Two-Dollar Bill

Stone stood and watched. The driver's door of the Suburban opened and a man got out, wearing only a business suit, in spite of the cold wind. The man pointed at the license plate and said something. The meter maid didn't even look up, just kept writing. The man reached into an inside pocket, produced a wallet, opened it and showed it to her. She ignored him, finished writing the ticket, walked to the other end of the truck and put it under the windshield wiper.

The man pursued her, waving his arms and yelling.

Stone pulled up the scarf to obscure part of his face, pulled his hat brim down, slipped out of the shop, walked to the corner and crossed the street. As he approached the Suburban, he checked the license plate: U.S. Government. Swell.

He walked down Fifty-seventh Street, then turned north on Madison Avenue, feeling better. A moment later, the Suburban passed him, then turned right on Fifty-ninth Street, apparently missing him. He went into Barney's, a department store in the low sixties, found the restaurant and ordered a double espresso. He got out his cell phone and called Tiff Baldwin. He got her secretary, who seemed to recognize his name and put him through.

'So,' Tiff said, without preamble, 'are you having an attack of bad conscience?'

'About what?'

'About not telling me how to find Billy Bob.'

'You know everything I know, kiddo,' he said.

'I doubt it.'

'Is that why you're having me followed?'

'What are you talking about?'

'C'mon, Tiff, I left my house a while ago, and a black Suburban with government plates and men with badges has been following me ever since.'

'They're not mine,' she said.

'Then whose are they?'

'They could be anybody's,' she replied. 'Could be the Department of Agriculture or the Bureau of Weights and Standards-anybody.'

'Well, that's helpful. Why would fed types be interested, if you didn't sic 'em on me?'

'Consult your conscience for the answer to that one, my dear. You want to talk dirty, or something? Because I've got people waiting, and if I'm going to stay on the phone with you I need a good reason.'

'Let's do it tonight.'

'Do what?'

'We'll figure out something.'

'Okay. By the way, I need some letters of recommendation for my co-op board application. Will you write me one?'

'I'd love to, but I have to tell you, it's probably not a good thing to have a lawyer write a letter.'

'Why not?'

'Because there might be somebody on the board who's been on the other side of some disagreement with one of his clients, and who remembers the situation unfavorably. Call Dino, and ask him. They'd love a letter from the head of detectives at the One Nine.'

'I see your point, and that's a good suggestion. I'll pick you up at eight tonight, and I'll book the table.'

'You're on, and ask around and see if any of your people are on my back, will you?'

'Maybe.' She hung up.

As Stone was putting away his cell phone a man sat down at his table.

Stone blinked. 'Hello, Lance,' he said. Lance Cabot was a CIA officer he had had some dealings with a couple of years ago.

'Good morning, Stone,' Lance said. 'That wasn't very nice, what you did to my guy a few minutes ago.' Lance was impeccably dressed, as always, in a camel-hair polo coat with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket.

'I think everybody should obey the law, most of the time,' Stone said. 'So he was yours?'

'He was and is.'

'And why are you interested in where I buy shirts?'

'Not so much that, as where you're going and who you're seeing these days.'

'And why would you care?'

'Oh, we like to look in on our contract consultants from time to time, make sure they're not moving in bad company.'

Stone had signed a contract with Lance a year ago to offer counsel when requested. 'Oh, that's right, I'm a consultant for you people now. You know, I haven't seen a nickel out of that contract.'

'We haven't needed your help until now,' Lance said.

'What's up?'

'It's about a client of yours, one Whitney Stanford.'

'Never heard of him,' Stone said, then a light went on. 'Unless…'

18

LANCE'S SMOOTH BROW furrowed, for once. 'Who are Billy Bob Barnstormer and Rodney Peeples?'

'They are at least two of the names that a former client of mine has used.' Stone told him about the Google search.

'And why do you think this fellow might also be Whitney Stanford?'

'Just a hunch; tell me about Whitney Stanford.'

Lance ordered a cappuccino and looked at his watch. 'I don't have a lot of time.'

'You've got time to follow me around New York,' Stone said. 'Come on, who is he? Maybe I can help.'

'Whitney Stanford is an old-money New Yorker who runs a private investment firm.'

'And why are you interested in him?'

'Because his name has come up in connection with a possible sales transaction involving, shall we say, unusual goods to not very nice people.'

'Lance, when you signed me on as a consultant, did you run a background check on me?'

'Of course.'

'And, as a result, do I have a security clearance?'

'Purely as a matter of form, yes. You have a top-secret security clearance.'

'Then why are you being so cagey with me about this guy? I'm trying to help you.'

'What do you want to know?'

'Have you ever seen him?'

Lance produced a cell phone and pressed a single button. 'Bring me the file folder on the front seat,' he said, then closed the phone. 'No, I've never seen him, but I have a photograph.'

'Now we're getting somewhere. Just what is Stanford supposed to be selling, and to whom?'

'A new kind of rifle-launched grenade, to an organization suspected of terrorist connections.'

'This does not sound like my guy,' Stone said.

'Why not?'

'Because I think my guy is a garden-variety con man. Oh, and a murderer.'

'Whom did he murder?'

'A prostitute, and in my guest room.'

'Stone, really,' Lance said, wincing.

'Don't look at me like that; the guy came to me through Woodman and Weld, recommended by another of their clients.'

'Which client?'

'I don't know.'

'Find out.'

'Oh, and did I mention that the guy has stolen fifty grand from me?'