Stone Barrington 06-11

named William Eggers.”
    “I know him well,” Stone said.
    “You don’t look like an estate planner,” she said, accusingly.
    “No, that’s a little out of my line,” he replied. “I’m more of a generalist.”
    “And what sort of problem would I hire you for?” she asked.
    “Oh, nothing specific. If you should have a problem of any sort, call Bill Eggers, and he’ll know if I’m your man.”
    “Oh, I think you could be my man, no matter what my problem was,” she said.
    Stone was trying to come up with an answer to that when his tiny cell phone, clipped to his waistband, began to vibrate silently. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and walked toward the dining room door, fishing out the phone and opening it, but keeping it concealed in his hand until he was out in the hall.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s me,” Bob Berman said.
    “Have you got something?”
    “This guy’s an amateur,” Bob said. “His identity is paper thin. There’s nothing in his credit report going back more than two and a half years. His driver’s license is green as grass, and he’s only got one credit card, one of those that’s guaranteed by a savings account. No mortgage or bank loans on the record, only a car loan, from a high-interest loan company.”
    “His design company must have done business with a bank.”
    “Probably, but I’ll bet his partner did all the financial stuff. Bartlett would never survive even the most minimal credit check for any substantial business. There’s not even a history of other bank accounts, nothing in the New York credit bureaus, either.”
    “Anything on who he really is?”
    “If you can get a fingerprint on a bar glass or something, I could run that. Otherwise, I’ll need a lot more time to nail him down.”
    “I’ll have a shot at it,” Stone said. “Call me if you come up with anything else.”
    “Will do.”
    Stone returned to his table, stopping to whisper in Callie’s ear. “It’s looking good. When dinner’s over, try to slip a glass or something with his fingerprints on it into your purse.”
    “Love to,” she said.
    Stone returned to his seat and the attentions of Lila Baldwin, glancing at Paul Bartlett, who seemed to be having a good time. Stone wanted to end his good time.

23
    T HE WOMAN SITTING BETWEEN STONE AND PAUL Bartlett got up between courses and went to the powder room, and Stone took the opportunity.
    “Paul, I was out at the airport this morning. Did I see you leave in a BMW?”
    Bartlett looked at him as if Stone had seriously invaded his privacy. “Were you following me?” he demanded.
    “Of course not,” Stone said. “I was at the airport, and I saw you. that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    Bartlett waved a hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m being paranoid.”
    Stone wondered what he had to be paranoid about.
    “I took my rental car back to Hertz. I bought a car this morning, and the salesman picked me up and drove me to the dealership.”
    “Oh, what did you buy?”
    “A Bentley.”
    “Very nice.”
    “Were you considering one?”
    “No, the Bentley is out of my league. If you’re making that sort of investment, you must have decided to stay on in Palm Beach.”
    “Well, I am looking for a house.”
    Callie was on her feet, digging into her purse. “Let me get a shot of you two,” she said. “Stone, move over a seat.”
    Bartlett waved her away. “No, please. I don’t enjoy being photographed.” When Callie seemed to persist, he nearly barked at her. “Sit down,” he said. “Please. I take a Muslim view of photography: It steals one’s soul.”
    “If one has a soul,” Stone said.
    Bartlett shot a glance at Stone, picked up a liqueur glass, downed the contents and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said.
    “You’re not leaving,” Callie said.
    “Terrible headache,” Bartlett replied.
    “Still at the Chesterfield?” Stone asked.
    “Sure, call me anytime. Good night.” He strode toward his hostess’s table, spoke to her for a moment, kissed her on the cheek and left the room.
    Callie reached over, picked up the small liqueur glass, wrapped it in a tissue from her purse and dropped it into her bag. “Better than a photograph,” she said.
    Stone looked up to see Frank Wilkes coming toward them. He sat down in Bartlett’s chair. “Paul has abandoned us, I see.”
    “Yes, he seemed uncomfortable.”
    “Stone, after speaking with him, do you think he