“Did they do blood work or take a urine sample?”

“Just the urine sample.”

“That’s enough for a DNA test, I think. Who’s your doctor?”

“Samuel Somethingorother. I can’t remember the last name. He’s not my regular doctor, he’s an AME—an Aviation Medical Examiner—appointed by the FAA. Actually, he’s an ob-gyn who happens to be a pilot and thus has an interest in flying.”

“I’ll check him out. Let’s hope to God he’s not Kate’s ob-gyn. What’s his address?”

“He’s in the East Seventies, up near the Carlyle Hotel.”

“Oh, God, near Will and Kate’s apartment.”

Stone dug his FAA medical certificate from his wallet. “Wharton,” he said. “Samuel C. Wharton, M.D.”

“How were you referred to him?”

“There’s a list of AMEs on an aviation website. I chose him because he was the closest to my house.”

“Hang on a minute,” Ann said, and covered the phone again.

Stone waited patiently.

Three minutes later, Ann came back on the line. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

“Try me.”

“We looked him up on the Internet: Dr. Wharton and Kate were undergraduate classmates at Harvard.”

“Is he her doctor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if they knew each other in college, and I’m afraid to ask her.”

“Well, somebody is going to have to ask her. There are too many coincidences here not to excite the interest of reporters.”

“Stone, I hate to ask you this, but did you and Kate ever—”

“No! I’ve told you this before: Kate and I have never had any kind of physical relationship.”

“I mean, I could understand it if you did—you’re both such attractive people.”

“Ann, stop it!”

“I’m so sorry, I’m just so worried.”

“How about this: Kate and I take DNA tests on national television, from a doctor appointed by the Republican National Committee—”

“All right, all right! I’ll stop it. I’ll even ask Kate who her ob-gyn is!”

“I think you have to do that. Please let me know how this all turns out.”

“You may start getting calls from reporters.”

“I’ll fend them off, get my calls screened—”

“No! That’ll make you look guilty. Don’t run from them, just answer the question.”

“I hate doing that.”

“I hate your having to do it. I’ll call you when I’ve heard more.” She hung up.

Five seconds after she did, Stone’s phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID: Associated Press. He groaned.

27

Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“Is this Mr. Stone Barrington, an attorney at Woodman & Weld?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Jim Wardell, from the Associated Press.”

“What can I do for you, Jim?”

“I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you acquainted with a Dr. Samuel Wharton of New York?”

“I am.”

“Have you ever seen him as a patient?”

“Yes, about three weeks ago.”

“May I ask, did you have a medical complaint?”

“No, I had a need for a new medical certificate as a pilot.”

“Did you say ‘pilot’? As in an airplane?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you need a new medical certificate?”

“Because my old one expires at the end of this month. All are required to have a medical exam every two years, in order to maintain their flying privileges. Airline pilots have to have one every six months.”

“I see. Did you, as part of this medical exam, offer any bodily fluids for examination?”

“Well, I peed into a cup, if that’s what you mean.”

“Was this, ah, fluid sent to a lab for analysis?”

“I believe the way it’s done is, you pee into the cup, the doctor dunks some sort of test strip in it, and if the strip turns the correct color, you’re good, and they flush the rest.”

“What color should it turn?”

“I’ve no idea. I think it’s something to do with your blood sugar, and they want to know if you’re diabetic. What’s this about?”

“Do you know if Dr. Wharton is acquainted with Mrs. Katharine Lee?”

“Nope.”

“Nope, she isn’t?”

“Nope, I don’t know if she is or isn’t.”

“Are you aware that Dr. Wharton is an ob-gyn?”

“Yes, I saw a certificate on his office wall.”

“Then why were you seeing an ob-gyn for an aviation medical exam?”

“It’s like this: the Federal Aviation Agency appoints doctors in every city as Aviation Medical Examiners, in order to ensure that pilots are healthy enough to fly safely. My former AME retired, so I needed a new one. I went to the AOPA website—”

“AO what?”

“The Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association.”

“Right.”

“They have a list of all the AMEs in various cities, and I picked Dr. Wharton because he was the nearest to my home.”

“Did Katharine Lee recommend Dr. Wharton?”

“I just told you how I picked him. Are you having hearing problems?”

“No, I can hear you just fine.”

“Then stop asking me questions I’ve already answered—it’s annoying. Now I’m going to ask you just one more time: What’s this call about? And if I don’t get a straight answer, I’m hanging up.”

“Mr. Barrington, are you aware of a contention from an Internet blogger named Howard Axelrod that you are the father of the baby that Mrs. Katharine Lee is carrying?”

“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Are you, sir?”

“Am I what? Did you say you’re from the Associated Press? Because I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re from the Drudge Report.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Barrington.”

“What question?”

“About the baby.”

“Oh, that question. Let me spell it out for you: I am not the father of any baby that any woman on earth is carrying. Does that clear it up for you?”

“Does that include Katharine Lee’s baby?”

“Didn’t you hear me say ‘any woman on earth’?”

“Yes, but—”

“But my ass, or rather, bite my ass. And don’t call me again with stupid questions about something you came across on the Internet.” Stone ended the call. Immediately, the phone rang again. He punched the button. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Joe Jerkison from the Drudge Report.”

“Hi, there, got a pencil?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then write this down: I, Stone Barrington, am not the father of any baby carried by any woman on earth. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Bye-bye.” He hung up. The phone began ringing again. This time Stone found a paper clip, inserted it into the hole in the iPhone that opened the case, and disconnected the battery.

Peace!

Then the phone on his bedside table rang. Stone picked up the handset, punched line two, and called the operator.

“How may I help you, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’d like the operator to screen all my calls before putting them through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here is a list of names of people from whom I will accept calls.” He rattled off a dozen names. “Anyone else who calls is to be told that I am not available and that it is not known when or if I will be available. Is that clear?”

“And what if the person calling insists on speaking to you?”

“Then hang up.”

“Yes, sir. For how long shall your calls be screened?”

“Until I check out of the hotel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone hung up.

28

Stone replaced the battery in his iPhone and rerecorded his answering message to reflect the statement he had given to the AP and the Drudge guy, then he called his office. Busy signal. He reflected on the fact that he had four lines, then he called the cell number of his secretary, Joan.

“Hello, goddammit.”

“Joan?”

“Stone, is that you?”

“It is. Did you confuse me with our Maker?”