“How tall?”
“Not as tall as you.”
“I’m six-two,”
“Six feet, then.”
“How built?”
“Slender.”
“Hair?”
“Light brown, tending to be sun-bleached at the ends. Collar-length.”
“Clothes?”
“Fashionable. A long raincoat, below the knee.”
“Describe his face.”
“Long, straight nose, eyes a little close together, strong jaw, wide mouth, full lips.”
“That’s very good,” Stone said, impressed.
“I can do better,” she said, bending down and taking a copy of Vanity Fair from a large purse. She put the magazine on the table, flipped through the early pages and turned it toward Stone. “That’s real close,” she said, tapping a full-page photograph. “It’s not him, but it’s real close.”
It was an ad for a men’s cologne, and the model fit her description perfectly.
“You’re sure it’s not him?”
“I’m sure. I don’t make mistakes about men as good-looking as that. The guy who followed me could be doing that kind of work for a living.”
“Modeling?”
“Or acting, or both. He’s the type who turns up in classes at mediocre acting schools.”
“Did he follow you when you left Bloomingdale’s?”
“Yes. I walked home, and he was with me all the way. At first, I thought he was just interested, you know? But he never approached me, always stayed well back. A couple of times he was on the opposite side of the street, but he was always there. When I got home I looked out the window, and he was half a block down the street, watching.”
“When did you last see him?”
She glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
Stone sat up straight. “He followed you here?”
“Yep. He was out there this morning. Change of clothes, but the same raincoat.”
They were only a couple of feet above the sidewalk. “Do you see him now?”
“Nope, but he was down that way a couple of minutes ago.” She pointed toward Fifth Avenue.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Stone said. “Don’t leave.”
He left the room and walked outside. Traffic was heavy on the sidewalk. Stone walked purposefully, west on Central Park South as far as the corner of Sixth Avenue, then all the way back to the front of the Plaza, checking every face coming and going. Nothing. He entered the hotel by the front door and made a sweep of the hallways and the Palm Court, but the man was not in sight. He returned to the Oak Room.
Tiffany was still at the table, but the Perriers had been replaced by two martinis. “I switched,” she said. “I ordered one for you, too.”