Stone signed in the relevant places and handed the papers back to him. “Fly it in good health,” he said. “It’s always served me well.”
Freeman handed him another envelope. “And these need your signature for your new airplane,” he said.
Stone walked home with a spring in his step, the check burning a hole in his pocket.
ELEVEN
Stone hired a driver and went to pick up Adele Lansdown at her apartment at 71 East Seventy-first Street. He knew that this was the side door for a more famous address, 740 Park Avenue, said to be the most prestigious in the city.
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.”
“And how do you feel about David?”
“I love the boy. He’s always been the perfect young man, you know—top of his class, everybody’s choice to succeed.” She made as if to continue, but stopped.
“But?”
“But I don’t understand his generation; they are all so different from the way we are, used to having everything so early in their adulthood.”
“You think he might have cut corners?”
“A billion dollars’ worth of corners?” she asked. “It hardly seems possible.”
“I guess we’ll know when the accountants are done,” Stone said.
When they were back in the car Adele said, “Now I’d like to see your mother’s pictures.”
Stone mixed them a drink in the living room, then took Adele upstairs in the elevator and switched on the lights that washed the wall where the four pictures hung.
Adele went and stood before them, gazing intently at one after the other. She turned and put her hand on her breast. “They take my breath away,” she said.
“They still do that to me, too,” Stone replied.
“If you should ever—”
Stone held up a hand. “Never. They’ll go to the Metropolitan Museum—eventually—to hang with her other work there. The museum shop is already selling reproductions that are somewhat smaller than the originals.”
Adele sipped her drink and looked around the room. “You’ve done this quite well,” she said. “Who was your designer?”
“I was,” Stone replied.
“I’m not at all uncomfortable in your bedroom,” she said, “but I’d like to take one more look at your pictures and then be taken home.”
“As you wish,” Stone said. He waited until she was finished, then took her empty glass and led her to the elevator.
“Did you ever marry?” she asked on the way down.
“Never,” Stone lied. There had been a marriage, with the daughter of a friend, but it was terminated after only a few weeks. He had never felt married.
“Do you have something against the institution?” she asked.
“No, I always assumed I would be married someday; it just hasn’t happened.”
They left the elevator and walked to the car.
“Have you ever come close to marrying?” she asked as he opened the door for her.
“Yes, but I’ve managed to stay out of serious trouble.”
She laughed. “A bachelor would look at it that way.”
“It was just a joke,” he said.
“I wonder,” she replied.
“I’ll have the driver take you home, if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” she said. She reached up and put her hand on his cheek, then kissed him in a meaningful way. “I hope you’ll ask me out again.”
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“I’m perfectly available.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine on Saturday morning, then.”
“Where are we going?”
“A surprise,” he said. “Bring country clothes and some good boots for walking and a warm coat.”
“I’ll be ready,” she said.
He kissed her again, then put her in the car and sent it on its way. Now he had something to look forward to.
TWELVE
Stone was having breakfast in bed the following morning while doing the Times crossword puzzle with the TV on. He was distracted from the puzzle by the mention of Jack Gunn’s name and turned his attention to the TV.
“A moment ago,” the reporter was saying, “the forensic accountants who have spent the past days combing through the business records of Gunn Investments made the following statement.”
A man in a pin-striped suit appeared on camera: “After a thorough inspection of the books and computer systems of Gunn Investments, we have concluded that no money is missing, and no wrongdoing has been committed by anyone in the firm. We did find and have corrected an anomaly in the firm’s computer software that incorrectly transferred some of the firm’s general fund to three of its foreign accounts. Those funds have been returned to the New York account, and the books now balance. We have recommended to the Securities and Exchange Commission that the firm’s customer accounts be unfrozen, and we have recommended to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York that no charges be filed against any member of the firm.”