New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“Glad to be of help, Herb,” Stone said, “but let me give you some advice. Stop picking up girls in bars. This was a close call, and, if you keep it up, you’re going to get in trouble. I don’t want to see that happen.”

“Don’t worry, Stone,” Van Fleet said. “You won’t have to defend me again.”

Stone hung up and reflected on what an easy ten thousand dollars he had made.

Helen came into his office. “A Ms. Hilliard called while you were on the phone. She dictated this message to me.”

Stone read the message:

Please meet me in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel at four o’clock this afternoon. Don’t disappoint me.

Stone felt an involuntary stirring in his crotch. The hell with her, he thought; he wouldn’t do it.

Chapter

44

Stone arrived at the Algonquin at four on the dot. The Japanese had bought the hotel, as they had seemed to buy nearly everything else, and had restored the lobby. It was beautiful, he thought, gazing at the polished oak paneling and the new fabrics. He looked around for Cary; she had not yet arrived. He snagged the headwaiter and was given a table. He ordered a drink and waited.

Five minutes later, a bellman walked among the tables calling, “Mr. Barrington, message for Mr. Barrington!”

Stone accepted an envelope and tipped the man. It was a hotel envelope, and inside was a plastic card with a lot of holes punched in it. A number had been written on it with a marking pen. He paid for his drink and walked to the elevator. Sweat was beginning to seep from his armpits and crotch, and he was breathing a little faster than he normally did.

The room was at the end of the hall. He inserted the card in a slot, there was an audible click, and the door opened into a nicely furnished sitting room. The door to the bedroom was closed, and he opened it, letting a shaft of light into the darkened room. He closed the door behind him and took off his overcoat. There was a slit of light from under the bathroom door and the sound of water running. Breathing harder now, Stone began ridding himself of his clothes.

When she opened the door, the bathroom light illuminated her from above for just a moment. She was wearing only a terry-cloth robe, and it fell open. She switched off the light and crossed the room to him. Somewhere along the way, the robe disappeared.

He rolled off her and sprawled on his back, panting and sweating. It had been the third time in two hours; he hadn’t known he was capable of that. In the time since he had entered the room, neither of them had spoken a word that had not been connected with what they were doing to each other.

She handed him a glass of water from the bedside. He drank greedily from it, then handed it back.

“Turn on a light,” he said. “It’s on your side.”

“No.”

“I want to see you.”

“No.”

“Why are we doing this in a hotel room? I have a home; you could have come there.”

“It would have been an unnecessary risk,” she said.

“Risk? What risk?”

“We can’t be seen together.”

“ Cary, for Christ’s sake! I think you owe me some sort of explanation for your behavior.”

“My father always said to me, ‘Never explain, never apologize.’”

He got angrily out of bed and went into the bathroom. He peed, then turned on the light and looked at himself in the mirror, his hair awry, his face streaked with sweat. He found a facecloth and cleaned himself, brushed his hair with his fingers, rinsed his mouth. When he came out of the bathroom, she was dressed and pulling on a coat. A silk scarf was tied around her hair.

“ Cary, stay here and talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

The photograph of her and Harkness in bed together was still in his overcoat pocket. He felt an urge to thrust it into her face, but he held back. It disgusted him that he still wanted her, but he did, and he could not afford to push her further away.