“Of course.”
“See you then, darling. Oh, and would you call Barry and tell him what’s happened? I’m really too stricken to talk anymore now.”
“I’ll do that. You try and get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“Thank you, dear. Good-bye.” Amanda threw another log on the fire and sat, staring into the flames, making mental notes on what had to be done the following day.
Chapter 44
Dino and Mary Ann Bacchetti got out of a cab on Sixty-sixth Street. Mary Ann had spent the morning having her hair cut by Frederic Fekkai at Bergdorf’s and having virtually every other part of her body attended to. She was wearing a newly purchased Chanel suit and matching black alligator shoes and handbag from Ferragamo. Dino was wearing a three-piece gray flannel suit from Ralph Lauren, a Turnbull & Asser shirt, and a polka-dot bow tie. A cream-colored silk square peeked from his breast pocket. His shoes were from Ferragamo, too, but they were only black calf. His hair had been cut at Bergdorf’s men’s store by a Fekkai disciple.
“I like the suit,” Mary Ann said to Dino. “You should get some more like it.”
“Stone made me buy it; the other stuff, too. I’m giving it all to him after this meeting. Listen, let me do the talking, will you?”
“What’s the matter, you think I can’t talk?”
“Stone tells me these people like to hear mostly from the men, and he knows about this stuff.”
“Stone can go fuck himself,” Mary Ann said pleasantly.
As they approached the building the doorman placed himself between them and the front door. “May I help you, sir?” he asked Dino, only slightly officiously.
“Thank you, I have an appointment with Mr. Whitfield; my name is Bacchetti.”
The doorman opened the door and allowed them into the lobby, then stepped inside and announced them to a man at a desk. “Mr. Bacchetti for Mr. Whitfield,” he said to the man, then backed out into the street. The man at the desk murmured something into a telephone, then hung up. “Mr. Whitfield is expecting you,” he said. “Charles will take you up in the elevator.” He indicated a uniformed man standing beside the lift. “Mr. Bacchetti for Mr. Whitfield.”
Dino couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden in an elevator with an operator. The car was equipped for self-service but had an operator anyway; he wondered how much the guy got paid. The elevator stopped, and they emerged into a small foyer. The elevator operator locked the car, stepped out, and rapped on the double front doors. A maid opened the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti for Mr. Whitfield,” he said to her.
The woman admitted them. “They’re in the library,” the woman said in an English accent. “Please come this way.”
“I’ll come any way I want to,” Dino muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glance from his wife.
The maid led them into a paneled room where a sixtyish man in a pinstriped suit stood, his back to a merry little fire. A woman in an expensive-looking wool dress sat in a chair beside him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti,” the maid said, then left.
“Ah, the Bacchettis,” the man said, approaching them. “I am Charles Greenleaf Whitfield, and this is my wife, Eleanor.” He offered his hand.
“I’m Dino Bacchetti,” Dino said in a voice and accent he could muster when it suited him, “and this is my wife, Mary Ann; good to meet you.” They both shook hands with Whitfield and his wife.
“Won’t you come and sit by the fire?” Whitfield asked, showing them to a sofa facing a pair of chairs, in one of which Eleanor Whitfield was seated. “May I get you a sherry?”
“Thank you,” Dino said. “Mary Ann?”
“Thank you, yes,” Mary Ann said.
Dino was surprised that Brooklyn seemed to have left her voice, as well.
When everyone had a sherry and was seated, Whitfield picked up a file on the table next to his chair. “Is it nice outside? I haven’t been out today.”
“A beautiful day,” Dino replied, crossing his legs and sipping his sherry.
That was it for small talk. “Now, Mr. Bacchetti, Mrs. Bacchetti, I hope you will forgive us for the formality of this meeting, but as you know, the board of a cooperative building has a responsibility to meet and interview prospective purchasers of apartments in the building to try and render some judgment of the suitability of applicants both as purchasers and as neighbors.”
“Of course,” Dino said.
“I am the president of the building, and, as such, my board members have asked me to represent them. There are one or two questions with regard to your answers on the application; perhaps I could ask you to expand on them just a bit.”
“Of course,” Dino said.
“You understand that it is the policy of the board not to allow the apartment to be used as collateral for a mortgage or other loan, which means, of course, that the price of purchase must be paid in cash.”
“I understand,” Dino replied.
“It’s not exactly clear to us from your financial statement just where the cash is coming from.”
Mary Ann spoke up. “The cash is a gift from my father,” she said.
“I see; how very generous. You have one child, as I understand it.”
“A son,” Dino said. “He’s four years old.”
“And where will he be attending school?”
“He’ll be going to Collegiate,” Mary Ann said, surprising her husband, who had never heard of Collegiate.
“Ah, yes; fine school. Do you have any pets?”
“No,” Dino said.
“And you are of Italian extraction?”
“I am.”
“Can you tell me a bit about your family background?”
“My family seat is Venice, where my ancestors have been Doges for twelve hundred years,” Dino lied.
“Ah, Doges, yes,” Whitfield said. The thought seemed to excite him. “And when did your family come to this country?”
“I am a tenth-generation American.” Minus nine.
“And Mrs. Bacchetti, are you of Italian extraction as well?”
“Yes. My people have always had lands in Sicily, from time immemorial.” There was only the tiniest trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“I see. And your family name?”
“Bianchi.”
“Ah.” Whitfield seemed to have heard this name before, somewhere, but he apparently didn’t remember where.
“Mr. Bacchetti, I see your father is deceased; may I ask what work he did before his death?”
“He was curator of a private art collection. His specialty was Renaissance drawings.” The closest Dino’s father had ever been to a Renaissance drawing had been the pictures in the girlie magazines in his candy store.
“How very interesting. And Mrs. Bacchetti, what does your father do?”
Dino felt Mary Ann shift; irritation was boiling off her in waves. He squeezed her hand, and she seemed to relax a bit.
“My people have always been in the revenge business,” she said sweetly.
Dino, unable to control himself, burst out laughing. To his amazement, Whitfield and his wife were laughing, too, as if Mary Ann had made some very clever joke.
“Just one more question,” Whitfield said when he had composed himself. “Mr. Bacchetti, I see that you are employed by the city of New York.”
“I am.”
“In what capacity?”
“I am a lieutenant with the New York Police Department; I command the detective division of the Nineteenth Precinct.”
“I see,” Whitfield said, not at all certain that he did. “And how did you come to choose that particular line of work?”
“My family has always been drawn to public service,” Dino replied.
“Very commendable,” Whitfield mused. “We had a burglary in our building recently, I’m afraid. Never happened before.”
“And if I come to live here, it will never happen again,” Dino said smoothly.
“Ah, yes!” Whitfield cried, his tumblers working. “I quite see your point! One watches NYPD Blue.”