New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“Sounds interesting.” Stone looked around the plush office. Looked as though Eggers had done well at it too.

“More interesting than you would believe.” Eggers laughed. “You seeing Woodman about Sasha?”

“Yeah.”

“I wondered when you’d get around to him.”

“It took me a few days; I’ve been pretty busy.”

“Funny you turning up here; I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

“Kind thoughts, I hope.”

“The kindest, I assure you.” Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a client coming in any second, but I’d like to buy you a drink sometime, chew over some things.”

“Sure,” Stone said, fishing out a card. “Give me a week or two, though. The Sasha thing is taking a lot of time.”

“Of course,” Eggers said, extending his hand again. “We’ll make it dinner, when you’ve got the time.”

On his way home, Stone reflected on Bill Eggers’s prosperous appearance, the handsome office, the prestigious law firm. Was it possible that Woodman amp; Weld might need someone with his background?

When he got home, there was a notice from the NYPD: his return-to-duty physical had been scheduled. Stone flexed the knee. Not bad; he’d begun to forget about it. He tried a couple of half knee bends. It was sore, but he could ace the physical.

Chapter 17

“Can I buy you breakfast?” her low, pleasing voice said on the phone. “It’s the first real day of autumn outside, and we’ll have a walk in the park, too.”

“Oh, yes.” Stone exhaled. He was pitifully glad to hear from Cary. Their last, uncomfortable evening had been eating at him, and, in spite of her parting words, he had been unsure of his reception, should he call her.

“There’s a little French place called La Goulue, on East Seventieth, just off Madison. I’ve got a table booked in half an hour.”

“You’re on.”

They sat in the warm, paneled restaurant, a pitcher of mimosas between them, and drank each other in.

“I don’t know when I’ve been so glad to see anybody,” Stone said.

“I’m glad it’s me you’re glad to see,” she replied. She slipped off her shoe, and, under the tablecloth, rested her foot in his crotch. “Oh, you are glad to see me, aren’t you?” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s not a pistol in my pocket.” He grinned.

Her eyebrows went up. “You’re supposed to wear a gun all the time, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you wearing one now?”

He nodded.

“So that could be a pistol in your pocket.”

He laughed. “It could be, but it isn’t.”

“Where are you wearing it?”

“Strapped to my ankle.” He hated the bulge under his coat, hated being careful about inadvertently revealing the weapon.

“You have a badge, too, I guess.”