Dino glanced at his watch. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “Channel Two news. We’ve got about a minute.”

Stone picked up the remote and tuned it. “What are we looking for?”

“It will be self-explanatory,” Dino said.

Everybody settled down to watch, and a moment later an anchorman appeared, after a story about a dog who had saved a cat from drowning.

“A little more than an hour ago,” he said, “the NYPD raided premises in Brooklyn that turned out to be a very large chop shop, which is where stolen vehicles are taken to be dismantled and have their parts sold.” The screen changed to a helicopter shot of a huge steel shed surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights and men and women in armored vests. “The shop housed more than thirty vehicles, all German cars, like Porsches and Mercedeses, and is said by locals to have been in operation for at least two years, disguised as an auto repair establishment.” The camera switched to an indoor shot, showing a pile of multicolored fenders stacked like saucers. “Just pick one the color of your Mercedes and buy at a very significant discount from the dealer’s price. The alleged owner of the shop was not present for the raid, but is being sought for an interview by police.”

“Okay, you can cut it off now,” Dino said.

Stone switched from the TV to some light jazz. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to get the credit for your raid, and from all the wrong people.”

“You mean us? You sure get the credit there. Donatello went out there and bought a Porsche alternator for a hundred bucks. You got any idea what that would cost new?”

“I don’t know, five hundred?”

“More like a thousand. We put that raid together in less than four hours. What were you talking about, ‘credit from the wrong people’?”

Stone took his recorder from his pocket, set it on the coffee table, and switched it on, replaying his conversation with Bats Buono. When it was finished, he switched it off. “I didn’t record the part where I said if he messed with me I’d blow his head off.”

“So he’s going to think that you set up the raid! That’s hilarious!”

“Well, I guess I’m responsible for it, but I sure as hell didn’t set it up. You’ve certainly done wonders for my credibility with a certain segment of the community, Dino, but not a hell of a lot for my peace of mind.”

“I’ll put a car on you for a week,” Dino said. “How’s that? Or would you rather just get out of town?”

“I’ve been thinking about spending some time in London,” Stone said. “Looks like it might be the right moment.”

“Good move.”

“You’ll call me when you’ve bagged Buono?”

“Sure.”

They chatted for a while longer, then, at the appointed hour, went down to the kitchen, where Hank Cromwell was just finishing setting the table. “Array yourselves,” she said, “and we’ll dine.”

Everyone sat down, and a moment later, plates with sautéed fresh foie gras and sliced figs were set before them. There was much smacking of lips and many ooohs and aaahs around the table. Stone went to the wine cabinet and came back with a bottle of Le Montrachet, 1978, and opened it. Everyone sipped.

“The perfect companion to my dish,” Hank said. “Wherever did you come by that?”

“It was the gift of my Parisian friend, Marcel duBois,” Stone said, “along with some other grand bottles, one of which we’ll have with our main course.”

They polished off the foie gras in short order, and finished the wine while Hank put the finishing touches on the main course, which turned out to be a poularde, a fat, older hen, in a champagne sauce. Stone selected a bottle of Château Palmer, 1961, decanted it, and poured Dino a sip.

“Never had anything that good before,” Dino said, “unless it was the white wine.”

“Another perfect accompaniment,” Hank said, serving the chicken. “From your French friend?”

“Yes, indeed, and there’s a dessert wine to come.”

It took them the better part of an hour, what with conversation and seconds, to get through the main course, then Hank served a crème brûlée, after sealing the sugar top with a chef’s blowtorch. The crust was so thick, Stone had to hammer on it with a large spoon to break through. He served them a half bottle of Château Coutet, 1959, with the dessert.

Finally, over coffee and a vintage cognac, Stone played the recording of his conversation with Buono for Hank.

“My goodness,” Hank said, breathless, when she had heard it. “I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to him that way.”

“There was a little more from my end,” Stone said, “but I didn’t record it, in case it ever is played in court.”

“Was my name mentioned?” she asked.

“No, it was not. He has no idea we know each other.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Hank said. “After all, I may be the only civilian he’s told about the chop shop.”

“Then we shouldn’t be seen together for a while,” Stone said. “I have to go to London tomorrow on business, so that takes care of me. Now we have to take care of you.”

“I’ll put a police car on you until we’ve bagged Buono,” Dino said.

“That would be a great relief. And I won’t have to testify?”

“I think Stone’s tape will cover it for the DA.”

“Hank,” Viv said, changing the subject, “I’d ask you for the recipes for everything we had tonight, but I’d never find the time to prepare it all. Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“From my mother and Julia Child, and an Englishwoman named Elizabeth David, who wrote wonderful cookbooks.”

“You certainly learned well. You could easily be a pro.”

“I wouldn’t find that fun,” she said, “doing it every day for strangers. I prefer doing it occasionally for people I like.”

“We’re always available for that,” Viv said.

“Hank, pardon my asking, but are you staying the night with Stone?” Dino asked.

“Yes,” Stone answered for her.

“What time do you go to work?”

“At eight.”

“Then there’ll be an unmarked police car outside at that hour, and he will transport you to and from work and wherever else you need to go, until Mr. Buono is safely locked up.”

“Thank you, Dino.”

• • •

Later, in bed, Stone and Hank showed their gratitude to each other for good food and police protection.

31

The following morning at seven-thirty, Stone walked out his front door and had a look up and down the block. An unmarked car waited at the curb, idling, two men in the front seat. He saw no threat, so he went and got Hank, kissed her, and put her into the backseat. “I’ll be back in a few days, maybe a week, and I’ll call you then,” he said. The car drove away.

Joan backed Stone’s Bentley out of the garage, and he put his luggage in the trunk. She drove him to JFK while he leafed through the Times. There was a report on the Red Hook raid of Buono’s chop shop, and Stone savored every detail. He made the morning flight to London and managed to get in a nap to replace some of the sleep he had lost by rising so early. His flight picked up a brisk tailwind across the Atlantic, and he was at Heathrow by eight-thirty PM, London time.

As he left customs with his luggage cart, he saw a chauffeur holding a card with his name on it. Shortly, he was in the backseat of a large Mercedes, on his way into the city.

He arrived at Emma Tweed’s house in Holland Park, an elegant neighborhood with large houses, and the chauffeur carried in his luggage, while Emma kissed him, took his coat, and walked him into the kitchen, where she served him a light supper of cold meats and a salad. He stayed up as late as he could, so that he would get a good night’s sleep and temper the jet lag, then they went to bed.

“You’re too tired to take me on tonight,” Emma said. “Sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Take this,” she said, handing him a small pill.