“What sort of receipt?” she asked.

“It should read, ‘received of Mrs. Menzies, one envelope of documents,’ and be signed with his full name, which is Franklin P. Smith.”

“I understand,” she said, as they reached the lobby.

“Would you like a cab, Mr. Menzies?” the doorman asked.

“No, thank you, Jeff, I believe a car is waiting…there he is!” He waved, and a black Lincoln Town Car, like thousands of others in the city, pulled up. The driver wore a bandage on his left ear. Menzies opened the door for his wife, and she got in. “The driver has the address,” Menzies said, “and he will escort you into the building when you arrive. I’ll see you in an hour or so, my dear.”

“Of course, my darling,” she replied, waving as the car pulled away.

Mitteldorfer, now Menzies, turned and walked back into the building. As the elevator rose, he sighed deeply. Now that that little detail was taken care of, he felt free. Now he could take care of a few other little details, then begin his new life. His first order of business was to inflict pain.

24

ON MONDAY MORNING, STONE BEGAN BY calling Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. “Good morning, Bill; could one of your associates close a real-estate transaction for me?”

“Sure, Stone; commercial or residential?”

“Residential. I’ve bought a house in Connecticut.”

“You? The quintessential city boy?”

“I like a little grass between my toes from time to time.”

“I smell a woman.”

“You have a very good nose.”

“I want to meet her.”

“You will, soon enough. I’ve agreed to close within two weeks.”

“You want me to get you a mortgage?”

“I’m paying cash.”

“There goes that big fee from the Allison Manning case last year.”

“Some of it.”

“I’ll assign Barry Mendel to close it for you. He’ll call you, and you can give him the seller’s lawyer’s name, and he can take it from there.”

“Thanks very much, Bill.”

“Lunch?”

“Not this week, I’m afraid; I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ll call you.” He hung up. But not until this business is over, he thought. No need endangering any more of my friends.

Stone walked into the Bergman Gallery on Madison Avenue and asked the receptionist for Edgar Bergman. The gallery owner came out of his office immediately, a short, distinguished-looking man in a beautifully cut suit.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes,” Stone replied. “I believe Sarah Buckminster called you about me.”

“Indeed she did. I believe you have some security concerns?”

“Yes. There was an attempt to harm her recently, and I prefer to take it seriously until I’m sure there’s to be no repeat of the episode.”