Stuart Woods - Dirt

“I’m disappointed,” Stone said. “He seemed the likely one to me, and the multiple relationships would underscore that. But if you feel strongly…”

“I kid you not, Stone, the guy’s a regular monument to discretion.” Arnie shifted painfully in his seat. “What about the other one?”

“What?”

“You said there was a third employee.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t look promising.” Stone sighed, wrote down Martha’s name and address, and handed it to Arnie. “About five-five, a hundred and fifty, pale red hair, not pretty.”

Arnie read it and looked up. “You want me to check her out?”

Stone thought about it for a minute. “My client feels strongly that she’s not the leak, and I have to agree with her.”

“Can’t hurt to check,” Arnie replied.

“I guess not. Maybe I’ll take a took at her later, if I don’t come up with anything else.”

Arnie shoved the address back across the desk. “This is something to do with this DIRT business, isn’t it? And so I guess I know who your client is.”

“Arnie, you really get around, don’t you?” Stone asked, surprised. “How’d you come by this?”

Arnie shrugged. “Friend of mine is on the features desk at the Post. They been handing the sheet around the newsroom.”

“You got any theories?”

“Sounds like somebody tight with one of the people getting burned, maybe with more than one of them. I think you should check out Martha there.” He pointed at the piece of paper on Stone’s desk. “You can never tell what motivates a person.”

Stone nodded. “You’ve got a point; maybe I will.”

His secretary buzzed. “Richard Hickock on line one. You in?”

“I’m in,” Stone replied. “See you soon, Arnie; give my girl your bill on the way out, and she’ll write you a check.” He picked up the phone as he watched the retired detective trudge out. “Dick?”

“Okay, I talked with Amanda,” Hickock said, not bothering with a greeting.

“She told me.”

“What have you learned so far?”

“Not much; I’m checking out a few leads.”

“Any of them lead to me?”

“Not so far. Tell me, who else knows about Tiffany Potts?”

“Not a goddamned soul, that’s who.”

“Not your secretary?”

“No. We don’t communicate through her.”

“How do you communicate?”

“Cellular phones, and she has a beeper.”

“Cellular can be leaky, Dick. All somebody needs is a scanner.”

“We never use names. If somebody was listening, they wouldn’t know who was talking. We also keep it very brief.”

“I think I should talk with Miss Potts.”

“Stone, she’s very very discreet.”

“Nevertheless, Dick, if you want me to get to the bottom of this…”

“Oh, all right; I’ll have her call you.”

“Good. Are there any other… intimates I should talk with?”

“None. Get back to me.” Hickock hung up.

Ten minutes later, she was on the phone. “This is Tiffany,” she said. “A mutual friend says we should talk.” Her voice was quiet, shy.

“May I come and see you?” Stone asked.

“Sure; when?”

“Half an hour?”

“I guess I can get myself together by then.” She gave him the address. “It says Dunhill on the bell. Ring twice, then once; the intercom’s not working.”

The townhouse had a limestone facade and only four bells; each apartment occupied a floor, and Hickock’s mistress was on the third. Tiffany Potts had done very well for herself. Stone rang the bell twice, paused, then once more. The lock clicked, and he was inside a mahogany-paneled foyer. The elevator door stood open; he took it to the top floor.

She was smaller than he had thought she would be, less blonde, and prettier; the scandal sheet had been right about her bustline. She was wearing well-fitted jeans and a chambray shirt. She stepped back and held the door open. “Please come in,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Tiffany Potts.”

The apartment was quite handsome – crown moldings, nice curtains, good furniture, good pictures, lots of books. She showed him to one of a pair of sofas facing each other before the fireplace. “You have a very nice place,” Stone said. “Who’s your decorator?”

“I am,” she said shyly.

“You have very good taste.”

She rewarded him with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“What did Mr. Hickock tell you about me, Miss Potts?”

“Please call me Tiff; everybody does. He said you’re looking into this DIRT thing for him. Are you a private detective? You don’t look like what I’d imagined.”

“I used to be a police detective, Tiff; now I’m a lawyer.”

“What should I call you?”

“Stone will be just fine.”

“I like that name. Names are important to actors.”

“Is Dunhill your professional name?”

“Not really; Dick didn’t want my name on the bell. I chose Dunhill; it’s sort of a joke. Believe me, I wouldn’t call myself Tiffany Dunhill; it sounds like a stripper.”

Stone smiled. “You’re an actress?”

“An actor,” she corrected. “A student, really.”

“Where are you studying?”

“At the Actor’s Studio.”

“That’s very impressive; you’d have to be very promising to be accepted.”

“Dick got me the interview, but I got in because of my audition,” she said. “I expect all you know about me is what you read in that DIRT thing, but I’m not a bimbo, Stone. I have talent as an actor.”

“Have you appeared in anything yet?”

“Two off-Broadway plays, one of them a lead; I got good reviews.”

“Do you mind answering my questions?”

“No; Dick said to tell you the truth.”

“How long have you known Dick?”

“About fourteen months. He came to a backer’s audition for one of the plays I did.”

“Did you start seeing him right away?”

“No; I knew he was married, so I refused to go out with him. But he came to our opening a few weeks later, and to the party afterward, and I really liked him. I decided to overlook his wife. I know that doesn’t sound very moral, but I’m a big girl; I take full responsibility.” She waved a hand. “He gives me this, and I give him… companionship. Sex is only part of it. He leads a very pressured existence, and he’s able to relax completely with me. I don’t expect him to leave his wife; at some stage it will end, but right now it suits us both.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Somewhere between once and three times a week, depending on when he can get away.”

“Where do you go?”

“Usually here. I cook for him. Once or twice he’s picked me up at the Studio, and we’ve gone out for dinner in the Village.”

“On any of these occasions did you run into anybody who knew him?”

“No. When he’s not wearing a business suit, he’s really quite anonymous.”

“Anybody who knew you?”

She shook her head.

“Has there ever been a mention of you two in any of the gossip columns?”

“Not once; not until this DIRT thing. Dick is very upset about it; his wife doesn’t seem to know yet, but he thinks she’ll find out now, that some ‘friend’ will mention it to her. The fact is, he loves his wife. He just needs something more than she’s giving him.”

“Tiff, have you ever had the feeling that somebody was following you?”

Her brow wrinkled. “No, I haven’t; do you think somebody might be?”

“It’s a possibility; after all, whoever is publishing this sheet seems to know where you live.”

She looked worried now. “I hadn’t thought about that. Do you think I’m in any danger?”