Dirty Work (15 page)

36

Stone was getting hungrier and hungrier, and Carpenter had not called. The phone finally rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” she said.

“How did your meeting go?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

“How much later?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to work through the evening. Why don’t you go to Elaine’s, and I’ll meet you there later?”

“Do you feel safe at Elaine’s?” Stone asked.

“The last time La Biche came to Elaine’s, she got arrested,” Carpenter said. “I don’t think she’ll be anxious to return, do you?”

“I guess not,” Stone agreed. “Any idea what time you’ll be there?”

“I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Bye.” She hung up.

Stone took a cab to Elaine’s, settled in at his table, and ordered a drink and a menu. Elaine came over and sat down.

“You missed all the excitement last night, huh?”

“Yeah, Dino said you alerted him. That was a good call.”

Elaine shrugged. “Just watching your ass for you.”

“Thanks. I still have possession of it. How did all this happen?”

“She came in and sat down at the bar. One of the bartenders, Bobby, chatted her up a little while she had dinner, and they got along real well. She even gave him her number. Then she pulled out the Page Six clipping, and he mentioned it to me. She wanted to know your name, and he told her. I remembered a conversation in here about that.”

“She gave Bobby her number?”

“Yeah, they were going like gangbusters. Bobby’s pretty swift with the ladies.”

“Excuse me a second,” Stone said. He got up and went to the bar. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Hey, Stone. How you doing?”

“I’m good. Thanks for your help last night.”

“I thought I was helping myself.”

“Elaine said the lady gave you her number?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You still got it?”

Bobby went to the cash register, hit a key, and the drawer slid open. He reached under the currency tray for something and came back with a slip of paper. “Here you go. I don’t guess I’ll be calling her, from what I’ve heard about her.”

Stone pocketed the paper. “Thanks, Bobby. Have one on me.”

“Thanks.”

Stone went back to his table and looked at the paper. The area code was 917, which was reserved for New York City cell phones.

Elaine looked at him. “Jesus, you’re not
that
horny, are you?”

“Of course not,” Stone said, putting the number in his pocket.

“Where’s Felicity?”

“Working. She’ll be in later.”

“And Dino?”

“We had lunch. We’ve seen enough of each other for one day.”

“Stone, you think you’re in any sort of danger from this woman?”

“I hope not, but she’s unlikely to come in here again, after what happened to her last night.” Stone looked up to see a woman alone come through the front door. She stopped and looked around. Medium height and weight, brown hair, nicely dressed. He started looking for something to throw at her and settled on the wooden Indian standing guard next to his table.

Then the woman seemed to spot somebody at the rear of the restaurant. She walked quickly down the aisle, past Stone, and embraced a man, who had stood up to greet her.

“That’s his wife,” Elaine said. “Maybe you better have another drink.” She waved at a waiter and pointed at Stone.

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“That one’s on me,” Elaine said to the waiter when the drink came.

“Thanks,” Stone said, raising his glass to her.

“Maybe you ought to get outta town for a few days,” Elaine said. “Why don’t you go up to Connecticut?”

“I just got back,” Stone said, “but that’s not a bad idea.”

Elaine got up to greet somebody, leaving Stone alone. He ordered dinner, then took out the phone number again. Impulsively, he dialed it.

She answered immediately. “Yes?”

“Ms. du Bois, this is Stone Barrington. Don’t hang up,” he said quickly, “I just want to talk to you.”

There was a brief silence. “All right,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?” Her accent was perfectly American.

“First of all, I want to explain why I had you photographed.”

“I would be interested to hear this,” she said.

“It was a domestic matter: Lawrence Fortescue was married to a woman, my client, who believed he was having an affair. They had a prenuptial agreement that precluded his getting any of her money in a divorce if he was shown to be adulterous. I had no idea who you were.”

“Do you now?” she asked.

“I have a better idea,” he said, “and I’d just as soon not be on your list of enemies.”

She laughed aloud. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you have a well-developed sense of self-preservation, I’ll give you that.”

“I think it would be a good idea if you and I met,” Stone said.

“Come now, you don’t really expect that, do you?”

“Are you acquainted with the American principle of the inviolability of the attorney-client relationship?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you must understand that if you and I meet for the purposeof your seeking legal advice from me, both the meeting and the conversation would be privileged, and I could not tell the police about either.”

“I understand that. Would the attorney-client relationship prevent you from, shall we say, inviting others to this meeting?”

“Yes. I could not ethically inform any authority of our meeting or our conversation unless I had direct knowledge of your intent to commit a crime.”

“And what do I know of your ethics, Mr. Barrington?”

“Nothing, except that all American lawyers live by the same code. American attorneys do not turn in their clients, except under the circumstances I have already described.”

“I take it you are curious about me.”

“Of course, but that’s not the principal reason for wanting to meet you.”

“And what would the principal reason be?”

“I want to save your life, if I can.”

“You wish to persuade me to turn myself in? I was in police custody only yesterday, and they didn’t seem to want me.”

“I don’t represent the police . . . or the British intelligence services.”

There was a silence. “You are very interesting, Mr. Barrington, because of who you do not represent. I’m sure you have a cell phone. Give me the number.”

Stone gave it to her.

“Tomorrow at six p.m., be at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Perhaps I’ll buy you a drink. But please don’t be so foolish as to ask anyone to join us.” She hung up.

Stone was about to put away his cell phone when it vibrated in his hand. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi.”

“Things are going very slowly here, and I’m going to be several more hours. They’re ordering in some Chinese, so I’ll eat here and see you at home later.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”

“Me too. Bye.”

Stone put the cell phone away, thinking not about Carpenter, but La Biche. He wondered what he was getting himself into.

37

Marie-Thérèse kept her appointment at Frédéric Fekkai, a fashionable hairdressing salon and day spa on East Fifty-seventh Street. They knew her there by another name.

Mr. Fekkai greeted her warmly. “Mrs. King, how are you? How are things in Dallas?”

“Hey, sugar,” Mrs. King replied in a broad Texas accent. “Things are just wonderful. The price of oil is up, so I thought I’d come up here to the big city and spend some of Mr. King’s money.”

“We are delighted to see you. Let’s see, you have a massage and herbal wrap scheduled, and a manicure and an appointment with a makeup artist. We’ll do your hair last, is that all right?”

“Of course, baby.”

“The girl will order you some lunch.”

“I’m famished. Does she have any bourbon?”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Marie-Thérèse submitted to half a day of pampering, then reported to Mr. Fekkai at the end of it.

“Now, what shall we do with your hair?” he asked.

“I want it fairly short,” she said, running her fingers through it, “and I want a nice blond color, with some streaks.”

“I think that will suit you perfectly,” he replied. “The colorist is waiting for you, and I’ll see you next.”

At four o’clock, she left the establishment, quite literally, a new woman. All her identification had been arranged to support the effect. She went into Bergdorf’s and bought some clothes, then allowed herself to be fitted for two wigs, charging everything to an American Express card in Mrs. King’s name, which would be paid automatically from a bank account in the Cayman Islands. At six o’clock, she stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, took out her cell phone, and made the call.

Stone stood, gazing down at the skaters, one in particular—a pretty blonde in a red outfit with a short skirt, who was far better than anyone else on the ice. He looked around him for a woman alone who might be La Biche. His cell phone vibrated.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I want you to walk—not ride—to Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. You should be there in ten minutes. Walk on the west side of Fifth to Forty-fourth Street, then down the east side of the street to Forty-second, then cross again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you when you’re there.” She hung up.

Stone walked to Fifth Avenue and headed toward the library.

She walked over to Madison Avenue, crossed the street, turned left, and entered an electronics shop specializing in spy-type equipment, where she made a quick purchase. She caught a cab and headed downtown, then made another call.

“Hello?” he said.

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “I want you to walk west on the south side of Forty-second Street, turn left at the next corner and walk south to Thirty-seventh Street and make another left. There’s a bar on the south side of the street called O’Coineen’s. Go in there and take a seat in the last of the row of booths on your left. There’ll be a reserved sign on the table; ignore it. If anyone questions you, say you’re meeting Maeve. Got all that?”

“Yes.”

“Be there in ten minutes.” She hung up. “Turn right here,” she said, “and stop in the middle of the block.” She got out of the cab, went into O’Coineen’s and then into the ladies’ room. She peed, then went into her shopping bag for a wig. She chose an auburn one, very straight, with bangs. She glanced at her watch.

Stone found the bar. The place was busy with after-work customers, but the last booth was empty.

A waiter approached. “Sorry, that booth is reserved,” he said.

“I’m meeting Maeve,” Stone replied.

“It’s all right, Sean,” said a woman’s voice with a very attractive Irish accent.

Stone turned to find a redhead with very straight hair and bangs, beautifully made up. It was not the woman he had seen at the Nineteenth Precinct.

“Stand up, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

Stone got out of the booth. “Good evening,” he said.

“Hold your arms away from your sides,” she said.

Stone complied.

She frisked him in a professional manner, not omitting his crotch, then produced a small black object and ran it over him, head to toe. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the side of the booth with its back to the street.

“Thank you for coming,” Stone said, sitting down.

She slid into the opposite side of the booth, facing the street, and set a Bergdorf’s shopping bag on the seat beside her, then she placed a medium-sized handbag on the table, with the open end toward her. She looked around the bar carefully, then at the front windows. Finally, she turned to him. “What’ll y’have?”

“A beer will be fine,” Stone said.

“Two Harps,” she said to the waiter.

“Right,” he said, and went to get them.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” she said, keeping the Irish accent.

Stone wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Come on, Mr. Barrington, I’m here. What d’ya want?”

Stone started to speak, but the waiter came with the drinks, and he waited for him to leave.

She picked up her beer, poured some into a glass, and clinked it against his. “So? Yer not very talkative, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone sipped his beer. “I think you should leave New York immediately.”

“Oh? And why’s that, if you’d be so kind as to tell me?”

“I don’t think you should believe that your release from police custody has made you immune,” he said.

“Immune to what?”

“To . . . further action.”

She glanced at the door, then leaned back into her seat and sipped her beer. “You said on the phone you knew something about me,” she said. “Exactly what?”

“It’s my understanding that, when you were younger, your parents were killed in an ambush that was meant for someone else, and that after that, you underwent some rather specialized training, then began assassinating various people, with an emphasis on those who were inadvertently responsible for your parents’ death.”

“My, you are well informed, aren’t you?”

“Moderately.”

“ ‘Inadvertently’? Is that what they told you?”

“Who?”

“Whoever told you this rubbish.”

“I think it’s pretty good information, though it may not entirely conform to your view of things.”

She laughed. “Yes, my view of things is somewhat different. I know for a fact that my mother was the target, and killing her husband and daughter, as well, didn’t faze them in the least.”

Stone said nothing.

“You see, there’s two sides to every story.”

“Perhaps so. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re going to hunt you down and kill you,” Stone said.

She looked amused. “Oh? Well, that’d take some doing, wouldn’t it?”

“They have no legal recourse, so they’re going to use other means.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I hear things,” Stone said.

She reached into her handbag.

Stone sat up straight.

She came out with a hundred-dollar bill and shoved it across the table. “Put that in your pocket,” she said.

Stone put it in his pocket.

“Now you’re my lawyer, right? You’ve been paid for legal advice, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And this conversation is privileged. You can’t disclose it to anyone else.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, Mr. Stone Barrington, what is your advice?”

“I’d advise you not to spend another night in New York City. I’d advise you not to leave by airline, train, or bus, but to leave by car, and, if you want to leave the country, do that by car, too, or on foot. I’d advise you not to come back for a long time.”

“Anything else?”

“I’d advise you to go to ground, establish an identity you can keep permanently, and find a more productive way to live out your life. And to never, ever again identify yourself to anyone as Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Well, that’s very sound advice, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I’ll think it over.”

“Don’t think too long,” Stone said. “And since I’ll deny that this conversation ever took place, I’d be grateful if you’d do the same, because it’s very dangerous for me to be associated with you in any way.”

“Well, I think I can promise you that,” she said. She gathered up her handbag and shopping bag. “I’m going to be leaving you now, and I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again. You finish your beer. Finish mine, too, and take at least fifteen minutes to do it.” She stood up.

“Goodbye, then.”

Her voice changed to something mid-Atlantic. “Goodbye, Mr. Barrington, and thank you for your concern. I’m very grateful to you.”

She walked to the rear of the room and disappeared through the kitchen door.

Stone finished his beer, and hers. He knew from her attitude that he’d set out on a fool’s errand. She was going to do exactly what she’d intended to do all along.