Harlan Deal lived in a Fifth Avenue penthouse in an elegant old co-op building with a spectacular view of Central Park. He would, wouldn’t he? A uniformed maid took his coat and an actual tails-wearing English butler showed him into a huge living room hung with a collection of mostly large abstract paintings and occupied by a larger group of people than he had expected to see, at least fifty.
He spotted a Motherwell, a Pollock, a Rothko, two Hockneys and a Frankenthaler without even trying. All Harlan Deal needed was an eighteenth-century mahogany secretary from Newport, but it wouldn’t have looked so good among the classic modern furniture, all Mies and Breuer. He spotted no one he knew until Harlan Deal broke out of the crowd and greeted him, hand out.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “I’m sorry for the short notice, but I’m very glad you could make it.”
“Thank you for asking me, Mr. Deal.”
“Harlan, please.”
“And I’m Stone.”
A waiter appeared, took his drink order and was back in a flash with a Knob Creek on the rocks. Harlan excused himself to greet other arriving guests.
Stone wandered around the room, looking at the art, then walked out onto a large terrace that had been glassed in for the winter. Central Park, lamplit, stretched out before him, and across the park the lights of the tall apartment buildings on Central Park West glittered in the distance. He was alone on the terrace, except for a woman who stood at the north end, looking out toward the reservoir.
She held a martini glass in her left hand, displaying a bare third finger. Stone moved closer, and she turned to face him. He froze for a moment and took her in. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen: tall, slender, raven hair perfectly coiffed, nails perfectly polished, perfectly dressed in a longish thing that Stone reckoned was Armani. He exhaled.
“Come closer,” she said. “I can’t hear you, if you stand way over there.”
He did as she commanded.
“Good evening,” she said, holding out a hand with long fingers and a large emerald ring. “I’m Tatiana Orlovsky.”
Stone took the hand, cool and soft. “I’m Stone Barrington,” he managed to say.
“Why are you and I the only people on this lovely terrace?” she asked.
“Because God meant us to be alone together.” There was some laughter a few footfalls behind him. “But not for very long.”
She laughed, a very nice sound.
“Your name has a heavy Russian accent,” he said, “but your voice does not.”
“My name has been in this country since my grandfather stole a lot of very good jewelry from a titled Moscow family during the revolution in 1917 and stowed away on a ship bound for New York,” she said. “I, on the other hand, have been here for only thirty-four years, and English is my only language.”
“I hope you still have the jewelry,” he said.
“Oddly enough, we do… At least, my mother does. My grandfather was clever: He borrowed money on the jewelry, invested it in the stock market, redeemed the jewels and spent the rest of his life building a business and a lifestyle in which the jewelry would not look out of place.”
“Is the very beautiful necklace you’re wearing part of the collection?”
“No. It’s a string of cubic zirconia that cost less than two thousand dollars at Bergdorf’s. The design is a copy of a Harry Winston necklace, though.”
“You make it look like real diamonds.”
She laughed that laugh again. “My husband never notices.”
Stone’s heart sank.
She must have seen the look on his face. “Oh, no. I don’t… I mean, I’m not… I’m in the process of being divorced, at the moment. I’ve stopped wearing my wedding ring.”
Stone’s heart soared again. “I’m relieved to hear it,” he said, “because I’m opposed to adultery. I’m afraid that, in your case, I might have gone against my principles.”
“I’m flattered that you would think of abandoning your principles,” she said, “but I’m glad you don’t have to.”
“So am I,” he replied.
“And what, may I ask, do you do?”
“I’m an attorney.”
“With a firm?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”
“Oh, I know the firm, but what does ‘of counsel’ mean?”
“It means that I handle the cases that they would rather not be seen to be associated with.”
“That sounds a lot more interesting than drawing wills and managing estates.”
“Believe me, it is, and it suits me perfectly. Before I was an attorney I was a police detective, and that experience has come in handy when dealing with people like Harlan Deal.”
“I should imagine so. Do you deal with Mr. Deal?”
“I have in one instance, but, I’m happy to say, it won’t be a regular thing.”
A silver bell rang somewhere.
She glanced inside. “Why don’t we go inside and eat some of our host’s very expensive food?”
Stone offered her his arm, and they wandered in to join the buffet line.
48
They found seats on the sweeping staircase that led to Harlan Deal’s no doubt very elegant bedrooms, and were kept in Dom Perignon by revolving waiters.
“Who are these people?” Tatiana asked, looking around at the crowd.
“The crumbs of the upper crust, as Charlie McCarthy used to say.”
“Who?”
“A woodenheaded young gentleman who used to sit on the knee of a man named Bergen.”
“Oh, of course. What are the qualifications for being crumbs of the upper crust?”
“Well, they used to be money and breeding, but now it’s just money. Consider our host. How do you know him, by the way?”
“A friend of a friend,” she replied. “I think she had some match-making in mind, but after meeting Mr. Deal…” She didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t have to.
“You have such good taste.”
“I know what I don’t like when I see it. You’re right. His only qualification is money.”
“Apart from a nearly-ex husband, do you have other means of support? A career, I mean.”
“I’m an illustrator.”
“Of what?”
“Of anything anyone will hire me to illustrate: advertisements, book jackets, fashion layouts for magazines. I was going to say album covers, but they’re too small these days to be much fun, and matchbooks, but since nobody smokes anymore, they hardly exist.”
“Have you actually illustrated a matchbook?”
“I did several tiny drawings for ones you used to see on restaurant tables. They’re gone, mostly… the restaurants, I mean.”
“Where do you live?” He asked.
“In Turtle Bay on the north side.”
“You are conveniently located. I live in Turtle Bay on the south side.”
“In that case, you must lead me up the garden path some time.”
“I would be delighted to lead you up the garden path.”
She laughed. “Oh. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Well, not yet.”
“Where will you live when you’re divorced? Or have you thought that far ahead?”
“I’m determined to keep the house,” she said. “I’ll have to buy his half with some of my settlement.”
“Is the divorce amicable?”
“Not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s very angry.”
“Are there children?”
“Only a cat, and she is a premarital asset, so I expect to retain custody.”
“It sounds as though you have the settlement all worked out.”
“Oh, no. We may end up in court, though I’m trying to avoid that.”
“Don’t try too hard to avoid it; you’ll damage your negotiating position. You must appear willing to sue, if necessary.”
“That’s good advice. Do you always give good advice?”
“As I was telling a friend the other day, yes. If I don’t know what I’m talking about, I try and shut up.”
“That’s more than I can say for most people.”
Stone looked up and saw Barton Cabot and Carla approaching. “My word,” he said.