“Let me ask you something,” Maher said.
“Shoot.”
“How’d I end up getting vetted in your office. I didn’t even know who the hell you were until I asked around.”
“What did you hear back?”
“Lawyer at a top firm, used to be married to the widow of a movie star — that’s about it.”
“To answer your question, the President asked me to meet you and report back.”
“Yeah, but why you?”
“I understand you’re meeting four people, and I don’t know who the others are, but I would guess they’re people she knows well and from whom she can expect a straight answer to her questions.”
“Fair enough. Are you seeing Tiffany Baldwin?”
“Yes.”
“Would you believe that she once tried to put the make on me? How crazy is she?”
“An excellent question. Maybe she doesn’t read the Post.”
“I guess not. I wouldn’t want to go three rounds with her, either. I’m not sure I’d walk away.”
“Your instincts are good, Terry.”
“What else do you want to know? I’ve got a record — the President knows what I’m for and against.”
“What’s likely to come up in the hearings that might surprise her?”
Maher thought about that. “I’m one hell of a good cook,” he said. “French, Italian, anything you like.”
“Well, that surprises me.”
“I’ve often thought that when somebody finally unseats me — not that that’s possible — I might open a restaurant.”
“I’ll be your first customer.” Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“And you.” Maher left; Bob watched him go but didn’t move.
“And what’s the matter with you, Bob? That guy scare you?”
The tail did the talking.
Joan buzzed. “Tiffany Baldwin in half an hour. I tried to get her to do it in public, but she wouldn’t budge.”
“All right. When she gets here I want you to come in here with a steno pad.”
“You know I don’t do shorthand.”
“Pretend, and don’t leave her alone with me for a second.”
52
Stone was waiting for Tiffany Baldwin to arrive when Joan buzzed him. “Somebody named Daryl Barnes is on line one. He says you know him.”
“I don’t.”
“Want me to get rid of him?”
Stone had a thought. “No, and call in that number Dino gave us and ask for a trace.” He waited for a slow count of ten, then pressed the button. “Mr. Barnes? This is Stone Barrington.”
“Hello, Stone.”
“Have we met?”
“Several times, most recently at the Lowell.”
“Ah, are we using real names now?”
“It’s what my mama put on my birth certificate,” he said, and with a Southern accent.
“And is that a real accent?”
“It’s the way I used to talk, before I was led astray by Yankees.”
“How about... what’s your wife’s name?”
“Annie Allen, though we haven’t had the benefit of clergy. Yes, she’s a Southerner. We’re both from a little town called Delano, Georgia.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Stone said. “Meriwether County, isn’t it?”
“I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought your geography lessons in school would have covered Meriwether County.”
“It’s a pretty name, it stuck in my mind, I guess.” Stone looked at his watch; at least a minute gone.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I called.”
“Actually, Commissioner Bacchetti predicted you would.”
“Did he? The man’s clairvoyant!”
“Just very smart.”
“Why did he think I would call?”
“Because you’re cocky.”
That got a laugh. “Well, he’s nailed me, I guess.”
“If he hasn’t, he will. It’s what he does.”
“I must say, I was flattered that the commissioner of police came personally to arrest me.”
“He lives down the block from the Lowell — I guess he wanted his neighborhood’s air freshened.”
“Now, let’s not get nasty. I called because I want to hire you.”
“For what purpose?”
“To defend me against the charge the commissioner came to arrest me for, whatever it is.”
“I’m afraid I have a conflict of interest,” Stone said.
“What conflict?”
“I represent the estate of the victim.”
“What estate? What victim?”
“Come now, Mr. Barnes, disingenuousness doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m afraid you’ve baffled me.”
“The murder of Carrie Fiske.”
“Wait a minute — Carrie is dead?”
Stone checked his watch again: two minutes.
“Tell you what, I’ll hear your alibi and give you some advice, no charge.”
“When and where was she killed? I’ll give you my alibi.”
“Later in the evening, after your dinner date with her.”
“Last time I had dinner with Carrie, you were there, in East Hampton.”
“Then how is it that the police have a voice message on her phone from you, confirming dinner?”
“Dinner where?”
“In New Mexico. Nicky Chalmers puts you there, too.”
“We left New Mexico an hour after I saw Nicky.”
“Oh, and here’s the kicker — the police have a photograph of you at the scene of her death, and it’s date-stamped.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Remember the camera and tripod you knocked over? It went off, and got a very nice likeness.”
“I think I’d better be going,” he said.
“But you haven’t had my free advice.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“Give yourself up, tell the police everything, and I’ll recommend a good lawyer to represent you. With a little luck, he might get the charge reduced to manslaughter.”
“Thanks, I don’t think so.”
“You could be out in ten years, or so.”
“Oh, swell.”
“It beats life in the New Mexico State Prison, which is not the sort of elegant hostelry you’re accustomed to.”
Another silence, then... “Who’s the lawyer?”
“Ed Eagle, of Santa Fe. He’s in the phone book. There is none better west of the Mississippi — maybe not east of, either.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“What other charges against you are current? Is there a line of prosecutors waiting?”
“I have never been charged with any crime,” he said.
“Then how did you come to the attention of the Palm Beach police?”
“That was a misunderstanding, quickly cleared up.”
“What sort of misunderstanding?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t. But Carrie Fiske matters, I can promise you that.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Barrington.” He hung up.
Stone buzzed Joan. “Tell Dino, if that wasn’t long enough for him to trace, he’s fired.”
53
Joan buzzed. “Ms. Tiffany Baldwin to see you.”
“Show her in, and remember what I said.”
A blond head was stuck around his doorjamb. “Knock, knock?”
“Come in, Tiffany,” he said, extending a hand to be shaken.
She brushed it aside and came into his arms. “Hello, cutie,” she said, rubbing herself against his crotch.
Behind her, Joan produced a coughing fit. Tiffany turned and glared at her.
“Take the sofa, Tiffany, Joan can take the chair.” He picked up her folder and pretended to study it while she decided what to do. Finally, she sat down. Joan was ready with her steno pad.
“I don’t want to keep you from the business of the nation for too long, so let’s get started.” He glanced at the folder. “Columbia undergraduate and Columbia Law School, assistant district attorney under the esteemed Robert Morgenthau for eight years, then chief prosecutor — a fairly meteoric rise, I’d say.”