“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “I’m here to see Miss Buckminster.”
The man picked up a phone, announced Stone, then told him he could go up.
Stone recognized the elevator operator. “Evening, Andy,” he said when the door was shut. “The uniform suits you.”
“Thanks a lot,” Anderson replied. “Maybe I should make a career change.”
“Where’s Mick?”
“Sitting out on the street—eating doughnuts, probably.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“You think the guy followed you?”
“If he did, he’s good; I didn’t make him.”
“I hope he did; I’d like a crack at him.”
“May you get your wish.”
“Here we are; sixteen, top floor.”
The elevator doors opened, and Stone stepped into a private foyer. “Watch yourself, Andy,” he said, then he rang the doorbell.
12
T HE DOOR WAS OPENED BY A BUTLER dressed in a dark suit. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “My name is William; will you follow me, please?” He led the way down a long gallery hung with very good pictures, and they emerged into a large, handsome living room. “Please have a seat, sir,” William said. “Miss Buckminster will be with you in a moment; she’s in the kitchen. May I get you something to drink?”
Stone handed him the shopping bag. “There’s a cold bottle of champagne in there,” he said, “and a bottle of red wine. If you would open the red and allow it to breathe, then bring us the champagne and a couple of glasses.”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” William replied. He took the shopping bag and left the room.
Stone walked slowly around the room, looking at the pictures; he had never seen such a collection in a private home. A Monet of water lilies covered most of one wall, and the smaller pictures were hung in rows, covering nearly every square foot of wall space. Stone recognized works by Picasso, Manet, Braque, David Hockney, and Lucian Freud. “My God,” he muttered to himself. “I wouldn’t want to be saddled with these people’s insurance premiums.” Next to the fireplace he was riveted by something that he recognized from his childhood: one of his mother’s paintings, of Washington Square Park. He stood before it, taking in the brushwork and the light. “You’re in good company, Mother,’ he said.
“Stone!”
He turned to see Sarah Buckminster walking toward him, dressed in tailored slacks and a silk blouse. She held out her arms to him, and he embraced and kissed her. She held him away from her and looked at him. “Dear God, the years have made you even more handsome.”
Stone blushed. “And you are even more beautiful.”
She turned and looked at the Matilda Stone. “I knew you’d find it immediately.”
“I haven’t seen it since I was, I don’t know, eleven or twelve.” He waved an arm. “Who owns all this?”
“Jack and Hillary Beacon,” she replied. “He’s the CEO of Celltell, the wireless-phone company. Do you know it?”
Stone nodded. “I bought some of the stock, as a matter of fact. I don’t have much, but it’s done well.”
“This is the heart of one of the country’s great private collections. The rest is scattered around the apartment, which runs to seventeen rooms, or on loan to museums.”
“It’s astonishing.”
William appeared with a tray holding the bottle of Krug, two lovely champagne flutes, some canapés, and something wrapped in a napkin.
“Come, let’s sit down,” Sarah said, drawing him to the sofa before the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire burned.
William poured them both a flute of the wine and nodded at the napkin on the tray. “Yours, I believe, Mr. Barrington.”