“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”

Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.

“Cantor.”

“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”

“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “Herbie was wearing a very nice suit.”

“Yeah, he’s dressing better since he got rich.”

“He said his suit was made by a tailor named Sam Leung at Lexington and Sixty-fourth. You might show Mr. Leung the photo of Stanley Whitestone.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call Willie. He and Peter are canvassing tailor shops right now.”

“Any luck with the Seagram Building security tapes?”

“I got somebody running them down right now.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Well, yeah, Stone. What else did you expect?”

“Bob, was Herbie dropped on his head as a baby?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Cantor replied. “See ya.”

Stone hung up. Then Joan came in again.

“I’ve got news,” she said.

“What news?’

“Dolce is hanging out across the street again. You want me to shoot her?”

Stone thought for a moment. “No, but call Eduardo Bianchi’s secretary and find out if he’ll see me for lunch tomorrow.”

7

Stone drove out to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, to Eduardo Bianchi’s elegant Palladian home on the beach. He was greeted at the door by the wiry and slightly sinister butler who had served Eduardo for as long as anyone could remember. Rumor had it that the man had once served as an assassin for Eduardo back in the days when he had been operating as a Mafia chief of such rank that his name was not known even at the capo level. No law enforcement agency had ever recorded him, followed him or, apparently, even known of his existence.

Now Eduardo Bianchi operated at a level where mayors, governors and even presidents sought his counsel, and he served on the boards of a number of New York’s most prestigious arts organizations and charities.

Stone joined Eduardo—now probably in his late eighties if not older—at a table shaded by a wide umbrella overlooking the Roman-style pool.

“Stone,” Eduardo said, rising and offering his hand, which was cool, dry and strong, “How very good to see you. Please sit down and have some lunch.”

Stone took a chair and, once again, marveled at the old man’s youthful appearance and elegant tailoring. “You’re looking very well, Eduardo.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Eduardo said, pouring him a glass of Pinot Grigio from a chilled bottle. “What are you working on these days? Your career is always so interesting to me.”

“At the moment, I’m trying to locate a gentleman who left a British intelligence agency some years ago with a great deal of knowledge that he put to work in the marketplace.”