Stone Barrington 06-11

to a beautifully planted terrace stretching the width of the building, with spectacular views west and south over Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum.

    “Breathtaking,” Stone said.
    “Would you like something to drink? Iced tea, perhaps?”
    “Thank you, perhaps another time. I’d really like to get that key and get some people over there as quickly as possible.”
    “Of course; please follow me.” She led him down a floor to a gigantic bedroom and thence to a large, mahogany-paneled dressing room, filled with a man’s clothing. She rummaged in the top drawer of a built-in stack and came up with a key. “Here it is.” She gave him the address.
    “Do you know if he has a safe there?”
    “I expect so; there’s one here, too, behind his suits.”
    “Then, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to bring some people back here to go through his things and open the safe.”
    “Of course; whenever you like.”
    “In the meantime, you might ask your staff to pack all these things, and they needn’t be careful about how they do it.”
    She laughed. “I’ll see that they make a mess of it.” She led Stone back upstairs and to the foyer. “Thank you so much for your advice. When can we start on the annulment?”
    “First, let me see what we come up with in the search, then we can make a decision.”
    She rang for the elevator and held out her hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” She held onto his hand just a moment longer than necessary.
    “I’ll phone you later today,” Stone said. “Are you in the book?”
    “Under B. Stein.”
    He gave her his card. The elevator arrived, and Stone rode down. On the sidewalk, he phoned Lance.
    “Yes?” Lance drawled.
    “Meet me at…” Stone looked at the address and read it to him. “Between Lex and Third.”

    “Why?”
    “Because I have the key to Whitney Stanford’s apartment at that address.”
    “Fifteen minutes?”
    “Fine, and bring some help and a safecracker. Later, you’ll need to go to an apartment on Fifth Avenue, too, where his wife lives.”
    “Wife?”
    “Of some months. She was formerly married to Morris Stein.”
    “ The Morris Stein?”
    “The same.”
    “Good God!”
    “Fifteen minutes.”
    THEY ARRIVED at the building, in the East Sixties, simultaneously, Lance with two companions. It was a small apartment building, with no doorman. They took the elevator to the top floor and let themselves in. “We have Mrs. Stanford’s permission, so a warrant won’t be necessary,” Stone said.
    “A warrant is rarely necessary,” Lance replied drolly. The place was a two-bedroom floor-through, professionally decorated in an impersonal style, with a roof terrace at the back.
    “All right,” Lance said, “take the place apart, but this is a covert search; everything must be left exactly as it was. Jim, find the safe and get started on that first.” The two men went to work, and so did Stone and Lance.
    “Watch me for a minute,” Lance said. He donned a pair of latex gloves, went to a desk in the living room, pulled out a drawer, and set it on top of the desk, then he removed and replaced precisely the contents of the drawer. “Like that,” he said. “I realize you haven’t been trained to do this, so go slowly, and check the bottoms of the drawers, too.” He handed Stone some gloves.

    He left Stone to the desk and went to another room. Stone went through the drawers very carefully, and under the right-hand top drawer he found a small piece of paper taped in place.
    “Lance,” he called.
    “Yes?”
    “You’re not going to need to crack the safe; I’ve found the combination.”
    Lance returned, looked at the piece of paper once, then went away again. A moment later, he called out, “Stone, come in here.”
    Stone found his way to the master bedroom and into a dressing room. Lance stood before an open safe.
    “My God,” he murmured. There were four passports stacked up in a corner of the safe, next to stacks of cash in dollars, pounds and Euros. Stone picked up a stack. “Two-dollar bills,” he said, “unused and with consecutive serial numbers. The rest seem to be hundreds.”
    “Photograph everything,” Lance said to his men, “then put it all back. I want an individual, readable shot of every page of every passport. Take down the serial numbers of every bank note.”
    Lance left them to it while he and Stone went quickly through the other rooms of the apartment. Except for the