Stone sat on the arm of a formerly overstuffed chair in Herbie Fisher’s apartment and watched the two detectives pick their way around the apartment.

“Well, so far,” Detective One said, “this is vandalism, as I see it.”

Detective Two nodded in agreement.

“It’s kidnapping, possibly a homicide, with burglary,” Stone said.

Detective Two shook his head. “I don’t see anything missing.”

Stone sighed. “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be missing.”

“Huh?”

“Herbie had money here; you see any money?”

“Well, no, but how do we know there ever was any money here?”

“We have only the kidnap victim’s word for that, but it’s a start, don’t you agree?”

Cantor broke in. “Look, guys, my nephew has been missing for three days, and when we enter the apartment, we find this.” He waved an arm around.

“What can I tell you?” Detective One said.

“I’ll bet you could tell me a lot if the kidnapped person was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old model. I’ll bet your crime scene people would be all over this.”

“Here’s another thing,” Detective Two said. “You’ve disturbed this crime scene; it’s no longer any good.”

Stone and Cantor both held up both hands to show their latex gloves.

“We’re both retired from the job,” Cantor said. “You think we don’t know at least as much as you two assholes about crime scenes?”

“Now, speaking to us disrespectfully is not going to get you extra service,” Detective One said, sounding hurt.

“When I speak of you disrespectfully, it will be in the newspapers,” Stone said, “which is my next stop if you don’t get your ass in gear and put out a bulletin on Herbie. As we explained to you, he owes one of Carmine Dattila’s bookies a lot of money, so you already have a suspect.”

“Yeah, but that Dattila guy works out of Manhattan,” Detective Two said.

“He works wherever the fuck he wants to work,” Cantor pointed out, “and the kidnapping and burglary happened in Brooklyn, in, of all places, your precinct. And in just a minute, I’m going to be speaking to your captain.”

“While I’m speaking to the New York Post,” Stone added.

“Awright, awright,” Detective One said. “I’ll make out a report and get Mr. Fisher’s description circulated.”

Stone’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Yes?”

“It’s Joan. You have a new client waiting, so you should get your ass back here in a hurry. This one smells of money.”

“What new client? Eggers hasn’t said anything about sending anybody over.”

“Mrs. Bernard Finger.”

“I’ll be right there,” Stone said. He closed the phone. “Bob, you’ll have to take it from here; I’ve got a fire to build.”

Cantor nodded.

Stone ran out of the building, searching for a cab.

Joan met him at the outer door to his office. “She’s very upset; I did the best I could to calm her.”

“Good girl,” Stone said, kissing her on the top of her head. He strode into his office and found Mrs. Bernard Finger sitting on his sofa, sipping a cup of tea and munching on a cookie, looking not at all upset. She appeared to be in her early forties, very well maintained and pretty much a knockout in her age group and maybe a couple of younger ones, Stone thought.

“Mrs. Finger,” he said, extending a hand, “I’m Stone Barrington. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Call me Bernice,” she said, shaking his hand. “I expect you know why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Stone said. “Tell me everything.” He sat down on the sofa and listened intently to every word she said, nodding sympathetically. He knew most of it, but when she patted a briefcase on the sofa beside her, he really began to listen.

“It’s all in here,” she said. “Everything.”

“May I have a look?” Stone asked.

She unsnapped the briefcase and spun it around. Inside were a number of file folders. “I think you will find this helpful.”

Stone picked up the folders. There were four, and they were a collective two inches thick. “May I take a moment to familiarize myself?” he asked.

“Take your time,” Bernice said. “I’ve got the rest of the day.”

Stone opened the first file and found himself staring at a series of financial statements going back over ten years. The most recent was dated a month before, and in toto the statements gave a very good picture of Bernie Finger’s climb from a net worth of four million dollars ten years before to a current net worth of thirty-eight million dollars. The beauty part, Stone thought, was that Bernie was at least fifty percent liquid. He went through the other folders, which contained brokerage account statements; bank statements; and copies of deeds for his Fifth Avenue co-op, the house in the Hamptons, a ski lodge in Telluride and, wonder of wonders, the new penthouse on Park Avenue where he had stashed Marilyn the Masseuse. Stone cleared his throat. “And Bernice, may I ask how you came by these documents?”

“Of course,” she said. “They were in the safe.”

“In the safe, where?”

“In our study-we share it-in our apartment.”

“And you had the combination to the safe?”

“We each have a safe. He didn’t know that I knew he kept the combination taped to the side of a desk drawer.”

“How long have you been married to Bernie, Bernice?”

“Seven years.”

“And were you married before that?”

“No, I was a businesswoman. I founded a cosmetics company, small but growing fast. Bernie made me sell it when we got married. He did the deal for me, and I never thought I got enough for it.”

“Bernice, I’m going to need a copy of your financial statement as well.”

“I don’t own anything separate from Bernie,” she said. “I put all my money into our joint accounts when we got married.”

“And how much did you get for your cosmetics company?”

“Six and a half million dollars.”

“And did you have any other assets in your own name at the time of the marriage?”

“I had a co-op on Park, paid for. Bernie sold both our apartments, and we bought the co-op on Fifth.”

“And how much of the money used for that purchase was yours?”

“Half: two million dollars.”

“And that was seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

Stone referred to the most recent financial statement in the folder. Bernie had valued the apartment at a little over six million dollars. “How big an apartment is it?”

“Six bedrooms, living, dining, library, study, kitchen, butler’s pantry, two maids’ rooms.”

Bernie had seriously undervalued his real estate for some reason, and lying on a financial statement was a felony. “Bernice,” he said, “who recommended me to you as an attorney?”

“Bernie did,” she said.

“What?”

“He talks in his sleep. He was bitching about you, calling you all sorts of names.”

“In his sleep?”

“Yes, that’s what he does when he’s nervous about the opposition. So, I figured, if Bernie is nervous about you, you’re my man.”

“Bernice,” Stone said, “I would be very pleased to represent you in this action.” He explained his fees.

“Can you take a percentage, instead of a fee?”

“Of course. If you’d prefer it I can do it on a contingency basis.” He certainly could! “I’d need a retainer, to apply against the contingency on the final settlement.”

“How do you think we’ll do in court?”

“Bernice, with a little luck, I don’t think we’ll ever see the inside of a courtroom. I would expect this to settle, and fairly quickly.”

“Stone,” she said, “are you telling me I’ve got Bernie by the balls?”

“Bernice,” he replied, “that’s a very good assessment of your position. And his.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Stone pressed a button on the phone. “Joan, will you please print out a copy of our standard contingency agreement and bring it in, please?”