A car met them at Le Bourget and drove them into the city to Saint-Germain-des-Près. They stopped at a large set of oaken doors, and Stone dug out his remote control from a pocket. The doors swung open to reveal an ancient mews that contained Stone’s house, which had once been owned by the CIA and used as a safe house. He had bought it from them, at a very good price, when the government adopted a policy of unloading excess real estate everywhere.
Marie, the housekeeper, caretaker, and cook, greeted them at the door in a flood of French, in which Stone could barely tread water, and everyone went to their assigned quarters.
“This is lovely,” Callie said. “I can’t wait to see your other houses. Why so many?”
“It’s an affliction,” Stone replied. “I see a house I like, and I want to buy it.”
Showered, changed, and refreshed, they walked down the Boulevard St. Germain to Brasserie Lipp, a restaurant that, to Stone, was the Paris equivalent of Elaine’s, his New York hangout for years, except that the cuisine was Alsatian and the clientele Parisian. On Stone’s advice, they all ordered the choucroute garnie, a platter of sliced meats over sauerkraut, accompanied by large glasses of beer.
“I’ve been thinking about this morning’s sabotage,” Dino said.
“So have I,” Stone replied. “Any conclusions?”
“Forgive me for saying so, Callie, but I think it’s something to do with your presence in Stone’s life, and probably Stone’s fault.”
“Have I done something to somebody?” Stone asked plaintively.
“Maybe you stole somebody’s girl,” Dino replied.
“And that would be me,” Callie said.
“Unless Stone has another one concealed in his luggage,” Dino pointed out.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m willing for my ex to be the chief suspect for now, but I don’t know how anybody is going to prove it.”
“What’s his name?” Dino asked.
“Eddie Casey.”
“Full name?”
“Edward Woodward Casey.”
“Got it,” Dino said, and abandoned his choucroute long enough to send an e-mail.
“You met him in college?”
“Long before that; we’re from the same hometown. He was a year ahead of me in school, and we dated for, maybe, three years.”
“Do you know whether he has a criminal record?” Stone asked.
“Well, I charged him with assault and battery and domestic violence,” Callie replied, “and he pled guilty and got a six-month sentence, suspended.”
“How long was it before you saw him again?”
“He stopped by my place about a year later to apologize. He’d gotten into AA, and they’re supposed to apologize to those they’ve hurt as a part of the program.”
“Was he convincing?”
“Completely,” she said. “I hadn’t figured out how bad his drinking problem was, but he seemed to be a changed man. I didn’t like the new guy all that much, either.”
“How did he hang on to his pilot’s license?” Viv asked.
“He never had a DUI, so there was nothing in his record indicating a drinking problem.”
“It’s been a long time since I filled out an application for a license,” Stone said, “but I suspect there might have been a question that covered more ground than a DUI.”
“You mean like, ‘Did you ever get drunk and beat up your wife?’”
“Something like that.”
“Well, he got his license a couple of years before the incident, so I guess he didn’t feel a need to report it to the FAA, or he’d never have gotten a job flying.”
“What sort of flying did he do after Embry-Riddle?” Stone asked.
“Package delivery, air charter, corporate—the usual for a new pilot looking to build time.”
Dino’s phone buzzed, and he looked at it. “Well, he still doesn’t have a DUI,” he said, “but he did get into a bar fight a couple of times, so he has an arrest record, but he was never charged. Also, he’s not working for the airlines now; he’s with one of those shared aircraft ownership outfits, based at—wait for it—Teterboro.”
“Motive: Callie,” Stone said. “Means: available at any hardware store. Opportunity: on the way to or from work. He’s a good suspect.”
Callie shrugged. “If you say so.”
“The odds say so,” Dino replied.