“As I said, I can’t discuss it.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Hickock said, slamming down the phone.
Stone sighed. He’d rather it had been Arrington Carter. He went downstairs, started his computer, and began identifying the phone numbers on the DIRT distribution list. They were pretty much what he had expected – newspapers, TV shows, columnists. Halfway through he tired of the list, shut off the computer, and crawled into bed with a book.
Chapter 18
Stone was awakened by the ringing telephone. He opened an eye and looked at the beside clock: nine-thirty. He didn’t usually sleep so late. “Hello?” he grumbled into the phone.
“It’s Amanda; what did you find out last night?”
“The fax was sent to a distribution list from a mailbox and copy shop on Lex in the Seventies. Apparently our man gave some kid a few bucks to deliver it; he’s being careful.”
“Damn!” she said. “I was hoping for a break.”
“So was I. I think we’ll find the next one will be sent from a similar place by similar means. I did get a copy of the distribution list, though.”
“Who was on it?”
“Just who you’d think – anybody who might spread the word. Nothing to be learned from the list, I’m afraid.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
That was an embarrassing question, and Stone didn’t answer it. “I got a call from Dick Hickock last night. He’s interested in finding out who the publisher of DIRT is, too.”
“I’m not surprised, after the contents of last night’s fax. He’s already been onto me this morning. I don’t mind in the least if you work for him, too.”
“Well, so far I don’t have anything more to tell him than I have to tell you.”
“Keep at it,” she said, and hung up without another word.
Wide awake now, Stone brushed his teeth, took his vitamins, and got into a robe. He went to the little kitchenette outside his bedroom, got some English muffins and coffee going, then retrieved the Sunday Times from his front doorstep. He was back in bed, eating breakfast and reading the paper, when the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Arrington Carter,” a low voice said.
“Morning.”
“You had breakfast yet?”
“Nope,” he replied, setting down his half-eaten muffin.
“Can I buy you brunch?”
“Why don’t you come over here; I’ll fix you an omelette.”
“I’d rather meet you at the Brasserie in half an hour.”
“Make it an hour; I haven’t really gotten started this morning.”
“An hour it is,” she said, “and brunch is on me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They both hung up.
She was waiting at the top of the stairs that descended into the restaurant; they shook hands and got a table immediately. She ordered a pitcher of mimosas, sat back in the booth, and looked at him through large, dark glasses. “So,” she said.
“Tell me about you.”
“What do you want to know?”