“What a fucking mess,” Dino said. “You couldn’t nail anybody in a divorce with these. In this one, he’s lying on his belly. In these three, he’s got his arm over his face, and in all of them her head blocks his crotch. For all we can see, she might have been giving him a legit massage. Where’d this kid learn his photography, in juvenile hall?”

Stone looked at the fourth photograph. The woman was looking up at the skylight. It was the only shot that showed part of her face. She had long, dark hair and, from what he could see, was attractive. “Not bad,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dino agreed. “What you can see, anyway.”

The cab stopped on Dino’s corner, and he got out.

“What are you going to do with the photographs?” Stone asked through the window.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t give them to the Feds.”

“I never give anything to the Feds without a court order and a gun at my head,” Dino replied, walking away.

11

The cab took Stone to 1111 Fifth Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum. Bill Eggers was waiting for him.

“Thank God you’re on time,” he said. “Now listen, when we get upstairs, I’ll do the talking. You just keep your mouth shut and nod a lot.”

“Whatever you say,” Stone said, grateful that he would not have to explain the events of the night before.

The elevator opened directly into the foyer of Elena Marks’s apartment. The foyer, Stone noted, was nearly as large as his bedroom. The floors were marble, and the walls were hung with good art. A flower arrangement the size of a big-screen TV rested on a Louis Quinze table. A man in a white jacket entered the foyer.

“Mr. Eggers? Mr. Barrington? Please follow me.” He led them through a living room the size of a basketball court and into a library with a double-height ceiling. A spiral staircase in a corner led to the upper level. Every book in sight was leather-bound and matched several other books. Elena Marks was nowhere to be seen.

“Please have a seat,” the butler said. “Mrs. Fortescue will be with you shortly. May I get you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” Eggers replied.

Stone wanted a beer; the cheeseburger still hadn’t gone all the way down. “First time I ever heard her referred to as Mrs. Fortescue,” he said.

“Well, she’s a widow now, isn’t she?” Eggers replied.

A section of the bookcases along one wall suddenly opened, and Elena Marks Fortescue entered the room. The bookcase/door closed silently behind her. She was a razor-thin woman with bright, blond hair, wearing a bright yellow, flowered dress, the sort of thing that would have been perfectly acceptable for a recent widow in, say, Palm Beach, Stone thought.

“Good afternoon, Elena,” Eggers said smoothly. “Thank you for seeing us.”