Lucid Intervals (3 page)

“Stone, this is Mr. Pickles, one of my security detail. He or one of his colleagues will be required to be in the house when I am here. Don’t worry—he will be quite invisible.”

“As you wish,” Stone said. He showed the man how the security system operated and where the kitchen was. “There’s an entrance to the common garden from the kitchen,” he said.

“I know,” the man replied. They were the only words he spoke.

Stone put Felicity’s cases in the dressing room opposite his, then went to his own. There was a note from his secretary, Joan Robert-son, on his dresser.

Stone, you really must put your hands on some money if you are going to preserve your credit rating. The bills are piled high.

Stone hated getting notes from Joan, but he knew she was right. He wondered how long it would take him to pry Felicity’s hundred thousand pounds from Her Majesty’s grasp.

The bedroom was dark when he emerged from his dressing room, with only a shaft of moonlight through a window to light his way. Felicity was already in bed and, as he discovered, already naked.

She drew him to her. “I want to sleep until noon,” she said. “Make me even more tired than I am.”

Stone did his very best.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Stone awoke early, snuck out of bed and left a message on Joan’s phone not to buzz him during the morning. Then he returned to bed to be there when Felicity awoke. He was sound asleep when he felt a hand run down his belly.

Stone opened an eye. “Did you sleep well?”

“Extremely well,” she replied, rolling on top of him and giving him a wet kiss.

“It’s not noon yet,” he said.

“Then let’s use our remaining time well,” she said, straddling him and helping him inside her.

AT NOON, STONE’S
housekeeper, a Greek woman named Helene, sent up breakfast for two in the dumbwaiter. She must have had a conversation with Mr. Pickles, he thought.

They sat up in bed and ate the large English breakfast off trays.

“Now,” Stone said, when they were on coffee, “just what is it you want done?”

Felicity took a dainty sip of her coffee and set the cup down. “There is a person called Stanley Whitestone,” she said, “or at least that’s what he used to be called back when he worked for us.”

“What is he called now?” Stone asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.

“Do you have a photograph of him?”

Felicity reached for her briefcase on the bedside table, opened it, produced an envelope and handed it to Stone.

Stone opened the envelope and extracted a photograph—two photographs, actually, a head-on shot and a profile—of a man, apparently in his thirties, with short, dark hair and an aquiline nose. “He’s pretty nondescript, isn’t he?”

“My service has always preferred nondescript types,” Felicity replied. “Perhaps that is why I haven’t married.”

“Are you required to marry someone in your service?”

“No, but that is the preferred arrangement. It makes security so much simpler if both spouses are employed; then they can tell the same lies about their work to their acquaintances.”

“How old is this photograph?” Stone asked.

“Twelve years,” she said.

“So he could look quite different now?”

“I would be very surprised if he didn’t,” she said. “It was one of his gifts to look different when required.”

“And what did Mr. Whitestone do to make you willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds to get your hands on him?”

“Quite simply, he betrayed us,” she said. “Oh, not to the Soviet Union or the People’s Republic of China but to Mammon.”

“So he liked money. What else is new?”

“What’s new is that he did not retire from our service to make a fortune in the City,” she said, referring to London’s financial district. “Instead he remained in the service for years while selling information that made him very wealthy.”

“To whom?”

“To whomever would pay him for it, presumably.”

“I see. And why didn’t you have him arrested and tried?”

“He vanished a moment before we knew what he had done,” she said, “and, in any case, a trial would have been out of the question.”

“A great embarrassment?”

“A great humiliation,” she replied. “He had risen to near the top. A public recounting of his sins might have destroyed the service.”

“Destroyed it? How could that happen?”

“Believe me, it could have happened. Actually, it still could.”

“What other information do you have about this man?” Stone asked.

“He has been seen twice only a few blocks from here: in the lobby of the Seagram Building, at Park Avenue and Fifty-second Street,” she said.

Stone was well acquainted with the building, since the law firm for which he was of counsel was housed there, as was one of his favorite restaurants, the Four Seasons.

“What does he do there?” Stone asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “He could work there, he could have been visiting someone who worked there—we just don’t know.”

“Who saw him?”

“A member of Parliament who once worked for our service.”

“And what description did he give you?”

“None,” she replied.

“I don’t understand. If he saw the man, why didn’t he describe him?”

“He called our firm and reported the sighting but didn’t wish to discuss it on the phone. He made an appointment to meet with a member of my service who works in our UN delegation, but he didn’t keep it.”

“You make that sound sinister,” Stone said.

“It
is
sinister,” she replied. “The MP has not been seen again by anyone.”

“You’re right,” Stone said. “That
is
sinister.”

“I am happy you perceive it as such,” Felicity said, “because I am fond of you, and I would not wish you to suffer for a lack of caution.”

“So, let’s summarize,” Stone said. “Stanley Whitestone is smart, wily, nondescript in appearance and inclined to kill rather than be discovered.”

“That is correct.”

“Surely there is something else you can tell me about him,” Stone said.

Felicity looked thoughtful. “He is fond of women, fine dining and most of the arts—the opera in particular.”

“Is there anyone in your service in New York who might recognize him on sight?”

“I might; I knew him as a young agent. He had a peculiar way of walking, as if he had had some childhood disease that slightly crippled him.”

“A limp. That could help.”

“Not a limp, exactly, just an odd gait. He could walk normally for short periods, if he concentrated, but he always reverted to the gait.”

“I’ll add an odd gait to his list of traits,” Stone said. “You haven’t told me what to do with him if I find him.”

“Invite him to this house,” she said, “then sit on him until I can get here.”

“In this country, we call that kidnapping.”

“Well, yeessss,” Felicity drawled, “there is that. Try not to get caught doing it, or I will have to deny all knowledge of your activities.”

“I see,” Stone replied, and he did.

4

F
elicity dressed and departed in her borrowed Rolls, and Stone dressed and went down to his office. There was little on his desk to demand his attention. He began thinking about where he might borrow a couple of hundred thousand dollars to square his more pressing debts.

The law firm of Woodman & Weld, which employed him to handle cases they did not wish to be seen to handle, came to mind, but Bill Eggers, his law school friend and the managing partner of the firm, was not a ready lender, and it would be humiliating for Stone to beg.

His banker liked him, but Stone had already, with great reluctance, taken out a large loan secured by his house. He could pay some of the bills with his credit cards, but that would buy him less than a month.

There was a knock at the door, and Joan stood there, smiling. “Good morning!” she said cheerfully.

Stone looked at her suspiciously. “What’s so good about it? I read your note.”

“You’ll be happy to know that the money arrived, and I’ve paid all the bills, including the loan on the house.”

Stone stared at her, stupefied. “Have you started drinking in the mornings?”

“Of course not, silly.”

“What money are you talking about?”

“The money you were expecting.”

“Have
I
started drinking in the mornings?”

“Well, I don’t know. Have you?”

“Joan, I am completely baffled. Please explain this to me.”

She looked at him as if he were simple. “That nice young man said that he had retained you, and he handed me a million dollars in cash. I couldn’t get to the bank fast enough.”

“Was that nice young man named Herbie Fisher?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“You give that money back immediately,” Stone said sternly. “I have no wish to have anything to do with Herbie Fisher.”

“Get it back? Are you insane? This is a gift from God.”

“It’s a gift from hell,” Stone said. “Send it back to him.”

“Stone, this is how it works,” Joan said, as if to a child. “I get money, I deposit it in your bank account, I send a check to the IRS for the taxes, I pay off the bank loan, I write checks to everyone we owe, and I mail them immediately. How do you expect me to get the money back?”

“Stop payment on the checks.”

“You want me to stop payment on a check to the IRS? They’ll come and get you.”

“Well, stop the others, then.”

“The bank has already debited your account to pay off the loan. I can’t stop that, either. And those two payments took most of the money.”

Stone put his face in his hands and tried not to sob.

“I don’t understand,” Joan said. “All you have to do now is represent Fisher.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Stone said. “You’ve sold my soul to the Devil.”

“No, I’ve just paid your bills with money you earned or are going to earn.”

“I dread to think of what I’m going to have to do to earn it,” Stone said.

“Well, just chip away at the retainer with little jobs for Herbie.”

“A little job for Herbie has a way of becoming a minefield.”

“Well, then, tread carefully,” Joan said. She turned and flounced back down the hallway to her office. Then she stopped and came back. “I forgot to tell you that that woman was back yesterday.”

“What woman?”

“The one who stands across the street with that big man and just stares at the house. She’s been there for three of the past five days.”

“Dolce,” Stone said tonelessly.

“Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter?”

“What, didn’t you know that?”

“I’ve never seen her before,” Joan replied. “I thought she was locked in a rubber room in her father’s house. What is it with you and that woman, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stone said wearily.

“Try me.”

“All right, Dolce and I once had a … thing.”

“A thing?”

“We were very, very briefly married.”

“You? Married?”
she began laughing.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s funnier than you know. I can’t imagine such a thing.”

“Neither can I,” Stone replied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until she started shooting at me.”

“
That’s
who shot you that time, right before I came to work for you?”

“That’s who shot me.”

“It was just a flesh wound, right?”

“It hurt a lot.”

“And after that, the old man locked her up?”

“If he hadn’t, the District Attorney would have locked her up in a much less welcoming place. I think Eduardo may have bought himself a judge to keep her out of the slammer. Come to think of it, he may have already owned a judge or two.”

“How does one
own
a judge?” Joan asked.

“Don’t be naïve. One
buys
a judge. With money.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that sort of thing still goes on.”

“It has never stopped. Only the price has changed.”

“I’ve still got that gun you gave me in my desk drawer,” Joan said. “If she crosses to this side of the street, I’m going to shoot her.”

“Joan, do not shoot her unless she shows you a gun.
Then
shoot her. I’ll get you off, I promise.”

“Well!” Joan said, then flounced off again.

“Get me Bob Cantor!” Stone shouted after her. He had found, over the years, that one got more respect if someone else placed one’s phone calls.

Seconds later his phone buzzed. “Cantor on line one,” Joan said.

Stone picked up the instrument. “Morning, Bob,” he said.

“To the rest of the world, it’s afternoon,” Bob replied.

“Oh, sorry. I had a late breakfast meeting.”

“I’ll
bet
you did,” Bob said. “What’s up?”

“Work,” Stone said. “How soon can you round up Willie and Peter Leahy and get to my office?”

“Hang on.” Bob put him on hold, and then he came back. “Half an hour. Willie and Peter are here now.”

“Half an hour is good,” Stone said.

“How long is this going to take?”

“It depends on how lucky we get,” Stone said.

“Oh, one of those.”

“Yeah, one of those,” Stone said. “See you in half an hour.”

5

B
ob Cantor and the Leahy brothers arranged themselves in chairs around the coffee table in Stone’s office. Cantor had been a detective in the 19th Precinct squad when Stone had been on the force; the Leahys were of a later vintage, but Bob trusted them, so Stone did, too.

“What we’ve got here …” Stone began, then stopped. “No, that’s not it. I was going to say a missing person, but it’s more than that.”

“A missing person who doesn’t want to be found?” Bob asked.

“That’s a lot closer, but there’s more,” Stone said. “All I can do is tell you everything the client has told me.”

“Who’s the client?” Bob asked.

“I’m afraid I’ve signed a document that prevents me from answering your question,” Stone said. “Let’s just say it’s somebody from overseas.”