Stone Barrington 06-11

see.”

    “Do you have any joint bank or brokerage accounts?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you able to give instructions on those accounts without Mr. Stanford’s permission or cosignature?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you should open new accounts in your own name immediately and transfer all assets in the joint accounts to the new accounts.”
    “This is going to be quite a lot of work, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Should I report Whitney to the police?”
    “I’ll take care of that.”
    “Should I hire a private investigator to look into Whitney’s background?”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    “Why not?”
    “Mrs. Stanford—perhaps I should say, Mrs. Stein—I think I should bring you up-to-date on what I already know about your husband.”
    “You know him?”
    “In a manner of speaking.” As gently as possible, Stone told her nearly everything. When he was done, Mrs. Stein sat silently, looking pale. Bill Eggers was no less pale.
    Finally, she spoke. “And you still don’t think I should hire someone to look into his background?”
    “Mrs. Stein, there is a sufficient number of people already looking into everything about him,” Stone said. “Does he have an office?”
    “He works from an office in his old apartment, where he lived before we were married.”
    “Do you have a key to that apartment?”
    “I believe there’s one among his things.”
    “If I may, I’ll accompany you home to get that key.”
    “All right.”

    Stone ushered her to the elevators. “Just a moment,” he said. He went back to Eggers’s office and stuck his head through the door. “I want you to cut me a check for the fifty thousand dollars that your Billy Bob stole from me,” he said. “Have it hand-delivered before the end of the day.”
    Eggers nodded, and Stone closed the door.

24
    STONE WALKED Barbara Stein downstairs.
    “Would you like to come and get the key now?” she asked. “You can ride with me.”
    “Yes, thank you.” They got into her car, while the chauffeur held the door for her. Stone looked around the interior. It was the new Maybach, made by Mercedes-Benz, and he hadn’t been in one before.
    “Go ahead and play with the seat,” she said, pointing to the controls. “Everyone wants to.”
    Stone tried the switches and discovered that it was much like a first-class airline seat. He could nearly recline.
    “Fun, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.
    Stone thought she looked very nice in a smile. “Yes, it is. I drive the small economy version of your car.”
    “I would never have bought the thing, but Morris ordered it before he died, and I thought, what the hell?”
    “How long were you and your husband married?” Stone asked, as they made their way silently through traffic.
    “Twenty-one years,” she said. “I was twenty-two and working as a flight attendant on the transatlantic route. Morris flew with me twice, then asked me to dinner in London. I was swept off my feet. He had been widowed for less than a year.”

    Stone was doing the arithmetic. She was older than he had thought, but apparent youth was common among the well-tended women of the ultrarich class.
    “Do the math, yet?” she asked. “You’re blushing. It’s so rare to meet a man with blond hair these days; you even have blond eyebrows. What are your national origins?”
    “English on both sides, all the way back to the Bronze Age, but I suppose a Viking rapist must have insinuated himself, somewhere along the way.”
    “I expect it gets blonder in the summertime.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “I’m Polish, myself,” she said. “My maiden name was Murawski.”
    “A handsome people, the Poles.”
    She laughed. “I like you, Mr. Barrington.”
    “Please call me Stone.”
    “And I’m Barbara. Where did the name come from?”
    “My mother’s name was Matilda Stone.”
    “The painter?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve seen her things at the Metropolitan, in the American Wing.”
    The car drew to a smooth halt in front of 1111 Fifth Avenue, and they got out and went inside.
    Barbara Stein lived in a three-story house, it turned out, but it was situated at the top of a fourteen-story apartment building. The elevator opened directly into the foyer, and a butler stood waiting to open the doors to the living room, which was on the top floor.
    “There are two other floors downstairs,” she said, “but we always enjoyed entertaining up here, because of the terrace. She led him through French doors