Stone Barrington 06-11

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 NYU Law School. 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 Mount Holyoke, 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 Boston Cabots?”
    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.
    “Do you always ask women their age?”
    “Always. Their age isn’t important; it’s whether they’ll tell you that’s important.”
    “I’m twenty-two and a half,” she said. “And now, shall I tell you why I picked you up at Harrod’s?”
    “Is that what you did?”
    “Didn’t you notice? Your following me made it very easy.”
    “All right, tell me.”
    “As I told you, I’m spoken for, but I have a very nice girlfriend who’s not, and she’s on the other side of thirty, which I should think would appeal to you more than a twenty-two-and-a-half-year-old.”
    “Is she as beautiful as you?”
    “Though it pains me to say it, she is more beautiful than I.”
    “I would like very much to meet her.”
    “You free this evening?”
    “I am, as it happens.”
    “Suppose we meet you in the Connaught bar at eight o’clock?”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “Wear a suit.”
    “Will do.”
    “And now,” she said, gathering her packages together, “I must run. You stay and finish your bitter; I’m walking from here; it’s quite nearby.” She hopped off the stool and pecked Stone on the cheek. “Bye-bye.” And she was gone.
    Stone sipped the now-warm ale and wondered what the hell was going on with John Bartholomew and his “niece.”

5
    STONE LEFT THE GRENADIER AND walked back up the mews to Wilton Crescent. No cabs. He walked a bit farther and found himself