Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“You wish to persuade me to turn myself in? I was in police custody only yesterday, and they didn’t seem to want me.”

“I don’t represent the police . . . or the British intelligence services.”

There was a silence. “You are very interesting, Mr. Barrington, because of who you do not represent. I’m sure you have a cell phone. Give me the number.”

Stone gave it to her.

“Tomorrow at six p.m., be at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Perhaps I’ll buy you a drink. But please don’t be so foolish as to ask anyone to join us.” She

hung up.

Stone was about to put away his cell phone when it vibrated in his hand. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi.”

“Things are going very slowly here, and I’m going to be several more hours. They’re ordering in some Chinese, so I’ll eat here and see you at home later.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”

“Me too. Bye.”

Stone put the cell phone away, thinking not about Carpenter, but La Biche. He wondered what he was getting himself into.

37

Marie-Thérèse kept her appointment at Frédéric Fekkai, a fashionable hairdressing salon and day spa on East Fifty-seventh Street. They knew her there by another name.

Mr. Fekkai greeted her warmly. “Mrs. King, how are you? How are things in Dallas?”

“Hey, sugar,” Mrs. King replied in a broad Texas accent. “Things are just wonderful. The price of oil is up, so I thought I’d come up here to the big city and spend some of Mr. King’s money.”

“We are delighted to see you. Let’s see, you have a massage and herbal wrap scheduled, and a manicure and an appointment with a makeup artist. We’ll do your hair last, is that all right?”

“Of course, baby.”

“The girl will order you some lunch.”

“I’m famished. Does she have any bourbon?”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Marie-Thérèse submitted to half a day of pampering, then reported to Mr. Fekkai at the end of it.

“Now, what shall we do with your hair?” he asked.

“I want it fairly short,” she said, running her fingers through it, “and I want a nice blond color, with some streaks.”

“I think that will suit you perfectly,” he replied. “The colorist is waiting for you, and I’ll see you next.”

At four o’clock, she left the establishment, quite literally, a new woman. All her identification had been arranged to support the effect. She went into Bergdorf’s and bought some clothes, then allowed herself to be fitted for two wigs, charging everything to an American Express card in Mrs. King’s name, which would be paid automatically from a bank account in the Cayman Islands. At six o’clock, she stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, took out her cell phone, and made the call.

Stone stood, gazing down at the skaters, one in particular—a pretty blonde in a red outfit with a short skirt, who was far better than anyone else on the ice. He looked around him for a woman alone who might be La Biche. His cell phone vibrated.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I want you to walk—not ride—to Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. You should be there in ten minutes. Walk on the west side of Fifth to Forty-fourth Street, then down the east side of the street to Forty-second, then cross again. Do you understand?”