“Thanks, Irving, I’m fine, and it’s not me,” Stone said, chuckling. “I’m down at night court. You know Bob Cantor?”

“Ex-cop?”

“Yeah. His nephew, one Herbert Fisher, is coming up tonight on man two, B and E, and attempted burglary. I figure bail will be twenty-five, but let’s be ready with more, just in case.”

“I’ll call my guy in court,” Irving said. “You putting up your house?” This was Irving’s idea of a joke.

“Yeah, sure, Irving. Call my secretary in the morning, and she’ll messenger you twenty-five hundred in cash. We never talked, okay?”

“Of course not. Who the hell is this, anyway?” Irving hung up.

Stone closed his phone and tucked it away. He took Carpenter’s arm and led her from the courthouse to his waiting car.

“So, what’s this all about, and why wouldn’t you tell me on the way down?” Carpenter asked.

“It’s strictly need-to-know,” Stone said. “You know about that in your trade, right?”

“Well, I already know your client’s name and the charges, don’t I? And Irving is arranging bail.”

“Herbie is not my client. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.”

“Somehow, I think the favor extends back to earlier in the evening,” Carpenter said. “You were looking at your watch all night, and you were clearly expecting that phone call, but not what you heard.”

Stone pointed at the driver and put a finger to his lips.

“All right,” she said. “When we get home. I’m not going to bed with you until I know all.”

Carpenter stood at the foot of the bed, her robe dangling invitingly open, revealing a slim, well-buffed body. “So tell me the whole story.”

Stone stared, and he was very ready for her. “Oh, come to bed,” he groaned.

She tied the robe firmly. “Not until I hear it.”

“This is blackmail,” Stone said.

“No, it’s extortion. As a lawyer, you should know the difference.”

“Oh, all right,” Stone said. “I arranged for a photographer to take dirty pictures of a married man and an unmarried lady in compromising positions. The photographer got too enthusiastic and fell through a skylight onto the man, who somehow died. The cops came and took the photographer away.”

Carpenter looked very interested. “Who was the dead man?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, Stone.”

“Oh, all right. It was a compatriot of yours, one Lawrence Fortescue, married to a sometime client of mine.”

Her face became expressionless. “How dead is he?”