Stone picked up a New York Times and leafed through it. On the front page of the business section there was an article about Shames’s coming press conference, with speculation about the announcement.

Callie returned with a tray bearing a large lobster salad and a glass of white wine, then she went and got a tray for herself. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do. How long have you worked for Thad?”

“A little over a year,” she said. “You?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Less than three hours. I’m doing a legal investigation for him.”

“Thad’s a character,” she said. “You’ll like working for him.”

“I hope so. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s in computer software, in a pretty big way, I gather.”

She smiled. “A pretty big way, yes. The last Forbes 400 put his net worth at five point eight billion dollars.”

Stone blinked. He had spent a lot of time around the rich, but not that rich. “So this new venture of his is a pretty big deal, then?”

“I hope so,” she said, “because I’ve got a nice little bundle of stock options.”

“So what’s it like, working for the superrich?”

“Insane,” she said, “but I’ve gotten used to Thad’s quirks.”

“He has a lot of them?”

“Thad is all quirk,” she laughed. “The superrich are one thing, but the newly superrich are something else entirely. Thad’s a big child, really, and he’s grown accustomed to instant gratification. Whatever you’re doing for him, my advice is to do it in a hurry.”

“I’ll try,” Stone said. “The salad is delicious; wonderful dressing.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Beach?”

“Oh, yes. Thad’s had his place there for a couple of years, and he’s mostly back and forth from there to New York. Of course, the house has been under construction for all that time, so we live on the boat.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“You’re staying aboard, then?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll cook you dinner tonight.”

“Why don’t I take you out?” Stone asked. “I should get to know the lay of the land.”

“I’d love that.”

“Book us at some place you like.”

“Will do.” She turned her attention to her lunch.

She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.

“Is there a phone on the airplane?” he asked her.

“In the arm of your chair,” she said. “It’s a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone.” She headed for the galley.

Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs. Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.