Stuart Woods - Dirty Work

Stone took a cab to Elaine's, settled in at his table, and ordered a drink and a menu. Elaine came over and sat down.

"You missed all the excitement last night, huh?"

"Yeah, Dino said you alerted him. That was a good call."

Elaine shrugged. "Just watching your ass for you."

"Thanks. I still have possession of it. How did all this happen?"

"She came in and sat down at the bar. One of the bartenders, Bobby, chatted her up a little while she had dinner, and they got along real well. She even gave him her number. Then she pulled out the Page Six clipping, and he mentioned it to me. She wanted to know your name, and he told her. I remembered a conversation in here about that."

"She gave Bobby her number?"

"Yeah, they were going like gangbusters. Bobby's pretty swift with the ladies."

"Excuse me a second," Stone said. He got up and went to the bar. "Hey, Bobby."

"Hey, Stone. How you doing?"

"I'm good. Thanks for your help last night."

"I thought I was helping myself."

"Elaine said the lady gave you her number?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"You still got it?"

Bobby went to the cash register, hit a key, and the drawer slid open. He reached under the currency tray for something and came back with a slip of paper. "Here you go. I don't guess I'll be calling her, from what I've heard about her."

Stone pocketed the paper. "Thanks, Bobby. Have one on me."

"Thanks."

Stone went back to his table and looked at the paper. The area code was 917, which was reserved for New York City cell phones.

Elaine looked at him. "Jesus, you're not that horny, are you?"

"Of course not," Stone said, putting the number in his pocket.

"Where's Felicity?"

"Working. She'll be in later."

"And Dino?"

"We had lunch. We've seen enough of each other for one day."

"Stone, you think you're in any sort of danger from this woman?"

"I hope not, but she's unlikely to come in here again, after what happened to her last night." Stone looked up to see a woman alone come through the front door. She stopped and looked around. Medium height and weight, brown hair, nicely dressed. He started looking for something to throw at her and settled on the wooden Indian standing guard next to his table.

Then the woman seemed to spot somebody at the rear of the restaurant. She walked quickly down the aisle, past Stone, and embraced a man, who had stood up to greet her.

"That's his wife," Elaine said. "Maybe you better have another drink." She waved at a waiter and pointed at Stone.

"I don't mind if I do."

"That one's on me," Elaine said to the waiter when the drink came.

"Thanks," Stone said, raising his glass to her.

"Maybe you ought to get outta town for a few days," Elaine said. "Why don't you go up to Connecticut?"

"I just got back," Stone said, "but that's not a bad idea."

Elaine got up to greet somebody, leaving Stone alone. He ordered dinner, then took out the phone number again. Impulsively, he dialed it.

She answered immediately. "Yes?"

"Ms. du Bois, this is Stone Barrington. Don't hang up," he said quickly, "I just want to talk to you."

There was a brief silence. "All right," she said. "What do you want to talk about?" Her accent was perfectly American.

"First of all, I want to explain why I had you photographed."

"I would be interested to hear this," she said.

"It was a domestic matter: Lawrence Fortescue was married to a woman, my client, who believed he was having an affair. They had a prenuptial agreement that precluded his getting any of her money in a divorce if he was shown to be adulterous. I had no idea who you were."

"Do you now?" she asked.

"I have a better idea," he said, "and I'd just as soon not be on your list of enemies."

She laughed aloud. "Well, Mr. Barrington, you have a well-developed sense of self-preservation, I'll give you that."

"I think it would be a good idea if you and I met," Stone said.

"Come now, you don't really expect that, do you?"

"Are you acquainted with the American principle of the inviolability of the attorney-client relationship?"

"I believe so."

"Then you must understand that if you and I meet for the purposeof your seeking legal advice from me, both the meeting and the conversation would be privileged, and I could not tell the police about either."

"I understand that. Would the attorney-client relationship prevent you from, shall we say, inviting others to this meeting?"

"Yes. I could not ethically inform any authority of our meeting or our conversation unless I had direct knowledge of your intent to commit a crime."

"And what do I know of your ethics, Mr. Barrington?"

"Nothing, except that all American lawyers live by the same code. American attorneys do not turn in their clients, except under the circumstances I have already described."

"I take it you are curious about me."

"Of course, but that's not the principal reason for wanting to meet you."

"And what would the principal reason be?"

"I want to save your life, if I can."

"You wish to persuade me to turn myself in? I was in police custody only yesterday, and they didn't seem to want me."

"I don't represent the police… or the British intelligence services."

There was a silence. "You are very interesting, Mr. Barrington, because of who you do not represent. I'm sure you have a cell phone. Give me the number."

Stone gave it to her.

"Tomorrow at six p.m., be at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Perhaps I'll buy you a drink. But please don't be so foolish as to ask anyone to join us." She hung up.

Stone was about to put away his cell phone when it vibrated in his hand. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me."

"Hi."

"Things are going very slowly here, and I'm going to be several more hours. They're ordering in some Chinese, so I'll eat here and see you at home later."

"I'm sorry you couldn't make it."

"Me too. Bye."

Stone put the cell phone away, thinking not about Carpenter, but La Biche. He wondered what he was getting himself into.

Marie-Therese kept her appointment at Frederic Fekkai, a fashionable hairdressing salon and day spa on East Fifty-seventh Street. They knew her there by another name.

Mr. Fekkai greeted her warmly. "Mrs. King, how are you? How are things in Dallas?"

"Hey, sugar," Mrs. King replied in a broad Texas accent. "Things are just wonderful. The price of oil is up, so I thought I'd come up here to the big city and spend some of Mr. King's money."

"We are delighted to see you. Let's see, you have a massage and herbal wrap scheduled, and a manicure and an appointment with a makeup artist. We'll do your hair last, is that all right?"

"Of course, baby."

"The girl will order you some lunch."

"I'm famished. Does she have any bourbon?"

"We'll see what we can do."

Marie-Therese submitted to half a day of pampering, then reported to Mr. Fekkai at the end of it.

"Now, what shall we do with your hair?" he asked.

"I want it fairly short," she said, running her fingers through it, "and I want a nice blond color, with some streaks."

"I think that will suit you perfectly," he replied. "The colorist is waiting for you, and I'll see you next."

At four o'clock, she left the establishment, quite literally, a new woman. All her identification had been arranged to support the effect. She went into Bergdorf's and bought some clothes, then allowed herself to be fitted for two wigs, charging everything to an American Express card in Mrs. King's name, which would be paid automatically from a bank account in the Cayman Islands. At six o'clock, she stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, took out her cell phone, and made the call.