“By all means. Tell me, what is your surname?”

“I don’t have one,” she said. “I never liked my name much, so I stopped using it when I got out of college, which was fifteen years ago, and I had it legally changed ten years ago. Since then, I’ve managed to forget it.”

“I see,” Stone said. “Of what national extraction are you, or have you forgotten that, too?”

“My father was Italian; my mother, Swedish.”

“You seem to have taken on more Swedish characteristics than Italian ones,” he said.

“Don’t count on it,” she replied. “I still know how to use a stiletto on a dark night. Figuratively speaking.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

“I have one more set to do,” she said. “I live in the hotel; perhaps when I’m finished, you’ll come up for a drink.”

She had managed to say that without sounding in the least like Mae West, but Stone still gulped. This was really a conflict of interest. “I’d like that,” he said, tucking away his legal ethics.

She played and sang another dozen songs, then thanked her audience, got up and walked past Stone’s table. She shook his hand, and her palm contained a card. “Give me ten minutes to freshen up,” she said.

Stone finished his drink, paid his check and stopped by the men’s room for a little freshening of his own, then he walked out onto Madison Avenue and hailed a cab. “Drive over to Park, then turn right on Seventy-sixth and let me out at the hotel entrance there.”

“Big spender,” the driver said.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Stone didn’t know if anyone was watching Carla or him, but he wouldn’t put it past Harlan Deal, not to mention Bill Eggers. He got out at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance, checked Carla’s card for the room number and took the elevator to a high floor.

The door was cracked, held just open by the plastic DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the doorknob. He pushed it open and entered, finding himself in a nicely furnished living room with a spectacular southern view of the city. “Hello?” he called.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she called back. “Fix us both a cognac.”

Stone went to the wet bar/kitchenette and found glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin, then went back into the living room and set them on the coffee table. She came out of the bedroom wearing a flowing silk dressing gown that looked like something out of a 1950s movie, costumes by Edith Head. He had little doubt that she had nothing on under it.

She took the brandy, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. “I wanted to do that all evening,” she said.

“So did I,” Stone said. Sadly, he remembered the conflict of interest present here. “But I am prevented from doing what I really want to do.”

“I’m glad to know you have at least some ethics, Mr. Barrington, but I believe I can relieve your conscience.”

“How would you do that?” he asked.

“It’s quite simple,” she replied. “I have no intention whatever of marrying Harlan Deal.”

“In that case,” Stone said, taking her in his arms, “I am entirely unconflicted.”

A moment later, he found he had been right about what she was not wearing under the dressing gown.

26

Stone woke up early, a little after six. Carla was inert beside him, the sheet failing to cover one breast. He slipped out of bed, went into the bathroom, showered, then dressed. He debated whether to wake her, then decided not to; he would phone her later.

The morning was crisp, and he walked downtown to his house and let himself in by the office door. He left the signed prenup on Joan’s desk with a note telling her to messenger it to Eggers ASAP, then went into the kitchen, where Helene was bustling about.

“You are up very early,” she said in her Greek-accented English, “and you are dressed, which means you slept somewhere else.”

“Stop being a detective and scramble me some eggs, please, Helene.” The Times was on the kitchen counter, and he read it while Helene cooked. The headline story on the first business page was of an acquisition by Harlan Deal of an aircraft-leasing company. He wished he’d known the day before; he wasn’t above a little insider trading. Too late, now.

The acquisition and the prenup were Deal’s good news for the day, he thought. The bad would follow when Carla broke her news.

He was at his desk when Joan arrived.

“Slept somewhere else, huh?”

“Joan…”

“You’re wearing yesterday’s suit.”

“I like the suit; why can’t I wear it two days in a row?”

“Okay, stick with that story.”

“There’s something on your desk for immediate action.”

Joan left, and he heard her calling the messenger service.

Stone finished reading the Times and had started the crossword when Joan buzzed.

“Bill Eggers on line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Bill.”

“How the hell did you do it?” Eggers asked. “How did you get her to sign?”

“I simply asked her nicely,” Stone replied. “Apparently, no one had bothered to do that.”

“I’ve already talked to Harlan, and he’s thrilled. He announced a new acquisition this morning, too.”

“I saw it in the Times. I guess you knew about this yesterday, Bill.”

“Sure. We did the legal work.”

“You might have dropped a hint.”

“Yeah, sure, and have the SEC all over us both like a case of the flu. Don’t worry; Harlan is sending you a check. I told him to pay you directly.”

“And I get to keep it all? Gee, whiz!”

“Don’t worry, the aircraft-leasing deal left us flush.”

“I never worry about you, Bill. Thanks.” He hung up, and Joan buzzed again.

“Yes?”

“A messenger just delivered a check from Harlan Deal for twenty-five thousand dollars! What the hell did you do for Harlan Deal? I didn’t even know you knew him!”

“Met him yesterday, did some work for him last evening.”

“Now I can pay the rest of the bills!”

“See how good I am to you?”

Bob Cantor met his old service buddy at “ 21.” He hadn’t been there in years, but Crow had, judging from the way they were greeted and seated. They were at a corner table on the ground floor, away from the hubbub of the horseshoe-shaped seating areas.

“So, Bob,” Crow said, “how you been?” Charlie was dressed in a five-thousand-dollar suit, a five-hundred-dollar shirt and a two-hundred-dollar necktie with a matching one-hundred-dollar pocket square. He still managed to look like a real estate tycoon who sold used cars on the side.

“I been good, Charlie, and from what I read about you in the papers, so have you.”

“Oh yeah. Boy, it’s been sweet.” He ordered martinis for both of them.

Cantor took a small sip of his drink. “I was kind of surprised to hear from you, Charlie, after that blood oath we all took.”

“Come on, Bob, it’s been thirty years; we can talk now without any problems.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“How have you spent the last thirty?”

“Well, I joined the NYPD when I got back from ’Nam and did twenty-five years there, fifteen of them as a detective, then I retired.”

“How do you spend your time now?”

“Oh, I dabble in photography,” Cantor said, not mentioning that he sometimes kicked in a bedroom door before dabbling. “And you’re in the real estate game?”

“I am.”

“Married?”

“Third time lucky, I hope. How about you?”

“Nah, I stayed a bachelor. I got a couple girls I see from time to time.”

They ordered lunch and chatted amiably, as if they were dear old friends. Cantor finally popped the question. “Seen any of the other guys?”

“You know,” Crow replied, “I was thinking we should have a reunion of the old band of thieves.”

“You in touch with them?”

“I could probably track them down,” Crow said.

“Any idea what they’re doing?”