“The same thing he does now.”
“Which is?”
“Nobody seems to know, certainly not Betty. If a man is handsome and a little bright, that’s all she needs to know.” She took a swig of her wine and smiled her approval. “I’m more demanding,” she said.
“Then once again, I’m flattered.”
“I knew you were going to be smart when I saw you across the room,” she said. “That’s why I moved my place card next to yours.”
“What made you think I’d be smart?”
“It was the way you were talking to that very strange Russian,” she said. “You appeared . . . skeptical.”
“Oh, I am very skeptical of Comrade Chekhov,” Stone replied.
“He, on the other hand, seems attracted to you.”
“I think I can explain that,” Stone said.
“Please do, unless you’re going to tell me you’re gay.”
“No. Not very long ago I helped Mr. Chekhov make a great deal of money. Not directly. He invested in a company I owned, and there was an IPO. You know what that is.”
“An initial public offering. Of course I know. I had one of my own two years ago.”
“Congratulations. What Chekhov wants from me is a tip or two on another stock, and I have denied him that—and Chekhov is unaccustomed to being denied.”
“I’m relieved to hear that it’s not your body we’re talking about.”
“I believe I answered that question. Do you wish further proof?”
“Well, not in this restaurant,” she replied. “Perhaps later?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
She laughed. “And how did you meet Mr. Chekhov?”
“At one of Peter’s dinner parties in Paris.”
“Were you there recently?”
“A few days ago.”
“I wish I had been there.”
“So do I. Perhaps one day soon I’ll invite you to go.”
“I’ll look forward to it. What brought you back?”
“Well, occasionally, I have to appear to practice law. My firm expects it.”
“Which firm?”
“Woodman & Weld.”
“Was Bill Eggers the man who gave you a job when you stopped being a policeman?”
“He was. We were classmates in law school.”
“They did the legal work on my IPO.”
“How’s your stock doing?”
“It’s trebled since the day we rang the bell downtown.”
“Congratulations again.”
“This fish is marvelous,” she said, taking another bite. “Is Peter Grant mixed up in something illegal?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I googled Mr. Chekhov when I got home last night, and the results were not edifying.”
“Peter seemed to arrange things for his pleasure in Paris, and now in New York.”
“Do you mean he’s pimping for Chekhov?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps he just invites him to dinners where there are women, then lets him fend for himself. I don’t think that’s illegal.”
“Do you think Chekhov is doing something illegal?”
“I expect so. Russian oligarchs don’t get to be oligarchs any other way.”
“Do you know what it is that he does?”
“Anything that involves money, to hear him tell it.”
“And you’ve heard him tell it?”
“In small doses. Peter arranged a lunch at the Russian embassy, so that Chekhov could poke around for tips. I found him distasteful then, and nothing has changed since.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Vanessa said. “I was afraid you might be involved with him in some way. But now that we’ve established that you are not, will you invite me to your home for a nightcap? I want to see where you live.”
“Certainly,” Stone said, lifting a finger for the check.
* * *
—
The rain had stopped by the time they got to Turtle Bay, and they were able to enter through the front door instead of the garage.
Stone pressed the master light switch as they entered, and the living room lights came on.
“Very nice,” she said, “and I’ll bet you decorated it yourself.”
“I did.”
“It’s very masculine, but comfortable.”
“The bar is in my study, to your right.” Stone led her in, lit the fire, and poured them each a cognac. She sat down in the middle of the sofa and patted the cushion next to her.
Stone sat. “I believe I offered you further proof of my sexuality,” he said.
“I don’t need proof,” Vanessa said, “but don’t let that stop you.”
36
Stone awoke a little before seven to find Vanessa gone from his bed; no note. He picked up the phone and ordered breakfast for himself, then went to the door to retrieve the New York Times and took it back to bed. He read the first section carefully and timed it for completion as breakfast arrived with the ring of the bell from the dumbwaiter.
He brought the tray back to his bed, set it on his lap, and ate, switching on the TV as he did so. Nothing of any consequence there. He finished his breakfast, carried the tray back to the dumbwaiter, and pressed the button for the kitchen. Then, as he turned back toward the bed, he saw something out of place: a woman’s shoe just inside the bathroom door. Vanessa would not have left wearing only one shoe, he reflected. He walked toward the guest bathroom, and as he did, a foot, shoeless, came into view. He ran the remaining steps.
Vanessa, wearing her dress from the night before, was lying, crumpled, on the bathroom floor, her head against the bathtub. Stone had seen a lot of corpses back in his NYPD days, and he knew immediately that she was dead. He felt for a pulse at her wrist and neck and got nothing. Her skin was cool to the touch.
Stone went back into the bedroom to call Dino, then stopped himself. Dino didn’t like to be called first. He dialed 911, reported a woman deceased, and asked for the police, an ambulance, and the medical examiner, then he hung up and called Dino’s cell.
“Bacchetti.”