New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“We’ve got to find a way for you to keep this house, Stone. You deserve to live in it, really you do. I hate to think of your turning it over to some stranger, just for the money.”

“I hate the idea, too, but that’s the way it has to be. What would you like to drink?”

“Scotch.”

They sat at the kitchen table.

“So how’s the Sasha investigation going?”

“Stranger and stranger. Did you know she was going to be your next-door neighbor?”

Cary ’s jaw dropped. “In 10-J? You’re kidding!”

“Barron didn’t tell you?”

“Jesus, no.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder why not. I know most of what goes on with him, and if he got her into the building, why wouldn’t he tell me that?”

“Did he get you into the building?”

“Yeah. Daddy paid, of course. Dammit, I’ll bet Sasha paid less. The co-op market is soft right now, and I’ve been there two years; I bought in at the top.”

“Did you know the people who lived there before?”

“The Warrens? Sure. I mean, they had me in for a drink when I moved in, and I had them in for a drink in return, and after that I just saw them in the elevator. The place was just a pied-à-terre for them; they live in Westport. He was in a Wall Street law firm, and he just retired.”

“Did you have a key to 10-J?”

“No.”

Stone told her about the day’s events.

“Spooky!” she said. “And you wondered if I went through her stuff?”

“Had to ask.”

“Did you talk to the Warrens?”

“I tried. The maid said they’re in London. That lets them out, I guess.”

> “The painters have been in and out of there, but I guess they finished up before Sasha’s stuff arrived. Anyway, the doorman would have let them in and locked up after them.”

“Well, enough shoptalk. How was your day?”

It was nine before they reached the Tribeca Grill, riding in the inevitable black Lincoln. The headwaiter knew Cary and gave them a good table.

“Neat place,” Stone said. “I’ve read about it. Is De Niro in here much?”

“From time to time. Sometimes I think a third of the people in here came just to catch a glimpse of him.”

“Like those two couples,” Stone said, nodding at a table in a less desirable part of the restaurant. They watched as one of the men, dressed in a silk suit and a pearl gray tie, offered the headwaiter money and had it refused.

“Tourists,” Cary said.

“Not your ordinary tourists,” Stone replied. “They’re wise guys.”

“Mafia? You know them?”

“I know the look. The suits, the women’s clothes. Just about everybody else in here is casual, but they’re dressed to kill. Here’s how it goes: the wise guys like places they’re known, where they’re known to be connected; they’re treated like princes – the best tables, the best wines on the house. Tonight, though, the ladies wanted to break out, wanted to come to De Niro’s restaurant and see him up close. The guys went for it, because De Niro is Italian, he’s their hero, and they’re already regretting it. They got the worst table in the house, and the headwaiter won’t be bought. They’ll sulk all through dinner, and it’ll be the last time for a while the ladies will get to go to a new restaurant.”