Two-Dollar Bill

37

STONE SLEPT, or rather, didn't sleep, with a.45 under his pillow, cocked and locked. As his mind raced through the night, considering alternatives, he considered Arrington. He had been out with her in public twice, and had perhaps been photographed or videotaped in her company, and that troubled him. He waited until after 7 a.m. to call her.

"Hello?" she said sleepily.

"Hi, it's Stone."

"Good morning," she said, her voice husky with sleep and, maybe, something else. "Did you conclude your business last night?"

"Not really," he said. "May we have breakfast together in your suite?"

"All right."

"Order me some bacon and eggs; I'll be there by the time room service delivers."

She gave him the room number. "See you then." She hung up.

Stone grabbed a shower and threw some things in a bag, then packed a Halliburton aluminum case with a couple of guns and ammunition. Then, with considerable reluctance, he went down to the garage. The place looked as it had before two men had been murdered there, but cleaner and neater. He got the car started and backed into the street, checking all around him, fore and aft, for any strange vehicle.

He pulled away and turned up Third Avenue, watching to see if a car, any car at all, followed him. None did. He drove up to the Carlyle on the Upper East Side, parked his car in the hotel's garage and walked next door to the lobby, again watching his back.

Arrington answered the door in a beautiful nightgown with a matching pegnoir, her blond hair brushed back but with no makeup. "Good morning."

"I'm sorry to get you up so early," he said, "but it's important."

The doorbell rang. Stone sent Arrington back to the suite's living room and looked through the peephole. A room-service waiter gazed blankly back at him. He let the man in and let him set up the rolling table; Arrington signed for their breakfast, and he left.

Arrington raised her orange-juice glass. "Remember the old Chinese curse? 'May you live in interesting times.'"

"It's appropriate," Stone said.

"What's going on?"

"I'm going to tell you this as concisely and as straight as I can," Stone said. "None of what I have to say is hyperbole."

"All right."

"A week or so ago, Bill Eggers introduced me to a new client, who he said had asked for me. His name was Billy Bob Barnstormer."

"And you believed that?"

"It doesn't matter. For reasons we needn't go into, Eggers talked me into putting him up at my house. He was there for several days, then he left, leaving a dead prostitute in my guest room."

Arrington's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.

"He arranged things so that I would be considered a suspect in her murder, then he vanished. Then I was introduced to Barbara Stein, a wealthy widow who had come to see Eggers, because she had seen a photograph of her husband, who was supposed to be out of the country, in Avenue magazine, with the mayor, and the same prostitute. It was Billy Bob, though she knew him as Whitney Stanford."

"I know that name," Arrington said. "Someone from Dallas recommended him to me as some sort of a financial whiz."

"You didn't meet him, I hope."

"No, but we talked on the phone. He was supposed to call me when I got to New York, but he hasn't."

"Good. He bilked a number of people in Dallas out of millions, and Barbara, as well, though you must keep that to yourself-client confidentiality, and all that. Did I mention that Billy Bob also murdered an investment banker in New York a couple of weeks ago?"

"No, you didn't."

"Well, he did. Now, about last night: As Dino mentioned, Lance is CIA."

"I knew him when I was a freshman at Mount Holyoke, and he was a senior at Harvard. I lost track of him after that."

"Some months ago, I signed on as a consultant to the Agency, and that is why Lance commandeered me. Last night."

"Did he also put a bullet hole in your trousers?" she asked. "I thought that looked odd."

"Yes, he did. When I declined to go with him, he became… persuasive."

"Where did you go?"

"Turns out, Lance's people had caught Billy Bob, waiting outside my house, apparently for me. He was armed with a silenced pistol and two explosive devices. Lance took him into my garage to interrogate him, and for some reason, he thought Billy Bob might talk to me more easily, since we had somehow formed this relationship where he wanted to kill me."

"That doesn't make any sense at all," Arrington said.

"A lot of what the CIA does doesn't make any sense to me," Stone replied. "I chatted with Billy Bob for two or three minutes, during which time he confirmed that he intended to kill me."

"But why?"

"I honestly don't know. He says I inconvenienced him by getting his wife to throw him out, but it's got to be more that that, I just don't know what."

"Well, you're safe from him, now that Lance has caught him."

"I'm afraid not. Lance and I left him alone with two of Lance's men, large men, who were supposed to, well, soften him up for interrogation. During the short time we were gone, Billy Bob managed to free himself and kill both men with a knife he had, apparently, concealed on his person."

"By kill, you mean, dead?"

"Very."

"In your garage?"

"Yes."

"With a knife?"

"Yes."

"I can't imagine what your garage must have looked like."

"Lance's people cleaned it very thoroughly, and did God knows what with the bodies."

"So Billy Bob is on the loose again?"

"He is."

"Which is very dangerous for you?"

"Well, yes."

She looked at him narrowly. "Are you here to tell me that I am in some sort of danger?"

"You are, possibly, in some sort of danger."

"And what do you recommend I do about that?"

"I have the house in Connecticut, and Billy Bob doesn't know about it. I think you should come up there with me, and…"

"When?"

"Right now, or as soon as we finish breakfast."

"Has Billy Bob seen the two of us together?"

"Possibly, I don't know. He had cameras in my house, but they had been removed by the time you arrived. He might have seen us at the Four Seasons, or at Elaine's."

"And if he did, he knows who I am?"

"Again, possibly. After all, he had your name, and you spoke to him on the phone."

"Stone, you must remember that, when Vance was murdered, my photograph was in every newspaper in this country."

"I do."

"So, if he saw us together, he might very well know who I am?"

"Perhaps. In any case, if he had been planning to con you out of money, he would have researched you thoroughly."

"And he would know that I have a child?"

"Yes."

Arrington got up and started for the phone. "I'm going home to Virginia," she said.

"I don't think you should go there, or to L.A., either."

"My little boy is there."

"Sit down and listen to me."

She sat, the frightened-deer look in her eyes.

"I think you should come to Connecticut with me. My car is downstairs; you should pack and send your luggage down. Do you still have access to the Centurion Studios airplane?"

"Yes, whenever I want it."

"I think you should ask them to send the airplane to Virginia and have Peter brought to Connecticut. There's an airport twenty-five minutes' drive from my house. It will take the GIV. We'll meet Peter and take him to my house. No one will know we're there, so Billy Bob can't find us."

Arrington was quiet for a moment, but it was obvious that she was thinking fast. "What's the name of the airport?"

"Waterbury-Oxford. It has a five-thousand-foot runway and jet fuel."

"All right," she said. She got up and went to the phone again. She made two calls and returned. "We're in luck; the Centurion airplane is landing in Washington in an hour, after a flight from L.A. They'll refuel and go directly to Charlottesville, where Peter and his nanny will be waiting for them."

Stone shoveled down the last of his eggs. "Then let's get moving."