Stone Barrington 06-11

the latest on La Biche?”
    “She got a late flight to London last night, and this morning murdered another passenger and took her ID. The Brits lost her.”

    “So she’s not in the city?”
    “Who knows? Carpenter says she wouldn’t be surprised if she doubled back. Why do you ask?”
    “An Arab guy got himself popped on Park Avenue an hour ago,” Dino said. “Two or three in the head, no noise.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    “Could be our girl.”
    “Let’s not jump to that conclusion. Could have been an irritated Israeli. That situation is hot right now.”
    “We’ll look at that, too. Tell Carpenter to call me if she wants to talk, and I’d like to hear anything she has about what her people think.”
    “Okay. She’s cooking dinner right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to disturb her.”
    “Time you had a home-cooked meal,” Dino said.
    “I won’t argue with that.” Stone hung up.
    Dino hung up, took a big swallow of his Scotch, put his head back, and fell immediately asleep.

29
    Stone walked back into the kitchen where Carpenter was doing something to a sauce. “Smells good,” he said, pouring them both another drink. “What is it?”
    “Chicken breast with tarragon sauce.”
    “A red wine okay?”
    “That’s fine. Who was on the phone? Who knows you’re here?”
    Stone went to the wine cooler and found a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet. “Dino tracked me down. An Arab diplomat has been murdered on Park Avenue. Looks like a hit. That give you any ideas?”
    “You mean, La Biche?”
    “That’s what Dino’s wondering.”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already back in the city, but why shoot somebody else when she’s looking for me?”
    “I don’t know, maybe she doesn’t want to get rusty.”
    “You get the guy’s name?”
    “No. You want me to call Dino back?”
    “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

    “Dino wants you to call him if you have anything to contribute. He wants to know what your people come up with.”
    “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She popped a pair of boned chicken breasts into some hot, clarified butter.
    Stone liked the sizzle and the smell. “La Biche isn’t going to get tired of looking for you, is she?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “You know anything about her you haven’t told me?” Stone asked.
    “Well, let’s see. She’s unclassifiable as to type of killing. She’s used everything from pistols to ice picks to garrotes. A favorite means of avoiding arrests is what she’s just done in New York: She picks up a girl in a bar, usually a lesbian, goes home with her, murders her, takes her clothes and ID, then disappears. She did this three times in three days in Paris last year.”
    “Makes her awfully hard to track, doesn’t it?”
    “It certainly does. We don’t know who to look for until the victim’s body turns up, and that can take days. By then, she’s somebody else.”
    “You’ve seen her face-to-face, now. Can you improve on the CIA-generated portrait?”
    “I’m afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot, that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”
    “You think she’s a lesbian?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”
    “I’ll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.
    She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
    Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.
    “Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I’ll serve us in here.”
    Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.
    “Bon appétit,” she said, raising her glass.
    “Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.
    “Don’t count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.
    “What’s your feeling about this Park Avenue