Hot Pursuit (7 page)

STONE CALLED
Herbie Fisher. “Hey there,” Herbie said.

“Thanks for lunch yesterday.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ve got a small piece of business that would be good for an associate. It’s nothing much now, but it could grow.”

“What sort of business?”

“Her name is Pat Frank. She’s just started a flight department business that would manage the maintenance and paperwork for owner/pilots of jets. Also, she owns a small apartment building on the East Side, and she’ll need legal work for that.”

“There’s a smart kid down the hall named Richard Searle who would be good for it. He owns a small airplane, too, but I’m not sure what kind.”

“Great. Have him call Pat this morning and make a date to meet with her.” Stone gave Herbie the address and phone number. “Thanks, kiddo.” He hung up and dictated the letter to Pat’s doctor tenant, signed it, and told Joan to mail it.

There, he thought, I’ve got that one off my plate. He didn’t know how wrong he was.

Dino called and asked him to lunch at that place on the East Side. Stone took a cab and entered by the front door; he was ushered in by one of the staff wearing the ubiquitous black suit and green tie.

“Good day, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “Welcome back. Commissioner Bacchetti is waiting for you in the bar, second floor.” Stone took the elevator and found Dino in the cave-like, paneled room that sported a richly stocked bar and a few tables.

Stone joined Dino at a table. “You think they have Knob Creek in this joint?”

“If they don’t, I’ll shoot the bartender,” Dino said. “You drinking at lunch these days?”

“Not really, just thought I’d ask.”

“Phillip,” Dino called to the bartender.

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“Do you stock a weird bourbon called Knob Creek?”

“Yes, sir, ever since Mr. Barrington joined us. Your Laphroaig is in stock, too.”

“Thank you, Phillip.”

“How did they know?” Stone asked.

“Word gets around.”

“You’ve moved up to a single malt?”

“I think it’s more in line with my station in life.”

“I think you’re right,” Stone said.

“You’re agreeing with my tastes?”

“Once in a great while.”

“That about describes the frequency.”

Others began to arrive in the bar, and the dining room filled quickly.

“Let’s see,” Stone said. “From here I can see a former secretary of state, a Supreme Court justice, and a producer of Broadway plays and Hollywood movies. There’s also a great actress over there in the corner, having lunch with a very good actress, and that guy with a political show on MSNBC. Are there any nobodies in this club?”

“Probably, but none that you haven’t heard of.”

“Who proposed you?”

“Salton, just like you. Bill Eggers was my seconder.”

“It annoys me that Eggers could have proposed me, but didn’t.”

“Relax, it’s considered bad form to propose people you’re in business with. The founders didn’t want this to be a club of businessmen, and there are very few of them on the membership list.”

“Where is the membership list?”

“Downstairs there’s a board on the wall with all the names. When a member comes into the building a peg is put next to his name. When he leaves, the peg is removed. You can tell at a glance who’s here and who isn’t.”

“It’s a very quiet dining room, isn’t it?”

“These are very quiet people, who are accustomed to being heard without raising their voices.”

A well-known literary personage in the center of the dining room raised an index finger without looking away from his companion, and a waiter instantly appeared at his side.

“That’s how you summon a waiter here,” Dino said. “A finger is all it takes.”

The mayor of New York City, formerly the commissioner of police and Dino’s mentor, entered the dining room with the senior senator from New York, Stanley Bauer. He waved at Stone and Dino, then came over to their table in the bar.

“Welcome aboard, Stone,” Tom Donnelly said.

“Thank you, Mayor,” Stone replied, shaking his hand.

“Dino, you seem to be keeping a lid on things.”

“That’s because I sit on the lid,” Dino said. “Something you told me to do a long time ago.”

“It’s always a pleasure to hear my words reverberate from those I instructed,” the mayor said, then returned to his own table.

“He hasn’t changed,” Stone said.

“He’s more relaxed, I think. It’s a little scary to think he finds the mayor’s job less stressful than mine.”

Stone laughed. “Are you finding it stressful, Dino?”

“All the time—you just have to learn to live with it.”

Stone looked up and saw a handsome man in a pin-striped suit and a dark, clipped beard enter the room. He wore a diamond earring in one ear. “Did you see that guy at the Saltons’ house in D.C.?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Holly said something about him, I can’t remember exactly what, but it wasn’t favorable.”

“He’s a Saudi. He’s something either at the embassy in Washington or the UN embassy here, I’m not sure which.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen it in the papers—always on the party pages—but I can’t remember.”

“Who’s he with?”

“I don’t know the guy. Why are you interested in them?”

“I just feel as though I ought to be interested—something Holly said, I guess. I wish I could remember what it was. Maybe I should call her.”

“Cell phones are a no-no here,” Dino said. “Texting is okay, or e-mails, but not speaking into them.”

They placed their orders but kept the table in the bar.

“So, Dino, what’s keeping you awake nights?”

“Nothing keeps me awake, I sleep like a stone, you should pardon the expression.”

“Not even terrorism?”

“What’s the point of losing sleep?” Dino asked. “It wouldn’t solve any problems. I do better if I sleep when I’m in bed and worry when I’m awake.”

Their lunch arrived. “The food is excellent here,” Stone said.

“There’s a saying here,” Dino said, “if the food were any better, you couldn’t get a table.”

HOLLY GOT
to her desk on Monday morning at 6:40
AM
. Ten minutes later a young woman she didn’t know appeared in the doorway to her office.

“Yes?” Holly said, then looked again. “My God,” she said. “Millie.”

“Is this what you had in mind?” Millicent Martindale asked.

“It’s actually better than what I had in mind. Sit down.”

Ms. Martindale arranged herself artfully in a chair.

“Do you have any idea why I made you do the do-over?” Holly asked.

“I suppose you’re adopting the sexism of the men around here.”

“The men around here aren’t sexist,” Holly said.

“Then they’re unlike the men anywhere else.”

“The difference is, they’re all working for a woman, and if you walk up and down the halls of the West Wing, you’ll see that a small majority of the people at the desks are women. Men work for them.”

“Okay, so why’d you put me through this?”

“Because I want you to be effective while you’re working here. If you look like somebody who doesn’t give a damn about how she looks to other people, you will put yourself at a distinct disadvantage.”

“You mean, I only get to make a first impression once?”

“If you want to reduce it to a cliché, yes. You might recall I demanded something else from you besides clothes and a hairdo.”

“Oh, yes, the attitude adjustment.”

“You don’t seem to be quite there yet.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I know, it’s hard to present yourself well when you don’t give a shit what people think of you. The trick is to start giving a shit. If you do, they’ll look upon your advice more favorably, and they’ll remember it, instead of trying to forget it.” Holly sighed. “I don’t know why I have to explain this to you.”

“My parents have been explaining it to me my whole life.”

“Try and remember that your parents don’t work in the White House, so there’s no point in continuing to rebel against them here.”

“I get your point, I really do,” she said, looking at her nails. “I despise nail polish,” she said as an afterthought.

“Better keep a bottle in your desk so you can repair chips.”

“You’re not wearing nail polish.”

“It’s clear—you might try that, if color offends you.”

“I’ll do that.”

“How’s your memory?” Holly asked.

“Excellent.”

Holly picked up a thick file on her desk and tossed it to her. “That’s the latest on Al Qaeda. Memorize it. There’ll be more tomorrow, if not sooner. It’s classified Top Secret and Need to Know, but your security clearance came through on Friday, and you need to know, because I say you do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Millie said, then got up and went to her desk alongside that of Marge in Holly’s anteroom.

Holly was alone at a table in the White House Mess, having lunch, when another woman pulled up a chair and set down her tray. “Mind if I join you, Holly?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Ann Keaton, the president’s chief of staff.” She extended a hand.

Holly shook it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot.”

“I understand we have a mutual acquaintance in Stone Barrington.”

“We do?”

“It’s more in the past tense for me—I’m seeing somebody else now.”

“Good for you.”

“I just wanted to clear the air, because you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“The air is clear,” Holly said. “I look forward to working with you.”

Ann had some soup. “I hear you’ve been working practically underground for a while.”

Holly laughed. “Practically. Now I get to see the sun sometimes.”

“I know how you feel—working in the campaign was like that for me. I hear you found an apartment already. Where?”

“Down Pennsylvania Avenue a good ways, over an antique shop.”

“Have the security people vetted it yet?”

“They spent most of the weekend with me, stomping around the place in their work boots.”

“And you gave them a key?”

“Yes, and they were kind enough to give me my entry code, after they installed the new security system. They put in a direct line to the White House switchboard, too.”

“Did they explain that any intrusions will alert our security police, instead of the old alarm system operators?”

“Yes, though I’m not sure yet that that is an improvement.”

“You’ll find that it is. Did they repair the plaster and clean up after themselves?”

“They did, amazingly enough. Then I had to explain to my landlord why his key doesn’t work anymore and how he can’t come into the apartment unless I’m there.”

“How are you feeling about the security cameras?”

“I’m okay with that, now, after taping over the ones in my bedroom and bathroom.”

Ann laughed. “I did the same thing. I expected to get flak for it, but I didn’t.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll look forward to no flak.”

“Kate . . . I’m sorry, the president . . . thinks not just highly, but warmly of you—more so than just about anybody on the staff.”

“That’s very kind of her, but she has always been very kind to me, since I worked for Lance and, later, for her, at the Agency.”

“Do you stay in touch with Lance?”

“He called on my first day to welcome me to Washington. That’s it, so far.”

“You need to be careful with Lance.”

“I’ve been careful with Lance since the first time I clapped eyes on him,” Holly said, “and I’ve never seen any reason to change that.”

“Holly, I think you’re going to do very well in the White House.”

“I hope you’re right, Ann.”

The two finished their lunch talking about whatever came up, then they walked back to their offices, together most of the way.

THE FOLLOWING DAY
Stone got a call from Bob Cantor.

“Hey, Bob.”

“Stone, we’re done at Pat Frank’s place. We wired her apartment, the front door, and the doctor’s office, after hours, and we changed the relevant locks. She’s about as secure as she’s going to get. Oh, and she does have a gun. When she was an airline pilot she qualified to be armed aboard her flights, and when the airline went belly-up, she kept the gun. She’s licensed to carry in Kansas, but unlicensed anywhere else, except on a dead airline.”

“Did you take it away from her?”

“I tried.”

“Okay, I’ll have that conversation with her.”

“Somebody should. She strikes me as the sort who would use it if she felt the need.”

“She strikes me the same way.”

“And she may have the need,” Cantor said.

“You ran Kevin Keyes’s name?”

“Yep, and I came up with three arrests for incidents of domestic abuse, in one of which a gun got waved around. That was the last one, when he was living with Pat Frank.”

“Who did the waving?”

“He did.”

“Convictions?”

“None. He agreed to take an anger management course after the third one and did a few hours of community service.”

“Did they revoke his carry license?”

“Nope.”

“Figures.”

“It’s Kansas, what can I tell you?”

“Any other concerns, Bob?”

“I talked her into letting me put a really good camera covering the front door. She can check it on a screen in the entryway coat closet before she buzzes anybody in. Trouble is, an intruder could ring any of the rental apartment bells and get buzzed in, if the renter doesn’t take the time to communicate with the one buzzing, or if they’re expecting someone and assume that the one buzzing is their guest, and just buzz ’em in.”

“Maybe Pat should have screens installed in the three apartments.”

“Pat doesn’t know her renters yet, and she’s uncomfortable with asking them to have a screen installed in their apartments. She doesn’t want to frighten them. I offered to frighten them for her, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“Maybe I’ll write them a letter saying that someone has been troubling the landlord and not to admit anyone unless they know for sure who’s at the door.”

“Good idea, if you can talk her into it.”

“She’s coming over to dinner tonight. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good luck, buddy.”

Stone’s bell rang at the stroke of seven. He tapped a code into his computer, and the screen showed Pat, in color and high definition, waiting at the door. He pressed a button to start a video, then he pressed another button. “Yes? Who is it?”

“How many people could it be?” she asked.

“There are eight million stories in the naked city,” he replied. “You could be any one of them.”

“Would you rather I go home and sulk?”

“I’m in the study.” He pressed the buzzer, and she came in. A minute later, she appeared in the doorway, and he motioned her over to his desk and played the video, with sound.

“Wow,” she breathed. “Can I do that with my system?”

“If you take the trouble to read the manual. I can do that with any outside door and inside the garage, as well. And the three people who live in the house next door—my secretary, my housekeeper, and Fred—can do the same thing. You should give your renters the same equipment, or one night they’ll inadvertently buzz in somebody who’s not delivering Chinese food or pizza.”

“You’ve been talking to Bob Cantor.”

“I certainly have.” He got up from his desk and poured them both a Knob Creek.

“I just don’t want to spend the money to put the equipment in the rental apartments.”

“You’ve been given a free building, but you don’t want to spend a few grand to secure it? If you don’t, then one fine night one of your tenants will buzz in the wrong person, and all the money you’ve spent on Bob Cantor’s services will be for naught. And worse, you’ll probably end up shooting the guy, and you will not believe how much trouble you’d be in and how much it would cost you to get out of it.”

“Are you going to give me the lecture about my gun?”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, you’re in the Emerald City, where the local powers frown on the possession of firearms.”

“And I can’t get a carry license here?”

“Nope, not unless you can demonstrate that you regularly walk around in possession of large sums of cash or a briefcase full of diamonds. I can help you get a license to take your weapon to a firing range in the city, which is also a license to have it in your apartment, but you can’t carry it anywhere, except to the range. How about that?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have Joan get the application sent to you, but remember this: the first thing you have to learn about possessing a firearm is to never,
never
shoot anybody.”

“What if he’s shooting at me?”

“Maybe if he’s already hit you.”

“Oh, great!”

“All right, let’s say you shoot the guy under perfectly legal circumstances: you then call nine-one-one, ask for the police, tell them there’s been a shooting and to send two ambulances.”

“Why two?”

“One for him and one for you. You must remember that you’re going to be in terrible, terrible shape, knowing that you’ve shot another human being. Spend at least one night in the hospital getting over it. That will impress the assistant DA, who will be assigned to decide whether to prosecute you.”

“Okay, I’ll remember that.”

“And your second call will be to me. I’ll get there before the ambulance takes you away. And, in the unlikely event that the cops arrive before I do, I want you sitting down with the gun unloaded and the slide locked back and at the other end of the coffee table from you. Cops don’t really want to shoot people—not many of them, anyway—but they know that if they enter a room and see a person dead on the floor and another person holding a firearm, they can pretty much shoot first and ask questions later, and you don’t want to put armed cops in that position.”

Pat took a swig of her bourbon. “And why are you going on and on about this?”

“Because I’ve had a look at Kevin Keyes’s arrest record.”

“You mean that incident when I threw him out of the house and he objected?”

“That incident and the two before it with other women.”

She set down her glass. “What other women?”

“Does it matter? You were his third strike, and he’s still not out.”

“Good God.”

“And now, it’s time you told me all about him.”