Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (174 page)

ON SATURDAY NIGHT,
Tiff arrived at Stone's house at seven, bearing an armload of shopping bags and looking a little frazzled.

“Whew!” she said, giving Stone a kiss. “I'm beat!”

“You need a drink,” Stone said, steering her toward the kitchen. They passed through the living room and the library.

“This is a beautiful house,” Tiff said. “Is this the cabinetwork your father did?”

“It is, all of it. The doors, too.”

In the kitchen, she dropped her bags. He deposited her on the sofa tucked into a corner and took a green-tinted bottle of vodka from the freezer.

“What's that?” she asked.

“A specialty of the house,” Stone replied. He found two thin crystal martini glasses, poured the liquid into each and returned the bottle to the freezer. He handed her a glass. “Try that.”

Tiff sipped and smiled. “That's wonderful! What is it?”

“It's a very special vodka gimlet.”

“Sounds powerful. What's in it?”

“Not as powerful as a martini. It's three parts of vodka and one part of Rose's Sweetened Lime Juice. What's special about it is the intensity. Normally, you'd pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, shake it until your fingers freeze to the shaker, then strain it into a
glass. What I do is take a full fifth of vodka, pour six ounces of it into another bottle and replace that with the lime juice. Then I put it into the freezer for a few hours. That way, when it's poured, it's colder than ice, because the vodka doesn't freeze, and it hasn't been watered down by the melting ice in the shaker.”

“Heaven.” She sighed, sinking into the sofa.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Spectacular. I found an apartment.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's what you New Yorkers call a classic six, on Park Avenue in the sixties, and it's already been renovated, so it's in move-in condition. It had been sold, and the owners moved out, but the co-op board turned down the buyer, so it's sitting there, empty, ready for me.”

“Sounds great, but how long will it take for you to get board approval?”

“The board meets at the end of next week, so if I can get all the paperwork together in a hurry, I'll know then. My real-estate agent says the board will like the idea of a U.S. Attorney living in the building, so there shouldn't be a problem.”

“Co-op boards can be tricky,” Stone said.

“I'll get the AG to write a letter of recommendation—the president, if I have to. Say, can I borrow your shower? I've been apartment-hunting and shopping all day, and I haven't had time to change.”

“Sure, follow me.” He led her up the back stairs into his bedroom, carrying her shopping bags. “There's a robe on the back of the bathroom door,” he said.

“I won't be long,” she replied, setting her gimlet on his desk.

Stone went back to the kitchen and began organizing dinner.

SOON, SHE CAME DOWN
the stairs, her hair wet, wearing tan leather pants and a tight sweater.

“New clothes?” he asked.

“Fresh from Madison Avenue's finest shops.”

He poured her another gimlet. “I'm going to start dinner, now,” he said. “I'm making risotto, so I may need some help stirring.”

He emptied a packet of arborio rice into a copper pan, with half a stick of butter and some olive oil, and cooked it until it was glossy, then began adding hot chicken stock to the pan, a little at a time. Halfway through the process, he tossed a pair of thick veal chops onto the grill of the Viking range and let them brown for a few minutes on each side.

When the risotto had absorbed all the chicken stock and the rice was tender, he added half a cup of crème fraîche and a considerable amount of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese and stirred them in, then set the pan on a trivet on the kitchen dining table, forked the veal chops on two plates and added haricots verts that he had cooked earlier. He opened a bottle of Far Niente cabernet and held a chair for her to sit down.

“It looks wonderful,” she said.

“We'll see.”

She tasted the risotto. “Marvelous!”

They dined slowly, enjoying the food and wine. When they had finished, he took away the dishes and served them each a tiny slice of Italian cheesecake from a deli he knew.

He made espresso and poured them each a brandy.

“I feel so much better,” she said. “You heard anything from Rodney Peeples?”

That brought Stone up short.

“We going to talk shop?”

“Just for a minute.”

“This is only the second time I've heard that name—both from you. I am not acquainted with the gentleman.”

“And he is not your client?”

“I would have to be acquainted with him for him to be my client.”

“Good point.”

“But, as long as we're talking shop, could I ask a favor of you?”

“Maybe.”

“Your office handles cases with the Treasury Department, doesn't it?”

“Yes.”

“You know anybody in the Secret Service you could have a word with?”

“Probably.”

Stone dug into a pocket and came out with Billy Bob's two-dollar bill. “Could you ask someone there to run the serial number on this bill and see if anything pops up?”

She took the bill and looked at it. “Why?”

“Just a favor.”

“I don't know about that.”

Stone took back the bill. “Never mind.”

“That was a very odd request. Do you think the bill might have been stolen?”

“No, I'm just curious to see what I can learn about it. You don't see a lot of two-dollar bills.”

“I'm going to have to have a better explanation than that if you want me to have it run.”

“I'm afraid I don't have a better explanation than that,” Stone said. “Let's just forget it.”

She grabbed the bill back. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I'll call in a favor and have it run on an informal basis.”

“That would be great.”

“You're sure you don't know Rodney Peeples?”

“Will you stop with that name, Tiff? I've told you repeatedly that I don't.”

“Okay, okay.”

“How long will it take to run the two-dollar bill?”

“I'll make the call on Monday; a day or two, I guess. This isn't going to get me into trouble, is it?”

“If I thought it were, I wouldn't ask you to run it. It's just that I'm curious, and I don't have any contacts in the Secret Service. I'm only looking for information; I'm not asking anybody to intercede on behalf of a client.”

“You have contacts in other federal agencies?”

“One or two,” Stone said. “I recently had dinner with the United States Attorney for New York.”

She laughed. “Yes, you did, didn't you? Now what?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “I'm open to suggestions.”

“So am I,” she said, kissing him back.

STONE WAS WAKENED
by a ringing cell phone, and he knew it wasn't his. He opened an eye and found it filled with a naked breast, a pleasing sight. He reached across Tiff and grabbed her handbag from her bedside table, then he laid the handbag on her belly.

“Your belly is ringing,” he said into her ear.

She made a noise and turned onto her side, away from him.

“Tiff, it's your cell phone.”

“Shhhhhh,” she said.

The cell phone stopped ringing.

Stone turned and snuggled up next to her back, enjoying the feeling of her buttocks against his belly.

Tiff made another, more approving noise and pushed against him.

Stone responded, and in a moment, they were both awake, working together to guide him inside her. That accomplished, they moved in concert, faster and faster, until they both came loudly.

“That was good,” she said, when their breathing had returned to normal.

“It was better than good,” Stone murmured, resting his cheek on her moist back.

She rolled over, threw a leg over him and put her head on his shoulder. “You're right,” she said.

“I'm never wrong about these things.”

She laughed, then seemed to fall asleep. Stone was nearly asleep, himself, when she jerked awake.

“Is that my cell phone ringing?” she asked.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe they left a message.”

“I don't want it,” she replied. “What are our plans for the day?”

“Eggs Benedict, mimosas and the
New York Times.
”

“I get the crossword.”

“I'll make you a copy and race you to the finish.”

“You wouldn't have a chance.”

“Big talk.”

“I'll finish it in half an hour.”

“On Sunday? I'll finish it . . . quickly.”

“I'm hungry,” she said.

“You're saying you want me to leave you and make breakfast?”

“No, I'll leave you and make breakfast.”

“Do I have to watch?”

“No, you can sleep, and I'll bring it up here.”

“There's a dumbwaiter,” he said. “Just press the button.” Then he fell asleep.

Stone was awakened by the clanging of the dumbwaiter bell, and by the time Tiff had climbed the stairs, he had the trays arranged on the bed. He was surprised to see that she was still naked.

“You always walk around naked?” he asked as she climbed into bed and arranged her pillows.

“Always,” she said. “Except at the office.”

They dug into their food.

“Wonderful hollandaise,” he said. “Just the right amount of lemon.”

“Thank you, sir. Your risotto last night was wonderful, too. Lovely flavor.”

“
You
were wonderful last night. This morning, too.”

“I'm going to be wonderful again, as soon as I finish breakfast.”

“You have an optimistic view of my capabilities,” he said.

“I have an optimistic view of my capability to excite your capabilities.”

“It's hard to argue with that.”

“Then don't; just get rid of these trays.”

He put the trays on the dumbwaiter and sent it downstairs, then returned to bed.

She was reaching for him again when her cell phone rang.

“Shit!” she said.

“Let it ring.”

“Nobody has that number but my office,” she said. “If they're calling on a Sunday morning . . .” She dug into her handbag and came out with the phone. “Hello? Yes, I'm awake, but I wasn't when you called earlier. What's up? That's good. You're kidding—on a Sunday morning? An hour, then, in his suite.” She hung up. “You're not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“The AG has got a bug up his ass about a case, and he flew to New York this morning.”

“Why wouldn't I believe that?” Stone asked.

“Well, you wouldn't, if you knew the case and the AG. The whole business is crazy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can't,” she said, “I have to get into a shower right now. I can't show up for a meeting, smelling of sex, with a religious fundamentalist.”

“You never know, it might make his day.”

“I very much doubt it.” She struggled out of bed and he watched her backside appreciatively as she ran to the bathroom. A moment later, he heard the shower come on.

Stone fell back on the bed, a little relieved at not having to perform again so soon.

STONE HAD FINISHED
the
Times
and was struggling with the
Times
crossword puzzle when the phone rang. He glanced at the instrument and saw the doorbell light illuminated. He looked at his watch: two-thirty
P
.
M
. Who the hell would be calling on a Sunday afternoon? He picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Stone Barrington?”

“That's right.”

“This is Agents Williams and Marconi of the United States Secret Service. We'd like to speak with you.”

“On a Sunday afternoon?”

“That's correct.”

Stone sighed. “I'll buzz you in; find the living room and have a seat while I get dressed. I'll be down in a couple of minutes.”

“Very good.”

He buzzed them in, then got up, brushed his hair, put on some clothes and walked downstairs.

Two men in business suits rose as he entered the living room. They flashed their badges and introduced themselves, then everybody sat down.

“What can I do for you?” Stone asked.

Agent Williams produced a plastic bag containing a two-dollar bill and handed it to Stone. “I believe you wanted some information on this two-dollar bill?”

Stone looked at it and handed it back. “I wanted information on
a
two-dollar bill; I can't guarantee it was this one.

Williams nodded. “Here's your information,” he said. “It is one of a very large number of two-dollar bills stolen from Fort Dix army base in New Jersey in 1955.”

Stone blinked. “You keep track of fifty-year-old robberies?”

“When the robbery is of four hundred thousand dollars and change.”

“I commend you on your record keeping,” Stone said.

“Thank you. Where did you get the two-dollar bill?”

“I'm afraid I can't say.”

“What?”

Stone searched for the right words. “I'm sorry, but answering your question would violate the canon of legal ethics.”

“Which part of the canon?” Williams asked.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that, either.”

“I was told you'd be cooperative.”

“Who told you that?”

“The United States Attorney for New York.”

“Well, she was right, in the sense that I
wish
to be cooperative, within the bounds of professional ethics, but, as I've said, revealing the source of the two-dollar bill would entail compromising legal ethics, and any court would back me on that.”

The two agents stared at him in silence.

“Perhaps you can tell me why you are so interested in solving a crime, the statue of limitations on which expired decades ago?”

“Two army officers were murdered during the course of the robbery. There's no statute of limitations on that.”

“I see. Well, gentlemen, I'm afraid the only thing I can do is to make inquiries of my own into the origins of the bill and, if I'm able to, let you know what I find out.”

Williams handed Stone a card. “Please do so, and call me. You can always reach me on the cell number.”

Stone shook the two men's hands and let them out of the house. Then he went to the phone and called the Four Seasons Hotel. Billy Bob's suite didn't answer, and Stone left a message for him to call back.