Lucid Intervals (4 page)

“Okay, let’s say that,” Bob replied, and the Leahys nodded as one man, as they did almost everything. The brothers were not twins but very close.

Stone handed each of the three men a copy of the photograph Felicity had given Stone. “This man used to be employed by an intelligence agency. His name used to be Stanley Whitestone.”

“How old is the photo?” Cantor asked.

“Twelve years. It was, apparently, the last picture anyone ever took of him.”

“Was he a spy?”

“I’m not sure what his duties were, but let’s assume he was. It will make it easier to understand how hard it is going to be to find him.”

Cantor shrugged. The Leahys looked sleepy.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Could you bring us a pot of coffee, please?” Stone continued. “Mr. Whitestone left his employers under very suspicious circumstances, only a day before their suspicions were confirmed. His crime was selling information to people who used it to make money.”

“Did his employers turn over his finances?”

“I haven’t been told, but it is what they would do.”

“Did they come up with anything that might give us a lead?”

“I can inquire about that, but if such information existed, I expect I would already have it.”

“So, exactly what do we have to go on?” Cantor asked.

“Three things,” Stone said. “One: the photograph. Two: the fact that someone who once knew him saw him twice in the lobby of the Seagram Building during the past few weeks. And three: the person who saw him, who was, incidentally, a member of the legislature of his country, has not been heard from again.”

“Somebody offed him?” Willie Leahy asked, coming to life.

“That is the assumption,” Stone said, “so watch your ass.”

Joan came in with a coffee tray. “Did you say something about Willie watching my ass?” she asked.

“No,” Stone said.

“I was, though,” Willie added. “Nice.”

“You’re sweet,” Joan said, flouncing out of the office.

“So,” Peter Leahy said, “we stake out the Seagram Building?”

“No,” Cantor said. “First, we find out on what days Whitestone was spotted. Then we review the security tapes. I can get hold of those.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “Excuse me a minute.” He went to his desk, picked up his phone and dialed Felicity’s cell number, which was on a card she had given him.

“Yeesss?” she drawled.

“Can you give me the dates on which Whitestone was seen in the Seagram Building?” he asked.

“One moment,” she said. He heard high heels on a marble floor, then a door closing. “To the best of my recollection, one of the dates was near the end of last month. The other was a couple of weeks before, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Thank you. Have you, in the light of day, remembered anything else at all that might help me?”

“I’m afraid not. See you in the early evening.” She hung up.

Stone walked back to the sofa and sat down. “Both sightings were last month: one near the end of the month, one a couple of weeks earlier. The client couldn’t be more specific.”

“Anything about personal habits?” Cantor asked.

“Women, fine restaurants, and fine arts, especially the opera.”

“We’re not going to have to go to the opera, are we?” Willie Leahy asked.

“You are, unless the Seagram tapes pan out,” Stone said.

Willie made a disgruntled noise.

“I like the opera,” Peter said.

Stone was surprised that he liked something his brother didn’t. “Okay, you can volunteer for the opera house.”

Cantor was looking at the photograph. “If a guy wants to get lost, he has to do one of two things: he has to go somewhere nobody would think to look for him, or he has to change his appearance, or both.”

“He’s not a Nazi war criminal,” Stone said. “It’s unlikely that he would have a network of supporters; he’d have to disappear on his own. Of course, he probably had time to set up an identity, and he probably was acquainted with people who could supply documents.”

“What country are we talking about, Stone?” Cantor asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know fucking everything you can tell me and because it might matter.”

“Britain.”

“Then he’d lose his accent for starters. A Brit accent is too easy to remember.”

Peter Leahy was looking at the photo. “He might have lost some hair, too. He’s got kind of a high forehead, and the hair in front of his sideburns is thin.”

“He’s had twelve years to go gray, too,” Willie said. “And most guys gain some weight in early middle age.”

Cantor spoke up. “British guys love their tailors; I’ll bet he’s still wearing Savile Row suits but not from whoever made his clothes in the old days. That’s one of the things the tracers would check first. Let’s find out what English tailors are working in town.”

“Good idea,” Stone said, “and I’m sure you’ll have some others. But right now the Seagram Building security tapes are our best bet.”

“I agree,” Bob said, standing up. The Leahys stood up with him.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” Stone said. “Things will come to you in your sleep.”

The three men filed out, and Joan appeared at the door. “Herbie Fisher is here to see you,” she said, then raised a hand to stop his response. “He knows you’re here, because he just saw his uncle Bob come out of your office, and he’s paid for your time in advance.”

Stone sighed. “All right, send him in, but interrupt me after five minutes. Make up a meeting or something.” He sat down and awaited his fate.

6

H
erbie Fisher walked into Stone’s office wearing a surprisingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking my case.” ingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking

“What case?” Stone asked.

“
My
case,” Herbie said plaintively. “I told you last night.”

“You told me somebody was trying to kill you.”

“Right,” Herbie said. “That’s my case.”

“Herbie,” Stone said with as much patience as he could muster. “You are an attorney, are you not?” Herbie had gotten some sort of degree from an Internet diploma mill and had actually passed the bar exam—or, more likely, had paid someone to take it for him.

“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said, “I’m a bona fide lawyer.”

“Well, you’re a member of the bar,” Stone said. He had seen evidence of the fact in a list of those passing the exam in a legal newspaper. “And as such, you should know that people trying to kill you is not a legal case.”

“Sure, it is,” Herbie replied, with the confidence of a newly minted pseudo-attorney.

“How is it a case?” Stone asked. “Are you suing somebody? Is somebody suing you?”

“Not yet,” Herbie said, failing to choose an option. “But I’ll sue, if I can find out who’s trying to kill me.”

“Well, Herbie, you let me know when you find out, and I’ll sue them for you.”

“Great!” Herbie said, as if his prayers had been answered.

“Anything else?” Stone asked, looking at his watch.

“That’s a nice watch,” Herbie said. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a Cartier,” Stone said.

Herbie produced a small notebook and took a pen from his pocket. “How do you spell that?”

“T-H-A-T.”

“No, that Cardeay name.”

Stone spelled it for him.

“Where did you buy it?”

“From Cartier,” Stone replied. “They have a big store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.”

Herbie wrote that down, too.

“Is that an English suit you’re wearing?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, do you like it?” Herbie replied.

“It’s very becoming. Who made it for you?”

“An English tailor.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam Leung,” Herbie replied.

“Leung is a Chinese name,” Stone pointed out.

“Yeah, but he makes English suits. He makes any kind of suit you want.”

Stone jotted down the name. “Where is he?”

“Lex and about Sixty-fourth, upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Anything else?” Why the hell hadn’t Joan interrupted him?

“Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t we just talk?”

“Talk about what?” Stone asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation.

“I don’t know,” Herbie said, shrugging. “What do lawyers and clients talk about?”

“Legal problems,” Stone said.

“Like wills?”

“Sometimes.” Stone looked at his watch again.

“You gotta be somewhere?”

“I have another meeting,” Stone said.

“With who?”

“With a client.” Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“You said to interrupt you after five minutes.”

“It’s been at least half an hour,” Stone replied.

“No, it just seems that way when you’re with Herbie.”

“You have a point. Send him right in as soon as he arrives.”

“Herbie?”

“No, my other client.”

“Oh,
that
client,” Joan said, then hung up.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Herbie,” Stone said, looking at his watch again.

“Why? What did you do?”

This was turning into an Abbott & Costello routine. “Another client is due here right now, and I have to see him.”

“Can’t I stay until he arrives?” Herbie asked.

“No, he wouldn’t like that. It’s a client confidentiality thing.”

“Can’t I just wait outside until he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid not, Herbie. Good day.”

“Good day,” Herbie repeated. “I like that—‘Good day.’ ”

“Good day,” Stone said again. “It means you’re leaving.”

“Oh, okay,” Herbie said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good day. I’ll see you when you have a legal problem to discuss.”

Herbie shook his hand. “Good day, Stone.”

“Good day and good-bye,” Stone said. He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out.”

“Won’t I run into your client if I go out that way? That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”

Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.

“Cantor.”

“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”

“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “Herbie was wearing a very nice suit.”

“Yeah, he’s dressing better since he got rich.”

“He said his suit was made by a tailor named Sam Leung at Lexington and Sixty-fourth. You might show Mr. Leung the photo of Stanley Whitestone.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call Willie. He and Peter are canvassing tailor shops right now.”

“Any luck with the Seagram Building security tapes?”

“I got somebody running them down right now.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Well, yeah, Stone. What else did you expect?”

“Bob, was Herbie dropped on his head as a baby?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Cantor replied. “See ya.”

Stone hung up. Then Joan came in again.

“I’ve got news,” she said.

“What news?’

“Dolce is hanging out across the street again. You want me to shoot her?”

Stone thought for a moment. “No, but call Eduardo Bianchi’s secretary and find out if he’ll see me for lunch tomorrow.”

7

S
tone drove out to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, to Eduardo Bianchi’s elegant Palladian home on the beach. He was greeted at the door by the wiry and slightly sinister butler who had served Eduardo for as long as anyone could remember. Rumor had it that the man had once served as an assassin for Eduardo back in the days when he had been operating as a Mafia chief of such rank that his name was not known even at the capo level. No law enforcement agency had ever recorded him, followed him or, apparently, even known of his existence.

Now Eduardo Bianchi operated at a level where mayors, governors and even presidents sought his counsel, and he served on the boards of a number of New York’s most prestigious arts organizations and charities.

Stone joined Eduardo—now probably in his late eighties if not older—at a table shaded by a wide umbrella overlooking the Roman-style pool.

“Stone,” Eduardo said, rising and offering his hand, which was cool, dry and strong, “How very good to see you. Please sit down and have some lunch.”

Stone took a chair and, once again, marveled at the old man’s youthful appearance and elegant tailoring. “You’re looking very well, Eduardo.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Eduardo said, pouring him a glass of Pinot Grigio from a chilled bottle. “What are you working on these days? Your career is always so interesting to me.”

“At the moment, I’m trying to locate a gentleman who left a British intelligence agency some years ago with a great deal of knowledge that he put to work in the marketplace.”

“Fascinating,” Eduardo replied. “And for whom are you trying to locate him?”

“For his former employers.”

“You actually know people in British intelligence?”

“Only one person, really, but she is well placed in that community.”

“And what will they do with this gentleman when you have found him? Slit his throat in some quiet, English-gentlemanly way?”

“I have been assured that that will not occur, or I would not have accepted the job.”

Eduardo smiled. “Ah, you are such an ethical man, Stone. You know, it is often said that violence never solves anything, but I have found over the years that the correct degree of violence, discreetly applied, can solve a great many things.”

Stone was surprised; Eduardo rarely made reference to that part of his past.

Lunch was served: langoustine on a bed of saffron rice with much garlic butter. The Pinot Grigio was a perfect accompaniment.

Stone waited until the dishes had been taken away and coffee served before speaking of why he had come. “Eduardo, there appears to be a problem that I need your help in resolving.”

“Something requiring violence?” Eduardo asked, a small smile playing across his lips.