Stuart Woods: Hot Mahogany

“You said he took a cab?”

“Elaine said she saw him getting into one.”

Dino got out his cell phone and made another call. “They’ll call the cab companies and have them put out a radio call to their cabs, asking who picked up a fare at Elaine’s and where they took him. It won’t reach every cab, but we might get lucky. Shouldn’t take long.”

A waiter came over and said that Elaine would like to buy them an after-dinner drink, the way she always did. They ordered.

Dino’s phone rang. “Bacchetti. Yeah. Yeah. You’re sure? Thanks.” He closed the phone. “A cab picked him up here and took him to Sotheby’s.”

“The auction house on Madison Avenue?”

“Nah, they moved to Rockefeller Center a few years ago; I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“I knew that; I just forgot. Why Sotheby’s? It’s the middle of the fucking night; they’re not open.”

“You’re looking for logic from a guy in his shape?”

“You’re right, Dino.”

“I usually am.”

“Well, not all the time, just some of the time.”

“Too late; you already admitted it.”

“Well, there’s no point in going over to Sotheby’s, is there?”

“Why not? My car is outside.”

They tossed down their drinks, left Elaine’s and got into Dino’s car, driven by a young officer. “Take us to Rockefeller Center,” Dino said. “Sotheby’s.”

“So, what rookie are you torturing these days?” Stone asked, nodding at the driver.

“He’s a lucky kid, this one; he could be out there getting shot at, right, Leary?”

“You’re not related to Captain Leary, now retired, are you?” Stone asked.

“He’s my father,” the young man said, driving swiftly down Second Avenue.

“Well,” Stone said, “he made our lives hell for a few years at the One-Nine.”

“So he says,” Leary replied. “Says he enjoyed every minute of it, too.”

“Shut up and drive, Leary,” Dino said.

They found Sotheby’s, and Dino had Leary drive them around the block a couple of times, while they looked into darkened doorways with a flashlight.

“Your chicken has flown the coop,” Dino said. “Leary, take Mr. Barrington to his lovely home in Turtle Bay.”

“I know the joint,” Leary said.

“It’s not a joint,” Stone pointed out.

“Whatever.” Leary had them there in five minutes.

As they stopped, Dino’s cell phone rang. “Bacchetti. Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He hung up and turned toward Stone. “There’s a Barton Lowell Cabot at 110 North Shore Road, in Warren, Connecticut. The only guy by that name in three states.”

Stone made a note of the address.

“Look,” Dino said, “if he hasn’t turned up by morning, I’ll have the watch sergeant spread the word about him at the shift change.”

“Thanks, Dino. I’ll keep you posted.” Stone got out of the car, and it drove away. Stone walked up his front steps, and as he was fumbling for his key, he saw the moving shadow of someone behind him. He spun around, ready to repel a mugger, and found Barton Cabot standing there.

“Holy shit, Barton,” Stone said. “You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry,” Cabot replied.

“Why did you leave Elaine’s?”

“I’m supposed to sleep here tonight,” Cabot replied, with perfect logic.

“Why did you go to Sotheby’s?”

Cabot looked puzzled. “I don’t know. But then I came here.” Stone looked at the address on his jotter. “Do you recognize 110 North Shore Road, Warren, Connecticut?”

“Sure, I live there.”

Stone sighed and unlocked the door. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Stone showed Barton to a guest room. “I’ll get you some pajamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow,” Stone said, “as soon as I turn off the lights downstairs and set the alarm.”

“Okay,” Barton said, sitting on the bed.

Stone went downstairs, switched everything off and tapped in the alarm code, then he went back upstairs to his bedroom to get the clothes for Barton. When he walked into the master suite, Barton was there, staring at four paintings grouped on a wall.

“Can I help you, Barton?”

“You’ve got some nice things in this house,” Barton replied. “I’ll give you eight hundred thousand dollars for these four pictures.”

“They’re not for sale,” Stone said.

“Do you have any more Matilda Stones?”

“No, just those. She was my mother.”

“Oh. She’s a wonderful painter,” Barton said. “You don’t often see her work on the market.”

“Barton, why do you think you have eight hundred thousand dollars?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I buy, I sell.”

“Pictures?”

Barton looked puzzled. “I guess.”

Stone went to his dressing room and got Barton the things he needed, then put them in his arms and turned him toward the stairs. “Do you remember where your room is?”

“Down the stairs, first door on the left,” Barton replied. “I remember things I just learned.”

“And I’m sure you’ll remember even more tomorrow morning,” Stone said, gently propelling him toward the stairs. He waited at the top until he heard the guest room door close, then he undressed and went to bed.

Stone walked into the kitchen the following morning to find Barton Cabot having breakfast, deep in conversation with Stone’s housekeeper, Helene. What surprised him was that the conversation was being conducted in Greek, Helene’s native language.

“Good morning, Stone,” Barton said.

“Good morning, Barton. I didn’t know you spoke Greek.”

“Neither did I.”

“He speaks my language beautifully,” Helene said, “and with an elegant accent.”

“Thank you, Helene,” Barton said.

Helene put scrambled eggs and bacon before Stone and went about her work.

“Stone,” Barton said, “what sort of work does Lance do?”

“Your younger brother is the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. He was only recently appointed.”

“That’s a pretty important job, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“How did he get it?”

“Well, my first cousin, Dick Stone, was supposed to get it, but before he could start, he was murdered, along with his wife and daughter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barton said. “Dick Stone,” he mused. “I think I knew him.”

“Oh? How?”

“I’m not sure; school, maybe.”

“Choate or Harvard?”

“Maybe both. He was younger than I.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I don’t know, but I think I liked him.”

“Everybody liked Dick, except his brother.”

“Caleb?”

“That’s right.”

“He was my class, I think. I didn’t like him.”

“Neither did Dick.”

Stone didn’t feel like reciting a long explanation about how Dick had died and who had killed him, so he changed the subject. “If you’re done, let’s get started.”

“Started where?”

“To your house.”

“Where is that?”

“At 110 North Shore Road in Warren, Connecticut.”

“That sounds right.”

“Let’s go find out,” Stone said.

Helene handed Cabot his old clothes, newly washed and pressed, and Stone led him to the garage and put him into the car.

“What is this?” Cabot asked, indicating the car.

“A Mercedes.”

“What kind of Mercedes?”

“An E55,” Stone said, pressing the remote to open the garage door.

“That’s the fast one, isn’t it?”

“The fastest Mercedes,” Stone said, backing out of the garage and closing the door. “At least it was when I bought it.”