“Have you found anything of interest therein?” Stone asked.
“Everything,” Lance said. “So much so that I am going to have to deprive you of Tessa’s company with immediate effect.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because she is needed elsewhere, and my need trumps yours.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me she was one of yours?”
“It was a need-to-know thing,” Lance replied. “Now Tessa has a need to travel, though I know you’ll miss her.”
“When can I have her back?” Stone asked.
“Perhaps soon, perhaps not.”
“Did you learn the purpose of last evening’s dinner?”
“I did, and it was the same purpose as the Paris dinner.”
“When speaking to Chekhov, I divined that he was somewhat less enthralled with Peter and his entertainments than before.”
“Some people just don’t wear well,” Lance said. “And Peter is, apparently, one of them.”
“I agree,” Stone said. “There isn’t much there. Don’t order me to accept any more of his invitations.”
“We’ll see.” Lance hung up as he often did, unceremoniously.
Tessa appeared in the office doorway, closely followed by Fred, with her luggage on a cart. “I hope you’ve spoken to Lance,” she said.
“I have.”
“Oh, good, then I won’t have to explain why I have to leave.”
“I did not know until my conversation of a moment ago that you were subject to Lance’s orders.”
“It was a secret,” she said.
“For how long?”
She eyed the ceiling while counting on her fingers. “Let’s see. It was four—no, five years ago. I needed the money at the time. Now I do it because it’s fun.”
“I have not yet discovered that facet of Lance’s personality.”
“He grows on you.” She came over to his desk and planted a lush and lingering kiss upon his lips. “I fly,” she said, and she pretty much did. “I’ll send Fred home soon,” she called over her shoulder, then they were both gone.
* * *
—
Stone waited for a count of about twelve before rising and taking the elevator to the top floor, where he found Vanessa Baker’s card in the pocket of last night’s dinner suit. He sat down on the bed and dialed her number.
She answered on the first ring. “I thought you’d never call,” she said.
“I see your caller ID is working.”
“Just fine.”
“Dinner?”
“Does it matter which night?”
“I was thinking tonight,” he said.
“Funny, so was I. I have a thing earlier in the evening. May we meet at the restaurant?”
“As long as it’s Patroon, on East 46th Street. May I send my car for you?”
“Oh, yes, you may. It’s supposed to rain.”
“Where and when?”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“You’re thinking of ‘Where or When,’ Rodgers and Hart.”
“You’re right. I’ll be at 570 Park Avenue at, let’s see, seven forty-five. I’ll be standing under the awning, keeping dry. What sort of car?”
“A Bentley Flying Spur. I’ll see you at Patroon at eight.”
“Done.” She hung up.
Stone asked Joan to book the table, then he got Tessa’s notes and read them. Lance was right; her precise handwriting made them easy to digest.
Stone arrived at Patroon in a cab at the stroke of eight, just as Fred pulled up and assisted Vanessa Baker from the rear seat. She passed from his umbrella to Stone’s. Then they went inside, checked their rain gear, and were shown to Stone’s usual table.
“What would you like to drink?” Stone asked Vanessa.
“It feels like a brown whiskey evening,” she said.
“Bourbon?”
She nodded. “Excellent.”
Stone ordered Knob Creek for both of them. While they waited for delivery Stone asked her, “Tell me, do you work for the CIA?”
“No,” she replied. “I don’t believe they’re in the baking business.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” he replied, as their glasses were set down. They clinked them and drank.
35
They sat and watched the headwaiter, Stefan, work his magic with egg yolks, olive oil, and anchovies, whipped with a wooden spoon, tossed with romaine lettuce and croutons and dished out as Caesar salad. Then they began to munch.
“I love this,” Vanessa said.
“So do I.”
“So where has the lovely young lady from last evening gone?” she asked.
“She comes, she goes, on her own whim or that of others,” he replied. “She doesn’t ask my permission or offer explanations. Where has your mother gone?”
“At this moment, she has a dinner date with one of her fellas.”
“You make them sound like a herd.”
“They practically are. She doesn’t have many nights off.”
“I take it your father is not around.”
“She kicked him out years ago. He lives on the proceeds of his share of the bakeries.”
“I enjoyed Betty’s company last night, though it deprived me of yours.”
“Well, we’re making up for that now, aren’t we?”
They had finished their salads by the time their Dover sole arrived and was boned and served, along with a firm, crisp Puligny-Montrachet.
“How did you come to be at the party last night?” Stone asked her.
“Betty invited me to be her date,” Vanessa replied.
“Then how did Betty come to be there?”
“Peter invited her and a date. Everybody else was busy, I guess.”
“And how did Betty become acquainted with Peter?”
“She knew him as a younger man, when he lived in New York.”
“What did Peter do with himself in those days?”