Naked Greed

“That doesn’t sound too good,” Dino admitted.

“Something else: remember the two dirty ex-cops, Ryan and Parisi? Well, the partners at Bowsprit are Jerry Brubeck and—wait for it—Gino Parisi.”

“That last one rings a distant bell. I’ll look into it.”

“One more item: Ryan and Parisi the younger are still dogging my client, and they knew he was staying at the Waldorf.”

“Okay, I’ll get our organized crime guys to have a sniff at it. Anything else your police department can do for you today?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of double-parking on my street lately.”

“Let the air out of their tires.” Dino hung up.

Stone hung up, too. He had no plans for the evening, and he didn’t like reading after dark. Also, there were no more old movies on TV to watch, since he’d seen them all at least three times. It seemed that the more recently produced movies made bad old movies. He picked up the phone, called Kelly & Kelly, and asked for Caroline Woodhouse.

“This is Caroline.”

“This is Stone Barrington. Hello again.”

“All right, hello again.”

“I know that when I said I hoped to see you again, you may not have thought it would be quite so soon, but would you like to have di

“Actually, I thought it might be soon, and yes, I would. I get hungry every evening around eight.”

“Anyplace special you’d like to go?”

“I’m fond of the Four Seasons Pool Room.”

“What a coincidence, so am I. Why don’t you come to my house for a drink at seven or so, and we’ll go on from there.”

“You talked me into it, but I don’t do ‘or so.’ I’ll be there at seven.”

He gave her the address, and they hung up. Stone alerted his factotum, Fred Flicker, to station himself near the front door at almost seven.

—

She was true to her word; the bell rang at precisely seven, and a moment later Fred showed her into Stone’s study. “Ms. Woodhouse,” Fred intoned. “When would you like the car, Mr. Barrington?”

“At seven forty-five.” Fred vanished.

“What would you like to drink?” Stone asked Caroline.

“What do you recommend?”

“The house specialties are vodka gimlets, vodka martinis, and excellent whiskeys.”

“What’s a vodka gimlet?”

“Trust me, if you don’t like it I’ll get you something else immediately.”

“I’m game.” She began looking at pictures.

Stone opened the little freezer, extracted a bottle of pre-made gimlets, poured her one and handed it to her, then he poured himself a Knob Creek.

She tasted the gimlet. “Whoa, that’s startling,” she said.

“I make them by the bottle and keep them in the freezer.”

“Make them how?”

“Simple—remove six ounces of vodka from a 750-milliliter bottle of vodka, replace it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, and put it in the freezer overnight.”

Caroline stopped before a painting. “Wait a minute, is this a Matilda Stone?”

“It is.”

“So, somehow you discovered who my favorite painter is, then rushed out and bought this? I’m impressed.”

“No, she’s my favorite painter, too. Would you like to see some others?”

“Yes, please.”

“There’s one more beside the door.” He waited for her to appreciate it, then took her into the living room and dining room and showed her some others.

“My God, how many do you have?”

“Eleven, at the moment, but I have a man still looking for more.”

“That’s more than the Metropolitan Museum has.”

“I know, they keep trying to buy mine. How did you discover Matilda Stone?”

“I saw one at an exhibition, then I discovered those at the Met. I bought four prints at the museum shop, and they’re my favorites of all my pictures. I paint, and she was an influence on my work.”

Stone took her back to the study and sat her down.

“Tell me your story,” he said.

“Long version or short version?”

“I’m not drunk enough for the long version.”

She laughed. “Smart guy. All right, born and bred in a small town in Georgia called Delano, bachelor’s in art history at Vassar, then a master’s in design at Pratt. I met the Kelly boys right after school in a bar, and the next thing I knew I was an art director at their nascent agency. Now I’m head of the art department. Your turn.”

“Born and bred in Greenwich Village, educated at PS 3, NYU, and NYU Law. When time came to practice law I decided to do it on the street, instead of in the courts, so I joined the NYPD, and did that for fourteen years, then I finally passed the bar and became a proper attorney-at-law.”

“Considering your house and your collection of Matilda Stones, you must have done very well at it.”

“I inherited the house from my great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister—and the begi

“Why did you leave the police department?”

“You aren’t drunk enough for that story. Suffice it to say, it was time I grew up and got a real job, even if it wasn’t as much fun as being a cop.”

“What kind of cop were you?”

“I started as a patrolman, like everybody else, and ended up as a homicide detective.”

“And that was fun?”

“You’d be surprised how entertaining a corpse can be. And anyway, everybody loves a murder mystery.”

“Then you should write murder mysteries.”

“I’ll save that for my golden years.”

They had another drink, then Fred drove them to the Four Seasons.

They dined exceedingly well. Stone assumed that, although Caroline Woodhouse was “fond” of the Four Seasons, she didn’t often dine there, so when ordering, he pulled out all the stops.

Caroline took her food seriously, savoring each bite and making appreciative groans at intervals. When they had finished their appetizers and main courses, then a Grand Marnier soufflé, she sat back, patted her lips demurely with her napkin, and gave him a little smile. “Now what?” she asked.

“Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I would like to go back to your house, then fuck your brains out.”

Stone’s heart skipped a beat. He was unaccustomed to being solicited in that fashion.

“I can’t find anything to object to in that,” he replied finally, signaling the captain for a check. He signed it quickly, and they left. They were shortly back at his house, and in the elevator.

“Tell me,” she said, “how were you going to get around to seducing me?”

“I was going to offer to show you four more Matilda Stone paintings,” he said, “which are in my bedroom.”

“You make me almost sorry I asked you first.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

The elevator disgorged them onto the fifth floor, and Stone led her into the master suite. “There you are,” he said, indicating the wall where the pictures hung.

Caroline took in each of them while undressing, folding her garments and leaving them on a chair. Since Stone didn’t need to look at the pictures again, he was ahead of her.

“These are the originals of the prints I bought in the museum shop,” she said. “They are her best work, I think.”

“I agree,” Stone said, moving behind her and pressing against her buttocks.

She turned to face him and put an arm around his neck. “Already ready,” she said, taking him in her hand. “And big, but not too big.” She pushed him backward onto the bed and mounted him.