He followed her up the escalator into the book department, where she browsed and bought a novel, then back downstairs into the food halls, which were the most spectacular supermarket Stone had ever seen. She bought a few pieces of fruit, then, suddenly, she turned and came back toward Stone, who was pretending to look at the smoked fish.
She stopped next to him and looked at the fish, too, then turned to him and spoke. “Are you following me?” she asked.
Stone was startled, but there was a small smile on her face. “Of course,” he said. “And nobody would blame me.”
She laughed. “You were at Annabel’s last night, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“Were you following me then, too?”
“You’ll recall I got there ahead of you.”
“And how long have you been following me this morning?”
“Since you left the taxi,” he said. “I happened to be right behind you, in another cab.”
“Coming from where?”
“The Connaught.”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Erica Burroughs,” she said.
Stone took her hand; it was cool and dry. “I’m Stone Barrington.”
“What a nice name; it sounds like an investment bank.”
“You’re not the first to tell me that.”
“Since you’re at the Connaught, I assume you don’t live in London.”
“No, New York. I’m just visiting.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure, at the moment.”
She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but I must tell you, I’m spoken for.”
“I’m desolated.”
“However, I’m hungry, standing amidst all this food, and if you’re hungry, too, you can buy me lunch.”
“I’d be delighted,” Stone said, and he was, more than she knew. She was making his job all too easy.
“Follow me,” she said. She marched off toward a door, and a moment later they were in another taxi. “The Grenadier, in Wilton Row,” she told the driver.
“I take it you live in London?” Stone asked.
“Yes, but only for a few weeks.”
“Do you work?”
“Not at the moment; how about you?”
“I’m an attorney.”
“With a New York firm?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”
“I know that name; someone there handled my father’s estate.”
They drove through winding back streets, across Sloane Street, and into Wilton Crescent, a beautiful half-circle of handsome houses, all made of the same stone, then they turned into a mews. At the end, the cab stopped, and they got out. The rain had abated, though it was still cloudy. Stone paid the taxi, then followed Erica up a short flight of stairs and into an atmospheric little pub.
“We’ll sit at the bar,” she said, grabbing stools for them. “The bar food’s the best.”
They helped themselves to sausages, Cornish pasties, and cole slaw from a little buffet, then sat down again.
“I’ll have a pint of bitter,” she said to the bartender.
“Two,” Stone said.
They sipped the ale and ate, not talking much. When they had finished their food, Erica took a sip of her bitter.
“Now,” she said, “tell me all about you.”
“Born and bred in New York, to parents who were both from western Massachusetts; attended the public schools, NYU, then NYULawSchool. The summer before my senior year I spent riding around the city in police cars, part of a law school program to give us a look at real life, and I found I liked it, so I joined the NYPD. I spent fourteen years there, finishing up as a homicide detective, then at the invitation of an old law school friend at Woodman and Weld, I finally took the bar exam and went to work for them.”
“You were a little old to be an associate, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t an associate; I’ve never even had an office there. I keep an office in my home, and I work on whatever cases Woodman and Weld don’t want to handle themselves. It’s interesting work. Now, what about you?”
“Born and raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, went to school there, then MountHolyoke, graduated last spring. Worked at Sotheby’s for a while, learning to appraise art and helping with the auctions, then I got a better offer.”
This didn’t quite jibe with the file on Erica, he thought. “From whom?”
“From my fella. You saw him last night; his name is Lance Cabot.”
“One of the BostonCabots?”
She shook her head. “Denies all knowledge of them. He’s from California, but his family came from Canada, not over on the Mayflower.”
“And what kind of offer did Lance make you?”
“A thoroughly indecent one, thank you, and I accepted with alacrity. I’ve been living with him for the better part of a year.”
“What does Lance do?”
“He’s an independent business consultant, on both sides of the Atlantic.”
Yeah, I’ll bet, Stone thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Burroughs, Greenwich; do you have an uncle named John Bartholomew?”
She shook her head. “Nope. No uncles at all; both my parents were only children. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, forget it; someone I know said he had a niece from Greenwich, and I thought the name was Burroughs.”
“Not this Burroughs,” she said.
Very strange, he thought. “How old are you?” he asked.