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he would have said.)
    Stone was speechless for a moment. When he recovered himself he told Joan to take some dictation. “The only true statement in your blurb about Bernie Finger and me is that it’s all a lie. Even if I didn’t say so.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Fax it to them now.”
    “You think they’ll print it?”
    “I don’t know; what else can I do?”
    “I know somebody who’ll kill Bernie Finger for five thousand dollars.”
    “No you don’t.”
    “ I would kill him for five thousand dollars.”
    “I can’t afford it. Just fax the statement to Page Six, will you?”
    Joan left, and Stone called Bob Cantor. Cantor was an ex-cop who was expert in all things technical, especially surveillance, and who often did work for Stone.
    “Cantor.”
    “Bob, it’s Stone.”
    “Hey, Stone, what’s up?”
    “First of all, your insane nephew says people are trying to kill him, and he wants to come and stay at my house.”
    “I wouldn’t advise that. Last time I put him up I had to get my 500 mm Hasselblad lens out of hock.”
    “Don’t worry.”
    “The kid is kind of rich, you know.”
    “ What? ”
    “Kind of. His mother died and left him the house in Brooklyn, free and clear. He rents four apartments, which gives him a nice income, and he lives in the super’s apartment.”
    “That little shit. He owes a bookie twenty-four grand and won’t pay. He could have borrowed from a bank on the house.”
    “No, he couldn’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m his trustee, and I won’t let him do that, and he knows it. Did you want to talk about something besides Herbie? I’m getting nauseous.”
    “Yeah, I’ve got a job for you.”
    “Shoot.”
    “There’s a building on Park Avenue in the sixties, new, very skinny, one apartment to a floor.”
    “I know the one.”
    “Good. Here’s what I want you to do.” He gave Cantor full instructions, then hung up.
    Joan came into his office, grinning. “That’s wonderful!” she said. “I love it.”
    “You were listening to my phone conversation?”
    “You betcha.”
    “Didn’t you ever hear of the Constitution of the United States?”
    “Vaguely.”
    “It says you can’t do that; I have a right to privacy.”
    “Not from me, you don’t; I know everything about you.”
    “Not everything.”
    “What I don’t know isn’t worth knowing,” she said, and sauntered back to her office.
    Stone dug out Celia’s number and called her.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi, it’s Stone.”
    “Thank you for last evening,” she said. “I enjoyed myself.”
    “So did I. Let’s do it again.”
    “When?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Tomorrow night.”
    “Great. Where do you want to meet?”
    “Does your house have a kitchen?”
    “Of course, a very nice one.”
    “Let’s meet there; I’ll cook dinner for you.”
    “You talked me into it.”
    “Seven?”
    “Perfect. Can I shop for anything for you?”
    “I’ll bring everything but the wine.”
    “I’ve already got that.”
    “Bye.”
    “Bye.” Stone hung up feeling better.

15
    B ob Cantor packed his car and left his Brooklyn apartment.
    Stone Barrington, he reflected, was his favorite client, not because he gave him the most work but because the work was always interesting. Cantor had kicked open his share of bedroom doors, but this was a new wrinkle, and he was looking forward to it.
    He drove into Manhattan and up the FDR Drive, then got off at Sixty-third Street and drove toward Park Avenue. He parked in a very expensive garage just off Park, took his large equipment case, the one with the wheels, and his tripod from the trunk, then walked down Park until he reached the building in question. It was a steel-and-glass tower of around fifteen stories, very slim and elegant, and he could only guess at what the apartments cost. He stood to one side of the building and looked up.
    What he saw was an array of tall buildings, but the one that interested him most was directly across the street, a prewar co-op