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  “Just a moment,” Teich said.

  Stone turned and looked at him.

  “Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes while I confer with my client?”

  Stone noticed that Finger had turned a peculiar shade of red. “Not at all, Sam. Take your time.” He walked outside, took a seat in the waiting room, picked up a copy of the Times, turned to the Arts section and started working on the crossword puzzle. He was a little more than halfway through when the conference room door opened and Sam Teich walked toward him, a sheet of paper in his hand. Stone stood to meet him.

  Teich handed him the paper, on which there was a handwritten list. “Is this everything you asked for?”

  Stone read the list carefully. “Everything except one hundred percent of Mrs. Finger’s legal costs,” he said.

  “And what do you estimate those will be?”

  “Thirty percent of her settlement.”

  A tiny grimace of pain crossed Teich’s face. “She signed a contingency agreement? How did you get her to do that?”

  “It was her expressed wish, with no suggestion from me.”

  “We’ll give you everything on the list and ten percent. It’s not as though you’ll have put in a lot of hours.”

  “Fifteen percent, if we have a signed agreement before the end of the business day.”

  Teich sighed. “Done. Send me your draft.”

  “It won’t be a draft,” Stone said, “it’ll be final, and it will include a provision for hidden assets that may be uncovered at some later date.”

  “Bernie will sign an agreement for the real estate and half of the assets contained in the file you showed us,” Teich said.

  “And half what’s in the Caymans account. I’ll want to see a bank statement.”

  “It’s not the kind of account that produces a monthly statement, and for legal reasons, Bernie does not want any document to exist that mentions a balance. We’ll add a million dollars to the settlement to cover the Caymans account and any assets not mentioned in the files.”

  “Oh, then there are unnamed assets?”

  “All right, two million.”

  “Five million.”

  “Three million, and no more.”

  “Bernie signs the agreement first.”

  “All right. We have an agreement.” Teich offered his hand.

  Stone shook it. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Sam; you gave Bernie good advice.”

  “I know,” Teich said, then he turned and walked back into the conference room.

  Stone left the law firm in a rosy daze of elation. He forced himself to breathe normally as he hailed a cab and went back to his own office.

  “So?” Joan said, as he walked into the office.

  “Come in and bring your pad,” Stone said. “I want to get this thing wrapped up today.”

  He called Bernice Finger and gave her the news.

  “He agreed to everything?” she asked incredulously.

  “Everything, plus your legal costs. I cut my contingency from thirty to fifteen percent.”

  “If he agreed so quickly, he must be hiding a lot of money,” she said. “We should ask for more.”

  “I got you three million to cover any hidden assets.”

  “Wow!” she said softly.

  “It’s a good deal, Bernice, and without the pain of a trial. I’ll have it ready for your signature by the end of the day.”

  “I’ll sign it,” she said.

  Stone hung up with his heart pounding.

  Joan came into the office. “What did you get for her?”

  “The earth, sun and moon,” Stone said, hardly able to believe it himself. Bernie’s net worth was going to run to at least forty million dollars, and he was going to get fifteen percent of half of it. That was…he did the arithmetic…good God, three million dollars! Stone’s mind spun out of control; he started thinking about one of those new, very light jet airplanes.

  24

  Stone had a dinner date with the lovely, rangy Celia, but first he had promised her he would perform a chore. He got out of the cab in front of the SoHo gallery and peered through the window at the very good crowd that had assembled to see the artist’s work. A very large sign in the window read:

  DEVLIN DALTRY

  “Wait for me,” Stone said to the cabbie. “I won’t be long. He walked into the gallery, grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and looked around for the artist. He located him at the center of a small group of women who were at least as fascinated with him as with his sculpture, so Stone passed a little time peering at the lumps of marble and steel arrayed on pedestals throughout the large room. They were uniformly uninteresting, Stone thought, the product of an empty mind.

  Shortly, he spotted Devlin Daltry, slim and dressed entirely in black and momentarily alone, so he set his champagne glass down on a pedestal next to a lump titled “Doubt,” walked quickly over to the man and offered his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Daltry,” he said, squeezing his hand, and with his other taking him by the arm and steering him out of the hearing of others.

  Daltry followed, because he had to. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “My name is Stone Barrington, and I am the attorney representing your former friend, Celia.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” Daltry said, attempting and failing to free himself from Stone’s clutches.

  “That’s right, you don’t,” Stone replied. “But you have to listen for just a moment, or I’ll break your hand.” He squeezed it for emphasis.

  Daltry winced. “All right, get it over with.”

  “I’ve come here to tell you that your relationship with Celia is over from this moment and that, should you attempt to see her or even contact her ever again, I will see that a world of legal and financial problems falls on you from a great height and makes your life not worth living. This will be in addition to the criminal penalties that will follow, and follow you they will, right into Rikers Island. And finally-and this is entirely personal, not legal-after all that is done, I will find a quiet moment with you alone and leave you in a condition that will prevent you from making any more of these awful little things you dare to call ‘sculptures.’ Is all that perfectly clear?” He squeezed Daltry’s hand again for emphasis.

  “Yes,” Daltry grunted.

  “I hope I won’t find it necessary to see you again.” Stone released the sculptor from his grip, walked out of the gallery and got into his waiting cab. “Sixty-fifth and Madison,” he said.

  He walked into La Goulue, one of his favorite non-Elaine’s restaurants, twenty minutes later to find Celia waiting for him at his usual table, sipping a glass of wine. He gave a kiss to Suzanne, who ran the place, then slid into his seat. “Sorry to be late,” he said. “It’s a long trip from SoHo.”

  “You went to the opening?” she asked.

  “I did,” he replied, waving at a waiter and making drinking motions. “His stuff is awful, soulless.”

  “I can’t disagree. Did the two of you talk?”

  “I did all the talking,” Stone said, “but he seemed to get the message.”

  She looked doubtful. “Devlin is not very good at getting the message. I’m afraid I haven’t been completely truthful with you.”

  Stone took a sip of his drink and wondered what was coming next. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I mean, it’s not that I’ve lied to you; it’s just that there’s more to Devlin than I’ve mentioned.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s wilder than he looks.”

  “How do you mean, ‘wilder’?”

  “He’s capable of attacking men twice his size and of doing damage.”

  “And has he found attacking men twice his size a profitable activity?”

  “He hits unexpectedly, then runs, and he can run very fast.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said, taking another sip. “Anything else?”

  “He’s also capabl
e of hiring people to do his dirty work for him. A couple of weeks ago, I was followed out of a restaurant I used to frequent by two men, and it was obvious what they had on their minds. Fortunately, I made it into a cab before they got to me, and I lost them. This is why I don’t want Devlin to know where I’m living. These days, I make it a rule not to go anywhere I usually go. I’ve even dropped two clients that he knew about, because I was afraid I’d come out of their buildings and find Devlin or those two men waiting for me.”

  “I think that’s very wise,” Stone said. “Our next move is to get a temporary restraining order against him.”

  “I told you before, that won’t stop him.”

  “It often doesn’t stop the aggressor, but violating it has legal consequences up to and including jail time, depending on how pissed off the judge is.”

  “All right, if you think that’s best.”

  “I do. Tell me, can you take a couple of weeks off work without going broke?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “I think it’s best if we get you out of town for a little while, during which time we can let this business play out.” He took a slim leather notebook from his pocket, placed it on the table and gave her a pen. “Give me Devlin’s address and phone number.”

  She wrote it down.

  “What sort of daily schedule does he keep?”

  “He works in his loft, so he’s usually there during the day. In the evenings he goes out, often to a bar called Crackers and a restaurant called Emile’s, both downtown.”

  “Anyplace else he frequents?”

  “Wherever I am. When he knew where to find me, he used to devote a good part of his day to tracking me down, then following me around, just to let me know he was still after me. It was unnerving, because I never knew when he might cause a scene in some public place or even attack me.”

  “That’s good to know about,” Stone said. “I’ll put it in your petition for the TRO.”

  “Will I have to appear in court?”

  “No, I can represent you.”

  “Oh, good. I don’t want to see Devlin, even in court.”

  The waiter brought menus, and they devoted themselves to choosing among the dishes.

  Stone signed the check. “Ready?”

  “Would you do me a favor?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Would you take a look outside and make sure he’s not out there?”

  “If it would make you feel better.”

  “It would.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Stone slid out of the banquette, walked to the front door and went outside. He looked up and down Madison Avenue. Traffic was light. A car was double-parked in front of the building next door, and two bored-looking men sat in the front seat.

  Stone hailed a cab. “Start your meter. I’ll be right back,” he said to the driver. He went back inside and got Celia. “There are two men waiting in a car outside, and there’s no back way out of here, so we’re just going to have to brazen it out the front way.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He led her outside and got her quickly into the cab. “Take your next left, then left again on Fifth Avenue,” he said to the driver. He positioned himself so that he could see the rearview mirror.

  The car with the two men followed.

  25

  Celia looked over her shoulder. “It’s the same two men,” she said.

  Stone dug in his pocket and handed the cabbie a hundred-dollar bill. “Do you think you can lose the car with the two guys behind us?”

  The cabbie glanced in his rearview mirror, then grabbed the hundred. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  They were on Fifth Avenue now. “Turn right onto Central Park South, then turn into the park at Sixth Avenue,” Stone said.

  The cabbie raced up Central Park South, but there was a red light at the corner of Sixth Avenue.

  “Run it,” Stone said, “and turn into the park.”

  “The park’s closed,” the cabbie said, pointing. “There’s a sign.”

  “We could use a cop right now. Do it, and I’ll square it with the cops.”

  The cabbie ran the light and turned into Central Park. The car behind them followed.

  “Is there a tire iron in the trunk?” Stone asked.

  “There’s a tire iron right here,” the cabbie said, reaching down to the floor and handing Stone the steel tool.

  “Brake hard and pull over here,” Stone said. “I’m getting out of the car, and if I whistle loudly, get the hell out of here and find a cop.”

  The cabbie stood on the brakes and ran the cab up onto the curb. The car behind followed, nearly rear-ending the cab. Stone got out and, clutching the tire iron, advanced on the car. He yanked the driver’s door open, grabbed the driver and pulled him into the street.

  The man’s companion got out the passenger door and leveled a snub-nosed revolver at Stone. “Freeze, police!” he yelled.

  Stone flashed his own badge. “Yeah? If you’re on the job, what are you doing harassing an innocent woman for money?”

  The driver of the car struggled to his feet. “You just assaulted a police officer, pal.”

  Stone put away his badge and took out his cell phone, punching a speed-dial button.

  “Bacchetti,” Dino said. “This better be good.”

  “Lieutenant? This is Stone Barrington. I’ve got two deadbeat cops here who are moonlighting as muscle for a probable felon, and…” He stopped. The two men were back in their car, backing up very fast, then spinning a hundred and eighty degrees and heading the wrong way up the park drive. “Never mind, Dino,” Stone said.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I was being followed by two off-duty cops who’re working for a former friend of Celia’s trying to give her a hard time.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  “No, but I will next time.”

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Stone hung up, got back in the cab and gave the driver Celia’s temporary Park Avenue address.

  “Are they gone for good?” Celia asked.

  “I doubt it, but they’re gone for now.” They made their way back to Park Avenue, and the cab stopped. “I want you to go pack enough stuff for a week, jeans and like that; you won’t need a cocktail dress. I’m going to go get my car, and I’ll be back here in half an hour. I want you downstairs with your luggage, waiting, all right?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll explain when we’re on the way.”

  “All right.” She got out of the cab and ran for the door.

  “You did good,” Stone said to the cabbie, then gave him his address.

  “That was kind of fun,” the cabbie said. “Who were the two guys?”

  “A couple of bad cops working for a bad guy.”

  “I hope they didn’t get my cab number.”

  “Don’t worry, they weren’t interested in you.”

  Stone left Joan a note, saying he’d be back in a day or two, and not to tell anyone but Dino where he’d gone, then he got into his car, drove out of the garage and uptown. He didn’t need to pack a bag. He watched for tails all the way.

  The doorman at Celia’s building walked her out of the building and put her luggage in the trunk. She got into the passenger seat. “All right, where are we going?”

  “You can’t call anybody,” Stone said.

  “I’ll have some appointments to break in the morning.”

  “I have a little house in Washington, Connecticut, where you’ll be safe. It’ll take us an hour and forty-five minutes to get there.”

  “How long am I going to have to stay there?”

  “Until I can get your TRO and do some assessing of the threat.”

  “I know the threat; you don’t have to assess it.”

  “Have you ever had any help in dealing with Devlin?”

  “No, I’ve managed it myself up until now.”
/>   “Then we don’t know how Devlin will react to opposition, do we? The very fact that the law will be involved may be enough to ward him off.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “One thing that surprises me is how quickly he got those two cops on my tail. I had a cab waiting when I talked to him, so they must have been at the opening, and I can’t figure out what two cops were doing at that opening. Does he ever have bodyguards?”

  “He has on a couple of occasions that I know about, when he was having disagreements with people: his landlord, once, and a gallery owner another time.”

  “Good to know. Why don’t you put the seat back and get some sleep?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, pressing the Recline button.

  Stone drove on into the night.

  26

  Stone woke with sunlight streaming into the bedroom and the phone ringing. Telemarketer, he thought; nobody knew he was here. He let the machine get it.

  Celia never cracked an eye; she snored on, lightly. Stone got up, went downstairs and found a can of coffee in the freezer. Ten minutes later, Celia came down the stairs, almost dressed, in a robe that he kept for guests.

  “Good morning,” she said, yawning. “Where are we again?” They had fallen into bed on arrival, both exhausted.

  “In Washington, Connecticut, a village in the upper left-hand corner of the state.”

  “I’ve never been to Connecticut. You got anything for breakfast?”

  Stone looked at the kitchen clock: eleven-ten a.m. “Nope, we’ll have to pick up some things. I’ll buy you lunch, though.”

  “Have I got time for a shower?”

  “Sure. We’ll go to the Mayflower.”

  “The moving company?”

  “The country inn, maybe the best in the United States.”

  “I’d better look nice, then.” She took her coffee and headed upstairs.

  Stone noticed the message light blinking on the kitchen phone, and he pressed the button.

  “Mr. Barrington, this is Seth Hardaway. I noticed you were missing a few shingles after that storm last week, so I replaced them and a section of gutter. I’ll fax the bill to New York.”