Lucid Intervals

5

Bob Cantor and the Leahy brothers arranged themselves in chairs around the coffee table in Stone’s office. Cantor had been a detective in the 19th Precinct squad when Stone had been on the force; the Leahys were of a later vintage, but Bob trusted them, so Stone did, too.

“What we’ve got here…” Stone began, then stopped. “No, that’s not it. I was going to say a missing person, but it’s more than that.”

“A missing person who doesn’t want to be found?” Bob asked.

“That’s a lot closer, but there’s more,” Stone said. “All I can do is tell you everything the client has told me.”

“Who’s the client?” Bob asked.

“I’m afraid I’ve signed a document that prevents me from answering your question,” Stone said. “Let’s just say it’s somebody from overseas.”

“Okay, let’s say that,” Bob replied, and the Leahys nodded as one man, as they did almost everything. The brothers were not twins but very close.

Stone handed each of the three men a copy of the photograph Felicity had given Stone. “This man used to be employed by an intelligence agency. His name used to be Stanley Whitestone.”

“How old is the photo?” Cantor asked.

“Twelve years. It was, apparently, the last picture anyone ever took of him.”

“Was he a spy?”

“I’m not sure what his duties were, but let’s assume he was. It will make it easier to understand how hard it is going to be to find him.”

Cantor shrugged. The Leahys looked sleepy.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Could you bring us a pot of coffee, please?” Stone continued. “Mr. Whitestone left his employers under very suspicious circumstances, only a day before their suspicions were confirmed. His crime was selling information to people who used it to make money.”

“Did his employers turn over his finances?”

“I haven’t been told, but it is what they would do.”

“Did they come up with anything that might give us a lead?”

“I can inquire about that, but if such information existed, I expect I would already have it.”

“So, exactly what do we have to go on?” Cantor asked.

“Three things,” Stone said. “One: the photograph. Two: the fact that someone who once knew him saw him twice in the lobby of the Seagram Building during the past few weeks. And three: the person who saw him, who was, incidentally, a member of the legislature of his country, has not been heard from again.”

“Somebody offed him?” Willie Leahy asked, coming to life.

“That is the assumption,” Stone said, “so watch your ass.”

Joan came in with a coffee tray. “Did you say something about Willie watching my ass?” she asked.

“No,” Stone said.

“I was, though,” Willie added. “Nice.”

“You’re sweet,” Joan said, flouncing out of the office.

“So,” Peter Leahy said, “we stake out the Seagram Building?”

“No,” Cantor said. “First, we find out on what days Whitestone was spotted. Then we review the security tapes. I can get hold of those.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “Excuse me a minute.” He went to his desk, picked up his phone and dialed Felicity’s cell number, which was on a card she had given him.

“Yeesss?” she drawled.

“Can you give me the dates on which Whitestone was seen in the Seagram Building?” he asked.

“One moment,” she said. He heard high heels on a marble floor, then a door closing. “To the best of my recollection, one of the dates was near the end of last month. The other was a couple of weeks before, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Thank you. Have you, in the light of day, remembered anything else at all that might help me?”

“I’m afraid not. See you in the early evening.” She hung up.

Stone walked back to the sofa and sat down. “Both sightings were last month: one near the end of the month, one a couple of weeks earlier. The client couldn’t be more specific.”

“Anything about personal habits?” Cantor asked.

“Women, fine restaurants, and fine arts, especially the opera.”

“We’re not going to have to go to the opera, are we?” Willie Leahy asked.

“You are, unless the Seagram tapes pan out,” Stone said.

Willie made a disgruntled noise.

“I like the opera,” Peter said.

Stone was surprised that he liked something his brother didn’t. “Okay, you can volunteer for the opera house.”

Cantor was looking at the photograph. “If a guy wants to get lost, he has to do one of two things: he has to go somewhere nobody would think to look for him, or he has to change his appearance, or both.”

“He’s not a Nazi war criminal,” Stone said. “It’s unlikely that he would have a network of supporters; he’d have to disappear on his own. Of course, he probably had time to set up an identity, and he probably was acquainted with people who could supply documents.”

“What country are we talking about, Stone?” Cantor asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know fucking everything you can tell me and because it might matter.”

“Britain.”

“Then he’d lose his accent for starters. A Brit accent is too easy to remember.”

Peter Leahy was looking at the photo. “He might have lost some hair, too. He’s got kind of a high forehead, and the hair in front of his sideburns is thin.”

“He’s had twelve years to go gray, too,” Willie said. “And most guys gain some weight in early middle age.”

Cantor spoke up. “British guys love their tailors; I’ll bet he’s still wearing Savile Row suits but not from whoever made his clothes in the old days. That’s one of the things the tracers would check first. Let’s find out what English tailors are working in town.”

“Good idea,” Stone said, “and I’m sure you’ll have some others. But right now the Seagram Building security tapes are our best bet.”

“I agree,” Bob said, standing up. The Leahys stood up with him.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” Stone said. “Things will come to you in your sleep.”

The three men filed out, and Joan appeared at the door. “Herbie Fisher is here to see you,” she said, then raised a hand to stop his response. “He knows you’re here, because he just saw his uncle Bob come out of your office, and he’s paid for your time in advance.”

Stone sighed. “All right, send him in, but interrupt me after five minutes. Make up a meeting or something.” He sat down and awaited his fate.