Dirt Page 8

  “Can I see the list of numbers?”

  “Well…”

  Stone produced another twenty.

  The young man produced a sheet of papers with around fifty numbers on it. Some were in New York, some in L.A.

  “This Hispanic teenager; he ever been in here before?”

  “I never seen him.”

  “You ever fax something like this before?”

  “First time. Entertaining, ain’t it?”

  “Thanks,” Stone said, and turned to go.

  “I’ll tell you this for free,” the young man said.

  Stone stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “I think somebody gave the kid a few bucks to bring it in here, you know?”

  Stone nodded and left, tucking the list of phone numbers into his pocket. He got a cab home, went back to his study, and poured himself a bourbon. The message light was flashing on his answering machine. Probably Amanda, he thought, pressing a button. The machine rewound quickly; only one message.

  “This is Arrington Carter,” a woman’s voice said. “Give me a call when you get a chance.” She left a number.

  “My goodness,” Stone said aloud while he dialed the number. “It certainly pays to stay home on a Saturday night.” The phone rang, and there was a click.

  “Hi, I’m out, leave a message,” her recorded voice said.

  Stone slumped with disappointment. He must have just missed her. “It’s Stone Barrington, returning your call,” he said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  He hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately. He grabbed it on the first ring; it must be her. “Hello?”

  “ Barrington?” a man’s voice said. He sounded angry.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Richard Hickock.”

  “Hello, Dick.”

  “Is it true that you’re working for Amanda on this thing?”

  “What thing?”

  “This DIRT business. The goddamned thing came in on my home fax machine. My wife could have seen it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Dick. You’ll have to talk to Amanda.”

  “I’ll do that, don’t worry; I just want to say this: You find out who’s doing this, and I’ll double whatever Amanda’s paying you.”

  “As I said, I can’t discuss it.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Hickock said, slamming down the phone.

  Stone sighed. He’d rather it had been Arrington Carter. He went downstairs, started his computer, and began identifying the phone numbers on the DIRT distribution list. They were pretty much what he had expected – newspapers, TV shows, columnists. Halfway through he tired of the list, shut off the computer, and crawled into bed with a book.

  Chapter 18

  Stone was awakened by the ringing telephone. He opened an eye and looked at the beside clock: nine-thirty. He didn’t usually sleep so late. “Hello?” he grumbled into the phone.

  “It’s Amanda; what did you find out last night?”

  “The fax was sent to a distribution list from a mailbox and copy shop on Lex in the Seventies. Apparently our man gave some kid a few bucks to deliver it; he’s being careful.”

  “Damn!” she said. “I was hoping for a break.”

  “So was I. I think we’ll find the next one will be sent from a similar place by similar means. I did get a copy of the distribution list, though.”

  “Who was on it?”

  “Just who you’d think – anybody who might spread the word. Nothing to be learned from the list, I’m afraid.”

  “So we’re back to square one?”

  That was an embarrassing question, and Stone didn’t answer it. “I got a call from Dick Hickock last night. He’s interested in finding out who the publisher of DIRT is, too.”

  “I’m not surprised, after the contents of last night’s fax. He’s already been onto me this morning. I don’t mind in the least if you work for him, too.”

  “Well, so far I don’t have anything more to tell him than I have to tell you.”

  “Keep at it,” she said, and hung up without another word.

  Wide awake now, Stone brushed his teeth, took his vitamins, and got into a robe. He went to the little kitchenette outside his bedroom, got some English muffins and coffee going, then retrieved the Sunday Times from his front doorstep. He was back in bed, eating breakfast and reading the paper, when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

  “It’s Arrington Carter,” a low voice said.

  “Morning.”

  “You had breakfast yet?”

  “Nope,” he replied, setting down his half-eaten muffin.

  “Can I buy you brunch?”

  “Why don’t you come over here; I’ll fix you an omelette.”

  “I’d rather meet you at the Brasserie in half an hour.”

  “Make it an hour; I haven’t really gotten started this morning.”

  “An hour it is,” she said, “and brunch is on me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” They both hung up.

  She was waiting at the top of the stairs that descended into the restaurant; they shook hands and got a table immediately. She ordered a pitcher of mimosas, sat back in the booth, and looked at him through large, dark glasses. “So,” she said.

  “Tell me about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “More than you’re probably willing to tell me.”

  “I’m an open book,” Stone said, “but I’d rather talk to eyes than shades.”

  She took them off, revealing large green eyes, a little red around the rims, no makeup.

  “Late night?”

  “Swine,” she said equably. “I reveal myself, and you point out my weaknesses.”

  “I don’t see any weaknesses.”

  “Good. Now, you were going to tell me about yourself.”

  Stone gave her the sixty-second version of his biography. “Now,” he said, “who you?”

  “Me Jane,” she said.

  “Who Tarzan?”

  “No Tarzan, just me.”

  “Good news.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Who your Jane?”

  “She took a hike last week.”

  “You all broken up?”

  “No, just mystified.”

  She laughed. “I’ll bet she told you exactly why she was dumping you.”

  He shrugged. “You’re right, she did, and she was specific.”

  “Not enough of a commitment?”

  “Something like that; how’d you guess?”

  “Attractive men your age who’ve never been married nearly always come up short in the commitment department.”

  “You were telling me about you,” Stone said.

  “In sixty seconds or less, like you?”

  “If you like.”

  “ Virginia girl from old Virginia family, Virginia schools, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “You’ve got fifty-five seconds left.”

  “Came to New York to be an actress, didn’t like the process, wrote about it, wrote other stuff, still writing.”

  “Fiction or non?”

  “Non, although there’s half a novel somewhere in my computer.”

  Something rang a bell. “Did you once write a piece for The New Yorker about being an actress in New York?”

  “Guilty.”

  “I liked that piece; I guess I’d never given any thought to what a tough life it can be.”

  “Thank you for the kind review.”

  “Were you any good as an actress?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “Why didn’t you stick with it?”

  “You read my piece.”

  “I find it hard to believe that someone so beautiful would have a hard time making it if she had talent, too.”

  “Let me tell you something: Being beautiful is hard work, maybe even harder than acting.”

  “I’d always thought beauty was a great advantage in any field.”

  “There are
advantages, God knows, but they are offset by the liabilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “The difficulty of hanging on to one’s soul. There are lots of people out there who are in the market for it, and some of their offers are hard to turn down.”

  “I see your point.”

  “You probably don’t, or at least not much of it, but you’ll just have to take my word for it, because the subject is too boring to be discussed while sober. Let’s order some breakfast.”

  They both ordered eggs benedict, and passed the time until their food came discussing the variety of people sitting around them in the restaurant.

  “What made you call me?” Stone asked, finally.

  “You fishing for compliments?”

  “Apart from my devastating attractiveness, I mean.”

  She laughed. “I haven’t spent very much time with men as gorgeous as Vance Calder,” she said, “but it occurred to me that meeting me in the company of somebody like that might slow a man down when it came to calling me. You didn’t, for instance, ask me for my number, or even ask me anything that might tell you how to get in touch with me.”

  “You’re right; I judged the competition to be impossibly tough.”

  “Well, relax; Vance isn’t competition.”

  “What is he?”

  “A friend, sort of; sometimes. He’s mostly on the coast; sometimes he calls me when he’s in town and he needs a date.”

  “It never occurred to me that Vance Calder would ever need a date.”

  “Well, he does, and he doesn’t like bimbos. Vance is a very bright man, as anyone who has ever negotiated a contract with him can tell you, and he likes bright company. That’s not so easy to come by, even for him.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “Not so’s a girl would notice,” she said. “I’ve never known a more attentive man. There are rumors, but there are always rumors about people in his position, even when they’ve been married and divorced a couple of times, as he has.”

  “I hope I’m not being inattentive. May I have Your number again? I’d like to call it often.”

  She fished a card from her bag and handed it to him. “See that you do.”

  He put the card into his jacket pocket.

  “What is it with this DIRT thing?” she asked.

  “Where’d you hear about it?”

  “Vance had a copy in his pocket on Saturday night, the one about Amanda’s little hotel rendezvous.”

  “Oh, that one.”

  “She hired you to run it down, then, like the sheet says?”

  “I couldn’t confirm that, even if she had.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not a blabbermouth.”

  “By the way, did you know that you made the latest edition of DIRT?”

  Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  He produced last night’s fax and handed it to her. She read it with bated breath.

  “Jesus, that was fast, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “At least it didn’t mention my name.”

  “I wonder why,” he said.

  “Why do you think?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It would seem that the publisher’s information was good enough to do so, if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He did pay you the compliment of calling you bright, though.”

  “How would he know?”

  “Maybe the publisher is somebody who knows you. Did you tell anybody you were going to the dinner party?”

  “No; Vance only called me on Friday, and he didn’t say who’d be there, except for Amanda.”

  “What did you think of Amanda?”

  “I think she’s predatory,” Arrington said.

  Stone’s ears were burning, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “I don’t really know her well enough to confirm that,” he lied.

  “Trust me; a girl knows about these things.”

  “I think I do trust you. Why do you think that is?”

  She smiled. “Because you have good judgment.”

  As they left the restaurant, she immediately flagged down a cab.

  “I was hoping we could spend the day together,” Stone said.

  “Sorry, I’ve got plans. I’d like to see you soon, though; will you call me?”

  “I certainly will.”

  She pecked him on the cheek, got into the cab, and rode away.

  Stone walked slowly home, facing a Sunday alone with the papers and 60 Minutes. Well, he thought, it wouldn’t be the first.

  Chapter 19

  First thing Monday morning, Arnie Millman eased himself carefully into a chair in Stone’s office. “Hemorrhoids,” he said without being asked.

  “It’s all those years sitting on your ass at the Nineteenth Precinct,” Stone said. “What’ve you got for me?”

  “The girl, Helen, first,” Arnie said. “She’s seeing a guy; he’s an advertising art director at Young and Rubicam.”

  “How do they spend their time together?”

  “Screwing, mostly; the relationship is only a couple of weeks old, but neither one is seeing anybody else. They go out, they grab a pizza, they go home, usually his, and they screw. Noisily.”

  “Any connections to the publishing or entertainment industries?”

  “Not that I could see. His accounts are an airline and a hand lotion; neither one is good for much show biz contact, far as I can see.”

  “Still, advertising people mix with actors and other people who cross over into entertainment.”

  “Not this one, apparently.”

  “Okay, what about Barry?”

  “Barry is a different story; Barry mixes with anybody he thinks is cute. I saw him buy a gross of condoms at his neighborhood drugstore – they had ordered them for him. He hangs out at a bar in the East Village called the Leather Room, and he takes home somebody different just about every night. These boys are all over the place – actors, dancers, directors – he seems to prefer those in the business.”

  “Did you pick up on any pillow talk?”

  “I put a cup mike on his bedroom window, and I heard it all, and I mean all, believe me. Something I don’t understand about these people, these pansies: How come they can do it every night, two or three times a night? I could never do that, even when I was his age.”

  “The younger generation seems to be in better shape.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And you can’t call them ‘pansies’ anymore, Arnie; too many people find that offensive.”

  “Tell me about it,” Arnie replied.

  Stone changed the subject. “Is Barry chatty about his work?”

  “The CIA should be so tight-lipped. The boy tells his new friends who he works for – that always gets a reaction – but he doesn’t blab about what he does for her, or about her. Strikes me as intensely loyal to his boss.”

  “I’m disappointed,” Stone said. “He seemed the likely one to me, and the multiple relationships would underscore that. But if you feel strongly…”

  “I kid you not, Stone, the guy’s a regular monument to discretion.” Arnie shifted painfully in his seat. “What about the other one?”

  “What?”

  “You said there was a third employee.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t look promising.” Stone sighed, wrote down Martha’s name and address, and handed it to Arnie. “About five-five, a hundred and fifty, pale red hair, not pretty.”

  Arnie read it and looked up. “You want me to check her out?”

  Stone thought about it for a minute. “My client feels strongly that she’s not the leak, and I have to agree with her.”

  “Can’t hurt to check,” Arnie replied.

  “I guess not. Maybe I’ll take a took at her later, if I don’t come up with anything else.”

  Arnie shoved the address back across the desk. “This is something to do with this DIRT business, isn’t it? And so I guess I know who your client is.”

  “Arnie, you re
ally get around, don’t you?” Stone asked, surprised. “How’d you come by this?”

  Arnie shrugged. “Friend of mine is on the features desk at the Post. They been handing the sheet around the newsroom.”

  “You got any theories?”

  “Sounds like somebody tight with one of the people getting burned, maybe with more than one of them. I think you should check out Martha there.” He pointed at the piece of paper on Stone’s desk. “You can never tell what motivates a person.”

  Stone nodded. “You’ve got a point; maybe I will.”

  His secretary buzzed. “Richard Hickock on line one. You in?”

  “I’m in,” Stone replied. “See you soon, Arnie; give my girl your bill on the way out, and she’ll write you a check.” He picked up the phone as he watched the retired detective trudge out. “Dick?”

  “Okay, I talked with Amanda,” Hickock said, not bothering with a greeting.

  “She told me.”

  “What have you learned so far?”

  “Not much; I’m checking out a few leads.”

  “Any of them lead to me?”

  “Not so far. Tell me, who else knows about Tiffany Potts?”

  “Not a goddamned soul, that’s who.”

  “Not your secretary?”

  “No. We don’t communicate through her.”

  “How do you communicate?”

  “Cellular phones, and she has a beeper.”

  “Cellular can be leaky, Dick. All somebody needs is a scanner.”

  “We never use names. If somebody was listening, they wouldn’t know who was talking. We also keep it very brief.”

  “I think I should talk with Miss Potts.”

  “Stone, she’s very very discreet.”

  “Nevertheless, Dick, if you want me to get to the bottom of this…”

  “Oh, all right; I’ll have her call you.”

  “Good. Are there any other… intimates I should talk with?”

  “None. Get back to me.” Hickock hung up.

  Ten minutes later, she was on the phone. “This is Tiffany,” she said. “A mutual friend says we should talk.” Her voice was quiet, shy.

  “May I come and see you?” Stone asked.

  “Sure; when?”

  “Half an hour?”