Stone Barrington 06-11

embassy—so he had the language. He was parachuted in not long after France fell, with instructions to organize and arm resistance units. He was captured twice by the Gestapo, with all that that entailed, and escaped twice. On both occasions he killed several of his captors with his hands. On D-Day, units he organized blew up roads and railways that the Germans could have used to bring in reinforcements and armor. I met him once; he was the perfect English gentleman: erudite, courteous to a fault, and, it was said, the most cold-blooded killer anybody could remember from the war.”

    “I guess that’s where Carpenter gets it,” Stone said.
    “She won’t be Carpenter anymore; she’ll be Architect, if all goes well, and it should. I’d like you to make it your business to keep in as close touch with her as you can manage. Consider it an assignment.”
    “At my contract daily rate?”
    “I won’t be charged for phone calls; you’re not being used as a lawyer. But I’ll consider dinner with her a day’s work. Anything beyond that you can think of as a bonus.”
    Holly came back from the ladies’ room. “Was I gone long enough?” she asked Lance.
    “Quite,” Lance said, offering her a wide grin. “Stone has been debriefed.”
    “So happy to have been of service,” she said. “By the way, when will I actually be of service?”
    “Be patient,” Lance said. “Your time will come.”
    “Is patience the most important attribute of an agent?” Holly asked.
    “No. Suspicion is. One must doubt everybody.”
    “That sounds like a corrosive way to live.”
    “If you say so.”
    They were ordering drinks when Dino arrived, looking tired. He sat down and loosened his tie. “A double Johnnie Walker Black,” he said to the waiter.
    “What’s happened?” Stone asked.
    “A cop got killed today, in Little Italy.”
    Holly spoke up. “Not at the La Boheme coffeehouse, I hope?”
    “No, but not far away.”

    “Somebody undercover?” Stone asked.
    “Nope, a beat patrolman. He’d parked his squad car and was ordering coffee at a deli, when somebody walked in and put one in the back of his head. An assassination, pure and simple.”
    “Of a beat cop?” Stone asked. “That doesn’t sound right.”
    “No, it doesn’t. We’re looking at, maybe, a gang initiation, or maybe just somebody who hates cops.”
    “How are you involved with something so far downtown?” Stone asked.
    “I’m not, really. I was at a meeting with the chief of detectives when the call came in, so we both went to the scene. I loaned them a couple of detectives. How was London?”
    “Quick. In and out.”
    “Did you see Carpenter?”
    “I spoke to her, briefly.”
    “What were you doing there?”
    “You’ll have to ask Lance.”
    Dino looked at Lance.
    “None of your business,” Lance said. “Why don’t we order dinner?”
    Holly spoke up. “Did you get a description of the shooter?”
    “White male, six feet, maybe more; well built. Black ponytail.”
    “It’s Trini Rodriguez,” she said.
    “Why the hell would your perp kill a New York City cop?” Dino asked.

    “For the fun of it,” she replied.
    “Excuse me.” Dino got up and walked away, his cell phone clamped to his ear.
    Stone looked at Holly. “Your chances of nailing Trini have just gone up,” he said.
    “No,” she replied, “Dino’s chances have. I’ll never take him home now.”

21
    S TONE WAS HAVING breakfast the following morning when Holly and Daisy returned from the park.
    “I had a call on my cell phone this morning,” she said. “My FBI ex-friend, Grant Harrison, is in town, and he wants to see me; says it’s business.”
    “So, see him,” Stone said. “You want to ask him over here?”
    “I said I’d meet him for lunch, but I didn’t know a good place.”
    “Tell him La Goulue, Madison at Sixty-fifth. I’ll book a table for you.”
    “Will you come along?”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know, I’m just not comfortable with this. He’s less likely to shout at me if you’re along.”
    “Oh, all right.”

    Grant Early Harrison was standing in front of La Goulue when their cab stopped.
    “That’s him,” Holly said, pointing.
    He was better-looking than Stone had imagined.
    They got out of the cab and approached him.
    “Hello, Grant,” Holly said, “this is my friend Stone Barrington.”
    Grant managed a perfunctory handshake. “I thought I was seeing you alone.”
    “Why did you think that?” Holly asked.