Stuart Woods - Dirt

“I can guess, but I can’t be involved. I have a conflict.”

“What kind of conflict?” Eggers was working up an anger now.

“I’m representing her husband on this DIRT thing.”

“What? You’re supposed to be representing Amanda on that, not Dick Hickock.”

“Hickock called me when he saw the sheet; I told him I couldn’t represent him, so he called Amanda, and she called me and told me to go ahead.”

“As an investigator, then, not as a lawyer?”

“Same thing, as far as I’m concerned. If you’d talked to me ahead of time, I could have explained it to you.”

“What am I going to tell Glynnis?”

“The truth; do you want me to do it?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Stone went back into Eggers’s office and sat down. “Glynnis, I’m sorry, but I have an ethical conflict in representing you in this matter.”

Her hackles went up. “You’re working for Dick, aren’t you? Good God, you’ve been following me? ”

“No, I have not been following you, nor have I been asked to. I’m representing Dick in another matter, and that creates a conflict for me; I hope you can understand that.”

She swiveled her head and looked out the window, saying nothing.

“Glynnis,” Eggers broke in, “this doesn’t mean that the firm can’t represent you, just that Stone can’t. He’s not employed by the firm; he is only of counsel. I promise you we’ll deal with this matter in a manner that will represent your interests to the highest possible degree. Stone, I think that will be all,” he said.

Stone made a brief good-bye and left the office.

He was barely back at his desk when his secretary buzzed him. “Tiffany Potts is on the phone.”

Stone punched the flashing button. “Hello?”

“Hi, remember me?” she asked cheerfully.

“Of course.”

“You said to call you if I thought somebody might be following me.”

“Yes.”

“Well, somebody is.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“My apartment.”

“Let’s not meet there.”

“How about the Oak Bar at the Plaza in an hour?” she asked.

She got there first. When he entered the high-ceilinged, dark-paneled room she was sitting at a window table wearing a gorgeous fur coat, a Perrier before her, looking out the window. It was early yet, and except for the bartender and a waiter, the two of them were alone in the big room. Stone sat down.

She rewarded him with a broad smile. “How are you?”

“Very well; and you?”

“I’m just fine. Sorry to get you out on such short notice.”

“Not to worry; I’m at your beck and call.”

She liked that. “How nice.”

The waiter approached. “I’ll have one of the same,” Stone said, nodding at the Perrier. They made small talk until the drink came. “Now,” Stone said, “tell me about it.”

“I was at Bloomingdale’s yesterday afternoon when I saw him. I was browsing in several departments, and whenever I looked up, he was there.”

“What did he look like?” Stone asked.

“Tall.”

“How tall?”

“Not as tall as you.”

“I’m six-two,”

“Six feet, then.”

“How built?”

“Slender.”

“Hair?”

“Light brown, tending to be sun-bleached at the ends. Collar-length.”

“Clothes?”

“Fashionable. A long raincoat, below the knee.”

“Describe his face.”

“Long, straight nose, eyes a little close together, strong jaw, wide mouth, full lips.”

“That’s very good,” Stone said, impressed.

“I can do better,” she said, bending down and taking a copy of Vanity Fair from a large purse. She put the magazine on the table, flipped through the early pages and turned it toward Stone. “That’s real close,” she said, tapping a full-page photograph. “It’s not him, but it’s real close.”

It was an ad for a men’s cologne, and the model fit her description perfectly.

“You’re sure it’s not him?”

“I’m sure. I don’t make mistakes about men as good-looking as that. The guy who followed me could be doing that kind of work for a living.”

“Modeling?”

“Or acting, or both. He’s the type who turns up in classes at mediocre acting schools.”

“Did he follow you when you left Bloomingdale’s?”

“Yes. I walked home, and he was with me all the way. At first, I thought he was just interested, you know? But he never approached me, always stayed well back. A couple of times he was on the opposite side of the street, but he was always there. When I got home I looked out the window, and he was half a block down the street, watching.”

“When did you last see him?”

She glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes ago.”

Stone sat up straight. “He followed you here?”

“Yep. He was out there this morning. Change of clothes, but the same raincoat.”

They were only a couple of feet above the sidewalk. “Do you see him now?”

“Nope, but he was down that way a couple of minutes ago.” She pointed toward Fifth Avenue.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Stone said. “Don’t leave.”

He left the room and walked outside. Traffic was heavy on the sidewalk. Stone walked purposefully, west on Central Park South as far as the corner of Sixth Avenue, then all the way back to the front of the Plaza, checking every face coming and going. Nothing. He entered the hotel by the front door and made a sweep of the hallways and the Palm Court, but the man was not in sight. He returned to the Oak Room.

Tiffany was still at the table, but the Perriers had been replaced by two martinis. “I switched,” she said. “I ordered one for you, too.”

Stone fingered the glass, but did not pick it up. “It’s a little early for me,” he said.

“Then leave it; I’ll drink it.”

“Have you told Dick about this man?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell him, but don’t use the phone in your apartment; it may be bugged.”

“Dick was always careful about that.” She pulled a tiny cellular phone from her coat pocket. “That’s why he gave me this.”

“Be careful, even using that, and don’t see him until I get a handle on this.”

“He won’t like that,” she said with a small smile, taking a large swig from her martini.

“I’ll talk to him. In fact, can I borrow your phone?”

She handed it over.

“What’s his number?”

She gave it to him. “That’s his cellular. Let it ring once, then hang up; that’s our signal. He’ll call back as soon as he can.”

Stone followed her instructions, then set the little phone on the table. “How long will he take?”

“Depends; if he’s in a meeting, it could be a while.”

Stone eyed the martini but didn’t pick it up.

“Oh, go on; it’s good for you. There was an article in the Times this morning, said it’s good for you.”

“I’ve got to keep a clear head,” Stone said.

She leaned forward, and her cleavage made an entertaining sight. “A clear head is not always an advantage,” she said.

Stone managed a chuckle.

“Tell me about you,” she said.

“Not much to tell.”

“Are you seeing anybody?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

She looked disappointed. “Pity.”

“It’s flattering that you think so.”

“I spend so much time alone,” she said. “Quite frankly, Stone, I’d like some company.”

The phone rang, and Stone silently thanked God. “You answer,” he said, “then I’ll talk to him.”

She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Hey,” she breathed. She listened for a moment, then smiled. “I’d really love to, but someone sitting here says we shouldn’t. I’ll put him on.” She handed the phone across the table.