Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“His design company must have done business with a bank.”

“Probably, but I’ll bet his partner did all the financial stuff. Bartlett would never survive even the most minimal credit check for any substantial business. There’s not even a history of other bank accounts, nothing in the New York credit bureaus, either.”

“Anything on who he really is?”

“If you can get a fingerprint on a bar glass or something, I could run that. Otherwise, I’ll need a lot more time to nail him down.”

“I’ll have a shot at it,” Stone said. “Call me if you come up with anything else.”

“Will do.”

Stone returned to his table, stopping to whisper in Callie’s ear. “It’s looking good. When dinner’s over, try to slip a glass or something with his fingerprints on it into your purse.”

“Love to,” she said.

Stone returned to his seat and the attentions of Lila Baldwin, glancing at Paul Bartlett, who seemed to be having a good time. Stone wanted to end his good time.

23

THE WOMAN SITTING BETWEEN STONE AND PAUL Bartlett got up between courses and went to the powder room, and Stone took the opportunity.

“Paul, I was out at the airport this morning. Did I see you leave in a BMW?”

Bartlett looked at him as if Stone had seriously invaded his privacy. “Were you following me?” he demanded.

“Of course not,” Stone said. “I was at the airport, and I saw you. that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Bartlett waved a hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m being paranoid.”

Stone wondered what he had to be paranoid about.

“I took my rental car back to Hertz. I bought a car this morning, and the salesman picked me up and drove me to the dealership.”

“Oh, what did you buy?”

“A Bentley.”

“Very nice.”

“Were you considering one?”

“No, the Bentley is out of my league. If you’re making that sort of investment, you must have decided to stay on in Palm Beach.”

“Well, I am looking for a house.”

Callie was on her feet, digging into her purse. “Let me get a shot of you two,” she said. “Stone, move over a seat.”

Bartlett waved her away. “No, please. I don’t enjoy being photographed.” When Callie seemed to persist, he nearly barked at her. “Sit down,” he said. “Please. I take a Muslim view of photography: It steals one’s soul.”

“If one has a soul,” Stone said.

Bartlett shot a glance at Stone, picked up a liqueur glass, downed the contents and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said.

“You’re not leaving,” Callie said.

“Terrible headache,” Bartlett replied.

“Still at the Chesterfield?” Stone asked.