Lucid Intervals Page 6

“She’s across the street.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Watch your ass.” Stone hung up.

  “Your former lady friend?” Felicity asked.

  “I wouldn’t describe her that way.”

  “How would you describe her?”

  “As the insane daughter of a good friend.” They got onto the elevator and started upstairs.

  “Isn’t it about time you told me about her?” Felicity asked.

  Stone sighed. He ushered her off the elevator and into his bedroom, and they began to undress for bed.

  “All right,” he said. “I met her four years ago. I didn’t seek her out; she found me. We saw each other for a while, and it got serious. She suggested we get married, and I didn’t refuse her.”

  “A reluctant bridegroom?”

  “No, just one with reservations. She is the daughter of a man named Eduardo Bianchi, an Italian-American of some note.”

  “The name is familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “A great many people would say the same thing,” Stone replied. “No one really knows Eduardo’s true history, but the stories are that, as a young man, he became associated somehow with some Mafia figures. There is disagreement about whether he was ever actually a member, but there is disagreement about almost all the details of Eduardo’s life.”

  “Very interesting,” Felicity said.

  “There is some evidence to support the idea that he was the man behind, but not a member of, the Commission, which was an organization that tried to impose some order on the criminal elements under it and sometimes succeeded.”

  “I’ve heard of that.”

  “Back in the fifties, when J. Edgar Hoover finally began to believe that the Mafia might just exist, Eduardo is said to have withdrawn even further from the organization, but he is thought to have continued to control it from a distance. Meanwhile, he became a prominent business figure, investing in and serving on the boards of a number of important banks and other financial institutions. Over the years he became a model of respectability in spite of the rumors about his past as well as an important figure in the worlds of the arts and charitable institutions.

  “Eduardo lived quietly in a house he built way out in Brooklyn on the water. He maintained offices in Manhattan but did most of his work from home. He entertained judiciously, when it suited him, and sent his two daughters, Anna Maria and Dolce, to fine schools, where they did well. They both worked in various businesses and foundations that Eduardo controlled.

  “Anna Maria, who preferred to be called Mary Ann, met Dino at some function in Little Italy, and almost immediately after that she found herself pregnant. It was imparted to Dino that, if he wished his testicles to remain attached to his body, a proposal of marriage would be in order. A boisterous wedding was followed by an even more boisterous marriage, which produced a son, now in a New England prep school.

  “A couple of years ago, there was a divorce, and Eduardo insisted on a settlement in Dino’s favor, which has enabled him to live well as a newly minted bachelor.”

  “But you digress,” Felicity said. “Tell me about the other daughter.”

  “We traveled to Venice, where Eduardo was attending a business convocation allegedly attended by the more important members of both the American and Italian Mafias. Dolce and I were married in a small civil ceremony, which was to have been followed a day or two later by a large religious ceremony presided over by a high-ranking Italian cardinal who was influential in the Vatican.

  “The day before the second wedding, the husband of a friend of mine was murdered in Los Angeles. You may remember the actor Vance Calder.”

  “Of course,” Felicity said. “You were involved in that?”

  “I was involved in the subsequent investigation, and the murderer was identified but never convicted. Dino and I left Venice for L.A., and Dolce began to behave erratically, which was to say, dangerously.

  “After a time, the relationship ended, and Eduardo sought psychiatric treatment for Dolce, keeping her in his home. Shortly after that, I received by messenger the torn-out page from the Venetian registry book that Dolce and I had signed. It could only have come from Eduardo.

  “The following year, Dolce escaped from her father’s house and found me in Palm Beach, where I was working on a case. At a large party she fired several shots at me, but only one struck. Fortunately it was a nonfatal part of my body. She was immediately returned to her father’s custody and has remained there since.

  “Eduardo and I have remained friends, lunching together several times a year at his home. Recently, Dolce showed improvement, and Eduardo allowed her to be escorted to the city on shopping trips. A few days ago, she knifed her escort and disappeared. She has been seen outside my house several times since then.”

  “And she still wants to kill you?” Felicity asked.

  “I don’t know what she wants,” Stone said, “but I think it’s wise to assume the worst. That’s why I had a man in the house, and he’s looking for her now. He will have called others to help.”

  “Do you think we’re safe here?” Felicity asked.

  “Yes, or I would have sent you away by now.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she said, tossing away the last of her clothes and pressing her naked body against his.

  They stood there for some time, savoring each other and becoming more and more aroused. Finally, she climbed him like a tree, wrapped her legs around his body and took him inside her.

  Stone supported her weight with his shoulders and his hands under her buttocks for as long as he could, and then he lowered her to the bed and began all over again.

  They were both in the throes of orgasm when the phone rang. Stone let the voicemail pick it up, but then it began ringing again.

  “Perhaps you’d better answer it,” Felicity said.

  Stone rolled over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “It’s Cantor. Peter and I are on the street, looking for the woman.”

  “Any luck?”

  “We found Willie.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s unconscious, but he doesn’t seem to have any wounds, knife or gunshot. An ambulance is on the way; we’ll be at Lenox Hill.”

  “See you there.” Stone hung up and began rounding up his clothes. “The man who was watching the house went after Dolce, and he has been found unconscious. I’m going to have to go to the hospital.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  “No, I think you’re safer here. Are you armed?”

  “There’s a gun in my handbag,” she said.

  He picked up the purse from the floor and handed it to her. “Keep it in your hand until I get home,” he said. “I’ll ring the phone once, then hang up to let you know, so you won’t shoot me.”

  15

  Stone found Bob Cantor and Peter Leahy seated in the waiting area of the Lenox Hill emergency room. Cantor moved his jacket and made room for Stone between them.

  “How is he?”

  “Awake but with a concussion. They’re admitting him for observation.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “A blow to the head with something like one of those flat black-jacks that detectives used to carry.”

  “That’s enough to concuss an ox,” Stone said. “Were you able to talk to him?”

  “A little. He was confused, and he couldn’t remember being hit.”

  “Just as well,” Stone said. “At least she didn’t knife him.”

  “Yeah, I was worried about that until we couldn’t find a wound. A nurse found a big bruise under his hair. Where’s your houseguest?”

  “Locked in with a gun in her hand,” Stone said. “Don’t worry; she’s a very capable lady.”

  “Isn’t she the British spook I heard about a few years back?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t tell you that.”

  “Of course not. She’s your client, isn’t she?”

  “I didn’t
tell you that, either.”

  “Tell me the truth about this Whitestone guy.”

  “It’s Whitestone like the bridge. You know everything I know. Dino ran the photo through the FBI facial comparison computer program and came up with a surveillance photo from a bank on Park Avenue, near the Seagram Building, but it wasn’t as good as what you got.”

  “If he’s going into a bank on Park, maybe he works around there, maybe even in the Seagram Building.”

  Stone nodded. “Or maybe he lives in the neighborhood.”

  “That’s not a residential part of Park. You don’t find apartment buildings until uptown of Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “Good point,” Stone agreed. “Can you round up some more help?”

  “Sure. How many you want?”

  “I want a man in the plaza in front of the Seagram Building, watching who comes and goes, and I want somebody near that bank, doing the same thing. I want cameras and long lenses, and I want to see the guy’s face, preferably without the hat.”

  “I’m on it as soon as I pay Willie’s bill,” Cantor said, “which I’ll forward to you.”

  “Right,” Stone said.

  “There’s Willie,” Cantor said, rising. Willie was on a gurney, being wheeled toward the elevator. Stone, Cantor and Peter intercepted him.

  “How you doing?” Stone asked.

  “I’ve got a headache,” Willie replied, “but they gave me something for it. I’m sorry, Stone. I never saw this coming. Last thing I remember was sitting in your kitchen. Did she come into the house?”

  “No. I called you, and you were following her.”

  “I don’t know how she got behind me, then,” Willie said.

  “You get some rest, and we’ll bail you out of here tomorrow.”

  Stone and Cantor left Peter with his brother and walked outside, where Stone hailed a cab. “You beginning to see what we’re up against with Dolce?” he asked Cantor.

  “I got the picture,” Cantor replied. “I’ll put Peter and another guy in the house; next time, we’ll double-team her.”

  Stone nodded, got in the cab and drove away. He took the elevator upstairs and stepped out into the master suite. As he did, he heard a pffft! noise, and he was showered with plaster fragments.

  “Hey, it’s Stone!” he yelled, flattening himself against the wall.

  “Let me see you!” Felicity shouted.

  “Okay, I’m coming in-don’t shoot.” He walked into the bedroom and found Felicity sitting up in bed, bare breasted, holding a small semiautomatic pistol equipped with a silencer.

  “You were supposed to call,” she said, reprovingly.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot,” Stone said, sitting down on the bed next to her.

  “Is your man all right?”

  “Concussion, held overnight for observation. He was black-jacked.”

  “I could use a woman like that,” Felicity said. “You think she’s job hunting?”

  “Go back to sleep,” Stone said. “It’s three in the morning.” He took the gun from her, made sure the safety was on and put it on her bedside table.

  Felicity fell back onto the pillow, and Stone tucked her in. “Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow morning,” she said, closing her eyes.

  Stone got undressed and joined her in bed, but he had a hard time getting to sleep. He had a feeling Dolce was going to change her tactics now, and he couldn’t fathom what she might do next.

  16

  Before Stone and Felicity left the house, Peter Leahy did a quick jog down the street and back, then returned. “No sign of her,” he said.

  Felicity said to Stone, “We can’t arrive together in the ambassador’s car; people would talk. You get a cab. Did you bring your passport?”

  “Yes,” Stone said, patting his jacket pocket. “But I don’t know why.”

  “Because you will be treading upon British soil,” she said. She gave him the address and then ran down the front steps and into the waiting Rolls.

  Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. Ten minutes later he was deposited in front of a large, elegant town house near Sutton Place. He walked up the front steps and tried the knob. Locked. He found a bell and rang it.

  A few moments later a middle-aged man in a black uniform with silver trim opened the door. He was wearing a sidearm in a polished, black holster. “Yes?”

  “My name is Barrington. I have an appointment with Ms. Felicity Devonshire.”

  “Dame Felicity,” the man corrected him. “Wait here.”

  So she was Dame Felicity now. He hadn’t known.

  The man opened the door a second time and allowed Stone inside. He found himself in a large, marble-floored foyer with a handsome desk to one side. A graceful double staircase climbed into the upper reaches of the house.

  “Come this way, please.”

  Stone followed the man through a door he hadn’t noticed into what was apparently the next building, which was plainer in decor. They got into an elevator with a thick, steel door, and the man opened a panel with a key and pressed a button. The car rose quickly to what seemed to be the top floor, and the door opened.

  Another man, dressed in the same uniform as the first and also armed, stood waiting. The elevator door closed, and the first man went down with it.

  “Your name?” the new man asked.

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “And with whom is your appointment?”

  “Ms… ah, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”

  “Your passport, please?”

  Stone dug it out and handed it over. The man carefully compared the photograph inside with Stone’s face. He did not return the passport. “Come with me, please.”

  Stone followed him through two more doors to what he assumed was the rear of the building, and then they entered a room the size of a large closet. “Stand against the rear wall, please,” the man said. Stone did so. The man rolled a steel box with a glass top in front of Stone. Etched into the glass were the outlines of two hands. He opened a drawer, opened Stone’s passport and placed it inside.

  “Place your hands upon the outlines, please, and press down slightly.”

  Stone did so, and then suddenly three lights flashed, one in front of him and one on either side. He realized that he had just been fingerprinted and photographed from the front and in both profiles. His passport had been photographed, too.

  The man pressed a button, and Stone heard a whirring sound from the other side of the door they had entered. “Thank you,” the man said, returning Stone’s passport. “Come this way, please.”

  Stone followed him out of the closet and down a hallway into what seemed to be a third building. The man stopped at a steel door and placed his palm on a recognition panel. The door slid open with a hiss, they both stepped through, and it closed behind them. Stone noticed that the inside of the door was sheathed in mahogany panels over the steel. They were in a small sitting room decorated with comfortable leather furniture and hunting prints, along with a few oil landscapes.

  “Please take a seat,” the man said. “Someone will come for you.” He departed through the door they had entered.

  Stone sat down and recognized a Vivaldi sonata for flute wafting through invisible speakers, and a stack of magazines was on a table next to him. He picked up the top one and found himself leafing through the current issue of Country Life, perusing ads for houses in Kent, Sussex, Devon and other counties. He had about settled on a charming cottage by the sea in Cornwall when a door on the other side of the room opened and a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit stepped into the room.

  “Mr. Barrington, I presume?” she said.

  Stone rose. “How could I possibly be anyone else?” he asked.

  She tried not to laugh. “This way, please.” She led him through what was apparently her office and to a set of double mahogany doors, where she knocked twice.

  “Come!” a female voice said.

  The woman opened the door and stood back for Stone to
enter. Felicity, who was seated at an antique desk, stood up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, extending her hand.

  Stone shook it. “Ah, Dame Felicity,” he said.

  “That will be all, Heather,” Felicity said, “until the other gentleman arrives.”

  Heather closed the door, and Felicity motioned for Stone to sit down. He did so and was about to speak, when she held up a hand. “I trust you’ve been well since our last meeting,” she said, tapping an ear with a fingertip.

  So they were being recorded. “Very well, indeed, Dame Felicity, and may I congratulate you on your honor?”

  She blushed a little. “Thank you,” she said. “It comes with the job.”

  “And what job is that?” Stone asked mischievously.

  “Civil service,” she replied, making a face. They were not being photographed. Then there was another knock at the door.

  “Come!” Dame Felicity said.

  The door opened, and a slight, gray-haired man in a very good but not new suit entered. “Good morning, Dame Felicity,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said, rising and shaking his hand. “May I present Mr. Barrington?”

  The man turned and shook Stone’s hand. “Smith,” he said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Smith?” Stone asked.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Please sit, gentlemen,” Felicity said.

  They sat.

  “Mr. Barrington, Mr. Smith is in possession of more knowledge of Stanley Whitestone than I, being his contemporary. I thought it might be useful for the two of you to meet.”

  “I hope so,” Stone replied.

  “Mr. Barrington,” Smith said, “what questions do you have regarding Mr. Whitestone?”

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Stone said. “Please tell me in as much detail as possible of the first time you met Stanley Whitestone.”

  Smith looked at Felicity and got a nod from her, then turned back to Stone and began.

  17

  Smith gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “We were nine years old,” he said, “and we were at Eton. He impressed me immediately.”