Stuart Woods - Kisser

“Mr. Stone?”

“I have a couple of people coming for lunch today. Could you fix us something?’

“I will be happy to.”

“Will it be warm enough in the garden to sit out there, do you think?”

“Oh, yes. Lots of sun, too. What would you like?”

“You decide. They’re invited for twelve, so let’s sit down at twelve thirty.”

“I will do this.” Helene hung up.

Stone went back to the puzzle.

HE WAS WORKING in his office when the upstairs doorbell buzzer rang. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Your luncheon guests,” Rita said.

“I’ll buzz you in and meet you there in just a moment.” He pressed the buzzer and then called Joan.

“Yep?”

“I have guests for lunch, so I’ll be a while,” he said, and then he hung up and walked upstairs.

Rita Gammage and Mitzi Reynolds were standing in his living room, looking around. Mitzi, in what appeared to be an Armani business suit, was shorter than but just as good-looking as Rita, who was dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater.

Stone gave Rita a peck on the cheek and introduced himself to Mitzi.

“We’ve already met each other,” Mitzi said. “We arrived simultaneously.”

“Follow me,” Stone said, then led them through the house and down to the kitchen, where Helene was working away. He introduced her to the two women.

“Anybody for a glass of champagne?” he asked, opening the fridge.

“Why not?” Mitzi said, and Rita nodded.

He took a bottle of Veuve Cliquot from the fridge, picked up three crystal flutes from a cabinet, and then led them outside to a group of chairs around a teak cocktail table. Helene had already set the lunch table with the good china. Stone poured them all a glass, and they sipped. Stone was having the problem he always had when meeting two beautiful women: which one to pursue?

“Rita, why don’t you tell Mitzi what you told me about Derek Sharpe last evening?” he said. He sipped his wine while Rita talked.

“That’s about all I know,” she said, finally.

“You make him sound repellent,” Mitzi said.

“Then I’ve done my work,” Rita replied.

Helene bustled out with two platters and set them on the table. “Lunch is served,” she said.

They took their seats at the table and served themselves from the Greek salad, taramasalata, hummus, and dolmades Helene had made.

“Mitzi,” Stone said, “did Brian give you some idea of what you’re supposed to do?”

“He pretty much left it up to me,” she said, “but I think the idea is that I will appear on his social radar and get him interested in the Reynolds fortune.”

“Oh, you’re from the Reynolds tobacco family?” Rita asked.

“No, I’m from the Reynolds shrimp family-no relation,” Mitzi said.

“Mitzi’s father operates a shrimp boat,” Stone explained.

“No,” Mitzi said, “he operates thirty shrimp boats, up and down the coast, from an office on the Charleston waterfront. Brian tends to get confused about my roots.”

“Ah,” said Stone, “and how…”

“Did a girl like me get to be a New York City cop? It was easy. I had a boyfriend for a couple of years who was a detective. I didn’t have any real work, and I was fascinated by his, so he suggested I take the police exam. I did well on that and joined the force. I got my gold shield six years later.”

“Brian said you went to a good school down there somewhere.”

“ Agnes Scott College, in Atlanta.”

Stone blinked. “I know someone who went to school there, Carrie Cox-do you know her?”

“She was a year behind me,” Mitzi said, “and she was a piece of work.”

Stone wanted to ask exactly what she meant by that, but Rita interrupted. “She’s the actress with the lead in the new Del Wood musical, isn’t she?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yes, I read about her on ‘Page Six.’ ”

“So did I,” Mitzi said, “and I can’t say I was surprised. How do you know her, Stone?”

“I’ve done some legal work for her,” Stone replied, and hoped she would leave it at that. “Tell me,” he said, “do you have a regular partner?”

“Tom Rabbit,” she said. “He’s due back from vacation tomorrow.”

“Good, because I think you’ll need some backup.”

“What’s he going to pose as?” Rita asked.

“Not as anything,” Mitzi said. “He wouldn’t fit into Derek Sharpe’s crowd. He’ll watch my back; he’ll be the cavalry that rides in if something goes wrong.”

“You make this sound dangerous,” Rita said.

“That’s unlikely,” Stone said, “but an undercover cop has to operate on the premise that he-or she, in this case-is in danger at all times. These things tend to have a happier ending if you think that way. Shall we have another bottle of champagne?”

They did.

THEY HAD FINISHED LUNCH and the second bottle of champagne and were on coffee.

“Rita,” Stone said, “I need your help on something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to find Mitzi a temporary place in a good building on the Upper East Side, somewhere she can operate from. Her address will be the first thing Derek Sharpe will learn about her, and it has to impress him.”

Rita turned to Mitzi. “Mitzi, why don’t you just bunk with me? I live in my parents’ apartment in a nice building. They spend most of their time at their house in the Hamptons, and there are comfortable guest rooms.”

“Thank you, Rita,” Mitzi replied. “That’s very kind of you.”

Stone relaxed; that had gone just the way he had hoped. He heard the phone ring in the kitchen.

Helene stuck her head out the back door. “Phone for you, Mr. Stone!”

“Will you ladies excuse me?” Stone said. He took the call so they would have an opportunity to get to know each other better in his absence. He went into the kitchen, sat down at the counter, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Brian Doyle.”

“Hey, Brian. Thanks for putting Mitzi on this. I’ve introduced her to a woman who can help her get to know the scene, and she now has the best address on Park Avenue.”

“That’s good news,” Brian said. “I have some of my own.”

“Shoot.”

“Mr. Mervin Pyle, aka Derek Sharpe, does not have a record under either of those names.”

“I’m surprised to hear it,” Stone said.

“Don’t be too surprised; he has records under three other names. Apparently our boy took to identity change as a way of life in his youth. He lived in Dallas, L.A., and San Francisco, where he managed an art gallery for a while.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Burglary, embezzlement, battery, attempted murder, all under different names.”

“Did he do time?”

“Only while awaiting bail. His IDs were so good that, each time he pled out, and as, supposedly, a first offender, he got no jail time.”

Rita and Mitzi came into the kitchen, and Stone asked Brian to hang on.

“Do you mind if we have a look around your house?” Rita asked.

“Not at all. Explore to your heart’s content.”

She handed him a card. “You might have your secretary have some cards like this printed for Mitzi.”

Stone took the card: “ 71 East Seventy-first Street? I thought you lived on Park.”

“It’s the side-door address for those who want to be discreet. Maybe you should use 740 Park on her cards for Sharpe’s edification.”

“Sure.” The women wandered off, and Stone went back to his call. “I’m back.”

“I was particularly interested in the battery and attempted murder charges,” Brian said, resuming. “I got hold of a San Francisco detective who worked the latter case, and he told me that Sharpe has a very bad temper, especially when drinking, and he has a propensity for violence. The attempted murder case arose out of a fight between him and another guy he nearly beat to death. It took four cops to pull him off.”