A moment later, he was back in 9-B, running cold water over his face in the master bathroom. He had done some undercover work in his time, but nothing in his police career had ever prepared him for being a second-story man. Now he knew that burglars are just as frightened as their victims.

He let himself out of the flat and left the building before the lady next door finished her nap.

At home, there was only one message on his answering machine: “Hi, it’s me. I’m sorry you aren’t in; I wanted to hear your voice. And now I have to go to a production meeting, so you can’t even call me back. I’m so looking forward to Saturday; I want to hear this important news of yours—and it must be important, if you want a table at Lutece. I booked that, which was no problem. Barron goes there all the time, and they know me. After dinner, and after hearing your news, I’m going to make you the happiest man in New York City, I promise. I’ve missed you so. Until Saturday night, my love.”

Stone felt the sort of glow that comes with a double brandy. Saturday night was no longer the loneliest night in the week; it was the only night in the week.

The phone rang. “Hi, it’s Bill. We’re on for Friday. My client reckons they won’t be in the apartment until near midnight.”

“Right. I’ll let my man know.”

“Stone, my client says that this is likely to be the only shot we’re going to get at this, so tell him not to fuck it up, okay?”

“Don’t worry, he’s as steady as they come.”

He hung up and called Teddy. “It’s Friday night,” he said. “I’ve cased the place already, so be at my house at nine, and I’ll brief you and give you the camera.”

“Looking forward to it, lad,” Teddy said.

“And, Teddy, no booze that night, all right?”

“Lad,” Teddy replied, sounding hurt, “I only drink after work.”

Stone hung up the phone feeling a certain order in his life. There was money in the bank, and he had handled his first assignments for Woodman & Weld in a way that was earning their confidence.

He allowed himself to be troubled for a moment about the ethics of what he was doing, but he brushed the thought aside. An errant wife deserved whatever came her way. Stone was on the side of the angels—or, at least, on the side of the wronged party, his client.

He put the last coat of varnish on the library shelves that night, then slept the sleep of the righteous.

Chapter

37