“Any addresses?”

“One for each: Kramer, on West Tenth Street, in Manhattan; Crow, in the Bronx.”

Stone wrote down both addresses and phone numbers.

“You going to call?”

“Might be better if I just show up and surprise them.”

Holly continued typing. “Google knows about Kramer,” she said. “He was an executive vice president at Goldman Sachs in New York until four years ago, but he left to start his own company, A. L. Kramer, which has done very well, apparently. Here’s a picture.” She turned the laptop so he could see it.

“Distinguished looking,” Stone said. “What about Crow?”

Holly tapped more keys. “He started a real estate business, buying dilapidated town houses and reselling them. That’s it.”

“Well, it’s a start, I guess. Want to go meet Barton Cabot?”

“Sure, but I need a shower.”

“Me, too.”

They showered together and made the most of it.

The touch of early autumn was in the trees along the shore of Lake Waramaug.

“This is beautiful,” Holly said.

“Hardly anyplace is more beautiful than Connecticut in the fall. It’ll be a little while longer before it’s in its glory.”

“Maybe I’ll stick around for it,” she said.

“How’s the work with Lance going?”

“I wish I could tell you the details; the information I have in my head these days is mind-boggling.”

“What about working with Lance?”

“I’m not the politician Lance is, but it’s very interesting to watch him operate. He misses nothing and uses everything to his advantage. He’s already cultivating the representatives and senators on the House and Senate intelligence committees. I’ve no doubt that he’ll succeed Kate Rule Lee when she goes.”

“He’s pretty young for that job.”

“He’s pretty young for the job he has now,” Holly pointed out.

They pulled into Barton’s driveway, drove out onto the little peninsula and stopped at the house. Floodlights under the eaves suddenly came on.

“Motion detectors,” Stone said. “Those lights didn’t come on the last time I was here.”

Barton stuck his head out the kitchen door, then came outside, his right hand behind his back.

“You think he’s going to shoot us?” Holly asked.

Stone stepped out of the car and raised a hand in greeting. “Remember me?” he asked.

“Of course, I remember you,” Barton said. “You think I’m an amnesiac?”

Stone laughed. “I want you to meet Holly Barker,” he said.

Holly got out of the car. “How do you do?”

“Well, hello, Holly Barker,” Barton replied. He moved his right hand behind his back, then brought it out to shake her hand. He was smiling. “Why don’t you two come in for some coffee?”

They followed him into the kitchen, where a housekeeper was at work, then into the study, and by the time they arrived there, Stone noticed that the pistol was no longer tucked into Barton’s belt behind his back. It somehow had disappeared on the way in.

The housekeeper came into the study bearing a tray that held coffee and cookies. She set it on the coffee table before the fireplace and left.

Barton poured for them. “So, Holly Barker, are you a Connecticut girl?”

“Nope, army brat, but I live in Virginia these days.”

“What brings you up here?”

“A little vacation. Stone offered me his house.”

Barton was about to reply when a tiny electronic beeping began. “Excuse me,” he said, moving quickly away from the coffee and toward a door. On his way he reached into a drawer and came out with a semiautomatic pistol. He closed the door behind him.

“What should we do?” Holly asked.

“He didn’t ask for help,” Stone replied.

14

They were still drinking their coffee when two gunshots interrupted them.

“Are you armed?” Holly asked.

“No.”

“I am,” she said. “Come on.”

Stone followed her, wondering how she had concealed a weapon under her tight jeans and close-fitting sweater. She stopped before going out the kitchen door, lifted a leg and removed a tiny semiautomatic pistol from a holster strapped to her right ankle. She looked out the kitchen window for a moment, then stepped outside. “Follow me, and stay behind me,” she said.

They were halfway to the barn when Barton Cabot stepped out from behind it, the pistol still in his hand. “Raccoon,” he said. “Missed him.”

Holly tucked the little pistol back into its ankle holster. “How do the neighbors feel about the gunfire?”

“Oh, they’ll think it’s a bird hunter in a field nearby,” Barton replied.

“Barton,” Stone said, “will you show Holly the secretary? Anyway, I’d like to ask you some questions about it.”

“All right. Holly, where are you from?”

“Virginia.”

“Virginia?” Barton said. “Do you work with my brother?”

“I work for your brother,” Holly said.

“So you’re a spy?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did he send you here to spy on me?”

Stone spoke up. “No. Lance sent her here to help me find your lost secretary. And she’s working on her own time.”

“Oh.” Barton looked doubtful.

“Holly has already been very helpful. She knows everything I know about the situation, and I’d like both of us to know more.”

Barton nodded, seeming satisfied. He went to his safe, got out the key, opened the large cabinet and, with Stone’s help, slid out the rear wall to expose the secretary. Then he switched on the lights in the cabinet.

“Oooh, that’s beautiful,” Holly said.

“Do you know anything about American furniture?” Barton asked.

“I know how to get to the Ethan Allen store,” Holly said.

Barton chuckled. “Well, at least you’re honest.” He began a lecture on the piece.

Stone had heard it before, so he wandered around the shop, looking at the old hand tools on the walls. They reminded him of things he had seen on the walls of the woodworking shop at Williamsburg, Virginia, where period-style furniture was still made. He returned to Holly and Barton.

“There are only seven of these known to exist, apart from this one, and six of them are in museums or other institutions,” Barton was saying. “There are only two of them in private hands, and this is one of them. The other is said to rest in a private home near San Francisco that is built directly over the San Andreas Fault.”

“I wonder how the owner’s insurance company feels about that?” Holly observed.

“It’s probably self-insured.”

“How would someone authenticate a piece like this?”

“By being very familiar with other pieces from the same maker.” He pointed to the carved scallop shells at the top of the piece. “For instance, the cuts made in these figures can be matched to the work of a maker, by the tools he used and the strokes he made. There are no signatures, numbers or brass plates identifying the maker, and all the pieces are somewhat different from each other, often built to the specifications of those who commissioned them.”

Stone came over. “Barton, can we talk?”

Barton showed Stone and Holly to a little sitting area at one end of the shop, and they all took seats.

“Barton,” Stone said, “I want to ask you about a couple of people you were in the army with. Will you tell me what you can about them?”

“If my memory is working properly,” Barton said.

“The first is a Charles Crow.”

Barton looked thoughtful.

“You remember Bob Cantor?”

“Oh, yes. My best squad lead, later my best platoon leader. I got him a field commission.”

“Crow was a member of Cantor’s original squad.”

“Oh, yes. I remember him,” Barton said, looking enlightened. “A real hustler; he was always buying or selling something, for less than it was worth when buying and considerably more when selling.”

“Sort of like an antiques dealer,” Holly interjected.

Barton laughed, showing a lot of teeth.