by Stuart Woods
“Take it easy.”
“You, too, and if the phone rings, don’t answer it. If I need to reach you I’ll call you on your cell.”
“Got it.” They kissed, and she departed.
—
Stone landed the Citation at Teterboro Airport shortly before noon, and his man, Fred, was there with the car to greet him. Stone locked down the airplane and gave the engine and pitot covers to the lineman to be installed, then got into the car. There was a stack of newspapers on the seat next to him.
“Some reading matter for you, sir,” Fred said.
“Oh, thanks.” Two tabloids with the same photo he’d seen in the Debater. “I didn’t know you frequented supermarkets, Fred.”
“Helene does.” Helene was Stone’s Greek housekeeper and cook and Fred’s companion. “Joan has been fielding phone calls on that subject all morning.”
“Swell,” Stone replied, and picked up the Times, trusting that he would not see his photograph in those pages. He was wrong. The headline read:
PRESIDENT MAKES NEW APPOINTMENTS
And his photograph was there among the others. The first was: “Holly Barker, formerly national security advisor, has been sworn in as the new secretary of state.”
The next to last, with a pretty good photograph, was: “President Lee and the First Gentleman have appointed Stone Barrington, a New York attorney with the firm of Woodman & Weld, as their personal attorney, upon the retirement of his predecessor.” He should have anticipated that, but he had not.
—
Fred garaged the car and took Stone’s luggage upstairs while he went to his office.
“Good morning, superstar,” Joan sang out.
“Don’t start.”
“What, has this newfound fame gone to your head?”
“It may be newfound, but it had better not be fame—I’m not up for that.”
“I think that henceforth, when your name is mentioned, it will include not only ‘New York attorney’ but ‘paramour of the secretary of state.’”
He emptied his briefcase and handed the contents to her. “Scan these into the appropriate folders, please, and label the tape with the Lee names and lock it away.”
“Certainly. Oh, I almost forgot, here are your phone messages.” She handed him a thick envelope.
Stone sat down at his desk and opened the envelope. All the messages but one were from various media sources. The other one was from Dino Bacchetti, his old partner from when he was a cop; Dino was now police commissioner. He handed Joan the media’s messages. “Handle these, and don’t put any of them through in the future.” He called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Good morning,” Stone said.
“Ah, the secretary of state’s new hunk.”
“Don’t start.”
“And how is Holly?”
“Diplomatic.”
“And the Lees?”
“Presidential.”
“Anything new down there?”
“I met Kate’s son from her first marriage, Peter.”
“I don’t think I knew about him.”
“Fathered by Simon Rule, formerly CIA bigwig, now deceased.”
“That’s convenient. What’s the kid like?”
“Rich, from his father’s estate, sort of a sandy-haired version of JFK Junior. He’s just gotten engaged to Senator Saltonstall’s daughter, Celeste. I think he’s been flying under the radar so far, but sometime soon you’ll start seeing his name in the paper, probably in conjunction with wedding bells.”
“Sounds like he has political aspirations.”
“If you were the only American ever who had two presidents for parents—or stepparent, in Will’s case—wouldn’t you have political aspirations?”
“I suppose it would be a waste of genetic material not to. Is he running for something in particular?”
“Junior senator from New York in the half-term elections. I expect him to be well financed.”
“Yeah, the one percent will be falling all over him.”
“He’s been working for Saltonstall for the last four years. Holly says he’s had face time with every elected official in New York State, from the governor right down to dogcatcher level, and most of them owe him favors.”
“His mother’s son.”
“You know it.”
“You free for dinner tonight? Just you and me—Viv’s traveling on business, as usual.”
“I’ll think of an excuse to be available.”
“Patroon at seven?”
“Done.”
As he hung up the phone, it rang.
“Yes?”
Joan’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “There’s a lady here from Just Folks magazine.” There was awe in her voice.
“Tell her I’m in a meeting until early next year.”
“That’s not going to work, she caught a glimpse of you through your open door before I could body block her.”
“Okay, send her in and I’ll boot her out myself.”
“Her name is Gloria Parsons.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“She gets around. Here she comes. Ms. Parsons, Mr. Barrington can see you for just a minute.”
Before Stone could hang up the phone a woman stood in his doorway.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington, I’m Gloria Parsons.”
Stone reckoned she was six feet tall in her bare feet—not to mention slim, beautifully dressed, high-breasted, and toothy. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time at the . . .” But she was seated on his sofa before he could finish the sentence, “. . . moment.”
“Why don’t you just talk to me, instead of returning all those phone calls you got this morning?”
“How’d you . . .”
“Three of them were from me.”
“. . . know?”
“Look at it this way—give Just Folks an exclusive interview, and then you can wave off all the others by telling them that.”
She had already produced a pad and a gold pen. “Let’s get some basics,” she said.
Stone took a chair next to the sofa. “If you’re any good, you’ve already got the basics,” he said.
She rewarded him with a big smile. “You know me too well.”
6
Stone gave her the sixty-second bio. “Born NYC, you figure out when. Attended PS Six, NYU, and NYU law school. A cop for a number of years, most of them as a homicide detective, then of counsel to Woodman & Weld, more recently a partner. Is that basic enough?”
“That’s the stuff I’ve got. Now let’s be more thorough. Father was . . .”
“Started as a neighborhood handyman in the Village, went on to become a brilliant carpenter and cabinetmaker and designer and builder of fine furniture.”
“For example?”
“My desk,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “and everything on the floor above, along with other pieces.”
“Did he leave you the house?”
“No, that was a great-aunt. She had hired my father to design and build the interior.”
“Father’s first name?”
“Malon.”
“Mother’s maiden name?”
“Matilda Stone.”
Parsons wrinkled her brow, no doubt fighting Botox. “Sounds familiar.”
“Painter.”
“Gotcha. She’s got some stuff in the American Collection at the Metropolitan, right?”
“Right.”
“When and how did you meet Holly Barker?”
“Oh, twelve, fifteen years ago, I guess.”
“How?”
“I was in Vero Beach, Florida, to pick up a new airplane at the factory, and I went to a bank to get a cashier’s check. While I
was standing in line, three or four men with masks and shotguns entered the bank. The guy behind me argued with them and got a load of buckshot in the chest for his trouble. I dialed nine-one-one and did what I could for him until the EMTs arrived, but he didn’t make it.”
“What has all that to do with Holly Barker?”
“The shooting victim was her fiancé. They were to be married the following day.”
“Oh, God.”
“Holly was the chief of police in the next town, Orchid Beach. She looked me up to thank me for trying to help her man, and we kept in touch after that.”
“I recall that she joined the CIA not long after that. It seems an odd transition.”
“I believe she was of great help to them in breaking up an important drug ring, who were shipping it in from South America. They were impressed with her, as has been everyone who has ever met her.”
“How did she hook up with the President?”
“Katharine Rule was a deputy director of the Agency at the time, and Holly distinguished herself, partly under Ms. Rule’s tutelage.”
“And when did you renew Ms. Barker’s acquaintance?”
“She was CIA station chief in New York for some years. I was conveniently located.”
“Do you see a lot of her now?”
“Not very much. Since moving to the White House and thence to the State Department, she’s been extremely busy.”
“And how did you come to the attention of the Lees?”
“Holly introduced us, and I was of help to them on something or other.”
“Care to discuss ‘something or other’?”
“No. I’ll plead attorney-client confidentiality.”
“I hate that,” Parsons said.
“All journalists do.”
Parsons flipped through her shorthand. “Let’s see—why did you leave the NYPD?”
“A bullet to the knee. I was invalided out.”
“Brave man!”
“There’s nothing brave about getting shot. You don’t volunteer.”
“Why did you get shot?”
“Bad luck.”
“Did you shoot the shooter?”
“Tried and missed. My partner put two in him. He was a better shot than I.”
“Modest, too.”
“Nothing modest about being a not-so-hot shot.”
“Why did the Lees choose you as their attorney?”
“Their attorney retired.”
“But why did they choose you, in particular?”
“Probably because they knew I wouldn’t answer questions like that.”
“Touché.”
“Il n’y a pas de quoi.”
“You speak French?”
“Schoolboy French—I can ask most questions, but I can’t understand the answers.”
She laughed, a very nice sound. “Same here.”
“I’m glad we have something in common.” He was, too.
“Will being the presidents’ attorney require you to be in Washington a lot?”
“No, the phones still work between here and there.”
“So you won’t have many opportunities to see Secretary Barker?”
“True.”
“And whose company do you keep in New York?”
Stone shrugged. “Whoever will go out with me.”
She laughed again. “You mean there are women who won’t?”
“In my experience, women are very discerning.”
She capped her pen. “May I see some of your father’s work?”
“Of course.” He took her to the floor above and showed her the living room, dining room, and study.
She was impressed. “He designed and built all of this? The furniture, too?”
“All of it.”
“You come from very artistic forebears.”
“It’s important in life to choose the right parents.”
“Do you have artistic sensibilities?”
“Yes, but without the talent. I appreciate the work of others.”
She looked at his mother’s paintings. “She was very good, wasn’t she?”
“She was.”
“How many of her works do you have?”
“About a dozen. She left me four, and I’ve collected the others over the years.”
“Well, I won’t take any more of your time.”
“May we go off the record?”
“If you insist.”
“I insist. Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“I am. Where and when?”
“Patroon at seven?”
“Good.”
“A friend will be joining us.”
“Not another woman.”
“A male friend, he’ll enjoy you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“I as well.” He showed her to the front door.
7
As Stone approached Patroon, a cab drove up and Gloria Parsons got out. “Good timing,” he said.
“I try.”
He showed her into the restaurant; they shed their coats and joined Dino, who was half a drink ahead of them.
“Well, good evening,” Dino said, rising as far as the banquette would allow.
“Dino, this is Gloria Parsons. Gloria, Dino Bacchetti. She’s for me, Dino, not you.”
“It’s always that way,” Dino said.
“He’s married,” Stone came back.
“And a good thing, too,” Gloria said, “or I’d be with him.”
“Good girl!” Dino cried.
“Gloria, what would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“You like bourbon?”
“Yuck.”
“Then name something, and let’s avoid accidents.”
“Belvedere vodka on the rocks, wedge of lime.”
A waiter arrived in time to hear that, and he was back in a flash.
“So, you’re drinking bourbon?” she asked.
“Almost always.”
“What kind?”
“Knob Creek.”
“Isn’t that two hundred dollars a bottle?”
“That’s the limited edition, fourteen years old. I stick with the nine-year-old stuff. I must think of my liver.”
“Not too often, I hope.”
“Nope.”
“Is this guy sitting next to me the commissioner of police?”
“He is, but we don’t know how that happened.”
“Political influence,” Dino said.
“The mayor thinks he’s a demigod.”
“Then I need his advice.”
“Are you planning to get arrested?”
“No, but I know somebody who has been,” she said. “He’s just arrived at Fishkill, doing three to five for somebody else’s real estate scam.”
“Ah, an innocent man!” Dino said. “He’ll be right at home. Fishkill’s full of ’em.”
“Do you have any advice for him?”
“Sure, stay out of fights and don’t bend over in the shower.”
“What could be simpler?” Stone asked.
“My friend’s on the delicate side,” she said.
“Fishkill’s full of delicates,” Dino said. “They stay busy, and the time flies.”
“Why is he doing all that time?” Stone asked. “Doesn’t he know how to bribe a judge? That’s what I advise all my clients to do.”
“You two are useless,” Gloria said. “I think I’m going to need another drink.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Dino said, raising a thumb to a waiter.
“Tell Dino what you do, Gloria,” Stone said.
“I’m a senior writer at Just Folks magazine
.”
“And why would you have the slightest interest in our Stone?”
“He got his name in the Times today.”
“Stone, have you been arrested again?”
“No, I’m only a person of interest—tell your guys to stop wasting their time.”
Stone looked up to see Laurence and Theresa Hayward enter the restaurant, and they stopped by his table; he introduced them to Gloria.
“Those friends of yours are coming to see my apartment tomorrow,” Laurence said. “I hope they like it. Theresa thinks it’s too big for us.”
“I hope they like it, too,” Stone replied. They said goodbye and went to their table.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Gloria said.
“What’s interesting?” Stone asked.
“You think I don’t know who Laurence Hayward is?”
“So?”
“He’s the guy who won the all-time biggest Powerball, he has one of the most spectacular apartments in the city, and he’s showing it to friends of yours. That’s what’s interesting.”
Stone pretended to be baffled. “I can’t imagine why—Just Folks looks at apartments all the time in this city.”
“May I hazard a guess at who your friends are?”
“You may not. Do you remember that at the end of our meeting this afternoon I went off the record?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I haven’t gone back on the record, have I?”
“No, but . . .”
“Then we’re still off the record.”
“Okay, off the record, who are your apartment-hunting friends?”
“That’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing,” Stone said. “Who designed it?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’ll change the subject if I like. Who designed your underwear?”
“There, you changed the subject again.”
“And I’ll keep on doing so until you stop asking annoying questions to which you will not get an answer.”
“Listen, I can put two and two together.”
“Do you know the difference between a moron and a neurotic?”
“No.”
“A moron thinks two and two are five. A neurotic knows two and two are four but it makes him nervous.”
She laughed. “There you go changing the subject again.”