“Please call me Morgan, or if you like, Mo, as my friends do.”
“Morgan — Mo — I think I can offer you an opportunity to put your concerns directly to the commissioner of police — if you are available for dinner this evening.”
“What time?” she asked.
“Seven.”
“I am without a car. Can you collect me?”
“Of course. At what address?”
“Seven-forty Park Avenue.”
Stone knew the address well; it had the reputation of being the most sought-after in the city.
“Apartment number?”
“The penthouse. Come up for a drink at six?”
“Certainly,” Stone said.
“I’ll need to change. How shall I dress?”
“I don’t think you need to change,” Stone replied. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you ask Fred to drive Ms. Tillman home, and I’ll need him again at five forty-five.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”
When she had left, Joan came into his office. “Who was that?”
“Morgan Tillman.”
“Why wouldn’t she give me her name?”
“I don’t know. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes,” Joan replied, furrowing her brow, “but I don’t remember from where.” She turned to go, then spun around. “Got it. The only Tillman I’ve ever heard of was a hedge fund guy who was murdered.”
“That does sound familiar,” Stone agreed, but he couldn’t remember any more about it.
7
Stone stepped off the elevator into a private foyer and rang the bell. “Yes?” a voice said from a speaker.
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
There was a buzz and a click, and the door opened a bit. He walked into a large living room opening onto a broad terrace. Morgan Tillman was descending a staircase. She had changed her clothes, but she was wearing a leather suit that was identical to the one of earlier that day, except that it was flaming red.
“Good evening,” she said, offering him her hand.
Stone shook it. “Good evening.”
“I believe I owe you a drink,” she said. “Knob Creek again?”
“Perfect.”
She walked to a paneled bar off the living room and poured two drinks into heavy Baccarat whiskey glasses. “It’s a little chilly to use the terrace,” she said. “Let’s sit over here.” She led him to a comfortable sofa, and they sank into it. “Now,” she said, “it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Shoot,” he replied.
“Where were you born?”
“In Greenwich Village. I attended elementary and high school there, too, as well as NYU, for undergraduate and law degrees.”
“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?”