Kisser (2010)

Stone asked.
    Parsons rummaged in a drawer and came up with a single sheet of paper. “Derek Sharpe, with an e ,” Parsons said, “né Mervin Pyle, in some squalid border town in Texas, forty-six years ago. No education to speak of; four marriages, three of them wealthy, though not when they were divorced. One of society’s leeches, born to the task—trailer trash with a thin veneer of sophistication. I was appalled when I met him.” He shoved the paper across the desk to Stone.
    Stone glanced at it. “May I have this?”
    “Yes. It was put together by a fairly seedy private detective for only twelve thousand dollars.”
    Stone scanned the document. “He got virtually all of it from the Internet; it cost him less than a hundred dollars. Is the man still on the case?”
    “No, something about Mr. Derek Sharpe frightened him, I think. He took his money and ran.”
    “You should know that I’m not a private investigator but an attorney,” Stone said. “However, I have access to good people who provide more and better value than this.” He held up the paper.
    “Yes. Eggers told me that,” Parsons said.
    “What would you like done?” Stone asked, and he steeled himself for the reply.”
    “If I could hire you to shoot him in the head, I would,” Parsons said. “Forgive me, I know you’re not in that business, and I would probably shrink from the task, if I met someone who was.”
    “Of course.”
    “I suppose what I want is for him to go away,” Parsons said, “out of Hildy’s life, never to see her again. But I don’t know how to accomplish that. I’ve thought of trying to buy him off.”
    “I think that effort might be fruitless,” Stone said, “unless you offered him a great deal—more than Hildy’s trust fund—and maybe not even then. Does he know about her impending wealth?”
    “I’m sure he does,” Parsons said. “Hildy is not the sort to be closemouthed about anything.”
    “Perhaps we could begin by my meeting Mr. Sharpe,” Stone said.
    “Perhaps so,” Parsons replied. He pushed a card across his desk. “I have an opening this evening on the second floor for a painter named Squires, who is very good. Hildy will be there, and I’m certain Mr. Sharpe will be tagging along.”
    Stone stood and put the invitation and the information on Sharpe into a pocket. “Then I’ll come,” he said, “and we’ll see where we go from there.”
    The two men shook hands, and Stone departed the gallery. Why, he wondered as he walked home, had most of the women he knew been abused by men?

14
    AS HE ENTERED HIS HOUSE through the office door, Joan waved a message at him. “Carrie Cox called,” she said. “She wants you to call while she’s on her lunch break.”
    Stone went into his office, buzzed his housekeeper, Helene, in the kitchen, and asked for a sandwich. Then he sat down at his desk and returned Carrie’s call.
    “Hello?” she said, and by the sound of her voice she seemed to be eating something.
    “Hi, it’s Stone.”
    “Oh, hi.”
    “How are your rehearsals going?”
    “Just great!”
    “That sounds delicious.”
    “It’s something called a falafel,” she said. “Exotic New York food, not bad. Are we doing something this evening?”
    “I have to go to an opening for a painter,” Stone replied. “Would you like to come?”
    “No, I called to beg off whatever you had in mind; I have to learn the second act. Who’s the painter?”
    “Someone called Squire. I’ve never heard of him.”
    “I have,” she said. “He’s very good.”
    “That’s what the gallery owner says.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Philip Parsons.”
    “He’s very big,” she said.
    “How do you, being from Atlanta, know all this New York stuff?”
    “I am conversant with most of the arts,” she said. “And besides, I read magazines.”
    “Aha. Tell me, do you own a straight razor?”
    “Aha, yourself. You’ve been researching me.”
    “Do you?”
    “No, but Max does. We were having an argument in the bathroom once, while he was shaving, and I threw a bar of soap at him. He ducked, and in the process nearly cut his throat. I had to call the doctor.”
    “Oh.”
    “I suppose you’ve somehow heard Max’s version of that story, in which I attacked him with the razor and murderous intentions.”
    “Something like that.”
    “Well, believe me, it’s a lie.”
    “I believe you,” Stone said, and he meant it. “Things uttered in divorce court sometimes take on too much