“I’m looking at the Times. You notice anything about Mitteldorfer’s photograph and the police sketch?”

“Sure, they look alike. Remember the guy who cut your neighbor’s throat? He looked like Mitteldorfer with hair. That’s why we checked to see if he had any kids, and we drew a blank; just a nephew, and he’s living in Germany.”

“Dino, if Mitteldorfer has another wife, as Arlene said he did, maybe he’s got a kid by her.”

“Ah, good point.”

“You have any luck on the marriage records?”

“Not yet. The computer records only go back a few years, but I’ve got a couple of rookies going through the old files, on microfilm.”

“That’s it, I know it is. If we can find the first Mrs. Mitteldorfer, then we can find her son, and then we’ll find Mitteldorfer. Why don’t you check everybody by that name in the state? Hell, in the country; it can’t be that common a name.”

“I’ll get my people on it first thing tomorrow morning. How was your dinner last night?”

“I’ll tell you later; call me if anything comes up. Oh, I almost forgot: how’d it go at the theater opening last night?”

“Zilch; nothing happened.”

“Maybe Mitteldorfer doesn’t know Palmer’s name.”

“That’s my guess. When are you coming back to town?”

“I’m not sure; I can’t go back to the house.”

“Okay, talk to you later.”

Stone hung up. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any results yet from your inquiries at Sing Sing?”

“Let me make a call,” she said, picking up the phone on her side of the bed. She dialed a number. “You know who this is? What have you got?” She signaled Stone for paper and pen, and Stone got out of bed to get it. “Yeah. Spell it. You got an address? What’s the parole officer’s name? Thanks.” She hung up and handed Stone the pad. Three names were written on it. “The first two were in with Mitteldorfer; the third name is the parole officer for both of them; they were both released before Mitteldorfer was. My man couldn’t get an address, but he says they were both tight with your man.”

“That’s something to go on,” Stone said. “But not before tomorrow. Come on, let’s get dressed and out of the house. It’s a beautiful spring day, and there’s an auction up the road somewhere.”

“An auction of what?”

“You know, a country auction – lots of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Antiques, furniture, pictures, bric-a-brac.”

“Can’t do it; I’ve got to get back to the city.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

“I’ve got a board meeting tomorrow, and I’ve got to read over a hundred grant applications by then.”

“Aw.”

“Besides, there’s too much oxygen up here for a city girl. You said you don’t want to go back to your house?”

“Not yet.”

“Why don’t you stay with me?”

“In Brooklyn?”

“Of course not; I live in the East Sixties.”

“Sure you’ve got room?”

“Sure; you don’t take up much space.”

“Maybe I’ll come into the city tonight; that okay?”

“Sure.” She wrote down her address. “Call me on your car phone when you’re in the block, and I’ll open the garage door for you.”

“You and I must be the only people in the city with a garage.”

“Could be.” Dolce got up, threw her things in a bag, kissed him, and left the house.

A moment later, he heard the Ferrari’s high-pitched roar. A moment after that, he was asleep again, exhausted.

48

STONE WAS JERKED AWAKE BY A LOUD ringing. For a moment, he thought it had been a dream, then it rang again. It wasn’t the phone; could it be the door? He had never heard his own doorbell. He got up, got into a cotton robe, and padded downstairs.

Arrington was standing on the porch.

“Good morning,” he said sleepily. “Come in.” She was wearing faded jeans, a chambray shirt knotted under her breasts, and no makeup. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

She put her arms around his waist and leaned into his shoulder. “Good morning,” she said.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, all right.”

He moved away from her and into the kitchen, where he busied himself making coffee.

Arrington came and sat on a stool at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “I take it I just missed Ms. Bianchi?”

“Yes.”

“I saw her drive away.”

Stone turned. “Did she see you?”

“No.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I like the cottage; it suits you.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you choose it with Ms. Bianchi?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate on that.

“I like it even better, then.”

“I’m glad; you’ll have to bring Vance and Peter over.”

She said nothing.

“What brings you out on a Sunday morning?”

“I thought I might go to a country auction, then I found myself driving by the green and thought I would rather see you.”

“Oh.” He poured them both a cup of coffee. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. When you live with Vance Calder, there’s always a servant at hand to grant your every wish.” She didn’t sound very happy about it.

“So, how’s life in LA? Do you like it out there?”

“It’s all right, when I’m not being kidnapped.”

“I hope you haven’t made a habit of it,” he said.

“No; you were kind enough to put an end to that. I’ll always be grateful.” She put her hand on his.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“I know you’re not very comfortable with gratitude; but I had to say it, anyway. Vance feels the same way. He likes you very much, you know.”

“And I like him.”

“Let’s sit in the living room,” she said, taking her coffee and making her way to a sofa.

Stone followed and sat down next to her, leaving a respectable distance between them.

“How have you spent the time since we last saw each other?” Arrington asked.

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