Stuart Woods - Dirt

Amanda worked the crowd for an hour, then, at the moment when the tide seemed to turn toward dinner, she made her good-byes and headed toward the door, nearly colliding with Bill Eggers.

“Oh, Bill,” Amanda said, “you are just the man I want to see. Come with me, you’re taking me to dinner.” She hustled him to her car.

“Good thing I didn’t have plans,” Eggers said.

“I’d have kidnapped you anyway,” Amanda said, sliding her arm through his. “Paul, we’re going to Elaine’s.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.

“I see you got the car,” Eggers said, looking around admiringly.

“Of course I did, darling,” Amanda giggled.

“I don’t think Dick Hickock knew what hit him.”

“Of course not, darling.” She made small talk all the way to Elaine’s, while simultaneously formulating her next move.

Amanda swept into Elaine’s, automatically casting an eye about for who was there and where they were seated. Elaine herself was way in the back of the restaurant, seated at a customer’s table. She lifted an eyebrow and Jack, the headwaiter, seated Amanda and her lawyer at a favored table up front. Amanda was just as happy not to have been greeted by Elaine, who she found hard to read, never quite sure whether she was being insulted. She came to the restaurant only for her work; before they were seated she had three items for tomorrow’s column.

Bill Eggers ordered a double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, and Amanda ordered a large bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water. She always kept her wits about her, relaxing enough to drink alcohol only when she was among trusted friends in her home or theirs. They chatted idly as they selected from the menu and ate two courses. Only when they had both declined dessert and received their coffee did Amanda choose to begin.

“Bill, you must know about this scandal sheet that was circulated to a lot of fax machines this afternoon.”

“I believe I caught a whiff of it.”

“Well put; it was all so much dung.”

“Certainly was, Amanda. I mean, I would have known if you weren’t in Saint Bart’s.”

“Of course, darling.” She paused for effect. “I want to hire a private detective; I’d like you to recommend one.”

The lawyer’s nose wrinkled. “Is it that important to know who sent the fax?”

Amanda gazed across the room. “It might become that important; if so, I intend to be ready.”

“Amanda, let me give you my lecture, the short version, on private detectives.”

“All right, Bill; I’m listening.”

“I suppose I’ve dealt with a couple of dozen of them in one way or another over the past twenty-five years, and I haven’t found one yet who could be trusted to keep a confidence.” He held up a hand before she could reply. “I’m not saying there are not ethical private eyes out there; it’s just that I’ve never run across one. They tend to be failed cops whose ethics were too ripe for the police force – and that’s very ripe indeed. They dress badly, smell awful, and drink in the morning; they charge you by the day, then spend half the day at the track; they charge you for information, then make you pay them not to reveal it to others.”

“This is the short version?”

“All right, I’ve said it, and having said it, I have a much better idea.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Does the name Stone Barrington ring a bell?”

Amanda wrinkled her brow before she caught herself. “That police detective who was involved in the investigation of the Sasha Nijinsky disappearance four or five years ago?”

“Your memory always astonishes me.”

“It’s not that good; tell me about him. The long version, past and present.”

“Born somewhere in New England to a mill-owning family who went bust during the thirties; father dropped out of Harvard to become a carpenter and a political leftist in Greenwich Village, thus becoming the black sheep; mother was Matilda Stone…”

“The painter?”

“Right. Stone went to law school, but during his senior year he hung out with some cops and became besotted with their profession. When he graduated, he didn’t take the bar; instead, he went to the police academy. He had made it as far as detective second grade over fourteen years – no better than average – when Sasha Nijinsky disappeared. He was practically on the scene when she vanished and thus caught the investigation. His theories didn’t square with the department’s – he had never really been one of the boys – so at the first opportunity they retired him for medical reasons. He had taken a bullet in the knee on an earlier investigation.”

“Was he crippled?”

“Not really; they were just looking for an excuse.”

“What has he done since?”

“For a while he spent his time restoring a Turtle Bay townhouse left to him by a great-aunt, until he ran out of money. Then he crammed for the bar examination and passed it well up on the list, top ten percent. I’d known him in law school; I took him to lunch and offered him a deal with us.”

“He joined Woodman and Weld?”

“Not exactly. He became of counsel to us, set up his own office at home, and began handling our client-related criminal cases and the occasional investigation.”

“Client-related criminal cases? I don’t understand; you don’t represent criminals, do you?”

“Typically, a valued client’s son involved in a date rape – that sort of thing.”

“I see. And what sort of investigations?”

“Again, client-related – divorce, adultery, runaway daughter, theft of company funds, industrial espionage – whatever comes up.”

“Is he good?”

“He combines a good policeman’s curiosity and tenacity with a good lawyer’s discretion and restraint. And he’s socially acceptable.”

“Then why don’t I know him?”

“He lives a quiet life, dates a lady judge; he’s better known in courtroom circles than in society.”

“Wasn’t there a lot of publicity about him over the Nijinsky case?”

“A great deal, but he went to ground very quickly, and the press forgot about him, not having any reason to remember.”

“He sounds good.”

“Why don’t you go and see him? I’ll be glad to make an appointment.”

“Bill, people usually come to see me. ”

“It would perhaps be more discreet for you to go to him.”

“Make the appointment; I’ll go for tea tomorrow at four.”

“ Tea ?”

“Bill, if he can’t mount a decent tea, why would I want to know him?” Amanda looked up to see a television actor come into the restaurant with a woman who was not his wife. She made a mental note for the column.

The young man stood behind the stone wall that separated Central Park from Fifth Avenue and watched the front door of the apartment building from across the street through a pair of pocket binoculars. It was just before 2:00 A.M., and a couple were being deposited at the curb by a hired limousine.

The night doorman got the car door, then rushed ahead to open the building door for them. The young man watched him see the couple onto the elevator, then return to the lobby. The doorman picked up a clipboard, made some sort of mark, probably next to the couple’s name, then tossed the clipboard onto a desk, tipped his uniform hat back on his head, stretched and yawned, then sat down at the desk and rested his head on his arms. He had obviously checked in the last people for the night – all present or accounted for – and now there would be no one to disturb his sleep until the early birds went for their jogs.

The young man waited for another twenty minutes, checking the doorman frequently through the binoculars; finally, the man was clearly deeply asleep. The young man set a paper bag on top of the wall, placed his hands on the wall, and vaulted lightly over it. He picked up the paper bag and crossed Fifth Avenue. Traffic was very light at this hour. He checked his watch: just past 2:30 A.M.