“They like me to stay out of night court, unless it’s their client,” Stone replied. “So I’m getting out of here now. Call me on my cell if there are any problems you can’t deal with. The kid is scared silly, and he needs to sleep in his bed tonight.”
“I’ll do everything but tuck him in,” Levy said.
Stone walked to where Carpenter was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and beckoned her to follow.
“Enjoy yourself?” he asked when they were outside the courtroom in the corridor.
“It’s fascinating,” she said. “When does your case come up?”
“It’s not my case. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. Another lawyer will represent the guy.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said.
“Hello?” The voice didn’t sound sleepy. Irving Newman, Stone’s favorite bail bondsman, was accustomed to being awakened in the night.
“Irving, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Stone, you okay? What’d they charge you with?”
“Thanks, Irving, I’m fine, and it’s not me,” Stone said, chuckling. “I’m down at night court. You know Bob Cantor?”
“Ex-cop?”
“Yeah. His nephew, one Herbert Fisher, is coming up tonight on man two, B and E, and attempted burglary. I figure bail will be twenty-five, but let’s be ready with more, just in case.”
“I’ll call my guy in court,” Irving said. “You putting up your house?” This was Irving’s idea of a joke.
“Yeah, sure, Irving. Call my secretary in the morning, and she’ll messenger you twenty-five hundred in cash. We never talked, okay?”
“Of course not. Who the hell is this, anyway?” Irving hung up.
Stone closed his phone and tucked it away. He took Carpenter’s arm and led her from the courthouse to his waiting car.
“So, what’s this all about, and why wouldn’t you tell me on the way down?” Carpenter asked.
“It’s strictly need-to-know,” Stone said. “You know about that in your trade, right?”
“Well, I already know your client’s name and the charges, don’t I? And Irving is arranging bail.”
“Herbie is not my client. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.”
“Somehow, I think the favor extends back to earlier in the evening,” Carpenter said. “You were looking at your watch all night, and you were clearly expecting that phone call, but not what you heard.”
Stone pointed at the driver and put a finger to his lips.
“All right,” she said. “When we get home. I’m not going to bed with you until I know all.”
Carpenter stood at the foot of the bed, her robe dangling invitingly open, revealing a slim, well-buffed body. “So tell me the whole story.”
Stone stared, and he was very ready for her. “Oh, come to bed,” he groaned.
She tied the robe firmly. “Not until I hear it.”
“This is blackmail,” Stone said.
“No, it’s extortion. As a lawyer, you should know the difference.”
“Oh, all right,” Stone said. “I arranged for a photographer to take dirty pictures of a married man and an unmarried lady in compromising positions. The photographer got too enthusiastic and fell through a skylight onto the man, who somehow died. The cops came and took the photographer away.”
Carpenter looked very interested. “Who was the dead man?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, Stone.”
“Oh, all right. It was a compatriot of yours, one Lawrence Fortescue, married to a sometime client of mine.”
Her face became expressionless. “How dead is he?”
“All the way,” Stone replied. “Herbie couldn’t understand it, because he fell on the guy’s legs. No reason for him to be dead. Something else funny, a bunch of apparent cops in plain clothes showed up in no time at all, and at least one of them had a British accent, according to Herbie, who learned everything he knows about British accents watching Brit cop shows on TV.”
“What happened to the woman involved?”
“Funny, I don’t know,” Stone said. “Herbie was out for a short time. She must have departed the premises, which, given the circumstances, was a wise move.”
“I need to use the phone in the next room,” Carpenter said. “And don’t you dare listen in.”
“Aren’t you coming to bed?”
“In a minute,” she replied, opening the door. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
Stone watched the light on the phone come on and resisted the temptation to listen in. He was still watching the light ten minutes later, when he fell asleep.
8
A full bladder woke Stone early in the morning, and he had relieved himself and crawled back into bed before he realized he was alone. He raised his head from the pillow. “Carpenter?” he called. No answer.
Stone struggled from the bed and looked in the bathroom, then in his study. She was gone, but her bags were still there. He stumbled back to bed, but as he lay there, his unconscious began to reveal what it had come up with during the night. After a few minutes of communing with his psyche, Stone sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Ten past nine, and he had slept like—excuse the expression—a stone.
He picked up the phone and called Dino at his office.
“Bacchetti,” Dino snapped into the phone.
“It’s Stone.”
“Don’t say another word. Meet me at Clarke’s for lunch.” He hung up.
“What the hell?” Stone said aloud. He was wide awake now, and he got into a shower and shaved, dressed, and went down to his lower-level office. He could hear Joan Robertson’s computer keyboard clicking away as he came into his office from the rear door. The clicking stopped.
“I’m in,” Stone called out.
Joan appeared in the doorway. “Herbie Fisher has called three times in the past twenty minutes,” she said, placing a call slip on his desk.
Stone groaned. “Get him for me. And I’m having lunch with Dino, so don’t book me for anything before three.”
Joan left, the light on Stone’s phone went on, and she buzzed him.
Stone picked up the phone. “Shut up, Herbie,” he said, before the kid could say anything.
“What have you gotten me into?” Herbie yelled.
“I told you to shut up, and if you don’t do it right now, I’ll hang up, and you can handle your own legal difficulties.”
Herbie shut up.
“Now listen to me very carefully, because this is the last time you and I are going to speak, on the phone or in person. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Herbie replied, sounding contrite.
“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced—”
“Reduced? I’ll still have to go to jail.”
“Shut up, Herbie.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced to something that will get you probation instead of time.”
“But I’ll still have a record,” Herbie protested.
“Shut up, Herbie.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have any prior arrests or convictions, and you’re gainfully employed, so we can probably get you unsupervised probation, so you won’t have to report in every week.”
“That would be nice.”
“It would be very fucking nice, seeing that the alternative is probably five to seven for the manslaughter charge.”
“When do I get paid?” Herbie asked.
“PAID!!!!????” Stone screamed down the phone. “Paid for what?”