“Where would it transmit to?”

“It has a range of about a mile. I can put the recorder in my van and park near the restaurant. Otherwise, I’d have to wear a recorder, and that would be easy to find in a pat-down.”

“Is he likely to pat you down?”

“How the hell should I know? Depends on how paranoid he is, I guess.”

“Better pick a quiet restaurant; don’t do it at P. J. Clarke’s.”

“A good point.”

“Don’t tell him anything about your expertise with electronics. There’s no reason why he would know about that, is there?”

“None. I didn’t get my first computer until ’79.”

“I’d love to know if he’ll admit having had any contact with Abner Kramer.”

“I guess I can ask him if he’s seen any of the other guys, give him an opportunity to say so. I’ll call you after.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Stone hung up. This, he thought, was a move in the right direction, especially since he had little or nothing to go on. He needed a break badly.

Stone met Dino for dinner at Elaine’s. “Anything to report?” he asked.

Dino gave him a smart salute. “Nothing to report, sir!”

“I’d hoped one of your people could give us something to go on.”

“What, you think somebody is just going to stumble across this piece of furniture?”

“I’d like that,” Stone said, “as unlikely as it is. Maybe there’s something else your guys can do.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Dino said.

“I need to know a lot more about Charlie Crow, not your Google sort of stuff – I need to know where he goes, who he hangs out with. Especially who he hangs out with.”

“You’re actually asking me to put New York City police officers on a tail unconnected to any crime?”

“It is connected to a crime: the beating of a man and the theft of an extremely valuable object.”

“It’s not like I can open a file on it, Stone. I mean, there was a time I could have opened a file, then shredded it when it was over, but these days, once you put something in a computer it’s there forever.”

“Well, for God’s sake, don’t put anything in a computer. Just put a couple of guys on tailing Mr. Crow for a few days. I especially want to know if he’s in touch with Abner Kramer.”

“Maybe I can do that. Why don’t you put Bob Cantor on this? Get him to tap Crow’s phones.”

“Fortunately, Crow called him and invited him to lunch, and he’s going to wear a wire.”

“That might produce something.”

“I’m counting on it, since I have nothing else.”

“How was your time with Holly?”

“It was very good, thanks. I’m sure she’s already reported back to Lance.”

“Well, she does work for him, after all. Is she enjoying being a spook?”

“Seems to be. I think she likes it better than being a small-town police chief. She doesn’t have to do traffic tickets and penny-ante drug busts. Also, working for Lance, she must be privy to a lot of very interesting information.”

“You think Lance’s job is all that interesting?”

“Jesus, Dino, he’s the fucking head of CIA operations.”

“Then he must know everything in the world.”

“I would think so.”

“Then how did he lose track of his brother for thirty years?”

“That’s an interesting question, and he hasn’t answered it very satisfactorily. My guess is when somebody doesn’t want to be found, he’s hard to find.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Neither do I, entirely, but I don’t see how it affects what I’m doing for Barton.”

“Everything affects everything,” Dino said.

25

Stone left Dino at Elaine’s and took a cab to the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue at Seventy-sixth Street. As he entered the Madison entrance, the Café Carlyle, former home of the late, great singer/pianist Bobby Short, was on his right, but he turned left, into the Bemelmens Bar.

The place was, maybe, three-quarters full, and the grand piano, in the middle of the room, was unoccupied. A maître d’ appeared. “I’d like that table there,” he said to the man, pointing at a tiny table with an unobstructed view no more than eight feet from the piano.

“You’re alone, sir?” the man asked, as if he were asking for a king-size bed.

Stone passed him a twenty and was seated immediately. He ordered a cognac and a small bottle of San Pellegrino and waited for Carla to finish her break.

Five minutes later, she arrived, along with her bass player, who picked up his instrument and did a little tuning. Carla was a tall, Scandinavian-type blonde, clad in a long, slinky black dress set off by a diamond necklace that was either a fake or supplied by Harlan Deal, because she could never have afforded it on a singer/pianist’s income. She played a few chords, then swung into a medium-tempo version of “Day In, Day Out,” then followed that with songs by Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern.

The music suited Stone to his core; it was what his parents had listened to, and he had grown up dancing to it in their home and at school dances. Then Carla did something that riveted him to his seat. She sang a Gershwin tune called “Do It Again” slow and sexy, and she sang it directly to him. Suddenly, beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead.

When she finished he smiled and applauded enthusiastically. She ignored him for the next three songs, then announced a break and stood up.

Stone stood, too, and she seemed to see him again. He walked the few steps between them and said, “My name is Stone Barrington. Would you join me for a few minutes?”

She said nothing but walked to his table and sat in the chair he held for her.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“This will do,” she said, taking his glass of Pellegrino.

“That was a wonderful set,” he said. “Especially the Gershwin tune.”

She leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t sing it often.”

“Then I’m all the more grateful for hearing it.”

“Who are you, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’m an attorney, and I’m here on business as well as pleasure.”

“Oh?” she said. “Are you suing me?”

“Far from it,” he said. “I’m here to see that you never have to work another day in your life, unless you want to.”

“Fortunately, I enjoy my work,” she said.

“That’s apparent from the way you do it.”

“Does this have something to do with Harlan Deal?”

“It does, and I’ll be brief, so that we can talk like two human beings again.” He took an envelope containing two copies of the prenuptial agreement and put it on the table. “I had a meeting with Mr. Deal this morning, and with his approval, I’ve made some substantial changes to this document. My advice to you, which is confidential, since it represents a conflict of interest, is to read it, consult a good attorney, then make a few more demands. He handed her his card. Have your attorney call me directly, and I’ll see if I can help with Mr. Deal.”

She tossed her head in a way that flipped her long, nearly white blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you’re taking a risk; I could get you disbarred for that advice.”

“Not unless you’re wearing a recording device,” he said, looking her up and down, “and frankly, I don’t know how you could conceal one in that dress.”

She gave him a small smile, then picked up the envelope, opened it and carefully read the prenup. “Do you have a pen?” she said.

Stone held up his pen. “I do, but, again, I think you should consult an attorney.”

“I believe I just have,” she said, then took the pen from his hand and signed both copies of the agreement. “I think it’s generous as it is.”

“We’ll need a witness,” Stone said.

She beckoned her bass player, a very large and handsome African-American man who was sitting nearby. He came over, witnessed the documents and returned to his seat.

She handed Stone a copy, then folded the other and tucked it into her tiny purse. “Now, perhaps we can talk, as you said, like human beings.”