Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“She was a secretary at Justice.”

“Thanks.” Stone switched back to Holly

“You there?”

“Just barely. In all my time in this office, I’ve never been treated that way.”

“Awwww. Good news, though. Art’s girlfriend was a secretary at the DOJ.”

“I’ll goose the Bureau, then.”

“Can you have the goose get in touch with me? I’ll bring him up to date, off the record.”

“I suppose I can suggest that.” She sighed. “I miss you.”

“You mean, you miss the sex?”

“That, too.”

“As long as you don’t miss only the sex.”

Holly sang a few bars of “All of You.”

“That’s sweet!”

“You say that as though you’re surprised I can be sweet.”

“I’ve never doubted it.”

“But you think of me, more, as tart.”

“No, I don’t think of you as a tart, except in bed.”

“A lady in the parlor and a tart in the bedroom, huh?”

“Not the reference I would choose, but not inapt.”

“Good,” she said. “Now I have to go goose the Bureau. Expect a call.”

Stone hung up and tried to settle back into his book, but thoughts of Holly kept intruding. His phone rang.

“May I speak to Stone Barrington, please?” A woman’s voice, a very pleasant one.

“This is he.”

“This is Maren Gustav; I’m a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Stone hadn’t expected a woman; he hoped that didn’t make him a misogynist. Probably not, he decided. “Good evening.”

“You didn’t expect a woman, did you?”

“I had no expectations of any kind.”

“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, who lives in a large house in Washington.”

“I believe we must.”

“May I take you to lunch tomorrow,” she asked, “so we can discuss the matter?”

“That sounds good, but I’m in New York,” Stone replied.

“What a coincidence, so am I!”

“Then when and where shall we meet?”

“At the Grill, at twelve-thirty?”

“Very good. How will I recognize you?”

“You can’t miss me. I’ll be wearing a badge, a helmet, and SWAT body armor.”

“I’m sure the other patrons will find that entertaining.”

“I’ll know you from the waltzing photos in People. ”

“ Oh, no.”

“Until then.” She hung up. Stone knew from past experience that it was unwise to form mental pictures of a woman, based only on her voice, but his bet was that she was not short, fat, and unattractive.

The following morning Stone had the thought of inviting Dino to join them at lunch but decided against it, until he had made his own assessment of Maren Gustav. He idled through the morning, then walked up to the Seagram Building and into the Grill’s street-level entrance. He walked up the stairs into the bar, and the maître d’ approached. “Ms. Gustav is waiting for you on the back row,” he said, nodding toward the rows of table.

Her face was hidden behind a menu as he approached. “Ms. Gustav?” he said, and the menu went to half-staff, revealing a Swedish blonde who, sitting down, appeared to be quite tall.

“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, shaking hands. It was a hand with long fingers.

Stone sat down. “Please call me Stone,” he said.

“And I’m Maren.”

“As Swedish names go, isn’t there usually a ‘son’ on the end of a Gustav?”

“There was, but I found it inconveniently long, and I got tired of spelling it for people.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“Let’s order, then we can talk.”

The waiter poured him a glass of champagne, and he ordered the Dover sole.

“Make that two,” she said to the waiter, “and we’ll stick with the champagne.” She handed her menu back and turned toward Stone. “Now, please tell me everything you know about the Deana Carlyle case.”

“Actually, Ms. Carlyle’s corpse is the second in line, after Patricia Clark’s.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve read that file, too.”

“I believe the two murders are part of the same case,” Stone said. He picked his way through the story, trying not to leave anything out. By the time he had finished, a Dover sole was staring back at him from his plate.

“Let’s eat, then we’ll talk more about the case,” Maren said. They did so, and she pressed him for his personal history. He gave her the two-minute bio, instead of the sixty-second summary.

“Now, you,” he said.

“I was born in a lovely house in the Stockholm archipelago of Sweden.”

“Did the Bureau give you a hard time about not being a born citizen?”

“No, the house belonged to my grandparents. My parents had emigrated to the States years before, but my grandmother felt her grandchild should be born in her house, and not in a New York railroad apartment, which was where my parents lived at the time. They registered my birth at the American embassy, so there would be no nationality problems. I grew up on the Upper West Side, went to Columbia for my BA and my JD, and was recruited by the Bureau out of law school. That was more years ago than I am willing to admit. You look as though you’re thinking about something else.”

“I’m sorry. There are one or two things that may not be in the two case files you read,” Stone said.

“Now, that’s the sort of stuff I like to hear.”

“Right. Here goes: Donald Clark has had threesomes with Deana Carlyle and Deborah Myers.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “This case is going to be more fun than I thought.”

“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” Stone replied.

“Then do go on.”

“Also Deana’s boyfriend, Art Jacoby, a homicide lieutenant with the DCPD, was the unwarranted first suspect in the case. That position, as you can see, is now up for grabs.”

“Heavens to Betsy,” she said, fanning herself with her hands.

“And,” Stone continued, “Dean Casey, who is now supervising, is said to be Debby Myers’s favorite toady. Art Jacoby feels that that makes Little Debby, as many like to call her, a suspect.”

“Where is Agatha Christie when we need her?” Maren asked.

“You,” Stone said, “are now the Agatha Christie in this case, and good luck to you.”

They walked out of the building together, where a black SUV awaited her.

“May I give you a lift?” Maren asked.

“Tell me, how does a special agent rate a car and driver?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I told you: I’m the deputy director for criminal investigations.”

“It’s not all that far,” Stone said, “but you can drop me.” He gave her his address.

“Tell me again,” she said as they drove away, “how did you become involved in this case?”

“It was easy,” Stone said. “I returned to my suite at the Hay-Adams after the inaugural address, and the body of Patricia Clark was waiting for me on the living room floor.”

“So, you were suspect number one, then?”

“For only a few minutes. The police commissioner of New York and his wife were a few steps behind me. And when Deb Myers turned up, they were able to assure her that I had been with them at the time of the death — and also with our new president. We dropped her at the White House after the ceremony, then changed cars for the trip to the hotel.”

“How did you come to know the New York police commissioner?”

“During my service with the NYPD, which I told you about, he and I were partners, working homicide.”

“Well,” Maren said, “that’s the most ironclad alibi I’ve ever come across.”

They pulled up at Stone’s house.

“Very nice,” she said, checking it out through the tinted window.

“May I offer you coffee?” he asked.