“What else would you like to know?” Stone asked.
Brougham shrugged.
“Come on, Martin,” he said. “I want to lay this to rest now.”
“Who do you think did it?” Brougham asked.
Dino butted in. “We think it’s somebody Stone and I busted a long time ago, but we don’t know who, yet. There’ve been two other murders, one of them Stone’s secretary, Alma, the same night as Susan Bean, and the other a woman who lives behind Stone’s house in Turtle Bay, the following night.”
“I know about those,” Brougham said. “You think they’re connected to Susan’s death?”
“Only by the murderer,” Dino said. “The night Susan was killed, we think somebody followed Stone from his house here that night, then to your house, then followed Stone and Susan to her place. When he saw Stone leave to get the Chinese, he went in. We think he was still in the building when Stone got back. He was gone when the patrol car arrived. I got there five minutes later. It was Stone who called nine-one-one.”
“That, I knew,” Brougham said.
“Any other questions for me, Martin?” Stone said, trying not to sound too confrontational.
“None that I can think of at the moment.”
“I’ll be happy to come down to your office with my lawyer and answer any others you may think of,” Stone said.
“I appreciate the offer.”
“But,” Stone said, “if I start reading in the papers that I’m a suspect, I’ll know it came from Deacon, and I’ll go straight to the old man. I’ve known him a long time.” This was true, up to a point.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Brougham said. “But, you understand, if Deacon starts poking holes in your story, we’ll be talking again.”
“There aren’t any holes in my story,” Stone said, “because it’s the truth.”
Dinner arrived, saving everyone the embarrassment of continuing the conversation. Dana Brougham changed the subject.
“Aren’t you the painter who’s about to have a show at the Bergman Gallery?” she asked Sarah.
“Yes, that’s right,” Sarah replied. “The opening is next week; may I send you an invitation?”
Dana produced a card from her purse. “I’ve seen some of your early things, and I’d love to see your more recent work. Can you give me a hint?”
“It’s a Tuscan show,” Sarah replied. “I’ve lived there for the past six years, so it’s a combination of landscapes, still lifes, and portraits of people in the Chianti district.”
“Oh, I love that part of Italy.”
A waiter came and whispered something in Dino’s ear, and he left the table. Stone watched him take a phone call, but his face betrayed nothing. He came back and sat down.
Everyone looked at him.
“That was the precinct,” Dino said. “We had a suspect, but his alibi is holding.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Brougham said. “Who is it?”
“A guy named Mitteldorfer; Stone and I nailed him twelve years ago for the murder of his wife.”
“What made you suspect him?”
“Stone and I saw the murder of the woman who lived behind his house. The perp looked the way Mitteldorfer looked twelve years ago. But he doesn’t look that way anymore.”
“Peculiar,” Brougham said.
“We thought so, too. We’ve been looking for a relative who might have been involved, but there isn’t