Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“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 the bar examination and passed it well up on the list, 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.”