18
Stone took advantage of the good weather and walked home.
As he came into his block he saw two things: one that puzzled him and another that frightened him.
He was puzzled by the chauffeur-driven, Mercedes-made Maybach parked in front of his house, and frightened by the woman standing across the street, who did not seem to see him. She was of Dolce’s height and build, but she wore a coat or cape with a hood, which was drawn over her head, leaving her face in shadow.
Stone stepped behind a tree and stopped. As he watched, she turned toward Third Avenue and began walking. At the corner, she hailed a cab and was driven away. Stone heaved a sigh of relief and walked on to his house, entering through the office.
Joan sat at her computer, paying bills online. “Morning,” she said. “A client is waiting for you.”
“Which one?” he asked.
She waved him away with a hand, as if he were breaking her concentration.
Stone walked into his office to find Herbie Fisher stretched out on his leather sofa, his shoes off, sound asleep. Stone sat down at his desk and noisily shuffled some papers, but Herbie slept on. Stone made a couple of phone calls, not bothering to keep his voice low, and still Herbie slept. Finally, his patience ran out.
“Herbie!” he practically shouted.
Herbie raised his head, looked around, and then sat up and began putting on his shoes.
“Will there be anything else?” Stone asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Herbie said, and then rose, put on his jacket and did up his necktie. Stone noticed that he had a better haircut than customary and that his nails had been manicured.
“Then I’d better get back to work,” Stone said.
Herbie was almost to the door when he stopped. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. I’m thinking of buying a house in this neighborhood, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”
This was disturbing news. “Where in the neighborhood?” he asked.
“Next door,” Herbie said, pointing to the east.
The house was larger than Stone’s, and the two back gardens were separated only by a low brick wall. “Not the best choice,” he said.
“Well, there’s another one available across your back garden, in the next block.”
Stone knew that house, and it was very nice. “Herbie,” he said, “I’m not sure you’re suited to living in a large house alone. The upkeep and, especially, the taxes are just awful. I think you might feel more at home in a good condo building, maybe a penthouse?” Maybe he would fall off the thing.
“That’s a thought,” Herbie said.
“The ladies love a penthouse. Why don’t you ask your agent to show you a few?”
“How about a co-op building?” Herbie asked.
Stone shook his head. “Then you’d have to face a board of directors, and they can be very tough on people with new money. They like a long record of high earnings; some of them even demand a high net worth from applicants, as much as fifty million dollars. None of those problems with condos.”
“That’s very good legal advice, Stone,” Herbie replied, nodding sagely. “I’m glad I retained you.”
“I’m glad you’re happy with my services, Herbie. That your Maybach waiting outside?”
“Not yet. It’s a loaner from the dealer, but I’m considering it.”
“How much?”
“A little under four hundred grand,” Herbie said. “It’s the short-wheelbase model, not the limo. I don’t want to be too…” He seemed to search for the word.
“Ostentatious?” Stone offered.
“I was going to say flashy, but I guess opsenbacious will do.”
“Yes, you want to keep a low profile,” Stone said. “Why don’t you look at some penthouses today?”
“Good idea,” Herbie said, turning toward the door while reaching for his cell phone and pressing a speed-dial button. “Hello, Serena? Herbert Fisher here. I’d like to see some penthouses.” He listened for a moment. “High-up ones,” he said. “Meet you outside your office in ten minutes? I’m in the Maybach.” He snapped the phone shut. “See you, Stone.”
“Be sure and look at a lot of apartments,” Stone said. “You really want to know what’s out there before you decide. And you might ask to see apartments that are already nicely decorated.” Stone dreaded to think what sort of decor Herbie might wind up with.
“Yeah, maybe,” Herbie said. “You want to come along? It’s a nice car.”
“Can’t, Herbie; too much work to get done. Have a good day.”
“You, too,” Herbie said, and then walked out.
After he heard the outside door close, Stone walked down the corridor to Joan’s office. “You let him use my office?”
“Why? Did he disturb anything?”
“Only me.”
“Well, he’s our most important client, isn’t he? We have to treat him well.”
“Did he tell you he’s thinking of buying the house next door?”
Joan put the back of a hand to her forehead. “Oh, no.”
“If he does, he’ll be in here every day.”
“Oh, no, no!”
“Wouldn’t you be happy to see our most important client every day?”
“No, no. Please, no.”
“I’m encouraging him to go high-rise,” Stone said. “Assist me in that endeavor, will you? Help me convince him that he belongs in a penthouse in some building on the far Upper West Side or maybe New Jersey.”
“New Jersey would be perfect,” she said.
“By the way, did you happen to see the woman standing across the street?”
“Oh, God! Was it Dolce?”
“I don’t know; she was wearing a hood that obscured her face, and she walked away shortly after I spotted her. Your view must have been blocked by the car Herbie is thinking of buying.”
“The Maybach? That’s big enough.”
“We’re supposed to have one of Cantor’s people here to deal with Dolce, remember?”
“Oh, there was one here. He said he was going down to Second Avenue to look for a paper.”
“Did you offer him the Times or The Wall Street Journal?”
“I think he’s more of a Post reader,” she replied. “Oh, here he comes.”
The door opened, and a large young man walked in carrying a Post under one arm. “Hi,” he said, offering Stone a hand. “I’m Jake Musket. Everything all right?”
“Yes,” Stone said, shaking the hand, “except for the woman who was standing across the street when I arrived ten minutes ago.”
Jake Musket reddened. “Oh,” he said.
19
Felicity went home to Stone’s early, shortly after Joan had left. She came to his office and gave him a kiss. “You did well this morning,” she said.
“I did?” Stone asked. “I didn’t really learn anything of value.”
“Of course you did,” she said. “You now know as much about Stanley Whitestone as anyone.”
“I now know he once had a scar on his forehead and that, as a boy, he played cricket, ran fast and was good with horses. None of those things is likely to help me find him in New York City.”
“But you’re getting a feel for him, aren’t you?”
“And I know that he was an amateur actor and is good at disguises.”
“You see? You know a lot now.”
