Two-Dollar Bill (Stone Barrington 11)

“Get dressed,” the man said.

What the hell could the U.S. Attorney want with him? Stone wondered. He went back into the bathroom, dried and combed his hair, then went back into the bedroom. The two FBI agents were still standing there, looking bored. He went into his dressing room and got his clothes on.

“The occasion isn’t formal,” an agent said, when Stone reappeared.

“I always dress for the U.S. Attorney,” Stone said. “Let’s go.” They went downstairs, and Stone grabbed a heavy, black cashmere topcoat, a white silk scarf, a black hat and some warm gloves. New York was in the midst of its coldest winter in years. They went outside and got into a black Lincoln that was idling at the curb, apparently driven by another agent.

“We have to go all the way downtown?” Stone asked. “It’s rush hour; it’ll take at least an hour, and I have to be somewhere.”

“Relax, we’re not going far,” an agent said.

Ten minutes later they stopped at the Waldorf-Astoria, at the Towers entrance. The agents led him to an elevator, and they went up many floors, stopping near the top of the building. The elevator opened into a large vestibule, and Stone could hear the sound of many voices beyond a set of large double doors. An agent opened a side door and showed him into a small study.

“Be right with you,” the agent said, closing the door behind him.

Stone shucked off his overcoat and tossed it onto a sofa, next to somebody’s mink coat. He looked around the room: It didn’t appear to have been done by a hotel decorator but seemed actually to be used as a study. Behind him, a door opened and closed, and Stone turned around. A tall, blond woman in a tight black cocktail dress walked toward him, her hand extended.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. I’m Tiffany Baldwin, the U.S. Attorney for New York.”

Stone shook her hand. “The last time I saw you,” he said, “you had a different name and were six feet six and wearing a double-breasted suit.”

“I believe you’re referring to my predecessor,” she said.

The change was news to Stone. “When did he predecess?”

“He handed over the reins an hour ago. He’s the new Deputy Attorney General; I’m replacing him tomorrow morning at nine. Those voices you hear through there are a welcome-aboard party for me.” She waved him toward a chair and took one, herself.

“U.S. Attorneys are not named Tiffany,” Stone said, “and they don’t look in the least like you.”

“Thank you, I think,” she replied. “Sorry about the name, but by the time I graduated from Harvard Law, it was too late to change it. I’ll never forgive my parents, of course, but what are you going to do?”

“Well, now we know why you’re here,” Stone said. “But what am I doing here? Are you going to offer me a job as your deputy?”

She smiled sardonically. “Hardly.”

“What do you mean, ‘hardly’?” Stone said, sounding wounded. “I went to law school, too, you know, though not at Harvard.”

“Well, that immediately disqualifies you, doesn’t it?”

“Watch it. I’ll spread the word, and you’lll spend all your time in New York being given a hard time by old NYU Law grads.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Now to business. I want to talk with you about a client of yours.”

Not Billy Bob Barnstormer, Stone thought. Not already. “What client is that?”

“Rodney Peeples.”

“Rodney who?”

“Peeples.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Come now, Stone; confirming that you represent him is not a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.”

“I’m not being confidential, I’m being baffled,” Stone replied.

Tiffany Baldwin sighed. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”