“Stone, I know you.”
“Tell you what, pick up the phone and dial this number.” Stone read from the jotter in his jacket pocket.
Eggers dialed.
“Ask to speak to Carla.”
“What’s her last name?”
“She doesn’t have one.”
“Oh, come on, Stone.”
“She’s Eduardo Bianchi’s granddaughter, and she doesn’t like using his name.”
Eggers put down the phone in haste. “You fucked a woman who is both Harlan Deal’s fiancée and Eduardo Bianchi’s granddaughter? I don’t know why you’re not somewhere in a shallow grave.”
“She isn’t Deal’s fiancée anymore, and she wasn’t when I fucked her, and Eduardo and I get along just fine, thank you.”
“Does
Eduardo know you’re fucking his granddaughter?”
“I am not fucking his granddaughter… anymore. Barton Cabot may be, but I’m not.”
“How the hell do you know Barton Cabot, anyway?”
“We both have houses in the same town; why shouldn’t I know him?”
“It’s just bizarre,” Eggers said.
“What’s bizarre about it?”
“Well, I’ll bet he’s the only former Marine colonel you know and the only antiques dealer, too. Am I wrong?”
“Well… no.”
“Then it’s bizarre.”
“If you say so.”
“Listen,” Eggers said, “as long as you know Cabot, maybe you could run down a rumor for me.”
“What sort of rumor?”
“Word around town is Cabot has got hold of a very fine eighteenth-century mahogany secretary.”
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
“If the rumor is true, I’d be interested.”
“Bill, please tell me where you heard that rumor.”
“Stone, the number of people in New York who would be interested in a piece of that caliber is very small. We talk to each other.”
“Tell me the name of the person who told you this.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”