“I assume so, too. I don’t know, but I can find out. Art, do you have any vacation time coming from the NYPD?”
“About five weeks, I think.”
“If you can take two weeks off and find the painting in that time, I’ll pay you a million dollars.”
Masi blinked. “I assume the insurance company has offered you considerably more than that.”
“You may assume anything you like. There are conditions. You may not break any laws during your search, and that includes harming anyone.”
“I’m going to need it in writing,” Masi said.
Stone took a sheet of his personal notepaper, picked up a fountain pen, and wrote, after the date: I, Stone Barrington, agree to pay Arturo Masi the sum of one million dollars if he can recover, undamaged, a lost painting, ostensibly by Vincent van Gogh, formerly the property of Mark Tillman, deceased, by noon two weeks from today, as long as Mr. Masi does not violate any law in his search or harm any person. The painting is to be authenticated by comparing it to an 8x10-inch transparency of the work, which is in my possession. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Joan, will you please come in here and bring your notary’s stamp?”
“Right away.” She came in, he signed the document, and she notarized it. Stone handed it to Masi, along with an envelope.
Masi read it carefully, then he folded the document and tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. “The clock is ticking,” Masi said. “I’d better get going.”
“Don’t bother trying to gain access to the Tillman apartment,” Stone said. “I’ll take care of that myself.”
“As you wish,” Masi said, handing Stone a card. “That has all my contact information.” The two men shook hands, and he left.
Joan buzzed.
“Yes?”
“A Mrs. Tillman on one for you.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Hello there.”
“I trust you’re having a good day,” she said.
“It’s easy to have a good day after a good night.”
“I must agree. Have you any plans for the weekend?”
“Not yet.”
“Would you like to come out to my place in the Hamptons today?”
“I’d love to. May I drive you? You’re still short of a car, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but that won’t be necessary. My husband thoughtfully left me a helicopter. May we meet at the East Side heliport at four o’clock?”
“Certainly.”
“Bring a coat, it’s cold out there this time of year.”
“I’ll do that. I won’t bring a swimsuit, either,” he said.
“You wouldn’t need one, even if it were a hot day.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m having some people over for dinner tomorrow evening, but it will be casual. You won’t need a suit or a dinner jacket.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” They both hung up.
Stone picked up Art Masi’s card from his desk and called his cell number.
“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”
“Change of plans,” Stone said. “Mrs. Tillman will be out of her apartment for the weekend. That should give you time to obtain a search warrant.”
“The whole weekend?”
Stone gave him his own cell number. “Leaving today, not returning before Sunday. Ring me before you go in. If I say you got a wrong number, she won’t disturb you. If I say I’ll have to call you back, it won’t be safe.”
“Got it.”
Stone hung up and went upstairs to pack.
14
The helicopter rose from the pad and climbed to one thousand feet, just short of the overcast clouds, then headed for the shoreline. Once over the sea, the pilot descended to five hundred feet and followed the coast.
“I always ask him to fly low,” Morgan said. “I love the view this way.”
“Well,” Stone said, “there’s nothing to bump into.”
Three-quarters of an hour later the chopper slowed, flew over a large, shingle-style house, and made an approach into a tennis court, from which the net had been removed. Stone and Morgan alit, then two men ran onto the court and removed their luggage from the machine, then it lifted off.
“They’ll hangar it at the East Hampton airport,” Morgan said as she led Stone into the house.
The place was spacious without being overwhelming, and was beautifully decorated. “Mark Hampton did the decor,” she said, “years ago when my husband first bought the house. It’s nearly a hundred years old.”
They settled into a small sitting room off the big living room. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“A cup of tea would be nice,” Stone replied.
“Do you have a preference?”
“Earl Grey, if you have it.” It began to rain outside.
She ordered tea from a staffer. “I love it when the weather is like this,” she said, getting up and lighting a fire that had already been laid.
The tea and an assortment of cookies arrived, and Morgan poured, then settled onto the sofa next to Stone. “I’m so glad you could come,” she said.
“So am I, and I like this weather, too.”
“It makes the house cozier.”
They finished their tea, and she stood up. “Let’s go upstairs and unpack.”
Stone thought he knew what that meant, and he was right. They unpacked, undressed, she lit another fire, and they got into bed. Half an hour later they were spent and asleep.
When they woke up, darkness had fallen. They got dressed and went down to dinner, which was served on a small table in a handsome library.
“Give me your brief bio,” Stone said after the wine had been poured.
“Typical,” she said. “Born at my parents’ country house in Wiltshire, sent to Lady Eden’s School in London — all the fashion at the time — then a girls’ school near the country house, and a finishing school in Switzerland, where I was taught French and to cook and to set a table. There was no thought of university for me, but I insisted, and I got a first at Oxford. Then I went out and got my own job in a training program at an advertising agency. I spent a few years at that, along with a lot of partying with girls of a similar background and a lot of Hooray Henrys, then I met Mark, and the next thing I knew, I was married and living in New York.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“My father is. Mother died when I was sixteen.”
“Do you see him much?”
“Not really — once or twice a year. He likes his books and his horses in the country and his club in London. He does the Cowes Week regatta every other year, when they run the Fastnet Race. He’d rather I’d been a boy, and he never seems to know what to say to me. All in all, I’d say he prefers his own company to that of anyone else.”
“Would I like him?”
“When he decides to be charming, you would. He would find you exotic, because you’re an American — but acceptable, because you have a house in England and belong to the Squadron.”
“Do you love him?”
“Madly.”
“That speaks well of you.”
“Thank you.”
They moved to a leather Chesterfield sofa for brandy and gazing into the fire. Somehow he discovered that she wasn’t wearing underwear, and they entertained each other for a while, then went upstairs and entertained each other some more.
The following morning was brilliantly sunny and windy; they managed a short walk on the beach, before nearly freezing and running back to the house. They had a lobster stew for lunch and the warming of their bones.