Lucid Intervals (2010)

the other man asked.
    “The funds came from a client.”
    “And where did he obtain them?”
    “From the New York State Lottery, I believe.”
    “The New York State Lottery does not give people large sums of cash,” the man said.
    “I thought that was why they were in business,” Stone said, “apart from also taking large sums of cash from other people.”
    “Quite true,” the man said, “but their policy is, I believe, to issue a check on the state treasury’s funds or to wire transfer winnings to the account of a winner.”
    “Well, I can’t argue that with you,” Stone said. “Now that you mention it, when I asked my client where he got the funds and he told me about winning the lottery, I pointed out that very same thing to him.”
    “And what did he have to say about that?” the agent asked.
    Stone shrugged. “I don’t suppose it would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality if I told you he told me he cashed a check.”
    “On what bank?”
    “He didn’t mention its name.”
    “And you think a bank would just give your client a million dollars in cash?”
    “After corroborating his balance, certainly.”
    “Can you tell me how your client managed to include a single counterfeit fifty-dollar bill in a one-million-dollar payment to you?”
    “That fifty-dollar bill was not in the cash my client gave me. He gave me only one-hundred-dollar bills.”
    “Did you look through all the hundreds?”
    “No, I did not.”
    “So, it may have been among the cash he gave you?”
    “If it was, it was a mistake of his bank,” Stone replied.
    “And you don’t know which bank it was?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Would you mind if we asked your client?”
    “Not as long as you don’t expect me to give you his name,” Stone replied. “That would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.”
    “Mr. Barrington,” the man said, sighing. “We are agents of the federal government. As an officer of the court you are obliged to help us in our inquiries.”
    “As long as they don’t involve a breach of client confidentiality, I’m happy to help you,” Stone replied.
    “Could you do this, then: Could you call your client and ask him for the name and address of his bank?”
    “I could . . .” Stone began.
    “And for his permission to tell us?”
    “Now that is something I could do,” Stone said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
    “Of course.”
    Stone walked to Joan’s office. “Will you please call Herbie Fisher and ask him for the name of his bank? Tell him the Secret Service would like to know.”
    “You mean all that cash was counterfeit?”
    “No, apparently only a single fifty-dollar bill was.”
    “It was all in hundreds.”
    “I told them that, but they were skeptical.”
    Joan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a paper band. “There was one of these on each hundred-thousand-dollar bundle,” she said.
    Stone took the band. “That will do nicely.” He returned to his office and handed the band to an agent. “There was one of these around each hundred-thousand-dollar bundle of hundreds,” he said. “The name of the bank is printed upon it. Will that do?”
    “Yes, I believe it will,” the agent said, reading the name of the bank.
    “Then I wish you well in your inquiries,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.
    “Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, then turned to go.
    “I would certainly like to know how all this comes out,” Stone said. “If you have a moment to call.”
    “I’m sorry, but we can’t reveal information relating to a case,” he said, and then, with his companion, he left.
    Stone buzzed Joan.
    “Yes?”
    “What was the exact amount of the deposit you made?”
    “One million dollars.”
    “Is that on the deposit receipt?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Is the receipt stamped and dated?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Did you watch the teller count the money?”
    “I watched her put it into a counting machine,” Joan said.
    “And she didn’t mention an extra fifty dollars in the stack?”
    “She did not.”
    Stone hung up, baffled.

13
    S tone was in his dressing room when Felicity walked in, holding her shoes in her hand. She offered him her lips, and he accepted. “Your feet are tired?” he asked.
    “I no longer have feet,” she replied, going into the bedroom. “I’m walking on stumps.” She began shedding clothes. “What time is dinner?”
    “Eight-thirty. We’re meeting Dino.”
    “What a surprise! Wake