“I recall that you are a lawyer, but I forget with whom,” she said.
“I’m in private practice.”
She laughed. “At Yale law we were taught to believe that ‘private practice’ meant you couldn’t get a job with a good firm.”
“That’s probably a fair characterization, but my excuse is that I was a cop for fourteen years and came to the practice of law, as opposed to the upholding of it, late in life. I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I work out of a home office.”
She wrinkled her brow. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, I guess.”
“Oh, I get it; you do the dirty work, the stuff they don’t want to be seen to handle.”
“You’re very quick.”
“That’s what they say about me down at the DA’s Office,” she said. “‘Susan Bean is very quick.’ Of course, that’s not all they say about me.”
They stopped for a traffic light. “What else do they say?”
“Some call me the conscience of the office; others call me a pain in the ass. I guess it’s pretty much the same thing.”
“What are you working on now?”
“I was second chair to Martin Brougham on the Dante case,” she said.
“Congratulations,” Stone replied. “That was a big win.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Oh, I’m glad we won,” she said. “I’m just not very happy about how we won.”
He was about to ask her what she meant when they arrived at her apartment building. She dug for a key and let them in; they took the elevator to the top floor, which was marked PH on the button.
“The penthouse?” Stone said. “Pretty fancy for an ADA.”
“It’s the top floor, the twelfth. That’s its only qualification as a penthouse.”
They rode up, and she opened the door to the apartment. It was small—living room, a dining alcove, bedroom, and kitchen. There was a small terrace overlooking the street. Any skyline view was blocked by a taller building across the street.
She went into the kitchen, dug a menu out of a drawer, and picked up the phone. “Trust me on the selections?” she asked.
“Sure, but nothing too spicy for me.”
She dialed the number and read off a list of dishes. “How long?” she asked. She listened, then covered the phone. “The delivery boy is out sick; would you mind picking it up? It’s not far.”
“Glad to,” Stone said.
“How long?” she asked again. “Okay, twenty minutes.” She hung up. “Can I get you a drink? Twenty minutes really means thirty.”
“Maybe some wine?”
She dug a bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge and handed it to Stone with a corkscrew. “You open it; I’m clumsy.”
Stone opened the bottle and poured them a glass. He threw his coat on a chair, and they sat on the sofa.
“That was quite a list of dishes you ordered,” he said.