The doorman on duty called up, then directed him to the elevator. Stone knew the building because he knew a woman who lived there, in her parents’ apartment.

A houseman in a white jacket admitted him, led him to the living room, and poured him a drink. Stone spent his waiting time looking at the pictures in the room.

“Are you interested in art?” Adele’s voice said from behind him.

Stone turned to watch her come toward him. “I enjoy looking at it, but I’m not in the market at this level,” Stone said. “My mother was a painter, and we always had good pictures in our house.”

“Would I know her?”

“Perhaps. Her name was Matilda Stone.”

“I know her work very well,” Adele said. “I have standing orders at two galleries for her work, should it ever become available.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Stone said. “People who acquire her work seem to hold on to it.”

“Do you have anything of hers?”

“I have four of her oils—New York scenes.”

“I envy you those. May I see them sometime?”

“Of course,” Stone said. “They’re in my bedroom.”

Adele laughed. “And I’ve already turned down one invitation to tour that site.”

“Perfectly understandable, on short acquaintance.”

“Perhaps on my next visit to your house. Shall we go to dinner?”

“Certainly. My car is downstairs.”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought the Four Seasons would be nice.”

“Always.”

They arrived at the restaurant and were immediately seated in the Pool Room, a reference to the pool, not the game. They ordered drinks, then dinner.

“How are things in your family?” Stone asked.

“Difficult,” Adele replied.

“I understand Jack hasn’t been charged with anything.”

“That’s correct, and it’s the only thing that lets us hold our heads up around town.”

“Have the accountants finished their work?”

“Their report is due in a day or two,” she said.

“Did Jack invest your money?”

“Some of it. I put the proceeds of my husband’s estate in his hands, but I continued to manage my own funds. I started a cosmetics business years ago, and I sold it before the recession, so I have means of my own to support me.”

“An enviable position to be in,” Stone said. “Has anyone heard anything from David?”

She gazed at him over her martini glass. “You’re very well informed. What do you know about David?”

“That he’s . . . on vacation.”

“Well, yes.”

“And that he’s suspected of being the real culprit—or, at the very least, Jack’s coconspirator.”

“Suspected by whom?” she asked.

“Just about everybody, I gather.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t think Jack is capable of stealing his clients’ money. For one thing, he’s always made plenty of his own. He was a top man at Goldman Sachs; only went out on his own when he was passed over for CEO there. He left with a very large bundle, which he used to establish his own business, and that has done extraordinarily well.”