“You’re sweet,” Joan said, flouncing out of the office.
“So,” Peter Leahy said, “we stake out the Seagram Building?”
“No,” Cantor said. “First, we find out on what days Whitestone was spotted. Then we review the security tapes. I can get hold of those.”
“Good idea,” Stone said. “Excuse me a minute.” He went to his desk, picked up his phone and dialed Felicity’s cell number, which was on a card she had given him.
“Yeesss?” she drawled.
“Can you give me the dates on which Whitestone was seen in the Seagram Building?” he asked.
“One moment,” she said. He heard high heels on a marble floor, then a door closing. “To the best of my recollection, one of the dates was near the end of last month. The other was a couple of weeks before, but that’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you. Have you, in the light of day, remembered anything else at all that might help me?”
“I’m afraid not. See you in the early evening.” She hung up.
Stone walked back to the sofa and sat down. “Both sightings were last month: one near the end of the month, one a couple of weeks earlier. The client couldn’t be more specific.”
“Anything about personal habits?” Cantor asked.
“Women, fine restaurants, and fine arts, especially the opera.”
“We’re not going to have to go to the opera, are we?” Willie Leahy asked.
“You are, unless the Seagram tapes pan out,” Stone said.
Willie made a disgruntled noise.
“I like the opera,” Peter said.
Stone was surprised that he liked something his brother didn’t. “Okay, you can volunteer for the opera house.”
Cantor was looking at the photograph. “If a guy wants to get lost, he has to do one of two things: he has to go somewhere nobody would think to look for him, or he has to change his appearance, or both.”
“He’s not a Nazi war criminal,” Stone said. “It’s unlikely that he would have a network of supporters; he’d have to disappear on his own. Of course, he probably had time to set up an identity, and he probably was acquainted with people who could supply documents.”
“What country are we talking about, Stone?” Cantor asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to know fucking everything you can tell me and because it might matter.”
“Britain.”
“Then he’d lose his accent for starters. A Brit accent is too easy to remember.”
Peter Leahy was looking at the photo. “He might have lost some hair, too. He’s got kind of a high forehead, and the hair in front of his sideburns is thin.”
“He’s had twelve years to go gray, too,” Willie said. “And most guys gain some weight in early middle age.”
Cantor spoke up. “British guys love their tailors; I’ll bet he’s still wearing Savile Row suits but not from whoever made his clothes in the old days. That’s one of the things the tracers would check first. Let’s find out what English tailors are working in town.”
“Good idea,” Stone said, “and I’m sure you’ll have some others. But right now the Seagram Building security tapes are our best bet.”
“I agree,” Bob said, standing up. The Leahys stood up with him.
“Let’s talk in the morning,” Stone said. “Things will come to you in your sleep.”