“If I continue to improve in the polls, I’m going to have to start planning how to smuggle you in and out of the White House.”
“It would be simpler just to continue the present arrangement, even after the election,” Stone said.
“We’ll get found out eventually,” Holly replied. “Count on it.”
* * *
—
Holly left the house in her SUV at mid-morning, and Stone had Fred drive him up to Fifth Avenue. Vanessa was sitting up in bed, looking alert. Stone kissed her and pulled up a chair.
“Better?” he asked.
“Better. I’m thinking more clearly.” She said all this slowly.
“I saw your cousin Mac McIntosh in a restaurant last night.”
“Yes,” she said. “He was here”—she strugged a bit—“earlier.”
“Want to try the Times crossword?” he asked. “I can read you the clues.”
She nodded.
He read off a few of the easier clues, but she was having a hard time with it. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.
“Sure.” Stone chatted on for a while, until she seemed to get sleepy, then he kissed her goodbye and left. He didn’t see Betty in the apartment.
* * *
—
He walked over to Madison and found a table for lunch at La Goulue. The place was crowded and, as always, noisy, in the way of successful restaurants. He was about to order when Peter Grant suddenly filled his vision.
“Morning, Stone,” he said. “I see you are alone. May I join you?”
“Of course, Peter.”
“I just went by to visit Vanessa, but she was asleep and couldn’t be disturbed.”
“I was there earlier. She’s making progress, but slowly.”
“I hope that will improve,” Peter said.
They both ordered salads, and Stone picked a wine. “Peter,” he said. “Are you at all concerned about spending so much time with Yevgeny Chekhov?”
“Concerned? Why should I be?”
“He has a questionable reputation.”
“That’s overblown, Stone. People are suspicious of him because he’s Russian and close to his president.”
“Don’t you think that’s sufficient reason for suspicion?”
“That’s just cold war hangover talk.”
“He was KGB.”
“A long time ago. Now he’s just a businessman.”
“What is his business?”
“He’s an entrepreneur.”
“Does his business involve him with removing his competition from competition?”
“That’s not how they operate these days.”
“There are a number of disappeared journalists and business competitors of his who, if they could speak, might tell you otherwise.”
“Please don’t be concerned, Stone. I know what I’m doing.”
“Perhaps, but probably not as well as Chekhov knows what he’s doing. He’s the sort of fellow who could follow you into a revolving door and come out ahead of you.”
“Ah, I believe that was said about Hungarians, not Russians.”
“As a former NYPD cop, I can tell you that, among your guests the other evening, Chekhov is very likely the prime suspect in the poisoning of Vanessa Baker.”
“That’s preposterous,” Peter said.
“Is it? Do you think Chekhov would hesitate to remove someone who got in his way?”
“I don’t think he’s that sort. And anyway, why would he have any ill feeling toward Vanessa?”
“Does he have any ill feeling toward you, Peter?”
“No, he doesn’t. We’re quite good friends.”
“The police think she was poisoned at your dinner party, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Why do they think that?”
“The poison she was given is slow-acting; it takes twenty-four to seventy-two hours to have an effect. That puts your dinner party into the time frame.”
“Do you think I had some part in this attack on Vanessa? We’ve been friends since childhood, and I love her dearly.”
“No, I don’t think that. Does Chekhov have any reason to be annoyed with you at the moment?”
“Certainly not. Why would you suggest such a thing?”
“Because you were sitting next to Vanessa when she could have been poisoned. Maybe she was not the intended victim.”
Peter froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Yevgeny and I are on very cordial terms. Neither of us has any ill feeling toward the other.”
“I’m sure you know by now, Peter, that his class of Russian thinks about life very differently from you or I.”
“He’s never shown the slightest sign of any animosity toward me.”
“The oligarchs operate very much like our American Mafia,” Stone said. “They’re very nice to people they’re about to remove from the landscape.”
Peter’s hand trembled a bit as he put down his fork and beckoned a waiter for the bill.
“Lunch is on me, Peter. Think about what I’ve said. There may come a moment when you need some assistance. I’m here to help, if you’ll let me.”
“I don’t think I shall need it, Stone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
They shook hands.
“Don’t wait too long to ask,” Stone said. Peter turned and hurried from the restaurant.
43
Stone called Lance, and they scrambled. Stone told him about his visit with Vanessa and his impromptu lunch with Peter Grant. He expressed his concerns for Peter.
“So, you think Peter could have been the poisoning target?”
“He was sitting next to Vanessa,” Stone pointed out.
“So were you, Stone, on her other side.”
“That’s true.”
“Did a waiter fill your water glass or pour you more wine?”
“I suppose so, but Chekhov has nothing against me.”
“Of course he does,” Lance said. “You’ve failed him.”