“I’m a good, pragmatic judge of what I can and can’t do,” Stone said. “If you’d had evidence that was conclusive, I’d have been looking to make a plea deal. As it was, I wouldn’t have allowed Herbie to accept any offer you made short of a withdrawal of charges.”

“I’ve probably been involved in a lot more such cases than you have,” she said, “during fifteen years of prosecution, and I’m a good, pragmatic judge of what’s possible in a courtroom.”

“What’s your conviction rate in the cases you’ve brought to trial?” Stone asked.

“Personally?”

“No, of the cases you’ve approved for trial, both yours and your subordinates’?”

“About eighty-five percent,” she replied.

“That’s very good,” Stone said, “but in those of my cases that were tried and I felt should never have gone to trial, my acquittal rate is one hundred percent. Overall, it’s about the same as your conviction rate.”

“Then we’re evenly matched,” she said.

“We are, as long as you don’t bring cases I know you can’t win,” Stone replied. “And I’ll make it my business to see that you never lay a glove on Herbie Fisher.”

“What’s so special about Herbie Fisher?” she asked.

“If you knew him, you’d know how harmless he is.”

“He wasn’t harmless to Dattila the Hun,” she pointed out.

“Like a lot of people,” Stone said, “Herbie will fight like a cornered rat when his back is to the wall. Dattila put him in that position by repeatedly trying to kill him, to Dattila’s cost.”

They turned back toward the house.

“I think I’m going to have to go back to New York this afternoon,” Stone said. “A couple of days ago I was comfortable about my upcoming meeting, but now I’m not, so I need to be there. Can we have dinner in the city tonight?”

“Sure,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not so sure how much more snowy landscape I could have stood.”

THIRTY-NINE

THIRTY-NINE

Before leaving the house that afternoon, Stone called Bob Cantor, an ex-cop who was very good with technical matters.

“Hey, Stone.”

“Bob, I’ve got something urgent on my plate. Can you meet me at my house at six p.m., prepared to go to work?”

“With what kind of tools?”

“Bring the van,” Stone said. Cantor had a van with several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment installed and tools for everything.

“Will do,” Cantor said, then hung up.

The flight back was uneventful. Stone dropped Willa at her building, and they agreed to meet at Elaine’s later. As Stone pulled into his garage he saw Bob Cantor’s van parked outside.

The two men shook hands, and Stone let them into the house and turned off the alarm that Cantor had installed, then he led Cantor to the dining room.