Carnal Curiosity (10 page)

“But how would Dugan know there’d be a dinner party here tonight, and that the guests would be wearing so much jewelry?”

“I’m only guessing, but I’d say that his installers, when they were here doing their work, might have overheard something from the Coulters or one of their servants. Maybe they even got a look at the invitation on Jack’s desk. Any dinner party here would attract a lot of jewelry, but ‘black tie’ on the invitation means all the women will be wearing their best stuff. And I’ll bet there were more than a few Patek Philippe wristwatches among the gentlemen.”

“Those would be easier to trace, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, but not so much in Hong Kong or Mumbai.”

They finished dinner, then said their good nights.

“I’m sorry the party got so exciting,” Hillary Coulter said to them.

“I managed to hang on to my jewelry,” Ann replied.

“I’m happy for you,” Hillary said. “Stone, so you imagine this will make the newspapers?”

“I expect the type is being set as we speak,” Stone replied. “You may not want to answer the phone tomorrow.”

“We have an unlisted number.”

“That won’t slow them down. Just have a maid answer and take messages.”

They took the elevator downstairs and found the receptionist back at his desk and the doorman getting cabs for people. Fred and the Bentley awaited at the curb.

They were getting out of the car at Ann’s building when Dino’s car stopped, and he got out.

“You’re still up?” Stone asked.

“I’ve done all I can do.”

“Did you find Dugan?”

“One of the tenants in the building said that Dugan and Crane had gone to the country for the weekend.”

“That’s what I would do, if I had planned a robbery in the city,” Stone said. “Is somebody looking for him?”

“Our source didn’t say where in the country. We’ll visit him Monday morning.”

“Best to Viv,” Stone said, and Dino walked off toward his elevator.

“I’m on the other elevator bank,” Ann said. “Like a nightcap? I’m still wide awake.”

“Sure,” Stone said, and they rode up to her floor.

Her apartment was smaller than Dino’s, but beautifully furnished, with good pictures. “Looks as though your grandmother left you more than jewelry,” he said, looking around.

“Yes, this place is furnished almost entirely with things she left. I had a chance to cherry-pick the furniture and pictures before her house was sold.”

She poured them a cognac, and they sat on the living room sofa. “I fully expect you to make a major pass at some point,”
Ann said, “and I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, but please, not tonight. I’m still awake, but I’m tired.”

“Would you normally be in bed by this time?”

“Yes, but with a book or, more likely, some campaign document. I have to be in the office by nine, but I sleep only about six hours. How about you?”

“More like eight—after all, my office is in the house.”

“I remember, I was there.”

“Of course. Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night? I promise we won’t be visited by men with shotguns.”

“Sure.”

“Come at seven, then.”

“All right.”

Stone polished off his cognac and said good night.

Fred was waiting. “Did you have a good evening, Mr. Barrington?”

“An interesting one, Fred. The dinner guests were robbed of their jewelry at gunpoint.”

“I saw the police arrive, but I didn’t know they were headed for your floor. I didn’t see anyone arrive or leave who looked like a robber.”

“They probably came in through the basement garage,” Stone said. “Apparently, it’s accessible via an alley.”

“I did notice that the doorman disappeared. I thought he had gone home for the night, but then he turned up again later. I guess he was having his dinner.”

“No, he was locked in a closet with the receptionist, until the police freed them.”

“Well, you never know, do you?”

“No, you never know.”

20

S
tone had finished breakfast and the Sunday
New York Times
and was watching
The Chris Matthews Show
on television while idly working on the
Times
crossword when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone Barrington?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Don Dugan.”

Stone was stunned into silence. Why would this jerk be calling him? “Yes?” he said finally.

“I know that you and I got off on the wrong foot, and I’m sorry about that. Why don’t we have lunch one day next week and talk? I’m really not such a bad guy.”

“That remains to be seen,” Stone said.

“I know that Crane probably said some things about me that weren’t entirely true—that’s the way a relationship can go when it’s on the rocks. I think you and I might have more in common than you think.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Stone said. “I’m not interested in having lunch with you. Anything else?”

“Now, don’t be that way. Let’s talk, see if we can get along.”

“Let me set you straight once and for all, Mr. Dugan: since the first moment I laid eyes on you I haven’t seen or heard a single good thing about you, not one. On the other hand, I’ve heard a lot of bad things about you, enough to make me believe that you are someone I want nothing to do with. Crane is a big girl, but she seems to have trouble learning from experience. I expect that she will soon regret becoming reacquainted with you, and when she does I hope no harm will come to her, because if that happened I would start to take a much deeper interest in you and your affairs than you might find comfortable.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Dugan said.

“Then you’re more perceptive than I thought. Don’t contact me again.” Stone hung up. He was too angry to concentrate on either the television program or the crossword. He needed a change, and he called Ann at home.

“Hello?”

“So you’re not working?”

“I’m reading the
Times
, that’s work for me.”

“I had a thought. It’s a beautiful day, and I have a pretty little house in the upper left-hand corner of Connecticut. Why don’t we drive up there, have dinner in a very good restaurant, and stay the night. I’ll have you at your office by noon tomorrow.”

“You know, I just had a call canceling a meeting for tomorrow morning, so I’ll hardly know what to do with myself. You’re on.”

“Then I’ll pick you up in an hour. Bring a toothbrush and a change of socks.”

She laughed. “I’ll be downstairs in an hour.”

Stone showered and shaved, got dressed, threw some things into a valise, put on his best tweed jacket, and left a voice mail message for Joan. “I have disappeared from your life until midday tomorrow. Don’t try to find me.”

Stone went down to the garage, pulled the cover off the Blaise, the French sports car he had bought a year before, and backed it out of the garage. Ann was standing under the awning of her building with a couple of small bags when he arrived. He pressed the trunk button, and the doorman set her luggage inside, then he pressed the button that opened the gullwing door on the passenger side, and she got in. And offered him a kiss.

“Good God, what is this machine?”

“It’s a Blaise.”

“Aha! I read about it in the
Times
last year. It made quite a splash at the auto show.”

“It did. I bought it from my friend Marcel duBois, who is its builder.”

“Is he the same friend who gave you Fred?”

“He is.” Stone drove up Madison, took a left on East Sixty-sixth Street, crossed Central Park, and soon they were across the Harlem River Bridge and on the Sawmill River Parkway. He tuned in some jazz on the satellite radio and pressed the map button on the huge glass display screen and selected the address of the Connecticut house. The route appeared on the screen. “That’s where we’re going,” he said.

“Washington? I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never been.”

“It’s the prettiest village in Connecticut, bar none.” He pressed a button on the steering wheel and said, “Set the
temperature at sixty-eight degrees and the fan on auto.” The number appeared on the screen, and cool air came into the cabin.

“Does it drive itself?” she asked.

“Almost. If there’s an obstruction in the road, like a deer or a wreck, it will stop us faster and more smoothly than I could, but otherwise, it leaves the driving to me, which is more fun.”

There was the sound of a cell phone ringing, and Ann dug it out of her purse. “Hello? Hi, boss.”

“Hi, Kate,” Stone shouted.

“Yes, he’s driving us up to Connecticut. I’ll be in the office by noon tomorrow.” She covered the phone. “She says hi back. Yes, I have. I’ll e-mail my draft to you, and you can send back your changes and I’ll incorporate them and send you a final draft. We’ll do our best to have a good time. Bye.” She hung up and pressed some keys to send the e-mail.

“I guess I should have expected that,” Stone said.

“I’m away, but I’m not out of touch. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

“Do what you have to do, I’ll adapt.”

“That’s sweet of you, but it would be nice if I didn’t have to talk to anybody from the campaign, even Kate, for a few hours.”

“Then switch off your phone.”

“I can’t do that. I’d run the risk of seeing something about the campaign on TV that I don’t already know.”

“God forbid.”

“That’s how you operate in these circumstances. You have to know everything before some reporter asks you about it.” Her phone rang. “Hello, Chris. I’m taking the day off, can it wait until tomorrow? And I’ll want to know who else is on. You’re
sweet.” She hung up. “Chris Matthews. He wants me on his Sunday show next week.”

“I haven’t seen you on TV yet.”

“I try not to appear too often. I wait until I have something important to say.”

“A good policy. What will you say next weekend? Has something important happened?”

“Something will. And just about everything is important at this stage of the game.”

An hour and a half later they pulled into Stone’s driveway and came to a stop in front of the cottage.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you.” He took their bags inside and upstairs, and she followed.

“How about a nap before dinner?” she asked, kissing him.

“You talked me into it,” Stone replied, working on his buttons.

They dined at the West Street Grill, in Litchfield, and they both saw people they knew.

“So we’re an item now,” Ann said.

“Willy-nilly.”

“Okay by me,” she said.

Then they went home and took another nap.

21

E
arly light was filtering through the blinds in Stone’s Connecticut bedroom when, suddenly, “The Stars and Stripes Forever” filled the room at high volume.

Stone sat up in bed, his hands over his ears. Ann Keaton slept soundly beside him, undisturbed. He shook her. “Ann, turn off your cell phone.”

“Huh?” she said sleepily, then she sat up and looked at him dumbly. “What?”

Stone pointed at the bedside table. “Your cell phone!”

Ann took some serious-looking plugs from her ears. “Oh!” She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

Stone collapsed onto the bed, his ears ringing.

“What? Who the fuck is this?” She listened some more. “Where? Do you have any idea what time it is on the East Coast?” She listened again, and her face furrowed into a deep frown. “Neither the candidate nor I have any comment to make.” Finally, she hung up. “What time is it?” she asked.

Stone checked the bedside clock. “A little after five.”

“What time would it be on the West Coast?”

“Three hours earlier—a little after two a.m. Listen, next time we sleep together, I get the earplugs, okay?”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m hard to wake up.”

“Not even John Philip Sousa does it for you?”

“Not while I’m wearing earplugs.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“I have to go back to New York,” she said.

“I’ll have you back by noon, as promised. Now, please go back to sleep.”

“You don’t understand, everything has changed.”

“What could happen in California at two a.m. that would change everything?” He was wide awake now.

“The vice president,” she said, as if that were an explanation.

“Has he been assassinated?”

“Worse. He’s been caught in bed with a woman not his wife.”

“Doesn’t he have Secret Service protection?”

“Yes, but he smuggled her into his house in La Jolla, and the press were alerted. The woman has a husband, apparently, and he has some connections in the news media. Last month, a Secret Service agent was summarily kicked off the VP’s detail, and he got mad enough to call the husband. At least, he thinks that’s what happened.”

“Who thinks?”

“The West Coast bureau chief for the AP. That’s who called.”

“Why would he call you?”

“For comment.”

“Comment?”

“Don’t you get it? Kate’s biggest opponent just got caught with his pants down. Literally.”

“Oh. I guess that could affect the race, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. She picked up her cell phone and pressed a speed-dial button. “Jeff,” she said, “it’s Ann. Marty Stanton has been caught with a woman at his house in La Jolla. No, not his wife. Get your ass out of bed and get a breakfast-time poll started. This will be all over the morning shows, and we have to know how Stanton’s supporters break when they get the news. I’ll be back in the office by nine a.m.” She hung up.

“What are your expectations?”

“It won’t matter to some of his supporters. White males will stick with him, women of all races won’t. We just can’t predict how many will support Kate and how many support others in the race.”

“You’ve got the New Hampshire primary coming up pretty soon. That ought to be a pretty good poll.”

“Yes, but in New Hampshire—we can’t wait for that. This will affect where and how we spend advertising dollars. Kate will probably have to spend a lot more time in California before New Hampshire. Before, we had pretty much conceded the state to Stanton, since he’s a very popular former California governor. Now there are delegates to be picked up. Let’s get out of here.”