by Stuart Woods
“And they’re complaining?”
“I think they were worried that some people might think the vandals are working for them.”
“Now, that would be a productive marketing technique,” Stone replied.
“Their problem is, the victims’ insurance companies refer them to this outfit, Windscreens Unlimited, and they don’t stock those windshields. They have to order them from dealers, and they end up pissing off the car owners because it takes several days to order the windshields from the manufacturer and install them. The dealers don’t like it, either, because the customers complain.”
“So everybody’s unhappy—the car owners, the insurance companies, the car dealers, and Windscreens Unlimited?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“So who would want to make all those people unhappy?”
“Communists?” Dino offered.
“Dino, there aren’t any Communists anymore, except in China.”
“What about Cuba and Venezuela?”
“They’re in transition after the deaths of their leaders.”
“Transition to what? Capitalism?”
“Market-based economies, like the rest of the world.”
“I wonder how long it takes to get a Bentley windshield in Cuba or Venezuela?” Dino asked.
Stone laughed. “Forever and a day.”
“So who would want to make all those people mad?”
“My guess is some fringe political group, somebody who’s very, very angry about something like global warming. Maybe they’re attacking the cars they think are the biggest polluters.”
“Listen, those cars have catalytic converters just like all other cars, and probably better ones.”
“Such a fringe group would not overburden themselves with logic.”
“That’s a shame because we, the police, pride ourselves on logic. It’s our most effective tool.”
“I know,” Stone said.
Dino explained it to him, anyway. “I’ll give you an example. A woman—wife or girlfriend—is murdered. Who’s our favorite suspect?”
“The husband or boyfriend,” Stone said.
“The husband or boyfriend,” Dino said anyway. “It’s logical, right?”
“Dino, I used to be a cop, too, remember?”
“Logic is our best weapon,” Dino said.
“Dino, is there anything else you want to tell me that I already know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t remember,” Stone said. “Is Viv in town?”
“Are you kidding? No.” Dino’s wife, a retired police officer, worked as a high executive for Strategic Services and often traveled on business.
“Dinner?”
“P. J. Clarke’s at seven?” Dino suggested.
“See you there.”
Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “There’s a wet suit hanging in my dressing room. Will you ask Helene to press it as soon as it’s only damp? I got caught in the rain.”
“Wonderful,” Joan said. “How does someone who rides around town in a chauffeur-driven Bentley get caught in the rain? Did Fred leave the sunroof open?”
“Don’t ask,” Stone said.
6
JOAN BUZZED AGAIN. “A lady to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.”
“Who is she?”
“She won’t give me her name.”
That intrigued him. “All right, send her in.” He rose to greet his visitor.
She was at least six feet tall and wearing a tightly tailored black leather pantsuit with a short jacket, diamond stud earrings with stones of at least four carats each, and coal-black hair that was a little shorter than his own. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Morgan Tillman,” she said.
Stone shook the hand and found it large, soft, and strong. “Good afternoon, I’m Stone Barrington,” he said. “Will you have a seat? My secretary didn’t get your name.”
She managed a chuckle. “I didn’t give my name, on principle.”
Stone didn’t want to know what principle. “May I get you some refreshment? We have water, fizzy or plain, and diet soda.”
“Do you have any single-malt scotch? I need a drink.”
Stone refrained from looking at his watch, but he figured it was around three PM. “Certainly,” he said. “I can offer you Talisker or Laphroaig. Anything more exotic than that, and I can send Joan upstairs for it.”
“Laphroaig would be grand,” she said. “You live over the store?” she asked.
Stone got up and went to the liquor cabinet. “Ice?”
“Just a little water.”
He made the drink. “Yes, I live over the store,” he said, handing her the whiskey. “And if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a drink at three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” she explained, “but I’ve had a terrible experience, and I’m a little rattled.” She raised her glass. “Will you join me?”
“I would be a poor host if I didn’t,” he said, retrieving a bottle of Knob Creek and pouring some over ice. He went back to his desk.
“Is your terrible experience connected to your visit here?”
“Yes, at least in part. I was having a mani-pedi uptown, and my car was parked outside within view. Someone dressed in black and carrying what appeared to be a sledgehammer smashed my windshield.”
“Ah,” Stone said, sipping his drink. “Do you drive a Mercedes, a BMW, or a Bentley Mulsanne?”
She took a gulp of her Laphroaig and stared at him. “That was a lucky guess,” she said.
“Which one?”
“I drive a Bentley Mulsanne. How could you narrow your guess down to three automobiles?”
“I had a similar experience yesterday, except that I was in the car when he and some friends swung their sledgehammers.”
“What do you drive?”
“A Bentley Flying Spur.”
“And they broke three windows?”
“Only one, and that one only slightly. My car windows are armored glass.”
“Are you often shot at?”
“Only occasionally.”
“Then why does your car have armored glass?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m dying to know,” she said.
“All right, but this will take a minute.”
“I have all afternoon,” she replied.
“Well, some years ago, having wrecked a car, I needed one in a hurry. I went into the Mercedes showroom on Park Avenue and asked them what they had in stock for immediate delivery. I was told that they had one car ready to go, but it was armored against small-arms fire and under-vehicle explosive devices. I found that intriguing, and I asked why they had such a vehicle in stock. The salesman told me that they had special-ordered the car for a businessman of Italian-American heritage who was concerned for his personal safety. Unfortunately, the car had arrived a couple of days too late to meet his needs, and his widow had no use for it, so she had it returned and asked for a refund. He said that I would, in effect, be buying it from her, since it had already been paid for and registered, and that she would entertain offers. Almost whimsically, I made a lowball offer, and to my surprise, she accepted it. I wrote a check for the car and drove it away.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you said you drive a Bentley, not a Mercedes.”
“Ah, well, a couple of years after that I managed to turn the Mercedes end over end at about a hundred and thirty miles an hour. The car did not survive the accident, and it occurred to me that neither would I have, had it not been armored, so when a friend of mine who runs a security company, which includes an auto-armoring division, offered me the Bentley, I accepted with alacrity.”
“That is a perfectly lucid explanation,” she said, “b
ut may I ask why you were driving a hundred and thirty miles an hour?”
“I was, as I recall, being pursued.”
“At a hundred and thirty miles an hour?”
“He was gaining on me,” Stone said.
She took a swig of her Laphroaig and heaved a sigh. “Your experience makes mine sound piddling by comparison.”
Stone shrugged. “You are the first woman of my acquaintance who drives not only a Bentley, but a Mulsanne. May I ask what criteria you employed in making your choice?”
“Two,” she said. “One, I think it’s the most beautiful car currently being manufactured. Two, it’s the only car I feel comfortable in while having sex in the rear seat.”
“Ah,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m very tall, you see.”
“I noticed that. Would it be rude of me to ask how tall?”
“Not in the least. I’m six feet, one inch, in my bare feet, and should it interest you, I weigh a hundred and twenty-nine pounds, naked.”
“That is a very interesting set of statistics,” Stone said.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I must say that even a Bentley Mulsanne sounds a tight fit for a person of your height to have sex in.”
She shrugged. “You must remember that, at least in my experience, one is rarely stretched out flat when having sex—bending is usually involved.”
Stone nodded. “I take your point.”
“And the rear seat is both wide and soft.”
“Well,” Stone said, “as interesting as I find this discussion to be, I suppose I should ask who referred you to me and how I can be of help.”
“I find it interesting, too, but I should be more businesslike. I came to see you because I am outraged at how little interest the police have taken in my terrible experience. It’s as though a man with a sledgehammer breaking windshields on the Upper East Side were an everyday event to them, like littering. Am I not entitled to more than that, in the circumstances? I’m told that you have some influence with the police in this city.”
“And by whom were you told that?”
“By my manicurist. She seems to be a font of useful information.”
Stone was momentarily flummoxed.
“Her name is Roxanne, of Roxanne’s Nails. She used to work at the place where you get your hair cut.”
“I see,” he said, then he had a thought. “Ms. Tillman—”
“Please call me Morgan, or if you like, Mo, as my friends do.”
“Morgan—Mo—I think I can offer you an opportunity to put your concerns directly to the commissioner of police—if you are available for dinner this evening.”
“What time?” she asked.
“Seven.”
“I am without a car. Can you collect me?”
“Of course. At what address?”
“Seven-forty Park Avenue.”
Stone knew the address well; it had the reputation of being the most sought-after in the city.
“Apartment number?”
“The penthouse. Come up for a drink at six?”
“Certainly,” Stone said.
“I’ll need to change. How shall I dress?”
“I don’t think you need to change,” Stone replied. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you ask Fred to drive Ms. Tillman home, and I’ll need him again at five forty-five.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”
When she had left, Joan came into his office. “Who was that?”
“Morgan Tillman.”
“Why wouldn’t she give me her name?”
“I don’t know. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes,” Joan replied, furrowing her brow, “but I don’t remember from where.” She turned to go, then spun around. “Got it. The only Tillman I’ve ever heard of was a hedge fund guy who was murdered.”
“That does sound familiar,” Stone agreed, but he couldn’t remember any more about it.
7
STONE STEPPED OFF the elevator into a private foyer and rang the bell. “Yes?” a voice said from a speaker.
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
There was a buzz and a click, and the door opened a bit. He walked into a large living room opening onto a broad terrace. Morgan Tillman was descending a staircase. She had changed her clothes, but she was wearing a leather suit that was identical to the one of earlier that day, except that it was flaming red.
“Good evening,” she said, offering him her hand.
Stone shook it. “Good evening.”
“I believe I owe you a drink,” she said. “Knob Creek again?”
“Perfect.”
She walked to a paneled bar off the living room and poured two drinks into heavy Baccarat whiskey glasses. “It’s a little chilly to use the terrace,” she said. “Let’s sit over here.” She led him to a comfortable sofa, and they sank into it. “Now,” she said, “it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Shoot,” he replied.
“Where were you born?”
“In Greenwich Village. I attended elementary and high school there, too, as well as NYU, for undergraduate and law degrees.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I like full answers. What did you do immediately after law school? Join a law firm?”
“No, the summer before my final year I took part in a program that allowed law students to ride in police patrol cars. I was impressed with the cops I met, and I joined the NYPD.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Thence, your familiarity with the police.”
“Thence.”
“What duties did you perform with the police?”
“I was a patrol officer, then later, a homicide detective. The man we’re having dinner with was my partner for many years. His name is Dino Bacchetti.”
“I’ve seen it in the papers.”
“No doubt.” Stone waved a hand at his surroundings. “This is a very beautiful apartment. How long have you lived here?”
“Six years.”
“All of them alone?”
“No, my husband died a little over a year ago.”
Stone refrained from asking about the circumstances of his death, thinking she might tell him anyway. She did not.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
“Yes, I was widowed a few years ago.”
“And you’ve been alone since then?”
“On and off,” he replied.
“That’s an evasive answer,” she said.
“It’s an accurate one. Is there anything else you want me to know about you?”
“No, I think it will be more fun for you to learn as you go.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’ll get you started. I’m British—or at least, I was born in London.”
“You’ve acquired a perfect American accent.”
“I’ve always had an imitative ear. Would you prefer me to speak in my native tongue?”
“Your choice.”
“Oh, good,” she said, suddenly perfectly British. “It’s easier for me to relax. Have you spent any time in Britain?”
“I have. In fact, I have a house there, in south Hampshire, on the Beaulieu River.”
“Does the house have a name?”
“It’s called Windward Hall.”
“Oh, that’s Sir Charles Bourne’s house. I dined there years ago. He and my father were friends and fellow members of the Royal Yacht Squadron.”
“I’m a member as well. Sir Charles died, as you probably know.”
“I saw his obituary in the Times. When did you buy the estate?”
“Shortly before his death. He was renovating the house at the time o
f his death, and he lived the last year of his life in a cottage on the estate, while the work was in progress.”
“And how did you come to learn about Windward Hall?”
“A friend of mine, one of his neighbors, insisted on my seeing the house, and I was immediately smitten. How did you happen to move to New York?”
“I met my husband, as he was to become, in London. We had a whirlwind romance, and I returned to New York with him. We were married shortly after that, and shortly after our marriage he had the opportunity to buy this apartment. He knew the previous owner, so it never went on the market, and he saved himself a few million dollars, since he wasn’t bidding against anybody.” She took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “How did you come to own your house?”
“I inherited it from a great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister.”
“It seems to be in beautiful condition.”
“It was a bit run-down when she died. I had saved enough money to redo the electrical system and the plumbing, and after that I did much of the work myself.”
“And how did you come by those skills?”
“My father was a cabinetmaker and furniture designer. I grew up in his shop.”
“Would you like another drink?” she asked.
Stone consulted his watch. “Why don’t we have it at the restaurant? It’s time we left.”
She got her coat, and they went downstairs and got into the car. Soon they drew up in front of Clarke’s.
“My God,” she said, “I haven’t been here for years.”
“You’ll find it little changed,” Stone said.
They found Dino in the bar and introductions were made. Morgan towered over him. They chatted for a few minutes, then Morgan excused herself to find the ladies’ room.
“You know about her?” Dino asked Stone when she had left them.
“Not very much. She’s British and married a hedge fund guy—that’s about it.”
“You know he was murdered?”
“Yes,” Stone said. “I think I read something about it. I was in England at the time, and it got only a mention in the International Herald Tribune. How’d it happen?”
“The story was he came home and found a cat burglar in the apartment. There was a tussle on the terrace, and Tillman went over the railing.”