Joan left, and Stone called Bob Cantor. Cantor was an ex-cop who was expert in all things technical, especially surveillance, and who often did work for Stone.

“Cantor.”

“Bob, it’s Stone.”

“Hey, Stone, what’s up?”

“First of all, your insane nephew says people are trying to kill him, and he wants to come and stay at my house.”

“I wouldn’t advise that. Last time I put him up I had to get my 500 mm Hasselblad lens out of hock.”

“Don’t worry.”

“The kid is kind of rich, you know.”

“What?”

“Kind of. His mother died and left him the house in Brooklyn, free and clear. He rents four apartments, which gives him a nice income, and he lives in the super’s apartment.”

“That little shit. He owes a bookie twenty-four grand and won’t pay. He could have borrowed from a bank on the house.”

“No, he couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m his trustee, and I won’t let him do that, and he knows it. Did you want to talk about something besides Herbie? I’m getting nauseous.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a job for you.”

“Shoot.”

“There’s a building on Park Avenue in the sixties, new, very skinny, one apartment to a floor.”

“I know the one.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do.” He gave Cantor full instructions, then hung up.

Joan came into his office, grinning. “That’s wonderful!” she said. “I love it.”

“You were listening to my phone conversation?”

“You betcha.”

“Didn’t you ever hear of the Constitution of the United States?”

“Vaguely.”

“It says you can’t do that; I have a right to privacy.”

“Not from me, you don’t; I know everything about you.”

“Not everything.”

“What I don’t know isn’t worth knowing,” she said, and sauntered back to her office.

Stone dug out Celia’s number and called her.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Thank you for last evening,” she said. “I enjoyed myself.”

“So did I. Let’s do it again.”

“When?”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Great. Where do you want to meet?”

“Does your house have a kitchen?”

“Of course, a very nice one.”

“Let’s meet there; I’ll cook dinner for you.”

“You talked me into it.”

“Seven?”

“Perfect. Can I shop for anything for you?”

“I’ll bring everything but the wine.”

“I’ve already got that.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” Stone hung up feeling better.

15

Bob Cantor packed his car and left his Brooklyn apartment.

Stone Barrington, he reflected, was his favorite client, not because he gave him the most work but because the work was always interesting. Cantor had kicked open his share of bedroom doors, but this was a new wrinkle, and he was looking forward to it.