Dirt [154-011-4.0]

By: Stuart Woods

Category: fiction suspense

Synopsis:

This slickly entertaining suspenser displays Woods at the top of his
game with no signs of flagging .... Using all his skills here, and
subtly reminiscent of the waggish P.G. Wodehouse, Woods delivers a
marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern old-fashioned read.


Harper

Paperbacks

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR

STUART WOODS AND

DIRT

"This slickly entertaining suspenser displays Woods at the top of his
game with no signs of flagging .... Using all his skills here, and
subtly reminiscent of the waggish P.G. Wodehouse, Woods delivers a
marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern old-fashioned read."
--Publishers Weekly

"Fans of gltt pop fiction will find brisk sex, designer name-dropping,
and the voyueristic tingle of dishing dirt on the rich and famous."
--Booklist

CHOKE .

"A real page-turner [with] surprises along the way."  --The Boston
Globe

"The legion of fans who read with great excitement all the works of
Stuart Woods will not be disappointed with his latest novel."
--Richmond 'Jmes Dispatch

"Stuart Woods keeps the action quick and the entertainment' value
high." --Sun-Sentinel (Ft.  Lauderdale)

IMPERFECT STRANGERS

"[Woods] does show a reader a good time."  --The Washington Post Book
World

"Engage[s] the reader's imagination in an unconventional way. Compel[s]
us, in our mind's eye, to place [the novel's] events on the silver
screen in the shadow of a latter-day Hitchcock, and somehow it
works."

--Chicago Sun Times

HEAT

"High melodrama and unexpected twists make this

Teflon-coated blockbuster business as usual in

Woods's practiced hands."

--Publishers Weekly

"A high-concept action thriller."

--Kirkus Reviews

"Keeps you reading."

--Cosmopolitan

LA.  TIMES

"A slick, often caustically funny tale."  --Los Angeles Times

"Stuart Woods is a wonderful storyteller who could teach Robert Ludlum
and Tom Clancy a thing or TWO."  --The State (Columbia, SC.)

NEW YORK DEAD

"Suspenseful and surprising."  --Atlanta Journal & Constitution

"Hollywood slick and fastmoving."  --Los Angeles Daily News

"Will keep you riveted."  --USA Today

"At once chilling and pleasing.  And the climax makes New York Dead as
unnerving as a midnight stroll through Central Park."  --Chicago
Tribune

BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

Fiction Dead in the Water Dirt* Choke* Imperfect Strangers* Heat* Dead
Eyes* L.A. Times* Santa Fe Rules* New York Dead* Palindrome* Grass
Roots White Cargo Under the Lake eep Lie Run Before the Wind Chiefs

Travel A Romantic's Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland

Memoir Blue Water, Green Skipper

Published by Harper Paperbacks

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DIRT

STUART

WOODS

Harper Paperbacks

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Harper Paperbacks A Division of HarperCollinsPutlishers 10 East 53rd
Street, New York, N.Y. 100225299

This book contains an excerpt from Dead in the Water by Stuart Woods.
This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the
final content of the hardcover' edition

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as %nsold and destroyed'
to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this stripped book."

This is a work of fiction.  The characters, incidents, and dialogues
are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as
real.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Copyright 1996 by Stuart Woods All rights reserved.  No part f this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information address
HarperCollins Publish 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 1002245299.

A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1996 by HarperCollins
Publish

ISBN 0-06-109423-4

HarperCollins , , and Harper Paperbacks TM are trademarks of
HarperCollins Publish Inc.

Cover photo by Alexa Garbarino

First Harper Paperbacks printing: September 1997 Printed in the United
States of America Visit Harper Paperbacks on the World Wide Web at
http://www.harpercollins.com

'1091 765 43 2 I

This book is for David and Lynn Kaufelt

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my gratitude to every gossip columnist in the
business, for giving me such good material.

I am also grateful to my editor, HarperCollins Vice President and
Associate Publisher Gladys Justin Carr, and her staff, for all their
hard work; and to my literary agent, Morton Janklow, his principal
associate, Anne Sibbald, and all the lgeople at Janklow and Nesbit for
their careful attention to my career over the years.

CHAPTER

Dinner had been wonderful--twelve around a gleaming oval table of
buried walnut in a dining room a dozen stories above the light-flecked
carpet of Central Park, the cooking by the chef of a famous restaurant
a few blocks away, the wines from the host's superb cellar, and the
company carefully chosen by a couple who could cast a wide net.  Amanda
Dart felt quite at home among them.

As they moved from the table into the library next door for coffee and
brandy, Amanda reflected that her presence there was as much a tribute
to her position as to her personality, though she could certainly hold
her own in any company.  Of those present--a movie star and his
gorgeous companion, a captain of industry and his dowdy wife, and a
former British prime

minister, her dinner partner, among them--Amanda alone possessed the
power to tell the world just who her hosts had attracted to their
table, something the couple wanted very badly for the world to know. It
was vulgar to drop names; Amanda Dart, queen of gossip columnists,
would do the dropping for them.

Lord Wight, the former prime minister, was taking a keen interest in
Amanda, attention that, on another night, would have been a great deal
more interesting for her.  Tonight, however, she had other plans, other
company in mind, and the thought made for a weak feeling in her
crotch.

"I chose my title from the island of my birth," Lord Wight was saying.
*

"Oh, yes, the Isle of Wight," Amanda said, returning his serve.  "I
believe the town of Cowes there is the capital of British yachting."
Point made.

"The capital of European yachting," his lord ship replied.

"And that's where you sail your little yacht?"

"Actually, it's quite a large yacht," Wight replied testily.  "And I
don't just sail it, I race it."

"Tell me, Lord Wight," Amanda asked innocently, "just how does someone
amass enough of a fortune to buy a large yacht during a lifetime of
public service?"

"Fortunately, my dear lady," Wight said, smiling softly, "in my country
the amassing of a fortune is not incompatible with a life in politics.
One

DIRT

acquires knowledgeable friends who advise one on how to invest one's
money."

Amanda winked at him.  "One understands,"

she said.

Her hostess joined them.  "Amanda, dear," she said, "you made me
promise to tell you when it was midnight, and it is.  You're catching a
plane?"

"To St.  Bart's," Amanda said, moving forward in her seat in
preparation for standing.

"Surely there's no plane out of Kennedy at this hour," Wight said,
consulting a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket.  "They do have noise
regulations don't they?"

"Not at Teterboro," Amanda replied.  "One is fortunate enough to have
friends with jets."  She

:, stood up, bringing Lord Wight with her.

"My dear," he was saying, "I do hope I can see you when I'm next in New
York."

"Of course, Lord Wight," Amanda replied, fishing in her little clutch
purse for a card.  "} would be delighted to hear from you."  Any night
but tonight, she thought.

She made her good-byes, collected her coat from the butler, and slipped
out of the huge apartment.

Downstairs, her trusty driver, Paul, and her elderly Cadillac were
waiting.  Amanda slipped into the back seat, and in a moment they were
moving.  "The Trent, Paul," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Paul replied.

It was Amanda's fiftieth birthday, though no one knew it; she was in
spectacular shape, her firm body the product of a regular program with
a trainer in her own little gym.  Amanda allowed no other person to see
her perspire.  She placed two fingers on her carotid artery and glanced
at her watch.  Her resting pulse was normally forty-five; tonight, it
was seventy.

Amanda lived her life in very public view, and she took great care in
how she presented herself to her world.  Although of a deeply sensual
nature, she was known as something of an ice queen, and she was quite
happy t keep it that way.  Her sexual alliances were few, but
athletically maintained, with men who were always wealthy, off her
beaten track, very discreet, and usually younger than she.  Tonight and
for the weekend, she would see her very favorite, a real estate
developer from Atlanta named Henry Bell, who made it to New York no
more than once every eight or nine months.  Perfect for Amanda.

Henry was a pillar of Atlanta societY, the husband of a retired opera
singer and the father of two daughters whose social ambitions were
relentless.  Amanda had helped them meet tout Gotham while, unbeknownst
to them or anyone else, she had established a highly erotic
relationship with their father, who was a youthful forty-five.  This
weekend he was in New York, ostensibly for a board meeting, and he was
waiting for her at the Trent, a small, elegant hotel in the East
Sixties.  They planned to be together until early Monday morning.

The car glided to a halt at the Trents discreet entrance.  Amanda
looked up and down the block before she got out; she had no wish to
'run into anyone she knew.  "No need to get the door, Paul.  Please
meet me here after midnight on Sundaysay, two A.M."

"Two o'clock Monday morning," Paul said.  Satisfied that the block was
empty of pedestrians, she slid out of the car and ran across the
sidewalk, slipping on a pair of dark glasses.  She paused for a moment
in the foyer of the hotel and glanced across the little lobby at the
front desk, where a man in a tailcoat was working.  She waited until he
turned away, then scooted across the lobby, unspotted, to the alcove
where the elevator was.  She pressed "P" for penthouse and ai ted while
the car traveled upward for fifteen floors.  When the door opened, she
popped her head out to check that the hallway was empty, then walked
out of the elevator and to the end of the' hall, stopping before double
doors.

Glancing around once more to be sure she was alone, she stepped out of
her shoes, then slipped off her panties.  She was not wearing a bra
under the little black dress.  She took off her coat and unzipped her
dress.  Then, holding her coat, shoes, and panties in her hand, she
rang the bell.  Seconds later the door opened, and she stepped
inside.

Henry Bell stepped back to allow her to enter.  He was wearing a silk
dressing gown.  He said nothing, but untied the belt and whipped it
off,

presenting a trim physique and a throbbing erection.  Amanda dropped
her belongings on the floor, wiggled her shoulders, and let the little
dress fall off, revealing 11 breasts and a finely crafted body.  She
kicked the dress out of the way and stood there, wearing only black
stockings and a black garter belt.

"Hello, sailor," she said, and went to him.

Late Sunday evening, they sat propped up in bed, naked, next to the
remains of a room service dinner on a tray.  Henry dozed lightly while
Amanda watched yet another of his endless collection of erotic
Scandinavian videotapes.  Henry he a little man in Stockholm who sent
them to the Trent whenever he was in New York.  Amanda loved them.

This one was particularly intriguing, she thought, glancing at Henry.
Poor baby, she had given him a real workout for the whole weekend.  He
deserved his rest; still ... She reached for his penis and began
kneading it gently.  A small smile appeared on his sleeping face.

"We've just time for one more round, sweetie," she said.

Henry didn't open his eyes.  "If I can," he whimpered.

Amanda rearranged herself slightly, then bent over and took his penis
into her mouth.  Henry gave a little groan and began to respond.

At that moment, the doors to the suite's bedroom burst open with a
bang, and the room was filled with light.

"Over here, Amanda!"  a man's voice shouted as a flashbulb went off.

Amanda sat straight up in bed, her mouth open, her eyes wide.  Her left
hand still rested on Henry's penis.  "What?!"  she screamed.  There
were all sorts of lights, those that flashed and those that burned
steadily.

"Get out!"  Amanda screamed, shaking a fist at the lights.

Henry sat frozen, dumbfounded.

"Just one more, Amanda!"  the man's voice shouted.

Amanda picked up a heavy clock from he bedside table and threw it at
the light as Henry suddenly came to life.  He started toward the
intruders, but the bedroom doors were slammed in his face.  He threw
his shoulder against them," then howled in pain.

Amanda did what she most wanted to do in the world: she screamed.

An hour later, fully dressed but still trembling, Amanda fled the
hotel, got into the back of the Cadillac, and was driven home.  She
looked over her shoulder but saw no witness to her leaving.  She was in
control again, and she had begun to assess the damage.  It promised to
be considerable.

CHAPTER

man da walked into the office suite of her penthouse, dressed in her
standard uniform of Chanel suit, Ferragamo shoes, plain gold jewelry,
and a gold Cartier Panther wristwatch and bracelet.

Her staff of three, at their desks five minutes before her always
precise nine o'clock arrival, leapt to their feet as one, welcoming her
back and complimenting her on how tanned and rested she looked.  She
shook each of their hands, received their compliments, and sent them
back to their desks, save her secretary, the trusty Martha, who had
been with her for her entire career as a columnist.

"Ready for your messages?"  Martha asked, holding up a batch of yellow
slips.

"Not yet," Amanda replied, slipping behind her little French desk.  She
loved the desk.  Sister Parrish, the doyen of New York interior
designers, had found it especially for her when she had done the
apartment a few years before her death.  "Before I do anything else,
get me Bill Eggers at Woodman and Weld.  He should already be at his
desk."

Martha returned to her desk, and a moment later the green light on
Amanda's phone flashed; her party was on the line, waiting.  Amanda did
not converse with other people's secretaries.

"Bill," she breathed into the phone.  "How are you, darling?"

"I'm wonderful, Amanda," the lawyer replied.  "How was your holiday?"

"Just perfect.  I'm fully rested and raring to go.  What was Hickock's
reaction to our latest contract proposal?"

"I called him on Friday, but he's putting-me off", Eggers replied.  "He
says somebody in the legal department is on vacation, but to tell you
the truth, I think he's just not giving it his full attention.  After
all, he's got another two months and three weeks before your contract
expires.  He's used to negotiating with the print unions right up to
and past deadlines."

Amanda frowned, then forced her facial muscles to relax.  Having
recently had some lines surgically removed, she didn't want new ones
cropping up.  "He's not going to have that luxury," she said.

"You want me to call him again?"

Amanda thought for a moment.  "No," she replied.  "Meet me in the lobby
of the Galaxy Building at precisely ten minutes past one this
afternoon."

"Do you already have an appointment?"

"No, but he'll see me."

"If you say so, Amanda, but listen, I have to give you my best advice
on this before you do anything rash; that's my responsibility."

Amanda sighed.  "Go ahead, Bill."

"Okay, you're in a good negotiating position; your readership is
slightly up in the home paper, and well up in syndication.  You're not
overpaid, at the moment, and what we're asking for isn't out of line
with the numbers involved.  However, it's almost never good to appear
eager when you're dealing with Dick Hickock; he'll have you for
breakfast, if he thinks he has any sort of edge.  My advice is to wait,
not even call him, just wait for his call.  He knows exactly when your
contract is up, and he won't ignore the deadline and risk losing you to
another paper.  Sit tight, and you'll get most of what you want. There,
I've said it; what do you want to do?"

"Precisely ten past one, at the Galaxy Building."

"See you there."

Amanda hung up and began doing something she had forced herself to put
off: She went through the New York and L.A. papers quickly, looking for
any reference to the incident of the night before.  As she had
suspected, there was nothing.  Every paper had closed well before the
photographs were taken at the hotel, and nobody would have been fool
enough to print the story without substantiation.  She breathed a heavy
sigh of relief; she had until early evening, when the showbiz news
programs came on, after the evening news.

Amanda got up, walked to the door, and leaned against the jamb, looking
out into the open bay where her secretary and two assistants sat.  Of
the three, only Martha had known where she had spent the past weekend,
and nobody, but nobody, could torture the information out of that
woman.  While the others hadn't known, they might have somehow picked
up something around the off'ce.  Still, each of them was well paid and,
apparently, happy in his or her work.  One, Helen, was a young woman of
thirty who had been with her for three years; the other, Barry, was a
gay man who had been with her for eight.  There was not a naive bone in
Amanda's body, but her best judgment told her that the news had been
leaked from somewhere else, most likely from her lover's end, although
he had denied any such thing.  Most likely his wife had put a detective
on them, but that remained to be seen.

"All right, Martha," Amanda said, "let's go through the messages."

At nine minutes past one the elderly Cadillac glided up to the main
entrance of the Galaxy

Building, and Amanda stepped out; Bill Eggers was waiting in the lobby.
It was lunchtime, and the two were alone together in the elevator.

"Amanda, won't he be at lunch at this hour?"

Eggers asked.

"Dick Hickock always has lunch at his desk on

Mondays," she replied.  "Always."

"Are you sure he'll see you?"

"He won't have a choice," Amanda said.

"Jesus," the lawyer said under his breath.

They stepped out on the thirtieth floor, into a paneled and hushed
hallway.  The receptionist's desk was empty; a sign on the desk said,
'

THIS FLOOR IS CLOSED UNTIL 3:00 P.M. FOR

ASSISTANCE, PLEASE GO TO THE MAIN RECEPTION

DESK ON THE TENTH FLOOR.

"Follow me," Amanda said.  She strode down the hall, her footsteps
silenced by the thick carpeting, through a double door marked
"Chairman," across a reception room, and into the office of Richard M.
Hickock, chairman of the board of Galaxy Media.  Dick Hickock sat at
his desk in his shirtsleeves, his necktie undone, the Wall Street
Journal open before him, eating a huge sandwich.

"Hello, Dick, darling!"  Amanda enthused, walking behind the desk and
planting a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smear of cerise.

Hickock had just taken a large bite out of his sandwich, and he
struggled to get it chewed and swallowed so that he could speak.  By
the time he had, Amanda and her lawyer were seated in a pair of chairs
to his right.

"You know Bill Eggers, don't you?"  Amanda asked.

Hickock nodded and washed down food with a glass of beer.

"Amanda, what the hell..."  he began.

"I do apologize for interrupting your lunch, Dick," Amanda said
contritely, "but I hope you will understand that this just won't
wait."

"Amanda," Hickock said, shaking h'{s headin disbelief, "there's a
thirty-eight in my desk drawer, and I would have used it on anybody who
walked in here like that."  He smiled benevolently.  "Anybody but you.
Now what can I do for you?"  He nodded at the sandwich.  "My Milton
Berle is waiting."

"What's in a Milton Berle, Dick?"  Amanda asked, apparently
fascinated.

"Corned beef and chopped liver with Russian dressing on pumpernickel,
and this."  He held up a huge pickle.  "The reference to Berle," he
said,

grinning.

Amanda blushed.  "Oh, Dick!  You are awful!"

"It's true," Hickock said to Eggers.  "I am awful."

"It's about our contract proposal," Amanda said without further ado.

"Amanda, your contract has another three months to run," Hickock
replied.  "What's your rush?"

"Oh, it's not me, darling, it' sSI Newhouse."  Hickock's face instantly
became expressionless.  "SI who?"  he asked disingenuously, his eyes
narrowing.

"Dick, it's been awful; I've spent the whole weekend fending him off.
Somehow, he got my phone number, and he would not be put off."

"Don't listen to a word he says," Hickock said.  "Oh, I've tried not to
but he such an awful flatterer--but I must admit, When he started
throwing numbers around..."

"That absolute shit," Hickock said," almost to himself.

"Oh, I don't want to go with SI, Dick; that's why I came to see you.
He's practically forced me to have a drink with him later today--God
knows, I don't want to alienate him--and I'm planning to tell him, as
sweetly as I possibly can, to go away."

"Right, my dear," Hickock said, smiling.  "That's exactly what you
should do."

"But I can, Dick darling, not with things just... hanging the way they
are with my contract."

"Just say no, Amanda."

"Well, I can't very well do that, if I don't know for sure that I have
a deal with you, can I?  I mean, my God, I don't want to leave Galaxy,
but when he's dangling all that money in front of me and all those
perks..."

"Perks?"  Hickock asked, looking alarmed.

"Oh, you know how lavish SI can be when he really wants somebody."

"Amanda, it's wrong of you to press me like this."

"Dick, my darling, I'm not pressing; I'm the soul of patience.  SI,
unfortunately, is not."

Hickock rummaged in his desk and came out with the contract proposal
that Eggers had sent him.  He put on his reading glasses and began
leafing through it.  "You really think you're worth this sort of money,
Amanda?"

Eggers jumped in.  "Her numbers support everything in that proposal,"
the lawyer id.

"You want five percent more of the' syndication :

"Syndication income is way up," Eggers said.

Hickock seemed to be collecting himself,

'

Amanda thought.

"Tell you what, Amanda, my legal guy is back from vacation next Monday;
we'll get back to-you the end of next week, all right?"

Amanda stood up and smoothed her skirt.

"Dick, my darling, I can't tell you how sad this makes me," she said,
dabbing at the corner of an eye, where an actual tear had appeared.  "I
had so wanted it to work out.  I want you to know that I

have no hard feelings whatsoever."  She turned and started toward the
door, with Eggers at her heels,

then stopped.  "Oh, can you and Glynnis come to dinner on Friday?  JUst
a small dinner, we'll only be eight, but it's a good crowd."

Hickock was on his feet.  "Now, Amanda, come back and sit down." 
Amanda and Eggers returned to their chairs.  "I'm sitting, Dick," she
said. Hickock was reading the proposal again.  "A Mercedes Six Hundred?
What's the matter with the Five Hundred?  Or, come to that, with the
Four-twenty?  The Six Hundred is a
hundred-andthirtyseventhousand-dollar car, for Christ's sake!"  "Oh,
that's right, you drive one, don't you, Dick?  Isn't it such a
wonderful car?  I mean, the :' Six Hundred has the buried walnut and
the separate air conditioner for the back seat.  You know how
warm-natured I am."  "Amanda, be reasonable."  "Dick, I despise
cheapness in a man, I really do."  "Oh, all right, you have a deal,"
Hickock said. "We'll sign something when my legal guy gets back." 
Eggers instantly produced a small stack of documents.  "I've prepared a
deal memo," he said.  "We'll work out the final language when your man
gets home." Hickock read the document quickly and signed all four
copies.  Amanda signed them, and Eggers left two with the publisher. 
Amanda stood up. "I'm so thrilled that we're going to be together for
another four years, darling," she said.  She met him halfway around the
desk, and they embraced.  "And don't forget dinner, Friday, at seven." 
She turned to Eggers.  "Can I give you a lift, Bill?"  She took his arm
and steered him toward the door.  At the threshold she turned and
looked at Hickock, who was gazing at his sandwich.  "Oh, Dick, they
have just the car I want at that Mercedes showroom on Park Avenue." 
She returned to the desk and laid a car don it.  "The man said they
could deliver it at five; all it takes is a phone call from you."

"We'll be trading your Cadillac, right?"  Hickock asked.

"Oh, Dick, you are funny; I've already sold it."  She swept out of the
office.

In the car, Bill Eggers wiped his brow.  "Amanda, I don't know why you
need me at all," he said.

Amanda patted his hand.  "Somebody has to do the boilerplate, dear."

CHAPTER

ichard Hickock left his office at four o'clock, stopping briefly at his
secretary's desk.  "Anybody calls, tell them I'm in the building
somewhere for a meeting, you don't know where, and I won't be back at
my desk by the end of the day."

"Yes, sir," the woman replied.

Hickock took his private elevator to the basement garage, where his
white Mercedes S600 was waiting.  "Ralph, I think I'll take a walk in
the park," he said to his chauffeur.

"Of course, Mr.  Hickock," the chauffeur replied.  "You've been walking
in the park a lot lately.  Good for the heart."

"Right," Hickock said, taking one of his magazines, not his favorite,
from the leather pocket on

the back of the front seat.  He leafed idly through it, making mental
notes, one of them to fire the magazine's art director.  He wasn't
seeing enough tits in the book these days, and the man had ignored his
request for more.

Presently, the car stopped at an entrance to Central Park on Fifth
Avenue in the sixties.  Hickock opened his own door.  "Hover around
here, and pick me up in an hour and ten minutes."  He knew from
experience exactly how long this would take.  The car pulled away;
Hickock crossed Fifth Avenue and walked briskly to an elegantly
restored t wnhouse apartment building, using his key to open the
don-stairs door.  As it was about to close, a young man stepped into
the hallway behind him, holding what appeared to be a sack of
groceries. '

"Thanks," the young man said.  "I didn't have a hand free to look for
my key."

"Don't mention it," Hickock said, stepping into the elevator.  The
young man followed him into the

"Nice day out there," the young man said.  "Great time of the year."
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Hickock got out.  "See
you," he said.

"You bet," the young man replied.

The young man got off the elevator on the floor above and walked down a
flight, peeking over the banister rail to see Hickock letting himself
into an apartment.  He noted that there was only one apartment on the
floor, so he was unlikely to be disturbed.  He walked to the apartment
door, set his grocery bag on the floor, removed a loaf of bread, and
pulled out an electronic stethoscope.  He placed the receivers in his
ears, switched it on, and held the listening part against the apartment
door.

Inside, Hickock was greeted by a very beautiful young woman wearing a
silk dressing gown.

"Oh, Dick," she breathed, taking his face in her hands.  "I've been so
excited ever since you called."

Hickock kissed her lightly, then untied' the gown's sash, exposing her
naked body underneath.  He caressed her large breasts and felt the
nipples rise.  "Then you must be ready for me," he said.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, taking him by the hand.  "Come with me."  She
led him into the bedroom, kicked the door shut, and locked it.

"I don't know why you always lock the door," Hickock said, tearing at
his clothes.

"I don't know either," she said, letting the dressing gown fall from
her shoulders.  "It just makes me feel more secure."  She held out her
arms to receive him, and they toppled onto the bed.

Outside in the hall, the young man with the stethoscope heard the
bedroom door lock engage.  He

moved along the hall toward the bedroom wall and placed the stethoscope
there.  When he was certain that the couple were erotically engaged, he
went back to the door, removed what appeared to be a small manicure kit
from a pocket, took out two small tools, and began to work on the front
door lock.  In half a minute he was inside the apartment with his
grocery bag.  He removed a leather tool box from the bag and went to
work.

In the bedroom, Hickock lay on his back, breathing deeply as he
recovered from his orgasm; Sle went into the bathroom, came back with a
ho face cloth and began to wipe his penis.  Hickock made a little
noise.

,"i

"Oh," she said, "I believe there's something still

there."

This was the part Hickock liked best; while he had been essentially
impotent with his wife for years, this girl could always get him going
for a second round.  "Use your mouth," he whimpered.

"Why, of course," the girl replied.

The young man listened at the bedroom door with his stethoscope,
smiling.  He'd better get out, he thought; Hickock would be finished in
another few seconds.  He picked up his grocery bag, let himself out of
the apartment, and walked down the stairs to the basement, checking
carefully on each floor that he was still alone.  In the basement he
found the building's central telephone box and went to work.  Half an
hour later he let himself out of the building and walked off down the
street.

Hickock looked both ways on Fifth Avenue for his car.  Not seeing it,
he crossed the street, walked a few feet into the park, and waited.  A
couple of minutes later he saw the white Mercedes turn a corner onto
Fifth Avenue.  He stepped out of the park, went to the curb, flagged
down the car, and got in.  "Let's go home, Ralph," he said.  "Enjoy
your walk in the park, sir?"  "Oh, yes," he replied.  "It always
refreshe me."

CHAPTER

man da swept into her office suite, wearing a smile that telegraphed
good news to her staff.  She waved Martha into her office and pushed
aside the stack of items Hcl.en and Barry had assembled for tomorrow's
column.

"It must have gone well," Martha said, taking a seat and getting her
pad ready.

"It went extremely well, my dear," Amanda replied.  "So well that
there's a ten percent raise for you when the new contract begins."

"Oh, thank you, Amanda," Martha gushed.

"And tell the others that there'll be another five percent in their pay
packets on the day."

"They'll be delighted."

"Oh, tell Paul to sell the Cadillac, and he can keep ten percent of
what he gets for it; I don't want to see it again."  She handed Martha
the car salesman's card.  "Call this gentleman and tell him I'll want
the new Mercedes delivered no later than four-thirty, and tell him to
get the car phone number changed over.  Call a music store and get a
dozen CDs delivered for the new car's stereo--you know the kind of
thing I like--at least two Bobby Shorts and some Michael Feinstein and
some chamber music.  Give them to Paul so the salesman can show him how
the CD player works.  Make sure the salesman gets my vanity plates
changed over, too."

"Right."  Martha was making notes.  "I'll deal with the insurance; what
value do you want to put on it?"  "A hundred and thirty-seven thousand
dollars."

Martha's eyes widened.  "Hickock sprang for the Six Hundred?"

"Of course he did.  You'd better let the garage man know about the
change; the doorman, too.  Let's not have any glitches."

"It shall be done," Martha said, rising.  "You ready for lunch?"

"I'll have a salad, then send Helen and Barry in, and we'll get
started

Martha disappeared, still writing on her pad.  Amanda still had the
sick feeling in her stomach that had begun the night before, but her
elation over the new contract and the Mercedes helped to drive it away.
 She felt very much better now.

When the salad dish had been taken away, Helen and Barry shuffled into
the office and took seats.

"Anything really good?"  Amanda asked, starting to leaf through the
stack of items, each on a page to itself.  They would need twenty-five
to thirty for tomorrow's column.

"Three high-profile pregnancies that together might make a good lead,"
Barry said.  "They're on top."

"Good; I like to start with good news," Amanda replied.  She held up a
page and frowned.  "Ivana Trump is buying a yacht?  Why would anyone
care?"  She crushed the page in her long fingers and tossed it into a
wastebasket.  Her people knew she had little time for the Trumps.

"I got a call," Helen said.  "The Infiltrator is starting in again On
Michael Andress; this time they've got a waiter from some drive-in
restaurant in Long Beach who says they've been sleeping together for
three years."

"The boy's straight as an arrow," Barry said.  "I have it on good
authority, and anyway, I can always tell.  How many children does he
have to father before they leave him alone?"

"And his wife is one of the pregnancies on the list," Helen said.

"Good chance to stick it to the Infiltrator," Amanda mused, marking the
item.  "Say something about the unjust pursuit of the boy; you know how
it should go."  She went rapidly through the stack of items, keeping
some, tossing others out.  "That's it, I think," she said, tossing the
good ones onto the desk.  "I'll have my lead for you in half an hour."
She glanced at her watch.

Helen and Barry left, and Amanda turned to her computer to compose the
paragraphs that would lead the column.  She had planned to enthuse
about St.  Bart's and what a wonderful time she had had on her weekend,
but the incident of the wee hours was still on her mind, and until she
found out what it was all about, she would hedge her bets.  She had
been writing for ten minutes when she looked up and saw Martha standing
at the door.  She had turned pale, and she had a sheet of paper in her
hand.

"Martha, what's wrong, dear?"  she asked.  Martha approached the desk
slowly and put the paper on the desk.  "This just came in on the fax
machine," she said.

A death, Amanda thought, but she was wrong.  She picked up the sheet of
paper and saw a photograph of herself, taken early that morning.  The
sheet was set up like the front page of a tabloid newspaper, and the
lead story was:

DIKT

Greetings, earthlings!  Look who we caught with her knickers down and
her forked tongue erotically engaged in a love nest in a chic East Side
hotel.  None other than gossip's high bitch, Amanda Dart, who, after
revealing others' peccadilloes for years, has revealed remarkable
appetites of her own.  She checked into the elegant hostelry last
Friday night after having concocted an elaborate ruse to make the world
at large (you and I) believe that she was lolling at the St.  Barr's
beachfront compound of the Duke of Kensington.  (Write this down should
you ever want to disappear for a couple of weeks.) Dear Amanda set up
an answering machine to receive calls from those who were clever enough
to get her holiday number, then she phoned the machine daily for her
messages.  When she returned her calls, she no doubt had a wave machine
running in the background to lend verisimilitude.  What a hoot!

Her companion in bed was a prominent out-of towner whose wife will, no
doubt, have a few questions to ask him on his return home.  Certainly,
after servicing the indefatigable Amanda for a whole weekend, he'll not
have much energy left for the wronged lady in question.

dust how great are dear Amanda's appetites?  Enough to last until late
Sunday night, when we snapped the place above.  Will she ever show her
neatly carved faoe in the Big Apple again?  We should know tonight when
she's promised to appear at a book party for her pal Norman Barton of
the Times at Idortimer's, the East Side boite, where tout le monde of
Gotham journalism will gather to honor dear Norm and get his scribble
in their very own copy.

$llJAlff WOODS

Will dear Amanda show?  I certainly will!  I wouldn't miss this one for
a million-buck advance on my no-holds-barred bio of the delectable
Dart!

Amanda put down the fax and looked at Martha.  As she did, every phone
in the office started ringing.  Barry appeared, breathless, at the
door.  "Amanda, there's apparently some sort of fax being sent to half
the town.  Do you know anything about it?"  "Half the town?"  Amanda
asked, appalled.  "Apparently.  We're hearing from every columnist in
the city, and some from L.A. asking for a comment."  "Tell them to read
tomorrow's columtl," she said.  "Martha, will you excuse me for a few
minutes?  I have to rewrite tomorrow's lead."  Martha vanished.  Amanda
turned back to her computer, stunned, and deleted what she had written.
She sat, staring at the screen, wondering what to write.  She had only
twenty minutes until deadline.

CHAPTER

man da got into the back seat of the spanking new Mercedes S600 and
settled herself.  She found the switch for the rear seat
air-conditioning, and cool air flooded the rear passenger compartment.
She touched the glassy surface of the buried walnut trim on her door
and squirmed on the leather seat; she asked Paul for music, and the
sounds of Bobby Short's singing materialized around her.  She might
have been sitting at ringside at the Cafe Carlyle, she thought.
"Mortimer's, please, Paul," she said.  Then she settled back into the
soft, two-toned leather and tried to compose herself.

She could not remember the last time she had felt such anxiety; in
fact, she could not remember the last time she had been so vulnerable.
Amanda had conducted her life for a very long time in such

S11JART WOODS

a way that no one could have any ammunition to fire at her.  She was
the soul of discretion, especially where her own personal life was
concerned, if not that of others.  Outwardly, she was always charming,
concerned, sweet, or grateful, whichever the circumstances called for.
Inwardly, she was well aware that the scandal sheet's reference to her
as a "high bitch" was entirely justified.  Half the satisfaction of
being a bitch was to be sure that no one could ever prove it of her.

Tonight, though, there were allegations in the air.  She had, over the
past ten years, been slyly critical of any prominent woman with a
well-known sex life.  Now she herself would be subjected to a great
deal of unwanted scrutiny and, probably, a very messy divorce.

She had decided to press on with her column's lead about her time in
St.  Bart's; all she could do now was brazen it through.  After all,
though the sheet had been entirely factual, proving the allegations
would be quite another thing.  With computer-generated photographic
editing available to almost anyone who desired it, she could claim
doctored pictures, in the hope that whoever was doing this would not
want to reveal himself in order to provide further evidence.  If it
came up in court--well, she'd cross that abyss when she came to it.

"Lovely car, Miss Dart," Paul said.  He rarely spoke unless spoken to,
but Amanda received the compliment gratefully.  It added another whit
to the confidence that would be needed to face the crowd at
Mortimer's.

"Thank you, Paul," she replied.  "I hope you will enjoy driving it."

The car slid to a halt in front of the restaurant,

and after a moment, Paul had opened the door for her.  She stepped out,
smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and plunged into the East
Side's most fashionable hangout.  She had timed her entrance for a
moment when half the guests would have already come; that way she could
easily spot those already there, then watch the others arrive.

As the door closed behind her there was an audible pause in the
conversation as> people glanced her way, then a resumption as they pre
:' tended not to see her.  In a trice she had located

: the Walter Cronkites, the Mike Wallaces, the Abe

Rosenthals, and the Richard Clurmans, all friends of Norman Barton's,
who was rumored to be in line for the executive editorship of the Times
when

the present occupant of that office retired.  She headed toward the
honoree, giving a happy wave and a smile to acquaintances along the
way.

Norman was standing in the back room, sur rounded by friends and
admirers, autographing copies of his book.  After only a brief pause,

Amanda strode forward, and the others gave way like yachts before the
Queen Mary.  "Norman!

How exciting this must be for you!"  Someone from the publishing house
handed her a book.  "I

can't wait to read every page!"

"Amanda!"  Barton cried, touching his cheek to each of hers.  "I'm so
pleased you got back in time!"

"Oh, I got back early this morning," she replied.

"I didn't know the airlines arrived from the islands at that hour,"
someone said.

Amanda turned her gaze on a short, plump woman who collected gossip
items for a news syndicate.  "One doesn't always fly the airlines,
dear," she replied sweetly.  "Sometimes one's friends provide."

"Oh, a private jet," the woman cried.  "You landed at Teterboro?"
Obviously looking for something she could check.

"No," Amanda replied dismissively, then reached forward, took Barton's
elbow, and deftly plucked him out of the group as a cow pony cuts a
steer from the herd, and, by her proximity to the honoree, placed
herself at the center of the party.

They chatted enthusiastically for a moment, and then, as Amanda had
planned, people began to approach, greeting them both, complimenting
Amanda on her tan, asking about her holiday.

"Did you try that new little restaurant?"  a rival columnist asked
cattily.

"Oh, my dear, no," Amanda sighed.  "All I did was work.  I got up every
morning, played the tennis ball machine for half an hour, worked for
three hours, had lunch at the pool, then worked another three hours.
The staff cooked every bite I ate."

"And what work kept you so occupied?"  the woman asked.

"Why, I finished my book, darling," Amanda sang back.  "It goes to my
publisher's tomorrow!"

The woman blinked.  "Congratulations," she said, then disappeared.

Amanda worked the crowd for an hour, then, at the moment when the tide
seemed to turn toward dinner, she made her good-byes and headed toward
the door, nearly colliding with Bill Eggers.

"Oh, Bill," Amanda said, "you are just the man I want to see.  Come
with me, you're taking me to dinner."  She hustled him to her car.

"Good thing I didn't have plans," Egers said.

"I'd have kidnapped you anyway," Amanda said, sliding her arm through
his.  "Paul, we're going to Elaine's."

"Yes, ma'am," Paul replied.

"I see you got the car," Eggers said, looking around admiringly.  '"

"Of course I did, darling," Amanda giggled.

"I don't think Dick Hickock knew what hit him."

"Of course not, darling."  She made small talk all the way to Elaine's,
while simultaneously formulating her next move.

CHAPTER

man da swept into Elaine's, automatically' casting an eye about for who
was there and where they were seated.  Elaine herself was way in the
back of the restaurant, seated at a customer's table.  She lifted an
eyebrow and Jack, the headwaiter, seated Amanda and her lawyer at a
favored table up front.  Amanda was just as happy not to have been
greeted by Elaine, who she found hard to read, never quite sure whether
she was being insulted.  She came to the restaurant only for her work;
before they were seated she had three items for tomorrow's column.

Bill Eggers ordered a double Jack Daniel's on the rocks, and Amanda
ordered a large bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water.  She always
kept her wits about her, relaxing enough to drink alcohol only when she
was among trusted friends in her home or theirs.  They chatted idly as
they selected from the menu and ate two courses.  Only when they had
both declined dessert and received their coffee did Amanda choose to
begin.

"Bill, you must know about this scandal sheet that was circulated to a
lot of fax machines this afternoon."

"I believe I caught a whiff of it."

"Well put; it was all so much dung."

"Certainly was, Amanda.  I mean, I would have known if you weren't in
Saint Bart's."

"Of course, darling."  She paused for effect.  "I want to hire a
private detective; I'd like you to recommend one."

The lawyer's nose wrinkled.  "Is it that important to know who sent the
fax?"

Amanda gazed across the room.  "It might become that important; if so,
I intend to be ready."

"Amanda, let me give you my lecture, the short version, on private
detectives."

All right, Bill; I'm listening."

"I suppose I've dealt with a couple of dozen of them in one way or
another over the past twenty-five years, and I haven't found one yet
who could be trusted to keep a confidence."  He held up a hand before
she could reply.  "I'm not saying there are not ethical private eyes
out there; it's just that I've never run across one.  They tend to be
failed cops whose ethics were too ripe for the police force--and that's
very ripe indeed.  They dress badly, smell awful, and drink in the
morning; they charge you by the day, then spend half the day at the
track; they charge you for information, then make you pay them not to
reveal it to others."  "This is the short version?"

"All right, I've said it, and having said it, I have a much better
idea."

"I can't wait to hear it."

"Does the name Stone Barrington ring a bell?"  Amanda wrinkled her brow
before she caught herself.  "That police detective who was involved in
the investigation of the Sasha Nijinsky disappearance four or five
years ago?"

"Your memory always astonishes me."  '

"It's not that good; tell me about him.  The long version, past and
present."

"Born somewhere in New England to a mill-owning family who went bust
during the thirties; father dropped out of Harvard to become a
carpenter and a political leftist in Greenwich Village, thus becoming
the black sheep; mother was

Matilda Stone..."

"The painter?"

"Right.  Stone went to law school, but during his senior year he hung
out with some cops and became besotted with their profession.  When he
graduated, he didn't take the bar; instead, he went to the police
academy.  He had made it as far as detective second grade over fourteen
years--no better than average--when Sasha Nijinsky disappeared.  He was
practically on the scene when she vanished and thus caught the
investigation.  His theories didn't square with the department's--he
had never really been one of the boys--so at the first opportunity they
retired him for medical reasons.  He had taken a bullet in the knee on
an earlier investigation."

"Was he crippled?"

"Not really; they were just looking for an eXCUSe."

"What has he done since?"

"For a while he spent his time restoring a Turtle Bay townhouse left to
him by a great-aunt, until he ran out of money.  Then he crammed, for
he bar examination and passed it well up on the lit, top ten percent.
I'd known him in law school; I took him to lunch and offered him a deal
with us."  ' "He joined Woodman and Weld?"

"Not exactly.  He became of counsel to us, set up his own office at
home, and began handling our client-related criminal cases and the
occasional investigation."

"Client-related criminal cases?  I don't understand; you don't
represent criminals, do you?"

"Typically, a valued client's son involved in a date rape--that sort of
thing."

"I see.  And what sort of investigations?"  "Again,
client-related--divorce, adultery, runaway daughter, theft of company
funds, industrial espionage--whatever comes up."

"Is he good?"

"He combines a good policeman's curiosity and

tenacity with a good lawyer's discretion and restraint.  And he's
socially acceptable."  "Then why don't I know him?"  "He lives a quiet
life, dates a lady judge; he's, better known in courtroom circles than
in society."  "Wasn't there a lot of publicity about him over the
Nijinsky case?"  "A great deal, but he went to ground very quickly, and
the press forgot about him, not having any reason to remember."  "He
sounds good."  "Why don't you go and see him?  I'll be glad to make an
appointment."  "Bill, people usually come to see me."  "It would
perhaps be more discreet for you to go to him."  "Make the appointment;
I'll go for tea tomorrow at four."  "Tea?"  "Bill, if he can't mount a
decent tea, why would I want to know him?"  Amanda looked up to see a
television actor come into the restaurant with a woman who was not his
wife.  She made a mental note for the column.

CHAPTER

7'

hr young man stood behind the stone wall that separated Central Park
from Fifth Avenue and watched the front door of the apartment building
from across the street through a pair of pocket binoculars.  It was
just before 2:00 A.M."  and a couple were being deposited at the curb
by a hired limousine.

The night doorman got the car door, then rushed ahead to open the
building door for them.  The young man watched him see the couple onto
the elevator, then return to the lobby.  The doorman picked up a
clipboard, made some sort of mark, probably next to the couple's name,
then tossed the clipboard onto a desk, tipped his uniform hat back on
his head, stretched and yawned, then sat down at the desk and rested
his head on his arms.  He had obviously checked in the last people for
the night--all present or accounted for--and now there would be no one
to disturb his sleep until the early birds went for their jogs.  The
young man waited for another twenty minutes, checking the doorman
frequently through the binoculars; finally, the man was clearly deeply
asleep.  The young man set a paper bag on top of the wall, placed his
hands on the wall, and vaulted lightly over it.  He picked up the paper
bag and crossed Fifth Avenue.  Traffic was very light at this hour.  He
checked his watch: just past 2:30 A.M. He approached the door of the
building without stealth, as if he were about to enter, then stopped
and again checked the doorman, who was still sleeping soundly.  He
looked at the lobby loor: marble.  Then he stepped into the shadows
beside the door of the building, shucked off his sneakers, pulled out a
pair of soft leather-soled bedroom slippers, put them on, then put the
sneakers into the bag.  He couldn't afford squeaking noises from rubber
soles on the marble floor.  He checked the doorman again, then walked
silently across the lobby to the elevator, which he already knew was
very quiet, and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.  The young
man already knew a lot about the building and the apartment he was
about to enter.  He stepped out of the elevator car and into a private
vestibule.  Only one apartment to a floor in this building.  The door
took nearly two minutes--a very good lock--and when he heard the bolt
slide back he stopped, put away his lock picks took a stopwatch from
his pocket, and pressed the start button.  He had forty-five seconds,
and he didn't want to use more than thirty, if he could help it.

He opened the door, closed it behind him, and sprinted down a hall,
across a large living room, and into the study.  He knew that the
occupants were away and that the maid's room was all the way at the
rear of the apartment, behind the kitchen.  In the study, he opened a
closet door, switched on the light, found the burglar alarm central
control box, and fixed the stopwatch to it with a magnet glued to its
back.  Twelve Second'one.

He opened the control box and began the process of disconnecting first
the telephone line Io the box, then the wire to the siren.  This was
necessary because he didn't know the disarming code sequence.  He
looked at the watch; thirty-two seconds had passed.  Not bad.  The
alarm would go.  off in thirteen seconds, and Since he had done all he
could, he would just have to wait and see what happened.  At forty-five
seconds there was an audible click and the sound of tone dialing from
the central computer unit.  No siren, and, since the telephone line had
been disconnected, no phone call to the central security station of the
alarm company.  There was the possibility, though, that the
disconnecting of the phone line had sent Some sort of code to central
security, so he would not dally.

The safe was conveniently located in the same closet as the alarm
control box; he had examined it briefly on his previous visit.  It was
sturdy and electronically operated, requiring a four-digit code and a
key to open the door.  The key was absent, but the lock would not be a
problem.  He retrieved a small screwdriver from his tool kit and
removed the battery access panel from the front of the safe, then took
a palm top computer from a jacket pocket.  A wire attached to tiny
alligator clips ran from the computer, and he attached the clips to the
safe's battery terminals.  He had written a simple program for the
computer that would start at the lowest possible four-digit number,
then go to the highest possible four-digit number and balgk and forth
until the safe clicked open.  The process would be shortened by the
fact that most of these electronic safe keypads would not allow the
repetition of a number in the code, so there would be fewer codes to
try.  He had test-run the program, and he knew that it required nine
minutes and eighteen seconds to try all the possible codes.  He tapped
the instructions into the small keyboard, and the program began to run.
He set the computer on top of the alarm control panel and settled in to
wait.  Four minutes and nine seconds into the program, he heard a click
from the safe, and the program stopped.

Quickly, in case there was a time limit, he picked the safe's
conventional lock, and the door swung open.  Inside were two delightful
surprises.  The first was three thick stacks of one-hundred-dollar
bills, with a rubber band around each, and another stack of fifties.
The bills looked well used, and a cursory inspection revealed that the
serial numbers were not consecutive.  He estimated that they totaled
approximately thirty-five thousand dollars, but this was no time to
start counting; he stuffed them into one of his jacket's large pockets.
The other surprise in the safe was a small, nickel-plated automatic
pistol, with, of all things, a silencer!  He stuffed that into a
pocket, then opened a jewelry box, which was full of a lot of junk that
didn't interest him, except for a Cartier watch with a gold bracelet.
That he kept; he loved watches.  '

He had just closed the safe door and was putting away his equipment
when from a distance he heard a noise like the front door opening,
followed by voices.  No time to reconnect the alarm system; he closed
the cabinet door, switched off the light, and left the closet, closing
the door behind him.  While he was doing all this he wondered if he had
somehow caused this to happen.  His heart was racing; he loved it.  The
voices came closer, and he dove into the kneehole of the desk, pulling
his knees up to squeeze in.

"We got a disconnect signal," a voice said.  The lights came on in the
study.  "If somebody cuts the phone line or disconnects it, we get a
signal.  Usually means a burglar has visited."

"Do you really need a gun?"  another voice asked, sounding nervous.

There might be somebody in the apartment right now," the other voice
replied.  "If there is, I'm going to be ready."  The voices were
muffled slightly, and the young man thought they were probably in the
closet by now.  "See right here?"  the first voice asked.  "The phone
line was disconnected."  Time to go, the young man thought.  He peered
around the corner of the desk and saw the backs of the two men.  "He's
probably had a shot at the safe," the first voice said.  "Electronic
job."  The young man crawled quickly, silently toward the door of the
study; in doing so, he had to fhove past the closet.  As he made the
door, the first voice spoke again.  "You stay here," the voice said,
and there was the sound of the action of an automatic pistol being
worked.  "I'm going to have a look around.  You might use the phone on
the desk over there to call nine-one-one and tell them there's been a
break-in."  "Right," the other man replied.  The young man sprinted
nearly soundlessly through the living room, his soft slippers making
only tiny noises on the carpeting.  He made it down the hall to the
front door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway.  The elevator and
the front door seemed like a bad idea; if there was already a cop car
on the blOCk when the 911 call went in, he might meet them going out
the door.

The elevator door stood open.  He stepped inside,

pushed in the EMERGENCY button to activate the car, pressed the button
for the ground floor, and stepped out of the car just as the doors
closed.  The elevator started down, and he made for the stairs.

Holding his paper bag of tools, he bounded down flight after flight,
past the lobby floor to the basement  There had to be a back door for
service purposes.

He emerged into a dimly lit hallway that seemed to have a row of doors
leading to storage rooms.  He raced past them, made a turn at the end
of thee hall way, and came up against a door.  He put his ear to it,
and could hear the sound of a garbage truck out side.  Carefully, he
opened the door, and as he did, a loud bell began to ring.  Coolly, he
put his head out and lOOked around.  He was in a sort of concrete
pit,

with steps leading up to the side street.  He closed the door behind
him, but the bell continued to ring,

both inside and outside the building.  Worse, a red light over his head
was flashing relentlessly.  Now he began to panic.  He charged up the
steps and ran head-on into a garbage collector holding two empty
cans.

The two went down together, the garbage man

hollering, the cans bouncing around the sidewalk.

"Hey, get that guy!"  somebody yelled.

The young man got to his feet, grabbed his paper bag, and sprinted down
the block toward

Fifth Avenue, pursued by the garbage men.  He

STUART IOODS

ran straight across Fifth, nearly being run down by a police car, its
lights flashing.  Funny, he hadn't heard the siren until now.  He heard
the car doors opening, and somebody shout, "Stop!  Police!  Stop!"

Only one choice here, he thought.  He ran straight at the park wall,
throwing his paper bag ahead of him, vaulted over the wall, hit the
ground on the other side, grabbed the paper bag, and was gone into the
brush.  They'd never get him now.  Cops were too fat to run far.  He
emerged onto a walkway and ran down it toward Central Park South.  The
sound of police sirens faded into the distance.

He had gotten away with it again.

CHAPTER

man da got out.  of the Mercedes and looked approvingly up and down the
tree-lined block.  The nineteenth-century development known as Turtle
Bay comprised three sides of a city block between Second and Third
Avenues in the Forties; all the houses opened to the rear on a common
garden.  She knew half a dozen people with houses on the block and
recognized it for the highly desirable place to live that it was.

She climbed the steps of the brownstone and rang the bell.  The door
was answered almost immediately by a Mediterranean-looking woman:
Amanda followed her through an entrance hall and a formal drawing room
into a book-lined study at the rear of the house, with a bay window
overlooking the gardens.

"Will you please be comfortable for a moment," the woman said.  She
spoke with a rather heavy accent.  "Mr.  Barrington will be with you
quick."  "Thank you," Amanda said, taking one of a pair of leather wing
chairs before the window.  "I'll get some tea," the woman replied, then
left.  Amanda stood up and had a look around the room.  It contained a
great deal of original oak paneling, in addition to the bookcases, and
there was an antique Persian rug on the floor, with old-fashioned
parquet showing around its edges.  A leather-topped walnut desk
occupied a corner, and there were a number of silver-framed photographs
on a shelf beside the desk, of people Amanda assumed to be Barrington's
father and mother.  On the wall behind the desk were three good-sized
oils, all New York scenes, that Amanda would have bought on the spot.
They were, she realized, all by Matilda Stone, who, she knew, had died
fairly young and had left only around fifty canvases, all in private
hands.  She wondered what these three might be worth.

Stone Barrington finished his phone call and hung up.  "Alma," he
called to his secretary, "I'm going upstairs to meet my four o'clock;
hold all my calls."  "Right, Stone," Alma called back from her adjacent
office.

Stone climbed the spiral staircase that led to the rear hall of the
first floor of the house and entered his study.  A tall, handsome,
beautifully dressed and coiffed woman, who appeared to be in her early
forties, stood before his desk, looking at his mother's paintings.
"Good afternoon," he said.  She did not turn around immediately, but
went on looking at the paintings.  "I don't suppose I've seen more than
a dozen of her pictures in my whole life," she said, "but I've loved
every one of them."  "Thank you; she'd be pleased to have the
compliment."

She turned and walked toward him, holding out her hand.  "I'm Amanda
Dart."

He took her hand.  "I'm Stone Barrington; won't'

you sit down?"

They each took a wing chair and, as if on cue,

the servant appeared with a silver tray containing a matching teapot,
two cups and saucers, and a plate with several slices of pound cake and
some cookies.

"This is my housekeeper, Helene," Stone said.

"She makes the best pound cake on the Eastern

Seaboard."

"In the Western Hemisphere," Helene said blithely.

"Helene is Greek; humility does not come easily to her."

"And what would I have to be humble about?"

Helene asked.  "You bet not my pound cake."

Amanda smiled appreciatively.  She wanted the strange woman to be gone.
"Tell me about this house," she said, so they'd have something to talk
about while Helene poured.  Anyway, she was interested.

"Of course.  It was built in the eighteen-nineties by the father of my
great-aunt on my father's side.  I suppose that makes him my
great-grandfather?  The architect was a man named Ehrick Rossiter, who
worked from the eighteen-seventies through the nineteen-thirties."

"He had an eye for proportion," Amanda said, looking around the room.

"Yes, and he filled the house with interesting detail.  I'll give you
the tour someday, when yu have the time."

"Thank you, I'd love that, but not today.  Did you choose the
furnishings?"

"About half of them, I suppose.  The rest came down from family or were
in the house when my great-aunt left it to me."

"You're very fortunate in your family's tastes."  "I am."

"Has Bill Eggers told you why I'm here?"  "No, he said he'd let you
explain everything."  Amanda opened her alligator bag and handed him
the scandal sheet.  "Recently, I had a weekend in Saint Bart's; the day
of my return this was sent to at least several dozen fax machines
around the city--perhaps farther abroad, who knows?"  She waited while
Stone read it.

"Where were these photographs taken?"  he asked.

"At a hotel in Manhattan."

"What is it that you'd like me to do for you, Ms.  Dart?"

"I want you to find out who produced this ... document," she said.

"Why?"

"Because I want to know, of course."

"Why do you want to know?"

She looked at him blankly.  "Because when someone is publicly telling
gratuitous lies about want to know who it is."

me'II see."  Stone looked at the photogrhphs carefully.  "Ms.  Dart,"
he said, "are you saying this isn't you in the photograph?"

"Of course that's what I'm saying," she replied.  "Ms.  Dart, I am
principally a lawyer, and when I am representing someone it is
essential that I know everything there is to know about the situation
in question."

"I don't want to hire you as a lawyer, but as an investigator."

"There is little difference from my point of view.  You see, if a
client withholds information from me, I tend to spend too much of my
time trying to find out why he is doing so.  It would be much less
expensive for you to save me that trouble.  I expect Bill Eggers told
you that I used to be a police detective."

"Yes, he did."

"Well, old habits die hard; I can usually tell when a person is lying
to me."  "Oh, all right, it was ... I was ..."  She seemed unable to go
on.  Stone looked at the photographs again.  "And I believe I recognize
the front door of the Trent in the background.  You are not the first
of my clients who has made use of it.  After all, it's the best, isn't
it?"  "Yes," she said, "it's the best."  "As a lawyer, Ms.  Dart, I am
ethically bound to respect my clients' confidences; and if I have your
confidence I will be better able to help you."  Her shoulders sagged
slightly, then she recomposed herself.  "All right, the statements in
the sheet are accurate; I wasn't in Saint Bart's, I was at the Trent,
with a friend."  "Thank you for your candor.  Now, why do you want to
know who circulated this sheet?"  "Mr.  Barrington, until very recently
I was in negotiations for a new contract with my newspaper and their
news syndicate.  The fax arrived at a very awkward time, so much that I
had to accelerate the negotiations, and at very great risk to my
career."  "How did the negotiations go?"  "I got exactly what I
wanted." "Did your newspaper see this sheet before you reached
agreement?"  "I very much doubt it; i moved too quickly for that."

"So you are safe on that count, for the moment."

"For the next four years.  However, revelations of the sort in that
sheet tend to undercut my credibility, and credibility is the basis of
my success in my work."

"I understand.  So you would like me to try and stop this person or
persons from doing this again?"

"No.  You find out who it is, and I'll do the stop ping, believe me."

"That sounds rather ominous, Ms.  Dart.  I hope you aren't thinking of
doing anything foolish."

"I am not a foolish person, Mr.  Barrington,"I

assure you."  She suddenly smiled.  "And I would be pleased if you
would call me Amanda."

"Of course; please call me Stone."

"Will you assist me in this matter, Stone?"

"If I may be sure of your continued full cooperation '"

"You may indeed."

"Then I will begin by asking you a great many questions," Stone said.

"Let's get started," Amanda replied.

CHAPTER

e gardens were lovely now, Amanda noticed, half in sunshine and half in
shadow.  A lone gardener knelt and pulled at weeds.

"Amanda?"  Stone said quietly.

"I'm sorry," Amanda replied, returning her full attention to him.  "I
was just admiring the light in the garden."

"It is lovely, isn't it?"  Stone said.  "I've sat whole days watching
it."

"Please ask me your questions," Amanda said, crossing her legs and
adjusting her skirt.  She was aware of Stone's glance at her legs,
which she knew were one of her best features.

Stone knew he had been caught looking at her legs, but she didn't seem
to mind.  "How many people knew you were going to spend the weekend at
the Trent?"  he asked.

"Only my secretary, Martha," Amanda replied.  "Martha always knows
where I am, in case of emergency."

"Last name?"

"McMahon."

"And how long has Martha been with you?"

"For fifteen years; she's my most trusted employee."

"Do you think Martha could be bought?"  "Absolutely not.  Anyway, she's
extremely well paid.  She earns on a par with a secretary to a
corporation head."

"Who else besides Martha knew?"

"No one."

"How did you travel to the hotel?"

"Oh, well, Paul, my driver, took me."

"So Paul knew where you were going?"

"Not exactly.  I mean, he knew the address, but

I don't think he could have known the significance."

"Did he know you were supposed to be in Saint Bart's?"

"Well, yes; he had been told that, in case anyone asked."

"So he knew you didn't go to the airport, that you were doing something
unusual."

"Yes, I suppose, but he never asked any questions.  Paul never does."

"Last name?"

"Brennan."

"How long with you?"  "Nine years."  "Trustworthy?"  "Absolutely."

"So that's two people who knew something.  How about at the hotel? Whom
did you see there?"

"No one; the desk clerk had turned his back when I ran for the
elevator."

"No maid, no anyone?"

"A maid did bring some sheets and towels a couple of times, and, of
course, there were room service waiters, but I was always in the
bathroom when they arrived."

"They knew that Mr.  Bell was with someone, though."

"I suppose they did; the meals were for two,

after all, but they would have no reason to know it was me."

"Did you carry a handbag there?"

"Yes, a small clutch."

"Where did you place it in the suite?"

"I ... dropped it on the floor when I entered the first time."

"Did it remain there?"

"No, when I left, it had been put on a table, by the maid, I
suppose."

"Might she have had time to open it?"

"Possibly; my driver's license was inside, and some credit cards."

"I see."

"Fro benning to see, too, i think," she sid.

"it's hard to o nv here wthout someone know one else who might have
known?"

"Bill Eggers?"

"No; I told him nothing."

"Let's look at the Saint Bart's end, then."

"How do you mean?"

"In the same way that certain people in New York knew you were
remaining in the city, certain people in Saint Bart's would have known
of your absence there."

"Oh, I see.  Well, certainly my, ah, putative host, the Duke, knew of
my absence, though he didn't .  know why.  The staff at the house would
have known I was not there, had anyone asked.  They would have known
about my message on the answering machine, conceivably.

"Was the Duke in residence at that time?"

"No, he was in London.  I believe he's in Saint Bart's this week."

"I think you might call him and ask if anyone inquired about your
presence or absence there during the time you were at the Trent."

"Good idea," she said, making a mental note.  "Have you visited the
Duke's house before?"  "Twice."

"How many staff?."

"A butler, a housekeeper, three maids, and a cook and kitchen staff.
Oh, a driver.  They've all been with the Duke for years, and he made a
point of their discretion."

"Good."

He was very thorough, Amanda thought, and she liked that.  She liked
his looks, too--tall, slender, blond hair going gray.  She liked the
good suit and shirt--not custom-made, perhaps, but fine quality.  She
liked the house.  She could make this man very well known, if she chose
to.  He was the sort of man she might like to be seen with.  She would
think about that.

"You would have made a good police detect ve Stone said.

Her eyebrows went up.  "Why do you think so'?."

"You're very observant, very analytical," he replied.  "At least as
much so as I."

"Thank you," she said, smiling.  "Only an observant person would see
that."

"Amanda, I think you may have it in you to solve this mystery without
my help.  Certainly you know the people involved better than I. You
know who might wish to hurt you."

Amanda laughed ruefully.  "They are legion," she said.  "In my business
I make enemies every week, even though I try very hard not to."

"I can see how it might be difficult not to make enemies."

"Not difficult, impossible.  I run the most innocuous item about
someone's marriage or divorce and, at the very least, I'm perceived as
having taken sides in the matter, sometimes by both parties."

Stone laughed, and she joined him.  She had seemed a bit stiff at
first, but now she had loosened up, and she was charming.  He was
forty-two, and he tended to be attracted to women a decade younger, but
she must be around his age, he thought, and he found her appealing.
Careful, this was business, at least for the moment.  He had been on
the point of offering her a drink.  Amanda glanced at her watch.

"Am I keeping you from something?"  Stone asked.  "I think we're about
finished for now, if you have to leave."  '

"I have another hour," she said, "if you do; and the sun is well over
the yardarm.  I wonder if-t might have a drink?"

"Of course," Stone said.  Mind reader!  "What would you like?"

"Oh, something light."

Stone picked up the phone and pressed a button or two.  "Helene,
there's a bottle on the bottom shelf of the small refrigerator.  Would
you bring that and a couple of glasses?"

Helene appeared with a bottle of champagne in a silver wine cooler and
a pair of flutes.

"Just set it on the desk; I'll open it," Stone said.

Helene departed; Stone opened the champagne and poured.

"Veuve Clicquot," Amanda said.  "My very favorite."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied.

Amanda lifted the thin glass and took a sip.  And Baccarat crystal,
too, she thought.  "Enough of business," she said.  "Tell me about
you."

"Not much to tell  Grew up in the Village; P.S. Six, NYU, law school,
joined NYPD, made detective, took early retirement, practiced law.
That's me in a nutshell."

"Stone," she said, "men like you don't fit into nutshells."

He laughed.

"I'm having some people for dinner on Friday evening.  Will you
come?"

"I'd be delighted."

She dug a card from her purse and handed it to him.  "Come at
six-thirty; that'll give us time to talk a bit before the others
arrive."

"All right."

She looked around the rooms.  "Your books tell me more about you than
you do."

Stone shrugged.  "I've nothing to hide."

"We'll see," she replied.

CHAPTER

tone arrived at Elaine's at eight-thirty, having only just sobered up
from the champagne with Amanda Dart.  Jack, the headwaiter, seated him
at the table just beyond the newly painted no-smoking line and brought
him a--Wild Turkey on the rocks without being asked.  Dino was late,
which didn't surprise him.  They had dinner once a week, usually at
Elaine's, but Dino had a lot of demands on his time these days.
Lieutenant Bacchetti, formerly Stone's partner on the force, now ran
the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct on East Sixty-seventh
Street.  Elaine pulled up a chair and sat down.  "You meeting Dino?"
"Yep."  "He might be late; his kid had a birthday party earlier."

"Then I'm surprised he's coming at all."

"I'm not," she chortled.  "He'd do anything to get out of something
like that."

"You're probably right.  Elaine, do you know Amanda Dart?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"What do you think of her?"

Elaine shrugged.  "I don't, much.  She comes in here a couple times a
month and eyeballs the crowd, but she doesn't write much about the
place.  If she ever printed anything nasty about a regular, I'd kick
her ass into the street."

"Do you know her at all, as a person?"

"Not at all; strikes me as one cold dish, though.  What's your interest
in her?"

"Oh, I met her recently, and she surprised me.  Just wondered what your
take was on her."

"She behaves herself in here; she's fine with me," Elaine said, then
she grinned.  "You heard about this DIRT thing that's making the
rounds?"  "I heard about it."

"Now, that's funny, to see one of these broads getting a dose of her
own venom."  She looked toward the door.  "Here comes Dino."  She stood
up, allowed Dino to give her a peck on the cheek, and wandered off
toward somebody else's table.

"Lord Barrington, I believe," Dino said in an execrable English accent.
He hung his coat on a hook along the wall and sat down, taking care not
to wrinkle the jacket of his fine Italian suit against the chair.

"You made chief yet?"  Stone asked.  "I woulda, if the mayor had any
brains."  "I just wondered; don't you have to be a chief to rate a
driver these days?"  Dino traveled in an unmarked car, driven by a
rookie detective.  "I like to give these kids the experience, you
know?" "Why don't you invite him in for a cup of coffee, at least?" 
"Let him freeze his ass off; when I was a rookie nobody ever invited me
in for a cup of coffee."  "That's because you never paid."  Dino looked
outraged. "I should pay?".  "I hear little Angelo had a
birthdaY'loday?"  "Yeah, he's four, if you can believe it.  His
grandfather wanted to give him a piece of ass for a present."  Stone
laughed.  "I guess that's the sort of thing you have to expect when you
knock up a capo's daughter."  ' "The kid'll make his bones by the time
he's six, if the old man has his way."  "How's Mary Arm?"  Dino made a
face.  "She wants to move into Manhattan."  "Sounds like a good idea." 
"Are you nuts?  She'll want eight rooms on the East Side; who can
afford that on a lieutenant's salary?  Let me tell you something,
Stone; don't ever marry into a royal family.  The princess will want to
live like a queen."

"Wouldn her daddy kick in for a place on the East Side?  I mean,
doesn't he love his little girl?"  "You bet your ass he Would, but I
can't take that from him.  Next time we get some commission looking
into corruption on the force, they'd have me by the balls."  "Not if
the place is in her name, paid for with her money."  "Shit, you think
he's just going to write her a check and say, "Here, honey, buy
yourself a coop'?  Nah, he'd have to screw somebody out of the place,
or he wouldn't feel right about it, you know?  I mean, he'd find some
schmuck with a nice apartment who owes him a hundred grand on the book,
and he'd take it away from him.  That's how the goombahs operate."  "I
guess you're right.  Still, if you're living in Manhattan, Mary Arm
wouldn't have to see so much of her family, would she?"  Dino
brightened at the thought.  "You got a point there, pal.  Anything I
could do to get out of those family dinners would be fine by me.  I
walk into the house and everybody stops talking, you know?  It's like
they been talking about burning down a building or clipping somebody,
and now I'm there, and they have to talk about the weather.  It's
uncomfortable, you know?" Stone shoved a menu at him.  "Want to start
with some calamari?"  "Yeah, sure."  Stone waved a waiter over.

They were on coffee when Elaine came their way, clutching a sheet of
paper and laughing heartily.  "Stone, you made the papers," she said,
handing him the paper.  Dino leaned over to read along with him.

Flash, earthlings!  Our favorite bitch queen, Amanda Dart, has hired
herself a shamus to track us down!  Don't you love it?No kidding, she's
retained ex-cop, now an East Side shyster, Stone Barrington, to find
out how we know so much.  You remember dear Stone: He was the cop who
broke the Sasha Nijinsky disappearance case a few years back.  For his
trouble, the department shipped him out.  Now he's supposed .--to catch
us at our work!  Lotsa luck, Stone!

"What's going on, Stone?"  Dino asked.  "I don't believe it," Stone
said.  "This happened only this afternoon, what, five hours ago?"
Elaine was loving it.  "I love it!"  she crowed.  "Tell me," Dino said.
Stone told him.  "You got nothing better to do with your time than to
track down somebody for an old dame who got caught with her knickers
down?"

"She's an important client of Woodman and Weld, or maybe just an
important person; I'm doing it as a favor to them.  And she's not so
old."  Dino shook his head.  "Give me a good homicide anytime."  He
drained his coffee cup and set it on the table, glancing at his watch.
"I gotta be somewhere," he said.  "Oh?"  Stone asked, looking at his
own watch.  "You're going home to Brooklyn so early?"  "Not directly
home, no."  "Dino."  Stone shook his head.  "You're going to get
yourself in trouble."  "What're you talking about, trouble?"  "I know
you; this unscheduled stop has something to do with a lady."  "So?" 
"So, if your father-in-law should hear about it, you won't have
anything to offer the ladies anymore."  "Stone, don't say stuff like
that," Dino said, shivering.  "You know I'm right."  "The old man has
too much to worry about that he should take an interest in my social
life."  "Don't be so sure, pal."  "I'm always careful," Dino said,
slipping into his coat.  "I hope you're right," Stone said.

CHAPTER

a the West Coast, as Dino left Elaine's, Allan Peebles arrived at his
Beverly Hills home after a long editorial board meeting at the
"newspaper" he edited, The American Infiltrator.  His editorial board
consisted--of a dozen writers and editors who had failed at real
newspapers and magazines and had ended up, as Peebles had, at the last
stop for a journalist, a seamy tabloid.  They were consoled by the fact
that they were considerably better paid than their counterparts at real
newspapers.

Peebles was an androgynous Scot who had fled his native Glasgow,
pursued by rumors about his sexual orientation, for London, where he
had acquired an English accent, an English wife, and, apparently while
holding his nose, two English daughters.  When the marriage failed, his
father-in-law, who owned a London tabloid, had sent him to America to
found a similar organ there, on the condition that he not return to
England until his daughters were of age.  To his father-in-law's
surprise, Peebles had succeeded in putting together a highly
profitable, if highly disreputable, publication, which specialized in
exposing those parts of the lifestyles of the rich and famous that they
had hoped would remain secret.  Peebles did this with some glee, while,
in the permissive atmosphere of La-La Land, indulging his own rather
specialized appetites.  Tonight, Peebles was hungry for pizza.  Upon
entering his empty house, he shucked off his jacket, picked up a phone,
and pressed an unlttbeled speed-dial button.  "Jiffy Pizza," a whiskied
female voice said.  "It's number two zero two; how are you, sweets?"
"Fine, baby; what's your pleasure tonight?"  "I'm in the mood for the
special."  ""Round-the-world?"  "You bet."  "With sausage?"  "Lots of
sausage."  "That's going to run you twenty," she said.  Twenty meant
two hundred.  "And cheap at the price, I'm sure it will be."  "Half an
hour, sweets.  Your order is in the oven."  "The sooner the better. 
Bye."  He hung up and walked into the kitchen.  Opening the freezer
door, he extracted a bottle of lemon vodka and poured himself a double.
 He always had to be a little drunk for pizza.

Three miles away, Sheila consulted her book and dialed a number.

"Hey, talk to me," a husky male voice said.

"It's the pizzeria," Sheila said.  "I've got an order for a
'round-the-world, with lots of sausage; I thought of you."

"Of course you did, baby."  "You available immediately?"  "How much?"

"Ten; you won't be there long, believe me."

"I can do it."

She gave him the address.  "Oh, and pick up a pizza on the way; we want
this to look good, don't we?  ..... "Sure we do."

"And be sure to get paid before he starts eating."

"You know it."

Allan Peebles finished his drink, poured another, then went to his
bedroom and stripped off his clothes, donning a terrycloth robe.  He
was looking at himself in the mirror, playing with his hair and sipping
his drink, when the doorbell rang.

When he opened the door, a muscular young man in shorts and t-shirt was
leaning against the jamb, holding a pizza box.  He smiled broadly,
revealing good dental work.  "Delivery," he said.

"Why don't we dine out by the pool?"  Peebles said, waving the young
man to follow.

The young man entered the house, kicking the door behind him.  It did
not quite close.

Peebles led the way through the house and out to the pool, switching on
the underwater lights as he went.  The garden was suffused with the
soft glow of the pool lighting.  Peebles let his robe drop to the
ground.  "I never dine clothed," he said.  "Do you?"

"I never complete a delivery until the check's been paid," the young
man responded.  "Nothing personal."

Peebles picked up the robe, extracted two one-hundred-dollar bills from
the pocket, and handed them to the young man.  "There's a nice tip in
it for you, if the service is good."

The young man dropped the pizza and got out of his clothes in a trice.
"The tip's about to be in it for you, darling," he said.

Out on the street, another young man got out of a car and opened the
trunk.  Inside was a large aluminum case, which he opened to reveal a
selection of photographic equipment.  He selected a machine-operated
35mm single lens reflex camera

and a small video camera, fixing them both to a bar containing two
floodlights.  Getting into a battery belt, the young man plugged in the
lights, closed the car trunk, and started toward the front door of the
house, where he could see a crack of light.  He opened the door an inch
and peered inside.  Nothing.  Emboldened, he stepped into the house and
listened.  A strange sound reached his ears; it seemed to be coming
from the rear of the house.  On tiptoe, he crossed the living room and
approached the sliding doors to the garden.  Outside, in the soft.
light from the pool he could make out what he had come for.  "Oh,
Jesus," he said.  "This is absolutely fab."  As he stepped through the
doors he was' able to see clearly, without the reflected glare from the
sliding panes.  Perched on the diving board were two figures, one on
his hands and knees, the other in more of a riding position.  The one
on top-was slapping the naked ass of the one on the bottom with his
open hand.  "Giddyap!!!"  the rider cried.  The one on the bottom made
loud, horsey noises.  The intruder made sure the microphone on the
video camera was operating, then pointed his equipment and switched on
the floodlights.  "Ride 'em cowboy!!!"  he crowed as he began to
photograph and tape.  "Give him the crop!!  I" Confusion ensued.  The
equestrian took one look at the floodlights, disengaged, swept up his
shorts, and fled across the garden, plowing straight through a privet
hedge.

The figure playing the equine role looked wide-eyed over his shoulder
and rolled off the diving board into the water.  A moment later he
surfaced, peering shyly over the rim of the pool and shouting, "Get
out!  Get out!  Get out!!!"

"Glad to oblige, Old Paint!  Got all I need!"  He turned and vanished
into the house, then onto the street:

CHAPTER

tone arrived at

Amanda's building at 10:00 A.M. for his appointment  He had phoned her
earlier that morning and asked to see her in her office.

The doorman looked at him appraisingly before allowing him into the
lobby, and' the man inside at the desk called upstairs and announced
him before allowing him into the elevator.  They both looked like
retired cops.  He was impressed with the building security.

He was met at the elevator by a plump woman with pale red hair who
appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties.

Mr.  Barrington?  I'm Martha, Amanda's secretary.  Will you follow me,
please?"  She led the way

' down a hall and through a heavy door.

Stone had noticed another, double door; that must be her apartment, he
thought.  He followed the woman into an open office area containing
three desks; one was empty---obviously Martha's, the other two were
occupied, respectively, by a young woman and a young man, both of whom
were on the phone.  He followed Martha into a comfortably decorated
office where Amanda, seated behind her desk, was on the phone.  She
waved him to a seat and dismissed Martha with a shooing motion.

"Yes, darling, I understand," Amanda was saying.  "Not a word to anyone
until you're ready, and I do appreciate your confiding in me alone.  It
is me alone, isn't it?  Yes, I'll see you soon."  She hung up the phone
and gave him a wide smile.  "StS, you found your way to my aerie."

"I did, and it's a very cozy working arrangement, even nicer than I'd
imagined."

"You know the joys of working at home, don't you?"

"I do."

"Well, then, what would you like to see here?"  "Your diary page for
yesterday," Stone replied.  She laughed, then handed it over.

Opposite four o'clock was written, "Stone Barrington, investigator,"
and his address.  He handed back the diary.  "To whom did you speak
between the time you left my house and, say,

eight-thirty last night?"

"Everybody?"

"Let's start with those you saw face to face."

"Well, there's Paul, my driver, of course, then I returned here and saw
the doorman and the lobby man, then came upstairs in time to see Martha
and my two other people before they left for the day."

"Did you say to any of them that you'd seen me?"

"No, but Martha knew I had, of course.  Martha knows all."

"Anybody else before eight-thirty?"

"No, I was home alone until nine, when I left for a dinner party."

"Do your employees commonly come into your office when you're out?"

"Yes, I suppose; they leave me notes oropy to read."

"Do you ordinarily leave your diary ope on your desk?"

"Ahhhh," she said.  "Yes, I do."  She produced the scandal sheet with
the mention of his assignment.  "Have you seen this?"

"I saw it at eight-thirty last night.  When did you write my name in
your diary?"

"When I made the appointment with you, earlier yesterday."

"Do any outside people come into your offices.

"Messengers, visitors."

"Did you have any visitors yesterday.  "No."  "Messengers?"

"There's a constant stream of them, but there's no way Martha would
have let one of them into my office."  "Does Martha keep a duplicate
diary of your day?"  "Yes, in her middle desk drawer."  "Does she ever
leave it on her desk?"  "Possibly.  I could ask her.  You think, then,
that someone saw your name in my diary?"  "So far, it seems the only
possible way that anyone could have known you brought me into this."
"You think it's one of my people, then?"  "Not necessarily, but it's a
possibility to keep in mind.  Who cleans your offices?"  "My live-in
maid, Gloria; she does my apartment, too."  "Could she have leaked the
information?"  "She wouldn't have come into the office until this
morning."  "What about yesterday afternoon?"  "No, I don't think so,
but I'll ask Martha."  "I think you should ask Martha to keep a log of
every person who comes into your offices, no matter how
briefly--messengers, repairmen, anybody."  "All right."  Stone reached
into his briefcase and took out a black plastic box.  "Do your phones
have the Caller ID feature that the phone company sells?"  "Yes; I
don't know how we ever did without it."  "On the fax line, too?"  "I'll
have to ask Martha."

"If you don't already have it for that line, ask Martha to arrange it,
then plug this unit into the line between the wall socket and the fax
machine.  Let's see if we can see where this.."  newsletter is being
faxed from."

"An excellent idea," Amanda said.

"Among your three employees, who is married?"

"None of them; Barry is gay, Helen is divorced, and Martha is
single."

"Does any of them have a regular companion?"  "Helen sees somebody, I
believe; Barry, who knows?  Martha doesn't seem to have a social life,
except vicariously, through me."  '

"I'd like to know who Helen sees and, to the extent possible, who
Barry's closer friends are."

Amanda frowned.  "I don't see how I can learn that without tipping them
off, if one of them is involved."

"Give me their addresses and phone numbers,

then; I'll have it checked out."  "Discreetly, I hope."  "Of course."

Amanda flipped through her address book and wrote down Helen's and
Barry's addresses.  "I really don't believe that either of them could
have anything to do with this; they've too much to lose."

"Then it will be best if we can eliminate them as suspects.  We have to
be sure."

"You know best," she said, handing over the addresses.

He looked at them.  "What about Martha?"  he asked,

"Oh."  She scribbled down the information and handed it over.  "But
believe me, investigating her would be a waste of your time."

"Then I won't bother until I've exhausted any other possibilities."

Martha appeared in the doorway, clutching a sheet of paper.  "Excuse me
for interrupting, Amanda, but I thought you'd want to see this."  She
handed her boss the paper.

Amanda read it quickly and handed it to Stone.

Greetings, earthlings!  Check out our dear Allan Peebles in the snaps
below!  Nice to know, isn't it, that the fellow who has outed so many
folks over the past couple of years is now out himself!  This little
photo op occurred in Allan's backyard only last evening.  The "rider"
was booked by a very discreet Beverly Hills service that provides
company for the lonely in the guise of pizza deliveries after dark.
Word is, you can order just about any combination of goodies your
little hearts desire!

Allan, who's been playing the part of a divorced gentleman and father,
was married to the boss's daughter, you know.  We hear that in order to
get pregnant the lady had to very carefully calculate her moment, then
wear a sailor suit to arouse dear Allan's interest long enough for a
transfer of seed!

Let's see if this makes the front page of this week's Infiltrator!

"Well?  Stone said, "it looks as if this little sheet has
coast-to-coast coverage, doesn't it?"

"It does," Amanda said, taking back the fax and staring at the
photographs, which made her want to vomit, because they were so similar
in nature to the one of her that had appeared in, the sheet.

"Mind you, it couldn't happen to a nice pounds uy.  "I don't doubt
it."

"What does this do for your investigation?"  she asked.

"Broadens it considerably, I should think," he replied.

CHAPTER

mie Millman waddled into Stone's office and plopped into a chair. Arnie
had been retired from the force for fifteen years, and he looked like
half a million elderly Jewish retirees in New York City, making him
ideal for surveillance.

"You putting on weight, Arnie?"  Stone asked.

"Always.  It's my wife's cheesecake; I can't help my selL

"You up for a little work?"

"Why not?  The money I can use."

Stone handed him a sheet of paper.  "Two people: Helen Charlson and
Barry White.  They both work for a client of mine, a gossip columnist
type, and some confidential information is leaking out of the client's
office.  The girl has a boyfriend, I'm told, and the guy is gay; don't
know who he sees.  I want you to find out who their principal social
contacts are and run brief checks on those people--employment
particularly.  I'm especially interested in anybody working in the
media, especially entertainment."

"When you need it?"  Arnie asked, making notes.  "Soonest; a week,
outside."

Arnie nodded.  "You want me to wire them?"

"Arnie, I've still got a license to practice law, and I want to keep
it."

"Stone, you know I'd never let it get back to you.  I'm just a
meddlesome old man who knows a lot of cops who wouldn't turn him in for
Omething like that."

"I'll leave it to you, then, but we never talked about it."

"Of course not."

"I'd like to know whether either of them has a lot of debt, is very
short of money, or haS' been spending beyond his or her means,
especially in cash.  Let's extend that to their lovers, as well."

"If you want all this that fast, I'm going to need to bring in a couple
guys."

"As long as they never hear of me."

"Budget?"

"Ample, but not open-ended."

"Gotcha."  Arnie got up and sauntered out of the office.

Stone's secretary buzzed him.  "Line one,

here come de judge."

Stone picked up the phone.  "Your Honor, how are you?"

"So-so," she replied.  "Can I buy you lunch today?"

"Sure.  Downtown?"

"Let's do it in your neighborhood; I'd just as soon not be seen
together around the courthouse."

"The Box Tree at twelve-thirty?"  "Good."  "I'll book."

The Box Tree was a dark, cozy restaurant not far from Stone's house. He
got there first andrdered half a bottle of wine.  It was all the two of
them would drink at lunch.

She came in five minutes later and, once again, he thought how
attractive she was--small, blond, pretty, and very fit.  He sought her
lips, but she offered her cheek.  Uh-oh, he thought.  "How are you,
Sara?"

"I'm all right."

He hadn't seen her for a week, a long time for them.  They usually
spent two or three nights a week together.  "You look wonderful today."
He poured her a glass of wine and waved at a waiter, who brought
menus.

"I'll just have the wine," she said.  "I can't really stay for
lunch."

"You came all the way uptown for a glass of wine?"

She looked him in the eye.  "It hasn't been going well, Stone, you
and

I."

"Funny, I thought it was going extremely well," he replied.

"You would think that," she said.  "Fact is, I don't like sneaking
around so the other lawyers I deal with won't know; I dom like rec
using myself from your cases and not being able to say why; and good
sex isn't enough."

"I thought we had more going than sex," he said.

"I thought so, too, for a while, but I was wrong.  We meet each other's
needs, to a point" and that point ends right after sex."

"You've met somebody, haven't you?"  She shrugged.  "Haven't you?"

"All right, I have; actually, it's somebody I've known for a long time
but am getting to know better."

"It's the real thing?"

"I don't know about that yet.  It might be, if I can devote some time
to it."

Stone nodded.  "And I'm using up a lot of time."

"You're using up a lot of me, Stone, and I'm not getting enough
back."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry; you've always been straight with me.  I know you
don't have any inter est in marriage, and I thought that was okay, but
it's just not.  I need something in my life with a future.  I'm
thirty-four, and I want kids before I'm forty."  "I can understand
that," Stone said into his wine glass.  "Not really," she said.  "It's
just not something you can empathize with.  You're a sweet man, Stone,
in lots of ways, but deep down inside you're very ... contained.  I
almost said cold, but that would be a bum rap.  You're just not ...
easy to reach.  I'm probably not the first woman to tell you something
like that."  Stone shrugged.  He didn't want to confirm it, but she was
right.  "So, who's the guy?"  "Torn Bill."  "Judge Thomas Bill?" 
"Right. Don't worry, I won't ever tell him about us.  He's the jealous
type, and he could make your life miserable in court."  "That he could.
What about you?  Are you going to make my life miserable?"  "Not in
court," she said, allowing herself a small smile.  "You'll be miserable
later, when you figure out what you've lost."  "I'm already miserable,"
he said.  "Not really, but you will be.  That'll be my little revenge
for your not taking me seriously.  "I always took you seriously."  "Not
seriously enough.". She shrugged.  "Your lOSS."  "My loss," he
agreed.

She sighed.  "Well, that's about it, I guess."  "Sure you don't want
some lunch?"

"I'm due back in court at.  two; I'd better get going."  She stood
up.

He stood up with her, at a loss for words.  "See you in court," she
said, and left.  Stone sat quietly, stating at the tablecloth.

A waiter approached.  "The lady won't be lunching?"  he asked.

"The lady won't be lunching,"

"And what would you like, Mr.  Barrington?"

"Sometimes I wonder that myself," Stone replied CHAPTER

On Friday evening Amanda stood naked before her dressing room mirror
and regarded her body.  She he exercised her whole life, and never more
regularly than during the past ten years.  The effort showed in her
trim figure; what few defects had appeared with age she had had
adjusted--a little off the tops of the thighs, a slight lifting and
augmentation of the breasts, and she was not all that different from
the girl she had been at eighteen, during her first year at Barnard.

She had been born Ida Louise Erenheim in Delano, Georgia, to a father
and mother who had both worked their whole lives at Delano Mills, one
of a group owned by the prominent Delano family of Atlanta, who had
founded her home town and for whom it had been named.  The girl's
earliest memories were of her mother picking lint from her hair after a
ten-hour day among the looms.

Ida Louise had discovered early the importance of her beauty, at first
to the girls who were her social betters in the town and later to the
boys from the better families.  She had also been a very bright child,
good in school and mature beyond her years.  At a time when her
girlfriends were giggling about sex at pajama parties, Ida Louise had
been enthusiastically practicing it in various back seats, usually of
Cadillacs and Lincolns.  Word had quickly spread among the richer boys
that Ida Louise responded well to shows of wealth.

By the time her girlfriends were thinking of offering up their
virginity, Ida Louise he acquired a sexual repertoire that had
astonished a number of athletic stars and one teacher.  The teacher had
filled out her scholarship application for Barnard and written his
proposal letter while she had knelt under his desk and fella ted him to
higher flights of endorsement.  Shortly after she had foolishly
confided this incident to an athlete lover, She hal found herself
trapped in a locker room with the first string, and, faced with gang
rape, had decided to enjoy the experience.  She had, indeed, enjoyed it
right up to the moment when they had beaten her senseless and left her
naked and battered on the cold cement floor, to be discovered by a
janitor, who had called the coach.  The business had been hushed up,
and Ida Louise had missed giving her valedictory address at graduation,
departing early for New York and Barnard, caring not who saw her
brUises in the day coach of the Atlantic

Coast Line Railroad.  For the rest of her life, the smell of sweaty
athletic clothing would cause her to have unreasoning panic attacks.
She had never again entered any sort of locker room, preferring to
exercise outdoors or at home.  The event had,

though, instilled in her the iron determination that for the rest of
her life it would be she who con trolled every aspect of her sex life.
She had made the mistake of allowing someone else to do that,

and she would never make that mistake again.

Her first act on arriving in New York had been to find a lawyer and
legally change her name to

Amanda Delano, which name her cooperating high school teacher had
already placed in her school records and scholarship appTication.

Amanda had a much nicer ring than Ida Louise,

and thereafter she had not disabused her college friends from thinking
that she was one of the mill owning Atlanta Delanos.

At Barnard, Amanda had remained celibate for a year while pouring her
sexual frustration into her studies and the school newspaper, for which
she wrote a column on campus social life.  When she could no longer
tolerate a life without sex, she began to seek out older, often married
men assistant professors, usually, who demanded no full-time
relationship and who could recommend her for the best classes and
teachers.  After graduation from Barnard she got a job on the old

Journal-American and, very soon afterward, began

an affair with a forty-year-old assistant managing

editor, one Robert Dart, who she knew was headed for a top job at the
paper.  Within a year he had promoted her twice, given her her own
column, and divorced his wife of fifteen years to marry Amanda.

The marriage was hell for both of them, but it had ended well for
Amanda when Bob Dart had dropped dead on a squash court and left her
his name, a cooperative apartment in a good neighborhood, and two
hundred thousand dollars in life insurance.  She had hardly been set
for life, but now she had a career, a certain respect as the widow of a
well-known journal!  st and, above all, the column.  When the
Journal-American had folded, Dick Hickock's predecessor had recruited
her and syndicated the column.  Amanda Delano Dart had made herself
powerful.

Amanda pulled on a pair of stockings and secured them to her garter
belt.  Her legs were too long for most pantyhose, and she felt somehow
more alluring in a garter belt anyway.  She slipped silk panties over
the stockings and stepped into a short, low-cut black dress from her
fay rite, Chanel, that showed off both her good legs and her firm
breasts.  She needed no bra, and with the twitch of a shoulder she
could give a properly attentive man a glimpse of nipple.  A pair of
black alligator Ferragamos and a modest diamond necklace and earrings
completed her outfit.

She walked into the living room and gave it a quick once-over.  She had
long since trained her housekeeper, Bela, to perfection, but knowing
that Amanda noticed kept her that way.  She strolled into the dining
room and checked the place settings, then toured the kitchen to see how
the caterers were coming along.  The television was on in the kitchen,
and she was stopped in her tracks by the lead story on Gossip Tonight,
which followed the evening news.  An "anchorman" was saying: "Word is
out around New York and L.A. that two of gossip's leading figures have
figured unflatteringly in a newsletter-by-fax called DIRT, which has
been going out to a list of movers and shakers over the past week.  The
lady was allegedly caught in a most compromising position in a New York
hotel, and the gentleman, who has taken part in a number of public
outings of gay men and women, was said to have been photographed during
a sex act with a pizza deliveryman.  Can libel suits be far behind?  It
will be interesting to see."  Amanda kept moving, but her heart was
pounding.  She glanced at her Cartier watch.  Stone Barrington was due
for an early drink in fifteen minutes.

Stone was knotting his tie when Gossip Tonight followed the news and
Amanda's indiscretion was mentioned.  Not by name, though, thank God.
That would have certainly played hell with Amanda's dinner party.  He
didn't know who all

her guests would be, but chances were at least some of them would have
seen DIRT.

He slipped into his jacket and surveyed himself in the mirror.  Dark,
chalk-striped suit by Ralph Lauren, black baby calf shoes from E.
Vogel, an old family shoemaker in Chinatown, a cream-colored silk shirt
from Turnbull & Asset in London, and a reasonably sober necktie and
pocket square from the same people.  "His cuff rinks were old gold, his
wristwatch a Cartier Tank.  Perfect East Side dinner party garb, he
thought.  He gave his hair a final brush, tucked his gold reading
glasses into his jacket's breast poclget, and let himself out of the
house, whistling down a passing cab.  That loud whistle, learned in
boyhood, had served him well in New York City.  '

Amanda heard the elevator chime as it stopped in her foyer.  She
smoothed down her dress and banished nervousness.  She was ready for
her first guest.

CHAPTER

man da opened the door, and Stone was very taken with what he saw.
Before him was just about the most perfectly turned out woman he had
ever seen.

"Stone, darling, come in," Amanda said, offering him a cheek to peck.
She turned and led him into the living room, a vision of chintz and
good pictures.

"What a beautiful room," Stone said, knowing he was saying the right
thing.

"Thank you, kind sir."

"And an even more beautiful hostess."

"For that, you get a real kiss," she said.  Amanda took his face in his
hands and planted upon his lips a soft kiss, with only a hint of
tongue.  Her carefully blotted lipstick remained un smeared  "And now a
drink," she said.

"Bourbon on the rocks, please?"  "Jack Daniel's?  Wild Turkey?  Old
Crow?"  "Wild Turkey, please."  "A man after my own heart," she said.
"You must have southern blood."  "No, just southern tastes in some
things."  "As a Georgian, I thank you," she said, deftly pouring two
drinks at a butler's tray across the room.  "I'm so glad you didn't
wear an overcoat.  Gloria is busy in the kitchen, and I hate dealing
with coats."  "I wear coats only when I am likely to be cold," he said,
lifting his drink.  "New friends," Amanda said, raising her glass. I'll
drink to that."  They did.  Amanda took his hand and led him to a soft
sofa.  "I hope you have nothing to report," she said.  "Nothing yet." 
' "Good; I'm in no mood to talk business.  That is a very handsome
suit; who made it?"  "A Mr.  Lauren runs them up for me." "Can't go
wrong there, can you?"  "Nope.  Who's coming to dinner, besides me?" 
"Bill and Susan Eggers, whom you know, of course."  "Bill since law
school; Susan only from a few law firm parties."  "Dick and Glynnis
Hickock."  "He owns your paper?"

"Right, and don't kowtow to him, whatever you do, or he'll consider you
his inferior forever."

"I'll try not to be impressed.  Anyone else?"  "Vance Calder and some
girl or other."  "Now I'm impressed."

"Be sure and let him know it, or he'll be hurt."

"I don't think I've ever had dinner with a real live movie star."

"Superstar, darling; if you forget, he'll remind you."

"And his girl?"

"One never knows with Vance.  She might be a princess or a whore--more
likely both."  She sipped her drink.  "I've not asked you, Stone; is
there a woman in your life?"

"There was until yesterday."

Amanda smiled.  "How convenient.  I hope you're not too crushed."

"I'm managing."

"Something I should mention before the others arrive: don't be the last
to leave, all right?"  "Whatever you say."

"It's not that I wouldn't want you to stay, it's just that I don't want
to start any rumors."

"As you wish."

"As a reward for giving up a late evening with me, how would you like
to drive out to the country tomorrow?"

"Sounds lovely."

"It will be.  The autumn leaves are at their peak, and the weather
forecast for tomorrow is perfection."

"I'll look forward to it."  "Will you meet me downstairs at nine sharp?
We'll take my car; it's new, and I can't get enough of it.  Do you
drive?"  "I do, but I've always thought of a car as a liability in this
city."  "It is, unless you have a convenient garage and a driver."  The
doorbell rang, and Amanda looked at her watch.  "That will be Dick
Hickock," she said.  "He always comes to dinner exactly on time, damn
him."  A moment later, the maid ushered in the Hickocks and
introductions were' made'A man appeared to mix drinks while the maid
went to answer the door again.  Hickock was a stocky, balding man in an
expensive suit; his wife, Glynnis, looked expensive, too.  Hickock
fixed him with a stare.  "What do you do, Barrington?"  he asked.  '
"I'm a lawyer, and please call me Stone."

"You can call me Mr.  Hickock."

"Thanks, Dick."  Hickock managed a small smile.  "What firm?"  "I'm of
counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I practice privately, too."  "What
sort of practice?  Financial?"  "Only if the transaction is perceived
as being of a criminal nature."  "Ah, a mob lawyer, eh?"  "No, my
clients seem to arrive one at a time."

"But they're criminals?"

"I represent only the innocent, even if they're proven guilty."

Hickock laughed aloud.  "And what did you think of this O.J.
business?"

"If I should ever be charged with a double murder, I would be very
pleased for Johnnie Cochran, Bob Shapiro, and Lee Bailey to represent
me."

Bill and Susan Eggers entered the room and greeted everyone.  Stone
liked Bill, but had always found Susan to be cold, even haughty.  She
had been Bill's entree to the Four Hundred, such as they were.  She
shook Stone's hand and seemed ready to ward off any attempt at a
kiss.

Vance Calder arrived last, no doubt to make an entrance, and Stone
found him to be just as handsome and charming as he was on the screen.
He had been called the new Cary Grant, and Stone thought that
appropriate.  He also thought that Calder's date was probably the most
beautiful woman in New York.  She was as tall as Calder, which wasn't
as tall as Stone had expected; she had shoulder-length hair the color
of ranch mink and was wearing a mannish pinstriped, double-breasted
suit.  "This is Arrington Carter," the actor said after he had shaken
Stone's hand.  "Arrington, this is Stone Barrington."

"Mr.  Barrington," the young woman said with a pleasingly southern
accent, "you and I must never, ever marry."

Stone and Calder both erupted with laughter,

while she regarded them coolly.  "Gentlemen, you make my point for me,"
she said.

Stone had an urgent desire to sweep her out of the room someplace where
he would not have to share her company with anyone else.  Then he
reminded himself who her date was, and what his own chances were of
taking her away from a man whom People magazine, only the week before,
had dubbed "the most beautiful man in America."

They sat at a beautifully set round table and dined on caviar, followed
by a crown, roastf lamb, with bearnaise sauce on the side, and very
good, fairly old wine.  Stone was placed between Amanda and Arrington,
and his hostess gave.  him the distinct impression that she would have
arranged things differently if she had met the other woman
beforehand.

Hickock was holding forth about the newspaper business.  He took a swig
of the Opus One '89 and addressed Stone.  "Do you read my newspaper?" 
"Only for Amanda's column," Stone replied.

"Isn't he sweet?"  Amanda said, squeezing Stone's thigh under the
table.

"What about my editorial page?"  Hickock asked.

"I only read your editorial page if I want to be annoyed," Stone
said.

Everybody laughed but Hickock.  "I take it you're a Democrat," he
said.

"A liberal Democrat," Stone replied.

"These days nobody decides to become a liberal Democrat," Hickock said.
"It must run in your family."

"On the contrary, my father was a Communist;

so was my mother."

Hickock looked genuinely shocked.  "You can't be serious."

"Entirely," Stone said.  "I can't really complain about it, because
their politics brought them together.  Where would I be if one of them
had been a Republican?"

Vance Calder spoke up.  "What work did your father do?"  ,

"He was a carpenter."

Bill Eggers broke in.  "... and something of a genius as a maker of
furniture and cabinet work.  If he had been working in this country
during the eighteenth century, Sotheby's would be selling his work for
very high prices today."

"Why did he become a Communist?"  Hickock asked.

"He had a Republican father," Stone explained.

Amanda spoke up.  "Stone's mother was Matilda Stone."

Hickock and Calder looked blank.

"The painter," Amanda explained.

Arrington Carter was smiling broadly.  "I own one of her pictures," she
said to Stone.  "Of Washington Square in winter."

Stone was surprised.  "What good taste you have."

"I certainly do."  "Arrington has a very good collection," Vance Calder
said.  "I explained that to Vance," Arrington said to the table.  "He
only knows about clothes, scripts, and leading ladies."  Coffee was
served in the library, and Stone declined brandy.  "I really have to be
leaving," he said, rising.  "I have an early appointment tomorrow
morning."  He collected a grateful smile from Amanda, shook hands with
the other guests, and went home.  As he lay in bed, waiting for sleeg,
he thought of Arrington Carter, but tried 'o dism3ss her from his mind.
He couldn't compete with the likes of Vance Calder.  ' Arrington
Barrington.  He laughed aloud.

CHAPTER

tone took the wheel and pulled away from Amanda's apartment building.
"Wonderful car," he said, heading across Seventy-ninth Street toward
the West Side Highway.

"Isn't it?"  Amanda agreed.  "This is the first time I've sat in the
front seat."

As he accelerated onto the highway, Stone realized for the first time
what twelve cylinders meant.  "Unbelievable," he said.

' Amanda smiled.  "Don't get a ticket; I don't want to waste a minute
of today."

After paying the toll as they left Manhattan, Stone set the cruise
control at a reasonable number and relaxed, letting the amazing car do
the work.  The leaves along the Sawmill River

Parkway were beginning to change color, but as they drove north, the
colors intensified.  By the time they were north of Danbury, the maples
were so brilliant as to be distracting.  Following Amanda's
instructions, Stone ran the car along the winding Connecticut roads
through Brookfield and Bridgewater.  South of Washington, they turned
down a narrow road into the woods, and after two miles they came to a
beautiful little colonial house set back from the road behind a screen
of birches and flaming maples.  A handful of geese sunned themselves
beside a small pond.

"Spectacular," Stone said, as they got out of the

"I bought it twelve years ago for peanuts, and I've been redecorating
ever since," Amanda said.  "After Sister Parrish died, I did it mostly
myself.  Will you get the basket from the trunk, please?"

Stone followed her through the front door and to the kitchen, where he
deposited the basket.  Amanda got a bottle of Krug Brut from the fridge
and poured them both a glass.  "Ready for lunch?"  she asked.

"I'm ready for anything," Stone replied.

"I'm delighted to hear it.  Why don't you light the fire in the living
room, and VII be in in a moment.  Take the champagne with you."

Stone followed instructions, kneeling on a deep sheepskin rug to fan
the fire.  He tossed his jacket onto the sofa and sat cross-legged on
the sheepskin, staring into the crackling flames.

"I love a fire," Amanda said, setting down a silver tray and joining
him on the rug.  Having shed her coat, she was wearing a red cashmere
jumpsuit that zipped up the front.  The tray contained a lobster salad
and a loaf of French bread, and they dug into it.  When they had
finished, Amanda pushed the tray aside and stretched out on the rug,
her head in Stone's lap.  Sunlight streamed into the room, bringing out
the soft colors in the carefully chosen furnishings.  "Mmmm, I feel
almost perfect," she said.

"What would make you feel completely perfect?"  Stone asked.

She laughed a low laugh and turned on her side.  Gently, she put her
mouth on his ffrotch and softly bit at his penis through his trousers.
"That would,"

she said.  "Why are we wearing all these clothes?"  "I can't imagine,"
Stone replied.

She sat up and began working on his buttons.  When she had stripped him
of all his clothing, she stood, tugged at the long zipper, and stepped
out of her jumpsuit.  He was already fully erect, and she knelt on the
sheepskin and took him into her mouth.

"If you do that much longer there won't be anything left," Stone
panted.

She stopped and climbed on top of him.  "I'll be the judge of when
there's nothing left," she said, taking him inside her.  For better
than half an hour they lay on the sheepskin, changing positions
occasionally, experimenting, until she let out a

sharp cry and began her orgasm.  Stone rose to meet her, and they came
nearly together, noisily, groping and gasping.  Finally she fell,
panting, beside him on the rug.  "What a wonderful first time," she
breathed, stroking his damp penis.  "Wonderful is the word," Stone
agreed.

"Let me tell you how it's going to be with you and me," Amanda said.

"All right, tell me."

"We're not going to become an item around the city," she said.  "We're
not going to fall in love.  We're going to be friendly, maybe even
friends, and we're going to meet whcnwe feel like it, not out of any
sense of mutual obligation, but when we both feel like fucking each
other, and when we do, we're going to do it well.  Can you live with
that?"

"Oh, it'll be a struggle, I suppose, but I think I can manage

"Not too cold and hard a relationghip for you?"

"A fellow needs all sorts of relationships.  Why don't we try it and
see how it goes?"

"I'd love that, but you have to understand, I don't get involved.  My
life is too complicated for anything beyond sex."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Keep this in mind, too: there isn't anything you can do to me,
excepting violence, that I won't enjoy, and there's nothing you could
want that I wouldn't love doing to you.  All my life I've had a
voracious sexual appetite, and I love doing to just

as well as being done to.  Am I beginning to sound like the perfect
woman?"  "Just about."  She laughed.  "I'm not jealous, either; you can
fuck whomever you like, and it won't bother me.  But please understand:
discretion must be absolute.  Nobody knows we're together or where we
are, and that's the way I want to keep it."  "Not even Martha?"  "Not
even Martha With this scandal sheet thing happening I must be very,
very careful.  We can fuck at my apartment or at your house or here,
but only when we're absolutely alone, agreed?"  "Agreed."  She was
kneading his penis, then she swallowed it for a moment and stopped. "Do
you particularly like this?"  she asked.  "Particularly," he managed to
reply.  She found an orifice with a finger.  "And this?"  "Oh, yes."
She returned to his penis, but did not remove her finger.  Stone found
her buttocks with his hand and returned the favor.  For the next
several minutes they used only lips and fingers until both came again.
When they had exhausted their orgasms, Amanda left for a couple of
minutes and came back with a basket of hot towels.  Slowly, they
sponged the sweat and fluids from each other's body; then they
stretched out again onto the sheepskin and relaxed.

"I wish we could stay the night," Amanda said, "but I have to be back
in the city this evening for an important engagement."  "It's all
right," Stone replied.  "If we stayed the night I might be dead by
morning."  She giggled.  "But you'll be ready again when we've dozed
for a while, won't you?"  She took a light hold on his penis and
squeezed. "I am entirely in your hands," Stone breathed.  She laughed. 
"Easy now; rest for a little while."  "Amanda, I've never met anyone
quite like you," he said.  "My darling, you have no ia, as yet, just
how true that is.  But you will."  Somehow, he knew she was right.

CHAPTER

tone was home by dark; he came into the house at dusk, feeling oddly
empty inside.  Drained might be a better word, he thought, reminding
himself of how he had spent the afternoon.  He switched on the living
room lights and walked to the study, sinking into a leather wing
chair.

Stone had always thought of himself as having a large appetite for sex,
but he had never before met anyone as voracious as Amanda Dart.  He
remembered, in a high school science class, seeing a captive black
widow spider as it came upon a fly in its web and watching as the
spider had sucked the life out of the fly.  Now he thought he knew how
the fly felt.

He was about to go upstairs when a red light on lln the telephone
beside him began to flash.  It was the fax machine in his office, and
he wondered who could be faxing him on a Saturday evening.  He walked
downstairs, switched on the office lights, and went to the machine.  It
was just spitting out a sheet of paper, and he picked it up.

Oh, God, he thought, what now?

Greetings, earthlings!  Fabulous dinner party at dear Amanda Dart's
last evening, just fabulous!  A roster from the A-liSt.  distinguished
one and all.  There was Richard A. ickock, dear Amanda's publisher,
whose nineteen-year' old mistress, one Tiffany Potts (no kidding) was,
somehow, not invited.  Tany resides in nineties splendor in a lovely
brownstone apartment not a condom's throw from Dickie's own digs on
Fifth Avenue, and she is not trotted out on st]eh occasions.  Though
top-heavy, Tiffany's tits are her own, not the gilt of a quack, and we
are reliably informed that they are what keeps Dickie coming back for
more.  The publisher's mammary complex is well known--what's the
matter, Dickie, didn't Mommy do right by you as a baby?

The gorgeous Vance Calder was there, too, sporting one of the lovelies
he hopes will keep folks from asking too many questions about his

erotic preferences.  This one is d to have a brain, tool

Finally, there was the handsome lawyer-cum-gumshoe, Stone Barrington,
who Amanda has retained to uno over little old us.  Watch out, Stone,
even though Amanda has just turned fifty, she's as horny as ever she
was.  The former Ida Louise Erenheim, who hails from the down scale
side of some small-town Georgia tracks, has bounced from bed to bed for
thirty-odd years, improving her station with each hop.  She's discreet,
we'll give her that, but keep your fly zipped, Stone, or dear Amana
will be on' you like a bunny rabbit!

Stone's ears reddened as he read the sheet.  The phone rang, and he
picked it up.  "Hello?"

"Stone, it's Amanda.  Another of those horrible faxes just came in, and
I've got the number from the Caller ID box attached to my fax
machine."

"Give it to me."  She dictated the number, and Stone wrote it down.
"I'll check it out and get back to you," he said.

"I'll be out all evening, but you can get me inst' thing in the
morning."

"Right."  He hung up and switched on his computer.  From a box on his
desktop he

selected a CD-ROM disk and inserted it into the computer.  A few
keystrokes later a window appeared on the screen.  "Name or phone?." it
asked.

He selected PHOSE and typed in the number Amanda had just given him.
"Searching," the screen said.  A few seconds later a name and address
appeared on the screen.  EDDIE'S

MAILBOXES.  The address was on Lexington Avenue in the upper seventies.
Stone wrote it down, left the house through his office door, and hailed
a cab.  Less than ten minutes from when the fax had come in he was
walking into Eddie's Mailboxes.  A young man sood behind the counter.

"Evening," Stone said.

"Yeah," the young man said.  "Help you with something?"

Stone put the scandal sheet on the counter.  "This was faxed to me a
few minutes ago;-can you tell me who brought it in here?"

"Well, the way I look at it," the young man said, "that's kind of
confidential information."

Stone put a twenty on the counter.  "Describe the person."

The twenty disappeared.  "Hispanic, late teens,

on the short side."  "Male or female?"  "Male."

"How long ago?"

"About forty-five minutes.  He gave me the

S'IUAI WOODS

sheet and a list of numbers.  The machine is still faxing them."

"Can I see the list of numbers?"

"Well..."

Stone produced another twenty.

The young man produced a sheet of papers with around fifty numbers on
it.  Some were in New York, some in L.A.

"This Hispanic teenager; he ever been in here before?"

"I never seen him."

"You ever fax something like this before?"  "First time.  Entertaining,
ain't it?"  "Thanks," Stone said, and turned to go.

"I'll tell you this for free," theoung man said.  Stone stopped and
turned.  "Yes?"

"I think somebody gave the kid a few bucks to bring it in here, you
know?"

Stone nodded and left, tucking the list of phone numbers into his
pocket.  He got a cab home, went back to his study, and poured himself
a bourbon'.  The message light was flashing on his answering machine.
Probably Amanda, he thought, pressing a button.  The machine rewound
quickly; only one message.

"This is Arrington Carter," a woman's voice said.  "Give me a call when
you get a chance."  She left a number.

"My goodness," Stone said aloud while he dialed the number.  "It
certainly pays to stay home on a Saturday night."  The phone rang, and
there was a click.

"Hi, I'm out, leave a message," her recorded voice said.  Stone slumped
with disappointment.  He must have just missed her.  "It's Stone
Barrington, returning your call," he said.  I'll look forward to
hearing from you."  He hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately.
He grabbed it on the first ring; it must be her.  "Hello?"
"Barrington?"  a man's voice said.  He sounded

"Yes."  "This is Richard Hickock."  "Hello, Dick."  "Is it true that
you're working for Amanda on this thing?"  "What thing?"  "This DIRT
business.  The goddamned thing came in on my home fax machine.  My wife
could have seen it."  "I'm afraid I can't discuss that, Dick.  You'll
have to talk to Amanda."  "I'll do that, don't worry; I just want to
say this: You find out who's doing this, and I'll double whatever
Amanda's paying you."  "As I said, I can't discuss it."  "I'll get back
to you," Hickock said, slamming down the phone.  Stone sighed.  He'd
rather it had been Arrington Carter.  He went downstairs, started his
computer, and began identifying the phone numbers on the

DIRT distribution list.  They were pretty much what he had
expected--newspapers, TV shows, columnists.  Halfway through he tired
of the list, shut off the computer, and crawled into bed with a book.

CHAPTER

Stone was awakened by the ringing telephone.  He opened an eye and
looked at the beside clock: nine-thirty.  He didn't usually sleep so
late.  "Hello?"  he grumbled into the phone.  "It's Amanda; what did
you find out last night?"  "The fax was sent to a distribution list
from a mailbox and copy shop on Lex in the Seventies.  Apparently our
man gave some kid a few bucks to deliver it; he's being careful." 
"Damn!"  she said.  "I was hoping for a break."  "So was I. I think
we'll find the next one will be sent from a similar place by similar
means.  I did get a copy of the distribution list, though."  "Who was
on it?"  "Just who you'd think--anybody who might spread the word. 
Nothing to be learned from the list, i'm afraid."

"So we're back to square one?"

That was an embarrassing question, and Stone didn't answer it.  "I got
a call from Dick Hickoek last night.  He's interested in finding out
who the publisher of DIRT is, too."

"I'm not surprised, after the contents of last night's fax.  He's
already 'been onto me this morning.  I don't mind in the least if you
work for him, too."

"Well, so far I don't have anything more to tell him than I have to
tell you."

"Keep at it," she said, and hung, up without another word.

Wide awake now, Stone brushed his teeth,

took his vitamins, and got into a robe.  He went to the little
kitchenette outside his bedroom, got some English muffins and coffee
going, then retrieved the Sunday Times from his front doorstep.  He was
back in bed, eating breakfast and reading the paper, when the phone
rang again.  "Hello?"

"It's Arrington Carter," a low voice said.

"Morning."

"You had breakfast yet?"

"Nope," he replied, setting down his half-eaten muffin.

"Can I buy you brunch?"

"Why don't you come over here; I'll fix you an omelette."

"I'd rather meet you at the Brasserie in half an hour."

"Make it an hour; I haven't really gotten started this morning."

"An hour it is," she said, "and brunch is on me."

"Yes, ma'am."  They both hung up.

She was waiting at the top of the stairs that descended into the
restaurant; they shook hands and got a table immediately.  She ordered
a pitcher of mimosas, sat back in the booth, nd looked at him through
large, dark glaSSes.  "So," she said.  "Tell me about you."

"What do you want to know?

"More than you're probably willing to tell me."  "I'm an open book,"
Stone said, "but I'd rather talk to eyes than shades."

She took them off, revealing large green eyes, a little red around the
rims, no makeup.

"Late night?"

"Swine," she said equably.  "I reveal myself, and you point out my
weaknesses."

"I don't see any weaknesses."

"Good.  Now, you were going to tell me about yourself."

Stone gave her the sixty-second version of his biography.  "Now," he
said, "who you?"  "Me Jane," she said.  "Who Tarzan?"

"No Tarzan, just me."

"Good news."

"I'm glad you think so.  Who your Jane?"  "She took a hike last week."
"You all broken up?"  "No, just mystified."

She laughed.  "I'll bet she told you exactly why she was dumping
you."

He shrugged.  "You're right, she did, and she was specific."

"Not enough of a commitment?"  "Something like that; how'd you guess?"
"Attractive men your age who've never been married nearly always come
up short in the commitment department."

"You were telling me about you," Stone said.  "In sixty seconds or
less, like you?"  "If you like."

"Virginia girl from old Virginia family, Virginia schools, et cetera,
et cetera."

"You've got fifty-five seconds left."

"Came to New York to be an actress, didn't like the process, wrote
about it, wrote other stuff, still writing."

"Fiction or non?"

"Non, although there's half a novel somewhere in my computer."

Something rang a bell.  "Did you once write a piece for The New Yorker
about being an actress in New York?"

"Guilty."

"I liked that piece; I guess I'd never given any thought to what a
tough life it can be."  "Thank you for the kind review."  "Were you any
good as an actress?"  "As a matter of fact, I was."  "Why didn't you
stick with it?"  "You read my piece."

"I find it hard to believe that someone so beautiful would have a hard
time making it if she had talent, too."

"Let me tell you something: Being beautiful is hard work, maybe even
harder than acting."

"I'd always thought beauty was a great advantage in any field."  '

"There are advantages, God knows, but they are offset by the
liabilities."

"Such as?"

"The difficulty of hanging on to one's soul.  There are lots of people
out there who are in the market for it, and some of their offers are
hard to, turn down."

"I see your point."

"You probably don't, or at least not much of it, but you'll just have
to take my word for it, because the subject is too boring to be
discussed while sober.  Let's order some breakfast."

They both ordered eggs benedict, and passed the time until their food
came discussing the variety of people sitting around them in the
restaurant.

"What made you call me?"  Stone asked, finally.

"You fishing for compliments?"

"Apart from my devastating attractiveness, I mean."

She laughed.  "I haven't spent very much time with men as gorgeous as
Vance Calder," she said, "but it occurred to me that meeting me in the
company of somebody like that might slow a man down when it came to
calling me.  You didn't, for instance, ask me for my number, or even
ask me anything that might tell you how to get in touch with me."

"You're right; I judged the competition to be impossibly tough."

"Well, relax; Vance isn't competition."

"What is he?"

"A friend, sort of sometimes.  He's mostly on the coast; sometimes he
calls me when he's in town and he needs a date."

"It never occurred to me that Vance Calder would ever need a date."

"Well, he does, and he doesn't like bimbos.  Vance is a very bright
man, as anyone who has ever negotiated a contract with him can tell
you, and he likes bright company.  That's not so easy to come by, even
for him."

"Is he gay?"

"Not so's a girl would notice," she said.  "I've never known a more
attentive man.  There are rumors, but there are always rumors about
people in his position, even when they've been married and divorced a
couple of times, as he has."

"I hope I'm not being inattentive.  May I have your number again?  I'd
like to call it often."

She fished a card from her bag and handed it to him.  "See that you
do."

He put the card into his jacket pocket.  "What is it with this DIRT
thing?"  she asked.  "Where'd you hear about it?"

"Vance had a copy in his pocket on Saturday night, the one about
Amanda's little hotel rendezvous."

"Oh, that one."

"She hired you to run it down, then, like the sheet says?"

"I couldn't confirm that, even if-she had."  "Well, I'm glad you're not
a blabbermouth."

"By the way, did you know that you rnde the latest edition of DIRT?."

Her eyes widened.  "What are you talking about?"

He produced last night's fax and handed, it to, her.  She read it with
hated breath.

"Jesus, that was fast, wasn't it?"

"It was."

"At least it didn't mention my name."

"I wonder why," he said.

"Why do you think?"  she asked.

"I don't know.  It would seem that the publisher's information was good
enough to do so, if he wanted to, but he didn't.  He did pay you the
compliment of calling you bright, though."

"How would he know?"

"Maybe the publisher is somebody who knows you.  Did you tell anybody
you were going to the dinner party?"

"No; Vance only called me on Friday, and he didn't say who'd be there,
except for Amanda."  "What did you think of Amanda?"

"I think she's predatory," Arrington said.  Stone's ears were burning,
and he hoped she didn't notice.  "I don't really know her well enough
to confirm that," he lied.

"Trust me; a girl knows about these things."

"I think I do trust you.  Why do you think that is?"

She smiled.  "Because you have good judgment."

As they left the restaurant, she immediately flagged down a cab.

"I was hoping we could spend the day together," Stone said.

"Sorry, I've got plans.  I'd like to see you soon, though; will you
call me.  "I certainly will."

She pecked him on the cheek, got into the cab, and rode away.

Stone walked slowly home, facing a Sunday alone with the papers and 60
Minutes.  Well, he thought, it wouldn't be the first.

CHAPTER

irst thing Monday morning, Arnie Millman eased himself carefully into a
chair in Stone's office.  "Hemorrhoids," he said without being asked.

"It's all those years sitting on your ass at the Nineteenth Precinct,"
Stone said.  "What've you got for me?"

"The girl, Helen, first," Arnie said.  "She's seeing a guy; he's an
advertising art director at Young and Rubicam."

"How do they spend their time together?"  "Screwing, mostly; the
relationship is only a couple of weeks old, but neither one is seeing
anybody else.  They go out, they grab a pizza, they go home, usually
his, and they screw.  Noisily."

"Any connections to the publishing or entertainment industries?"

"Not that I could see.  His accounts are an airline and a hand lotion;
neither one is good for much showbiz contact, far as I can see."
"Still, advertising people mix with actors and other people who cross
over into entertainment."  "Not this one, apparently."  "Okay, what
about Barry?"  "Barry is a different story; Barry mixes with anybody he
thinks is cute.  I saw him buy a gross of condoms at his neighborhood
drugstore--they had ordered them for him.  He hangs out at a bar in the
East Village called the Leather Room, and he takes home somebody
different just about every night.  These boys are all over the
place--actors, dancers, directors--he seems to prefer Those in the
business."  "Did you pick up on any pillow talk?"  "I put a cup mike on
his bedroom window, and I heard it all, and I mean all, believe me.
Something I don't understand about these people, these pansies: How
come they can do it every night, two or three times a night?  I could
never do that, even when I was his age."  "The younger generation seems
to be in better shape."  "Tell me about it."  "And you can't call them
'pansies' anymore, Arnie; too many people find that offensive."  "Tell
me about it," Arnie replied.  Stone changed the subject.  "Is Barry
chatty about his work?"

"The CIA should be so tight-lipped.  The boy tells his new friends who
he works for--that always gets a reaction--but he doesn't blab about
what he does for her, or about her.  Strikes me as intensely loyal to
his boss."  "I'm disappointed," Stone said.  "He seemed the likely one
to me, and the multiple relationships would underscore that.  But if
you feel strongly...."  "I kid you not, Stone, the guy's a regular
monument to discretion."  Arnie shifted painfully in his seat.  "What
about the other one?"  "What?"  "You said there was a third employee."
"Yeah, but she doesn't look pro ming  Stone sighed, wrote down Martha's
name and address, and handed it to Arnie.  "About five-five, a hundred
and fifty, pale red hair, not pretty."  Arnie read it and looked up. 
"You want me to check her out?"  Stone thought about it for a minute. 
"My client feels strongly that she's not the leak, and I have I'd agree
with her."  "Can't hurt to check," Arnie replied.  "I guess not. Maybe
I'll take a look at her later, if I don't come up with anything else." 
Arnie shoved the address back across the desk.  "This is something to
do with this DIRT business, isn't it?  And so I guess I know who your
client is."  "Arnie, you really get around, don't you?" Stone asked,
surprised.  "How'd you come by this?"

Arnie shrugged.  "Friend of mine is on the features desk at the Post.
They been handing the sheet around the newsroom."

"You got any theories?"

"Sounds like somebody tight with one of the people getting burned,
maybe with more than one of them.  I think you should check out Martha
there."  He pointed at the piece of paper on Stone's desk.  "You can
never tell what motivates a person."

Stone nodded.  "You've got a point; maybe I will."

His secretary buzzed.  "Richard Hickock on line one.  You in?"

"I'm in," Stone replied.  "See you soon, Arnie; give my girl your bill
on the way out, and she'll write you a check."  He picked up the phone
as he watched the retired detective trudge out.  "Dick?"

"Okay, I talked with Amanda," Hickock said,

not bothering with a greeting.

"She told me."

"What have you learned so far?"

"Not much; I'm checking out a few leads."  "Any of them lead to me?"

"Not so far.  Tell me, who else knows about Tiffany Potts?"

"Not a goddamned soul, that's who."

"Not your secretary?"

"No.  We don't communicate through her."  "How do you communicate?"

"Cellular phones, and she has a beeper."

"Cellular can be leaky, Dick.  All somebody needs is a scanner."

"We never use names.  If somebody was listening, they wouldn't know who
was talking.  We also keep it very brief."

"I think I should talk with Miss Potts."  "Stone, she's very very
discreet."

"Nevertheless, Dick, if you want me to get to the bottom of this..."

"Oh, all right; I'll have her call you."

"Good.  Are there any other ... intimates I should talk with?"

"None.  Get back to me."  Hickock hung up.

Ten minutes later, she was on the phone.  "This is Tiffany," she said.
"A mutual friend says we should talk."  Her voice was quiet, shy.

"May I come and see you?"  Stone asked.  "Sure; when?"  "Half an
hour?"

"I guess I can get myself together by then."  She gave him the address.
"It says Dunhill on the bell.  Ring twice, then once; the intercom's
not working."

The townhouse had a limestone facade and only four bells; each
apartment occupied a floor, and Hickock's mistress was on the third.
Tiffany Potts had done very well for herself.  Stone rang the bell
twice, paused, then once more.  The lock clicked, and he was inside a
mahogany-paneled foyer.  The elevator door stood open; he took it to
the top floor.

She was smaller than he had thought she would be, less blonde, and
prettier; the scandal sheet had been right about her bustline.  She was
wearing well-fitted jeans and a chambray shirt.  She stepped back and
held the door open.  "Please come in," she said, offering her hand.
"I'm Tiffany Potts."

The apartment was quite handsome--crown moldings, nice curtains, good
furniture, good pictures, lots of books.  She showed him to one of a
pair of sofas facing each other before the fireplace.  "You have a very
nice place," Stone said.  "Who's your decorator?"

"I am," she said shyly.

"You have very good taste."

She rewarded him with a small smile.  "Thank you."

"What did Mr.  Hickock tell you about me, Miss

Potts?"

"Please call me Tiff; everybody does.  He said you're looking into this
DIRT thing for him.  Are you a private detective?  You don't look like
what I'd imagined."

"I used to be a police detective, Tiff; now I'm a lawyer."

"What should I call you?"

"Stone will be just fine."

"I like that name.  Names are important to actors."

"Is Dunhill your professional name?"

"Not really; Dick didn't want my name on the bell.  I chose Dunhill;
it's sort of a joke.  Believe me, I wouldn't call myself Tiffany
Dunhill; it sounds like a stripper."

Stone smiled, "You're an actress?"

"An actor," she corrected.  "A student, really."  "Where are you
studying?"  "At the Actor's Studio."

"That's very impressive; you'd have to be very promising to be
accepted."

"Dick got me the interview, but I got in because of my audition," she
said.  "I expect all you know about me is what you read in that DIRT
thing, but

I'm not a bimbo, Stone.  I have talent as an actor."  "Have you
appeared in anything yet?"

"Two off-Broadway plays, one of them a lead; I got good reviews."

"Do you mind answering my questions?"  "No; Dick said to tell you the
truth."  . "How long have you known Dick?"

"About fourteen months.  He came to a backer's audition for one of the
plays I did."

"Did you start seeing him right away?"

"No; I knew he was married, so I refused to go out with him.  But he
came to our opening a few weeks later, and to the party afterward, and
I really liked him.  I decided to overlook his wife.  I know that
doesn't sound very moral, but I'm a big girl; I take full
responsibility."  She waved a hand.  "He gives me this, and I give him
... companionship.

Sex is only part of it.  He leads a very pressured existence, and he's
able to relax completely with me.  I don't expect him to leave his
wife; at some stage it will end, but right now it suits us both."  "How
often do you see him?"

"Somewhere between once and three times a week, depending on when he
can get away."  "Where do you go?"

"Usually here.  I cook for him.  Once or twice he's picked me up at the
Studio, and we've gone out for dinner in the Village."

"On any of these occasions did you run into anybody who knew him?"

"No.  When he's not wearing a business suit, he's really quite
anonymous."

"Anybody who knew you?"

She shook her head.

"Has there ever been a mention of you two in any of the gossip
columns?"

"Not once; not until this DIRT thing.  Dick is very upset about it; his
wife doesn't seem to know yet, but he thinks she'll find out now, that
some 'friend' will mention it to her.  The fact is, he loves his wife.
He just needs something more than she's giving him."

"Tiff, have you ever had the feeling that somebody was following
you?"

Her brow wrinkled.  "No, I haven't; do you think somebody might be?"

"It's a possibility; after all, whoever is publishing this sheet seems
to know where you live."

She looked worried now.  "I hadn't thought about that.  Do you think
I'm in any danger?"

"No, I shouldn't think so.  In fact, you may have already heard the
last of this.  Whoever's doing it just wanted to needle Hickock; I
don't think you were the target."

She looked relieved.

"Have you ever discussed your relationship with Dick with anyone
else--a friend, maybe--somebody at the Studio?"

"No, never; it's always been our secret.  God, I wouldn't want anybody
I know to think that I'm the mistress of a married man, which is--let's
face it--what I am.  I come from a mall twn, where people don't do this
sort of thing.  I would never want this to get back to my parents.
They.  wouldn't understand at all."

"I don't think it will get back to them," Stone said.  He handed her
his card.  "I don't want you to get paranoid about this, but if you
ever feel that someone is following you, or if anyone tries to
photograph you on the street, please go straight to and call me.  I'll
to find out who phone

pay try it is."

"Thank you, I'll do that," she said.

Stone stood up.  "Well, that's all I need to know for the moment," he
said.  "I'm sorry to intrude on your privacy."

"That's all right," she said, smiling.  "To tell you the truth, if I
weren't seeing Dick, I'd welcome the intrusion; sometimes I get a
little lonely."  She opened the door and held out her hand.  "I hope
you'll come and see me if I ever get in another play."

Stone took her hand.  "I'm sure you will, and I'd like that very
much."

She closed the door behind him, and he took the elevator down.  He
liked the girl; he thought Hickock was a lucky man.  If his wife didn't
find out about Tiffany Potts.

CHAPTER

mie Milman came out of the movie house on Third Avenue and checked his
watch; nearly five.  Arnie had spent the day at the movies because he
didn't have any work to do.  It kept him out of the house, and that was
okay with his wife.  Tonight was her bridge night, and his apartment
would be full of cackling hens.  He always ate out on her bridge night,
but he wasn't hungry yet.  It occurred to him that he wasn't all that
far from the address Stone had shown him, Amanda Dart's place, where
the secretary, Martha, worked.  Maybe he'd give.  Stone a couple of
free hours; after all, he had nothing else to do until dinnertime.  He
walked briskly uptown and west, until he came to the apartment building
where Amanda Dart lived.

He hung around outside until Martha came out, just after five-thirty.
She was as Stone had described her--plump and a little on the plain
side--and he began to follow her home.  Except she didn't seem to be
going home.  Martha lived on Third Avenue in the Sixties, but she
crossed Third and walked uptown to Second Avenue in the Eighties.  Her
step was light; Arnie thought she must be in a very good mood.

She went into a fancy grocery store, and Arnie followed her.  He picked
up a basket and began idly dropping things into it, watching her as she
moved through the aisles.  She spent most of her time at the deli
counter, buying a big chunk of smoked salmon, a small tin of very en
pensive caviar, and some cheeses, testing them for ripeness.  She
picked up a bunch of fresh flowers and, finally, a bottle of very good
domestic champagne.  Somehow, Arnie didn't think she was planning
supper alone at home.  He put down his basket and ducked out of the
store as she stopped at the checkout counter.

A few minutes later, she came out and headed uptown, carrying a
shopping bag in one hand and her purse and the flowers in the other.
Arnie followed, half a block behind her.  He was right in the middle of
the 19th Precinct, his old beat, and he knew virtually every shop and
restaurant along the way.  He was enjoying the walk.

Then something peculiar happened: the hairs on the back of his neck
stood on end.  It used to happen when he was in a dangerous situation,
when he was hyper alert, going down a dark alley after somebody with a
knife, that sort of thing.  Now it was happening for no apparent
reason.

Martha stopped at a corner for a traffic light, and Arnie turned toward
the window of an antique shop, apparently studying its contents.  With
little visible motion of his head, he checked down the street in the
direction from which he had come.  He had the odd feeling that he was
being followed.

The streets were busy, lots of people on the way home from work, many
of them with briefcases or groceries.  He could detect no one whonade
him suspicious.  Normally, if he had thought he were being followed, he
would have checked the other side of the street as well, but he
dismissed the notion from his mind.  He remembered an occasion, many
years ago, when he had been followed, on Second Avenue, right around
here.  Some.  part of his brain must have reacted to that memory.

The light changed, and Martha continued uptown, turning east down a
street in the low Nineties.  Arnie crossed the street and followed her
down the other side, continuing when she stopped at a building.  He saw
her open a wrought-iron gate and disappear down a flight of steps to
what must have been an outside door to the basement.  He crossed the
street, walked to the building, and looked down the stairwell, just in
time to see her entering the apartment, stopping on the threshold,
apparently to give someone a kiss.  He couldn't see who it was.  The
door closed, and Arnie was left standing on the sidewalk, frustrated.
He walked up the front steps of the building and checked the mailboxes;
the one for the basement apartment was marked DRYER.  Arnie stood on
the stoop and looked up and down the street.  It looked as though
Martha was there for dinner, at the very least, and while it wasn't his
own dinnertime yet, he had no great wish to spend the next two or three
hours standing in the cold outside this building waiting for Martha to
come out, especially since he wasn't being paid to do so.  Even if he
did wait, what would he accomplish.?  What he wanted to know was, who
was Dryer, and what were they talking about in that apartment?  Arnie
walked down the steps, tipping his hat to a middle-aged woman who was
on her way up, and at the bottom turned right.  There was a narrow
alley beside the building, and he walked down it, hoping there might be
a window opening into the basement apartment that he could see through.
He found nothing but a solid brick wall.  Still, basement apartments
often had gardens, didn't they?  He took out a penlight and shone it
down the alley; it stopped at a brick wall another forty feet along. He
walked on down the alley until the brick changed to a concrete block
wall, which went up only a couple of feet higher than his head.  The
wall seemed to separate him from a garden, and there would be windows
on the other side of it.

Arnie found an empty garbage can with a lid and carried it over to the
wall.  He steadied himself against the concrete blocks and tried to
step up on top of the can, but it was too big a step for him.  A few
years ago, he'd have had no problem doing that, but now ... Using his
penlight, he found a wooden box full of excelsior down the alley.  He
carried it back and placed it next to the garbage can; it made a nice
step up.

Arnie stepped onto the box and, grabbing the top of the wall with his
fingers, stepped up onto the garbage can.  He was head and ghoulders
above the top of the wall now, and he could see a row of glowing
windows on the back of the building, with shadows moving across them.
Must be the kitchen; Martha and her friend, Dryer, would be preparing
the things she had brought from the grocery.

Arnie figured that, in spite of his years, he could hoist himself to
the top of the wall and down the other side, so he could look through
the windows.  He was about to try this when the hairs on the back of
his neck began moving around again.  Then there was a tug on the tail
of his raincoat, and, alarmed, he turned around to see who was there.

"What the fuck..."  he managed to say aloud, before he began to fall
off the garbage can.

CHAPTER

He worked late on a memo advising a Woodman & Weld client how to handle
a drunk driving charge for an employee's wife.  It was nearly eight
when he had finished the memo and faxed it to Bill Eggers, and he had
just turned out his office light when the phone rang.  He switched the
light on again and picked up the phone.  "Hello?"  "Stone, it's Dino."
"Hi, Dino."

"Can you meet me at Elaine's in half an hour?"  "Sure."

"Good."  The detective lieutenant hung up.  Dino could be curt when
under pressure, Stone remembered; he wondered what was going on.  He
felt grungy, so he had a quick shower and changed into some casual
clothes before leaving the house and hailing a cab uptown.

Dino was already at a table along the right wall when Stone entered,
and he looked grim.  Stone's immediate thought was wife or
father-in-law trouble, but he was wrong.  He sat down, ordered a
bourbon, and looked at his former partner.  "So, what's going on?  You
look a little down."

Dino nodded.  "Down is a good word for it.  Somebody wasted Arnie
Millman around six this evening."

Stone stared at Dino.  "Jesus, I saw him only this morning."  ,. '

"Not since then?"

"No, not since nine-thirty, ten, I guess.  This is terrible; has
somebody called his wife?"

"I drew that duty," Dino said glumly.  "I sent a policewoman out there
to be with her until some family could be rounded up."  . "What
happened, Dino?"

"Was he working on something for you?"

"No."

"Stone, your check for sixteen hundred bucks was in his pocket."

"He was working on something; we finished up this morning, and I paid
him."

"Any loose ends?"

Stone thought about Martha, but dismissed the idea.  "No; he checked
two people out for me, gave me his report this morning, and that was
it."

"Anything about these two people that could have hurt Arnie?"

Stone shook his head.  "It was a straightforward surveillance, a
background check.  Both people were no problem to my client, so that
was it."

"Any chance either of them could have known Arnie was following
them?"

"You know Arnie better than that, Dino; he was good."

"Yeah."  Dino opened his notebook and showed Stone an address in the
low Nineties.  "That address mean anything to you?"

Stone shook his head again.

"Yeah.  You sure this address doesn't match up with either of your
people?"  ,

"Absolutely; one lives in the West Fifties, the other in the East
Village.  Who lives there?"

"My guys talked with all the tenants, but nobody admitted knowing Arnie
or anything about him.  One woman saw him coming down the front steps
as she was going up; that was about five-forty-five.  Arnie bought it
in an alley beside the building shortly after that."

"How?"

"Small-caliber handgun, looks like.  He took two in the head.  It
wouldn't have made much noise."

"Robbery, maybe?"

"Maybe.  They took his gun; I remember Arnie using the old standard
Smith & Wesson thirty-eight, two-inch barrel.  His wallet was beside
him

and the money was gone, but who knows?  That could have been window
dressing."  "Look, Arnie wasn't the sort of guy to attract a pro hit.
He worked Robbery for most of his career, never had anything to do with
the wiseguys."  "I know, I know."  "It just doesn't make any sense."
"What was he working on for you?"  "Are we off the record here, Dino?"
"Sure, it's just between you and me."  "You remember that DIRT thing.
He was checking out two of Amanda Dart's employees; both of them came
up clean.  It isn't the sort of business to end up with a shooting like
this one.  It's all ego, vanity."  "Two good motives for murder."  "Not
in this case.  Neither employee had any thought of being followed by
Arnie; he'd have known it if they did.  There's only one other
employee, and I didn't assign Arnie to her; I was going to check her
out myself, if it came to that.  I' don't think it will."  "Where does
that employee live?"  "Third Avenue in the Sixties."  "Nowhere near,
then."  "No.  She's a secretary; not the type to shoot a retired cop."
I'll take your word."  "When do you get the ME's report?"  "He's
working on Arnie's body now; he'll call me here when he's finished."

1;9

SJR?  WOODS

"No witnesses, of course."

"None.  Like I said, it wouldn't have made much noise, wouldn't have
attracted any attention unless somebody had been walking right by the
alley at the very moment."

"And nobody was?"

"Nope.  Let's have some dinner while we wait for the ME to call."  He
signaled a waiter for a menu.

They ate in glum silence.  It was a ritual with them; in the
circumstances they were either supposed to talk about Arnie, or not at
all.  Stone tried to remember some anecdote or other al out Arnie, but
he couldn't.  "Funny," he said after a while, "all I can remember about
him in the squad room is he never took his overcoat off in winter. He'd
sit there in his coat with the steam heat going and type arrest
reports."

"He had some good busts," Dino said.  "I never partnered with him, but
I remember he had a reputation for being tenacious, for not giving up
on a case, for going the extra mile in an investigation."

"I knew that, I guess.  That's why, when he called me for work--this
was three, four years agoI gave it to him when I could.  He was
reliable, he had a good nose.  That's why I don't think either of the
people he was working on for me could have been involved.  Arnie would
have smelled something.  Do you think this could connect to some old
case of his?"

"What, fifteen years after he retired?  I can't buy that."

The pay phone on the wall rang, and they both stopped eating and
watched a waiter answer it.  He waved Dino over.

The conversation lasted less than a minute, and Dino's expression never
changed.  He came back and sat down.

"What's the news?"

"Like I thought, two shots, small caliber--a twenty-five automatic."

"Don't see many of those anymore."

"Yeah, these days every punk on the street has a Glock or something
better.  There was an abrasion on Arnie's left knee, too, like he fell
down but no marks to show that somebody hit him first."  "Where'd he
take the bullets?"  "Left temple and back of the head."

"An execution, then.  Well, I suppose it 'oulff have been some junkie
with some trash piece he'd copped in a burglary.  He sees Arnie, an old
guy, easy mark, and he's desperate enough to pop him, even for just a
few bucks."

He didn't take your check," Dino said.  Where was it, in the wallet?"

Dino shook his head.  "Left inside jacket pocket.  The guy went for the
cash, didn't worry about the rest.  Arnie was wearing a Rolex we
chipped in for when he put in his papers."

"I remember that," Stone said.  "I bought a piece of that watch.  The
guy didn't take that?"

Dino shook his head.  "This doesn't look good for clearing."

"Pull in your snitches, put the word out on the street.  The
twenty-five handgun is something, at least.  Not a lot of them on the
street, I'll bet."

"Oh, we'll treat it as a cop killing, which means all the stops out,"
Dino said.  "I'm just not optimistic."

"Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Funny," Dino said, playing with his food.  "I don't feel lucky
today."

CHAPTER

tone said goodbye to Dino on the sidewalk, declined a lift home, and
walked up Second Avenue.  He turned right in the low Nineties and found
the building.  There was nothing in particular to distinguish it from
any.  of the other houses on the street.  Most of them looked better
now than they had when he was working out of the 19th; gentrification
had had its way with the block.  The alley was dark, and he used a
pocket flashlight that had been part of his wardrobe since his first
day as a detective nearly twenty years before.  There didn't seem to be
much reason for the alley--it was a dead-ender, and neither of the
adjacent buildings had a door opening onto it.  At the back, after the
buildings ended, there was a wall on either side of the alley,
affording some privacy to the gardens at the rear of the houses.
Stone's light fell on a garbage can and a wooden box.

It was a funny place for a garbage can, not near a back door, where it
might be used, or the street, where it might be emptied.  He turned and
looked back toward the street.  Half a dozen other cans rested there.
Why was this one at the opposite end of the alley?  Certainly, no New
York City garbage collector was going to walk the few extra yards to
pick it up.

Stone stepped onto the box, then onto the garbage can, and looked over
the wall.  Small garden, untended, dark windows at the back of the
building.  Could Arnie have been terested in those windows?  He
remembered that the old detective had used a cup microphone on one of
the other two surveillances.  He looked up and saw a fire escape
disappearing upward into the darkness.  If he stood on top of the wall
and jumped, he could make the fire escape.  Was Arnie contemplating
that?  The idea seemed preposterous for a man of his years; his even
going over the wall seemed unlikely.

Stone hopped down, then remembered that the Medical Examiner had said
that Arnie's body had had an abrasion on a knee.  Could he have gotten
that jumping or falling from the garbage can?  He played the light
around once more, hoping for something that the cops had overlooked,
but there was nothing.

He walked back to the front of the building and put his light on the
mailboxes; none of the names sounded at all familiar.  He wrote them
down for future reference, then walked back down the steps to the
street.  He looked over the iron railing at the basement apartment; a
dim light glowed behind the windows.  That apartment would own the
garden out back.  He walked down the stairs and rang the bell, waited,
then rang it again.

The door opened the length of the security chain and a young man, half
in silhouette, looked back at him.  Six feet, a hundred and eighty,
hair on the short side, wearing only a pair of faded jeans; Stone
registered allflais automatically.  He checked his notebook for the
name.  "Mr.  Dryer?"  he asked, flashing his.  badge  His ID had
RETIRED stamped on it, but the badge didn't.

"Yeah?"

"Mind if I come in?  It's about what appeped here tonight."

"I've already answered all the questions I'm going to," the young man
said.  "What is this, anyway?  It's after eleven."

"Sorry to inconvenience you; there are just a few more questions.  I
don't have to come in; you can answer them right here."

"Look, I've cooperated, answered everything you people asked me, now
I'm going to get some sleep.  Don't bother me again."  He slammed the
door shut.

SllJART WOODS

Stone heard the lock work.  He played his light around the front door,
saw nothing, and walked back up to the street.  He didn't think much
about Dryer's refusal to talk to him.  Lots of people didn't like
talking to cops, especially twice in one evening.  Unwilling to leave
yet, he walked around to the alley and looked in the garbage cans. They
were all empty but one; that had a paper grocery bag filled with the
usual kitchen detritus, an empty champagne bottle on top.  He moved the
bottle, and his light fell on the lid from a caviar tin underneath it. 
Whoopee, he thought; somebody had had a big night; he wondered if it
were Mr.  Dryer.  Stone walked down to First Avenue and got a cab home.
 *

As he approached his house, Stone saw somebody sitting on his doorstep.
He readied himself to send the usual vagrant on his way, but as he got
nearer, he saw that the vagrant had shoulder-length dark hair and was
very beautiful.  "Hello, Arrington," he said.

"I camped on your doorstep," she said, sounding just a little drunk.

"I'm flattered.  Come camp inside awhile."

She got to her feet and followed him into the house, back to his
study.

He hung their coats in a closet and showed her to a sofa.  "How about
some coffee?"

"How about a drink?"  she said.

"You've already had a drink or two," he said.  "I like my company
reasonably sober."

"Oh, all right, coffee then," she said wearily, and began to cry
softly.

He sat down next to her.  "Want to talk about it?"

"You make the coffee, and I'll stop crying, I promise."

He went downstairs to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and came back
upstairs with a tray.  He set it on the coffee table and poured some
for her.

"Black will do," she said, picking up the cup.

Stone poured himself a cup.  "So, how have you spent your evening?"
."

"Getting rid of Tarzan," she said.

"I thought there wasn't a Tarzan."

"There isn't anymore; I was a bit previous the other day, that's
all."

"Having regrets about cutting the vine?"

She shrugged.  "There was a time when, I thought it might go somewhere.
I've known for a while that it wouldn't; I guess I'm just feeling
sorry for myself."

"Did all this take place in the neighborhood?  Is that why you stopped
by here?"

It took place way uptown," she said, sipping her coffee.  "You weren't
on the way to anywhere.

I just wanted to see you."

"I'm glad you did."

"I behaved stupidly tonight.  I went over to his place to tell him it
was all off, and quite to my humiliation, there was somebody else there
with him."

"Oh.  So you didn't have that final satisfaction of telling him where
to get off."

"Exactly.  You see, I wasn't crying because I'm sad, but because I'm
angry.  I set myself up for that, and it annoys the hell out of me."

"I get the picture.  I've had pretty much the same experience in my
time.  It gets funny later."

She giggled.  "It's already funny," she said.  "Listen, I don't want to
sleep alone tonight.  Can I

stay here with you?"

"Sure you can."

"I don't want to make love or anything; I just want somebody next to
me.  I'll be fine in the morning."

"Delighted to have you--I mean, to be your host."

"Have you got something I can sleep in?"  "Sure."

He gave her one of his nightshirts.  She went to the bathroom, washed
her face, and came back wearing the nightshirt, the sleeves rolled
up.

Stone was already in bed.  He lifted the covers for her, and she
crawled in next to him, snuggling on his shoulder.  He reached over to
turn off the light, and when he turned back, she was sleeping like a
child.  He extracted his arm from under her, so it wouldn't go numb,
put a pillow under her head, and tried to go to sleep himself.  He
shouldn't have had that coffee so late, he reflected.

It took at least two hours of staring at the ceiling and thinking about
the girl next to him, but he finally dozed off.

CHAPTER

Wn Stone awoke, Arrington was in the shower.  He put an extra pillow
under his head and waited, hoping; a moment later, he was rewarded with
the sight of her stepping out of the stall, water running down her tall
body, not bothering with a towel.  She stood before the mirror,
squeezing water out of her hair, then reached for the towel,
disappointing Stone.  But his luck was holding; she wrapped it around
her head and began brushing her teeth, her long back arched over the
sink, her breasts dangling, her trim buttocks protruding.  Stone began
to get an erection.

His first impulse was to get up and take her from behind, but he
stopped himself.  He wanted this to go well; if it did, no doubt he
would have the opportunity of jumping her on some other occasion.

She came out of the bathroom rubbing her hair with the towel,
apparently not conscious of her nudity.  "You're awake," she said.
"I've been awake since six."

Stone looked at the bedside clock; it was after nine.  "I got to sleep
later than you did," he said.  "How much later?"

"A couple of hours.  The coffee, I expect."

"Poor Stone."  Her hair as dry as she could get it, she began toweling
her body.

"Just for the record," he saidT,"you're a beautiful girl."

"Woman.  Thank you."

"I know you're too accustom el to being told that, but I thought you
ought to know how I felt about it."

"Coming from you, I consider it a great compliment."  She held the
towel between her legs, rub.":: bing thoughtfully for a moment, staring
into the middle distance.

Stone breathed more deeply, to keep from breathing faster; he shifted
some covers to hide his rising interest.  "Would you like a hair
dryer?"  He wanted to keep her naked for as long as possible.

"No thanks; it'll soon."

dry

"Will it look the way it looked the first time I saw you?"

"Pretty much; it behaves well.  I get it cut every couple of months;
that's about it."

"Amazing," he said.  She laughed.  "You're exhibiting an awful lot of
control for a man who's in the same room as a naked woman he finds
beautiful.  Or is it disinterest?"  "It's an awful lot of control," he
said, honestly.  She laughed again.  "I'm impressed."  "So am I." 
There was just a moment's hesitation; then, before he could decide what
to do, she picked up her jeans and slipped them on, not bothering with
underwear.  "I'm sorry if I was maudlin last night," she said.  "Don't
worry about it," Stone.replied.  She followed the jeans with her black
turtleneck sweater, then she picked up her underwear and stuffed it
into a large handbag.  "How about some breakfast?"  he managed to say,
sorry to see her breasts disappear and anxious to hold onto her a
little longer.  "Thanks, but I'm expecting a call from an editor this
morning, and I don't want to miss it.  How about dinner instead?" 
"Gee, I'll have to check my calendar."  She laughed aloud.  "Seven, at
my place; Ten Eleven Fifth Avenue, dress sloppy."  "Seven it is." 
"Dare I kiss you goodbye?"  "Not unless you want to spend the day
here."  "I'm gone," she said, running for the door.  The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"It's Dino; the funeral's at two o'clock, in

Brooklyn; you want to ride with me?"

"Two o'clock?  That's quick."

"Jews have to be buried within twen,four hours, or something terrible
happens, I forget what."

"Oh, right.  Yeah, pick me up."

"One-thirty," Dino said, and hung up.

By noon a steady drizzle had enveloped the city, and by the time they
left the synagogue a hard rain was falling.  Stone sat in the back of
the big Ford police car with Dino, while two young.  detectives took
the front.  The drive to Brooklyn was painfully slow.

"Traffic always goes to hell in this city when it rains," Dino said.

"Yeah."

"You sure this business can't be onnected somehow with what you're
working on?"  Dino asked.

"I've thought about it again and again," Stone replied, "and I don't
see how it could be.  Arnie had finished the job with me."

"Arnie's wife said he went to the movies yesterday afternoon, and he
was planning to eat out; it was her bridge night."

"Does that sound like he was working for me?"

"I guess not.  I'm sorry to harp on this, Stone, it's just that I don't
have anywhere else to go with it."

"Maybe it really was some stupid junkie."

"Maybe it was, but it just doesn't sit right."

'.t know; it doesn't sit right with me, either."

' You know if Arnie was working for somebody else?  Some other PI?" 
Stone shook his head.  "He didn't say anything about it if he was." 
They drove on in the rain.  As they crossed the bridge, the sky
suddenly began to clear.  They buried Arnie Millman in bright sunshine,
under a cloudless sky.  Stone stood at the graveside with fifty other
cops and looked up to see Amanda Dart standing on the other side, at
the rear of e crowd.  When the service was over, Stone said to Dino, "I
won't need a ride home."  He hurried after Amanda, who was walking
quickly toward her waiting car.

"Hi," he said, catching up to her.  "Can I catch a lift back to
Manhattan?"

"Hello, Stone.  Sorry, I'm not going back to Manhattan for a while; I
have some business on this side of the river."

"I'm surprised to see you here," he said.  "Did you know Arnie
Millman?"

She nodded.  "He was an occasional source for me."

"Arnie?"

"Yes, and I liked him.  Why are you so surprised?"

"Somehow, he didn't seem the type to be hobnobbing with newspaper
columnists."

"Stone, Arnie didn hobnob with me; he called me on the phone when we
had to talk.  I really only met the man face-to-face on one occasion.
Anyway, you would be amazed to know who some of my sources are."  She
glanced at her watch.  "I've got to run, darling.  Want to get together
later this week?"  He knew what that meant, and he thought of
Arrington. "Ah... I'll call you, if that's okay."  "That's okay."  She
got into the back of her car, and the driver closed the door.  Stone
sprinted toward Dino's departing cruiser, barely catching it in time. 
"Ride didn't work out?"  Din asked.  "Nah, she wasn't going back to
Manhattan."  "You know a woman who gets chauffeured around in a
Mercedes?"  "That was Amanda Dart."  "What the hell was she doing
here?" Stone nodded toward the two 'own detect iv in front.  I'll tell
you later."  They drove back to Manhattan in silence.  When they
reached Sone's house, Dino got out of the car with him.  "So, what was
Amanda Dart doing at Arnie Millman's funeral?  She his ex-wife or
something?" "Funny.  She said Arnie used to be a source for her."  "For
a gossip columnist?  I don't believe it."  "She apparently has some
fairly unbelievable sources."

"That don't add up," Dino said flatly.

"She's probably got a source or two in every station house in
Manhattan," Stone said.  "How do you think these people get the story
so fast when somebody of note gets arrested?  It makes sense; it's just
funny that Arnie was one of them."

"Well, I guess he liked a few extra bucks as well as the next guy."

"I guess so.  I gotta run.  See you."

Dino waved good-bye and got back into his car.

Stone put Arnie and Amanda out of his mind and started thinking about
his dinner date.

CHAPTER

tone arrived at Arrington's building on time and was announced by the
lobby man.  On the way up he reflected on the fact that he had once
known another woman who had lived in this building, and the' merrfory
of .: that experience made him uneasy.

She came to the door wearing an apron over white pants and a white
turtleneck sweater, seeming a negative image of the girl in black he
had last seen.  that morning.  There was a glass of wine in her hand.
"Hi, come on in."

He followed her into a small apartment, especially small for such a
posh building.  There seemed to be only a living room and, through an
open door, a bedroom.  A counter divided the larger room into living
and kitchen areas.  She waved him to a stool at the counter and poured
him a glass of red wine from an open bottle that was already nearly
half empty.  "Or would you prefer booze?"  she asked belatedly.

"This is fine," Stone said, settling on the stool.  "Smells good; what
are you cooking?"

"A lamb dish," she said.  "One of a repertoire that includes only half
a dozen recipes, all easy."  "Easy is okay when it smells like that."
"How was your day?"

"I went to a funeral in Brooklyn, that's how my day was."

"Oh.  Somebody important to you?"

"Somebody I knew when I was a cop.  Another cop, retired."

"Are you sad?"

"I didn't know him all that well, but he sometimes worked for me.  He
was a likeable guy."

"I'm not sad anymore," she said.  "Again, I'm sorry about last
night."

"Last night had its rewards.  And this morning."  She smiled a little.
"I'm glad you think so.  Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes;
good thing you were on time."

"I'm compulsively on time."

"Not I."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She checked something in the oven, then pulled a stool up to face him.
"I don't get you," she said.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't add up."

"No?"

"No.  You're this extremely polished man; you live in this very
impressive house; you dress beautifully; you have something to do with
a prestigious law firm, but you don't actually work there; and yet
you're retired, at an early age, from a bluecollar job that doesn't
produce a whole lot of polished men."

"I was something of a misfit on the force," he said.

"That I believe."

"And I was never allowed to forget it."

"How so?"

"Well, as my former partner one said to me, "Stone, the police force is
a kind of mystic lodge, and you never joined.""

"You didn't buy into the cop cultur(?"

"Not really.  I found the work fascinating and often rewarding, but, I
confess, I was unable to become one of the guys.  I knew it, and they
knew it.  The only cop I was ever really close b was my ex-partner,
Dino."

"Dino Bacchetti?"

Stone blinked.  "How did you know that name?"

"I wrote something for New York magazine once, about a case at the
Nineteenth Precinct.  I interviewed him for it."

"I'm surprised you got out of his office with your virtue."

She laughed.  "I nearly didn't; Dino is very smooth."

"That he is."  "So you were white bread among the Italians, the Irish,
and the Hispanics in the department?"  "That's about the size of it."
"What, exactly, do you do for Woodman and Weld?"  "Their dirty work,
mostly; the odd criminal case, the odd investigation."  "Now I'm
getting the picture."  "So I add up now?"  "The house doesn't add up." 
"I inherited it from a great-aunt, my grandfather's sister."  "Money,
too?" , "Just the house.  I did a lot of the restoration myself, but it
damn near broke me."  "I'm glad you're not filthy rich," she said. 
"I'm not glad," he replied.  "I've got nothing at all against filthy
rich.  My father, God rest his soul, would be deeply ashamed of my
attitude." "Your father the Communist?"  "Father and mother; they met
at a Party meeting.  They were idealistic; they had both broken with
their families in New England and had been through a depression." 
"Your polish must have come from them."  "Unlike some of their
colleagues in the Party, they had abandoned a lifestyle, but not the
manners acquired therefrom."  "Good for them."  "You would have liked
my mother."

"I love her work.  How about your father?"  "He'd have been deeply
suspicious of you."  "Why?"  "He knew class when he saw it, and he
wanted to live in a classless society."  "I'll take that as a
compliment."  "You should."  She went to the oven, removed an iron pot,
and set it on a small table in the living room that had been carefully
set.  "Open another bottle of wine, will you?  It's right there on the
kitchen counter."  Stone found a corkscrew, opened the bottle, and took
it to the table.  She poured them another glass of wine and raised
hers.  "Bon app tit "Bon appdtit."

:

They sat among the ruins of dinner, sipping coffee.

"That was wonderful," he said.

"Thanks; if you only cook half a dozen things,

they have to be wonderful."

"Tell me about this guy you just broke up with."

She looked into her wineglass.  "I'm embarrassed.  Why do you want to
know?"

"I just want to know where you are and how you got there.  It seems to
have become important to me."

;

"I'm still embarrassed.  He's younger than

!;

I am."

"How much younger?"  "A couple of years."

"Not so bad; lots of men date women a lot younger."  ,

"It's not the same for a woman."

"Why not?"

"Men see younger women for sex, whereas..."  She stopped.

"Whereas... ?"

"Well, all right, I did it for the sex, too, mostly."  "Is sex in such
short supply for you?"

"It's not that; I mean, anybody can get laid.  For some reason, I was
feeling old, so I was vulnerable."  "How old are you?"

"Thirty-one.  Do you always ask wogaen that?"  "Always."

"Why?  It's supposed to be rude."

"It's not important to know how old a woman is, but it's important to
know if she'll tell you.  It's a matter of character."

"Do you know how old Amanda Dart is?"

Stone shrugged.  He could feel the tops of his ears turning red.

"She's fifty; I have it on the best authority."

Stone was surprised, but not shocked.  "Why are we talking about
aananda Dart?"

"Because you're involved with her."

"Am I?"

"I could tell at dinner that night; not from your behavior, from
hers."

"You were wrong; we weren't involved, except professionally."

"Liar."

"Not until the next day.  We spent that... together."

She shrugged.  "I can't say that I blame you.  After all, you had just
broken up with somebody, and she is quite attractive."  She looked at
him levelly.  "Everybody's entitled to a sex life."

"You have me at a disadvantage; you know more about me than I about
you."

"All right," she sighed, "his name is Jonathan.  He's one of those
young men who seem to earn their living by... being charming and
attractive." "You mean, he was paid?"  ... "Not exactly.  Men like
Jonathan don't ask for money; they just seem always to be broke.  I
picked up a lot of tabs."

"I've known women like that," Stone said.  "Still, it's more
embarrassing for a woman paying for a man."

The phone rang; Arrington didn't movd.  On the third ring, the
answering machine kicked in.

"It's Jonathan," a disembodied voice said.  "I want to see you.  I
want..."

She got up and grabbed the phone.  "Hello?"

Stone could no longer hear the young man's voice.

"No, thanks," she said.  "I've no intention of doing that.  I dropped
by last night to tell you."  She listened for a moment.  "It's over,
Jonathan.  I have no desire to see you again."

He was obviously giving her an argument.

"Jonathan," she broke in.  "It's over; accept the fact and get on with
your life."  She hung up and turned to Stone.  "I'm sorry you had to
hear that, "she said.  "I'm glad I heard it," Stone said.  He stood up
and started clearing the table.  Together, in silence, they put the
dishes in the dishwasher and cleaned up the kitchen.  "He's going to
call back," she said, but she was wrong.  Instead, the house phone
rang.  She picked it up.  "Yes?  No, Jimmy, don't send him up; put him
on."  She waited a moment.  "Listen to me very carefully," she said. "I
have company; I have no intention of seeing you, now or ever aga, in. 
Please go away."  She hung up, seemingly on the verge of tears. Stone
took her shoulders and turned her toward him.  "Are you all right?" 
She buried her face in his chest.  "I'm afraid of him," she said. 
"When you leave, he'll still be there."  "Then I won't leave."  "I
don't want to stay here tonight," she said.  "Will you take me back to
your house?"  "Of course.  Is there a way out of the building, other
than the front door?"  "Yes, we can take the elevator to the basement;
there's a door that opens onto the side street."  "Get your coat and
your toothbrush."  She went into the bedroom, put some things into a
duffel, got her coat, and came back, brushing away tears.

"There's nothing to worry about," Stone said.  "Come on, let's go." 
She double-locked her door, and they took the elevator to the basement.
She found a light switch, but it didn't work.  "Come on," she said,
"follow me.  I have cat's eyes."  A moment later they were at the side
door of the building.  "Will you look out and see if anyone is there? I
don't want him following us."  "Sure."  Stone opened the door and
stepped into the street while she hung back.  A taxi came down the
block and he whistled it to a halt.  There was no one else visible in
the street' Come on, Arrington," he called.  They got into the cab, and
Stone gave the driver the address.  He watched out the back window, and
he thought he savt someone, a man, come around the corner from Fifth
Avenue, but in a moment they were gone.  For the second successive
night, she slept in his bed, falling asleep immediately.  Again, they
did not make love.

CHAPTER

tone was awakened by the smell of coffee brewing.  He sat up in bed in
time to watch Arrington, wearing his robe, come into the bedroom with a
tray containing orange juice, coffee, and an English muffin.

"Good morning," she said.  "I hope you're ready for breakfast."  She
set the tray on his lap.

"Actually, I'm more ready for you," he said, stroking her cheek.

She kissed him on the forehead.  "That's a sweet thought, but I have an
early appointment with my agent.  I've got to run."  She stood up and
sloughed off the robe, standing naked at the foot of the bed.  Stone
set the tray aside and started to get up.

"Oh, no," she said, grabbing for her underwear, "you get right back
into bed."

Stone fell back onto the pillows, watching her.  "It seems to be my lot
in life to watch you walk naked around my bedroom while I do nothing
about it."

She smiled, hooking her bra.  "Bad timing," she said.

"You've spent the past two nights in my bed..."  "Sweetie..."  she
pulled her sweater over her head and brushed her hair back with her
fingers.  "You've just caught me at a bad time in my life,

and I need some time to sort things out."  "How can I help?"  "By not
pressing me."

Stone picked up the tray and rolkurned it to his lap.  "Consider
yourself unpressed," he said.

"Stone," she said, sitting next to him on the bed.  "I like you, I
really do; I war[t this to go somewhere..."

Stone took a bite of his muffin.  "Arrington, it can't go anywhere
until it goes somewhere."

Her shoulders slumped.  She crossed' her arms, took hold of the
sweater, and yanked it over her head.  "All right," she said, "let's do
it."

Stone took another bite of the muffin.  "No thanks," he said, his voice
muffled by the food.  "I'm eating."

"Tell me what you want," she said.

Stone washed the muffin down with some orange juice.  "I don't know
what I want, beyond the immediate urge to make love to you, but I know
what I don't want; I don't want to be kept at arm's length."

"I don't mean to do that."

Stone sighed.  "I think what we need to do is start over."

"Okay."

"When would you like to do that?"  "Oh, Jesus, it's a really bad time
for..."  "Arrington, you owe me nothing; you don't have to change your
life to make room for me."

"But I want to make room for you."

"Then what you have to do is figure out what's clogging up your life,
and do something about it."

"That's just like a man," she said.  "Figure out your life, rearrange
it, order your existence."

"This may have escaped your atteltion, but I

am a man, and I don't see what's wrong with ordering your existence.
Everybody has to order his existence, just to get through the day."

"Well, if that's how you.  feel about it," she said huffily, struggling
back into the sweater.

"It certainly is," he said.  "You go and take a look at your life, and
if you find some room in it,

call me."

"Typical," she said, throwing things into her duffel.

"Typical?"  he nearly shouted.

"Don't raise your voice to me!"

Stone's bedside phone buzzed, and the intercom light flashed.  He
ignored it and took a deep breath.  "I'm sorry," he said.

"Good for you."

"Is this our first fight?"

"It could be our last one," she shot back, getting into her coat.

The intercom buzzed again.  Stone picked it:up.  "Yes?"  he said.

"Stone, I'm sorry to disturb you," his secretary said, "but Bill Eggers
left a message on the office machine last night.  He wants you to be at
his office this morning at ten for a meeting; he said it was
important."

"Thanks," Stone said and hung up.

"Now you're being rude to your secretary," Arrington said.

Stone looked at his bedside clock and got out of bed.  "I've got a ten
o'clock appointment," he said, "and it's nine-thirty now."

Arrington looked at him.  "So nov you're going to parade around naked
and try to turn me on."

"It's a desperate move, but it's the only card I have left to play."

"It's working," she said, walking over to him, dropping the duffel.

She made a grab at his crotch, but he dodged her and ran toward the
bathroom.  "Oh, no," he called back, "you're going to have to wait
until I can make room in my busy schedule for you."

"Bastard!"  she yelled after him.  "I'll call you tonight."  She picked
up the duffel and left.

Stone arrived at Woodman & Weld five minutes late and went directly to
Bill Eggers's office.

SURT WOODS

"Come in, Stone, and have a seat," Eggers said, pointing at a chair
next to the sofa.  "You know Glynnis Hickock from Amanda Dart's dinner
party last week."

Dick Hickock's wife sat primly at one end of the sofa.  "Good morning,"
she said.

Stone sat down.  "Of course.  How are you?"

"Just great," the woman said through clenched teeth.

"Would anyone like some coffee?"  Eggers asked.

"I would," Glynnis responded.

"Bill, could I speak with you outside for just a minute?"  Stone asked.
He had an idea of where this might be leading, and he wanted to head it
off before it got started.

"Stone, don't worry, anything you've got to say you can say in front of
Glynnis."  He set a cup on the coffee table and poured from a Thermos.
"The short version of this is, Glynnis needs some surveillance on her
husband, in preparation for divorce proceedings."

"Bill, I really have to speak to you alone, and right now."

Eggers looked at him, surprised.  "Glynnis, I'm sorry, will you excuse
us for just a moment?"

Glynnis crossed her legs and picked up her coffee cup but said
nothing.

Stone walked into the adjacent conference room, waited for Eggers, then
closed the door.  "I can't be involved in this," he said.

"Now you tell me," Eggers cried.  "Do you know how big a divorce this
is going to be?"

"I can guess, but I can't be involved.  I have a conflict."

"What kind of conflict?"  Eggers was working up an anger now.

""I'm representing her husband on this DIRT thing."

"What?  You're supposed to be representing Amanda on that, not Dick
Hickock."

"Hickock called me when he saw the sheet; I told him I couldn't
represent him, so he called Amanda, and she called me and.  told me to
go ahead."

"As an investigator, then, not as a lawyer?"  "Same thing, as far as
I'm concerfied.  If you'd talked to me ahead of time, I could have
explained it to you."

"What am I going to tell Glynnis?"  "The truth; do you want me to do
it? "I'd appreciate it."

Stone went back into Eggers's office and sat down.  "Glynnis, I'm
sorry, but I have an ethical conflict in representing you in this
matte.

Her hackles went up.  "You're working for Dick, aren't you?  Good God,
you've been following me?"

"No, I have not been following you, nor have I been asked to.  I'm
representing Dick in another matter, and that creates a conflict for
me; I hope you can understand that."

ST UAR  OODS

She swiveled her head and looked out the window, saying nothing.

"Glynnis," Eggers broke in, "this doesn't mean that the firm can't
represent you, just that Stone can't.  He's not employed by the firm;
he is only of counsel.  I promise you we'll deal with this matter in a
manner that will represent your interests to the highest possible
degree.  Stone, I think that will be all," he said.

Stone made a brief good-bye and left the office.

He was barely back at his desk when his secretary buzzed him.  "Tiffany
Potts is on the phone."

Stone punched the flashing button.  "Hello?"  "Hi, remember me?"  she
asked cheerfully.  "Of course."

"You said to call you if I thought somebody might be following me."

"Yes."

"Well, somebody is."

"Where are you calling from?"  -"My apartment."  "Let's not meet
there."

"How about the Oak Bar at the Plaza in an hour?"  she asked.

CHAPTER

She got there first.  When he entered the high-ceilinged, dark-paneled
room she was sitting at a window table wearing a gorgeous fur coat, a
Perrier before her, looking out the window.  It was early yet, "and
except for the bartender and a waiter, the two of them were alone in
the big room.  Stone sat down.

She rewarded him with a broad smile.  "How are you?"

"Very well; and you?"

"I'm just fine.  Sorry to get you out on such short notice."

"Not to worry; I'm at your beck and call."

She liked that.  "How nice."

The waiter approached.  "I'll have one of the same," Stone said,
nodding at the Perrier.  They

STUART W(X)DS

made small talk until the drink came.  "Now," Stone said, "tell me
about it."  "I was at Bloomingdale's yesterday afternoon when I saw
him. I was browsing in several departments, and whenever I looked up,
he was there."  "What did he look like?"  Stone asked.  "Tall."  "How
tall?" "Not as tall as you."  "I'm six-two."  "Six feet, then."  "How
built?" "Slender."  "Hair?"  "Light brown, tending to be sun-bleached
at the ends.  Collar-length."  "Clothes?"  "Fashionable.  A long
raincoat, below the knee."  "Describe his face."  "Long, straight nose,
eyes a little close together, strong jaw, wide mouth, full lips." 
"That's very good," Stone said, impressed.  "I can do better," she
said, bending down and taking a copy of Vanity Fair from a large purse.
She put the magazine on the table, flipped through the early pages and
turned it toward Stone.  "That's real close," she said, tapping a
full-page photograph. "It's not him, but it's real close."  It was an
ad for a men's cologne, and the model fit her description perfectly.

"You're sure it's not him?"  "I'm sure.  I don't make mistakes about
men as good-looking as that.  The guy who followed me could be doing
that kind of work for a living."  "Modeling?"  "Or acting, or both. 
He's the type who turns up in classes at mediocre acting schools." 
"Did he follow you when you left Blooming-dale's?"  "Yes.  I walked
home, and he was with me all the way.  At first, I thought he was just
interested, you know?  But he never approached me, always stayed well
back.  A couple of times he waa-on the opposite side of the street, but
he was always there.  When I got home I looked out the window, and he
was half a block down the street, wtching."  "When did you last see
him?"  She glanced at her watch.  "Ten minutes ago."  Stone sat up
straight.  "He followed you here?; "Yep.  He was out there this
morning.  Change of clothes, but the same raincoat."  They were only a
couple of feet above the sidewalk.  "Do you see him now?"  "Nope, but
he was down that way a couple of minutes ago."  She pointed toward
Fifth Avenue.  "I'll be back in a minute," Stone said.  "Don't leave." 
He left the room and walked outside.  Traffic was heavy on the
sidewalk.  Stone walked purposefully, west on Central Park South as far
as the corner of Sixth Avenue, then all the way back to the front of
the Plaza, checking every face coming and going.  Nothing.  He entered
the hotel by the front door and made a sweep of the hallways and the
Palm Court, but the man was not in sight.  He returned to the Oak Room.
Tiffany was still at the table, but the Perriers had been replaced by
two martinis.  "I switched," she said.  "I ordered one for you, too." 
Stone fingered the glass, but did not pick it up.  "It's a little early
for me," he said. "Then leave it; I'll drink it."  "Have you told Dick
about this man?" "Not yet."  , "Tell him, but don't use the phone in
your apartment; it may be bugged."  "Dick was always careful about
that."  She pulled a tiny cellular phone from her coat pocket.  "That's
why he gave me this." "Be careful, even using that, and don't see him
until I get a handle on this."  "He won't like that," she said with a
small smile, taking a large swig from her martini.  I'll talk to him. 
In fact, can I borrow your phone?"  She handed it oven "What's his
number?"  She gave it to him.  "That's his cellular.  Let it ring once,
then hang up; that's our signal.  He'll call back as soon as he can." 
Stone followed her instructions, then set the

little phone on the table.  "How long will he take?"

"Depends; if he's in a meeting, it could be a while ."

Stone eyed the martini but didn't pick it up.

"Oh, go on; it's good for you.  There was an article in the T/roes this
morning, said it's good for you."  "I've got to keep a clear head,"
Stone said.

She leaned forward, and her cleavage made an entertaining sight.  "A
clear head is not always an advantage," she said.

Stone managed a chuckle.

"Tell me about you," she said.  ?

"Not much to tell

"Are you seeing anybody?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

She looked disappointed.  "Pity."

"It's flattering that you think so."

"I spend so much time alone," she said.  "Quite frankly, Stone, I'd
like some company."

The phone rang, and Stone silently thanked God.  "You answer," he said,
"then I'll talk to him."

She picked up the phone and punched a button.  "Hey," she breathed. 
She listened for a moment, then smiled.  "I'd really love to, but
someone sitting here says we shouldn't.  I'll put him on."  She handed
the phone across the table.

"It's Stone."

Hickock'Whatdemandedthe hell are you doing with her?"

'

"Someone has been following her, and I'm checking it out."

"Following her?  Oh, God."

"Exactly.  And I have to tell you that someone is likely to be
following you in very short order."  "What do you know that I don't
know?"  "Your wife is considering divorce."

"How do you know that when I don't know that?"  he demanded.

"I can't go into that, but it's a fact.  For God's sake, don't let her
know that you know; just play it out, and for the time being, don't go
anywhere near the young lady or her apartment."

There was a groan from the other end, of the phone.  "I know that's
tough, but it'll be tougher still if you're seen together.  I'm going
to send someone over to her apartment to find out if there's any
electronic surveillance in the building."

"If there is, can you get rid of it?"

"If there is, I'm going to leave it in place.  As long as we know it's
there, it can't hurt, and it could be useful."

"I've got to see her," Hickock said, and he sounded pathetic.

"Please take my advice, and don't.  And it would be best if you didn't
talk on the cellular phone, either, unless you're willing to be
overheard.  It's not that tough to listen in."

"How long is this going to last?"

"Until either your wife tells you she wants a divorce, or until you
make up with her."

Stone handed the phone to Tiffany.

"Hey, baby," she said.  "I'm so sorry.  Yes, I know, I feel exactly the
same way, but maybe our friend has a point."

Stone drew a finger across his throat.

"He says we have to hang up.  I hope I'll see you before very long. Me,
too."  She broke the connection and put the phone back into the pocket
of the fur.  "Well, I guess it's just you and me,"he said.

"Oh, no, it isn't," Stone replied.  "I don't know if we've already been
seen together, but if we are it will just complicate the situation. Now
&e've got two problems--the scandal sheet and Dick's wife, and both are
very dangerous for Dick."  He pushed the martini across the table. "I
have to leave now.  If you see the guy again, call me immediately, and
I'll see if I can have a word with him."  He scribbled a number on a
card and handed it to her.  "This is my cellular number; I don't
usually carry it around, but I'll start."  She looked awful, and he
felt sorry for her.  "You going to be okay?"  he asked.

"No," she said, "but I guess there's nothing to be done about it."  She
took a key from her bag and pushed it across the table.  "You'll need
this if you're going to check out my apartment.  Or for any other
reason you'd like to use it."

"I hope this won't last too long."

"You hope," she said, and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'll give you some advice," he said, "and don't tell Dick I said this
to you.  Get yourself a boyfriend, even if only temporarily.  If Dick's
wife puts somebody on you, it'll look a lot better.  And," he said,
"you'll have a lot more fun."

She managed a small smile.  "You know how a girl thinks," she said.

I wish to God I did, he thought.  He left some money on the table and
left the girl sitting alone in the room, which was now beginning to
fill with the noontime trade.  He didn't think she'c be alone for very
long.

CHAPTER

Stone called Dino after lunch.  "Who's your tech these days?"  he
asked.

"Don't say that over the goddamned telephone," Dino said, sounding
tense.  "We'll talk in person; you free for dinner?"

"Yes."

"Eight-thirty at Elaine's; I'll book."

Dino was a little touchy, Stone thought.  The detectives always had a
guy around who could do illegal technical work--tapping, bugging--when
they couldn't get the job done any other way.

He worked on cases through the afternoon, having a sandwich at his
desk, and just after six, when he was almost done for the day, the
phone rang.

"It's me," Arrington said.

"Hello there."

"I understand you've been hanging out with Dick Hickock's
girlfriend."

"Oh?  What makes you say that?"

:

Have you checked your fax machine lately?"  "Hang on."  Stone went to
the closet where the machine was kept and found a single sheet there.

Greetings, earthlings!  The plot thickens: Gorgeous Tiffany Ports, who
has lately been the favorite plaything of Richard Hickock, was seen
today tte-a-tte with shyster shamus Stone Barrington, over martinis at
the Oak Bar.  Looks as though Dickie may have been inattentive to poor
Tiff lately, which is just as well, because his dear wife, Glynnis, is
on the warpath.  Informed of her husband's dalliance by us, she is
Taking Steps.

Stay tuned for more!

Stone picked up the phone.  "It was strictly business," he said.

"That's what they all say, but I believe you.  Listen, I've spent most
of the day clearing the decks of my life, and I think I'm ready to curl
up with a good detective."

"I can recommend somebody."

"Tonight suit you?"

"I'm seeing Dino for dinner at Elaine's, and DinO always leaves early.
Why don't you join us, and we'll go on from there."

"Sounds good.  I'll bring my toothbrush."

"You do that.  We're meeting at eight-thirty, but

I need half an hour with Dino.  Nine?"

"Nine it is."  She hung up.

Stone allowed himself a very deep breath.

Dino sat down, and he looked pissed off.  "What's this 'tech' shit?"

"I need a tech to..."

"Stone, you don't talk 'about that on the phone these days, not when
there's a commission looking into police corruption."

"Sorry, Dino, I..."

"They're all over us like flies, you know, even though the Nineteenth
is clean as a whistle."

"As far as you know."  "

"I know, pal, believe me."

"About the tech."

"What about him?"

"I need a man to go over an apartment, see what he finds."

"He's not planting anything?"

"Not a thing; I just want to see what somebody else might have
planted."

"Does he have to break in?"

"I've got a key, and the occupant is expecting him."

"Give me the key and the address.  I'll contact him."  ' "Stone
produced the key and wrote down Tiffany's name and address.  "Tell him
to call first and say I sent... Wait a minute.  No, tell him just to
show up, having already written on a piece of paper that I sent him. 
No names, in case the place is wired."  "Okay."  "What's it going to
cost?"  "Since he's not planting anything, I'll make him do it for five
hundred." "Steep.  I haven't got it on me."  I'll front it; you can pay
me back." Stone had another idea.  "While he's at it, I'd like him to
take a look at my place."  Dino's eyebrows went up.  "Are we still on
the DIRT thing?"  "We are, and their information is just a little too
good.  Come to think of it, I'd like him to take a look at Amanda
Dart's place, too, but not until he's been to me first."  "His name is
Bob Cantor; he'll call you tomorrow."  "Think you can get me a better
rate for the three places?"  I'll see what I can do."  "What's new with
you?"  "Mary Arm is apartment-hunting on the East Side."  "Uh-oh."

"You said it."

"How is this going to happen?"

"The old man swears it's going to be straight up.  We're going to rent
it from a corporation flat owns it."  . "Doesn't sound straight up to
me," Stone said.

"What?  That we rent?"

"Dino, make sure it's a corporation that already owns rental units, and
that the rent is in line with the market."

"That's what the old man has in mind.  The rent will be more than we
pay now, but he'll lay some cash on Mary Arm, to make up f it."

"That sounds fairly clean.  You're going to need a checkable story that
starts right from the beginning--how you find the agent, how you heard
about the agent, a proper lease.  It's got to look like anybody could
find this apartment, you understand?"

"I understand."

"Tell Mary Arm to make sure her daddy under stands, too."

"What, you think the old guy doesn't know something about hiding
ownership?"

"This isn't like holding a cement company,

Dino; if the commission starts looking into this, it's got to be
airtight, and you be sure that neither the agent or the head of the
corporation has a name that rhymes with a pasta."

"Right, right."  Dino looked up and smiled.

"Hey, look what's coming in," he said.

Stone turned to see Arrington enter the restaurant.  "Not bad," he said
offhandedly.  "Not bad?  You're losing it.  As it happens, I know this
one."  He waved at Arrington, who waved back and started for the table.
"Give us a few minutes, then get lost, okay?"  "Sure, Dino, whatever
you say."  Dino was on his feet, taking Arrington's offered hand. 
"Long time no see," he was saying.  "This is my friend..."  Arrington
let go of Dino's hand, turned to Stone, and planted a large kiss on his
lips. "We've met," she said.  Stone held her chair while Dino stood,
dumbfounded.  "Sit down, Dino," h said; then he leaned over and
whispered, "Give us a few minutes, then get lost, okay?"

When Dino had left, Arrington pulled out a copy of the new Vanity Fair.
"My first piece for them," she said, opening the magazine.  "It's about
the mayor's wife."  "That's great, Arrington," Stone said.  "That has
got to be a tough market for a writer to break into."  "Not if you're a
good enough writer," she said.  "Can I have this?  I'd like to read it
later."  "Later you're going to be busy," she said, "but you can have
it for tomorrow."  Stone flipped through the pages of the magazine.
"You know any models, by any chance?"

"I have a passing acquaintance with a few," she replied.

Stone found the cologne ad.  "How about this guy?  Know him?"

Arrington looked at the ad, then back at Stone.  Her face was suddenly
expressionless.  "Why did you have to do it this way?"

"What?"  Stone was baffled.

"Why didn't you just..."  She turned away, and there were angry tears
in her eyes.

"Arrington, I don't understand," Stone said.  "I just wanted to know
who this guy is.  It's a business thing."

She turned back angrilY.  "You'know who it is," she said.

"I swear to you I don't have the slightest idea."  "Are you lying to
me?"

"I am not.  Arrington, what is going on?"

She pointed at the photograph.  "That's him," she said.

"Who?"

"Jonathan."

CHAPTER

Uash got a brother?"  Stone asked.  She was still looking very angry.

"No, he hasn't," she said.  "What's this about, Stone?"

"As you are aware, I saw Dick Hickock's girl friend, Tiffany, this
morning.  She called me because somebody was following her, somebody
who, as it turns out, answers to this guy's description.  She showed me
this ad."

"She said Jonathan was following her?"

"No, she was emphatic that the guy was not the man in the photograph,
he just looked very much like him."

"Well, he doesn't have a brother."

"Okay, that answers my question.  Shall we drop it?"

"I'm sorry I got so angry; I didn't understand."  She took a deep
breath and let it out.  "Stone, do you want to know about Jonathan?"

"Is there any reason why I should know about him?"

"No, not really."

"Then I couldn't care less.  You, I care about; him, pfft!"

She smiled.  "That's the kind of talk I like to hear."

A waiter handed them menus.  "I recommend the Caesar salad and the osso
bucco," Stone said.  "Sold; I'd like some wine?  too."..

Stone turned to the waiter.  "I'l have the same as the lady, and bring
us a bottle of the Dry Creek Merlot and two straws."

Stone let them into the house and followed Arrington up the stairs.
Halfway up she began undressing, dropping a trail of garments behind
her, which Stone gathered up.  "You want to shock my housekeeper? She's
a very proper Greek lady."

"I'm sure it won't be the first evidence she's seen of a woman in the
house," Arrington replied, lobbing her bra over her shoulder.

"She doesn't come in until ten A.M."

"That may not be long enough."  She stepped out of her panties and
kicked them backward.

Stone followed a very beautiful backside up the stairs and into his
bedroom.

"I'm finished with my clothes," she said, "let's start on yours."  She
began working on his buttons.  iA moment later they were in bed,
leaving a large pile of clothing at the foot.  " "Do you know," Stone
said, kissing her, "this is the first time I've kissed you?"

"I never kiss until the third date," she said.  "And I never make love
until..."

Stone slid easily into her.

"... now," she breathed.

Sunlight streamed into the rear windows of the house and across the
bed.  They lay in each other's arms, sweating, breathing hard.  '

"I thought that went very well," Arrington panted.

"All three times?"  Stone asked.

"Don't brag.  Oh, all right, all three times."  She kissed him noisily
on the ear.  "I'm hungry; it's your turn to make breakfast."

"Eh?"  he shouted, cupping a hand behind his ringing ear.

She got out of bed and headed for the kitchenette in the hall.  "And
turn on the Today show," she called.

"Television?  In the morning?"

"I never miss it."

"The honeymoon's over," he grumbled, fumbling in a drawer for the
remote control.

She came back with juice, muffins, and coffee.

"How'd you know what I wanted?"  he asked.  "Easy.  That's all there is
in your kitchenette."

"Would you like me to lay in a stock of whatever you eat for
breakfast?"

"This will do nicely," she said, "as long as I can keep having you as
well."

Stone ate his muffin and gazed at the TV.  "I don't think I can make
love to Bryant Gumbel," he said.  "But I might be able to manage
something to Katie Couric."

"I told you to stop bragging," she giggled.  "Now eat your muffin."

"This muffin is not all Um going to eat," he replied.

"You never told me you were a sex maniac," she said.  "But it's a nice
surprise."

The phone rang.  Stone unconsciously reached for it.  "Hello?"

"My name's Bob," a man's voice sid.  "Dino said to call."

"Right.  I've got some work for you."

"He gave me a couple addresses."

"Why don't you start here, and I'll brief you on the others."

"Okay, half an hour?"

Stone looked at Arrington, sitting cross-legged, naked, in his bed.
"Make it an hour," he said.

Bob Cantor had been in the house for two hours when he came down to
Stone's office.

"Come in, and have a seat."

He closed the door behind him.

-?"i Well?"

"Somebody's very interested in you," Cantor said.

Stone sat up.  "How interested?"

"The whole house; top to bottom.  Phone lines,

too, but not the offices."

"Jesus Christ."

"I don't think He needs to use a wire."  "Bedroom?"  "Yep."  "Shit."

"You want me to yank everything]"

Stone thought for a moment.  "Can you disable it in a way that will
make them think it's just broken?"

Cantor nodded.  "I can create enough static to make them think it's
their fault."  "Good, do that."  "Okay."  "How long?"  "Half an
hour."

Shortly, Cantor was back.  "It's done.  You may hear some static on the
phone lines, but it'll be manageable.  I left the fax machine alone;
static there would give you garbled transmissions."

"Fine."  Stone handed him a sheet of paper and two envelopes.  "These
are the other two

addresses, and I've written a letter to each woman, telling them what
you're going to do."

"If I find something, you want me to do the same thing to it?  I mean,
whoever's bugging you might think something's up if all three systems
go down."

"Good point.  Do the same work on Ms.  Dart's offices and apartment,
but leave the Potts place up and running.  Then call me."

"One thing," Cantor said.

"What's that?"

"You got a very nice burglar alarm system in the house; you ever use
it?'

"When I go away."

"Start using it all the time.  I mean, now that the wire on your place
isn't working right, they might come back to fix it."

"I hadn't thought of that," Stone said.

CHAPTER

man da got to Stone first.  "What the hell is going on?"  she demanded.
"This man of yours says there are bugs all over my offices."

"What's going on, Amanda, is that there are bugs all over your offices.
That's where your leak is, or at least part of it."

"Well, I told him to yank them all out."

Stone groaned.  "I told him to create static, but leave them in Place.
Now whoever planted the bugs is going to know you know."

"That's just fine with me," she said.  "I want the bastard to know."

"Amanda, you got the surveillance reports on your people, the ones I
sent you?"

"Yes, and they both look innocent enough to me."

"To me, too; that leaves Martha."

"Stone, I've told you, it couldn't be Martha."  "We're running out of
suspects; there's only the maid and Martha.  I want your permission to
check out both of them.  Oh, and the chauffeur, too."

"I hate paying for work that I know will turn up nothing."

"That's understandable, but anytime you investigate a group of people,
you have to investigate them all.  That's the only way it will work.
So, have I your permission to investigate these three people?"

"Oh, all right, but for God's sal, don't let any of them know.  It
would be so embarrassing for me if they found out."

"Not as embarrassing as what DIIT is publishing."

"You have a point.  Do it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her voice changed, became lower.  "I thought you were going to call me
for a get-together."

Better bite the bullet, Stone thought.  "I'm sorry, Amanda, but I have
to be frank with you.  I'm seeing somebody, and she's taking all my ...
attention."

"Shit," Amanda said, and hung up.

Tiffany was next.

"I'm calling from a pay phone," she said.

"Good girl."

"That Bob says that somebody can hear every word that's spoken in my
apartment or on my phone, and that he's not fixing it."

"If we fix it, Tiff, whoever is listening will know that you know."

"Stone, you told me to find a boyfriend, so I did.  Now when I bring
him home, somebody's going to hear us in bed."  "You're an actress;
think of it as a performance."

She was quiet for a moment.  "I hadn't thought of that," she said
finally.  "Come to think of it, that could be a turn-on."

"Whatever works for you, Tiff."

"I wish there was a way I could turn the bug off for a few minutes at a
time, though."

"Does the boyfriend have a home?"

"Yeah, but it's way down in the Village."

"The Village is charming; a great place to make love."

"Mmmmm," she said.

"And Tiff, for God's sake, stay away from Dick--no hotels or anything;
it's for his own good, tell him that."

"He has been insistent."  "How did you communicate?"  "Pay phone at
both ends."

"Do this: Tell him no contact for two weeks."  Stone had no idea where
he'd be on this investigation in two weeks, but what the hell?

"Okay."

"See you, Tiff."

"Bye."

Bob Cantor called next..i "Boy, that Tiffany is something!"  he said.
"

"Down, Bob.  Her boyfriend could buy and sell you, and he would."

"Too bad.  Oh, Amanda Dart made me rip out everything."

"She told me.  I'll just have to live with it.  You ever do any
surveillance work?

"Once in a while."

"I've got two people need checking out; got a pencil?"  .

"Shoot."

Stone gave him the names and addresses of the maid and chauffeur.  He
would check out Martha himselfi "I need this soonest," he told Canton

"Gotcha.  Oh, Stone, I almost forgot; I might know who did the wiring
job on you and the other tWO."

"Yeah?  Who?"

"Maybe a guy who occasionally hangs out at a bar I go to."

"What makes you think you know?"

"He has a signature; it's the way he wraps a wire around a terminal--he
makes a kind of knot.  Somebody told me about it.  You want me to add
this to my list?"

"You do that; I'd like very much to know who he's working for."

"You got it."

SUR?  WOOS

Stone had a thought.  "Bob, will you wire a place for me?  Phone, too?"
-'"You bet; but it's more expensive if I have to beak in and work under
pressure."  "Her name is Martha McMahon; she works all day, five days a
week; she lives in a small elevator building, no doorman."  Stone gave
him the address.  "You want to listen live, or have it taped?"  "I
don't have time to listen live.  Can you tape it from a remote
location, so you don't have to be there?"  "Sure."  "Do it.  Make her
first on your list.", "You got it."  Stone hung up.  It bothered him
that he himself was the subject of surveillance.  He was going to have
to start watching himself.  He went into his study, unlocked a cabinet,
and took out a Remington riot gun with an eighteen-andahalf-inch
barrel.  It was standard police issue; he had bought it at a
departmental surplus equipment sale years before.  He ignored the
double-ought buckshot shells in the cabinet and chose number nine
birdshot; he wasn't out to blow a yawning hole in anybody.  He inserted
four shells into the gun, pumped a round into the chamber, then added
one more shell and flipped on the safety.  Then he walked upstairs to
his bedroom and put the weapon on a small shelf he had built under the
bed.

Remembering that he had not relocked the cabinet, he went back
downstairs to the study, key in hand.  For a moment, he gazed at the
nine-millimeter automatic, han .ging inside in its shoulder holster,
then decided against it and locked the cabinet.  No need for that
yet.

CHAPTER

$0

tone stood half a block from Amanda's building and waited for Martha to
some out.  Martha knew him by sight, and he would have to be careful.

It was nearly six when she left the building, and she walked with great
purpose down Lexington Avenue, went into a Gristedes market, stayed
twenty minutes, and left with nothing in her hands.  Probably having
her groceries delivered.  She walked on downtown, did some window
shopping, and then did something Stone thought odd: She went into an
expensive cosmetics shop and spent nearly forty minutes there, allowing
a salesgirl to make her up, then leaving with a loaded shopping bag.
This seemed strange, because Martha, on the occasions when he had seen
her,

had never worn makeup at all.  There was a new man in her life, Stone
figured.

She continued downtown until she reached her building and went inside.
Stone intended to wait until she emerged again.  If she was still all
made up she might have a date later.  Then he saw a van parked a few
yards down the street from her building; it was gray and had a
telephone company logo on the sides.  What surprised him was that Bob
Cantor was behind the wheel, wearing a hard hat.  Stone approached and
knocked on a window.

Cantor jumped, then grinned and let Stone in.  "Just in time," he
whispered, "sle's on the phone with a guy."  He flipped a witch, and
the call was played over a speaker.

"... really sorry, but I've got tiffs meeting," a man's voice was
saying.

"Aw ..."  Martha responded, "and I just made myself look so pretty for
you."

"I'll miss that, baby, but there's nothing I can do."

"Tomorrow, then?"

"I'll have to call you; it's a rough week."

"Oh, all right," she said, the disappointment heavy in her voice.  The
call ended.

"How much did I miss?"  Stone asked.  "Nothing important."  "Did she
make the call?"  "No, he called her."

"Shit.  If she makes any calls, can you extract the numbers from the
keypad beeps?"

"Sure."

"What about Caller ID?  Can you pick up her incoming calls?"

"Nope that has to be done centrally, at the exchange.  Nothing I can do
about it."

"What did you find inside her apartment?"  "Nice place; not large, but
good furniture--antiques, nice upholstered pieces, a baby grand piano,
out of tune.  Her clothes are pretty dull, but there was a new black
dress in a Saks bag that looked more elegant than her other stuff.  I
found some credit card bills; she's got a balance on her Visa of six
thousand and change, pretty high for a secretary, but she pays on
time."

"She makes good money, so the Visa balance isn't out of line," Stone
said.  "What else?  Any photographs of men?"

"Nope, only one photograph; looks like her parents.  She reads a lot,
almost all hardbacks; there are a lot of bookcases in the place.  She
buys expensive-looking sheets and towels, there are a couple of good
oriental carpets in the place.  All in all, a fairly high-end joint,
especially for a single woman."

"Anything else?"

"I saved the best for last; her apartment's already wired, and by the
same guy who did your job."

"Jesus, that's four residences they've gone after; these people must
have some money behind them."

"Either that, or one of them knows his way around electronic
surveillance.  The equipment isn't very exotic or very expensive, but
whoegr did it knew what he was doing."

Music suddenly came from the speaker in the van.

"Sounds like WQXR, the classical radio station," Cantor said.
"Interesting lady; pity she's not more of a looker."  ,

"Where are you going to park the recorder?"  Stone asked.

"Right here; I'm in a legal parking spot, and I don't have to move the
van until tomorrow morning, when the alternate side' parking rules
change.  I'll just leave it until then."

"Good.  No point in surveilling when she's at work, either.  Just check
her between quitting time and bedtime; let's see if the guy really
calls back or if he's just handing her a line."

"Okay.  How long do you want me to keep the recorder going?"

"The rest of the week, if you can check out the other two names I gave
you while the recorder listens."

"Sure thing.  Tell me, did you set your alarm when you left the
house?"

"Damn it, I forgot."

"They'll come back, I promise you."

"How will I know if they do?"

"You won't, unless you know exactly what to look for."

Stone opened the door of the van.  "I think I'd better get home."

The phone was ringing when he opened the front door.

"Hi," Arrington said.  "How about tonight?"

"I've got to do something tonight," he said, "and I'm afraid you can't
help."

"I can be very helpful," she said.

"I know, but this one I need to do alone.  How about tomorrow?"

"You're on; see you later."  She hung up.

Stone walked around the house and took a good look at things; nothing
seemed to' have been disturbed in his absence.  He switched on the
living room lights and left the house by the front door, careful to set
the alarm this time, then walked around to the other side of the block
and rang the bell of a neighbor of his acquaintance.

"Hi," he said to the woman.  "I've forgotten my front door key; could I
go out the back door of your house?  I've got a kitchen door key
hidden."

"Sure," the woman said, then let him into and out the rear of her
house.

It was dark now, but the lights in the common garden had not yet come
on.  Stone stood very still for ten minutes, sweeping the entire
garden, looking for any sign of movement.  There was none.  He walked
slowly toward the back door of his own house, as if out for an evening
stroll, then stopped

again at his back gate.  Still no movement in the garden.

He went to his kitchen door and let himself in, then disarmed the
burglar alarm.  Without turning on any lights, he went upstairs to his
bedroom, changed into slippers, got the loaded riot gun, and went back
downstairs to his study.  He sat himself down in a comfortable chair
and began to wait.  The only light in the room filtered in from the
living room, where a single lamp burned.

It had been a long time since he had been on a stakeout, and he tried
to remember how he had dealt with the boredom without falling asleep.
Reading was out; so was listehing to music or watching television.
Instead, he tried to remember things, things from a long time ago;
that, he knew from experience, would keep him awake and wouldn't
interfere with his hearing.  He tried to remember all the names of his
high school graduating class, scoring about 80 percent, he reckoned.

The graduation memory done, he started on girls.  He tried to remember
each of the girls he had slept with from his freshman year at NYU, when
he had had his first sexual experience, until he graduated.  He began
with Susan Bernstein, his first, who had invited him back to her dorm
room and brazenly seduced him, cheerfully waiting until he had
recovered from his first, premature ejaculation so that they could do
it again, this time for a considerably longer period.  He had slept
with her throughout his freshman year; he tried to remember each
experience.  She didn't come back his sophomore year; she had quit
school to marry a jeweler in the diamond district.

He worked his way through the college years, lingering over the first
experience he had had with two girls, at a summer house in East
Hampton.  The girls, he remembered, had been just as interested in each
other as in him, something that had fascinated him to no end.  Then
there had been the assistant professor of English whom he had screwed
late at night in the faculty lounge and on three other occasions,
always in the same room.  For some reason, doing it there had turned
her on.

He was somewhere in the middle of his senior year, in the back seat of
a Catlillac convertible parked on a dark Greenwich Village street,
fucking the beautiful daughter of a New Jersey car dealer, when he was
suddenly snapped back to the present.  He had heard a noise from
somewhere downstairs.

CHAPTER

Stone' stood up, retrieved the shotgun leaning against his chair, and
checked to be sure the safety was still on.  If he had to use the
shotgun, he reckoned, he would use it as a club, if at all possible. He
had no'desireto kill .  anybody, and he knew, from his experience as a
police detective, what a pain in the ass it was to deal with the
aftermath of a killing, even a legal one.

The noise had seemed to come from the lower front of the house, so he
tiptoed down the hall toward the front stairs, keeping to the edge of
the floor to avoid creaking.  He went slowly down the stairs the same
way.  There was another noise, a tiny one, and he was sure it came from
the direction of his office.  He was in the kitchen dining area, and he
moved very carefully toward the door that opened into his office.
Arriving there, he put an ear to the door, held his breath, and
listened.  H was certain he could hear something, but it was so faint
that he reckoned it must be coming from his secretary's office or the
hallway where the telephone box was located.

Slowly, he turned the knob and opened the door an inch.  He could hear
the noise better now, and it wasn't coming from inside his office.  He
, opened the door and stepped into the room.  The noise stopped. Stone
stood silently immobile for perhaps a minute, then the noise began
again, this time a series of noises, like tools being taken from or
returned to a toolbox.  He moved on toward the closed door to the
hallway and put' an ear against it.  Again, the noise had stopped.
Stone reckoned that whoever it was was engaged in work that
periodically made some noise, then was quiet.  He began turning the
knob, a quarter-inch at a time; when he had turned it all the way he
opened the door an inch and listened.  Silence.  Then, slowly, an inch
at a time, he swung the door open just enough to allow himself through
it.  He held the shotgun across his chest, ready to swing the butt if
he encountered anybody, and stepped into the hallway.  The floor made a
tiny creak.  He could hear nothing else.

As he inched along the hallway he began to be able to see better, and
he realized that the tiny red lights from the alarm system and the
telephone box were beginning to light his way; then he saw

that the doors to both boxes were open.  Bingo, he said to himself,
almost at the very moment that something crashed into the back of his
neck It seemed a long time afterward that his head, alOog with his
consciousness, came to an abrupt stop against the hall floor.

The first thing he heard was a ringing in his head.  Then the ringing
seemed to float out of his body and into another place, while changing
pitch upward.  Finally it stopped and he heard his own voice: "This is
Stone Barringtorurplease leave a message, and I'll get back to you."
There followed an electronic beep, then a familiar voice.

"Stone, are you there?  If you're there pick up."  A brief silence.
"Please pick up, will you?  I've got to talk to you right now!" Another
silence.  "Goddamnit, if you're in the sack with somebody else, you're
in very big trouble!"  There'was aloud noise of a connection being
broken.

Stone didn't feel like moving just yet, since the floor seemed to be
doing the moving for him.  He lay there, his cheek against the cool
oak, and tried to still it.  Finally, hours later, it seemed, stillness
arrived.  He opened his eyes and blinked a few times.  There was
something inches from his nose, something tubular, and when he could
move his head back and focus, he realized that it was the barrel of his
own shotgun, lying on the floor in front of him.

He got to his hands and knees, then, using a coat rack for support,
struggled to his feet, blinking rapidly to make the dizziness go away.
That took a while.  After a few more deep breaths to get some oxygen in
his system, he turned and, leaning on the wall, went back toward his
office.  He found the switch that turned on the desk lamp, then moved
around the desk and into his chair, resting his head on his hands
against the desktop.  He thought he had never had such a headache.

He forced himself to sit up and grope in a drawer for some aspirin,
then swallowed four with some stale water from a carafe on his desk.
That done, he sat up in his chair and tried to think.  Somebody had
just spoken to him.  He looked down at the flashing red light on the
answering machine, then pressed the replay button and listened to
Arrington's voice, an urgent voice.  He struggled to remember her
number, pressed the speaker button on the phone, dialed, and laid his
head down beside it.

"Hello!"  she said, sounding angry.

He tried to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again.  "It's
Stone."

"You're trying to sound sleepy, aren't you?"  she cried.  "You were
there all the time."

"Listen," he said.

"You son of a bitch, you were there in bed with somebody, weren't you?
You got rid of her, and now you're calling me back."

2;0

"Arrington," he said, as clearly as he could manage, "if you don't shut
up and listen I'm going, to hang up."

"All right," she said, "I'm listening!"

"What time is it?"

"It's eleven-thirty; lose your watch?"

"I've been out since, I don't know, ten, ten-thirty."

"Out of the house?  ..... "Out like a light."  He looked at his left
wrist:

"And, as a matter of fact, I did lose my watch."  "You're not making
any sense."

"I know."  His head began.  to swirl again.  "Will you call an
ambulance, please?  I think I ..."  He passed out again.

This time, he came awake in a hurry.  Somebody was waving something
horrible under his nose, and he pushed it away.

"How're you feeling, pal?"  a man's voice asked.  Stone looked up and
found a cop and a paramedic standing beside him; just beyond them was
Arrington.  His head seemed to be resting in a puddle of something.

"Let's ease you back here," the paramedic said,

lifting him by the shoulders and sitting him up in the chair.

Stone wiped at his face.  "What's this?"

"Vomit.  You threw up on the desk.  Out, as you were, you're lucky you
didn't choke on it."

"Stone," Arrington said, "I'm sorry I yelled at you "

Stone nodded, and it hurt a lot.

"Let's get you onto the stretcher," the paramedic said.  His partner
appeared from somewhere, and they helped him onto the litter.  "Just
lie back and relax," the man said.  "We'll have you checked out in no
time."

Stone drifted off again.

When he woke up he was in a curtained-off area.  A woman in a green
jacket was bending over him;

Dino and Arrington were sitting beside the bed.  "How are you feeling?"
the woman asked.  "Not so hot," Stone responded.  "What's your name?"
"Stone Barrington."?

"How many fingers do you see?"  "Three."  "Good count."

"How is he?"  Arrington asked.

"He's got a pretty good concussion, I think," the doctor answered.  She
continued with a brief neurological examination.  "I think we'll admit
him, at least for tonight."

"Can I ask him some questions?"  Dino asked.

"Make it brief," the doctor replied, stepping back.

"You remember anything, Stone?"  Dino asked.  "I heard a noise
downstairs.  Went down to

2;2

checl on it.  That's about it.  My watch is gone."  He held up a
wrist.

"Did you see the guy who hit you?"  "No; from behind, I think." 
"Right. Remember anything else?"  "The doors were open."

"Yeah, the street door to your office was ajar."  "No, the telephone
and alarm doors."  "Huh?"

"To the boxes in the hall."

"I gotcha."

"How did I get here?"

"You called Arrington, r. ememer?"

"No.  Yes.  She's mad at me."

"No, I'm not, darling," she said, bending over him and kissing him on
the forehead.

"She called nine-one-one, and an ambulance and a cop showed up.  The
cop recognized you and called me."

"That's it," the doctor said.  "We'heed to get him to bed now."

"Good idea," Stone said, closing his eyes.

CHAPTER

Amanda looked into the mirror and was horrified at what she saw.  God
knew she had been under a lot of stress lately, if anger caused stress,
but this was the absolute end!  High on her left cheek was an irate,
fiery-red pimple.  A pimple!  She had not had a pimple since high
school!

She covered the protuberance with makeup as well as she could, then
finished dressing and went to her office.  Her staff of three was
already hard at work as she entered.  "Messages," she said to Martha
without so much as a good morning.

"Good morning, Amanda," Martha said, handing her a stack of pink
slips.

Amanda went into her office without a word and closed the door, tossing
the messages onto her

2i4

desk.  Lately she had been operating at a high level of irritation, and
at times she had had a very hard time to keep from losing her temper,
something she never did.  This DIRT business had gotten under her skin,
and nearly two weeks had passed since she had hired Stone Barfington to
get to the bottom of it, with no visible results.  She picked up the
phone and dialed his office number.  His secretary answered.

"Good morning, Ms.  Dart, how are you?"  "Terrible, thank you.  Let me
speak to Stone."

"I'm afraid Stone won't be at work today," the woman said, "and
possibhZ not tomorrow."

"He's taking a vacation?"  Amanda spat.  "On my time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Amanda got hold of herself.  "What I mean is, is

Stone taking some time off?"

"He is ill at the moment."

Then I'll call his home numbr."

"He's not at home, Ms.  Dart."

"Where, then, is he?  I want to speak to him immediately."

"He's in Lenox Hill Hospital."

"What?"  She hoped to God he hadn't had a heart attack on her.

"He's at Lenox Hill, but he can take phone calls.  I'll give you the
direct number for his room."

Amanda scribbled down the number.  "Thank you," she said, and hung up.
She dialed the other number, and it was answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"  "Stone?  It's Amanda.  You sound terrible."  "Thanks,
Amanda." "What on earth is V, Long?"  "Concussion, they tell me.  They
want to keep me here and observe me for another day."  "Concussion? 
How the hell did you get a concussion?"  she demanded, as if a
concussion were a personal affront to her.  "Amanda, are you quite all
right?"  "We're talking about you, Stone."  "I suqrised a prowler in my
house, right before he surised me."  "A burglar?"  "Maybe.  He took my
wristwatch and the cash in my wallet."  "Maybe a burglar?"  "Maybe
not."  "What's that supposed to mean?"  "I think he may have been
bugging my house and phones again."  "Does that mean he'll try to do my
place again?" "Possibly, although being caught at it might give him
pause.  I wouldn't count on it, though."  "How can I stop him?"  "Hire
a security guard, I suppose.  Do you want me to find somebody for you? 
I might be able to get an off-duty cop to sit on your apartment and
offices."  "Oh. Yes, I would like you to find somebody for me."

I'll make a call or two."  "Stone, does this business mean this person
is getting violent?"  "Not necessarily, unless he's caught in the act."
"I do not want to catch him in the act."  "That's what the cop will be
for.  I don't think you have to worry about violence, Amanda; he hasn
attacked anyone else but me, and I did get in his way."  "I'm relieved
to hear it, but I'd still like your policeman to come.  How soon can
you get somebody?"  "Right after my nap, "Stone said.  "They want me to
take lots of naps."  "Oh, of course, I don't want to interfere with
your recovery."  "Don't worry about it; I can still use a phone." 
"What kind of watch was it?"  "What?"  "Your wristwatch that was
tolen;what kind?" "A Rolex.  It had my name engraved on the back." 
"What kind of Rolex?" "The quartz one; I don't remember what they call
it.  Why are you worried about my watch?"  I was just curious.  You go
back to sleep, and call me when you've found a guard for me."  "I'll do
that," Stone said, and hung up.  This was not going well, Amanda
thought.  She called Richard Hickock and was put through immediately.

"Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"  Hickock asked, as if he weren't sure he wanted to
know.

"Stone Barrington's in the hospital.  Somebody broke into his house and
hit him over the head."

"Jesus Christ.  Does this have anything to do with our problem?"

"He disconnected the bugging in his house, and he thinks they came back
to put it in again.  Has he checked your office?"

"I had it done; both the office and the apartment are clean."

"What about.."  that little friend of yours?"  "That was bugged.
Stone's guy figured it out."

"I'm hiring a security guard," Amanda said.  "I don't want my place
bugged again."

"I don't blame you," Hickock replied.  "I'm having my premises checked
daily, and I'm not using my cell phone when it counts."

"Good God, can they bug a cellular phone?"  "A cell phone is a radio;
people can listen in if they have the right equipment.  I know a guy
who's got a scanner thing in his car; he listens to other people's
phone conversations for entertainment while he's being driven around
town."

"That's disgusting!"  Amanda jotted a quick note to herself to ask
Stone how to get a scanner.  "Well, that's life these days."

"I suppose it is.  Do you have anything to report?"

"Nothing.  Is Stone okay?"

"Yes, he'll be out of the hospital by tomorrow at the latest, or I'm
having a word with his doctors."  "Good, we need him on the job."
"Good-bye, Dickie."  "Bye."  She hung up just as Martha buzzed her.
"Yes?"  "Allan Peebles is on line two."  "Peebles?  That awful man who
edits the Infiltrator?"  "That's him; he's called twice this morning
already.  His message is on top of your stack."  "What could he
possibly want to talk to me about?"  "I've no idea.  Do you want me to
get rid of him?"  No need to court trouble, [he thought.  "No, I'll
speak to him." She pressed the button.  "This is Amanda Dart." 
"Amanda, this is Allan Peebles."  "Yes?"  "We don't know each
other--not really, I mean, but I thought we should talk."  "Talk? 
About what?"  "Well, Amanda, you and I are the principal targets of
this DIRT scandal sheet, aren't we?"  "So?" "So, I thought perhaps we
should compare notes."  "I don't have any notes, I'm afraid," she said.
And if I did have any, she thought, you're the last person on Earth
I'd share them with.

"Tell me, have your telephones been bugged?"  She paused.  "Why do you
ask?"

"I thought so.  Where can we meet?"

"I suppose you could come to my office."  She certainly was not going
to be seen in public with this man.

"Oh, no, I'm not talking anywhere that might be bugged."

"Just what is it, exactly, you want to talk about?"  she asked.

"I'm not going to talk about it on the phone."  "How long are you in
town for?"  "Until the day after tomorrow."

"I've got somebody working on this; I'll have him get in touch with
you?

"Listen to me, Amanda; I probably know more about this than you do, but
I'm not talking to anybody else.  It will have to be you and I,
face-to-face."

Amanda thought for a moment.  "You be on the corner of Madison and
Seventy-second Street, outside the Ralph Lauren sports store, on the
west side of the street, at four o'clock today.  I'll be in a black
Mercedes Six Hundred."

"Fine."

She hung up.  "God," she said aloud, "some of the people you have to
deal with in this business!"

2; o

CHAPTER

Dino showed up at the hospital as Stone was getting dressed to leave.
"Where are you going?"  he demanded..

"Home.  I can't stand it here anymore."  "Are you nuts?  You look
ribtten."  ..: "I'm fine."  He didn't really feel all that great, but
he thought he would feel better in his own bed.

"Has a doctor discharged you?"

"Yes; I didn't give him any choice.  Can you give me a lift?"  he
asked, holding up his slippers.  "I don't have any shoes."

"Yeah, okay.  At least I'll know you didn't pass out on the street."

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up.  "It's Arrington; how are you
feeling today?"  "Well enough to go home."

"Really?  "Well, I ache all over, but apart from that, I'm fine." 
"Want me to come get you?"  "Dino's giving me a lift."  "I'll drop by
to see you a little later; maybe feed you some chicken soup."  "Sounds
good." "See you."  She hung up.  "That Arrington?"  Dino asked.  "Yep."
"Looks like you might have something good going there, pal."  "Maybe.
Sometimes she gets.a little crazy."  "Only sometimes?  Yore're a lucky
man; I could tell you about crazy."  "You found an apartment yet?"
"Yeah, and they've accepted our offer."  "How much?"  Dino lowered his
voice.  "You ready for this?  Seven hundred thou and change."  "Seven
hundred thousand?"  "And change."  "You have a very generous
father-in-law."  Dino shook his head.  "He just wants her to shut up
about it, like me.  He'd pay twice that, if she'd shut up about it."
"Where is the apartment?"  "East Sixty-sixth, between Fifth and
Madison."  "Uptown!"  "Yeah.  We've still got to go before the coop
board."

"Relax, they'll be delighted to have a cop in the building.  You might
let drop that you can get the patrol frequency increased on the block."
"Good idea.  I can do that, too; I'll have a foot patrolman by there
every hour."  "How are you going to dress?"  "In a suit, I guess." 
"Want me to loan you one?"  "What's the matter with my suits?"  Dino
demanded indignantly.  "They're probably a little too Italian for an
East Side co-op board.  A trip to Brooks Brothers or Ralph Lauren might
bea good investment."  "I'll think about it.  When this board hears us
talk, they might bounce us."  "Use your interrogation English."  "Huh?"
"Talk to them the way you interrogate upscale witnesses."  "Oh, that. 
That could work, if I don't let' Mary Arm talk at all."  Stone laughed.
 "Come on, get me out of here."

Dino dropped him in front of the house, and Stone climbed the front
steps more slowly than he'd planned.  Helene met him at the door,
fussing and in five minutes she had him tucked in bed.  "Don't bring
food," Stone said.  "There's a lady coming whom you haven't met yet,
and she'll want that privilege."

Helene went back to her work, chuckling.

An hour later, Arrington showed up.  He could hear her and Helene
coming up the stairs together, laughing.  When they came into the room,
Arrington was carrying what looked like a large leather portfolio and a
paper bag.

"I take it you two have met," Stone said.

"Yes, we have," Arrington said, handing the paper bag to Helene.  "I
stopped by the deli for soup; can you warm this up?"

Helene went to the kitchenette and came back in five minutes with a
large steaming mug.

Arrington made him drink it.  "Good for what ails you," she said.  When
he had finished the soup, she opened the leather thing, which turned
out to be a portable massage table.  "A little gift," she said.

"Thanks very much," he replied.  "How does it work?"

She took a sheet from the linen closet and spread it over the table.
"Get out of that nightshirt, and hop up here; I'll show you."  She
retrieved a bottle of oil from her large purse.

Stone climbed onto the table and stretched out, his face in an opening
provided for breathing.

Arrington started with his neck and shoulders.  "You've got a very
large bruise right here," she said, poking the back of his neck.  "Is
that sore?"  "You bet it is; go easy there."

She worked her way slowly down his back and buttocks, letting her hands
stray now and then.

"You keep that up, and I'll forget I'm sick," Stone breathed.

"Oh, shut up."  She moved down to his legs and feet, then had him turn
over.

"What was that angry phone call the other night about?"  Stone asked.
"The one on the machine."

"Oh, I didn't want to tell you until you were better."

"Tell me what?"

"Somebody broke into my apartment earlier that evening."

Stone sat up, but she pushed him back down.  "What was taken?"

"Very little.  I had a coPle of hundred dollars in a dresser drawer; he
passed up my jewelry, thank

"That sounds strange."

"Especially when you consider that my jewelry box was in plain sight on
the dresser."

"How'd he get into the building?

"I don't know; the doorman swears nobody got past him."

"There's that side entrance that you and I left by one night."

"I guess that might be how, if he knew about it, and if he could get
past the lock."

"Is there something you're not telling me about this break-in?"  Stone
asked.

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?."

"I think Jonathan did it."

"Why?"

"He's been calling, and I've refused to talk to him.

There've been some messages on my machine."

"I want to hear the tape."

"I'm sorry; I was so annoyed that I erased them immediately."

"Anything threatening?"

"Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, I didn like his tone; it was.."  well, sort of proprietary." She
moved down to his chest and belly.  "I don think I like the sound of
that."  "Neither did I."

"I think I should have a little talk with Jonathan."  *

"I don want you two getting into fights over me."  "I don't get into
fights."  "Jonathan does."

"Trust me; I can handle this one."

"Whatever you say, sir."  She giggled and stroked his penis, which was
erect.  "Is this the way you say howdy?"

"Can you think of a better way?"

"No, sir, I can't," she said, rubbing oil on it.  "Is my massage over?"
he whispered.  "Not by a long shot," she whispered back.  "By the way,
what's Jonathan's last name?"  "Dryer."

That rang a bell somewhere with Stone, but at the moment, his mind was
elsewhere.

CHAPTER

man da rode up

Madison Avenue in the back of the Mercedes.

"Paul," she said, "we're going to pick up a gentle man at Madison and
Seventy-second, left-hand side, near the corner..... "Yes, ma'am," Paul
replied.

"I'm going to want to go someplace nearby,

park for a few minutes and have a private chat with him.  Can you think
of a good place?"

"There's a place in the park," Paul said.

"That will be fine; better get in the left hand lane."  Amanda put the
armrest down to separate " her from her unwanted guest, pressed a
switch that put up the sunscreen on the rear window, for privacy, and
eyed the corner ahead.  "That must be him," she said.  "The one in the
raincoat."  She had

?"i: no idea what Allan Peebles looked like, but this was the only lone
man on the corner.  The car rolled to a stop, and Amanda pressed the
window button.

The man leaned over and looked into the car.  "Amanda?"

"Get in," she replied.  The car turned left on 72nd and headed for
Central Park.

"I'm Allan Peebles," he said, extending his hand.

She shook it perfunctorily, then held a finger to her lips for
silence.

Halfway through the park, Paul pulled off the road into a small lot for
maintenance vehicles and stopped.

"Give us a few minfites, Paul," Amanda said.

Paul got out of the car and walked twenty yards to a bench and sat
down, still in view of the car.

"Now," said Amanda, "what do we have to talk about?"

"I've always been an admirer of your column," Peebles said.

"I wish I could say the same."  She glanced at her watch.

"All right, I'll get to the point: Why do you suppose you and I have
been targeted by this scandal sneer.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she said.  "After all, Richard Hickock
has been targeted, too, and Stone Barrington has been mentioned more
than once, as well as Vance Calder."

"With the possible exception of Calder, who was probably an innocent
bystander, everybody is connected."  "Connected?  How could I possibly
be connected with you?"  "We're both published by the same people, in a
manner of speaking."  "What on earth are you talking about?  I'm
published and syndicated by Dick Hickock's company.  Stone isn't
published by anybody."

"Barrington doesn't really come into it, except as your surrogate."
"What was that you were saying about 'the same people'-?"

Peebles smiled slightly.  "You really don't know, do you?"  "Know
what?" Amhnda demanded, irritably.  "About Hickock and us."  "Who is
'us'?" "The Infiltrator."  "What does HickO'ek h ve to dc: With the
Infiltrator?"  "My father-in-law owns sixty-five percent of the paper,
I own ten, and Hickock owns the other

I.:

twenty-five percent."

' .i

Against her will, Amanda's jaw dropped.

:

"Surprised, aren't you?"  Peebles asked, smiling.

"You are out of your mind," Amanda said.

"Dick Hickock is a legitimate publisher with half a i'il
companies--newspapers, magazines,

dozen book , '" publishing, the whole gamut."  "It's a broader gamut
than you know," Peebles said.  "Hickock has a corporate entity called
Window Seat, Limited; the stock is in the name of his wife's
half-brother, Martin Wynne."  "I didn't even know she had a
half-brother," Amanda said, interested now.  "Neither does just about
anybody else.  I doubt if he'll show up in Dickie's obituary.  Wynne is
British, a friend of my father-in-law.  The stock is in his name, but
believe me, the money is Hickock's, and Wynne doesn't make a move
without his permission."  "How very odd."  "It gets odder; Window Seat
owns Personality."  That dreadful rag?"  "Dreadful it may be, but it
hauls in the bucks, just as the Infiltrator does.  There's more:
through two other corporations, Window Seat controls three gay porno
magazines."  "This is incredible; I don't believe a word of it."  "I'd
say ask Hickock, but I don't think he'd appreciate it.  Window Seat is
an offshore corporation, and the profits go straight into Cayman Island
accounts, all tax-free.  Hickock spends it in Europe; he never brings a
dime into the U.S., unless it's in cash."  "He does spend a lot of time
in Europe," Amanda admitted.  "So does Glynnis."  "It's profitable for
them to do so."  "They spend a lot of time at a friend's chfiteau in
France."  "Owned by Window Seat, or an offshoot."

"What you're talking about would be a major scandal, if it were known,"
"Amanda said.  "Why haven you printed this?  After all, scandal is your
business."

"I told you, we're in bed with Hickock.  So are you."

"Well, I don't really care about any of this; it's nothing to do with
me."

"It will be if it ever gets out, and I think that's what this DIRT
business is about."

"What if it does get out?"

"There would be a major federal investigation, and the IRS woulcLbe all
over Hickock.  Can you imagine what that Sort of investigation--not to
mention a trial--would do to Hickock's other interests?  The stock'in
his various companies?  He'd be ruined, and he'd take a lot of people
down with him.  Like you and me.":

Amanda was horrified.

"You've just done a riw deal with him, haven't you?"

Amanda said nothing; she stared into the mid' die distance and thought
about what a Hickock collapse could do to her.

"I think you can see why it's in our mutual interests to cooperate with
each other," Peebles said.  "The first crack in the dike has already
appeared."

"Crack?"

"Glynnis Hickock's divorce action."

"You think Glynnis knows about this?"

"Do you think Hickock could be involved, with her half-brother in
something as complex as this and Glynnis not know about it?"

"Surely she wouldn't jeopardize Dick's fortune by some intemperate
action," Amanda said.  "That wouldn't be in her own best interests."

"A woman scorned doesn't always act in her own best interests," Peebles
said.  "Anyway, Glynnis is a wealthy woman in her own right.  If
Hickock sank it wouldn't cause more than a ripple in her lifestyle. And
if she's mad enough, she could sink him very deep.  The odds would
heavily favor a prison term, and she could plausibly deny all
knowledge."

Amanda stared at a sluirrel outside the car, her mind racing.

"I think you can see why this DIRT thing has to be stopped," Peebles
said.

Amanda snapped back to attention.  "Yes," she said.  "But so far, I
don't have a clue who's involved.  Stone Barrington is still
investigating,

but he's been in the hospital."

"Hospital?"

"Someone... this goes no further."

"Of course not."

"Someone broke into his house, and when he investigated, he got hit
over the head."

"I must say, I'm not surprised."

"What do you know that I don't know?"  Amanda asked.

"You must understand, I'm in a very difficult position.  The...
allegations about me in the scandal sheet are very, very dangerous to
my interests.  I'm already persona non grata in London, with my wife
and my father-in-law, and if the old man were sufficiently riled, he
could, quite literally, destroy me.  I'd never hold a job again,
anywhere in the world."

"Why is your position any worse than anybody else's in this wretched
business?"  Amanda asked.

"Because I suspect--although I can't prove that one of the people,
perhaps the only person, behind DIRT may be someone I was once ...
involved with."

"A lover?".

"That's too strong a term, I think.  No, there was never any love in
it."

"Who is this person?"  "His name is Geoffrey."  "Geoffrey what?"

"When I knew him--this was nearly a year ago--he called himself Power;
but I d .o. bt that's his name.  I went through his wallet once, and I
found three driver's licenses, in different names."

Amanda was alert now.  "What were the other two names?"

"I don't remember.  I didn't have any reason to, at the time; I figured
they were aliases, too."

"Geoffrey Power.  Is Geoffrey his real first name?"

"I can't swear to it, but I think so.  I remember that the initial "G'
appeared in the names on all three licenses."

"What does he have against Dick Hickock?"

"I don't know, but I know what he has against me."

"What?"

"After we stopped ... seeing each other, I was very angry with him, and
I did something that someone in my position should never do.  I used
the Infiltrator to get back at him."

"How?"

"He was trying to make a career as an actor in

L.A."  and I assigned a reporter to call a couple of dozen casting
directors and studios, and let drop that the Infiltrator was
investigating him.  Of course, no one would have anything to do with
him after that.  He left town and, Pthink, came to New York."

"What does he look like?"

"Early to mid-thirties, tall, slender, but well built, light brown
hair, highlighted at the ends.  He's quite beautiful, actually."
Peebles sounded regretful.

Amanda had produced a notebook and was writing furiously.  "Have you
had him investigated?

Really, I mean?"

"No; I'm afraid to.  I'm afraid of what he'll do."

"What do you mean?"

"He has a somewhat unsavory background.  He hinted at working for some
government agency at one time, something secret.  That may have been
bragging, of course, but I don't really doubt it.  He seems to have all
sorts of, well, skills that ordinary people never come by.  And he has
a violent streak."  Peebles

blinked rapidly.  "I'm terribly afraid of violence.  Also, I can't be
seen by anyone to have had an interest in him.  I've compromised myself
too much already; my whole world is hanging by a slender thread."  "I
understand your position," Amanda said.  "Why did you come to me?" 
"You already have an investigation under way that is not seen as being
connected with me.  Stone Barrington has a reputation as very bright
and discreet; if he can track this thing down and put it out of
business--quietly--then we're all safe: Hickock, you, and me."  "I
see," Amanda sid.  "Tell your investigator as much of what I've told
you as you feel is necessary, but for God's sake, keep my name out of
it, if you possibly can.  I don't know any more than I've told you, so
there's no point in my speaking directly to Barrington.  Will you do
that?" "I'll have to think abbut this," Amanda said.  "About the best
way to approach it.  Of course, I'll keep your name out of it... if I
can." Peebles's face fell; he obviously knew that his fate was in her
hands. "I would be very, very grateful," he said.  Amanda lowered her
window and waved at Paul.  In a moment they were rolling back toward
the East Side.  "Where can I drop you?"  Amanda asked.  "Anywhere,"
Peebles said disconsolately.  "It really doesn't matter."

CHAPTER

n the morning following his return from the hospital, Stone felt well
for the first time since his encounter with the intruder.  He was
sitting at his desk, trying to make some sense of the work that had
accumulated, when his secretary buzzed.  "Yes, Alma?"  "Bob Cantor is
here to see you," she said.  "Send him in."  Cantor was,
uncharacteristically, wearing a business suit.  "How you doing, Stone?
Recovered?"  "Much better, thanks."  "This guy is some piece of work,
huh?"  "Apparently so.  Have you got something for me on the maid and
the driver?"  "Right."  He got out his notebook.  "The maid,

Gloria, lives in Queens; she rides in every morning with the driver,
Paul, and takes the subway home.  She's divorced, lives alone, sees a
lot of her sister.  The neighborhood storekeepers like her.  Most of
them give her credit, and she pays on time.  She's Hungarian, a devout
Catholic, teaches catechism to kids at her church.  Hard to imagine a
straighter arrow.  I got a look at her phone bills; she makes very few
calls, none of them long distance.  Nine out of ten are to her sister,
her priest, and Amanda Dart.  I tapped her for three days, she got four
calls, all of them from her sister.  I honestly think that to do more
on herjs a dead end."

"I agree.  What about the driver?"

"Paul is something of a character in his neighborhood.  He's greg ari
is, plays the ponies in a small way and, on his day off, takes the
train into the city and sits in a brokerage office watching the ticker.
He's got a couple of hundred thousand in investments, not bad for
a'hauffeur, and he deals in used cars, one at a time--buys them, fixes
them up, and sells them for a profit.  He's good on his bills and
maintains a healthy bank balance, in the low five figures, in an
interest-bearing checking account.  I guess he keeps that much on hand
in case he finds a car he wants to buy.  He's pretty honest about
selling the cars, doesn't lie abot their condition, and he gets repeat
customers.  One little niggling thing, for whatever it tells you: He
cheats Amanda when he sells her cars."

"How?"

"She gives him ten percent to sell them, but he takes fifteen to twenty
in the end.  This was easy to figure out from his recent bank
statements.  Still, he always gives her book wholesale.  I don't want
to make too much of this."

Stone laughed.  "I can't say that I blame him.  Amanda is the kind of
woman who has to be annoying to work for a lot of the time, even if he
is well-paid.  Anything else that troubles you about either of these
people?"

"Nope.  All in all, I'd say that Amanda Dart has herself first-rate
help in every department.  Except maybe Martha, who could have a
weakness."  "What has the bug turn, edup?"

"The guy who calls never uses his name; she recognizes his voice.  He's
giving her a pretty hard time, I think; he could be at the point of
dumping her, but he hasn't yet.  She hasn't seen him since I've been on
this.  I get the feeling that he thinks he might still need her for
something, so he's keeping his hand in, so to speak.  I've got the
tapes if you want to hear them, but they're all brief; the guy doesn't
like to talk on the phone.  Tell you the truth, I think that if there's
a leak in Amanda's office, it's got to be Martha."

"I've been resisting that idea myself, becaus Amanda seems so certain
that it's not Martha, but after what you've told me about the others,
and about these phone calls, I agree that she has to be our girl.  I'm
not entirely certain about Barry yet, because he screws so many people,
we could never keep track.  But it's looking an awful lot like
Martha."

"Are you going to tell Amanda that?"

"Not yet.  I don't want to ruin their relationship without some hard
evidence, and we're not doing very well on coming up with that.  Did
Amanda talk with you about some guard work?"

"Yeah; a guy I know is going to handle it.  He'll come into the office
when she closes and sit on it until her people arrive in the morning. I
swept the place again, and she's still clean.  Maybe I ought to have
another look around here, too."

"Okay, go ahead; check back with me when you're finished.  There's
Omething else I want to talk with you about."

"See you in half an hour," Cantor said, and left the office.

Stone started dictating correspondence and signing checks; he had just
finished when Cantor returned.  '

"Well, I'll tell you," the ex-cop said, flopping down in a chair, "this
guy is some piece of work.

He's done the phones again."

"Jesus."

"I guess while you were napping the other evening, he calmly went about
his business.  It's just the phones, though; I didn't find anything,
else."

"Did you screw up his work?"

Cantor held up a handful of wires and devices.  "I yanked it.  No need
to be subtle anymore."

S'JAR WOODS

"You had any luck with this guy in the bar who has the signature with
the wires?"

"I almost forgot; I talked to him for half an hour last night; the
signature is something he was trained to do."

"Who taught him?"

"A federal agency, is all I could get out of him; he denied that it was
the CIA.  Maybe the National Security Agency."

Stone shook his head.  "Aren't they more into the wireless sort of
surveillance?"

"Yeah.  It could be some group we don't know about--maybe even
something illegal."

"Do you really think that sort of stuff still goes on?"

Cantor shrugged.  "Who knows?  There are a lot of guys on the street
who used to work for somebody in D.C. Maybe he's that type."

"Maybe.  Listen, Bob, there's something else."  "Shoot."

"How good are you on your feet?"

"I'm okay; I used to study karate pretty seriously, and I box once or
twice a week at my gym.  What is it you need, Stone?"

"There's a guy needs talking to, and to tell you the truth, I'm not
sure I'm up to it just yet.  He's been harassing a friend of mine, a
woman, and I want a stop put to it."

"So is this guy muscle, or something?"

"She says he gets into fights; I have no idea how good he is at it."

2;0

"What exactly is it that you want done?"  "I want the fear of God put
into him.  I'm not talking about leaning hard on him, but if he reacts
badly, I don't want him to come out of it with the upper hand."  "You
think this guy might be the one wiring all these places?"  Stone shook
his head and pushed a copy of Vanity Fair across his desk.  "This is
the guy; he's a male model, at least some of the time.  The
connection's with this girl, whose name is Arrington; not with the DIRT
thing."  Cantor looked at the pic, t re.  "I can handle it."  "There's
something else, 'something I only just found out."  "Yeah?"  Stone
handed him a slip of paper.  "His name is Jonathan Dryer; that's where
he lives.  Arnie Millman got clipped in the alley next to the
building." ": "You think the two things are connected?"  "I can't see
how, but I don't like coincidences.  I thought you ought to know about
Arnie, though."  "Yeah, I'm glad you told me."  "If your talk with him
turns up anything that makes you think he might be connected with Arnie
by more than just geography, then we'll bring Dino into it."  Cantor
nodded. "When you want this done?"  "The sooner the better."  "You
think he might be at home now?"

"Only one way to find out."

Cantor stood up.  "I'll check him out."

"If he's not there, maybe you could take a look around his place, see
what he's about."

"Sure thing."

"Give your bill for the other work to Alma, and she'll cut you a check.
What do you want for the Dryer business?"

"Let's see how it goes," Cantor said.  "He might be a pushover."

"As long as you're ready for him, if he isn't."

"Don't worry about me."  Cantor left and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER

Amanda had thought long and hard overnight about what to do, and her
first decision, characteristically, was to protect herself.  She called
her lawyer, Bill Eggers, at home.

"Morning, Amanda."

"Bill, I want to ask you a hypothetical--very hypothetical-question."

"Shoot."

"In the unlikely event that I felt I really had to, could I get out of
my contract with Dick Hickock?"

"What?"

"Now, Bill, I told you this was hypothetical; don't get upset."

"Amanda, you've only just signed the contracts; it's a terrific
deal!"

"Bill, you haven't answered my question."

"The answer is no, not unless Hickock were willing to release you."

"Nothing I could do, if I wanted out?"

"It's more about what he could do.  He could prevent any other
newspaper or magazine from publishing you.  All you could do would be
to beg him to let you go.  What's this about, Amanda?"

"Bill, this isn't going to happen; I just like to know where I stand,
that's all."

"The only way you could get out would be nonperformance on Dick's part.
As long as he pays, you're stuck with him."

"Thank you, Bill; just forget I asked, all right?"  "Asked what?"

"Bye, Bill."  She hung up.  Well, that was bad news; if Dickie started
downhill, he could drag her with him, and all the way to the bottom.
She was going to have to nail whoever was publishing DIRT.  She had
nailed lots of people in her time, but Amanda was not accustomed to
going after faceless people with no fixed address.

She picked up the phone to call Stone, then hung up again.  She didn't
want to tell him about Hickock's sub rosa business activities; after
all, he was also representing Dick in this matter; she had given him
permission to do so.  Oh, well, she didn't have to tell him everything.
She picked up the phone again and got connected.

"Stone, darling, I have some information that might be of help," she
said.

2J4

"I'm all ears," Stone replied.  "You remember the issue of DIRT that
featured Peebles, the editor of the Infiltrator?"  "Yes."  "Peebles and
I had a chat yesterday; he thinks that an old boyfriend of his might
have something to do with this, might even be the one behind it." 
"What's the old boyfriend's name?"  "Geoffrey, spelled the English way,
Power. At any rate, that's what he called himself.  Peebles thinks he
might use more than one name.  He's a failed actor, in L.A.
anyway--actually, he failed out there because Peebles screwed him with
the studios.  He could be in New York."  "You have anything else on him
that might help me locate him?"  "A description."  "Shoot."  She read
from her notes. "Early (o mid-thirties, tall, slender, but strong,
sandy hair.  Peebles says he's quite beautiful."  "Anything else?  An
address, a phone number?"  "Afraid not, but Peebles thinks he might be
in New York; he pulled out of L.A."  "I'll see what I can come up
with."  "Bye."  Stone's immediate thought was that the description fit
the man who had been following Tiffany Potts, who looked like the man
in the magazine, who had turned out to be Jonathan Dryer.  He tried to
remember his visit to Dryer's apartment, but there wasn't much there. 
The man had been backlit, standing behind a partially open door, and he
had never gotten a good look at him.  All he had was the magazine
photo.  He turned his attention to Geoffrey Power, starting with his
computer telephone directory.  That contained a hundred million names,
but not a single Geoffrey Power.  He called Dino.

"Yeah?"  Dino said.

"Will you run a name for me?"

"Sure."

"Last name Power, first name Geoffrey."  Stone spelled it for him.

"Hang on."

Stone could hear the computer keys clicking.  "He's never been
arrested," Dino said.  "Try the alias database."

More key clicking.  "Zip," Dino said.  "Thanks.  How's it going with
the apartment?"  "We're meeting the board this afternoon;- I took your
advice and bought a suit.  When the meeting's over I'll give it to
you."

"You're sweet.  See you."  He hung up and tried New York telephone
information, new listings.  If Power had just moved to town, he might
be there.

Nothing.  He called Amanda.

"Yes?"

"He doesn't have a telephone in the United States, or one in New York;
he's never been arrested.  That's all I can do with a name, especially
one that might be an alias.  You'll have to get me some more info
nation

"I don't think I can," she replied.

"Then it's a dead end."

Stone had an idea.  "Have you got a copy of the new Vanity Fair
handy?"

"Of course."

"Call Peebles and tell him to look at the ad for

Spirit men's cologne."  He gave her the page num her.  "See if the guy
in the ad looks familiar.  I'd like to hear his respi)rise."

I'll get back to you."  She hung up.

Half an hour later, sl.  called back.

"The resemblance is close, but it's not Power,

Peebles says.  How did you come up with that picture

"It arose in connection with something else.

The description seemed to fit."

"Oh, good.  Keep on this Power person, will you?"  ":: "Amanda, there's
nothing more I can do until we get more information on the guy. As it
stands, he's nothing more than a wisp of smoke."  She hung up without
another word.

CHAPTER

Bob Cantor got out of the cab on Second Avenue and walked down the
block until he found the building.  "Basement apartment," he mumbled to
himself, consulting the address Stone had given him.  He walked down
the steps to the apartment door and found it ajar; the smell of paint
reached him.  He pushed the door open.  The living room was empty and
freshly painted.  He heard the rattle of a bucket from a rear room and
walked that way.

A middle-aged man in paint-stained jeans and sweatshirt was rapidly
rolling paint onto a bedroom wall.  He looked at Cantor.  "Sorry, I'm
not showing the apartment until tomorrow, when the ad runs in the
Times," he said.

Cantor showed him his badge briefly.  "I'm looking for Jonathan Dryer,"
he said.

"So am I," the man replied.  "He owes me four months' rent."

"When did you last see him?"

"Last Friday, when I was going away.  When I came back on Wednesday, he
was gone, and the place was empty.  Four months he owes me; that's how
long his lease had to run."

"Mind if I look around?"

"Help yourself."  He went back to painting.  Cantor walked slowly
around the apartment, looking in closets and drawers.  It was a nice
place, he thought.  Good kitchen, nicely done bathroom.  Cantor was
living in Chelsea, and he thought he wouldn't mind living uptown.  All
the closets, drawers, and cabinets were empty.  He went back to the
bedroom and walked out the rear door, which opened onto a small terrace
and, a garden: area behind.  There was nothing i' the way of planting,
but there was soil; soil was a valuable real estate asset in New York. 
He went back inside.

"Nice place," he said.  "Who's the agent?"

"No agent; I own the building.  I live on the top two floors."

"How much you asking?"

The man told him.  '

"How much less would you take to have a guy with a badge living
here?"

The man looked at him narrowly.  "You married?"

S'I1JART WOODS

"Divorced."  "Any kids?"  "None."

"You play any musical instruments?"

"The stereo, softly."

"I'd need a police reference."

"Call Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth, around the
corner."

"I'll do that.  If you check out, it would be worth a couple hundred
off for a cop."

"Retired cop, actually, but that's even better for you.  I'd be
spending more time in the building than somebody who has to pull duty."
"What's your nane?"  "Bob Cantor."

"How long a lease you want?"

"Three years would be good."

"You wait here; I'll be right back."  The man left and came back ten
minutes later.  "Bacchetti says you're okay; give me a check for a
month's rent and a security deposit, and the place is yours."  Cantor
wrote him a check.

"My name's Jim O'Brian."  He stuck out his hand.

Cantor shook it.  "Back to this guy Dryer; tell me about him."

"He kept to himself, didn't make any noise.  I only saw him coming and
going, or when he paid the rent.  Always paid in cash, which was okay
with me."

"How long was he here?"

"Eight months."

"Anybody room with him?"

"A long string of girls, one night at a time."  "Any guys visiting
him?"

"He was straight, believe me."

"I mean friends staying over a few days, that sort of thing."

"Not that I recall."

"When he rented the place, did you take an application from him?"

"No, I don't bother with written applications if the renter looks okay.
I never got burned until now."  "What did Dryerato for a living?" 
"Said he was a filmmaker."

"You ever see any evidence of that?"  "What kind of evidence?"
"Cameras, film equipment?"

"The only equipment Dryer had here was a computer, a copy machine, and
a fax machine.  Pretty neat computer, thoughmPentium?fast laser
printer, big monitor."

"Did Dryer apply for his own phone service?"  "Nah, the phone's on my
bill.  Shit!  I forgot about the phone bill.  That's more money out of
my pocket."

"Did he make many long distance calls?"  "Yeah, quite a few."

"Could I have a look at your phone bills?  I'd like to know who he was
calling."

"I've got to go upstairs and get you a lease form; I'll dig them out
for you."

"One more thing; did Dryer leave anything here?"  "Nothing but trash."
"Has it been picked up yet?"  "No, it'll still be out in the alley next
to the building.  There's two plastic bags in the first can.  It has a
"B' on it, for basement."  "Thanks, Jim, I'll take a look at that while
you get the lease and the phone bills--all eight months, if you've got
them."  "I'll be back in five minutes."  Cantor followed him outside,
walked into the alley, and found the garbage cans.  There were three
bags; one of them contained uninteresting kitchen garbage, the others a
lot of paper and magazines.  He pulled out the two bags of paper and
walked back to the front of the building.  O'Brian was coming down the
front steps.  "Standard lease; I've already signed it," he said,
handing Cantor the document.  "What about subleasing?"  "No problem, if
I approve the tenant."  Cantor signed the lease, kept a copy, and
handed it back. "Jim, you really ought to start taking a written
application from your tenants; there are a lot of bad people out
there."  "You're probably right; was Dryer one of them?  Why are you
checking up on him?"  "He did something impolite to a friend of a
friend of mine.  I was just going to talk to him and tell him not to do
it again.  Don't worry about him;

if he walked out on his lease, you won't be seeing him again."

O'Brian nodded and handed Cantor a manila envelope.  "Here are the
phone bills.  The basement number is 1232."

"Can I borrow these for a day?"

"Sure, but I need them back for my taxes."

"I'll get them back to you.  Thanks, Jim; I'll probably move in at the
weekend; if that's okay."  "Fine with me.  Glad to have you aboard."
Cantor tucked the manila envelope under his arm, grabbed the two trash
bags, and started looking for a cab.

CHAPTER

tone was working at his desk when he heard the street door open, and a
moment later Bob Cantor walked into his office carrying two garbage
bags.

"Never say I didn't give you anything," Cantor said, dropping the two
bags on the floor and depositing a manila envelope on Stone's desk.
"Dryer jumped his lease and moved out of the apartment last weekend."
He grinned.  "Nice place; I rented it."

"Did he leave anything in the apartment?"  Stone asked.

Cantor pointed at the garbage bags.  "If he did, it's in there.  His
phone bills are in the envelope; the landlord says he made a lot of
long distance calls."  He pulled up a chair.

Stone opened the envelope and shook out the phone bills.

"The phone was in the landlord's name; last four digits are 1232."

Stone began going through the bills.  "L.A.,

L.A."  L.A. Jesus, he lived there for what... ?"  "Eight months."

"And he never called anywhere but L.A.?  Hard to believe."

"Yeah."

"And only one number," Stone said.  He turned to his computer, inserted
a CD-ROM, and brought up his national telephone directory.  He typed in
the L.A. phone number and waited while the computer searched.  "Here we
go," he said, "the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, in West Hollywood.
When did you say that Dryer moved out?"

"Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday."

"Look, he's called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or
four times a day."

Stone picked up the phone and dialed the L.A. number.

"Santa Fe," a man's voice said.

"Hello," Stone said, "this is Detective Cantor of the New York City
Police Department."  "Thanks a lot," Cantor whispered.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a regular apartment building there, or what?"

"Short-term furnished apartments, by the week or month."

"I'm trying to reach someone who may have moved out last Wednesday or
Thursday; could you check your records and tell me who that might be? 
I don't have a name."

"Don't need a name," the man said.  The sound of pages turning came
over the phone "Only one person has moved out in the past couple of
weeks.  We stay pretty full."

"Who would that be?"

"A Mr.  G. Gable."

"Can you tell me what he looks like?"

"Early thirties, dirty blond hair, kinda long, fairly tall.
Nice-looking guy."

"Have you got forwarding address?"

"Nope, nothing.  You looking for this guy or something?"

"Not yet."

"Well, if you find him, will you let me know?  He owes a month's rent.
He left here by the back way, very early in the morning."

"Has his place been cleaned out?"

"Oh, yeah; I rented it right away.  We always have a waiting list."

"Thanks very much; I appreciate your help."  He hung up and turned to
Cantor.  "He was using the name of G. Gable."

"And we're looking for G. Power.  It's gotta be our guy."

"Right.  Let's see what his trash looks like."  Stone cleared off his
desk and, a handful at a time, they began going through all the
paper.

"Okay," Cantor said, "we got a lot of very real trash--newspapers,
magazines."  "Vanity Fair, New York, People, Us.  He seems to be
celebrity-oriented."  "Here's a receipt from Saks, from the Armani
shop," Cantor said.  "He paid cash.  The landlord said he paid his rent
in cash, too."  "What's the date of the receipt?"  "Let's see, nearly a
month ago."  "He would have already picked it up after the alterations,
then.  Too bad."  "More receipts; one from a limo service; here's one
from e Foyer Seasons--Jesus, nearly three hundred bucks for dinner!"
"He's living well, isn't he?  And he doesn't seem to use credit cards
dr write checks for things that most people would.  I wonder where he's
getting all this cash?"  "I don't see any old bank statements in all
this stuff," Cantor said, dropping another double handful onto the
desktop.  "Look at this, another limo receipt, more clothes--Alan
Flusser, this time, who's that?"  "High-end tailor and ready-made
clothes."  "Here's one from Ferragamo for six hundred and change."
"That's two pair of shoes.". "Every one of them is marked cash.  Oh, he
told the landlord he was a filmmaker.  Where does a filmmaker get this
much cash?  A bookie doesn't have this much cash!"

Stone had a thought; he called Dino.  "Yeah, Bacchetti," Dino said.
"It's Stone."

"Hey, you must be making Bob Cantor rich.  I got a call from somebody
who wanted a reference for renting an apartment up here somewhere."

"Yeah, he's moving up in the world.  Listen, Dino, have you had any
burglaries reported recently where just about the only thing taken was
cash?"

"Burglaries?  How the fuck would I know; I don't mess with that kind of
shit."

"Yeah, but your guys do.  Would you talk to somebody on the brglary
detail and ask about it?"  "I'll have to get back to you."  "Thanks,
friend."  He hung up.

"What makes you think he's doing burglaries?"  Cantor asked.

"Just a hunch.  Whoever burgled Arrington's place took only cash; the
guy who hit me over the head took cash--and my Rolex.  Whoever capped
Arnie Millman in the alley outside Dryer's-aardon me, your
apartment--took cash."

"You think all of those are the same guy, then?"  "Maybe.  Maybe two
guys."  "Two?  One of 'em's Power, then?"

"One of my clients was being followed by a guy who looked like Dryer,
but she said wasn't Dryer, judging from the photograph, and yet they
fit the same description.  I got a tip that a guy from L.A. who might
be behind the DIRT thing fits the description.  Now we've got Dryer
repeatedly calling a guy in L.A. who fits the description, and who left
L.A. recently.  Maybe he's in New York now."

"Brothers?"  "Could be."  The phone rang.

"It's Dino.  What do you know about these burglaries?"

"What burglaries, Dino?"

"The burglaries you called me about."

"I called to ask you about burglaries.  You find some?"..

"Eight in the Nineteenth where only cash was taken, or cash and men's'
jewelry, watches, that kind of stuff, all of' them in high-end
buildings.  What do you know about this?"

"I'm just chasing a wild hunch.  Find a copy of Vanity Fair, the new
issue, and look for an ad for Spirit men's cologne.  There' a guy's
licture in it; he's been calling himself Jonathan Dryer.  Get one of
your burglary detail to show it to the eight victims and see if anybody
recognizes him.  If they do, I'd love to have a name and address."

"Why do you think this guy's connected to these burglaries?"

"Because I think he went into Arrington% place and took cash, and he
may have been the guy who did me, who also took cash.  He's an old
boyfriend of Arrington's."

"Well, she must know where to find him."

"He moved out and didn't leave a forwarding address, and get this: He
lived in the apartment next to the alley where Arnie Millman bought it.
Interesting?"  "Very."  "One of your guys must have interviewed him
that night.  When I went around there he said he'd been talking to the
cops. Will you find out who it was and what notes he took?"  I'll do
that." "And I'd like to hear about it."  "You will."  Dino hung up. 
"Bob, you call the cologne manufacturer, and see if you can track down
Dryer through his modeling agency."  "Okay, Stone; sounds like you're
putting something together here," Cantor said.  "Maybe," Stone said. 
"We'll see."  "I forget," Cantor said, "did I-mention that Dryer had a
hotshot computer, a laser printer, and a fax machine?  Maybe this is
DIRT?." "Maybe paydirt," Stone said.

CHAPTER

,39

ThT following morning, Stone and Arrington lay in his bed, watching the
Today show and eating breakfast.

"I checked out Dryer," Stone said.  "He's bolted from his apartment."

"I hope he's bolted from the planet," Arrington said.

"Do you mind telling me a little more about him?"  He was treading
carefully; he knew this was a sensitive subject.

"What do you want to know?"

"How'd you meet him?"

"At somebody's house in East Hampton, in August."

"Whose house?"  "A photographer's."  "A friend of Dryer's?"

"No, Jonathan didn't know the host; he came with somebody else, I
think.  I can't remember who."

"How many times did you see him after that?"

"Two or three times a week, I guess; we both had a lot else going
on."

"What did Dryer have going on?"

"I assume he was hustling for some sort of living", although he always
seemed to have money."

When you went out somewhere, how did Dryer pay?"

"On the occasions when I didn't pay, he always paid in cash."

"Never with a credit card or check?"

"No,.  always cas.  I asked him once why he always carried so much
cash, and he said he played poker a couple of times a week and always
won."

"Did he say who he played with?"

"No."

"Did you ever know, specifically, what he was doing on any night when
he wasn't seeing you?"

She sipped her orange juice and shook her head.  "Never; I always had
the feeling that he had at least one other complete life going, maybe
more than one."

"Did you ever see him with other people, or always alone?"

"Usually just the two of us, but I took him to a few parties.

"Did he know people at these parties?"

"Never; I was always introducing him to people I knew."

"Were you ever in the apartment on East Ninety-first?"

"A couple of times.  More often we were at my place."

"Can you describe the furnishings of the apartment for me?"

She frowned.  "I guess you'd say it was the typical single-guy place,
but of a younger guy than Jonathan."

"How so?"

"Well, the furnishings were inexpensive, off-the-shelf things, the sort
of stuff you could pick up at the Door Store or Crate and Barrel. There
were posters, but no piCtures--original art, I mean.  There was a cheap
stereo and a small TV and a computer; he had sort of a home office. 
Nothing to speak of in the kitchen, just the bare minimum of plates and
glasses and pots and pans.  Nothing much ever in the fridge, except
breakfast stuff and beer.  Jonathan said he was thirty-four, and
usually a guy of that age would have accumulated a few more permanent
possessions."  "What about clothes?"

"Lots of clothes; he was always shopping.  Most of his stuff seemed
quite new."

"Jewelry?"  ' "Watches; he had three or four."  "Do you remember what
kind?"

"A couple of Rolexes and one or two dressier things.  One from
Tiffany's, I remember."

"Did you ever know him to leave town for any reason?"

"No, except for the time in East Hampton.  He never said anything about
traveling."

"Did he ever tell you anything about where he was from, or his
family?"

"I asked him once where he was from; he said nowhere, really, that his
family moved around a lot.  Something he said--I can't remember exactly
what--led me to believe that his father might have been in the
military."

"Which branch?"

"I don't know; I'm not really sure of the military thing; it was just
an impression.  He also gave me the feeling that he and his faflaily
didn't talk.  Believe me,

he's the perfect candidate for black sheep."  "Any brothers or
sisters?" "Not that he mentioned."  "What about school or college?"

"He said he went to a small Eastern college; I asked him which one, but
he said I would have never heard of it."

"Do you know if he ever lived in other cities?"

"Washington.  He said he was there for several years."

"Did he say what he did there?"

"Something about selling some kind of equipment to the government.  I
don't know what."

"Did he have any hangouts in the city?  Bars?  Restaurants?"

"We always went to restaurants, and do you know, I don't think we ever
went to the same one twice.  He liked to order elaborate meals, liked
expensive wines."

"Any bar hangouts?"

"Not when he was with me, but he gave you the impression 'of knowing
every place in town.  He liked to stay up very late, later than I did,
anyway.

I had the feeling that when he left me he usually went someplace else,
but I never knew where."

"When you were at his place did he ever get phone calls?"

"Often."

"Did you ever know-from who?"

"No, but most of them were probably women.

He never called anybody, by name on the phone.  I

only ever saw him make one phone call--it was long distance, but I
don't know to whom.  Is this helping at all?"

"You've told me a lot, b. ut nothing that would help me find him."  '

"Now that he's gone, why would you want to find him?"

"It's possible that he might be involved in this

DIRT business.  Would that surprise you?"

"Nothing about Jonathan would surprise me.  If you told me he was a
Russian spy I wouldn't be bowled over."

"Anything else you can remember about him?"

"He wasn't the kind to be very forthcoming; if anything, he always
seemed to have something to hide."  ;,:."..... The phone rang, and
Stone picked it up.  "Hi, it's Cantor."  "Hi."

"I checked out things at the Spirit cologne office.  Turns out Dryer
wasn't hired through a modeling agency.  A girl who works there met him
at a party and thought he looked right; she got her boss to hire him as
a one-shot thing."

"Can you find out how they paid him?  I'd love to have a Social
Security number."

"He insisted on cash.  The phone number she had for him was the East
Ninety-first apartment."

"Does she know anybody else who knows him?"  "Not a soul; it's a dead
end."

"What's happening on your tape stakeout?"

"What's happening is, she comes home at night, fixes dinner, and cries.
He hasn't called again."

"Sounds like she's been dumped; you can pull the plug on that one."

"Will do.  What else can I do for you?"

"Why don't you drop by here in, say, an hour;

we'll see where we are."  "See you then."  Stone hung up.

"We've only got an hour?"  she asked with mock sadness.

"Let's use it well," he replied, rolling toward her.  Then the phone
rang again.

"Hello?"

"It's Dino.  I want you to come over here and go over some stuff with
me."

d I ?

"Aroun e even"

"That's good; you can buy me lunch."

"Can I bring Cantor?"

"Why not?  Maybe he'll have some sort of a take on his."

"On what?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."  Dino hung up.

Stone hung up and rolled toward Arrington again.  "Sorry about that,"
he said.

"Don't let it happen again," she said.

He reached over and took the phone off the hook.

"Good boy," she s, aid, reaching for him.

CHAPTER

"S

tone and Bob Cantor arrived at the 19th Precinct on time and were sent
to Dino's office right away.  Both men still knew detectives working
there, and they said a few hellos along the way.  Stone hadn't often
been back to the 19th since he'd taken retirement, and he'd never been
really close to anybody there but Dino, so his reception was on the
cool side.  Once they were in Dino's office, the reception got
hostile.

"You remember Ernie Martinez, Stone," Dino said.

"Sure.  Hi, Ernie."

Martinez nodded.  He was a portly detective of Puerto Rican extraction
who didn't like anybody who wasn't Puerto Rican.  He didn't like Dino
much, and he certainly didn't like Stone.

"Ernie's the lead detective on the burglaries."  Stone and Cantor took
chairs, and Dino moved a stack of files to the middle of his desk, not
a high stack, because each of them was thin, containing only a sheet or
two of paper.

"Stone," Dino said, "three of the eight burglary victims made the Dryer
guy.  Turns out they all met him at the same party, which took place in
one of the burgled residences."

Stone nodded; he wasn't surprised.

Dino continued.  "He was with Arrington Carter on that occasion; she
introduced him around."  "Were any of the other victims at the same
party?"

"No.  But we're going to have to talk to Arrington.  You want to bring
her in?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Stone said.  Martinez sat up,
brit ling  "You don't think it'll be necessary!  Since when does
anybody give a shit what you think is necessary, Barrington?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ernie," Dino said.  "For starters, I care what he
thinks.  I'll get to you in a minute."  He turned to Stone.  "Talk to
me about Arrington."

"I talked to her at length this morning about Dryer, so right now I
know what she knows;'th at why it won't be necessary to get her in
here."  "So what does she know?"

"Not a whole lot; this Dryer character is real good at not letting
anybody know anything about

2)9

him that counts.  Arrington did take him to some parties, though;
several of them."  "Could you ask her which parties, in which
apartments?"  I'll get a list, and we can compare them to the files. 
My hunch is they'll match up."  "' "Olay, I want you and Bob to take a
look at each of these files, and I will, too."  Dino passed out the
files, and they all read each of them, which didn't take long, since
each consisted of a burglary report and a list of stolen items.  "Money
and men's jewelry," Cantor said.  "Three watches out of eight hits."
"Arrington say he likes watches, that he had three or four," Stone
said.  "He could be wearing yours on his charm bracelet right now,"
Martinez said.  "Probably not," Stone said.  "It had my name engraved
on the back, so he's probably tossed it.  He's too smart to get caught
with that.  Same thing with Arnie's watch; he didn't take that either."
"Arnie's watch?"  Martinez asked.  "That's another case," Dino said.
"Don't you worry about it; stick to burglary."  "All the entries were
through the front door," Cantor said, "and alarms didn't stop him, so
the guy's a mechanic."  "Not much doubt about that," Martinez said.
"Did you dust anything, Ernie?"  Stone asked.  Martinez grimaced.  "You
know we don't have

2;o

time for fingerprinting at small-time jobs like this."  "One of them
wasn't so small time," Stone said.  "He lifted thirty-five thousand
dollars in cash from a wall safe."  "That, I dusted," Martinez said.
"Nothing there but the owner's prints."  "The watches were all
Cartiers," Cantor said.  "Two Tank models and a Panther.  The guy's got
taste."  Dino spoke up.  "Anything else to ask Ernie, Stone?  Bob?" 
"Not right now," Stone said.  Cantorshooks head.  "That's all for now,
Ernie; I'll get back to you."  Dino waited until "Martinez left, then
he turned to Stone.  "What's this about Arnie?"  Stone nodded. 
"There's something I'd like Ernie to ask the victims about, but I think
it's better if the suggestion cg mes from you.": "Right," Dino agreed. 
"What is it?-' "I'd like to know if any of the victims lost a
twenty-five automatic in the burglaries."  Dino nodded slowly.  Cantor
spoke up.  "There's nothing in any of the reports about a stolen gun." 
Stone shrugged.  "Maybe it didn't happen, but if the gun was
unregistered, the victim wbuld be reluctant to mention it; it wouldn't
be a big loss.  If Ernie could let each of them know he's not
interested in pursuing the lack of registration, somebody might admit
to it."

"Good point," Cantor said.  "In fact, Dino, I think it might be best if
you called each of these people.  Ernie just might not be the kind of
guy these people would feel comfortable talking to about this.  Rank
would impress them."  Dino shrugged.  "Okay, I'll phone them."  Cantor
spoke up.  "Are we talking about Arnie Millman here?"  "Possibly,"
Stone said.  "Dino, can we talk to the cop who interviewed Dryer?" 
Dino got up, opened his door, and shouted, "Gleason!  In here!"  A
moment later a fit-looking fifty-year-old detective came into the
office.  '"Kevin, you know Stone, Bob."  Gleason shook hands cordially
with both men.  "You got your notes on the Dryer interview at Arnie's
scene?"  Dino asked. "Give us your impressions."  Gleason produced a
notebook.  "Looked to me like Dryer was in the rack with somebody when
I rang the bell.  He was still getting dressed when he came to the
door, and he made a point of closing the bedroom door after I got in. 
He seemed willing to be helpful, but said he didn't hear anything,
didn't know anything.  Said he'd been in the house all evening and had
a witness to that effect, if I really needed it, but he obviously
didn't want to involve the girl, so I let it go.  I bought his story." 
"You think we might pull up a print or two in that apartment?"  Dino
asked.

Cantor spoke up.  "I doubt it very seriously; the place has been
cleaned and painted."

"Stone, you got any questions?"  Dino asked.  "This was what time,
Kevin?"

Gleason looked at his notebook.  "I talked to him around
eight-thirty."

"And what time did Arnie buy it?"  "ME says between seven and eight."
"That's a pretty tight fix."

"It was body temperature.  We reckon we got there pretty quick; a
neighbor who was taking out his garbage found Arnie's body."

"Did you get, nY kind of look at all at the woman in the bedroom?"
Stone asked.

"No, nothing."

"Was there anything in the living room that looked like it belonged to
a woman?"

Gleason closed his eyes and thought for half a minute.  "Yeah, there
was a woman's brown tweed overcoat on a chair.  I didn' tote that a-t
the time; I

just remembered it now."  "How about a scarf?"  "Yeah, a yellow one."

"Thanks, Kevin, that's all I've got."  "Okay, Kevin," Dino said,
"that'll do it."  "Did I miss anything, boss?"

"No, you didn't," Dino said.  "Good job; the coat was good."  When
Gleason had left, Dino turned to Stone.  "What?"  he asked.

"It may be nothing; I want to check something out first."

"Stone, don't you hold out on me."

"I promise I won't; I just think I can learn more about this by
treading softly than you can with a standard interview."

"Okay, I'll trust you on that," Dino said.  "But the minute you've got
something, I want to know."

"I promise.  I assume you ran a check on the

Jonathan Dryer name?"  "Yeah; nothing."  "That's what I figured."

"Well," Dino said, "we've made a start, I guess, but I don't have
enough evidence to arrest Dryer for the burglaries."

"Assuming you [ould find him," Stone said.  "Right.  I don't even have
enough evidence to start looking for him.  This all sounds good, but
it's very tenuous."

"You're right, Dino," Stone said.  "I'll stay on it and see if I can
come up with something else.  And I'll get that list from Arrington.
You'll let me know about the gun?"

"Sure.  We having lunch?"  "You're on.  Bob, join us?"  "Okay."

Dino stood up.  "I got to go to the can; I'll meet you guys outside."

Stone and Cantor left Dino's office and walked through the squad room
and out the front door.  "Stone," Cantor said.  "Yeah?"

"The other night when I clocked Martha going into her apartment
building, she was wearing a brown tweed coat and a yellow scarf."

"I know," Stone said.  "Don't bring it up at lunch."

CHAPTER

"W

when Stone got back to his desk there was a small package waiting for
him.

"It was hand-delivered," Alma said.

Stone opened the package and found a new Rolex Oyster-quartz, with his
name engraved on the back.  He picked up the phone and dialed.  "Hello,
Amanda."  "Hello, Stone."

"You shouldn't have bought me a watch; really, you shouldn't have."

"You lost your old one in my service," Amanda said.  "It was the very
least I could do.  I hope you won't upset me by trying to return it."

"No, I won't do that.  Thank you very much for the watch."

"Is it identical to yours?"

"The face is different, but I like it better."

"I'm so glad."

Stone took a deep breath.  "Amanda, we've come to the point in this
investigation where I've got to question Martha."

"Stone, I've told you, I don't want her bothered."

"This is how it is," Stone said.  "She's been seeing someone, a man who
calls himself Jonathan Dryer."

"The name doesn't ring a bell," Amanda replied..

"It may not even be his name, but that's what he's been using.  Dryer
may very well be connected with the man in Calif fnia who told Allan
Peebles his name was Geoffrey Power, so the two of them may be behind
the DIRT business.".

"I see," Amanda said.

"What's more, Dryer rhay hive burgle, l a number of apartments around
town, and he could even be mixed up in a murder."

"If that's true, why haven't you had him arrested?"  Amanda asked.

"Two reasons: right now, this is all just supposition; we don't have
any hard evidence.  Also, we don't know where Dryer is; he moved out of
his apartment.  Martha may know him better than anyone else we're aware
of, so it's crucial that we get as much evidence as possible from her
about Dryer.  She may even know his whereabouts."

S/IJAl

Stone knew this was probably not true, but he needed to push Amanda on
this.  "I think it would be better for Martha if I talked to her rather
than the police doing it."

"Well, I certainly don't want the police grilling her," Amanda said.
"She'd go to pieces."  "I'll be gentle with her, I promise."  "No."
"Amanda..."

"I'll talk to her myself."

"Amanda..."

"I'll get more out of her than you can; I've been a journalist all my
adult life, and I know how to conduct an interview.  Also, Martha is
afraid of me."

"Amanda,*I really think it would be better if I talked to her."

"No, Stone; I will do it, and that's final.  Is there anything in
particular you want me to ask her?"

"We want as much information about Dryer as possible--present
whereabouts, friends, relatives, family background, personal history.
We need to know everything she knows.  If she tries to deny knowledge
of him, tell her she was seen going into Dryer's apartment, and that we
have taped conversations between the two of them."

"Don't worry, I'll get everything out of her."  Stone sighed.  "All
right; when will you do it?"

"I'll spend sometime with her, and I'll call you on Monday."

"All right, Amanda, but 'it can't wait any longer than that."

"Good-bye, darling; I'm so glad you liked the watch."  She hung up.

Dino walked into P.J. Clark's at four o'clock.  It was too early for
the after-work trade, and the place was deserted, except for a man at
the opposite end of the bar.  He was wearing a cashmere overcoat,

and an expensive briefcase was parked on the bar next to him.  There
was also a large whiskey in front of him.  Dino walked over.  "Mr.
Elliot?"

"Lieutenant Bacchetti?"  He stuck out his hand.

"Take a pew."

Dino pulled Up a stool.

"Something to drink?"

"I'll have a ber," Dino said to the bartender.

He waited until the beer had been served and the bartender had
retreated before continuing.

"Now," he said to Elliot, "a few general questions

" : "All right.  I hope you understand that I didn't want to talk about
this on the phone."  "Of course.  Now, Arrington Carter brought a man
named Jonathan Dryer to your party, is that correct?"  "She brought a
young man; I didn't get his name."  "During the party did you notice
whether this young man might have visited some part of your apartment
that a party guest might not ordinarily visit?"

"He used the bathroom in the master suite," Elliot said.  "Is that
bathroom near where you kept the pistol?"

"Only a few feet away."  "What about the control panel for your burglar
alarm?  Where is that located in your apartment?"

"In a linen closet just outside the ' " master state.

"So Dryer might have had access to that?"

"Very possibly."

"All right, let's talk about the twenty-five automatic

"Before we do," Elliot said, "you have to understand something."

"Okay, what Is it?"

"I'm a lawyer, and I can't afford to lose my license over something
like this."

unaerstancl.

"Whatever passes between us in this conversation is just between you
and me.  If it ever comes up again, in any context, I'll deny
everything."

"All right, Mr.  Elliot, I understand you; now you have to understand
me.  Your gun may have been used to murder a police officer.  When we
make an arrest, you're going to have to identify the gun, and if we
can't find it, testify to the type and how it might have left your
possession.  As a lawyer, you certainly understand that."

Elliot went to his next negotiating position.  "All right, but I won't
testify unless I have complete immunity."

"I think I can probably.  arrange that," Dino replied.

"That's not good enough.  I want your personal word that you won't ask
me to testify unless you can get me immunity."

"I'm not sure I can do that."

"Come on, Bacchetti, it's a murder case, a murdered cop.  They're going
to want the perpetrator,

not me."

"All right, I give you my word that I won't ask you to testify unless I
can get you immunity."

"Understand, if you don't get me the immunity

I'll take the Fiftl,

"That's not going to be necessary, Mr.  Elliot;

you have my word.:'

"Okay."

"Now, how did you come into possession of the weapon?"

"I bought it from {guy on the street."

"What guy?  Who was he?"  ::

"I don't know his name."  "Come on, Mr.  Elliot, you're not cutting it,
here."  "I mean, his real name.  His street name is Lowrider."  "And
how did you come to know Lowrider?"  "I fell into conversation with him
in' Central Park; he was selling drugs.  I told him I was interested in
something for personal protection, and he said he could have something
for me the next day."

"And did he?"

"Yes, a twenty-five Beretta, nickel-plated."  "How much did you pay him
for it?"  "Twenty-five hundred dollars."

Dino knew immediately that something was wrong here.  "That's an awful
lot of money for a street gun, especially small caliber," he said
slowly.  His gaze let the lawyer know that he was suspicious.

"Yeah, well, maybe so, but I don't buy all that many guns on the
street, you know?"

"Mr.  Elliot, you'd better tell me all of it, and right now."

Elliot began to look very uncomfortable.  He looked around the bar,
checked the position of the bartender, and drained his glass of
whiskey.  "All right, it had a silencer."

Dino's eyebrows went up.  "I see," he said.  "Well, that would
certainly put the price up.  Now why..."

Elliot held up a hand.  "That's it; I told you what I said I would; I'm
not answering any more questions."  He rose to leave.

Dino put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back onto the barstool.
"We're not finished," he said.

Elliot sat down but said nothing.

"And you kept the weapon in your safe?"  Dino asked.

"Yes."

"The same safe that held the thirty-five thousand dollars that you
reported stolen?"

"That's right."

"Where is the safe located?"

"In my dressing room.  It's one of those that fits between the studs in
the wall."

"And what else was in the safe besides the pistol and the cash?"

"A jewelry box."

"Was the stolen watch in the jewelry box?"  "Yes, a Cartier Panther
with a gold bracelet."

"Was there anything else of value in the jewelry box?"

"About fifty thousand dollars' worth of assorted jewelrY-qdiamond cuff
links, things like that."

"Mr.  Elliot, why did you have thirty-five thousand dollars in cash in
your safe?"

Elliot glared at him.  "I can't always get to the ATM when I need
cash," he said: "And that's all I have to say on that subject."  :

Dino nodded.  "Did you make a record of the serial number on the
pistol?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Elliot said, handing Dino a scrap of
paper.

"Very good," Dino said.  "Why?  I mean, you weren't exactly going to
register the warranty, were you?"

"Habit," Elliot said.  ' "Well, I'm very grateful to you for all this
information," Dino said, slipping the serial number into his pocket.
"It may very well help capture a murderer."

"Good."  Elliot looked at his watch.

"I'm so grateful that I'm going to give you a very valuable piece of
advice, Mr.  Elliot."  "Yeah?"

"The combination of a lot of cash in a safe with a silenced pistol
raises a very large warning flag," Dino said.  "So I'm going to advise
you right now that if any loved one of yours, say your wife, were to
meet a sudden end; if something awful should happen to a business
associate of yours; in fact, if your name should arise in any
investigation of a death by any cause, then I'm coming to see you.  Do
you get my drift?"

Elliot looked him in the eye.  "I do."

&

"Good, because dealing with that kind of event in your life would be so
much more painful than whatever is causing you concern now."

Elliot nodded.

Dino shook his hand and walked out of the bar.

Martha looked into Amanda's office.  "Anything else before I'm off?"

"No, dear.  Listen, why don't you come up to the country with me
tomorrow?  Just for the day.  Unless you have some plans, of course."

Martha sighed.  "No, I don't have any plans.  I'd love to."

Amanda smiled a disarming smile.  "It'll be just the two of us,
dear."

CHAPTER

' Driving Amanda's car, Martha turned onto the dirt road, as directed.
"It's so lovely up here," she said.."I've never been to Connecticut
before."I "Yes, it is lovely, isnt it?"  Amanda replied.  "The leaves
are just a bit past their peak, but still glorious.  Make your next
left up ahead, dear."  Martha followed her instructions and drew up
before Amanda's house.  "Oh, it's too perfect!  What a wonderful
place!" "Thank you, dear," Amanda said.  "Let's go inside."  She got
the shopping basket from the rear seat, unlocked the door, and strode
off toward the kitchen.  "Don't even take your coat off," she called
over her shoulder.  I'll just get a bottle of wine, and we'll have a
picnic up at Steep Rock."

"Where?"  Martha asked.

"Steep Rock is a beautiful land preserve that borders my property.
You'll love it."

"How far is it?  I'm not much of a walker."

"Oh, not far, and believe me, it's worth the effort."  "I'll take your
word for it."

Amanda put a bottle of wine and a corkscrew into her basket, locked the
door, and led the way at a brisk pace.  "Come on, Martha!"  she called
out.  "Let's get that heart pumping!"

Martha hurried along behind her, already beginning to pant.  "How much
farther?"

"Not far; hurry up."

At the top of the long hill Amanda spread out a tablecloth and opened
the bottle of wine.  She had 'already drunk half a glass when Martha
came lumbering up the hill and flopped down beside her, completely out
of breath.

"Take that heavy coat off," Amanda said.  "You'll cool down much
quicker.  And here, have some wine."

"Do you have any water?"

"I'm sorry, dear, I only brought the wine."

Martha accepted the glass and drank it greedily.  "I'm so thirsty," she
puffed.

Amanda refilled her glass.  "Of course you are.  It's a very nice
Chardonnay, isn't it?"

"Yes."  Martha was beginning to catch her breath now.

"Have some bread and cheese," Amanda said.  "It will fortify you for
the walk back."  "Thank God it will be downhill," Martha said, digging
into the food.  Amanda kept her glass full.

When they had finished their lunch, Amanda leaned back against a tree.
"Now," she said.  "We're all alone, just the two of us.  Time for some
frank girl-to-girl talk."  Martha looked worried, but didn't say
anything.  "Why-don't we start with Jonathan Dryer," Amanda said. 
"Tell me about him."  Martha seemed to hold her breath for a moment,
then answered, "Who?"  "Why, the young man you've been sleeping with,"
Amanda said.  "Did you think you could keep a secret from me?"  "I'm
afraid I don't khow who you mean," Martha said.  She was blushing now. 
"Martha, darling, it's useless to play this game.  I've had detectives
following you, listening in on your telephone conversations.  You were
seen going into Dryer's apartment and your phone conversations were
taped.  I think you'll feel a lot better when you've told me
everything."  In that part of the brain that deals with fury and
revenge, Amanda felt a small explosion, but she kept her temper.  "How
did you meet him, Martha?"  Martha's shoulders slumped.  "At the
grocery store," she said. "We talked about food; he knows a lot about
food and wine."

"I'm sure he does, dear.  When did you start talking about my
business."?  Before or after you began fucking him?"

Martha blushed even redder.  "I don't really think that's your
business..."

"Martha, my darling," Amanda interrupted, "let's remember whose
business you and Mr.  Dryer talked about."

A tear ran down Martha's cheek.

"You're going to feel so much better when you've told me everything."

"You're go into fire me, aren't you?"

"Why, Martha, of course not.  You're absolutely indispensable to me; I
could never do without you.  I just have to know what you told him and
what he told you, and then all will be well.  Start at the beginning,
now."

Martha slumped.  "We went out to dinner, and we talked about everything
in the world.  Everything!  Then we went back to his place and..."

"And he fucked you, didn't he?"

Martha nodded.  "I had to go to confession," she said.

"Confession is good for the soul, dear.  Go on."  "It wasn't until our
second date that your name came up.  He didn't even know where I worked
until then."

"Didn't he, dear?"

"He just seemed so very interested in you; he wanted to know
everything."  "Everything?"  "Where you came from, who your friends
were, who you were... "Who I was fucking, dear?"  Martha nodded.  "He
seemed especially interested in your sex life.  I just wanted the
evening to last forever, so I kept talking."  "And you just poured out
everything, didn't you?"

Martha nodded again.  "I'm afraid so."  "You told hinabout my plans for
that weekend, didn't you?  And where I'd be meeting my friend."  Martha
continued to nod.  "I didn't realize what I'd done until the first DIRT
arrived."  "And then you knew you'd betrayed a confidence, didn't
you?"

"Yes," Martha said, bursting int tears  "I'm sorry, Amanda; I didn't
know he'd do that."

"But you didn't stop seeing him, did you?  You went on and on, didn't
you?"

"I couldn't help myself.  He was so beautiful;

I've never known such a beautiful man.  He taught me so much about
love."

"I'm sure he did, dear, in between screwing sessions

Martha looked up sharply.  "I didn't think of it that way," she said.
"I was in love with him."

"And now?  Aren't you still in love?"

Martha nodded.  "But he won't see me.  I called his apartment, but
there was no answer.  I went by there, and all his things were gone.
He'd left."  "And where did he go, dear?"

"I don't know," Martha wailed.  "I want to know, but I don't.  I kept
hoping that he would call, but he didn't."

"What did he tell you about himself, dear?"  "Well, he said he went to
Harvard, and that he worked for the State Department in Washington for
a long time."

"What else?"

"I don't think he sees his family; there was some kind of argument with
them.  They're very wealthy, though, and' Jonathan always had a lot of
money.  He paid cash for everything."

"I'm sure he did.  Did he say how he knew about Allan Peebles's, ah,
predilection?"

"He said something about having friends in Los

Angeles, but he didn't mention any names."  "Who are his friends in New
York?"

"I don't know; I never met any of them.  We spent all our time.."
alone."

"What else can you tell me about him, Martha?"  "I don't know anything
else, Amanda, believe me.  I've told you everything."  She began to cry
again.

"There, there, darling," Amanda said, rising to her feet and looking
around.  They were alone in the dense forest.  "Come over here; you
haven't seen the best part of the view."

2;0

"What?"

"Come over here, dear," Amanda said, holding out a hand.

Martha took her hand and struggled to her feet.  They walked a few
yards farther along through the fallen leaves.  A distant roar filtered
through the trees, like the sound of heavy traffic.

Amanda led her along, thinking about the humiliation this little bitch
had caused her, and after all she had done to make her life comfortable
and secure.  "Just a little farther, dear," Amanda said soothingly, her
brain on fire with anger,

"What's that noise?"  Martha asked.  "It sounds like..."

"It's the Shpaug River, dear," Amanda replied as she took hold of
Martha's wrist with her other hand.  "Just ahead is where it goes over
the rapids."  Amanda took a step, turned, and with both hands swung Ma
pounds ha ahead of her, just as the ground fell away.  Martha teetered
on one foot on the brink of the rock, and for a moment it appeared that
she would recover her balance.  Then, without a sound, she went
backward over the edge and, looking wide-eyed back toward Amanda, fell
ninety feet onto the river-washed boulders below.  '

Amanda watched for a moment as Martha's limp form traveled through the
rocks and downstream, out of sight in the rushing waters.  Then she
returned to where she'd spread the tablecloth,

sat down, poured herself the last of the wine, and sipped it.  When she
was again completely composed, she took her portable cellular phone
from her pocket and punched in a number.

CHAPTER

tone and Arrington were having brunch at the Brasserie, which had
become a weekend hangout for them.  Stone had his notebook out and was
writing as quickly as Arrington could talk."

"So that's five parties I took Jonathan to, one of them a dinner
party," she was saying.

Stone checked his notes against the list of burglaries.  "He hit all
five, plus three more--Berman, Charleson, and White."

"They were all at one or more of the parties I took him to."

"Plus your apartment and my house."

"Ten burglaries in all?"

"That we know about.  Jonathan has been a busy fellow."

"What about women?"

"Beg pardon?"

"How many other women was he seeing when he was seeing me?"

"Two that I know of.  His landlord said there were a lot of women
coming to his apartment."

"Figures," she said.  "I can really pick 'em, can't I?"

"Your record is improving."

She reached across and squeezed his hand.  "It certainly is," she
said.

Stone's pocket telephone rang.  He dug it out and pressed a button.
"Yes?"

"Stone, it's Amanda."  Her voice was shaky.  "Hi, re you all right?"

"I'm afraid something awful has happened."  "Tell me."

"I'm up at the Connecticut house.  Martha and I went for a walk and a
picnic, and I'm afraid she strayed too close to a bluff called Steep
Rock."  "Go on."

"She fell, and I couldn't stop her."

"Is she badly hurt?"

"It was a long fall, and there were rocks at the bottom."

"I see," he said.  "Where are you now?"

"I'm still at Steep Rock; this happened only a moment ago."

"Have you called the police?"

"No; I wanted to talk to you first.  After all, you're my lawyer."

Stone noted the emphasis on those words.

"Amanda, I want you to call nine-one-one right this minute and report
what happened."

"All right.  Can you come up here?"

I'll have to rent a car, so it's going to take at least two and a half,
three hours."

"All right."

"After you've talked to the police, ask them to take you back to your
house; I'll meet you there.

If anything else comes up, call me on this num her."

"All right.  Goodbye."

Stone hung up.  "Jesus Christ," he said.  '

"What's happened to her?"  Arrington asked.

"Not to her, to her secretary, Martha.  She's had what so finds like a
fatal accident."  Stone began to wonder if "accident" was accurate.

"You're going to Connecticut, then?"

"Right now; I've got to rent a car first."

"I've gO'f a ca ; I'll drive' you

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to drive you."

"Then Jet's go."  He waved for the check, paid the bill, and they took
a cab uptown to Arrington's

garage.  Twenty minutes later they were in

Arrington's Jeep Grand.  Cherokee, on their way.

When they arrived at Amanda's country house, a state police car was
parked out front, and two uniformed troopers were leaving.

Stone got out of the car and handed them his card.  "I'm Stone
Barrington; I'm Mrs.  Dart's attorney."

"I'm Captain Quentin," one of them said.  "This is Sergeant Travis."

Stone shook their hands.  "Can you tell me what's happened?"

"Mrs.  Dart said she phoned you."

"That's right, but she was pretty shaken up, and I'd like to know what
you've learned."

"The two women went for a walk up to Steep Rock, took a picnic lunch.
According to Mrs.  Dart they had lunch, drank a bottle of wine between
the two of them.  Miss McMahon got up to stretch her les, wandered too
close to the edge of the bluff, and fell."

"Is she dead?"

"Yes.  Her body finished up a couple of miles downriver, at a weir..
It's being taken to the state morgue in Hartford for an autopsy, but I
don't think there's much doubt about the cause of death.  For now we're
calling it an alcohol-related accident."

"Is it absolutely necessary to report alcohol-related on this?  Mrs.
Dart is a very well-known person, and her reputation might suffer. From
what you've told me she has no culpability; it was an accident, after
all."

"I can leave it out of my initial written report, but the final
determination will be made by the medical examiner.  It will depend on
the blood alcohol level."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," Stone said.  He shook the men's hands.
"Is there any reason why Mrs.  Dart can't return to New York when she's
ready?"

"None at all; we have her phone number in the city if we need to get in
touch with her."

"If you need to speak with her, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me,"
Stone said.

"Sure.  Good afternoon."

The two men left, and Stone opened the front door.  "Amanda?"  he
called out.

"I'm in the kitchen," she called back.

Tl!ey left their coats in a hall closet and went to the kitchen, where
Amanda was washing and putting away dishes, apparently from the picnic.
She showed only a trace of surprise at seeing Arrington.

"You remember Arrington," Stone said.  "We were ha.  ring lunch when
you called, and she offered to drive me up here."

Amanda shook her hand.  "How very kind of you, Arr]ngto .

"How are you feeling?"  Stone asked.

"Still shocked, and very sad, of course.  Would either of you like a
drink?  I'm having one."

Everybody took a drink into the living room.

"I talked with the troopers as they were leaving," Stone said.  "It
doesn't sound as though there's going to be any kind of problem.  What
might get into the papers is that the accident was alcohol-related.
They've agreed not to report it that way, but the medical examiner in
Hartford will have the final say, and we can't influence him."

"I understand," Amanda said.

"Do you want me to notify Martha's family?"  Stone asked.

"I have already done so.  Her parents live in Westchester; they're
arranging for a local funeral director to pick up the body as soon as
it's released.  I'm paying the funeral expenses, of course."

"Have you mentioned that to her parents yet?"

"No.  I thought I'd wait until they were over the initial shock."

"If I may' sound like a lawyer for a moment, be sure that when you make
the offer you be clear that it's an act of friendship toward a valued
colleague.  Don't say anything that might imply any sense of guilt or
liability for what happened.  From what you've told me and from what
the trooper said, you've no reason to feel badly about the accident."

"Thank you, Stone, that's good advice."

"Would you like me to drive you back to the city?"

"No, thank you.  I'll stay the night and drive myself back tomorrow.
I'd really like to be alone, unless, of course, you and Arrington would
like to stay."

"Thanks, but I think we'll go back today.  Is there anything else I can
do for you?"

"I don't believe so, Stone; thank you for coming, though, and please
drive carefully going back

" he to town.  S saw them to the door.

On the way back, Arrington spoke up.  "Do you believe her?"

Stone didn't want to answer that question directly.  "I don't have any
real evidence to make me disbelieve her," he said.

"I thought it was an act," Arrington said.  "What?"

Her grief  Her composure wasn't an act, though; that lady is in perfect
control."

"Are you.  saying you think Amanda murdered Martha?"

"Let's just say that I don't think she's terribly upset about it."

"I can't disagree with that " Stone said, then changed the subject.
After alu Amanda was still his client.

Amanda picked up the phone and called one of her two assistants.
"Helen?"

"Yes, Amanda?"

"I'm afraid I have some very baa news.  Martha has been killed in an
accidental fall."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yes, it's terrible, isn't it?"

"That's just awful!"

"Of course it is.  We're going to have to learn very quickly to get
along without her help.  I'd like you to take Martha's job; there'll be
a substantial raise, of course."

"I'll be happy to, if it will help," Helen said.  "I'm in the country
now.  Can you meet me at the office at one o'clock tomorrow?  We have
to get you started in your new position."

"Of course."

"See you then, darling.  Oh, and would you call Barryand tell him
what's happened?  I'm really too stricken to talk anymore now."

"I'll do that.  You try and get a good night's sleep, and I'll see you
at the office tomorrow."

"Thank you, dear.  Good-bye."  Amanda threw another log on the fire and
sat, staring into the flames, making mental notes on what had to be
done the following day.

CHAPTER

Dno and Mary Arm Bacchetti got out of a cab on Sixty-sixth Street. 
Mary Arm had spent the morning having her hair cut by Fr ..d. eric
Fekkai at Bergdorf's and having virtually every other part if her body
attended to.  She was wearing a newly purchased Chanel suit and
matching black alligator shoes and handbag from Ferragamo.  Dino was
wearing a three-piece gray flannel suit from Ralph Lauren, a Turnbull &
Asset shirt, and a polka-dot bow tie.  A cream-colored silk square
peeked from his breast pocket.  His shoes were from Ferragaho, too, but
they were only black calf.  His hair had been cut at Bergdorf's men's
store by a Fekkai disciple.  "I like the suit," Mary Arm said to Dino. 
"You should get some more like it."

"Stone made me buy it; the other stuff, too.  I'm giving it all to him
after this meeting.  Listen, let me do the talking, will you?"  "What's
the matter, you think I can't talk?"  "Stone tells me these people like
to hear mostly from the men, and he knows about this stuff."  "Stone
can go fuck himself," Mary Arm said pleasantly.  As they approached the
building the doorman placed himself between them and the front door.
"May I help you, sir?"  he asked Dino, only slightly officiously.
"Thank you, I have an appointment with Mr.  Whit,field; my name is
Bacchetti."  The doorman opened the door and allowed them into the
lobby, then stepped inside and announced them to a man at a desk.  "Mr.
Bacchetti for Mr.  Whitfield," he said to the man, then backed out into
the street.  The man at the desk murmured something into a telephone,
then hung up.  "Mr.  Whitfield is expecting you," he said. "Charles
will take you up in the elevator."  He indicated a uniformed man
standing beside the lift.  "Mr.  Bacchetti for Mr.  Whitfield."  Dino
couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden in an elevator with an
operator.  The car was equipped for self-service but had an operator
anyway; he wondered how much the guy got paid.  The elevator stopped,
and they emerged into a small foyer.  The elevator operator locked the
car,

stepped out, and rapped on the double front doors.  A maid opened the
door.  "Mr.  and Mrs.  Bacchetti for Mr.  Whitfield," he said to her.
The woman admitted them.  "They're in the library," the woman said in
an English accent.  "Please come this way."  "I'll come any way I want
to," Dino muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glance from.  his
wife.  The maid led them into a paneled room where a sixtyish man in a
pinstriped suit stood, his back to a merry little fire.  A woman in an
expensive-looking wool dress sat in a chair beside him.  "Mr.  and Mrs.
Bacchetti," the maid said, then left.  "Ah," the Bacchettis," the man
said, approaching them.  "I am Charles Greenleaf Whitfield, and this is
my wife, Eleanor."  He offered his hand.  "I'm Dino Bacchetti," Dino
said in a voice and accent he'coulc muster When it suited him, "and
this is my wife, Mary Arm; good to meet you."  They both shook hands
with Whitfield and his wife.  "Won't you come and sit by the fire?"
Whitfield asked, showing them to a sofa facing a pair of chairs, in one
of which Eleanor Whitfield was seated.  "May I get you a sherry'?."
"Thank you," Dino said.  "Mary Arm?"  "Thank you, yes," Mary Arm said.
Dino was surprised that Brooklyn seemed to have left her voice, as
well.

When everyone had a sherry and was seated, Whitfield picked up a file
on the table next to his chair.  "Is it nice outside?  I haven't been
out today."

"A beautiful day," Dino replied, crossing his legs and sipping his
sherry.

That was it for small talk.  "Now, Mr.  Bacchetti, Mrs.  Bacchetti, I
hope you will forgive us for the formality of this meeting, but as you
know, the board of a cooperative building has a responsibility to meet
and interview prospective purchasers of apartments in the building to
try and render some judgment of the suability of applicants both as
purchasers and as neighbors."

"Of course," Dino said.

"I am the president of the building, and, as such, my board members
have asked me to represent them.  There are one or two questions with
regard to your answers on the application; perhaps

I could ask you to expand on them just a bit."  "Of course," Dino
said.

"You understand that it is the policy of the board not to allow the
apartment to be used as collateral for a mortgage or other loan, which
means, of course, that the price of purchase must be paid in cash."

"I understand," Dino replied.

"It's not exactly clear to us from your financial statement just where
the cash is coming from."

Mary Arm spoke up.  "The cash is a gift from my father," she said.  "I
see; how very generous.  You have one child, as I understand it."  "A
son," Dino said.  "He's four years old."  "And where will he be
attending school?"  "He'll be going to Collegiate," Mary Arm said,
surprising her husband, who had never heard of Collegiate.  "Ah, yes;
fine school.  Do you have any pets?"  "No," Dino said.  "And you are of
Italian extraction?"  am."  "Can you tell me a bit about your family
background?"  "ly family seat is Venice, where my ancestors have been
Doges for twelve hundred years," Dino lied.  "Ah, Doges, yes,"
Whitfield said.  The thought seemed to excite him.  "Pnd when did your
family come to this country?"  "I am a tenth-generation American." 
Minus nine. "And Mrs.  Bacchetti, are you of Italian extraction as
well?"  "Yes.  My people have always had lands in Sicily, from time
mmmemonal.  Thef was only the tiniest trace of sarcasm in her voice. 
"I see.  And your family name?"  "Bianchi."  "Ah."  Whitfield seemed to
have heard this name before, somewhere, but he apparently didn't
remember where.  "Mr. Bacchetti, I see your father is deceased; may I
ask what work he did before his death?"  "He was curator of a private
art collection.  His specialty was Renaissance drawings."  The closest
Dino's father had ever been to a Renaissance drawing had been the
pictures in the girlie magazines in his candy store.  "How very
interesting.  And Mrs. Bacchetti, what does your father do?"  Dino felt
Mary Arm shift; irritation was boiling off her in waves.  He squeezed
her hand, and she seemed to relax a bit.  * "My people have always been
in the revenge business," she said sweetly.  Dino, unable to control
himself, burst out laughing.  To his amazement, Whitfield and his wife
were laughing, too, as if Mary Arm had made some very clever joke. 
"Just one more question," Whitfield said when he had composed himself. 
"Mr. Bacchetti, I see that you are employed by the city of New York." 
"I am."  "In what capacity?"  "I am a lieutenant with the New York
Police Department; I command the detective division of the Nineteenth
Precinct."  "I see," Whitfield said, not at all certain that he did.
"And how did you come to choose that particular line of work?"

"Very commendable," Whitfield mused.  "We had a burglary in our
building recently, I'm afraid.  Never happened before."  "And if I come
to live here, it will never happen again," Dino said smoothly.  "Ah,
yes!"  Whitfield cried, his tumblers working.  "I quite see your point!
One watches NYPD Blue."  "Excellent program," Dino said.  "Utterly
realistic.  By the way, I should mention that I am aware f the
burglary, and I have doubled the police patrol on this block." 
"Wonderful!  Have you caught the perpetrator ye?"  "I can reveal, in
confidence, of course, that we now know his identity.  We expect an
arrest at any moment."  : "Ecellnt!  Well- Mr.  and Mrs.  Bacchetti, I
believe that tells us all we need to know.  You will be hearing from
the board very soon, and I think I can intimate that the answer will be
a favorable one."  The Bacchettis made their good-byes and departed. 
Once in the street again Dino said, "You sure you want to live in th
aft place?" "Very sure."  "I mean, couldn't you find a building with at
least some Jews or something?"  "Get used to it," Mary Arm said.

CHAPTER

rrington, Dino, and Mary Arm sat at Stone's kitchen table drinking wine
while Stone cooked linguine with white clam sauce.  The television was
on NFL football, muted, and the men occasionally stole glances at the
set.  "Anyway," Dino was saying, "you shoulda been there to hear my
wife tell these people that her family is in the revenge business."
Everybody laughed.  "I always tell the truth," Mary Arm said.  "Yeah?
Then what was that about the Collegiate School?"  Dino asked.  "That
was almost the truth."  "I never even heard of the Collegiate School,
and my wife is telling these people that our kid is going there."

"How old is he?"  Arrington asked.  "Four," Mary Arm replied.  "Apply
now," Arrington advised.  "It may already be too late."  "There's not a
public school in that neighborhood?"  Dino asked innocently.  "Forget
about it," Mary Arm said.  "He's going to Collegiate."  "Sounds like
it's tough to get in," Dino said hopefully.  "We'll have help," Mary
Arm said.  "Mary Arm, there are some things your old man can't help
with." "Name three."  "Well, the Collegiate School is probably one of
the." "Wanta bet?"  "I don't think, so," Dino said resignedly.  "Good
move," Stone chipped in.  Arfingtofi moved over to the stove and
pretended to watch Stone work on the clam sauce.  "Who is Mary Ann's
father?"  she whispered.  "Why?"  Stone whispered back.  "You want
somebody in cement shoes?"  "Oh."  She went back and sat down at the
table.  "Smells wonderful," she said.  "I'm having a hard time' with
this," Mary Arm said.  "With what?"  "With this extremely white-bread
person over there making me Italian food."

"I'm pretending to be a guinea," Stone said.  "I hope it works." 
"We're about to find out," Stone said.  He drained the pasta and dumped
it in with the sauce, moving it around with a fork and spoon.  He set
the steaming platter on the table, where a salad and garlic bread
already rested.  Everybody watched as Mary Arm expertly twirled some
linguine around her fork and popped it into her mouth, chewing
thoughtfully. "Not enough garlic," she said.  "There's twelve cloves in
there," Stone said, sounding hurt.  "Just kidding," Mary Arm said, "my
mother cbuldn't have done it better.  Well, not much better." 
Everybody pitched into the pasta.  A commercial interrupted the game,
and Dino switched to New York One, the all-news local channel.  "Don't
do that," Mary Arm said. "Why not?  There was a commercial on the
game."  She turned to Stone and Arrington.  "He turns on New York One
in the hope that he'll learn about a recently committed crime and he
can leave his dinner and rush out to solve it."  She turned back to her
husband.  "You can do that at home, but not when you're at somebody
else's house."  She picked up the remote control and switched back to
the game.  "Wait!"  Arrington cried. "Turn it back!"  She grabbed at
the remote control and started changing channels desperately.

"Channel ten," Dino said helpfully.

She found it.

"What's going on, Arrington?"  Stone asked.  "I saw him."  "Saw who?"

"He's there, look for him!"  "Look for who?"  "Shut up."

Stone shut up and watched.  Arrington turned on the sound.  "... the
biggest benefit of the year," a woman rPorter was saying as a crowd
swirled around her.  "The Shubert Theatre is completely sold out at
pries of up to a thousand dollars a seat, and some of the biggest stars
on Broadway will be performing tonight."

"There," Arrington said, pointing.  "The man just bhind he reporter.
You can see the back of his head."

"So?"  Dino asked.

"That's Jonathan Dryer," she said.  "I'm sure of it."

The crowd was moving slowly toward the doors of the theater.  Just as
the head was about to move off the top of the screen, it turned.

"There, it's him!"

There was a brief glimpse of a face before the camera zoomed in on the
reporter.  "The crowd is just returning from intermission, and
there's

been a rumor circulating that Barbra Streisand is going to make a
surprise appearance.  We'll let you know."  There was a cut to the
studio, and the anchorman began to talk about a fire in Queens.  "Are
you sure?"  Stone asked.  "That's him."  "Could you tell who he was
with?"  "No, but that was Jonathan."  "Who's Jonathan?"  Mary Arm
asked. "A guy Stone is interested in," Dino said.  "You're not
interested?" Stone asked him.  "Yeah, sure, but I'm not going to worry
too much about him until we have some more evidence."  "And you'd like
me to come up with it?"  Dino shrugged.  "I wouldn't mind."  "Dino, he
may be involved in a cop killing; doesn't that mean anything anymore?" 
"It does, if there's any evidence tying him to it.  All you've got
right now is a lot of supposition.  Okay, he went to parties at some
people's apartments that later got burgled.  So did a lot of other
people, including Arrington here.  Should we take her to the precinct
and beat a confession out of her?"  "Come on, Dino; for the first time
we actually know where the guy is."  "What do you want me to do?  Send
a SWAT team into a theater crowded with a black-tie audience of
celebrities and people who can afford to pay a thousand bucks a seat? 
The mayor's probably there; my chief is probably there."  "Then have
him picked up on the way out."  "Stone, maybe you don't read the papers
anymore, but there are four cops in the city under indictment right now
for arresting and, in some cases, leaning on people with no evidence,
and two of them are uniforms at the Nineteenth.  You think I'm going to
wade into that crowd and create yet another incident at a time when
we've got a full-blown commission investigating the department?  ""You
can't ever find a cop when you need one," Mary Arm said.  "Especially
when he's stuffing his face with linguine."  "Thanks, sweetheart," Dino
said.  "That's all I need, is you weighing in."  "Any time," she said
sweetly.  "I got an idea," Dino said.  "Why don't you call your dfiddy
and have him send a couple guys over to the Shubert and blow the guy
away?  Then we won't even have to think about this anymore."  "I've
heard worse ideas," Arrington said.  "Eat your dinner, Arrington," Dino
said.  "Please, everybody just eat the white-bread pasta and forget
about it just for tonight.  We're celebrating getting this apartment,
which, believe me, may not be worth celebrating."  "It's worth it,"
Mary Arm said.  "You're trying to turn us into Wasps, aren't you?" 
Dino demanded.  "I can't even wear my own clothes to meet these people;
neither can you, come to think of it."  "Dino," Mary Arm said, "don't
look a gift horse, you know?  We're taking the apartment; we're getting
out of Brooklyn.  Try and be happy about it."  "I'm trying, I'm
trying," Dino said.  "Try harder."  "Tell you what," Stone said. 
"Dryer is going to be in that theater for at least another hour.  Let's
finish our pasta, eat our dessert, drink our coffee, and then wander
over to the Shubert and tail this guy home.  I'd really like to know
where he lives, wouldn't you, Dino?"  ""Fuggeddaboudit!"  Dino
screamed.

CHAPTER

By the time they got out of the cab it had started raining, and the two
women ran into the theater lobby.  Dino turned up his collar.  "This is
just great," he said.  "I might as welt be back On the beaI."

"A little beat work will do you good," Stone said.  The four of them
huddled in the lobby until Stone could find an usher.

"Should be over any minute now," the man said.

"You planning to do this on foot?"  Dino asked Stone.  '

"Ah, maybe not.  You want to get us a cab?  "We just gave up a cab, and
it's raining.  It's a known fact that all New York City cabs go off
duty the minute it starts to rain, and on top of that, a couple of
thousand people are going to come pouring out of this theater in a
minute, and they're all going to be trying to hail the same cab."
Arrington spoke up.  "There are two entrances to this theater," she
said.  "This one and one in Shubert Alley.  We'd better cover both,
don't you think?"  "I don't want Dryer to see you," Stone said.  "Do
you think you could try hailing a cab for us and just wait in it until
we come out?"  "You're sweet."  "Here, take my hat."  He placed his
fedora on her head; it came down over her ears.  "Best get one going
east on Forty-fourth."  Rrrington took a deep breath and ran into the
street, waving her arms.  Mary Arm stood her ground.  "This guy doesn't
know me; I'm staying right here."  "Could you keep an eye on Arrington,
so we'll know where she is if we have to move in a hurry?"  "That I can
do."  I'll take the alley," Stone said.  "Holler if you see him."
"Right," Dino said.  "I hope he looks like his picture."  "Me, too."
Stone left the lobby and walked up Shubert Alley, which ran between
44th and 45th Streets.  The alley offered no shelter, and he stood
there, getting wet.  Shortly, a door opened and a trickle of people
began leaving the theater, followed by a flood.  Stone tried to search
the faces without turning head on to them.  After all, Dryer knew what
he looked like.  The theater was half empty when he heard Dino's voice.
"Stone!"  He looked toward the corner of 45th and saw Dino waving for
him.  He hurried toward him.  "He just got into a limo with some other
people," Dino said, pointing at a line of limousines lining the curb.
"Where's Arrington?  Did she find a cab?"  "I don't know; she went off
toward Eighth Avenue."  The line of limos started to move.  "Shit,"
Dino said.  "Where is she?"  "I'rfi getting wet," Mary Arm said. 
"Don't melt," Dino replied.  "There!"  Stone pointed.  Arrington was
waving at them from the window of a cab.  They all ran for it, and s
the did, the.  limos began picking up speed.  "Which car is he in?" 
"That one," Dino said nodding.  Stone tried to see inside, but the
windows were tinted too darkly.  Then he wondered if Dryer could be
looking back at him through the opaque windows.  They piled into the
cab with Arrington; Stone took the front seat.  "Follow the third limo
ahead," he said to the driver.  "Oh, great," the driver muttered.  "How
far we going? Queens?  Montauk?"

"Shut up and drive," Dino said, shoving his badge under the driver's
nose.  "Awright, aw right the driver moaned.  "He's crossing Seventh
Avenue," Dino said.  "Keep up, and don't let any more traffic get
between him and us."  "Yeah, yeah," the driver said.  They moved slowly
toward 6th Avenue; then, as they approached the corner, the light
turned red, trapping them while Dryer's limo turned left.  "Shit,"
Stone said.  "Look, what can I do?"  the driver whined.  "There's two
cars in front of me.  You want me to drive over them?"  *

"He's stopped at the next corner; we can still catch up."  A raft of
traffic moved past them on 6th Avenue.  Now they were ten or twelve
cars back.  Finally the light changed and they were able to turn left,
but the light at the next corner changed and they were stopped again.
"Have you got him in sight?"  Dino asked.  "I think so."  They
struggled up 6th Avenue in heavy traffic, getting no closer to the
limo, then they were stopped again.  "Uh-oh," Dino said, pointing.  A
hundred yards ahead of them, Dryer was getting out of the limo.  "He's
heading for the subway," Dino said.  Stone turned to Dino.  "I'm going
after him; you pull up at the subway entrance.  If I'm not back in five
minutes, will you take Arrington to my house?"

"Sure; you better get going."

Stone got out of the cab and ran toward the, subway entrance.  The rain
was pounding down now, and the steps were slippery as he clambered down
them.  As he descended into the station he saw Dryer going through the
turnstiles, and at the same moment, he remembered that he had no
tokens; he rarely took the subway.  He hurried down the stairs, and he
could hear a train coming into the station.

"The hell with the token," he said to himself.

He ran at the turnstile, planted a hand on it, and vaulted over.  As he
did, his raincoat caught on ome thing and he was jerked to a halt.

"Hold it right there!"  somebody yelled, and before he could get his
coat untangled a cop had him by the elbow.

"I'm on the job,!"  Stone lied.

"Yeah?  Let's see some ID, pal."

Stone groped for his wallet, flashed the badge, and tried to go after
Dryer, who was getting onto the subway train three cars from where he
stood.

"Let's see that," the cop said, grabbing the wallet.  "Retired, huh?
What's going on, fella?"

'"I've got to catch up with a guy," Stone said.

"Okay, but start buying tokens, okay?"?  He let go of Stone's arm.

Stone sprinted up the platform toward an open car door and hurled
himself at it.  The doors closed

on him.  He struggled, pushed on the doors, and fell into the car,
banging a knee.  He got to his feet in time to look out the window and
see Dryer standing on the platform, looking at him as the train pulled
out.  Dryer gave him a little smile.

Stone watched him for as long as he could; then the train was in the
tunnel.  He sat down, hoping to God that Dryer would go back up to 6th
Avenue and be spotted by Dino.  His raincoat, a new one, was torn from
his leap over the turnstile, and there was a hole in his trousers' knee
where he had fallen.  It was one hell of an expensive subway ride, he
thought.

He got off the train at the next stop; then, ufiable to find a cab, he
limped home.

CHAPTER

Amanda dialed Stoneg number and waited, tapping her perfect nails on
the desktop while the secretary put her through.  She had been
standi!3g at Martha's graveside the day be forb when hr thoughts about
the DIRT business had begun to fall into place, and she had begun to
fully realize how dangerous her position was.  Amanda had always made a
habit of turning danger into opportunity, but first she had to know
exactly where she stood, which meant knowing exactly where Stone stood.
"Hello, Amanda; I'm orry to have kept you waiting."  "Not to worry,
darling. Look, I'd like to know exactly where you are in this
investigation. Can you bring me up to date, and as concisely as
possible?"

SrlJAEr WOODS

"Of course.  Most of this you already know, of course, but I think
we've identified the person or, perhaps, persons who are publishing the
newsletter.  One of them calls himself Jonathan Dryer and the other,
Geoffrey Power or G. Gable.  They appear to be working together.  Dryer
has abandoned his apartment, and we haven't been able to locate him
yet.  Last night we got a look at him at a benefit at the Shubert
Theatre, but he managed to elude us."

"Who's us?"

"Dino Bacchetti, my old detective partner."

"Are the police involved in this?"  she asked, alarmed.

Io, this was completely unofficial.  We think Dryer has been pulling
off burglaries to support himself, and a gun that was stolen from one
of the apartments may have been used to kill a retired cop, but we
can't prove anything yet."

"I see," she said, relieved.  "And where do you intend to go from
here?"

"I intend to find Dryer," Stone replied.  "He's the key to this whole
thing."

"And that's it?  That's everything?"

"That's everything."

"Thank you, darling; see you soon."  She hung up and dialed Richard
Hickock's private office number.

"Hello?"

"Dick, it's Amanda.  Break your lunch date today; we have to meet."

"Is this really important?"

"I think you could call it vital.  Twelve-thirty at Twenty-One?"

"See you then."

When they had settled into a banquette in the inner horseshoe of the
bar at "21," and after Hickock had ordered his steak and baked potato
and Amanda her grilled salmon, no butter, and after Hickock had been
served a double vodka martini and Amanda her San Pellegrino, she got at
own to business.

'"Dick, darling," Amanda said, "I'm afraid that, through no fault of
your own, you have been plaed in a very dangerous position."  She did
not mention the danger to herself.

"Oh?"  he said, not particularly alarmed, "How so?"

She gavd him a bn."f rundown on what Stone Barrington had learned about
the DIRT business.

"Well, at least he's making progress," Hickock said, taking a sip of
his huge martini.

"Dick, my dearest, he may be making too much progress."

Hickock frowned.  "Too much progress?"

"Yes.  You see, while Stone has been conducting his investigation, I
have been conducting one of my own, and, as is my wont, I have been
looking into more than who is doing this; I have been learning why."

"And just why have this Dryer and Power, or whatever their names are,
been doing this?"

"It seems, my darling, that they harbor some grudge against you."

"Me?  You mean only me?"

Amanda nodded gravely.  "Apparently they've gone after me only because
of my connection with you."

"What did I ever do to these guys?  I don't even know who they are."

"Who knows?  What's important is, they seem to know a very great deal
about you and your business affairs."

Hickock put down his martini.  "Just what the hell is that supposed to
mean, Amanda?"

"It means, Dick, that they seem to have unearthed information about
your connection with an entity called Window Seat."

All expression left Hickock's face.  "That's impossible," he said.  "I
mean, I never heard of anything like that."

"Dick, my dear, you don't have to worry about me; I'm on your side."

"Amanda, how did you find out about this?"  "About what, darling?"

"About Window Seat, goddammit!"

"Dick, keep your voice down," she said, looking around them.  "You know
that I have a great many sources for all sorts of information."

"Yeah, well, how the hell did you hear about Window Seat?  And don't
you think for a moment you can plead the confidentiality of a
journalist's sources.  I want to know now."  "Well, your Glynnis is in
possession of this knowledge, and she's a pretty unhappy woman at the
moment, isn't she?"  "Don't try that with me, Amanda; Glynnis and I
have reconciled our differences, and she would never mention this to
anybody."  Amanda had misjudged Hickock; she was not going to be able
to play him quite as she had imagined.  Inwardly, she shrugged; well,
that little vermin Peebles would just have to be sacrificed.  "4from
Allan Peebles," she said.  "He told you about Window Seat?"  Hickock
asked, unbelieving.  "]Everything.  About the Infiltrator and the porno
magazines.  The gay porno magazines."  Hickock blanched.  "I'll have
his balls by close of business," he said.  : "Wll, ndw, Dick, hat might
not be the wisest move; not just yet, anyway."  "Why not?"  "Well,
these two little creeps Dryer and Power are still out there.  If you do
something so public as sacking Peebles, it's bound to cause a new round
of faxing, reporting the whole business, and I don't think you want
that to happen, do you?"  "I see your point," Hickock said, returning
to his martini.  "I'll have to be more subtle."  "Oh, Dick, I'm sure
you can deal with Allan

Peebles at any moment you wish, after this DIRT thing has blown over."
"Yes, I can certainly do that, but when is this going to blow over?"
"Well, clearly it won't blow over if we leave Stone Barrington to his
devices.  Eventually he'll unearth the whole thing."  "Yes, I suppose
he will," Hickock agreed.  "I think it might be best if we terminated
his investigation and turned to, shall we say, other means."  Hickock
turned and looked her in the eye.  "Just what means did you have in
mind, Amanda?"  "Consider this, Dick: More than the DIRT businesis
involved. Dryer, or perhaps Power, or both, may have caused the death
of a police officer--a retired one, but nevertheless..."  "Jesus
Christ."  "So far the police are not officially involved in the
investigation of these two men, but if Stone--or anyone else, for that
matter--should come up with evidence linking the two to the murder,
then the whole can of worms--DIRT, Window Seat, everything--will be
opened up."  "Yes, I see that.  So Dryer and Power are the immediate
problem."  "Yes.  Surely you have connections with people who make a
business of solving troublesome problems by more direct means."  "Such
as who?"  "Well, you did have some help in solving your labor problems
last year, didn't you?  A consultant, so to speak?"  Hickock looked
around him.  "I think we've talked enough about this, Amanda." 
"Probably."  "I understand the parameters of the problem now.  Will you
call off Stone Barrington?" "Of course, darling, if you think that's
best."  "I do."  Amanda looked up.  "Oh, here comes your steak,
darling."  She watched as the perfectly grilled slab of meat was set
down before him.  "W43y ever haven't you already had a coronary?"  She
tested her salmon with a fork. "I give other people coronaries,"
Hickock replied, sawing off a hunk of beef and stuffing it into his
mouth.  Amanda tucked into her salmon, secure in the knowledge that,
while she had probably solved the DIRT pob len she haft also
ingratiated herself with Richard Hickock, at the same time letting him
know that she knew.  That knowledge would certainly be useful at some
later date.  The salmon was delicious.

CHAPTER

,i..  ichard Hickock got out of his car and tapped on the driver's
window.  "I'm going to take a little walk," he said.  "You wait here.".
"Around here, Mr.  Hickock?"  the driver asked, surprised.  They were
in a desolate area of the Long Island City section of Queens, amid
empty, rundown industrial buildings.  "I'll be back soon," Hickock
said. He trudged off into a misty rain, down an empty street. 
Following the directions that had been faxed to him that afternoon, he
turned left and crossed the street.  The number "19" had been
spray-painted on the door of a building, but it looked locked.  He
tried it, and it wasn't. Inside, he went to a huge freight elevator,
pulled a cord that closed the

3;8

doors from the top and bottom, and pressed the number for the fourth
floor.  The thing actually worked.  When it stopped he pushed open the
door and walked out of the elevator into a large, empty factory area.
Daylight was waning, and the low light threw into relief holes in the
floor where machinery had once been bolted down.  There was no place to
sit, so he walked slowly around the floor, wondering at what he was
about to do.  Suddenly he heard an electric motor running, and a moment
later another freight elevator at the opposite end or, the floor
stopped, and Enrico Bianchi stepped out.  The two men walked from their
opposite ends tote middle of the huge floor and embraced.  "Hello,
Ricky," Hickock said.  "Thank you so much for coming."  Bianchi was, as
always, tanned and slim, and his finely barbered hair had gone snow
white.  ' "Dickie," Bianchi said, holding him at arm's length and
looking at him.  "You lost some weight."  "Yeah, well, Glynnis made me
buy a treadmill."  Bianchi laughed heartily.  "My wife will never get
me on one of those."  "How is she?  And your daughter?"  "The wife is
the same, maybe a little fatter.  Mary Arm is married to the law, you
will remember."  "That must be a little touchy," Hickock said.

"We manage to get along, mostly by not talking.  He's not a bad fellow,
for a cop.  I bought them an apartment on the East Side; Mary Arm has
never liked Brooklyn."  "That's very generous of you."  "Well, she's my
only daughter, you know, and she's a tough one, like me.  She gets what
she wants, always."  He tucked Hickock's arm into his.  "Let's walk."
Hickock moved with him and, arm in arm, they promenaded slowly around
the empty floor.  "I'm sorry we have to meet like this, but the feds
are everywhere these days, have everything bugged.  I can't even talk
in my car anymore, and we had to lose a carload of them before coming
here today."  "It's all right; I understand.  I'm just glad you could
take the time."  "Something's wrong, eh?"  Bianchi asked.  "I'm afraid
so." "Tell me about it."  "There are two young men who have been
circulating rumors about me; they have almost cost me my marriage." 
Bianchi made a noise.  "That is awful, to attack a man's personal life.
Is this a business thing?"  "They seem to know more than they should
about my business.  An employee has talked out of turn."  "And you want
me to, ah, speak to this employee?"

Hickock shook his head.  "No; I can take care of him whenever I like.
But the two young men are out of my reach."

"But, perhaps, not out of mine?"  Bianchi said, chuckling.

"I hope you are right.  They have been very elusive; I have names, but
they may be false; I have no address, but they are circulating around
the fashionable quarters of Manhattan."  Hickock pulled a copy of
Vanity Fair from his overcoat pocket and opened it.  "But I have a very
good photograph of one of them.  He calls himself Jothan Dryer."

Bianchi stopped walking, fished a lighter out of his jacket pocket, and
struck it, studying the photograph.  "A good-looking boy," he said.  He
closed the magazine and tucked it into his own overcoat pocket.

"Yes, he seems to do well with the ladies.  The other ofie has' used
the name Geoffrey Power, and maybe G. Gable."

"What else can you tell me about these young men?"

"They resemble each other--so much so that they may be brothers.  One
of them has recently arrived from L.A. One or both of them has some
considerable skill as a burglar; he has broken into several large
apartments and stolen cash, jewelry--always men's wristwatches--and a
pistol with a silencer attached, One of them may have killed a retired
police officer with the stolen pistol."

"So the police are already looking for them?"  "No, not yet; there
hasn't been enough evidence to connect them to the murder.  I have no
hard information whatever about these two; everything I have told you
is just guessing."

"How did you come by what you have already told me?"

"I hired an investigator."

"His name?"

"Stone Barrington.  You know him?"

"I know of him; he is a friend of my son-in-law, the cop."

"He's very good."

"Is he still working on this?"

'"He's being called off today.  I'm afraid that if he finds them and
the police start talking to them, too much of this will get into the
papers."

Bianchi nodded.  "I see.  Is there anything else you can tell me about
these two?"

"No, that's all Barrington has been able to find out."

"And it's only these two you wish me to deal with?"

"There's a third."  He handed Bianchi a slip of paper.  "I haven't
decided what to do about that one yet.  If we move, it will have to be
an accident; I'll let you know later about that."

"I see.  So you wish me to find these two young men and then..."

"I want a permanent solution; I don't want to hear about them again,"
Hickock said.  "Ever."

Bianchi nodded.  "I don't blame you; it is what I would do, in the
circumstances."  "I apologize for bringing up money, but I know this
will be expensive."  "You are very kind, Dickie."  Hickock removed a
thick envelope from his other overcoat pocket and handed it to Bianchi.
"There's fifty thousand in there," he said.  "I hope that will cover
it."  "I believe so," Bianchi said, "unless there are unusual
complications."  "I'm very grateful to you, Ricky," Hickock said. 
Bianchi shrugged.  "It is at times like this that one must come to
one's old friends.  I am sorry that circumstances prevent us from
meeting more often, when there is no business to discuss."  "I'm sorry
for that, too, old friend.  Do you know that we have seen each other
only a half-dozen times since Yale?  I feel badly that I only come 'to
you when I have problems."  "Do not concern yourself," Bianchi said. 
"I know your heart."  "You are a good friend, Ricky."  Bianchi embraced
Hickock again. "I must go; there is always business to do.  I will be
in touch through the usual channels when this business of yours has
been completed."  "Good-bye, Ricky."  "Good-bye, Dickie."  The two men
parted, and each walked to his own elevator.

There was a man waiting for Bianchi on the ground floor, and he handed
him the magazine.  On the way back to the car he imparted the
information he had just learned.  "Make copies of this photograph,
small ones; put the word out on the street, especially in the good bars
and restaurants, that we want to locate both of them.  There will be a
two-thousand-dollar reward for this information.  When they have
both--not one, but both--been found, they should die in a way that will
seem to be an ordinary cri mema mugging, a robbery.  There will be five
thousand each for this work, but for the money to be paid, they must
both be killed, you understand?"  The man nodded.  "Si, padrone," he
said.

They had reached the car.  Bianchi held a finger to his lips for
silence, then they got in.

"Stone?"

"Yes, Amanda, what's up?"

"I had lunch with Dick Hickock today, and we've decided to call off the
DIRT investigation."  "Really?"  Stone asked, surprised.  "Why?"

"We talked about it, and we decided it's just not important enough to
continue devoting all this effort and money to it, so will you send me
a final bill?"

"Of course.  There isn't much; you've already paid most of it."

"Good, just send it, then.  Hope I'll see you and Arrington soon."

"Thanks, Amanda."

"Bye."  She hung up.

Stone turned to Arrington.  "Amanda and

Hickock are calling off the investigation."  "Good God!  Why?"

"I don't know.  She said something about it not being worth the
trouble, but I don't buy that.

They've both been very avid about it up to now."  "This is very
strange."

"I think there's something going on that we dorg.know about," he
said.

"Are you going to stop looking for Jonathan, then?"

"Cdrtainly not.  I still have a couple of personal things to talk with
Mr.  Dryer about."

"Maybe you should just let it go, Stone.  The whole thing is a little
too scary."

"No, I'won'( let it go,".: he said.

CHAPTER

' tone got out of the cab at the Washington Square Arch and walked
along the north rim of the park, enjoying the clear, cold morning and
looking at the small children playing in the new-fallen snow, their
mothers or nannies watching over them like mother hens.  He crossed the
street to a row of elegant townhouses that were occupied by senior
faculty and administrators of New York University, then climbed the
steps to a highly varnished front door and rang the bell.

A uniformed maid answered the door.  "Yes?"

"My name is Barrington; I have an appointment with Dr.  Bernard."

"Oh, yes, he's expecting you; please follow me."  She led him up the
stairs to the second floor, to a set of double doors on the south side
of the house, and knocked briefly.  "Come!"  a muffled voice cried. 
She opened the door.  "Dr.  Bernard, your visitor is here."  "Ah, yes;
show him in, please."  The maid admitted Stone, then closed the door
behind him.  He was in a good-sized library, which could not contain
the books that had been stuffed into it.  They were everywhere, on
every surface, on chairs and on the floor.  A row of high windows
afforded a fine view of Washington Square Park.  "Mr.  Barrington," the
old man said, rising and extending his hand.  "Dr.  Bernard," Stone
said, shaking his hand. "It's ben a very long time."  About twenty
years.  Bernard waved him to a chair before the fireplace, opposite
his.  own  "Just dump those books on the floor.  Yes, it has been a
long time, though I've read of yofi in the papers once or twice.  You
were injured, weren't you?"  "Yes, sir, a bullet in the knee;
occupational hazard.  It's in pretty good shape now."  "Ah, yes, the
occupation you chose.  I admit, I never understood it."  "With
hindsight, perhaps it wasn't the best choice," Stone said.  "But it's
been an interesting life."  "I see you've gained wisdom with age,"
Bernard said, a trace of a smile crossing his plump ..::: face.

The maid entered with a tray bearing a

Thermos, some cups, and a plate of cookies.  "Some coffee?"  Bernard
asked.

"Thank you; black, please."  He watched as his old professor poured. He
hadn't changed much; a little heavier, maybe; he still wore very fine
suits, hadn't let himself go the way many old men do.  He was freshly
barbered and shaved, and when he crossed his legs, his most visible
foot wore a very expensive shoe.

"You left the police department, I believe."

"Yes; I was given the boot, really, on medical grounds, with a full
salary."

"And what have you been doing since your regirement?"

"I'm of counsel to Woodman and Weld."

"An estimable firm.  I've known Woodman all his life.  You said 'of
counsel."  Not a partner?"

"No.  I'm rather a special case there; I work out of my home, which is
not far from their offices, handling cases for their clients that don't
quite fit the Woodman and Weld profile."  "Ah, I see; dirty laundry."
"In a manner of speaking."

"Are you happy doing this work?"

"I suppose I'd rather be arguing cases before the Supreme Court, but
I'm content with my lot."

Bernard nodded.  "Contentment is devoutly to be wished, perhaps more
than glory."

"Perhaps."

"I always saw you as a very fine trial lawyer."

"I do some trial work, but maybe not the kind you saw me doing.  As a
matter of fact, I recall that you saw quite a different calling for
me."

"Ah, yes.  Is that what you've come to see me about?  A little late in
life for that sort of thing, isn't it?"

"Probably so."

"They're in such a mess now, after that Aldrich Ames business.  Makes
me regret that I steered young men their way.  Still, some of them have
served honorably.  As for the rest, well.."  the Company always finds
somebody to do that kind of ork, much as Woodman and Weld have found
you."

That stung.  "Well, what you describe as Woocrman and Weld's 'dirty
laundry' is still honorable work," Stone replied.

"Of course, and I know you've conducted yourself honorably.  I
apologize for what must have seemed '/a slur."

"Not at all, sir."

"So, why have you come to see me?"

Stone took the ad from Vanity Fair from his pocket and handed it to
Bernard.  "I want to find this man," he said, "and there's some
indication that he may have picked up certain unsavory skills while
working for some federal agency."

"This is not at all in my line," Bernard said.  "Why do you want to
find him?"

"He may have been involved in some very serious criminal matters."

"How serious?"

"He may have committed a number of burglar-les in New York, including
one at my house, during which I was attacked.  The burglaries exhibited
certain skills that are not possessed by your garden-variety burglar.
He may have an accomplice, who may be his brother."

"What else?"

"He may be implicated in the murder of a retired police officer, a man
who sometimes worked for me."

"That's very serious indeed," Bernard said.  "What exactly is it you
wish me to do?"

"If you still have contacts in place, I would be vefiy grateful if you
could make some inquiries for me.  Any background information on this
man would be very helpful.  I don't even know his real name."

"What aliases has he' been using?"  "Jonathan Dryer."  Bernard burst
out laughing.  "What is it?"  Stone asked, puzzled.

"That is the name of a man who ran some of the training courses at a
place called "The Farm."  He was not terribly well liked by many of his
students."

"What did he teach, if I may ask?"

"The sort of skills that might be useful in a burglary."

"I see."

Bernard picked up the telephone at his side,

pressed a single button, and waited.  "Hello, this is Samuel Bernard,"
he said.  "Is he in?"  He waited a moment for his party to come on the
line.  "Good morning, Ben," he said.  "I'd like to fax you a photograph
and see if you can come up with anything on the subject.  He may have
had some training at The Farm; he's been using the alias Jonathan
Dryer."  He smiled.  "Yes, I thought that would amuse you.  I'll send
it along now, shall I."?  Good, see you soon, I hope."  He hung up and
turned to Stone.  "Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr.
Barrington?"  He rose and went into an adjoining room and, through the
open door, Stone could see him using a fax machine.  While it was
working, he came back to the door and closed it.

St.  fe poured himself some more coffee and gazed idly out the window
at the children in the park.  Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he
had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered fn
another.  room  Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons
on the instrument next to Bernard's chair.

Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of
paper.  When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself
some more coffee, he looked up at Stone.  "Now.  You and I must
understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no
further, and I include the police in that admonition.  In fact, you may
not even say to anyone that we met.  Is that understood?"

"Completely."

"Your man's name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old.  His
father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his
parents are both dead He has an electronics engineering degree from
Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles,
thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven.  He was recruited
out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a
year's training before being assigned overseas.  He served in half a
dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago.  He was
separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks.
His last known address was in northSrn Virginia, but that was three
years ago."

"Is there an address for his brother or sister?"  Bernard scribbled
down something on a pad and handed it to Stone.  "A New Jersey
housewife, apparently--Mrs.  Randall Butch--but that address is three
years old, too."

"Thanks, I'll check that out."

"The brother is quite something else," Bernard continued.  "His last
known address was the California correctional institution at Chino.  He
was serving five to seven years for--you'll like this--burglary.  He
went in four years ago, and I should think it's quite likely that he
has been paroled by now.  I suppose you could locate his parole officer
and get his last address, but from what you've told me it sounds very
much as though he might have left California, doesn't it?"

"It does.  Anything else?"  "Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his
technical skills, but his psychological evaluation showed a propensity
for violence.  He was in trouble a couple of times; had to leave one
Central American country after an incident with a woman."  He looked
up.  "That's it," he said.  He went to the fireplace and fed the two
sheets of paper into the flames.  Stone stood up.  "Dr.  Bernard, I
can't thank you enough.  I know that what I asked you to do was
irregular, and I'm very grateful to you."  "No at all," Bernard said.
"I hope it will help you find this man.  He sounds as though he
shouldn't be on the streets."  He held up a finger.  "Oh, and more
thing; the sort of training he had would have included establishing
false identities."  "That doesn't surprise me, sir.  Thank you again."
The two men shook hands, and Stone found his ay d6wnstairsand out of
the house.  Back on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his
hand.  Rahway, New Jersey.  He'd have to rent a car.

"Completely."

"Your man's name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old.  His
father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his
parents are both dead, He has an electronics engineering degree from
Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles,
thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven.  He was recruited
out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a
year's training before being assigned overseas.  He served in half a
dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago.  He was
separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks.
His last known address was in northSrn Virginia, but that was three
years ago."

"Is there an address for his brother or sister?"  Bernard scribbled
down something on a pad and handed it to Stone.  "A New Jersey
housewife, apparently--Mrs Randall Burch--but that address is three
years old, too."

"Thanks, I'll check that out."

"The brother is quite something else," Bernard continued.  "His last
known address was the California correctional institution at Chino.  He
was serving five to seven years for--you'll like this--burglary.  He
went in four years ago, and I should think it's quite likely that he
has been paroled by now.  I suppose you could locate his parole officer
and get his last address, but from what you've told me it sounds very
much as though he might have left California, doesn't it?"

"It does.  Anything else?"

"Thomas Bruce was rated very highly for his technical skills, but his
psychological evaluation showed a propensity for violence.  He was in
trouble a couple of times; had to leave one Central American country
after an incident with a woman."  He looked up.  "That's it," he said.
He went to the fireplace and fed the two sheets of paper into the
flames.

Stone stood up.  "Dr.  Bernard, I can't thank you enough.  I know that
what I asked you to do was irregular, and I'm very grateful to you."

"No at all," Bernard said.  "I hope it will help you find this man. He
sounds as though he shouldn't be on the streets."  He held up a finger.
"Oh, on more thing; the sort of training he had would have included
establishing false identities."

"That doesn't surprise me, sir.  Thank you again."  The two men shook
hands, and Stone found his way downstairs, and out of the house.  Back
on the street, he looked at the slip of paper in his hand.  Rahway, New
Jersey.  He'd have to rent a car.

CHAPTER

y the time Stone had rented a car it was snowing steadily, and he was
already across the George Washington Bridge before he realized he
shouldn't have come.  The car was a small one--the only thing
available--and he felt unsafe in it, sliding on patches of ice.  The
snowplows were doing their work, though, removing the accumulation and
depositing grit, so he made it to Rahway.  He asked a policeman for
directions, and he found the house easily enough, in a pleasantly posh
neighborhood, the kinds of houses owned by commuters who held executive
positions in the city.  Louise Bruce Butch lived in a two-story red
brick Georgian revival house with slender columns in front; there was a
BMW under the carport.  He parked in front of the house, made his way
up some snowy steps, wishing he'd brought galoshes, and rang the bell.
Louise was, somehow, a surprise.  She was of medium height, with sandy
blonde hair and a particularly taut body for a suburbanite.  Lots of
tennis and treadmill, he thought.  She did not appear displeased to see
him.  "Good morning," she said pleasantly.  "Mrs.  Burch?"  "Louise
Burch."  "My name is Stone Barrington; I'm an attorney.  I wonder if I
might speak to you for a few minutes," "Why not?"  she said gaily.
"Come on back to the kitchen."  He caught a whiff of alcohol as he
followed her down a hallway, past a quite formal living room and a'
small library, to the kitchen, which turned out to be a very large
room, with a comfortable seating area before a fireplace.  There was a
fire going, and a half-empty glass of some brown liquor on the coffee
table.  There was a stack of house design magazines on the table as
well; she had obviously been going through them.  "Please have a seat,"
she said, indicating the sofa.  "I know it's a little early, but I'm
having a drink; can I get you one?"  ' Thinking that having a drink in
his hand might make it a bit harder for her to throw him out when she
learned why he was there, he accepted.  "Bourbon, if you have it."

"Wild Turkey okay?"  "That would be splendid; on the rocks, please." 
He looked out the window at the snow, "It's becoming a nasty day out
there."  She returned shortly with a large drink for him, then sat next
to him on the sofa, turned toward him, and drew her knees up, revealing
fine legs under a short skirt.  "Now, whatever can I do for you, Mr.
.... " "Barrington.  Stone."  "Stone," she said.  "I'm Lou.  You said
you're a lawyer?"  "Yes, in New York."  "And what brings you all the
way from the city on a lay like today?"  "I wanted to talk to you about
your brothers."  She gave a short, sharp laugh.  "You're a policeman,
aren't you?"  "I used to be."  "And now you practice at the bar?" 
"Yes.  Why did you laugh when I said I was here about your brothers?" 
"Well, Stone, you aren't exactly the first," she said.  "There have
been a parade of policemen through my house over the years, usually
looking for Charlie. But you said 'brothers," in the plural, didn't
you?"  "Yes."  "Funny, no one has ever come looking for Tommy before." 
Stone sipped his drink. "I was wondering if you know how I could get in
touch with them? Either or both?"  "Now, why would a lawyer want to get
in touch with my brothers?  A cop, I could understand, but a lawyer? 
Do you want to sue one of them?"  "No, as a matter of fact, although I
am a lawyer, I'm not here in that capacity.  It's more of a personal
matter."  "How did you get my name and address?"  she asked.  "From
someone in Washington who used to know Tommy."  That was technically
correct.  "He didn't have a current address."  "Washington, huh?  Yes,
Tommy used to live there; Tommy has lived in lots of places, lots of
countries.  He was something in the diplomatic corps, I believe.  He
was always hazy about exactly what he did."  "Have.you..."  He was:
interrupted by the telephone ringing.  ::

"Excuse me," she said, then got up and went to a counter where the
phone rested.  "Hello?  Oh,

yes, honey, how are you?  Everything going well?"

Stone sipped his drink and looked idly around the room.  He felt that
in a couple of minutes he was going to know how to fifid Dryer, or
Bruce.

He still thought of him as Dryer.

"How much do you need, honey?"  she was asking  "Good God, we sent you
down there with enough spending money for the whole semester!

You were supposed to discipline your own spend-hag, remember?"

Stone, who had not eaten for five hours, was starting to feel the
bourbon.

"Well, if it's an emergency, I'll send it, but I am not going down to
Western Union; I'll just mail you a check.  And if I have this kind of
call again, I'm going to let your father handle it!  Now you .. ."  She
swore and hung up the phone.

Stone looked over at her, then away.

She came back to the couch, downed the last third of her drink, and
went back toward the kitchen.  "My daughter," she said.  "She's in her
firs!  year at the University of Virginia.  Doesn't know the meaning of
money."  She came back to the sofa carrying a fresh drink.  "You have
any kids?"

"No, I'm a bachelor."

"A bachelor," she said.  She allowed her hand to brush the back of his.
"An interesting one, too.  How is it you never married, Stone?"

Stone shrugged and gave her his stock answer.  "Just lucky, I guess."

She laughed as if this were really funny.  "Yes, I'm all alone now, I
guess.  Husband ran off with a twenty-two-year-old, if you can believe
it; daughter in college.  It's just me now."  She waved a hand.  "All
alone in this big house."

"I shouldn't think a woman as attractive as you are would be alone for
very long."

She raised her glass.  "Thank you, kind sir.  You really know what to
say to a girl."  Stone felt a need to change the subject.  "Have you
seen either of your brothers lately?"  She set her drink down.  "Why
don't we change the subject for a while?"  "What did you have in mind
for a subject?"  he asked mildly.  "Oh, if you knew what I had in
mind," she said, smiling.  He believed he did know, and he wasn't Sure
how he was going to handle it.  He certainly didn't want to annoy her
and get thrown out before he had found out what he came for, and she
was extremely attractive, except for the booze, and he was feeling just
a little boozy himself.  What canon of ethics covered this situation?
None, he decided; he was on his own.  Then he saw her nipples rise
under her sweater.  He had never seen that happen before.  He was lost.
"You nipples are hard," he said.  "How can you tell?"  she asked, "when
you haven't touched them?"  He reached out and rubbed the back of his
fingers lightly against her breasts.  Confrmed, he said.  "Not really,"
she said.  She pulled her sweater over her head, released her bra from
behind, and dropped it on the floor.  "Reconfirmed," he said, reaching
for her.

$9

SlJAIrr WOODS

He got out of the shower and went to find his clothes in the kitchen
seating area.  Once dressed, he decided to look around.  There was a
phone book on the kitchen counter, and under "Tommy" was scribbled
"Chelsea Hotel."  He wondered how old that address was.  He went into
the living room and found nothing of interest, then tried the library.
On a bookcase were a lot of silver-framed family photographs.  One of
them had been taken in some tropical place; there were palms and a
beach.  A man dressed in the uniform of a navy lieutenant was standing
next to a handsome blond woman.  Arrayed at their feet were two little
boys and an older girl of maybe twelve--pretty, straw-haired,
smiling.

"Better days," she said from behind him.  She was tying a robe around
her.

"I thought you were sound asleep," he said.

"So you just thought you'd have a look around."

"Yes, I did."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"  "Beg pardon?"

"Did you find Tommy and Charlie?"

"No.  Would you like to tell me where they are?"  "Why do you want to
find them?"

"I told you, it's a personal matter.  One of them--Tommy, I think--has
my wristwatch; it has a lot of sentimental value."

She smiled.  "Tommy always loved watches.  Strange thing."

"Where is he?"  "In New York; but you know that already."  "Yes.  Do
you have an address for him?"  "Last I heard, Tommy had an apartment on
Ninety-first Street."  "Not any more; he's moved.  Do you know where?"
She crossed her arms.  "He may be a bastard," she said, "but he's my
little brother."  "If you tell me where to find him, I may be able to
keep him from getting into more trouble than he's already in.",

"Whgt kind of trouble?"  "Stealing, mostly."  "From you?"  "Amofig
others."  "I talked to him last night, for the first time in more than
a year; he' said he was about to strike it rich."  ':

Did he 'ay ho;u?":"He said that he possessed very valuable knowledge.
That's all he said."  "And you don't know where he's living?"  She
looked at the floor and shook her head.  He couldn't blame her.  He
walked to where she stood, kissed her on the cheek, and left.

CHAPTER

tone drove slowly back toward the city, through slush, ice, and fresh
snow, which had turned into a blizzard.  In spite of his recent shower
he felt somehow dirty.  His sex life had always been serendipitous, and
he liked it that way; in the normal course of his life he would have
enjoyed his encounter with Lou Burch and reflected pleasantly on it,
but his life had taken a new course with Arrington, and it troubled him
that he had not once thought of her until he was back in the car. Guilt
was new to him, and he didn't like it.

Just short of the George Washington Bridge traffic came to a complete
halt, and he began to fear that it might be permanent.  He got out his
pocket phone and called Dino.

"Afternoon," Dino said.

"Already?"  Stone looked at his watch; it was nearly two.

"Happens every day."

"Dino, I've finally got something on our boys."

"Shoot."

"An old acquaintance did some checking for me with what I believe was
Central Intelligence.  Turns out our boy, Jonathan, who has an
electron-its degree, underwent some training by those people and spent
several years in their employ.  He eventually got bounced.  His real
name is Thomas Bruce,nd his brother's name is Charles.  Charlie is
probably out of jail recently; he was doing five to seven at Chino, in
California, and my guess is he's jumled parole.  That ought to be
enough to pic'kihtim up on."

would be if.  we got a request from

California," Dino said.  Hang on, let me check the computer."  '

Stone heard some keystrokes, then some more.  "Okay, I've got his
record; his sheet is short but sordid.  Picked up for male prostitution
when he was nineteen, suspended sentence; suspect in a dozen
burglaries; finally got nailed in somebody else's house, went up to
Chino.  No mention of parole; according to this, he's still-inside."

"Maybe they're slow to update records," Stone said.

"Maybe.  Oh, his picture looks a lot like his brother."

"So there's not enough to pick him up?"

"Not when he's still in Chino, Stone," Dino said drily.

"Can you check with California and see if he's out, and if he's been
reporting to his parole officer?  If he's bolted, you'd have an excuse
to arrest him."

"My superiors wouldn't think it was a very good use of manpower to
start hunting down parole violators from California, when California
doesn't care enough to send out a bulletin."

"Oh, come on, Dino, you're not trying!  I may even know where he is."

"Where?"

"At the Chelsea Hotel, maybe."

"Under what name?"

That stopped Stone; he hadn't thought to ask

Lou Burch about a new alias, and she was certainly not going to
volunteer it.  "I don't know.  Try Dryer, try Power, try Gable, try
Bruce.  Maybe he's dumb enough to use his own name."

"First, let me see what I can do with the state of California.  I know
a guy who might be of some help.  Where are you?"

"Somewhere in New Jersey."

"Oh, shit; in this weather?"

"I'm standing still just short of the Bridge, while snow is
relentlessly rising around me."

"Lotsa luck, pal.  I hope I don't read in the papers that you were one
of hundreds who froze to death in their cars."

"I'm moved by your concern.  Get back to me."  Stone broke the
connection.

Miraculously, traffic began to move, or rather to inch forward.  Twenty
minutes later, the road had been squeezed down to one lane, past a
rear-ender that was blocking the other two.  Once past the wreck, Stone
was back up to thirty miles an hour, which, in the current conditions,
felt like sixty.  Shortly he was in Manhattan again.  His pocket phone
rang.

"Yeah?"

"Okay, he's out of Chino, but he hasn't busted parole."

"You mean he's still in California?  I don't believe it."

"I-]e's not due to check in with his parole officer until day after
tomorrow.  If he doesn't show up, my friend has got him flagged to go
into the computer immediately as a runner, and he's promised to fax the
a rquest to lick him up."

"But not until day after tomorrow?"

"Not until the day after that, at the earliest.  Sorry, it's the best I
can do.  Oh, I've got an address for him: the Santa Fe Residential
Apartments, on Melrose, should you want to go looking for him."

"Nah, he moved out of there a week or so ago.  I think I'm going to go
looking for him at the Chelsea Hotel."

"You watch your ass, Stone.  Remember Arnie; next time I see you I
don't want to see a tag on your toe.  Are you carrying?"

"Me, I wouldn't go after these guys without a piece.  You shouldn't
either."

"See you, Dino."  Stone punched out, put away the phone, got off the
West Side Highway at 48th Street, drove over to 9th Avenue, and headed
downtown, trying to stay in the bus tracks.

"Gee, I'm not sure," the man behind the desk said, looking at the ad
Stone had ripped out of Vanity Fair.

Stone flashed the badge.  "You don't want to be thought, of as
harboring a fugitive, do you?"

The man shook his head and checked his guest list.  "He's in
ten-oh-one."  "Under what name?"  "Jeremy Spencer."

"Is there somebody-bunking with him?"

"No, he checked in alone last week, and I haven't seen him with anybody
else, except a girl or two.  They always leave in the morning."
"Passkey," Stone said.

"Not a chance," the desk clerk replied.  "Not without a search warrant.
I'm not getting into that kind of shit with my boss."

Stone glared at him.  "Okay, I'm going up there, and if you call up and
tell him I'm coming, you're going to find yourself in more shit than
you would have ever believed possible."

The man held up his hands.  "Okay, okay."

Stone took the elevator to the tenth floor, trembling with
anticipation.  He was looking forward to meeting Mr, Thomas Bruce.  The
door was at the end of the hall, at the back of the building.  The
Chelsea was an old hotel with a reputation for harboring rebels,
literary and rock.  It had been fixed up yet again, and the carpet was
new.  The hallway wasn't very wide, though; that was good.  Noting that
there was no peephole, Stone rapped at the door.  "Yeah, who is it?"  a
muffled voice replied.  "Bellman.  Got a Federal Express for you." 
"You sure you got the right room?  Who's it , For.  "Jeremy Spencer;
from somebody named Butch, in Rahway, New Jersey."  Stone braced
himself against the opposite wall as he heard the door chain rattle. 
As soon as he saw the knob turn, he pushed off the wall and threw all
his weight behind a kick at the door.  His timing was perfect.  The
door caught the man in the face and sent him flying backward across the
room, and Stone was right on top of him.  He held a forearm against the
man's neck.  "Mr.  Dryer, I presume," he said, applying more pressure.
"Or maybe I should say Mr.  Bruce."  Something hard hit Stone on the
back of the head, but he didn't pass out.  Smebody grabbed him from
behind and yanked him to his feet, pinning his arms behind him.  Stone
struggled to stay conscious as he watched Tommy Bruce get to his
feet.

"You son of a bitch," Bruce said, throwing a right to Stone's gut.

"And I always thought I was such a nice guy," Stone managed to say
between gasps for breath.

Bruce hit him high on his cheekbone, snapping his head around.

Still, Stone remained conscious.

Bruce cupped a hand under his chin and raised his head.  "How'd you
find me?"  he demanded.  "Phone book," Stone said.

Bruce looked past him and said, "Hey, Charlie, meet Stone Barrington,
the comic."  He hit Stone on the other side of the head.  "Did I ever
tell you I fucke his girlfriend?"

"Oh, yeah, the lovely Arrington," Charles Bruce said from somewhere
behind Stone's swimming head.

"And I fucked your sister," Stone said.

"What did you sayT'

"Oh, yeah; the lovely Lou."

Bruce hit him again, and this time Stone started to go dark.  His last
memory was Tommy Bruce's shoe, coming at his head.

He came to in an ambulance, hurting everywhere.  He tried to raise a
hand to his face and discovered that his arms were strapped down.  A
paramedic was taking his blood pressure, and a cop dozed on a bench
beside the litter.  "Hey," Stone said.

The cop's head snapped around.  "Huh?"  "Where we going'?." 
"Bellevue," the cop said.

Stone winced as they hit a bump.  "Let's make it Lenox Hill," he said.
"They know me there."

CHAPTER

5'2

ommy and Charlie Bruce checked into the Mansfield Hotel on West 44th
Street.  It was a small hostelry, originally designed as an apartment
hotel for well-to-do bachelors, as was its larger counterpart, the
Royalton, farther down the block toward 6th Avenue, and it had recently
been remodeled.

"I just don't get it," Charlie said.  "How the fuck could he find us?
How could he know who we are?"

This annoyed Tommy, who was accustomed to knowing everything.  "He
knows Louise, too."

"You should have let me kill him, talking like that about Louise."

Tommy whipped out a cell phone and called Rahway.

"Hello?"  Sleepy voice.

"Hi, Sis," Tommy said.  "You sound as though you've been well
fucked."

"What?"  She was awake now.

"You told him where to find us."

"I most certainly did not.  I told him nothing."  "Tell me the
truth."

"I am telling you the truth.  He asked; I didn't tell him."

Tommy thought for a minute.  "Did you write anything down?"

Her silence answered the-question.

"I-d you fall asleep after he fucked you?"  More silence.

"He.  looked around the house, didn't he?"  Still silence.

"You still meticulously keep your address book, don't you?"

"All right," she said, "he looked around the house; I caught him at
it."

"How did he find you?"

"I have no idea."

"Come on, Louise, think.  He must have said something about why he was
there."

"He said he was a lawyer, but he wasn't there as a lawyer.  He was
looking for you for personal rea

SOILS."

"Did he say what he meant about that?"

"He said you stole his watch.  Also, that you'd stolen things from
other people.  Is that, true, Tommy?"

Tommy's turn to be silent.

"Speak to me."

"I had reasons to do what I did," he said finally.

"We're right on the verge of something really big."  "What is it?  What
are you up to?"

"Let's just say that Charlie and I possess some very valuable
information, and it's going to make us a lot of money."

"You're going to end up in jail, Tommy, just like Charlie.  You two are
more alike than I ever knew."

"Listen, if he turns up there again, I want you to call me."

"Where are you?"

"I'm going to give you a telephone number, and I don't want you to
write it down; memorize it.  It's a cellular phone."

"All right."

He gave her the number  "Have you got that?"

She repeated it to him.  "Listen, I want you to understand
something."

"What's that?"

"I live on alimony and child support; I have no other funds."

"So?"

"So I don't want you to expect me to raise bail or money for lawyers
for either of you.  I did that once, when I was married, and it was
thrown up to me for years by my husband, who had to come up with the
money.  I'm not going to do it again.  So if you two get yourselves
arrested, I'll read about it

'-in the papers, but I don't want to hear from you.

Got that?"

"I got it, Louise.  You're a great sister."

"Better than you deserve," she said, then she hung up.

"I'm hungry," Charlie said.  "We didn't get any lunch."

"There's an Italian place down the block," Tommy replied.  "I saw it
from the cab.  Come on."

Gaetano Calabrese checked his tie in the mirror, thlm turned to his
boss.  "Take a picture of me, okay?"  He fished the Instamatic out of
his locker and banded it to his headwaiter, who laughed and took his
picture.

Gaetano had been in the country for seven months, and he had worked
every day of it as a busboy..  This was his first day as a waiter, and
he was enjoying the tips.  He worked days, and in the evenings, he ran
numbers for a guy in his neighborhood.  Gaetano fished a photograph out
of his wallet and looked at it again; his boss had given it to him the
night before.  Five hundred bucks, that was what it was worth; he
memorized the face and put it back in his wallet.

"Let's go, Gaetano," his boss said.  "Break's over; customers in the
restaurant."

Gaetano strode into the dining room, a smile on his face .... Tommy and
Charlie Bruce walked into Figaro and asked for a table.  It was late
for lunch, and there were plenty.  A waiter brought them a menu.  "Did
you see that?"  Charlie asked.  "What?"  "That waiter."  "What about
him?" "The way he looked at me.  At you, too."  "Charlie, don't get
paranoid on me."  "Tommy, a guy just busted into our hotel room that
nobody was supposed to know about, looking for two guys whose names he
didn't know, but he knew about the hotel, and he knew our names. 
Now,you're telling me I'm paranoid?"  "Okay, now we're in another hotel
under new names, and we've got ID to back them up, right?"  "Right." 
"So how could anybody know about us?"  "I still think he looked at us
funny."  "Shut up and order."  The waiter was coming back. 
"Gentlemen," he said in a heavy accent, "what is your pleasure?"  I'll
have the spaghetti bolognese, Tommy said.  "Pizza margharita," Charlie
said.  "And a bottle of the chianti classico."  "Of course, sirs, and
welcome to our restaurant."  "Thanks," Tommy said as the man walked
away.  "He's new on the job; he's just trying too hard, that's all."

"Maybe."  The waiter was back in a moment, and he was holding a camera.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I have a new camera, and I wonder
if I could take your pictures, you are both so very handsome."  Tommy
started to speak, and then the flashbulb went off in his face.  When he
could see again, the waiter was gone.  "Jesus," Charlie said.  "What
the hell is going on?"  "I'll admit, this is very screwy," Tommy
mum-bledC'I think we ought to get out of here."

Gaetafio was on the phone to his night boss.  "I got them," he said.
"What are you talking about, Gaetano?"  the boss asked.  "You're not on
until tonight."  "The two Then you want for five hundred dollars.  I
got them."  "Where?"  "At Figaro, where I work, on West Forty-fourth
Street." "Keep an eye on those guys, Gaetano.  Somebody' Il be there
very quickly."  "Don't worry, I took their photograph, too."  "You
what?"  "I took their picture with my camera."  "Did they see you do
it?"  "Of course.  My camera has a flash."

"Holy shit, are they still there?"

"Hold on, please, I'll see."  Gaetano let the receiver fall, then
stepped into the dining room again.  The two men had vanished.  He ran
back to the phone.  "They are gone!"  he screamed.

"No fucking kidding!"  his boss yelled.  "Go after them; don't let them
out of your sight!  We're on the way!"

Gaetano hung up the phone and sprinted for the street.  He ran out the
door, nearly knocking down two customers, and looked left and right.
Nothing, nothing but traffic.  He ran to the corner of 6th Avenue and
looked up and down.  Still nothing.  H,e ran back to 5th Avenue.  Still
nothing.  His heart sank.  Not only was he not going to get the five
hundred dollars, he was, as his boss liked to say, going to get his ass
kicked.

Tommy and Charlie Bruce burst out of the Mansfield Hotel less than a
minute after the waiter had disappeared back into his restaurant and
dove into a cab.

"What now?"  Charlie asked.

"We've got to find a hole long enough to get the computer out of
storage and get off one more issue of DIRT.  That's all it's going to
take; the groundwork has been done."

"But where?  I don't want anybody else taking pictures of us."

"I know just the place," Tommy said.  "It belongs to a friend who's not
using it at the moment."  He gave the driver an address, then sat back
in the seat.  "Just one more issue," he said, "delivered to just one
customer."

CHAPTER

l, tone looked up at the resident, who was stitching the cut above his
eye.  "Where's the cop who was with me when I came in?"  he asked..

"He's out in the hall."

"Could somebody ask him to come in, please?"

"You just lie quietly, and let me do my work;

you can talk to him later."  "It's very important."  "Shut up."

"Are you going to call the cop in here, or am I going to have to do it
myself?."

"Oh, all right.  Nurse, will you get the cop in here, please?"

"Thank you."

"Will you please shut up?  We're getting tired of

3/,8

seeing you in here, you know.  What was it last time, a concussion?"
"Careful how you talk to me; I'll take my bus io ness elsewhere."  The
cop walked in.  "Somebody ask for me?"  "I did," Stone said.  "Will you
call Lieutenant Bacchetti at the Nineteenth and tell him I'm here,
please?"  "Sure thing."  The cop left.  "See how easy that was?"  Stone
said to the resident.

"Are you a cop, Mr.  Barrington?"  ,. "Us to be."  "You look too young
to be retired."  "That's what I told them, but they retired me anyway."
' "There," the resident said.  "What with your scalp wound and this
one, you have seventeen stitches in your head."  "A record," he eplied.
"I sincerely hope so."  She turned to the nurse.  "Dress these two
wounds, and let's get him admitted."  "I don't want to be admitted,"
Stone said. The resident paused at the door.  "Put restraints on him if
he gives you a hard time."

Dino walked into the hospital room.  "Now what?"  he demanded.  Stone
had the bed cranked to a sitting position.  "I want to make a
complaint," he said.

3)9

"A complaint?  You look very happy to me."

"I want to file aggravated battery charges against Thomas and Charles
Bruce."

"It's already been done.  When the cop called me I got it in the
computer and onto the street."  "So now you can arrest them."

"Their photographs are being printed up as we speak; the next shift
will be carrying them."

"Check hotels," Stone said.  "I don't think they're going apartment
hunting now."

"Right," Dino said.  "You really look like shit, you know?"

"Thanks."

"By tomorrow morning you're going to look like you fought for the
championship and lost."

Stone shifted the ice pack on his face.  "They're looking to make some
kind of a big score, Dino, but I don't know what."

"Another burglary?"

"Doesn't sound like that; they're talking big money.  That's what Tommy
told his sister, anyway."

"What I don't understand is why they beat you up so bad."

"I told them I fucked their sister."

"Oh, you wanted them to kick the shit out of you."

"You ought to see the other guy.  He should have a door sticking out of
his forehead; I kicked it in on him."

"Great, that'll really help nail them for battery, you kicking in the
door of their room."

The door opened and Arrington walked in, car-tying two large suitcases.
She dropped them and rushed over to the bed.  "Is he dead?"  she asked
Dino.  "Not yet."  "I'm just fine," Stone said.  "Oh, sure."  "It was
just some bruising and a couple of cuts."  He tried to sit up, but
winced with pain.  "And a couple of ribs.  What are the bags for?  Are
you going somewhere?"  "I'm moving in with you," Arrington said.  "I
thought you already had, pretty much."  The difference between 'pretty
much' and moving in is two suitcases."  "Oh., "If it were Mary Arm,"
Dino said, "it would be two moving vans.  That's what it's going to
take to cart our stuff up to Sixty-sixth Street."  "The doctor Jays
you're going to need two or three days in the hospital," Arrington
said.  "Fat chance."  "You're not going to get out of here talking like
that.  They said they'd let me take you home tomorrow, if I promised to
keep you in bed."  "Promise them anything."  "Well," said Dino, "I
think my work here is done."  "Thanks, Dino," Stone said.  "You'd
better find those guys before I do."

Dino threw up his hands.  "I didn't hear that," he said, walking out of
the room.

Arrington pulled a chair up to the bed.  "What am I going to do with
you?"  she said.

"Take me home at the earliest possible moment, that's what."

"I'm so sorry I got you involved with Jonathan."

"His name is Tommy Bruce, and you didn't get me involved; Amanda Dart
did."

"And I'm very sorry, too," Amanda said from the door.

"Not your fault, Amanda," Stone said.  "Take a pew.  How did you know I
was here?"

"I have a source in the emergency room," she replied.  "Arrington, I
know this is a terrible imposition, but may I speak to Stone alone for
just a moment?"

"Sure, I need some coffee, anyway," Arrington replied, then left.

Amanda settled herself in the bedside chair.  "How badly are you
hurt?"

"Only superficially.  I plan to get back on the horse tomorrow."

"Stone, I asked you to drop this investigation."

"Don't worry, Amanda, it's not costing you a dime."

"I resent that."

"Sorry, I guess I'm a little irritable today."

"Dick Hickock and I don't want anything else done on this, do you
understand?"

"Quite frankly, no; would you explain that to me?  A couple of weeks
ago you were both nuts to find these guys."

"We got over it."

"Amanda, don't you think it's a little out of character for you to get
over something like this?"  "I know When to cut my losses."  "I'm
afraid I don't."

"You're going to keep looking for these people, then?"

"As soon as I can walk upright and make a. tis,t,.  In the meantime,
the police are looking for them.

Amanda made a small noise.

"Vat?"  '

"Is there anything I can get you?"  she asked.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"I ho'pc you won't continue this," she said,

standing.

"You can always hope."

"Believe me, it's not in your interests to do so."

"Amanda, do you knoc, what these guys want?"

' "No, I don't."

"Does Hickock?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"They're looking to make some big money; are you buying them off?."

"No."

"Is Hickock?"

"He's said nothing to me about it.  Look, Stone, - .... Dick has
dropped the girlfriend, and he and his wife have managed to patch
things up.  Don't go pulling the scabs off their wounds."

aa

"I'll be as discreet as I possibly can," Stone said.

"Thanks for that, anyway."

"Thanks for coming to see me."

"Good-bye, Stone."

From her car, Amanda called Dick Hickock.  "He's not going to give it
up," she said.

"That's his misfortune," Hickock replied, then hung up.

CHAPTER

ommy and Charlie Bruce spent the afternoon and evening in the movies,
seeing four features in three theaters, their luggage on the seats
beside them, not venturing ofito the streets until after dark.  They
ate a late dinner at the back of a Chinese restaurant, lingering until
long after midnight, then found a cab and got out a block from their
destination.

"How are we going to get in?"  Charlie asked as they walked quickly
down the street.

"I've got a key to the apartment, but it's a doorman building, and we
have to get in the back way.  Stop a minute."

They put down their bags and looked up and down the block.  It was
after one o'clock, and there was no traffic.

"Down here," Tommy said, trotting down a flight of dark stairs to a
door.  He switched on a penlight, clenched it between his teeth, and
from his wallet took a set of lock picks.  In less than thirty seconds
they were inside.  "We can't use the elevator," he said.  "The doorman
will know if we do.  We'll have to walk up."  "How many floors?" 
"Nine." "Shit."

"Shut up, and let's get moving."  They stopped twice to rest and
finally stepped into the ninth-floor hallway.  They tiptoed to the
door, and Tommy let them in and switched on a light.

"Not bad," Charlie said.

There's only one bed; one of us will have to sleep on the sofa."

"Toss you for it."

"Fuck you.  And keep the noise down; we don't want to attract attention
from the neighbors."  They busied themselves with getting settled, and
Tommy plugged in his laptop computer, connecting it to the laser
printer already on a desk in the apartment.

"I'm whipped," Charlie said, flopping down on the sofa.

"Let's get some sleep, then.  Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

The following morning Stone walked stiffly out of the hospital and rode
home in a cab with Arrington.

"You need some help with the steps?"  she asked.  I'll manage," he
said, but the climbing made his ribs hurt.  While Arrington went to
consult Helene about lunch, he took the elevator upstairs and went to
the safe in his dressing room.  He took out a German .765 caliber
automatic pistol, a small but damaging weapon, then he dressed in
pajamas and a robe and put the pistol into a robe pocket.  Finally, and
with some difficulty, he knelt next to his bed, retrieved the shotgun
from its hiding place under the bed, and set it where he could easily
rea it. Only then did he prop himself up in bed.  When he next met the
Messrs. Bruce, he intended to be ready

Enrico Bianchi got out of his car on a narrow 'street in Lit[le Italy
and walked into the La Boheme Coffee House..t-Ie nodded to several
people at tables, then went straight through to a rear room, where a
nattily dressed young man awaited him.  "Good morning, padrone," the
young man said.  Bianchi tapped his ear with a finger and made a
circular motion in the air.  "It was swept ten minutes' ago the young
man said.  "We're all right."  "What happened yesterday?"  Bianchi
asked, taking a chain "A waiter who runs numbers spotted them on

West Forty-fourth Street.  He got excited and took their photograph,
and they ran.  He tried to follow them, but they were gone.  We checked
the block and found out they had checked in at the Mansfield Hotel less
than half an hour.  before.  They returned there, got their bags, and
left in a hurry."  "And now?"  "They've gone to ground.  As soon as
they hit the streets, e Il have them."

W '

"Let me see the photograph," Bianchi said.  The young man handed him a
snapshot.  Yes, that s our boys."

"Don't worry, we'll find them."  "We have a new problem.  I had a call
this morning; the police are now looking for them, and they've got
photographs, too, although we managed to slow the prints down a
little."  "That's not good."  "It means that we will just have to find
them first, and if we do, we won't have as much time as I'd hoped to
fake a crime.  The important thing, though, is that they are dead."  "I
understand."  "I want a dozen men on the streets on the Upper East
Side, ready to do the work at a moment's notice.  Give them stolen
cellular telephones, and tell them to be brief when they use them." 
"No problem."  "Be sure each man has a silenced weapon, too,

and tell them to use knives if at all possible.  This will have to be
done quickly and with little fuss."  "What about bystanders?"

"Leave no one alive who could identify our people.  I don't want this
to come back to us."  "Yes, padrone."

"Get to me the minute you have news."  Bianchi left the coffeehouse and
went back to his car.

Dino stood in the squad room handing out photographs.  "Sorry these
took so long, but we had problems with the photo lab.  We're looking
for these two for aggravated battery, but the thing is, we think one or
both of them may have capped Arnie' Millman, so this is an all-out
push.  Those of you on a beat, I want every doorman in a hotel or
apartment building to see these pictures.  If you glom onto these guys,
don't try to take them; call for backup.  I c[on't want:,o dead heroes.
Got that?"

There was a murmur of assent from the gathering.

"Okay, get on it," Dino said, then went back to his office and called
Stone.  "How you feeling, pal?"

"A lot better, thanks."

"The pictures of the Bruees are on the street;

we're doing a full-court press."

"That's good to hear."

"Stone, I hope you won't go looking for these guys."

"You can always hope."  "It's better to let us find them.  You can be
the star witness at the trial.  Stay home and get well."  "I'll think
about it."  "You got a piece?"  "I have."  "Well, that's something." 
"I never fail to take your advice twice, Dino."

Stone hung up the phone, got undressed, shaved, and showered. Arrington
rewound the Ace bandage around his sore ribs.  "How's that?" she asked.
"Tt's okay; I'm really feeling a lot better."  "I'm going out for a
while; will you be okay?"  "Sure.  Where you going?"  "I've got to see
somebody at The New Yorker, and then I want to run by my place for a
minute.  In my rush to get to you I forgot half my makeup."  "You wear
makeup?"  "You're sweet."

CHAPTER

Richard Hickock had just finished a sandwich at his desk when he heard
the fax machine ring in the outer office.  His secretary was at lunch,
so he got up and walked through {[he la{ge doubl."  doors that
separated him from his four office workers and checked the machine.  As
he watched, a single sheet of paper was fed into the bin.  He picked it
up.

Greetings, earthlings!  Time f(x the BIG story!

Those of you who have followed the riches-todches career of Richard
Hickock, and who may have admired the taste and style o!  his many
publications, might like to know about the underside of Dickie's paper
empire.

Our Didde owns a corporation you never heard of, one called WINDOW
SEAT.  Remember that name, because you're going to be reading a lot
about it, though mayle not in Dickie's papers.  WINDOW SEAT, which is
operated on a day-to-day basis by Dickie's brother-in-law, Martin
Wynne, is a holding company based in Zurich that holds interests in
publications as diverse as The Infiltrator and two equally lascivious
European tabloids, one in London, one in Dusseldorf.  So while spouting
off about journalistic integrity, Didde is licking the cream off a pie
that also contains three gay porn magazines; and an Internet business
that sends out photos of charmingly posed, quite beautiful children in
the arms of less charming gmwnups.

These "organs' are pumping cash, at the current rate of $70,000,000 a
year, straight into bank accounts in the Caymans and in Zurich.  (We
have the account numbers, for those who are really interested.) What we
know will shock you to the core is that our own dear Internal Revenue
Service has never seen so much as a sawbuck in taxes on these
swill-gotten gains!  (Admit it, aren't you shocked?)

Just in case there are any doubters among you,

we've prepared a dozen packets containing chapter and verse and
addressed them to some of our nation's leading newspapers and
television networks, not to mention the beys and girls at the IRS. Once
these are sent, we predict that less than twenty-four hours will pass
before Dickie is in either a federal lockup or Brazil!  Stay tuned for
mom!

P.S. Dickie, the above copy is for your eyes only.  To prevent those
packets from going out, call the number below before five today, which
is when Federal Express is due to pick them up.  It's a cellular phone,
so don't try to trace its location.

Before Hickock was halfway through this bulletin, his bo.weis were
turning to water.  He finished reading it in his private john, and when
he read the postscript, his relief was palpable.  He finished up in the
john, locked the door to his office, and called the number.

"Good afternoon, Mr.  Hickock," a pleasant voice said.

"Who else did you send this to?"  Hickock demanded.

"Just you, just this once, if you follow instructions.  Got a pencil? 
""Yes

"Write this down very carefully," the voice said,

aa

SlUART WOODS

"because it would not react to your benefit if you made a mistake." 
"Go ahead."  "Before the close of business today you are to
wire-transfer the sum of two million dollars from the Window Seat
Zurich account to the Bank of Europe in Luxembourg, account number
353676381.  Got that?" Hickock repeated the information.  "You've got
just this one chance to get it right," the voice said.  "If you don't
make a mistake, the funds will be in Luxembourg tomorrow morning.  If
you do make a mistake, those packets of inform ion will be at their
destinations by three tomorrow, and you will spend the rest of your
life either in prison or running." "Look, I'm not sure I can raise that
much today."  "You're not listening, Mr.  Hickock.  And by the way, if
you make any attempt to find us, or any attempt to bring pressure to
bear on the Luxembourg Bank to find out who we are, it will be over for
you instantly.  We can still make a very nice buck by hawking the
story, but we'd rather keep it clean and simple.  Since this is the
last time we'll ever speak, Mr. Hickock, is there anything else you'd
like to say?"  "Yes.  I know who you are, Mr.  Bruce, you and your
brother, and I have your photographs."  "Big mistake, Mr.  Hickock;
that little outburst cost you one million dollars.  So that's three
million dollars to the Luxembourg account by the close of business. 
And if either of us should ever meet with an unfortunate accident, you
may be sure that the packets will automatically be sent by our
designated representatives.  Good-bye, Mr. Hickock.  I hope you make
the right decision."  The connection was broken.

Hickock sat at his desk for half an hour, his face in his hands, sweat
dripping onto the desktop.  His mind raced like that of a cornered rat
looking for escape.  But there was no escape.  Finally he turned to the
computer on his desk and iened a fax file to his Zurich bank.  He typed
n the instructions for the wire transfer to

Luxembourg, followed by the code known only to hirff and his banker.
With a sob, he pressed the send key, then he sat back in his chair and
wept.  Less than a minute later, he sat bolt upright.  Enrico Bianchi's
people were out looking for those 'two men now, he remembered, and if
they found them... "Oh, my God," he said aloud.  He picked up the
telephone and dialed a number.  The phone rang twice and an electronic
voice said, "Leave... your message.."  at... the.."  tone," followed by
a short beep.

"Message for Mr.  Crown," he said into the phone.  "Contact Mr.  Gold
at the earliest possible moment, utmost urgency."

"Thank... you," the voice said.

Hickock hoped to God Bianchi was wearing his

SllJklff WOODS

beeper.  He sat back to wait for the call.  A moment later, his pocket
phone rang.  "Yes?"  he said.

"Dick, it's Amanda.  I've been doing some thinking and believe that
before this business goes any further, you and I should sit down and
talk about a new contract."

"Amanda, we've just signed a contract," he said, astonished.  Then he
began to see.

"Yes, but I think the circumstances call for something much more
substantial, don't you?  After all, you and I have become something
like partners, haven't we?"

"Tomorrow," he said, resignedly.

"Lunch?  Twenty-One?  Twelve-thirty?"

"I*11 be there."  He hung up.  The phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"This is Mr.  Crown.  Do you wish to meet?"

"There isn't time," Hickock said.  "Listen to me..."

"Stop, don't talk.  Same place as last time.  One hour."

"Yes," Hickock said.  The connection was broken.

Hickock struggled into his coat, headed for the door, then stopped and
went back to his desk.  He dialed a London number.

"Hello?"  a familiar voice said.

"It's Dick," Hickock said.  "Your son-in-law in L.A. has talked too
much; he may have blown the lid off everything."

There was much swearing at the other end of the line.

"Yes, I feel pretty much the same way.  I may be able to head this off,
but I thought you should know about Peebles.  I'll leave it to you how
to handle him."

"I know exactly how to handle him," the man said.

Hickock hung up and ran for his meeting with Bianchi.

CHAPTER

'

rrington saw her editor at The New Yorker, and they had lunch at the
Royalton Hotel; then she did some shopping at Bloomingdale's.  It was
growing dark when she got Out of a cab in front of her apartment
building.  "Good afternoon, Miss Carter," the doorman said, holding the
cab door for her.  "We haven't seen you for a while."  "I've been
staying with a friend, Jimmy; I just came by to pick up some things."
"I've been keeping your mail for you," Jimmy said.  "You want it now?"
"I'll pick it up on the way out," she said.  "I'll be down in a few
minutes."  "Very good, Miss."  Arrington took the elevator to her
floor,

rummaging in her bag for the key.  She kept a key in each of her bags,
and today she had taken the big one.  The key was at the very bottom,
as usual.  She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door.  To
her astonishment, there was someone sitting at her desk, Then something
struck her on the side of the head, and she fell to the floor, only
half-conscious.  "Jesus Christ, Tommy!"  she heard somebody say.  "You
never said she might come home!"  "I didn't think she would," Jonathan
Dryer's voice replied.  "There's a roll of duct tape in my bah Charlie;
hand it to me, will you?"  She was rolled onto her back, and before she
could focus on the face above her, a wide strip of tape was slapped
across her eyes, and another across her mouth.  "What are we going to
do with her, Tommy?"  the first voice said.  "We can't leave her here
alive."  : "t guess not," Tommy replied, "but we're going to be here
until tomorrow.  Wouldn't you like to fuck her while we wait to hear
from the bank?"  Arrington was rolled roughly onto her stomach, and her
hands were taped behind her back.  She was blind and dumb, but her head
was beginning to clear, and she digested what she had just heard.
"Sure," Charlie said, and he sounded greedy.  "She's hot stuff; take it
from me," Tommy said.  "I won't tape her feet."  He hauled her to her
feet and dumped her on the sofa.  "You'll want to be able to spread her
legs, won't you?"

"Right," Charlie said, chuckling.  "Just let me finish this fax to the
Luxembourg bank."

Out on Fifth Avenue, Detective Ernie Martinez was on foot, doing a
patrolman's job.  It was bdneath him, but Martinez had his own reasons
for working so hard that day.  He saw a doorman standing outside an
apartment building, at least the fiftieth he had talked to that day.
"How y'doing?"  he asked the man, flashing his badge.  "Pretty good,
officer.  Can I help you?"

Mtinez produced the two photographs.  "You ever seen either one of
these guys before?"

The doorman looked carefully at the two photographs, then glanced back
at Martinez.  "Maybe, one of them," he said.

"There's twenty in it for you, if you do me some good here," Martinez
said.

"Yeah, I know this guy," the doorman said, holding up one of the
photographs.  "He's spent a lot of time with the lady in Nine-A, Miss
Carter."  "That's Nine-A?"  Martinez asked.  "Yeah.  Pretty lady, Miss
Carter."

"You think he might be up there right now?"

The doorman hadn't seen any money yet, so he played the detective
along.  "Could be," he said.  "Thanks," Martinez said, turning away.
"Hey, what about my twenty?"

Martinez stopped, produced a twenty, but snatched it back when the
doorman grabbed for it.

"YOU don't say nothing to nobody about this, right?  I was never
here."

"Right," the doorman said, "you were never here."  This time he was
allowed to grab the twenty.

Martinez hoofed it around the corner and found a pay phone.

"Yeah?"  a voice said.

"This is Ernie Martinez; You know those two

: guys you're looking for?"

"Yeah.

"i just might have them for you."

"Yeah?  Where?"

"Yu'll tell the big guy that Ernie Martinez phoned it in?"

"Yeah, sure, Ernie."

"Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A.

Doormaia say they might be up there right now."

"Thanks, Ernie; we'll be in touch."

"I'll have to phone this in, but I'll wait an hour,

okay?"

"Yeah, that's good, Ernie."

"Don't forget to tell him."

But the man had already hung up.

Martinez found a coffee shop on Madison and settled himself on a stool
with his paper, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut.

It was dark now, and Arrington hadn't returned.  Stone was getting
worried.  He found her diary with the name of her appointment at the
magazine, and he called the editor.

"This is Stone Barrington; I'm a friend of Arrington Carter.  I believe
she had an appointment with you this morning."

"That's right," the woman said.  "We had lunch after that."

"What time did she leave you?"

"Sometime after three.  She said she was going to Bloomingdale's."

"Thanks very much," Stone said, then hung up.  He looked at his watch.
Bloomingdale's had been closed' for forty-five minutes.  She had said
she was going to her old apartment, hadn't she?  He dialed the number,
but only got her answering machine.  He heard the beep.  "Hello,
Arrington?  Are you there?  If you're there, pick up."  He waited a
moment, but she didn't answer.  "If you get this message, call me at
home."  He hung up.  He'd wait a few minutes, then call again.

Richard Hickock rode up in the freight elevator, and when he emerged
onto the empty factory floor it was dark.  A moment later, half a dozen
low-wattage bulbs came on, and Enrico Bianchi stepped from behind a
column.

"You're late, Dick," Bianchi said.  "I've been waiting over an hour."
He did not sound happy.

"I'm sorry, Ricky, we were stuck in the Midtown Tunnel the whole damned
time; there was a big pileup.  When we got out I called your beeper,
but there was no answer."

Bianchi ran a hand over his hair.  "I don't like to wait, Dick."

"I apologize, RickY; there was nothing I could do."  Bianchi did not
seem mollified.  "So what's the big emergency?"

"I want to call off the search for those two men," Hickock said.
"Something has happened,

and it would be very bad for me if anything hap,pened'to them."

"Dick, what is this on-again, off-again thing?

You shquld know I don't do business that way.

What has happened?"

"They're blackmailing me, that's what.  They've threatened to turn me
in to the IRS and to send inCriminating infprmation to the media."

"How much do they waht?"

"Three million dollars.  I've already wire-transferred the money."

Bianchi looked astonished.  "Dick, you shouldn't have done that; you
should have come to me and let me handle it."

"I only had until close of business, Ricky, and they said that they had
left the documents with , other parties, and if anything happened to
them it .  would be sent out.  That's why you have to call off the
search; I can't afford for anything to happen to ,. them now."

"Dick, don't you know that's what all blackmailers say?  That they've
left the pictures or the documents or whatever with a lawyer who has
instructions if anything happens to them?  They never do it; they never
believe anything will happen to them.  I think it would be best if we
just leave things as they are.  I've already had a tip that they might
be in an East Side apartment.  Someone is on the way there now."

"Ricky, you've got to stop them; I can't afford to find out the hard
way if they're lying.  I'd rather pay them the money."

"Then they'll want more, Dick, don't you know that?  If you're willing
to pay them three million dollar on the basis of an unsubstantiated
threat, they'll bleed you again and again for years to come, until
there's nothing left.  You just let me handle these two guys."

"I can't do that, Ricky.  You've got to call off your men."

Bianchi shrugged.  "I'm afraid that's impossible, Dick; it's too late.
You'll just have to take your chances."

Hickock slumped.  "I hope to God you're right about their bluff."

"Trust me, I'm right.  Is there anything else?"

"There is one more thing; the third name I gave you."

"I remember."  He patted his pocket.  "It's right here.  You want me to
push the button?"

Hickock took a deep breath.  "Push the button.

I don't care whether it looks like an accident, just do it."  "It will
be done," Bianchi said.  "But this is going to cost more money.  This
search has turned into an expensive operation."  "Of course," Hickock
said.  "Anything you want, just name the amount."  Bianchi smiled for
the first time that day.  "That's the way I like to hear you talk," he
said.

Stone phoned again, got the answering machineagain.-Ie had the awful
feeling that something was very wrong.  He'd go over there; maybe the
doorman would let him in.  Then he remembered.  He founl her handbag in
the bedroom, opened it, and shook the contents out onto the bed.  There
was the key.  He put it in his pocket, got a coat, and left the house.
?..

CHAPTER

&..I,.  nan Peebles had worked a long day.  It was only midafternoon in
L.A."  but it seemed later to him.  He was tired, and his editorial
meeting was nearly over.  He had only a story or two to clear, and he
could close the paper for the week and go home.  Then, through the
glass wall of the boardroom, he saw a strange sight.  A man named
Harold Purvis, who was head of security for the Infiltrator's building,
was striding through the newsroom, followed by two uniformed security
guards.  Purvis walked up to the boardroom door, rapped sharply, and
opened the door.

"Mr.  Peebles, I must see you immediately," he said.  "Just as soon as
you close the paper.  It's very urgent."

"I'll be with you in just a couple of minutes, Harold," Peebles said,
wondering if another lunatic had gotten into the building.  He ran
through the remaining stories, gave his approval, and wound up the
meeting, then he walked down the corridor to his corner office.  Harold
Purvis and his two men were in the room, as was his secretary.  "What's
up, Harold?  More crazies with alien abduction stories?"  This was a
regular feature of life at the Infiltrator.

Purvis walked behind him, closed the door, and took an envelope from
his inside pocket.  "I have been instructed to read you a letter," he
said, "which will explain everything."

"All right," Peebles replied, wondering what the hell was going on.

Purvis held up the letter and read aloud.  ""Dear

Mr.  Peebles,"" he began.  ""You are herewith and with immediate effect
dismissed from your position as editor and publish' ex of the
Infiltrator.""

Peebles blinked.  He had not seen this coming.  ""You are to vacate
your office and depart the premises at once.  Your secretary will send
along any personal effects in your office.""

Amanda Dart, he thought.  She has betrayed me.

I told her everything to save myself, but she has betrayed me.

""Your pension plan, medical insurance, and profit-sharing are
cancelled with immediate effect; your stock options are withdrawn; your
signature is no longer valid on any Infiltrator bank account;

all Infiltrator employees will immediately be informed that your
instructions are no longer to be followed.  Two weeks' severance pay
will be wire-transferred to your personal bank account after, and only
after, possession of all Infiltrator property has been surrendered.""
Purvis handed him the letter.  "It's signed by the chairman of the
board," he said.

"I don't believe it," Peebles mumbled, starting to read the letter.

"Give me your keys to the building and your office, your medical
insurance card, and your credit cards," Purvis said.

"How dare you speak to me that way!"  Peebles sputtered.  "I am your
superior..."  He faltered.

"Not any more," Purvis said.  He turned to the two security guards.
"Gentlemen, clean out his pockets."

One of the guards grabbed Peebles and pinned his arms behind his back
while the other went through his pockets and emptied the contents onto
the desktop.  Purvis stepped forward, removed the cards from Peebles's
wallet, and looked through the other items.  He detached two keys from
a ring, then stepped back.  "The rest of this junk is yours; put it
back in.  your pockets."

Peebles obeyed.  "There has been some mistake here, and I will remember
your conduct," he said to Purvis through clenched teeth.

"Get his coat," Purvis said to the secretary.  The woman obeyed, and
Purvis handed the coat to

Peebles.  Peebles put it on.  "Tell his deputy that he is in charge
until further notice," Purvis said to the secretary, then he turned
back to the two guards.  "Escort Mr.  Peebles from the building."

The two guards frog-marched Peebles through the newsroom, down two
flights of stairs, and out of the building.  A moment later, he found
himself standing alone in the parking lot.

Still unable to believe what had just happened and trying to preserve
some semblance of dignity, Peebles got into his Bentley and drove home
to Beverly Hills.  As he pulled into his driveway and got out of his
car, a man suddenly appeared, along with another uniformed security
guard.

"I'm from the Infiltrator's leasing company," he said, snatching
Peebles's keys from his hand.  "The lease on the Bentley has been
cancelled."  The man detached the car key and returned the ring, which
now held only a house key, to its owner.  A Peelles watched, aghast,
the man drove away in the Bentley.

Peebles turned to the security guard.  "What do you want?"  he said.

"I'm to escort you from the company's house when you have retrieved
your belongings," he said.

Cursing under his breath,-Peebles opened the front door of the house
and walked in.  The place was empty.  All furnishings, draperies, and
pictures had been removed.  He walked down the hallway to his bedroom,
his heels echoing on the bare tile floors.  In the middle of the
otherwise empty bedroom sat half a dozen suitcases, packed.  I'll give
you a hand," the guard said.  Shortly, Peebles was standing on the
sidewalk, his luggage stacked beside him.  "Your house key," the guard
said.  Peebles handed it to him.  "I've been told to give you a message
from your father-in-law: If you ever return to Britain he will make it
his business to see that you regret it for the rest of your life."  He
got into a car parked at the curb.  "Do you want me to radio my office
to call you a cab?"  he asked.  "Tllank you, yes," Peebles said.
"Consider it done," the guard said, and drove away.  Peebles stood on
the sidewalk and tried to organize his thoughts, but it wasn't working.
Finally the cab came, and the driver loaded his luggage.  He didn't
bother holding the door for Peebles, who let himself into the cab.
"Where to, Mister?"  "I haven't the slightest idea," Peebles said,
staring out the window into the middle distance.

CHAPTER

le tape was suddenly ripped from Arrington's mouth.  "Ow, you son of a
bitch!"  she screamed.  A blow caught the side of her head and knocked
her off.  the sofa.  Her eyes Were slill tapedi: and she couldn't see
it coming.  "Shut up until you're spoken to," Tommy Bruce said.  "Does
Barrington know where you are?"  "Yes," she said.  "He'll be here any
minute."  She took another blow, to the other side of her head.  "Don't
lie to me," he said.  "What do you think, Tommy?"  Charlie asked.  "Are
we going to have a visit from Barrington?"  "Nah," Tommy said.  "She
just stopped by here for a minute to pick up something; she's been
living at his place.  Isn't that right, Arrington?"

Arrington said nothing.  She hunched up her shoulders, hoping to avoid
another blow.

"What are you doing now, Charlie?"  Tommy asked.  "I thought you wanted
to fuck her."

"I'm just addressing Federal Express packets to the New York Times and
the IRS," Charlie replied.  "As soon as we confirm the money's in the
bank, I'm going to ship them.  I'm sending one to the cops, too, just
for the hell of it."

Tommy laughed.  "Why not?  It'll give us some~ thing to read about in
the papers for months to come.  I wish I could see Hickock's face the
first time the IRS calls."

"There," Charlie said, "all done.  Now, let's have a look t Miss
Arrington."

Arrington heard him coming toward her and she flinched in anticipation
of another blow, but instead something clicked loudly, he grabbed her
clothing, and she felt her blouse and bra being cut away.

"Not bad," Charlie said, pushing her prone on the couch.  "Now let's
see the rest."

Arrington aimed a kick at his voice, but Tommy grabbed her ankles and
held them while Charlie went to work on her skirt with his knife.

A car pulled up around the corner from Arrington's apartment building
and two young men got out.  They were sharply dressed and finely
barbered, and they moved with complete

confidence.  They walked around the corner and into the building.

Jimmy, the doorman, who was resting in a lobby chair sprang to his
feet.  These men didn't look as though they belonged in his building.

"How ya doin'?"  one of the men said as he swung a pistol at Jimmy's
head.  He stepped over to the prone doorman and held the pistol to
Jimmy's forehead.  "Answer me fast, or I'll spread your brains all over
this nice floor.  Where's the passkey for Nine-A?"

"Desk drawer," Jimmy managed to say.  he rea tag on it."

The other man opened the drawer.  "Got it," he said.  "We better take
this guy with us."  He grabbed Jimmy by the collar, hustled him across
the room, and dumped him into the elevator.

"Nine, please," his friend said, grinning.  He hit Jimmy with his gun
again, rendering him unconscious.  Soofi the levator topped on the
ninth floor.  He dragged the doorman so that his head lay in the path
of the door.  "That'll hold the car for us," he said, stepping over
Jimmy and into the hall.  Quickly, silently, the two men walked toward
the apartment door.

Jimmy began to come to.  He got an arm under him and pushed himself
back into the elevator.  Painfully, he reached up and pushed the button
for the lobby.

Arrington was putting up the best fight she could with her hands taped
behind her.  She was naked now, and she struggled to get a foot free so
that she could kick, but Tommy held them fast.  "Why don't you just
relax," Charlie's voice said softly.  He was close enough that she
could feel his breath on her face.  Quickly she pulled her head back
and aimed her forehead at the voice.  There was a cry of pain as she
connected, and something warm splashed onto her face.  She managed to
get a foot loose and kicked with all her might, connecting with
something, she wasn't sure what.  "re bitch broke my nose!"  Charlie
wailed.  "I'm going to fuck her with the knife!"  Arrington continued
to struggle, but she was losing.  Then she heard the door open, and
suddenly she was released.  "How ya doin'?"  a strange voice said,
followed by two dull thumps.  She had seen enough movies to know what a
silenced pistol sounded like.  Arrington rolled off the sofa and ran
blindly in the direction of the bedroom; she knew she was there when
she felt carpeting under her feet.  She got behind the door and kicked
it shut, then turned around and found the lock.  One turn, and she was
locked in.  She ran into the bathroom, knocking a knee painfully
against the toilet.  There was a pair of scissors in the top drawer of
the vanity; she got them out and began trying awkwardly to aim them at
the tape holding her wrists.  From the living room she heard two more
thumps.

The first man straightened up.  "Okay, that piece of business is taken
care of.  What about the girl?"

"We were told to take out any witnesses," the second man said.

"Yeah, but didn't you see?  Her eyes had duct tape on them."

"Yau've got a point."

' The irst man walked to the bedroom door and tried it.  "Locked. We'll
have to break it down."

"That% gonna be noisy," the second man said.

"These old buildings have solid doors."

"You're right," the.  first man said.

"We've been here too long already; let's get out now."  ;.

Then someone spoke from the front door of the apartment.  "Freeze!" the
voice said.

Stone stood in a crouch, the .765 pistol fully extended in front of
him.  He saw, as if in slow motion, the man at the bedroom door start
to turn, saw the gun in his hand.  He fired once, knocking the man
against the bedroom door, then immediately turned and got off another
round at the second man, who was pointing a pistol at him.

Simultaneously, the man jerked and spun, and Stone felt the breeze and
hum of a bullet go past his ear.

Arrington heard the shots and a loud thump against the bedroom door,
and she redoubled her efforts with the scissors.  The tape was tearing
now, and she forced her wrists apart 'until she could get a hand free.
She ripped the tape off her eyes.

Still holding the pistol out in front of him, Stone stepped over the
man closest to him and kicked his gun array from him.  He performed the
same operation with the man lying in front of the bedroom door, then
felt for a pulse at the neck.  Nothing.  He turned to the other man,
who was clutching his side with one hand and struggling to get to his
feet.  "Lie down," Stone said.  When the man continued to get up, Stone
hit him with the gun.  He went down and lay quiet.  "Arrington!"  he
yelled.  He looked around for her.  The two Bruce brothers lay near the
sofa, bullet wounds in the back of both heads.  There was blood all
over the floor.  "Arrington!"  he yelled again, and went into the
kitchen. Nothing there.

He went to the bedroom door and tried it.  Locked.  He stood back,
pivoted off his right foot, and drove the left into the door, just
below the lock.  The door burst open, and he rushed in, the pistol out
in front of him.  Something was coming at him from his left side, and
he hit the floor to get away from it, struggling to get the gun up.
Something struck the floor near his head.  Then he saw he was aiming at
a naked woman holding a baseball bat.  "Arrington!"  he shouted,
throwing up an arm to ward off the blow.  She froze.  "Stone?  Where
the hell have you been?"  He got to his feet, stuck the gun into his
pocket, and took her in his arms.  "I'm sorry I took so long," he said.
Shesagged into his arms.  "It's okay," she replied.  "As long as you
made it."  He laid her across the bed and pulled the bedspread Ocr her.
She seemed to have fainted.  When he was sure she had a pulse and no
wounds, he went back into the living room.  The man he had hit was on
his feet.  Stone.  aimed the gun at his head.  "I'm not go fng to tell.
you again to lie down!  Spread-eagle, now!"  The man obeyed.  Stone
frisked him, found a knife, threw it into the kitchen.  There was a
roll of duct tape on the kitchen counter; he went to the man and taped
his hands behind his back.  "You just relax," he said.  "I'm going to
get you some help.";':':::: He found the phone and dialed 911.  :i
"Nine-one-one," a woman's voice said.  "Which emergency service do you
require?"  '"Police," he replied.  :.

"Police," another woman's voice said.  "What is the nature of your
emergency?"

Stone looked around him, uncertain how to sum it up.  "My name is Stone
Barrington; I'm a retired police officer.  There are four men shot at
Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A, three dead, one wounded.  I
need an ambulance and the police."  She started to ask him some other
questions, but he hung up and called Dino at the 19th Precinct.

"He's on his way home," a clerk said.

"Thanks."  Stone hung up and called Dino's portable phone.

"Bacchetti," Dino said.

"It's tone.  You'd better get over to Arrington's apartment; I've got a
fine mess for you."

"Is Arrington all right?"

"Yeah, she's okay.  The Bruce brothers are not,

and I've got one dead wise guy and one wounded."  "You call
nine-one-one?"  "Yeah."

"I'll be right there."  Dino punched off.

Stone took a moment to look around the apartment.  A laptop computer
sat on Arrington's desk, connected to her printer.  A single sheet of
paper lay in the out tray; he picked it up and read it.  Next to the
computer was a stack of three Federal Express packets, one addressed to
the NYPD, one to the New York Times, and one to the Commissioner of
Internal Revenue.  After reading the final issue of DIRT, it was not
hard to figure out what was in them.  He picked up two of the packets,
went to Arrington's large handbag on the floor beside the sofa, and
tucked them into the bag.  Then, starting to feel shaky, he sat down on
the sofa and took a few deep breaths.  His face and his hands were
sweaty; he tucked the pistol into its holster, got a handkerchief from
his pocket, and began to mop his face.  Then he began to feel nauseous.
He bolted for the bathroom.

CHAPTER

he bicyclist pulled up a couple of doors down from the address he had
been given and got off the machine.  It was a ten-speed racing bike,
and he was dressed to use it--tight cycling pants, a nylon jacket, a
helmet, and very large yellow-tinted goggles.  He leaned against a tree
and waited, consulting his watch.  Half an hour passed, then the woman
emerged from the building, just as he had been told she would, dressed
in a ball gown and a fur jacket.  The chauffeur braced at the rear door
of the Mercedes S600; she got into the rear seat, and the car pulled
away from the curb.

"We're going to the Plaza Hotel, Paul," Amanda said.  "I expect to be
there until about eleven.  We'll go to the front door."

"Yes, ma'am," Paul said.  "Mrs.  Dart, would you mind if I stop at a
drugstore and pick up some aspirin?  I'm getting a headache."

"Of course, Paul; we have time."  Amanda pressed the switch that raised
the rear sunshade, giving her some privacy, then leaned back, her neck
against the headrest, and took some deep breaths.  Amanda could sleep'
in seconds, and she often took advantage of slow automobile trips in
Manhattan, where the average speed of traffic was four miles per hour,
to rest.  "I'm going to take a quick nap, Paul," she said.  "Please
don't disturb me until we're arriving at the Plaza."

"Yes, ma'am," Paul replied.

Amanda liked to think of something pleasant as she fell asleep.  She
though about her lunch date with Dick Hickck the following day, and it
made her smile.

The cyclist followed the car down Lexington Avenue; traffic was heavy.
The car stopped for two lights, but the cyclist wasn happy with the
layout of traffic.  Then something good happened.  The chauffeur
double-parked in front of a drugstore, put his emergency blinkers on;
got out of the car, and went into the store.  Perfect.

The cyclist maneuvered to the right of the car, where the woman was
sitting, her head against the headrest, her eyes closed, mouth slightly
open.  He

$11JAlil checked the door lock button; it was up.  He stepped off the
bicycle, leaned it against a parked car, and reached under his jacket.
His hand emerged holding an ice pick  The chauffeur's absence made his
pistol unnecessary.

Quietly, he opened the rear door of the Mercedes.  The woman seemed to
be sleeping.  He took a wad of Kleenex from his jacket pocket, then,
holding her head back with his left hand on her forehead, he drove the
ice pick up her nose and into her brain.  Her eyes opened wide, but she
didn't have time to cry out, or even to move.  He jerked the handle of
the ice pick back and forth, in order to do as much damage as possible.
She slumped, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose.  He stanched it
with the Kleenex, and she stopped bleeding.  Her heart was no longer
pumping blood.

He closed her eyes, then noticed the diamond necklace.  He gave it a
short, sharp jerk, and it came away in his hand.  Then he shut the car
door, got onto the bicycle, and pedaled away down Lexington.  At the
next corner he turned east, stopped, and looked back.  The Mercedes
passed him; the driver did not look alarmed.  The cyclist smiled to
himself and moved off.

The big car rolled to a stop in front of the Plaza.  It was a gala
benefit evening, and limos crowded the front door area, depositing
their gorgeously

passengers.  The hotel's doorman stepped to the Mercedes and opened the
rear door.  Amanda Dart's body rolled slowly out of the into the
gutter, now nothing but dirt.

413 i checked the door lock button; it was up.  He stepped off the
bicycle, leaned it against a parked car, and reached under his jacket.
His hand emerged holding an ice pick  The chauffeur's absence made his
pistol unnecessary.

Quietly, he opened the rear door of the Mercedes.  The woman seemed to
be sleeping.  He took a wad of Kleenex from his jacket pocket, then,
holding her head back with his left hand on her forehead, he drove the
ice pick up her nose and into her brain.  Her eyes opened wide, but she
didn't have time to cry out, or even to move.  He jerked the handle of
the ice pick back and forth, in order to do as much damage as possible.
She slumped, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose.  He stanched it
with the Kleenex, and she stopped bleeding.  Her heart was no longer
pumping blood.

He closed her eyes, then noticed the diamond necklace.  He gave it a
short, sharp jerk, and it came away in his hand.  Then he shut the car
door, got onto the bicycle, and pedaled away down Lexington.  At the
next corner he turned east, stopped, and looked back.  The Mercedes
passed him; the driver did not look alarmed.  The cyclist smiled to
himself and moved off.

The big car rolled to a stop in front of the Plaza.  It was a gala
benefit evening, and limos crowded the front door area, depositing
their gorgeously passengers.  The hotel's doorman stepped to the
Mercedes and opened the rear door.  Amanda Dart's body rolled slowly
out of the into the gutter, now nothing but dirt.

CHAPTER

'"'

Stone was lying on

Arrington's living room sofa, a damp washcloth across his forehead,
when Dino walked into the room.

"Am I disturbing you?"  he asked.

Stone opened his eyes.  "Do I really have to get up and talk to you?"

Dino looked around at the carnage.  "I think maybe that would be a good
idea," he said.  The sound of approaching sirens came, muffled,

through the walls.

The last of the bodies was wheeled out of the apartment.  Stone and
Dino stood in the kitchen.  Stone reached into the printer tray and
handed the sheet.  "I thought you might like to read final edition of
DIRT," he said.

Dino read the document twice, then Stone anded him a Federal Express
packet.  "This is to your department," he said, "so I didn't open it,
but I expect it contains some 'backup for the charges in the scandal
sheet."

Dino opened the packet and leafed through 'a dozen sheets.  "Well," he
said, "Mr.  Richard Hickock has been a bad boy, but there's noth in
here for me.  Federal income tax evasion isn't against the laws of New
York State.  I'll forward it to the FBI.  Eventually it'll find its way
to the proper law enforcement agency, I'm sure."

"Hidcock could grow old while that happens," Stone said.

"Oh, they'll get around to it."

"You think you'll be able to get anything out of the wiseghy I
wounded?,".

"Who knows?  We'll see what's on his yellow sheet, see what we have to
bargain with.  Maybe he'll hand me somebody."

"My bet is that a bullet from the nickel-plated twenty-five with the
silencer killed Arnie Millman."

"I wouldn't be surprised.  We'll see."

They made ready to leave.  "Arrington!"  Stone called out.

"Coming," she called back from the bedroom.  "How's the new apartment?"
Stone asked.

"We're moving in in a couple of weeks," Dino replied.  "Mary Arm is
going nuts, buying stuff.  Did you know Ralph Lauren makes wallpaper? 
I didn't."  Arrington appeared with a suitcase, walked over to Stone,
set down the case, and leaned against him.  "I don't want to live here
anymore," she said.  "You don't," he replied.

They made their way slowly downtown in a taxi.  , "Pull over here for a
minute, will you, driver?"  Stone said.  The cab pulled over to the
curb.  Stone reached into Arrington's bag, retrieved the two packets,
got out of the car, and dropped them into a Federal Express bin.  "What
was -that?"  Arrington asked when he was back in the cab.  "Oh, just
jump-starting the wheels of justice," he replied.  "So it's over?"
Arrington asked.  "It is," Stone said.  "No loose ends?"  "Well, yes.
There's the murder of Martha McMahon, Amanda's secretary."  "Murder?
You think Amanda pushed her?  "That's my best guess, but nobody will
ever be able to prove it.  Amanda will get.  away with it."  She took
her hand in his.  "Stone, my darling," she said, "if I've learned
anything in my life, it's that nobody gets away with anything. 
Ever."

He turned and kissed her lightly.  "I hope you're right," he said.

HERE IS AN EXCERPT FROM

STUART WOODS'S NEXT NOVEL

DEAD IN THE WATER

Available now from HarperCollins Publish

CHAPTER

tone Barrington sldwly opened his eyes and stared blearily at the
pattern of moving light above him.  Disoriented, he tried to make,
sense of the light.  Then it came to him: he was aboard a yacht, and
the light was reflected on the water.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  The night before had been the stuff of
bad dreams; he never wanted to have another like it.  The nightmare had
started at Kennedy Airport, when his live-in girlfriend, Arrington
Carter, had not shown up for the flight.  She had been supposed to come
directly from the magazine office where she had been meeting with an
editor, but she had not arrived.

Stone had found a phone and had tracked down Arrington, still at the
New Yorker.

i9

"Hello?"  she said.

Stone glanced at his watch.  '"I guess you're not going to make the
plane," he said.  It leaves in twenty minutes."

"Stone, I'm so sorry; I've been having you paged at the terminal.
Didn't you hear the page?"  He tried to keep his voice calm.  "No, I
didn't."  "Everything has exploded here.  I took the proposal for the
profile on VanCe Calder to Tina Brown, and she went for it instantly.
Turns out she had tried and tried to do a piece with Vance when she was
at Vanity Fair, and he would never cooperate."

"That's wonderful," he said, tonelessly.  "I'm happy or you."

"Look, darling, Vance is coming into New York tomorrow, and I've got to
introduce him to Tina at lunch, there's just no getting around it."

"I see," he replied

"Don't worry, I'm already booked on the same flight tomorrow.  You go
ahead to Saint Marks, take delivery of the boat, put in some provisions
and get gloriously drunk.  I'll be there by midnight."

"All right," he said.

"Oh," she sighed, "I'm so relieved you're not angry.  I know you can
see what a break this is for me.  Vance hasn't sat still for an
in-depth interview for more than twenty years.  Tina says she'll bump
up the printing for the anticipated increase in newsstand sales."

"That's great," he said, making an effort to

DEAD IN THE WATER

sound glad for her.  "I'll meet you at the Saint Marks airport tomorrow
night, then."  "Oh, don't do that; just sit tight, and I'll grab a
cab." She lowered her voice.  "And when I get there, sweetie, try and
be well-rested, because I'm going to bounce you off the bedsprings a
whole lot; you read me?"  "I read you loud and clear.  I'd better run;
they've almost finished boarding.  And remember, we've only got the
boat for ten days; don't waste any more."  "I really am going to make
it up to you in the best gossible way, Stone," she said.  "Bye-bye." 
"Bye." Stone hung up the phone and ran for his plane.  Moments later,
he had settled into a comfortable leather seat and-had in his hand a
rum and tonic, in honor of his long-anticipated winter holiday.  As the
big jet taxied out to the runway, he looked out the window and saw that
it had started to snow.  Good.  Why have a tropical holiday; if you
can't gloat?  Vance Calder was, arguably, Hollywood's premier male
star, often called the new Cary Grant, and he had played an important
part in Stone's and Arrington's lives already.  She had been in
Calder's company when they had met at a dinner party at the home of a
gossip, columnist nearly a year before.  Although he had been struck by
her beauty and had found her marvelous company, he had not bothered to
call her, 'because he hadn't believed for a moment that he could take a
girl away from Vance Calder.  Instead, Arrington had called him. 
Vance, she had explained, was no more than an acquaintance who, when he
was in New York, liked to have a pretty girl to squire around,
especially at dinners like the one at Amanda Dart's apartment, which
would feature in her column.

Inside a few weeks they were living together, and Stone had never been
happier.  At forty-two, he was still a bachelor, and he liked it that
way.  Living with Arrington, though, had made a lack of freedom seem
very attractive, and he was determined to hang onto her, even if it
came to marriage.  Marriage had been increasingly on his mind of lace,
especially since Arrington had been showing signs of feeling a lack of
commitment on his part.  On the plane down to St.  Marks he had reached
a decision.  They would have a wonderful cruise on the chartered boat,
and they would come back engaged, unless it turned out to be easy to be
wed in St.  Marks; in that case, they would come back married.  He was
looking forward to the prospect.

Then the night began to go wrong.  In San Juan, their first stop, he
learned that his flight to St.  Martins, the next leg, had been delayed
by two hours.  In St.  Martins, the connecting flight to Antigua had
been delayed, and by the time he had arrived there, the light twin that
would take him to St.  Marks had already left and had to be summoned
back at great expense.  He had reached St.

DEAD IN THE WATER

Marks some time after three A.M. Nevertheless, he had been met by the
charter agent and taken to the.  boat, a Beneteau 36, a roomy French
design, and had, without unpacking, fallen dead into the double berth
in the little owner's cabin.

He got out of bed and naked, stumbled into the little galley and found
half a jar of instant coffee in a cupboard.  Shortly, he had found the
gas tap in the cockpit, boiled a kettle and made himself a really
terrible cup of coffee.  While he drank it he took.a stroll around the
interior of the little yacht, a very short stroll, indeed.  He was glad
there would be only the two of them aboard.

There was a very nice dining table, some books, no doubt left by
previous charterers, and a small television set.  He wondered what he
might receive on that.  He turned it on and, to his surprise, found
himself looking at CNI, The marina must have a satellite dish, he
thought.  He slid into the navigator's seat, the leather cool against
his naked buttocks, and looked around the chart table.  All the island
charts were there, plus a small Global Positioning System receiver,
(GPS), a VHF radio and everything else they needed to navigate in the
islands.  " He found some stale cereal and ate some,

watching CNN.  A major snow storm would reach the New York City area by
evening, and travel was expected to be disrupted.  Thank God Arrington
is getting out this afternoon, he thought.  He washed his dishes, then
unpacked and put away his clothes.  A swim might be nice, he thought;
he got into some trunks and climbed into the cockpit.

As he did, a yacht of about fortY-five feet have into view, under
engine.  It had a dark blue hull and teak decks, and her name,
Expansive, was lettered on her bows in gilt.  Two other things about
the yacht caught his eye: the mainsail was still up,

and in tatters, and it was being steered by a quite beautiful young
woman.  She was small and blonde, wearing a bikini bottom and a
chambray shirt knotted under her breasts, leaving a fetching expanse of
tanned midriff showing between the two.  The yacht passed wthln twenty
yards of

Stone's boat, but she never looked at him.  Oddly,

no one came on deck to help her dock.  He started to go and help, but a
yellow flag was flying at the cross trees and he saw a uniformed
customs officer waiting to take her lines  Stone watched the some what
clumsy operation and wished he had gone to help.  He'd have liked a
closer look at the woman.

He put down the boarding ladder, then dove off the Stern into the
bright blue water, which turned out to be exactly the right
temperature--about eighty degrees, he reckoned.  Maybe later today he'd
call somebody in New York and gloat.  He swam out about fifty yards
into the little harbor,

then sprinted back to his boat, hauling himself up the boarding ladder.
He got a towel from below,

made himself another cup of the awful coffee and

DEAD IN THE WATER

settled into the cockpit to get some sun on his all-too-white body.  As
he did, he saw the customs officer leave the new yacht and, at a dead
run, head for the little police shack fifty yards away.  Odd.  A moment
later, the customs officer emerged from the shack in the company of two
police officers, one of them of rank, judging from his uniform.  The
three men marched rapidly back toward the blue yacht and went aboard,
disappearing below.  Stone watched with interest to see what would
happen next.  Ten minutes passed be-fore the young woman skipper
appeared on deck wearing a cotton dress.  Accompanied by the three
uniformed officers, one of them carrying a small nylon duffle, she
walked toward the police shack and disappeared inside.  What the hell'
was going on?  Stone wondered.  He kept an eye on.  the police shack
all afternoon.  Finally, some time after five o'clock, the woman left
the shack in the company of two uniformed policemen, got into a waiting
car and was driven away.  Stone didn't know what sort of trouble she
was in, but he felt for her, alone in a foreign place, at the mercy of
the police.  He had seen many people in custody, an, d he had never
envied any of them.

4;5

CHAPTER

tone showered, shaved and got into some of his new tropical clothing--a
short-sleeved silk shirt, Italian cotton trousers, and woven leather
loafers, no socks.  He found it an unexpected pleasure to dress so
lightly in January; there was much to be said for winter in the
tropics.

As the sun set he wandered across a broad green lawn toward a wide
thatched roof, covering a bar and restaurant, open to the breezes.  It
was early, and there were few customers.  A black bartender stood
behind an expanse of varnished mahogany, idly polishing a glass.  A
television set over the bar was tuned to CNN, the sound muted.

"Evening to you, boss," he said amiably, with what sounded to Stone
like a Bahamian accent.

DEAD IN THE WATER

"Evening," Stone said.  "And what might be your pleasure this fine
evening?"  "Oh, something tropical, I guess, to celebrate my first
evening in warm weather."  "A pifia colo da mebbe?"  --, "Sounds good."
Stone looked up at, the television and saw a woman in a heavy coat
standing on what looked like a New York City street corner.  A blizzard
was raging about her.  "Could you turn the sound up on the TV for a
minute?"  he asked the bartender.  "-"Sure thing, boss."  "... was
predicted for later this evening, but it started around noon, and we
already have a foot of snow on the streets, with at least twenty inches
expected by the wee hours of tomorrow morning.  Kennedy, La Guardia and
Newark airports closed at mid-afternoon, so nothing is flying into or
out of the city until further: notice  The Port Authority predicted
that no flights would be moving until noon tomorrow."  "Shit," Stone
said aloud.  "Okay, you can turn the volume down again."  "What you
care, boss?"  the bartender asked, turning down the TV.  "You already
here."  "Yeah, but my girl isn't.  Se was due to leave at four this
afternoon."  "Bad luck, boss," the man said.  "Where are you from?"
Stone asked.  "Born right here on Saint Marks, boss."

STUART WOOOS

"Funny, you sound Bahamian.  You shining me on with that accent?"

The man grinned.  "You're too good for me, pal."  He stuck out his
hand.  "I'm Thomas Hardy, like the writer."  Now the accent was more
island British, with an extra, familiar layer.

Stone shook his hand.  "Do I hear a little New York in there
somewhere?"

"Lived in Brooklyn a long time; worked all over the city."

"I'm Stone Barrington; I'm on a charter yacht over at the marina."

"That's kind of a familiar name," Thomas said.

"D, on't know why; it's my first time in Saint Marks."

"Were you ever a cop?"

Stone blinked in surprise.  "I was, mostly in the nineteenth precinct.
Have we ever met?"

Thomas shook his head.  "No, but I heard about you.  I was walking a
beat in the Village when you left the force; everybody was talking
about you, said you got a bad deal."

"I can't complain," Stone said.  "I left with the full pension after
fourteen years."

"Yeah, but you took some lead with you, huh?"

"They got it out.  What are you doing in Saint Marks?"

"I was born here, like I said.  My mama moved to New York when I was a
kid.  I joined the force, did my twenty and brought my savings and my
pension down here and put it to work."

DEAD IN THE WATER

"This your place?"

"Lock, stock, and liquor license."

"How long you been at it?"

"Six and a half years."

"Business good?"

"Not bad; a little better every year.  That blizzard in the northeast
is going to cost me, though.

A lot of people will be in your girl's shoes."

"I guess so."  Stone sighed.  "I was looking for ward to a more
romantic week than this.  Where can I make a phone call?"

Thomas reached under the bar, pulled out a pho and set it on the bar.
"I charge the tourists a buck a minute, but for an old cop, I'll just
put what they charge me on your tab.  Got a fax machine,

too, if you should need one."

"Thanks."  Stone called his home number.

"Hello?"

"I guess you?e not going to make it tonight, huh?"

"You heard?  I tried to call you at the charter office, but I didn't
get an answer."  "They get CNN down here."  "I'm sorry, baby.  It
started to come down around midday, and let me tell you, it's really
something. I'm a Southern girl; I've never seen snow like this."  ' "

"CNN says the airlines will be flying again tomorrow afternoon.  See
what you can do."  ' :;'

"I'm already rebooked on tomorrow's flight,

assuming it goes."

"Good.  What are you up to now?"

"I'm having dinner with Vance and some friends of his.  He actually
found a Range Rover somewhere, and he's picking me up."  "Where are you
dining?"  "Wherever's open, I guess."  "I miss you, babe."

"And I miss you, my darling.  I was looking forward to that first pifia
co lada

"I'm drinking it for you right now.  Say, let me give you this
number."

Thomas shoved a card in front of him.

Stone read off both the phone and fax numbers.  "Kep me posted on the
flight situation, will you?  The boat is moored no more than a hundred
yards from this phone."

"I will, baby."

Stone said good-bye and hung up.  "Well, Thomas, it looks like you and
me."  He sipped the pifia colo da It was perfect--cold, sweet, and pine
apply

"Let me know when you're ready for dinner," Thomas said.  "I'll keep a
table for you."  Customers were drifting in now, and a waiter was
seating them.

Stone watched as a large black man dressed in a white linen suit, and
in the company of a beautiful cafe-au-lait woman, entered and was shown
to a prime table overlooking the harbor.  "Impressive looking fellow,"
he said.

"That's Sir Winston Sutherland, the Minister of Justice," Thomas
said.

DEAD IN

THE

WATER

"A mover and shaker?"  "He both moves and shakes.  And, if his own
opinion holds, he just might be the next prime minister."  Stone heard
a car door slam and turned to look.  The blond woman from the blue
yacht, Expansive, had left a police car and, alone, was making her way
across the lawn toward the marina.  "Very nice, huh?"  Thomas said. 
"Very nice indeed.  She spent the afternoon with the local cops,
though.  I wonder why."  "Word is, the lady left Europe with a husband
but arrived in Saint Marks without him."  Stone turned and looked at
the bartender.  "I didn't see anybody else on board when she came into
the harbor." "That's because she was all alone on that big boat."  "You
mean she sailed it all the way across the Atlantic?"  "Well, not all
the way," Thomas said.  "Her husband was along for part of the time." 
"Is foul play suspected?"  "On this island, foul play is always
suspected," Thomas replied.  "That lady is going to have to convince a
number of people"--he pointed at Sir Winston Sutherland--"that man
first among them, that she is as innocent as a newborn lamb."  "And how
difficult is that likely to be?"  Stone asked.  "It could be very
difficult indeed," Thomas

said.  "There's going to be a coroner's jury over at the town meeting
house tomorrow morning.  Word is, Sir Winston is asking the questions."
"Is that unusual?"  "Usually, the coroner does it."  Stone looked over
at Sir Winston Sutherland, who was digging into a howl of something.
"What's he eating?"  he asked.  "Conch chowder."  "Well, I suppose you
have to be careful of any man with enough daring to eat conch chowder
in a white linen suit."  "Oh," Thomas said, "there's more reason than
lhat to be careful of Sir Winston."  When Stone got back to his boat,
late, there were lights on in the big, blue yacht.  He was tempted to
call on the lady to offer his condolences, but he was a little drunker
than he liked to be when he introduced himself to a beautiful woman.

BY

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STONE BARRING TON

FINDS TROUBLE

IN PARADISE....

tone

Barrington is vacationing in the Caribbean when he becomes embroiled in
the hottest murder case the island has seen in years.

Beautiful young

Allison Manning's wealthy husband vanished from their yacht while the
two sailed across the Atlantic.  Frightened and under suspicion, she
turns to Stone for help.  Now, as accusations fly beneath the colorful
Caribbean sky, Stone takes on the island's minister of justice, a man
whose vindictiveness is exceeded only by his girth, and discovers that
not everyone wants the truth to be told.

Coming in August 1997 in hardcover from HarperCollinsPU blisbers

STUART WOODS is the author of over fifteen novels, including Chiefs,
Grass Roots, Santa Fe Rules, L.A. Times, Dead Eyes, Heat, Imperfect
Strangers, Choke, and Dead in the Water.  He lives in Litchfield
County, Connecticut and Vero Beach, Florida.