“Let me make a call,” she said, picking up the phone on her side of the bed. She dialed a number. “You know who this is? What have you got?” She signaled Stone for paper and pen, and Stone got out of bed to get it. “Yeah. Spell it. You got an address? What’s the parole officer’s name? Thanks.” She hung up and handed Stone the pad. Three names were written on it. “The first two were in with Mitteldorfer; the third name is the parole officer for both of them; they were both released before Mitteldorfer was. My man couldn’t get an address, but he says they were both tight with your man.”

“That’s something to go on,” Stone said. “But not before tomorrow. Come on, let’s get dressed and out of the house. It’s a beautiful spring day, and there’s an auction up the road somewhere.”

“An auction of what?”

“You know, a country auction—lots of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Antiques, furniture, pictures, bric-a-brac.”

“Can’t do it; I’ve got to get back to the city.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

“I’ve got a board meeting tomorrow, and I’ve got to read over a hundred grant applications by then.”

“Aw.”

“Besides, there’s too much oxygen up here for a city girl. You said you don’t want to go back to your house?”

“Not yet.”

“Why don’t you stay with me?”

“In Brooklyn?”

“Of course not; I live in the East Sixties.”

“Sure you’ve got room?”

“Sure; you don’t take up much space.”

“Maybe I’ll come into the city tonight; that okay?”

“Sure.” She wrote down her address. “Call me on your car phone when you’re in the block, and I’ll open the garage door for you.”

“You and I must be the only people in the city with a garage.”

“Could be.” Dolce got up, threw her things in a bag, kissed him, and left the house.

A moment later, he heard the Ferrari’s high-pitched roar. A moment after that, he was asleep again, exhausted.

48

STONE WAS JERKED AWAKE BY A LOUD ringing. For a moment, he thought it had been a dream, then it rang again. It wasn’t the phone; could it be the door? He had never heard his own doorbell. He got up, got into a cotton robe, and padded downstairs.

Arrington was standing on the porch.

“Good morning,” he said sleepily. “Come in.” She was wearing faded jeans, a chambray shirt knotted under her breasts, and no makeup. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

She put her arms around his waist and leaned into his shoulder. “Good morning,” she said.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, all right.”

He moved away from her and into the kitchen, where he busied himself making coffee.