Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

The three men nodded.

“Now leave, one at a time; five minutes apart. Don’t leave any fingerprints on the doorknob. Throw the gloves into a public trash bin at least two blocks away from here. Hans, you first, then Rick, then Mike.”

Algernon sat and waited until all three men had left, then he took out his cell phone and sent an e-mail message to someone who was waiting for it. Two minutes later, he received a reply: “All is well. I am fine.”

Algernon left the office, locking the door behind him. A few blocks away he discarded the office key and the gloves he had been wearing.

Stone and Dino met for dinner at Patroon, a restaurant on East Forty-sixth Street. It was the first time they had dined there, and they were still looking for a replacement for Elaine’s. Stone and Dino had been detectives and partners at the 19th Precinct many years before; Dino was now running the detective squad there.

They settled into a corner table in the handsome, paneled dining room, hung with photographs from the collection of the owner, Ken Aretsky.

“What do you think?” Dino asked.

Stone seemed distracted. “Huh?”

“Of the restaurant.”

“Oh. I like the look and feel of it.” He opened a menu. “More expensive than Elaine’s, though.”

A waiter materialized before them and set down two drinks. “Knob Creek for you, Mr. Barrington. Johnnie Walker Black for you, Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

Stone thanked the man. “That’s a good start,” he said, sipping the drink.

“How did he know?” Dino asked.

“Beats me. Did you get famous all of a sudden?”

A man appeared at the table and introduced himself as the owner.

“How do you do, Ken?” Stone asked. “Please pull up a chair.”

Aretsky did so.

“Your waiter is gifted with second sight,” Stone said, raising his drink.

“Not really,” Aretsky replied. “Elaine told me to expect you two, though I didn’t think it would take so long.” The waiter brought him a drink.

“When did this happen?”

“About a month before she died,” Aretsky replied. “I think she knew she didn’t have long. Elaine said that the restaurant might not make it without her, and that you two were her most loyal customers. She said you’d turn up here eventually, and she told me what you drink.”

Dino raised his glass. “Elaine,” he said.

Stone and Ken raised their glasses and drank. They talked for a few minutes about the photographs on the walls, then Ken excused himself to greet another customer.

“She’s still taking care of us,” Stone said.

“How about that?” Dino took another sip of his scotch and looked searchingly at Stone. “Something’s going on with you, pal. You depressed about something?”

“Nothing in particular,” Stone replied. “I had lunch with Kelli Keane today.”

“The redhead from the Post?”

“Not anymore. She quit to write a biography of Arrington. She had a lot of questions.”

Dino looked surprised. “And you answered them?”

“Most of them. She seems to be doing a conscientious job of research, and I’d rather she had accurate information to work from instead of rumors.”

“And you trust her?”

“It’s not necessary to trust her. I don’t think she’ll lie outright, and if she does, I have a recording of the conversation.” He patted his breast pocket.

“Smart move. Is she going to let you read it before publication?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“If a client of yours was talking to a former Post reporter for publication, what advice would you give him?”

“I’d tell him to record the conversation.”

“Yeah, and you’d tell him to demand to see the manuscript before publication.”

“I don’t want to read it when it’s published, and I don’t want to read it now. There won’t be anything in it that I don’t already know.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dino said. “So this lunch depressed you?”

“It forced me to relive things.”

“Speaking of ‘things,’ how are they with you and Marla Rocker?”

“Okay, I guess. She’s going to direct Peter’s play, and she’s casting now. She won’t be able to make it to the hotel opening.” Stone and Arrington’s son was a student at the Yale School of Drama, and he had written the play the year before. Dino’s son, Ben, also a student there, had produced it, and now it was being readied for Broadway.

“You going to take somebody else?” Dino asked.

“Who? I’m not seeing anybody else.”

“I’ve never known that condition to last very long,” Dino said.

Stone sighed. “I don’t know, everything is just kind of… flat.”

“You’ve got the grand opening to look forward to. The kids and their girls are going to be there, and I’m bringing Viv.” Dino had been seeing another detective, Vivian DeCarlo, who had worked for him at the 19th, and whom he had had transferred when he couldn’t stand not going out with her.

“I’m happy for you,” Stone said.

“The event sounds like it’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun,” Dino pointed out.

“Oh, there’s something new,” Stone said. He told Dino about the NSA intercept of a mention of the hotel.

“That’s kind of creepy,” Dino said.

“It’s more than creepy. We’re going to have Will Lee and the president of Mexico there, you know.”

“I know. I can see how there might be a little concern.”

“A little concern? Both the Secret Service and Strategic Services have doubled their manning for those days. Mike Freeman is taking it very seriously, and if he’s worried, I’m worried.”

Dino picked up a menu. “Let the pros sweat it,” he said. “You and I are out of our depth with that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” Stone said, picking up his menu, “and I don’t like being out of my depth. That’s how you drown.”

They ordered dinner, and after it came, they liked it.

J. Herbert Fisher, formerly a loser of the Olympic class, but now an ace young attorney at Stone Barrington’s firm, Woodman amp; Weld, stood at the bar of P. J. Clarke’s, sipped his bourbon, and gazed at his prospects.

There was a pair of attractive brunettes a couple of bar stools away, but they were both wearing wedding rings, and that made them out of bounds. Herbie, as he had been known formerly, until he had advised those who knew him that he preferred and insisted on being called Herb, had had a semi-long-term relationship with a beautiful associate at his firm, but she had finally told him that she didn’t think an in-house pairing would be helpful to either of their careers. Since that time, it had been catch-as-catch-can, which hadn’t been all bad, but he had had to start seduction from scratch about twice a week, on average, and the experience was wearing thin.

Herbie caught an elbow in a rib and surmised that someone behind him was trying to nail down a space at the bar. He considered elbowing back but decided that the elbower might outweigh him. He peered over his shoulder and found empty space, until he ratcheted his gaze down a few inches and located the top of a blond, female head. Herbie didn’t exactly mind tall women, but he wasn’t all that tall himself, and he found it comforting when he could look slightly down at a female.

“Pardon me,” he said, “are my ribs crowding your elbow?”

She looked up at him, revealing a strikingly pretty face. “Not anymore.”

“Pretty good elbow,” Herbie said to her. “Did you play high school football?”

“Oddly enough I did,” she said. “I was an ace kicker: thirty-two extra points and eighteen field goals my senior year. Would you like to experience my field goal attempt?” She waved frantically at a bartender who was busy being busy elsewhere.