“A bourbon on the rocks,” she said. “Knob Creek, if you have it.”
“I have it in abundance,” Stone said, pouring them each one. They sat down before the fire.
“This is a very nice room,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“And the living room was very nice, too, as is the house and the neighborhood.
“On behalf of the neighbors, I thank you.”
“How do you live so well?”
“Well, I got the house cheap: I inherited it from a great-aunt. My father, who was a cabinetmaker and furniture designer made all the paneling, shelves, and did the woodwork.”
“I see,” she said, “sort of. Did you get the Bentley cheap?”
“I got a pretty good deal on it.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a partner in a law firm, Woodman & Weld.”
“Never heard of it.”
“There’s no reason you should have, unless your suing or being sued or want an estate managed or a will written.”
“None of the above,” she said.
“How long have you been flying?” Stone asked.
“Since I was sixteen,” she said. “I went to high school in the town where I was born: Delano, Georgia, then graduated from the aviation university, Embry Riddle, in Florida, with a diploma and an ATP license. Then I flew packages and freight, was first officer on a Lear, then got in a lot of single-pilot jet time in Citations. I flew for an airline, right seat for eight or nine years, then I joined Trans-Continent and made captain as soon as they needed one.”
“Total time?”
“A little over fifteen thousand hours. You sound like a pilot.”
“I am. I fly a CJ3-Plus.”
“Nice. I flew one for a charter service for two years. Total time?”
“About four thousand hours, half of it in Citations. Lately, I’ve been flying a borrowed Citation Latitude.”
“That’s a great airplane. My charter service ordered three of them and sent me to Flight Safety for a type rating. Then, the day I got my rating, the charter service went bust. They reneged on their order for the three Latitudes, and I had to buy my own ticket home.”
“That’s a sad story, but at least you got the type rating.”
The doorbell rang, but Stone kept his seat. “They’ll let themselves in,” he said. “Their names are Dino and Viv Bacchetti.” He spelled the name for her.
The Bacchettis spilled into the room and demanded liquor. Stone introduced them to Faith, then did the pouring of Dino’s scotch and Viv’s martini.
“So, how did you two meet?” Viv asked.
“She body-blocked me at the heliport today,” Stone said.
“He was walking backward and nearly knocked me down,” Faith explained.
“Why were you both at the heliport?” Dino asked.
“Stone was seeing off a friend, and I had hitched a ride into the city from JFK on a chopper,” Faith said. “The pilot’s a friend.”
“Sounds like fate at work,” Viv said.
* * *
—
They finished their drinks, then left the house and got into Dino’s car. “Patroon,” he said.
“What’s Patroon?” Faith asked.
“A very good restaurant,” Stone replied.
“Dino,” she asked, “why does your car have a blue light on top?”
“It’s a police car,” Dino replied.
“In a manner of speaking,” Stone said. “Not every police office has this ride, but Dino, for reasons I’ve never understood, is the police commissioner for the City of New York.”
“I’ve never felt so safe,” Faith said.
* * *
—
They arrived at the restaurant, were greeted and seated by the owner, Ken Aretsky, and ordered drinks. When they had been delivered, Dino took a deep breath. “Faith, this is not a good time to feel safe.”
“What are you talking about, Dino?” Stone asked.
“While you were swanning around London, we had two homicides on the Upper East Side.”
“Only two?” Stone asked. “Why is that remarkable?”
“Because both were small, blond, and beautiful,” Dino said. “Like you, Faith.”