Quick & Dirty

4

Peter Rule, the son of the President of the United States, Katharine Lee, by her first marriage to the late Simon Rule, a high CIA official, left his Fifth Avenue New York apartment to go car shopping. Peter was employed as chief of staff to his father-in-law, U.S. Senator Eliot Saltonstall of New York, but he had announced his candidacy for the other New York seat in the Senate, whose occupant had declined to run for reelection.

Peter owned several cars: three Mercedeses, one at each of his residences in New York, Washington, D.C., and East Hampton, New York, all the homes inherited from his father, who had been the only child of an old and wealthy New England family. Now he needed something he could be seen campaigning in, and no Mercedes would do. Peter had toured the state repeatedly on behalf of his boss and thus had a wide acquaintance among elected officials statewide, but he had always done so in rental cars. Now he needed something American-made that could be readily identified with him.

He carried a printout from a website containing classified ads for automobiles. His first stop was in Chelsea, where he looked at a six-year-old Ford Explorer; he didn’t like it. His next stop was in the West Village, where the owner, a fifty-year-old widow, walked him to a garage on the next block to see a three-year-old Chevrolet Tahoe, which he found attractive.

“My husband and I used the car to drive to our weekend place in Snedens Landing, up the Hudson,” she said. “That’s why the mileage is so low. I’ve since sold the house, so I don’t need the car.”

Peter checked the odometer: 3,700 miles. Remarkable. Apart from the garage dust, the SUV looked practically new. He offered the woman her asking price, and she accepted. She produced and signed the title, and Peter produced and signed a check, and he was the owner.

He thanked the woman and drove uptown to the garage where he kept his Mercedes S550. He made a deal on the monthly rental and gave a key to the manager. “Don’t wash it,” he said to the man. “Not ever.”

He got back to his apartment in time to have a sandwich with his wife, Celeste.

“Did you find something?”

“Something perfect,” he replied, and told her about the Tahoe. “Are you ready for a week’s campaigning?”

“I’ve already packed a bag,” she replied.

“I’ve told the garage never to wash it — it would look brand-new. I hope to get it dirtier on this trip.”

Celeste laughed. “Don’t worry, rain is forecast. You can look for some mud.”

“Should anybody ask you how long we’ve owned the car, just say it’s three years old.”

“Got it.”

Stone had Fred drive him up to the East Sixties, to a club he belonged to that was so exclusive it didn’t have a name. Its members referred to it as merely The Club, or sometimes The Place. Stone and Mike Freeman, the CEO of Strategic Services, had proposed Charles Ford — their partner in their investment firm, Triangle Partnership — for membership, and he had just been elected, so their lunch was a celebratory one.

Charley was waiting in the lobby of the large old house that was headquarters for The Club, and Stone introduced him to the manager and some staff, then they went up to the bar, where Mike Freeman awaited them. They found a table and ordered.

“I’m reading in the Times,” Charley said, “that your friend Holly Barker is being talked about as a candidate to succeed Kate Lee.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Stone said.

“Don’t you read the Times?” Charley asked.

“Yes, but I still don’t know anything about that, and I’m not going to.”

“I see. I think.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “I think that’s going to be a no-go subject, until Holly actually runs.”

Charley laughed. “I was getting that picture,” he said.

“There’s something you need to do,” Stone said.

“All right.”

“I want you to go through the list of companies we own or have invested in and do some weeding.”

“Everything is profitable,” Charley said.

“I’m not concerned about profits,” Stone replied, “I’m concerned about what each company does and whether that might associate me with something that Holly wouldn’t want to be associated with.”

“You mean, like tobacco companies?”

“Exactly. Also armament companies, oil companies, and any company that might depend heavily on government contracts for its profits.”

“I believe I get the picture,” Charley said.

“It’s well known in Washington and among the political press that Holly and I have a long-standing friendship. Since her parents are elderly retirees and since she doesn’t have siblings or a husband, or even an ex-husband, that puts me in the position of someone who will be looked at for conflicts of interest.”

“And you don’t want to have any,” Charley said. “What does she have in the way of personal assets?”

Stone thought about that. “I don’t know.”

“If she has any substantial holdings, she might want to think about a blind trust. I could handle that for her.”

“A blind trust is a good idea, and right away, but you’re not the guy — you’re too close to me. You could, however, recommend the guy to handle that — or maybe better, a woman.”

“Good idea. I know just the person, but perhaps I shouldn’t tell you who she is — it’s better if you don’t know.”

“I’ll ask Holly to have her assistant call you for a name and number.”

“Very good.”

“Stone,” Mike said, “have you given any thought to having some regular personal security?”

Stone looked at him askance. “Why?”

“Well, there has been talk that the New Year’s Eve shooter was after you, not Holly.”

“That can’t be the case, Mike, and even if it were, it would only cause more such talk if I started traveling around the city with armed guards.”

“It looks like Fred had that role all taken care of,” Charley pointed out.

“I can’t argue with that,” Mike said, “and nobody can blame you if your driver is an ex — Royal Marine commando.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Stone said.

As Fred pulled out of the garage and turned toward Third Avenue, Stone looked across the street and saw a figure in black, walking in the same direction and carrying a sledgehammer.