Dirty Work

5

Carpenter showed up at Stone’s house exactly on time, followed by a uniformed chauffeur carrying two large suitcases.

“I’m accepting your invitation,” she said, kissing Stone lightly on the lips.

“And you’re very welcome,” Stone said. “Put the cases in the elevator,” he said to the chauffeur. “I’ll do the rest.”

They rode up to his bedroom together, and he showed her where to put her clothes. “Make it quick,” he said. “Our dinner table is in half an hour.” He looked at his watch: Herbie Fisher should be in the building by now.

Stone employed a service that provided drivers, and his usual man had his Mercedes E55 waiting at the curb when they came out of the house.

“Very nice,” Carpenter said, settling into the backseat beside Stone.

“And armored, too,” Stone said. “Just in case anybody intends to do you harm.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. When I went car shopping a while back, they were wheeling it into the showroom. Some mob guy had ordered it and had got himself popped the day before it arrived.”

“Bad timing.”

“Good for me, though. I was being shot at, at the time, and I bought it from the widow at a nice discount. The armor is only good for small arms—no land mines or rockets.”

“You get a lot of land mines and rockets on the streets of New York?” she asked.

“Not as many as we used to. Giuliani discouraged that sort of behavior, and Bloomberg seems to be following his lead.”

They arrived at 1 West Sixty-seventh Street on time for their table at Café des Artistes, and they were seated immediately. Stone ordered two champagnes fraise des bois.

“What’s that?” Carpenter asked.

“A glass of champagne with a dose of wild strawberry liqueur.”

The drinks arrived. “I like the murals,” Carpenter said, looking around at paintings of nude nymphs greeting conquistadores.

“They’re a big reason this is one of my favorite restaurants,” Stone said. “Notice that, while they have different faces, the nymphs all seem to have the same body. I think the artist, Howard Chandler Christy, must have had a favorite model.”

“I hope we aren’t here entirely for the nudes,” Carpenter said.

“Fear not, the food is excellent.” He glanced at his watch. Herbie should be in position on the roof by now.

Stone ordered them the charcuterie and the bourride, a seafood stew in a thick, garlicky sauce.

“Mmmmm,” Carpenter said, tasting it. “Good thing we’re both having this, what with all the garlic.”

“Felicity,” Stone said. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“And what is your last name?”

“I’m not sure I know you well enough to tell you,” she said.

“After last night, I should think you’d know me well enough to tell me anything,” Stone said.

She laughed. “All right, it’s Devonshire.”

“Like the county?”

“Exactly.”

“Felicity Devonshire. Sounds like an actress on Masterpiece Theatre.”

“What’s Masterpiece Theatre?”

“It’s a program on our Public Broadcasting System that features British television plays.”

Stone checked his watch again: nine-thirty. Herbie should be calling any second.

“Why do you keep looking at your watch?” Carpenter asked.

“Sorry, something’s going on tonight, and I should get a call saying it went well.”

“Sounds like you’re in my business.”

“Not exactly,” Stone said. “Though we probably use some of the same techniques.”

“What’s this evening’s technique?”

“Candid photography,” he replied.

“Keyhole stuff? You’re joking.”

“All’s fair in love and divorce.”

“I thought we British had a corner on that market, except for the French.”

“Nope. New York is not a no-fault state.”

“What’s no-fault? Sounds like car insurance.”

“It means the divorce is legally considered to be neither party’s fault. Lots of states have that, but not New York. In New York one needs grounds for divorce—cruelty or, especially, adultery. Sometimes my clients ask me to substantiate grounds. In this particular case, the evidence is more important than the divorce itself, since the husband signed a prenuptial agreement stating that, if he fooled around, he’d get none of his wife’s very considerable fortune.”

“Poor bloke.”

“I may have asked you this before, but why have you never married?” he asked.

“The job,” she said. “My firm frowns on marriages, unless they’re intramural. Marrying outside the profession almost guarantees divorce, often an ugly one, and the firm doesn’t like that sort of publicity.”

“None of the gentlemen of your trade ever appealed to you?”

“Oh, there was a time,” she said. “A couple of years ago one of my colleagues and I got very serious, but not as serious as I thought. When he was offered a posting abroad, he accepted with alacrity, much to my annoyance. I broke it off immediately. He made the wrong choice.”

“Maybe it wasn’t so wrong after all, if he could leave you so readily.”

“I entirely agree,” she said, “and I got over it. You’re my first, ah, liaison since then, which is why I was so eager to get you into bed last night. I hope I didn’t put you off with my assertiveness.”

“Did I seem put off?”

She laughed. “No, I don’t think you did. You were . . . very interesting.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?”

“It means exactly that. Don’t worry, it’s a very considerable compliment.”

They finished their main course and had dessert. When they were served coffee, Stone had entirely forgotten about Herbie Fisher. Then his cell phone vibrated. He looked at his watch: just after eleven o’clock. “Do you mind?” he asked, holding up the phone.

“Go ahead,” she said.

Stone opened the phone. “Yes?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Herbie said, sounding very agitated.

“What?”

“The goddamned skylight must have been old or something.”

“What the hell happened?” Stone demanded, trying to keep his voice down.

“It collapsed,” Herbie said. “I fell right on top of both of them.”

“You fell into . . .” Stone stopped and looked around. “Where are you?”

“It’s not my fault the guy’s dead,” Herbie said.

“He’s what?”

“You’ve got to come down here,” Herbie said.

“Down where?”

“I’m being arraigned in night court.”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Stone said. “Don’t say a word to anybody—not to a cop, not to an ADA, not to anybody. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I understand. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I’ll be there inside of an hour, and you keep your mouth shut,” Stone said. He snapped the phone shut.

“Somebody get a thumb in his eye looking through a keyhole?” Carpenter asked.

“Something like that,” Stone said, waving for the check.

“You don’t look so good,” Carpenter said.

“I’m not so good,” Stone said, feeling as if he might toss his dinner back onto the table. “This is very, very bad.”

He signed the check, grabbed Carpenter, and headed for the door.

“Where are we going?” Carpenter asked.

“I’m going to night court; you’re going home.”

“Oh, no I’m not. I want to see night court.”

Stone hustled her into the car. “This may take a while,” he said.

“I’ve got all night,” she replied.

“This is very, very bad,” Stone said, half to himself, as the car drove away.