Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“You may rest assured that that will not happen,” Eggers said.

Stone hoped he was right. The idea of Herbie Fisher suing had not occurred to him, and he hoped to God it hadn’t occurred to Herbie.

“But I’m the injured party here,” Elena cried, banging her bony fist against the arm of the sofa. "Somebody has to pay for that injury!”

Eggers turned white and said nothing.

“Mrs. Fortescue,” Stone said, “may I be perfectly frank?”

“You’d fucking well better be,” Elena snarled. Her marble skin had turned bright pink.

“These events, as unfortunate for everyone as they are, have inadvertently accomplished something that could not have been foreseen.”

“And what is that?” Elena demanded.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” Stone said, hoping that the cliché would find its mark.

It did not. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Elena cried, turning pinker.

“An act of God, for want of a better term, has rid you of a husband who was unfaithful to you, and whom you had already decided to be rid of, and it has done so in a way that avoids the inevitable, damaging publicity of divorcing him and enforcing your prenuptial agreement.” Stone paused for effect. “Not to mention the very considerable expense of so doing.”

There was a long silence, finally broken by Elena Marks Fortescue. “You have a point,” she said. Then she got up and left the room the way she had entered it.

Eggers had been holding his breath, and he let it out in a rush.

Back on the street, looking for a cab, Eggers turned to Stone. “What about the photographs?” he asked.

Stone handed him a set, and Eggers looked at them briefly.

“And the negatives?” he asked.

Stone handed over an envelope containing the four frames. “You think we’re out of the woods with Elena?” he asked.

“She didn’t fire us, did she?” Eggers said cheerfully, waving down a cab and getting in. “Let’s do lunch sometime.” He drove away.

12

Stone felt lighter than air. This was all going to work out; everything had been taken care of. All he had to do now was to get something worked out with the DA’s office about Herbie’s charges—get them to drop the manslaughter charge, plead him down to a misdemeanor, and get him probation. It was a bright, cool day, and he felt like a walk.

He strolled down the west side of Fifth Avenue, occasionally glancing into the park, then farther downtown, turned left on East Fifty-seventh Street and walked to the Turnbull & Asser shop. He would treat himself.

He looked at the new sea island cotton swatches and ordered a dozen shirts. He didn’t know what they cost; he didn’t want to know. Joan would pay the bill when it arrived, and he had instructed her not to enlighten him; some things were best left unknown. He picked out a f

ew ties and waited while they were wrapped; the shirts would take eight weeks, or so. Then he left the shop and turned down Park Avenue toward home in Turtle Bay.

In the upper Forties, as he turned to cross Park, a stretched Bentley glided to a momentary halt, then drove on, but not before Stone had seen, through the open rear window, Elena Marks, now clad in proper New York widow’s weeds by Chanel, in earnest conversation with someone Stone knew. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Woodman & Weld and Bill Eggers.

“What is it, Stone?” Eggers asked, sounding rushed. It was a technique of his when he didn’t want to talk to somebody.

“Bill, I was crossing Park Avenue a moment ago, when I saw Elena Marks in her car with Robert Teller, of Teller and Sparks.”

“What?” Eggers cried.

“I kid you not.”

“That buccaneer! That bastard! Poaching my clients!”

“I thought you’d want to know.”