hour ago.

“You awake?” Carpenter asked.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

“I thought sex rendered men unconscious.”

“Usually it does,” he said.

“Stop thinking about La Biche. We’ll get her, eventually.”

“Before she gets you?”

She rolled over and put her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”

“Of course not.”

She put her hand on his belly and stroked. “You want another shot at unconsciousness?”

“You betcha,” Stone said, turning toward her.