Stone Barrington 06-11

York.”
    “He is? Where?”
    “I don’t know, but I could ask his secretary when she gets in.”
    “Hang on.” He covered the phone and turned to Arrington. “Do you have any idea where Lou Regenstein stays when he’s in the city?”
    “At the Carlyle,” she said. “He has an apartment there, too.”
    “Never mind,” he said to Betty. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.
    “You want to call Lou?”
    “Yes; what’s the number of the Carlyle?”
    She found her handbag and her address book. “Here’s the private line to his apartment.” She read it to him as he dialed.
    “Hello,” Lou Regenstein’s voice said.
    “Lou, it’s Stone.”
    “Hi, Stone, what’s up?”
    “How long are you in New York for?”
    “About thirty seconds; I was on the way out the door to Teterboro Airport when you called.”
    “You going back to L.A.?”
    “Yep. Where are you?”
    “I’m in New York. Can you give, ah, a friend and me a lift?”
    “Sure; how fast can you get to Teterboro?”
    “Is an hour fast enough?”
    “That’s fine; see you there.”
    “Lou, will there be anyone else on the airplane?”
    “Nope, just you and me—and your friend. Anybody I know?”
    “I’ll surprise you,” Stone said. “See you in an hour.” He hung up and turned to Arrington. “Get dressed,” he said, “and put on your disguise.”
    “I’ll have to dry my hair,” she said.
    “Then do it fast.” He picked up the phone and buzzed Joan Robertson. “Morning.”
    “Good morning.”
    “I’ve got to leave for L.A. in half an hour; I want to drive, so will you come along and drive the car back?”
    “Sure; I’ll put the answering machine on.”
    “See you downstairs in a few minutes.”
    While Arrington dried her hair, Stone packed, put his bags in the elevator, and pressed the down button. Then he grabbed a quick shower and shave and threw on some casual clothes. “Ready?” he asked Arrington.
    “Ready,” she said, getting into her raincoat, wrapping the scarf around her head and slipping on her dark glasses.
    They took the stairs to the ground floor. Stone led her through the door to the garage, put their bags into the trunk of the car, and opened a rear door for her. “You wait here while I get Joan, and don’t talk on the way to the airport; I don’t want her to know who you are.”
    Arrington shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She got into the car and closed the door.
    Stone went to his office, signed a couple of letters, and brought Joan back to the car. “There’s someone in the backseat,” he said. “Please don’t look, and please don’t ask any questions.”
    “Okay,” Joan replied.
    He opened the passenger door. “You sit up here; I’ll drive.”
    Stone pressed the remote button on the sun visor and started the car, all in one motion. He had visions of Dolce waiting for him in the street, and he wasn’t going to give her time to react. He reversed out of the garage, across the sidewalk, and into the street, causing a cabby to slam on his brakes and blow his horn. He pressed the remote button again, put the car into gear and was off, checking his mirrors. He thought for a moment that he saw a dark-haired woman across the street from his house, but he wasn’t sure it was Dolce. He made the light and crossed Third Avenue. He would take the tunnel.
    The car was something special—a Mercedes E55, which was an E-Class sedan with a souped-up big V-8, a special suspension, and the acceleration of an aircraft carrier catapult launcher. Something else for which he was grateful, at the moment: The car had been manufactured with a level of armor that would repel small-arms fire. He had been car shopping when it was delivered to the show-room and had bought it in five minutes, on a whim, at another time in his life when he feared that somebody might be shooting at him.
    Rush hour was over, and he made it to the Atlantic Aviation terminal in twenty-five minutes, without getting arrested, all the while dictating a stream of instructions to Joan about what had to be done in the way of repairing the house.
    At the chain-link gate to the ramp, he buzzed the intercom and gave the tail number of the Centurion jet. The gate slid open and he drove onto the ramp and to the big Gulfstream Four. He parked at the bottom of the airstair door, gave the bags to the second officer, who was waiting for them, and gave Joan a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for not asking any questions,” he said. “One of