“Thank you,” she said. “I like full answers. What did you do immediately after law school? Join a law firm?”
“No, the summer before my final year I took part in a program that allowed law students to ride in police patrol cars. I was impressed with the cops I met, and I joined the NYPD.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Thence, your familiarity with the police.”
“Thence.”
“What duties did you perform with the police?”
“I was a patrol officer, then later, a homicide detective. The man we’re having dinner with was my partner for many years. His name is Dino Bacchetti.”
“I’ve seen it in the papers.”
“No doubt.” Stone waved a hand at his surroundings. “This is a very beautiful apartment. How long have you lived here?”
“Six years.”
“All of them alone?”
“No, my husband died a little over a year ago.”
Stone refrained from asking about the circumstances of his death, thinking she might tell him anyway. She did not.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
“Yes, I was widowed a few years ago.”
“And you’ve been alone since then?”
“On and off,” he replied.
“That’s an evasive answer,” she said.
“It’s an accurate one. Is there anything else you want me to know about you?”
“No, I think it will be more fun for you to learn as you go.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’ll get you started. I’m British—or at least, I was born in London.”
“You’ve acquired a perfect American accent.”
“I’ve always had an imitative ear. Would you prefer me to speak in my native tongue?”
“Your choice.”
“Oh, good,” she said, suddenly perfectly British. “It’s easier for me to relax. Have you spent any time in Britain?”
“I have. In fact, I have a house there, in south Hampshire, on the Beaulieu River.”
“Does the house have a name?”
“It’s called Windward Hall.”
“Oh, that’s Sir Charles Bourne’s house. I dined there years ago. He and my father were friends and fellow members of the Royal Yacht Squadron.”
“I’m a member as well. Sir Charles died, as you probably know.”
“I saw his obituary in the Times. When did you buy the estate?”
“Shortly before his death. He was renovating the house at the time of his death, and he lived the last year of his life in a cottage on the estate, while the work was in progress.”
“And how did you come to learn about Windward Hall?”
“A friend of mine, one of his neighbors, insisted on my seeing the house, and I was immediately smitten. How did you happen to move to New York?”
“I met my husband, as he was to become, in London. We had a whirlwind romance, and I returned to New York with him. We were married shortly after that, and shortly after our marriage he had the opportunity to buy this apartment. He knew the previous owner, so it never went on the market, and he saved himself a few million dollars, since he wasn’t bidding against anybody.” She took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “How did you come to own your house?”
“I inherited it from a great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister.”
“It seems to be in beautiful condition.”
“It was a bit run-down when she died. I had saved enough money to redo the electrical system and the plumbing, and after that I did much of the work myself.”
“And how did you come by those skills?”
“My father was a cabinetmaker and furniture designer. I grew up in his shop.”
“Would you like another drink?” she asked.
Stone consulted his watch. “Why don’t we have it at the restaurant? It’s time we left.”
She got her coat, and they went downstairs and got into the car. Soon they drew up in front of Clarke’s.
“My God,” she said, “I haven’t been here for years.”
“You’ll find it little changed,” Stone said.
They found Dino in the bar and introductions were made. Morgan towered over him. They chatted for a few minutes, then Morgan excused herself to find the ladies’ room.
“You know about her?” Dino asked Stone when she had left them.
“Not very much. She’s British and married a hedge fund guy—that’s about it.”
“You know he was murdered?”
“Yes,” Stone said. “I think I read something about it. I was in England at the time, and it got only a mention in the International Herald Tribune. How’d it happen?”
“The story was he came home and found a cat burglar in the apartment. There was a tussle on the terrace, and Tillman went over the railing.”
“A long fall,” Stone said.
“The burglar got away with a small van Gogh, said to be worth something in the neighborhood of forty million dollars.”
“Did it ever turn up?”
“Not yet.”
“Was an arrest made?”
“Not yet. There may not have even been a cat burglar. Morgan Tillman was our chief suspect.”
“And what did you think, personally?”
“I liked her for it,” Dino said. “I still do.”
8
THEY HAD THEIR SECOND DRINK at the table, and everybody ordered steaks. Stone picked a nice wine from the list.
“Dino,” he said, “Morgan has a bone to pick with you.”
“Oh?” Dino responded.
“I do, I’m afraid,” Morgan said. “You see, while I was having a pedicure this afternoon I saw a man with a sledgehammer break the windshield of my car.”
“There’s a lot of that going around, I’m afraid. What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Bentley Mulsanne,” she replied.
“Don’t ask her why,” Stone said.
Morgan laughed. “He’s right. Now, I telephoned the police, and eventually a uniformed officer in a patrol car turned up.”
“It was a busy afternoon,” Dino said.
“I told him how it happened, how I had to run outside barefoot through broken glass. He didn’t seem to think the incident was worth investigating. He just took a report.”
“Taking a report is investigating,” Dino said. “The perpetrator had gone, so his job was to report the incident, then interview any witnesses, who was you. He also filed his report and should have given you a copy.”
“He did.”
“You can use that to get your insurance company to pay for the replacement of your windshield.”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds,” Morgan replied. “The car is at the dealership, where they have had to order a replacement from England. You see, there were a limited number in stock, and these incidents have used them up.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to hurry that process.”
“Don’t these incidents constitute something of a crime wave?” Morgan asked. “And shouldn’t you pursue the, ah, perpetrators as criminals?”
“It is a crime wave of a very small nature,” Dino said. “However, we are most assuredly pursuing the perpetrators. We very nearly caught yours this afternoon, as did Stone, who was armed, but the man disappeared, probably into a waiting vehicle.”
“You pursued him?” Morgan asked Stone.
“Yes. I was armed with an umbrella.”
“My hero,” she said, patting him on the thigh.
It was the first time she had touched Stone, except to shake his hand, and it gave him a little electric thrill.
“My office will be in touch the minute this has been resolved,” Dino assured her. “Perhaps you’ll be able to attend the trial.”
“I’d prefer to attend the hanging,” Morgan said.
“Heh, heh,” Dino replied.
Mercifully for Dino, their steaks arrived, and for a few minutes there was more chewing than talking.
“I understand your wife is some sort of security guard,” Morgan said when she could.
Dino choked on his steak.
Stone jumped in quickly. “Vivian Bacchetti is executive vice president and chief of operations for Strategic Services, the second-largest security company on the planet.”
“Forgive me,” Morgan said to Dino.
Dino managed to swallow his steak. “That’s quite all right. Is there anything else your police department can do for you today, Mrs. Tillman?” he asked.
“Thank you, no, that will be all, until you capture the perpetrator, at which time I would very much like to have ten minutes alone with him. I’ll bring my own sledgehammer.”
“I’ll try to remember that, Mrs. Tillman.”