Stone got up and went to the liquor cabinet. “Ice?”
“Just a little water.”
He made the drink. “Yes, I live over the store,” he said, handing her the whiskey. “And if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a drink at three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” she explained, “but I’ve had a terrible experience, and I’m a little rattled.” She raised her glass. “Will you join me?”
“I would be a poor host if I didn’t,” he said, retrieving a bottle of Knob Creek and pouring some over ice. He went back to his desk.
“Is your terrible experience connected to your visit here?”
“Yes, at least in part. I was having a mani-pedi uptown, and my car was parked outside within view. Someone dressed in black and carrying what appeared to be a sledgehammer smashed my windshield.”
“Ah,” Stone said, sipping his drink. “Do you drive a Mercedes, a BMW, or a Bentley Mulsanne?”
She took a gulp of her Laphroaig and stared at him. “That was a lucky guess,” she said.
“Which one?”
“I drive a Bentley Mulsanne. How could you narrow your guess down to three automobiles?”
“I had a similar experience yesterday, except that I was in the car when he and some friends swung their sledgehammers.”
“What do you drive?”
“A Bentley Flying Spur.”
“And they broke three windows?”
“Only one, and that one only slightly. My car windows are armored glass.”
“Are you often shot at?”
“Only occasionally.”
“Then why does your car have armored glass?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m dying to know,” she said.
“All right, but this will take a minute.”
“I have all afternoon,” she replied.
“Well, some years ago, having wrecked a car, I needed one in a hurry. I went into the Mercedes showroom on Park Avenue and asked them what they had in stock for immediate delivery. I was told that they had one car ready to go, but it was armored against small-arms fire and under-vehicle explosive devices. I found that intriguing, and I asked why they had such a vehicle in stock. The salesman told me that they had special-ordered the car for a businessman of Italian-American heritage who was concerned for his personal safety. Unfortunately, the car had arrived a couple of days too late to meet his needs, and his widow had no use for it, so she had it returned and asked for a refund. He said that I would, in effect, be buying it from her, since it had already been paid for and registered, and that she would entertain offers. Almost whimsically, I made a lowball offer, and to my surprise, she accepted it. I wrote a check for the car and drove it away.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you said you drive a Bentley, not a Mercedes.”
“Ah, well, a couple of years after that I managed to turn the Mercedes end over end at about a hundred and thirty miles an hour. The car did not survive the accident, and it occurred to me that neither would I have, had it not been armored, so when a friend of mine who runs a security company, which includes an auto-armoring division, offered me the Bentley, I accepted with alacrity.”
“That is a perfectly lucid explanation,” she said, “but may I ask why you were driving a hundred and thirty miles an hour?”
“I was, as I recall, being pursued.”
“At a hundred and thirty miles an hour?”
“He was gaining on me,” Stone said.
She took a swig of her Laphroaig and heaved a sigh. “Your experience makes mine sound piddling by comparison.”
Stone shrugged. “You are the first woman of my acquaintance who drives not only a Bentley, but a Mulsanne. May I ask what criteria you employed in making your choice?”
“Two,” she said. “One, I think it’s the most beautiful car currently being manufactured. Two, it’s the only car I feel comfortable in while having sex in the rear seat.”
“Ah,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m very tall, you see.”
“I noticed that. Would it be rude of me to ask how tall?”
“Not in the least. I’m six feet, one inch, in my bare feet, and should it interest you, I weigh a hundred and twenty-nine pounds, naked.”
“That is a very interesting set of statistics,” Stone said.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I must say that even a Bentley Mulsanne sounds a tight fit for a person of your height to have sex in.”
She shrugged. “You must remember that, at least in my experience, one is rarely stretched out flat when having sex—bending is usually involved.”
Stone nodded. “I take your point.”
“And the rear seat is both wide and soft.”
“Well,” Stone said, “as interesting as I find this discussion to be, I suppose I should ask who referred you to me and how I can be of help.”
“I find it interesting, too, but I should be more businesslike. I came to see you because I am outraged at how little interest the police have taken in my terrible experience. It’s as though a man with a sledgehammer breaking windshields on the Upper East Side were an everyday event to them, like littering. Am I not entitled to more than that, in the circumstances? I’m told that you have some influence with the police in this city.”
“And by whom were you told that?”
“By my manicurist. She seems to be a font of useful information.”
Stone was momentarily flummoxed.
“Her name is Roxanne, of Roxanne’s Nails. She used to work at the place where you get your hair cut.”
“I see,” he said, then he had a thought. “Ms. Tillman—”
“Please call me Morgan, or if you like, Mo, as my friends do.”
“Morgan—Mo—I think I can offer you an opportunity to put your concerns directly to the commissioner of police—if you are available for dinner this evening.”
“What time?” she asked.
“Seven.”
“I am without a car. Can you collect me?”
“Of course. At what address?”
“Seven-forty Park Avenue.”
Stone knew the address well; it had the reputation of being the most sought-after in the city.
“Apartment number?”
“The penthouse. Come up for a drink at six?”
“Certainly,” Stone said.
“I’ll need to change. How shall I dress?”
“I don’t think you need to change,” Stone replied. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you ask Fred to drive Ms. Tillman home, and I’ll need him again at five forty-five.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”
When she had left, Joan came into his office. “Who was that?”
“Morgan Tillman.”
“Why wouldn’t she give me her name?”
“I don’t know. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes,” Joan replied, furrowing her brow, “but I don’t remember from where.” She turned to go, then spun around. “Got it. The only Tillman I’ve ever heard of was a hedge fund guy who was murdered.”
“That does sound familiar,” Stone agreed, but he couldn’t remember any more about it.
7
STONE STEPPED OFF the elevator into a private foyer and rang the bell. “Yes?” a voice said from a speaker.
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
There was a buzz and a click, and the door opened a bit. He walked into a large living room opening onto a broad terrace. Morgan Tillman was descending a staircase. She had changed her clothes, but she was wearing a leather suit that was identical to the one of earlier that day, except that it was flaming red.
“Good evening,” she said, offering him her hand.
Stone shook it. “Good evening.”
“I believe I owe you a drink,” she said. “Knob Creek again?”
“Perfect.”
She walked to a paneled bar off the living room and poured two drinks into heavy Baccarat whiskey glasses. “It’s a little chilly to use the terrace,” she said. “Let’s sit over here.” She led him to a comfortable sofa, and they sank into it. “Now,” she said, “it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Shoot,” he replied.
“Where were you born?”
“In Greenwich Village. I attended elementary and high school there, too, as well as NYU, for undergraduate and law degrees.”