Standup Guy

“It never crossed my mind,” Stone said. “At least, not until this afternoon.”

“Is there something we—Will—can do for you?”

“Since you ask, yes. But my request is an odd one, and one you and Will might not wish to grant, for all sorts of reasons.”

“Tell me about it. If we can’t do it, then nothing will go farther than this conversation, but maybe we can help.”

“You recall the saga of Teddy Fay?”

Kate laughed. “How could I forget it? I knew him when he was still at the Agency, you know, and I liked him.”

“He’s surfaced,” Stone said.

“Oh, God, where this time?”

“First, in New Mexico, where he saved my son’s life.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “How on earth did he do that?”

“You may remember a Russian mobster by the name of Majorov.”

“Of course, you had all that trouble with him in Paris.”

“Today’s front page of the New York Post is devoted to him. He was flying from L.A. to Moscow in his private jet, and when he arrived in Moscow, he was dead, ostensibly of a heart attack.”

“But?”

“Teddy did that. Majorov had been trying to take over The Arrington, and I wouldn’t deal with him, so he went after Peter. Teddy took two assassins off Peter’s trail when he, Ben Bacchetti, and Hattie Patrick drove across the country; then he turned up in L.A. and was helpful again. I owe him Peter’s life.”

“And you want what for Teddy?”

“A presidential pardon.”

Kate’s jaw dropped again. “I don’t see—”

“Hear me out,” Stone said. “Every president, at the end of his term, hands out pardons—sometimes few, sometimes many. Would it be possible for Will to issue a sealed pardon—say, at the request of the intelligence services—so that Teddy’s name and the pardon’s contents would never be disclosed?”

“I don’t know if that’s ever been done before,” Kate said.

“Kate, I know what Teddy has done—or may have done, but he’s never been convicted of anything in a court of law, and no notice has ever been given by the FBI that he’s wanted for anything.”

“You have a point,” she said. “Let me talk with Will about it. I’m sure he’ll want to get some advice, and I’ll ask him to limit who he asks for it. I wish I could give you an answer now, but it will have to wait, maybe until near the end of Will’s term.”

“Thank you, Kate. It’s an unusual request, and I’ll understand if it can’t be granted.”

The butler called them to di

9

Stone was having his usual breakfast in bed when his private line rang. Caller ID said the U.K. was calling. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Emma.”

“Good morning, or rather, good afternoon.” It was five hours later in London. “I hope you’re well.”

“Sort of well.”

“That sounds like not great.”

“Personally, I’m fine, but not business-wise.”

“What’s the problem? Not that I know a hell of a lot about business, but I’ll help if I can.”

“Somebody is copying our designs, stitch for stitch, and selling them at less than what it costs us to make them.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“No, and I don’t know how to find out.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes, days ago, but they don’t seem to take this sort of thing seriously. They say I’d have more luck bringing a civil action, but I don’t know who to sue.”

Stone thought for a moment. “Maybe a private investigator would be the best thing.”

“I don’t know any private investigators.”

“Neither do I, but I know a recently retired policeman, one Detective Chief Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton, who might be able to help.”

“Throckmorton? You must be joking—it’s like a name out of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it. But he knows policemen all over Europe, so he could be useful to you.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Tell me, how soon after you introduce something do the knockoffs appear?”

“Simultaneously. Once, a couple of days before.”

“Then it sounds like an inside job.”

“I know that term from film noir, but I don’t know what it means.”

“It means that somebody working for you—or for someone with access to your designs, like your manufacturer—is selling them to someone else.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I should have thought of that.”

“I’d give it some thought. It’s the first thing Throckmorton would want to investigate. Is there someone who works for you that you don’t entirely trust? A disgruntled ex-employee? Think along those lines. Would you like Throckmorton’s number?”

“Yes, please.”

Stone looked it up and gave it to her. “How are you coming along on moving some operations to Los Angeles?” He had an ulterior motive for wanting to know.

“Surprisingly well,” she replied.

“It might be harder for people to steal your designs in Europe if you were working out of the United States.”

“Oh, you just want me back in your bed!”

“Guilty!”

“If it’s any consolation, I miss being there. Soon, I’m going to have to start picking up lads in pubs to quench my fires.”

“Quenching fires is one of the things I do best,” Stone said, “but it’s hard on a transoceanic call. We could have phone sex, but all sorts of people might be listening.”

“I’ll see what I can do to move things along,” she said. “We can’t have the intelligence services eavesdropping on our sex lives.”

“Then get your ass in gear!”

“Let me speak to your DCI Throckmorton. The sooner I get this resolved, the sooner I can be back in New York.”

“Then why are you wasting time talking to me?”

“You’re right! Goodbye!”

They both hung up.

Stone got up, shaved, showered, and dressed and went to his office. He had not even gotten through the mail when Joan buzzed. “There’s a teddibly, teddibly British chap named Throckmorton on line one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Evelyn?”

“Barrington.”

“I don’t suppose I can call you Detective Chief Inspector since you’re retired, and Former Detective Chief Inspector seems a bit much. May we be on a first-name basis?”

“Stone,” Throckmorten said.

“I trust you’re enjoying your retirement.”

“I was, until I heard from this woman, Tweed, to whom you gave my private number.”

“It occurred to me that a DCI’s pension might do with an occasional bolstering.”

“Are you trying to sound British, old chap?”

“Hearing your voice brings it out in me. Are you taking the job, or did you tell her to get stuffed?”

“Who is this woman?”

“She’s one of Britain’s most famous fashion designers, actually—just the sort of person you would never have heard of.”

“Is she mad?”

“In the British sense of the word? No. But she is angry—her business is being attacked.”

“So she said. Probably some disaffected clerk making a few quid on the side.”

“That was my first thought, too.”

“Can she pay?”

“In addition to being very famous, she is very successful.”

“Ah, then it might not be entirely a waste of my time if I went to see her.”

“It might not.”

“What are you doing with yourself? I haven’t seen you since you somehow poked your nose into that explosion at the American Embassy last year.”

“I’m trying not to poke my nose into things like that,” Stone said. “I’m just a quiet-living, respectable attorney-at-law these days, dabbling in my clients’ businesses from time to time.”

“I’m sure you’re making ungodly amounts of money. That’s what Americans do, isn’t it?”

“Every chance we get. Now here’s your chance to stuff your bank account by putting all those recently unused police skills to work in the private sector.”

“Ah, yes, the private sector—never had much to do with that.”

“Try it, you’ll like it.”

“What should I charge her?”

“To make that sort of suggestion would be a conflict of interest for me, since I have an interest in the lady. Let’s just say that good businesspeople understand that people with skills must be reasonably well paid, and they expect to get what they pay for.”