Hot Pursuit (6 page)

STONE, DINO, AND VIV
got to Manassas well ahead of time; they stowed their luggage, and Stone did a thorough pre-flight inspection, then he got a weather forecast—severe clear and light winds—and filed a flight plan.

At noon, the gate to the ramp slid open and three black SUVs cruised through and came to a stop at the left wingtip of N123TF. Will Lee hopped out of the front seat of the first one, and an agent retrieved a single duffel from the trunk. Stone shook hands with Will, stowed his duffel in the front luggage compartment, and walked Will around the airplane, pointing out features. Finally everyone boarded, including a young woman in a business suit and a shoulder holster who represented the Secret Service, and Stone helped Will into the right cockpit seat.

“It’s snug,” Stone said, “but you’ll get used to it.”

“Do I have a choice?” Will asked, struggling to get his left leg to follow his right leg into the footwell.

“Only the passenger cabin, and that’s no fun.” Stone climbed into the pilot seat and helped Will figure out the four-point seat belt, then secured his own. He started the engines, radioed for a clearance to Teterboro, and was surprised to be given a routing of direct to destination and an immediate climb to his cruising altitude.

“I made a call,” Will said.

“I’ve never flown direct from Manassas to Teterboro,” Stone said.

“It was the least I could do.”

Stone asked for a taxi clearance, and to his further surprise, was immediately cleared for takeoff. That had never happened before, either.

As they taxied onto the runway, Stone said, “Watch the screen in front of you. You’ll see the speeds come up and the flight director bars that show us we’re climbing at the right rate.” He pushed the throttles forward and began calling his own speeds, then rotated. “You just keep the bars together,” he said to Will, then he switched on the autopilot and let it do the work. They got a spectacular view of Washington as they flew over.

“I talked them out of a fighter escort,” Will said.

“Thanks so much. I don’t know what they would think of that at Teterboro—I’d never live it down.”

“My reasoning was that we’d attract less attention without it, and thus be more secure. We don’t have to use an Air Force call sign, either, and you will have noticed that the ‘football’ no longer travels with me.”

Stone had seen enough movies to know that the “football” was the briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, carried by a military officer, who followed the president everywhere. Stone thought Will seemed as delighted as a child on his first flight, and he was enchanted with the glass cockpit.

“Do you know this is the first time in nine years I’ve flown in any airplane smaller than Air Force One?”

“Welcome back to general aviation. Maybe you can start flying your own airplane again soon.”

“Not going to happen,” Will said. “Maybe after Kate’s time is up I can get something like this, if I’m not too old to fly.”

Stone showed Will how to set up the instrument approach to runway six at Teterboro, and they were cleared directly to the initial approach fix. He pointed to the little red airplane representing them that appeared on the screen, overlaid on the approach plate.

“Now that is fantastic!” Will said.

They touched down smoothly and taxied to Jet Aviation, where they were given the plum parking spot, next to the lounge. It wouldn’t have mattered, though, because there was another three-car convoy waiting for them, and Stone’s Bentley was right behind it. Five minutes later Will shook Stone’s hand and thanked him again for the flight, then they were on their way back to the city. At the appropriate moment, Fred peeled away from the convoy for Turtle Bay, while the first gentleman continued uptown to the Carlyle. Fred left Stone at the house, then continued uptown to deliver Viv to her Strategic Services office, while Dino got into his waiting police SUV and headed downtown to One Police Plaza and his office. Stone went into his office via the street door.

“Welcome back,” Joan said as he looked in on her. “How was it?”

“I’ve just had the best transportation experience of my life,” Stone said. “I wish Will Lee could fly with me all the time.” He gave her a blow-by-blow, then went into his office. There was a note from his younger law partner, Herbie Fisher, inviting him to lunch at the Four Seasons. Stone looked at his messages, found nothing very important, grabbed his coat, and left the office, telling Joan to call Herbie and tell him he was on his way.

The Four Seasons Grill had begun to empty, as it was nearly two o’clock, but Herbie was there, nibbling on a crust of bread. “I ordered you the Dover sole,” he said as they shook hands.

“How’ve you been, Herb?” Stone asked. “I watched as much of your murder trial as I could. You did a great job.”

“Yeah,” Herbie replied, “and I feel a little guilty about that.”

“You think you got a guilty client off?”

Herbie shrugged. He was not about to admit to that. “Let’s just say that if she’d had any other attorney, she’d be upstate in the women’s correctional facility.”

“That’s modest of you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What do you think of Greta Frank?”

“Greta Frank Lewin,” Herbie corrected. “She is a piece of work: cold, calculating, always composed. She insisted on testifying, and the DA couldn’t lay a glove on her. She had the jury with her the whole way. She’d make a great trial attorney.”

“Her sister, Pat, flew back from Wichita with me. She’s a very experienced pilot, and my insurance company wanted someone like her aboard the first time I flew the airplane. We’ve become, ah, friendly.”

“Does she look anything like Greta?”

“Something like her, only younger and more beautiful.”

“And a pilot, too? You should marry her.”

“My experience with marriage has been less than satisfactory,” Stone said.

Herbie laughed. Lunch came and they caught up as they ate.

“Did I mention that I’m single again?” Herbie asked when they were on coffee.

“I thought that was permanent,” Stone said.

“She took a hike. It’s probably just as well—what with our two schedules, we hardly saw each other.”

“It happens,” Stone said.

“Yeah, I guess it does. Her absence sort of opens things up, though. I’ve had a couple of dates.”

“Take my advice and stay single for a while, then find somebody who doesn’t have a schedule as busy as yours, and you’ll have more fun.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Herbie said.

“It always goes,” Stone replied.

STONE WENT BACK
to his office and called Pat Frank.

“Pat Frank,” she said.

“Is that the business or the woman?” Stone asked.

“Both,” she replied. “Are you back?”

“Yep.”

“Come over tonight and I’ll cook dinner for you.”

“Who’ll be cooking? The business or the woman?”

“The cook.”

“What time?”

“Seven?”

“I’ll bring the wine—red or white?”

“Red.”

“See you at seven.”

Stone passed the remainder of the day with mundane chores. Then, at a quarter to seven he went down to the wine cellar and chose a bottle of Romanée-Conti Richebourg, from 1978. He lit a candle and decanted it, then rinsed the bottle of the lees, poured the wine back into it, and recorked it. He blew out the candle, locked the cellar, and left the house to find a cab.

At ten minutes past the hour he walked into a town house on East Sixty-third Street and rang the bell marked “Frank.” The buzzer opened the door, and down the hall Pat stood in her open doorway.

She gave him a wet kiss and brought him inside. He had been expecting a single-girl walk-up, and what he found himself in was a large duplex garden apartment that was beautifully furnished, except that there were no pictures on the walls. Something from the kitchen smelled good. “Whatever I’m smelling, it will go well with this,” he said, handing her the bottle of Richebourg.

She looked at it and smiled. “Where on earth did you come by this?” she asked.

“A French friend gave me some cases of wines, and that was in one of them. I decanted and rebottled it, so it wouldn’t get shaken up in the cab.”

“You have good friends,” she said.

“One of them lives across the street from you,” he said.

“Dino?”

“Yep.” He looked around. “This is a beautiful place. Why no pictures?”

“Greta took those with her. Her first husband bought it as a pied-à-terre. They lived on the North Shore of Long Island, at Oyster Bay, but they spent a couple of nights a week in town. Her second husband has an even nicer pied-à-terre, so she rented this place until I could collect myself and get to New York.”

“And you’re going to buy it from her?”

“After I’ve saved some money.” The doorbell rang.

“That’s Greta now,” she said. “She and her husband are stopping by for a drink on the way to the theater.”

Ah, Stone thought, I get to meet the socialite murderess.

Greta Frank turned out to be totally disarming. She was cheerful, witty, and seemed delighted to meet Stone. “The first customer,” she said. “I’m pleased to meet any customer of Pat’s.” She introduced her husband, who was handsome, ten years older than she, and very well-tailored. His name was Greg Lewin. They shook hands.

“I hear you’re with Woodman & Weld,” he said to Stone.

“I am.”

“I do some business with Bill Eggers from time to time.”

“I’m glad to hear it, we need all the business we can get.”

“And you’re on the board of Strategic Services.” The man had done his homework. “I worked on their initial public offering, a while back.”

“I have that honor. I’m afraid I don’t know as much about you as you do about me.”

“Hedge fund,” Lewin said, as if that were all anybody needed to know about him.

“Ah,” Stone said, “a money factory.”

“That’s a very good way to look at it,” Lewin said, smiling broadly.

Greta rummaged in her handbag and came up with an envelope. “I have a present for you,” she said to Pat, handing her the envelope.

“What’s this?” Pat asked, handling it as if it were an explosive. “An eviction notice?”

“It’s something I would have given you sooner, but I didn’t really believe you’d resettle in New York, until you moved in.”

Pat opened the envelope and peered at the sheet of paper that emerged. “What is it?”

Stone looked at the document over her shoulder. “It’s a deed,” Stone said.

“A deed to what?”

Greta laughed. “A deed to this apartment. It’s all yours.”

Pat was flabbergasted. She recovered enough to hug her sister. “Then I’ll never be homeless.”

“Never. My attorney is mailing you a package of stuff you need to know about the property.”

Stone took the deed from Pat and examined it. “This is not a deed to this apartment,” he said.

Pat looked worried. “What did you say?”

“It’s the deed to the building.”

Pat was speechless.

“There are three other apartments upstairs,” Greta said. “And a professional suite next door. All rented, but the doctor’s lease will be up soon. You might want to use that for your new business. The rents will give you some income while you get it up and running.”

Pat collapsed into a chair. “I think I need a drink.”

Stone went to a well-stocked wet bar, poured her a Knob Creek, and handed it to her. “There you go. Can I get you folks something?”

“We’d better get going,” Greg said, looking at his watch. “The traffic is always very slow near curtain time in the theater district.”

Pat set down her drink, struggled to her feet, and hugged her sister again. “You are incredibly generous, and I can’t thank you enough.”

She showed them out, and by the time she got back, Stone had his own drink. “You’re lucky to have a sister like that,” Stone said.

“She’s taken care of me since we were little girls,” Pat said. “She bought me a new wardrobe the last time I was in the city, and she gave me my last car. Now I’m rich!”

“Don’t start living that way just yet. The house is a nice asset, but this is an expensive city.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“What smells so good?”

“Beef bourguignonne. It’ll be ready in half an hour. We can drink until then. That should settle my nerves.”

STONE WOKE
in the wee hours, still a little drunk from the bottle of wine. Pat slept silently beside him, and he didn’t wake her. He quietly got dressed and tiptoed downstairs, got his overcoat from the front hall closet, and let himself out of the building. He turned to walk toward Park Avenue to look for a cab, but as he did he became aware that the engine of a car was running somewhere nearby.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the mist from a vehicle’s exhaust coming from a car parked half a dozen spaces away. He could see the outline of a driver, a large man, behind the wheel. The car appeared to be some sort of Japanese sedan, but he couldn’t tell which one. It wasn’t big enough to be doing town car duty, and the driver had been sitting there long enough to keep the engine running for the heater. Why would anyone sit in a dark street in the middle of the night? If he had still been a foot patrolman, as he had been so many years ago, he would have rapped sharply with his nightstick on the driver’s window and demanded ID and to know what he was doing there.

He stopped at the corner and looked back, then, on a whim, he turned and started walking purposefully back toward where the car was parked. Apparently the driver saw him coming because he abruptly put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking spot, switching on the bright headlights and momentarily blinding Stone, keeping him from getting a good look at the driver as he blew past.

The car drove straight across Park Avenue, running a red light, and raced toward Lexington Avenue, running another light as it turned right and was gone. Stone’s impulse was to go back to Pat’s apartment and stay the night, just in case the driver’s interest was in her, but he didn’t have a key, and he didn’t want to wake her up. A cab showed up, sealing his decision, and he got in and went home.

—

STONE WAS
at his desk at midmorning when Pat called.

“You sneaked out last night,” she said.

“You were dead to the world and useless to me,” he said.

She laughed. “I wasn’t useless when I woke up this morning,” she replied. “I would have been very useful if you had still been here.”

“A nice thought—hang on to it for next time.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You should write a letter to your doctor tenant whose lease is running out and tell him you won’t be renewing and that you want the space back. Send it by registered mail.”

“If I’m going to be a landlord I’ll need a lawyer,” she said. “Will you write it for me?”

“Sure—e-mail me his name, and I’ll take care of it. Being a landlord’s attorney is out of my line, though, so I’ll find somebody with the correct expertise to represent you. You’ll also need one for your business.”

“Good idea. Did I mention that I have three more clients?”

“No, and congratulations!”

“I think somebody at Cessna is recommending me to owners taking delivery of new airplanes.”

“That’s a good source of clients—cultivate it.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Listen, I don’t want to intrude on your privacy, but is there somebody in your life who might be a threat to you?”

She waited for a long beat before replying. “Why do you ask?”

“Because when I left your building around two
AM
, there was a man sitting in a car with the motor running a few yards down the street, and when I approached to try to get a look at the driver, he took off, ran a red light to get away from there.”

She was still silent.

“Hello, hello, anybody there?”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said.

“I’d be worried if somebody was parked all night outside my house,” he said.

“He’s harmless.”

“Those could turn into famous last words.”

“I lived with a guy in Wichita for two years. We were supposed to go into the business together, but I ended the relationship when I left.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kevin Keyes. We worked for the same airline, the one that went out of business.”

“Would he know where you live?”

“He and I stayed with Greta once when we were visiting the city.”

“Does he have a key to the apartment?”

“I . . . I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“I had a key—Greta may have given him one, too.”

“Do you have a security system in the house?”

“No. I asked Greta, and she said she never got around to installing one.”

“Get a pencil. I’m going to give you a name.”

“Ready to copy.”

He gave her Bob Cantor’s number. “He’s a friend of mine, an ex-cop who’s in the security business. Call him right now and get him over there. Have him change the front door lock to the building and the lock to your apartment, also the lock for the French doors leading to your garden. You want high-end locks—expensive, but necessary. And don’t forget to give your upstairs tenants the new keys to the front door.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to meet them, yet.”

“Then put their keys in envelopes with a note telling them who you are and slide the envelopes under their doors.”

“If you say so.”

“This won’t wait until tomorrow—get it done today. In fact, I’ll call Bob for you, so if you want a shower before he gets there, do it now.”

“Yes, boss!”

“I tell my friends that their lives would be so much richer, fuller, and happier if they would just take my advice.”

“I’ll take it, I’ll take it!”

“See you later. Bob will be there in less than an hour.”

He hung up and called Bob Cantor.

“Hey, Stone.”

“Hey there. I’ve got work for you.”

“Shoot.”

Stone gave him the name and address and told him what was needed, and fast. “Use good equipment, especially the locks.”

“I never use any other kind. Any particular reason for the rush?”

“She may have a stalker on her hands.”

“Does she have a gun?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. The possible stalker’s name is Kevin with a K Keyes. Former airline pilot. Run the name, will you?”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

“I told her you’d be there within the hour.”

“All right already!” Bob hung up.

Stone didn’t feel relieved just yet.