Stone Barrington 06-11

said.

2
    STONE WOKE UP HUNGOVER. HE SHOULDN’T drink that much so close to bedtime, he reflected, and resolved, once again, not to do it again. It was half past eight, and this guy Bartholomew was coming at nine; no time for breakfast. He showered and shaved and got into a suit, then went down to his office on the ground floor.
    The ground floor, except for the garage, had been a dentist’s office when Stone’s great-aunt had still owned the house. After Stone inherited the place and renovated it, mostly with the sweat of his own brow, he turned the dentist’s office into his own. His secretary, Joan Robertson, worked at the front of the house, then came a couple of small rooms for supplies and the copying machine, then his own office, a pleasant room at the back of the house, looking out into the gardens of Turtle Bay, a collection of townhouses in the East Forties that opened onto a common garden. Only the burglar bars spoiled the view.
    Stone heard the clicking of computer keys stop, and Joan came back to his office. “You’re in early,” she said.
    “What do you mean?” Stone asked, with mock offense. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

    “That’s what I mean. I’ll bet you didn’t have time for breakfast.”
    “You got some coffee on?”
    “I’ll get you a cup,” she said.
    “There’s some guy named John Bartholomew coming in at nine,” he said. “Bill Eggers sent him.”
    “I’ll show him in when he arrives,” she said.
    Stone shuffled listlessly through the files on his desktop. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Eggers that he wasn’t busy.
    Joan came back with the coffee. He was grateful that her taste in beans ran with his, that she liked the strong, dark stuff that usually got made into espresso. “Did Callie get in last night?” she asked.
    “She got in, then she got out.”
    “Out? You mean, out ?”
    “I do. She’s marrying Thad Shames this weekend.”
    “Good God! I’m shocked!”
    “So was I, to tell the truth.”
    “You let another one get away.”
    “Joan…”
    She threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. You want me to send a wedding gift?”
    Stone brightened. “Good idea. Go find the ugliest piece of sterling that Tiffany’s makes and send it to them in Palm Beach with a truly sincere card.”
    The doorbell rang. “There’s your appointment,” she said. She left and returned a moment later with a tall, heavyset man in his fifties who, in his youth, had probably played college football.
    “I’m Stone Barrington,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.
    “John Bartholomew,” the man replied, shaking it.
    Stone waved him to a chair. “Bill Eggers called last night.”

    “Did he give you any details?”
    “No.”
    Joan brought in another cup of coffee on a silver tray and offered it to Bartholomew, who had, apparently, placed his order with her on arrival.
    Bartholomew sipped it. “Damned fine coffee,” he said.
    There was something vaguely British about him, Stone thought, perhaps more than just the hand-tailored suit. “Thank you. We drink it strong around here.”
    “The way I like it,” the big man replied. “Never could understand that decaf crap. Like drinking nonalcoholic booze. Why bother?”
    Stone nodded and sipped his own coffee.
    “We don’t have much time, Mr. Barrington, so I’ll come to the point. I have a niece, my dead sister’s only child, name of Erica Burroughs.” He spelled the name. “She’s twenty, dropped out of Mount Holyoke, involved with a young man named Lance Cabot.”
    “Of the Massachusetts Cabots?”
    “He’d like people to think so, I’m sure, but no, no relation at all; doesn’t even know them; I checked. Young Mr. Cabot, I’m reliably informed, earns his living by smuggling quantities of cocaine across international borders. Quantities small enough to conceal on his person or in his luggage, but large enough to bring him an income, you follow?”
    “I follow.”
    “I’m very much afraid that Erica, besotted as she is, may be assisting him in his endeavors, and I don’t want to see her end up in a British prison.”
    “She’s in Britain?”
    Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don’t bother reading this now, there isn’t time, but it contains everything I’ve been able to learn about Cabot, and something