Insatiable Appetites (11 page)

“That’s fine, one less thing to worry about.”

“Does Dolce know about the forgeries?”

“Yes, and she was angry about it. She’ll be anxious to hear how the investigation is going.”

They said goodbye, and Stone asked Joan to messenger the letters and checks to the heirs. They were on their way in half an hour.

Fred arrived with Stone’s picture, having already delivered Herbie’s to his office. Joan came in with a box cutter and cut away the wrappings, and Stone set the painting on the back of the sofa, switched on all the lights, and regarded his new treasure.

“I think I’ll keep it,” he said.

Dolce was tidying up her apartment in anticipation of the arrival of her guest when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m in a cab,” Father Frank Donovan said. “Twenty minutes, according to the driver.”

“I’ll have a drink waiting,” she said. They hung up, and she went into the kitchen and opened the package from the liquor store: two bottles of Bushmills Black Label Irish whiskey.

She took them to the bar and filled the ice bucket from the machine.

All was ready when the bell rang. She opened the front door and threw herself into his arms. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, then looked him up and down. “And in civvies!”

“I didn’t want the doorman to think I’m visiting to hear your confession,” Frank said. He handed her a thick envelope. “They asked me to deliver this to you.” He set his suitcases inside the door and closed it behind him.

She led him into the living room and tossed the envelope onto the sofa without looking at it, then went to pour them a drink.

“What a beautiful place,” Frank said, looking around.

“There’ll be more pictures on the walls in a day or two,” she said. “I asked the convent to pack up all my work and air-freight them to me. Do you know, I’ve got more than sixty completed canvases, not counting the ones that weren’t good enough.” She handed him his drink and poured herself one, then sat on the sofa, where she encountered a lump.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling the envelope from beneath her.

“It’s what the doorman asked me to deliver.”

She ripped it open and read the covering letter, then looked at the check. “It appears I’m now a very rich woman,” she said, waving the check. “Papa’s estate has been probated.”

“I congratulate you,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“Goodness,” she said, fanning herself with the envelope. “This is going to take some getting used to.” She took a swig from her drink. “I hope you have no duties but me while you’re here.”

“Oh, I’ll have to suit up and swing by the archdiocese at some point. A courtesy call, to justify spending a week in New York.”

“We have a week!”

“We do.”

“Whatever will we do with ourselves?” she asked, kissing him and tugging at his necktie.

“We’ll think of something,” he said, kissing her back and scratching a nipple through her silk blouse.

•   •   •

Stone’s doorbell rang, the signal from Fred Flicker that his guest was on the way up. Stone slipped into his jacket and went downstairs in time to greet Carla Fontana in the living room.

“What beautiful paneling and bookcases,” Carla said, looking around.

“My father designed and built it all,” Stone replied. “It was a commission from my grandmother’s sister, who owned the house. She left it to me. The pictures in this room are all by my mother, Matilda Stone.”

Carla looked at the pictures and took her time. “Just beautiful,” she said. “Haven’t I seen some of her work at the Metropolitan?”

“You have.” He led her into the study and offered her a seat on the sofa. “What can I get you?”

“A martini, please. How soon you forget!” They had met a few weeks before in Paris when she had interviewed him on the occasion of the opening of the new Arrington hotel there.

“That was remiss of me,” Stone said, taking a frosty bottle from the freezer and filling a martini glass. He handed it to her and poured himself a Knob Creek.

“My goodness,” she said, staring at the wall next to the bar, where the Modigliani now hung. “Have you looted a museum?”

“No, that is the bequest of a friend who recently passed away.”

“That would be Eduardo Bianchi?”

“How did you know?”

“Do you think I don’t read my own newspaper? He had quite an obit—nearly two pages.”

“He certainly did, for a man who most people didn’t know existed.”

“I met him once, in my publisher’s office, when I was still based in New York. I remember noticing that the boss put on his jacket to receive him, which he normally did only when the president or the cardinal visited.”

“Eduardo had that effect on people.”

She sipped her martini. “That is the coldest thing I ever tasted.”

“It’s been in the freezer, waiting for you. I make martinis and gimlets by the bottle. It’s easier that way.”

“How does one make a gimlet?”

“One pours six ounces of vodka from a seven-hundred-and-fifty-milliliter bottle, replaces it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, puts it in the freezer overnight, then serves.”

“Simple enough. I’ll remember that.”

“Not as simple as pouring a glass of bourbon,” he said.

“Where are we dining?” she asked.

“At Patroon, a few blocks from here.”

“I’ve heard about it, never been.”

“Good. Any news from your contact?”

“I’ll tell you about it over dinner,” she said. “For now, let’s just drink.”

They settled into a banquette at Patroon and ordered their second drink.

“All right,” Stone said, “tell me about Deep… What do you call him?”

“I don’t know—Deep Tonsils?”

Stone laughed.

“Let’s just call him the Source.”

“That’ll do. Then we’ll never be heard mentioning his name.”

“Right, we can’t do that in public. The Source and I had another meeting, same place. The antiques shop is owned by a friend of his—probably a
very
good friend. They do make a handsome couple.”

“Is it a good shop?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve already bought a couple of things, and I have my eye on an honest-to-God Tiffany lamp, which I can’t afford on my salary.”

“And what did the Source have to say?”

“He brought me a typed-up copy of his notes from the first meeting, and a list of everyone present.”

“Well,
that
will add credence to your story when it runs. When will it run?”

“There is now a team, two in Washington, two in New York, running a fine-toothed comb through the details, which is not as easy as it sounds. For instance, we’re trying to establish that every person there was not actually somewhere else, and we have to do that without asking the person or his or her staff. It’s not easy.”

“Have you developed another source who was at the meeting?”

“That’s even harder. Every one of them is a rock-ribbed right winger, and none of them is inclined to be interviewed by that Great Satan, the
Times
, unless it’s to defame the president or the president-elect. However, I’ve gotten chummy with that dazzling blond congresswoman from Georgia, Mimi Meriwether. She’s a first cousin to Senator Sam Meriwether, whom you know.”

“I do, and it’s hard to imagine that a cousin of Sam’s could be encamped on the Right. Where did she go wrong?”

“Runs in the family. Her father and his brother, Sam’s father, were both Dixiecrats in their day. It’s Sam who’s the black sheep of the family, not Mimi. Still, she’s a very smart lady, even if she does make some truly stupid public remarks. I have hope for her.”

“It sounds as though winning her over is a big leap, especially given your deadline. You do have a deadline, don’t you?”

“Not yet, and Mimi is the reason I don’t. She’s coming to dinner at my house tomorrow night, and I’ve invited her early for a drink, so that we can have a quiet chat. I’m not sure she’ll cop to having agreed to oppose Kate Lee on everything, before she knows what everything is.”

“Did you know that the Republicans have a history of that sort of obstruction, going back nearly a century?”

“I did not know that. Enlighten me.”

“It’s covered in Scott Berg’s biography of Woodrow Wilson, which I recommend to you. Wilson went to Paris twice to head up the negotiations for what became the Treaty of Versailles, which would officially end World War One.”

“That, I knew.”

“Wilson’s archenemy, Senator Henry Cabot Lodge Senior, held a secret meeting of important Republicans, who agreed to oppose the treaty when Wilson brought it home—no matter what the terms were. Franklin Roosevelt, who was assistant secretary of the Navy at the time, was told about it by someone who was at the meeting, but too late for him to do anything about it.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“That’s how the Republicans came to oppose the League of Nations, which Wilson had proposed in his Fourteen Points, the heart of the treaty. The League was intended to nip future wars in the bud, and Wilson said that, if the Senate did not ratify the treaty, the former combatants would be at war with each other again in twenty years.”

“Which is exactly what happened.”

“Now, who knows if the League could have prevented World War Two? But they would certainly have tried.”

“I think we’ll need to get some opinions on that from a few eminent historians. Nice to have a historical basis for our story.”

“How would you like a nice, one-word title for your story?”

“Speak it!”

“CABAL.”

“Perfect! It’s wonderfully sinister! And appropriate in the circumstances.”

They ordered dinner.

“Now,” Carla said, “give me something from the inside of Kate’s transition team.”

Stone shrugged.

“I know you’re plugged in there. I know you’re a member of her Kitchen Cabinet, too.”

“Then you know I can’t discuss anything with you that I’ve discussed with Kate—or anyone on her transition team.”

“And I was hoping to corrupt you.”

“Well,” Stone said, “that’s not out of the question, but you and I have to be very careful with what passes between us. We don’t want to do anything that would damage your credibility as a journalist.”

“You’re right, of course, but it would have been fun.”

“There’s this, though. Kate will be president for a maximum of eight years.”

“I have to wait that long to corrupt you?”

“It pains me to say it, but yes.”

They had a good dinner, then he put her into a cab to her hotel. It was a nice night, and Stone walked home.

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Peter came in and accepted a chair. Stone had not seen him since the funeral. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning, Dad. The Centurion jet is coming from London this afternoon, and we’re going to meet them at Teterboro tomorrow morning for the ride to L.A.”

“I’ll be sorry to see you all go,” Stone said. “Fred will drive you to Teterboro.”