Foul Play

Thirteen

At seven-fifteen, Stone walked out the front door of his house and found Fred in the Bentley, with a black four-door sedan parked tightly at each end.

“Fred.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m afraid Dino has gone a little nuts. He has two cars assigned to us, and I asked that they keep their distance, but you see.”

“I see, sir. I’ll have a word with them when we get to the restaurant.”

“Fine.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“What restaurant are we going to?”

“Caravaggio, in the seventies. We’ve been there.”

“Right, sir.” Fred backed up until the Bentley’s rear bumper made contact with the car behind, the driver of which immediately started it, reversed, and left enough distance for Fred to back up and pull out. “Do they know where we’re going, sir?” Fred asked.

“They should, if Dino has told them. If they don’t, they can just follow you.”

“Yes, sir.” They drove away.

“Pay no attention to the cops. Keeping up is their problem.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fred pulled up to the restaurant at the stroke of seven-thirty. Stone got out and left Fred to explain to the cops about not crowding him and not looking like cops. As he went inside, it occurred to Stone that he had not mentioned the cops’ haircuts to Dino.

He gave the coat-check lady his coat and looked around for Brooke Alley. He sat down at the bar to wait and ordered a Knob Creek on the rocks. After a few minutes the headwaiter approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington.”

“Good evening, Gianni.”

“Are you meeting someone?”

“Yes. Her name is Brooke Alley.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’?”

“She tends to run late.”

“I noticed. How late?”

“About half an hour,” he replied.

Stone ordered another drink. At the stroke of eight, Brooke appeared, not looking flustered.

Stone helped her off with her coat and gave it to the coat-check girl. “Did one of us get the time wrong?” he asked Brooke.

“Is that a sly way of asking why I’m late?”

“Not sly enough, apparently.”

“A woman needs a little leeway,” she said, and they were led to a good table and seated with a view of the whole restaurant.

Brooke asked for a martini. Stone ordered it and nothing else.

“Aren’t you drinking?” she asked.

“I’ve already had two.”

“Oh, all right, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Thank you.”

“I had hoped the décolletage might soothe your impatience.”

“The décolletage is not soothing, but stimulating.”

“I’m not sure how I could have improved on it.”

“Nudity, perhaps.”

“That’s good. You’re more yourself, now.”

“A couple of drinks will do that for me.”

Brooke laughed. “I thought the dress would get me off the hook.”

“If there is a hook involved, I will deal with it later.”

She laughed again.

He liked it when she laughed; her breasts moved.

“Okay, time to gaze into my eyes,” she said.

“They’re lovely eyes,” he said, adjusting his field of vision upward.

“What color are they?”

“Gray,” he ventured.

“Some would say hazel.”

“I won’t quibble.”

Her martini came, and she took a gulp. “Gotta catch up,” she explained.

“No rush.” A menu was brought; everything was high Italian.

“I’ll have the seafood risotto,” she said.

Stone held up two fingers to the waiter.

“Can’t you speak?” she asked.

“Just barely. And a bottle of the Bâtard-Montrachet,” he said to the sommelier.

“Do you look at the prices, or just the names?” Brooke asked.

“Just the names.”

“Because that wine has a breathtaking price next to it.”

“It’s a breathtaking wine,” he replied.

They had finished their dessert and were on espresso.

“Would you like a nightcap at my place?” Brooke asked.

“I would like nothing better.”

They got their coats on and left the restaurant. Fred was braced next to the rear door of the Bentley, and the two police cars were parked discretely on the opposite side of the street.

“Oh,” Brooke said, tugging at his sleeve. “We won’t need the car. I live right there.” She pointed at the first awning.

“Fred, I think you can send our escort home. Come to think of it, you can go home, too.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir,” Fred replied. “The commissioner would have me arrested. My instructions are to stick with you, no matter where you go.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Stone said. “Stick with the car. I’ll be a while.”

He followed Brooke to her building, which turned out to be not apartments, but a townhouse, beautifully furnished.

“Your home is beautifully furnished,” Stone said.

She hung up their coats in a hall closet. “My job in my marriage was to choose houses and decorate them,” she said. “My husband’s job was to pay for them. Making money was the only thing that interested him, and he didn’t care what I spent.”

He had thought they would sit in the living room, but she continued toward the rear of the house and into a large master suite.

“Now you can deal with the hook,” she said, turning her back to him.

Stone dealt with it quickly, and the dress fell into a puddle around her feet. As it turned out, the dress had been the only thing she was wearing.