Stone got himself together, then had Fred drive him to Bellevue. He took the elevator to the sixth floor and went to Vanessa’s room. The door stood wide open: the bed was rumpled and a couple of IV bags hung from a rack, their ends pinched. “Oh, shit,” he said, then went looking for the nurses’ station and flagged one down.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s happened to Vanessa Baker, in 603?”
“She took a hike,” the woman said.
“Is that a euphemism for died?”
“No, she was conscious, but on a gurney, with a private medical team surrounding her, plus her mother.”
“Do you know what hospital they took her to?”
“The mother said she was taking her home.”
“Do you have an address?”
The nurse checked her clipboard. “Which one? Mother or daughter?”
“Both.”
“Oh, looks like they have the same address.” It was an apartment building on Fifth Avenue, in the eighties.
Stone thanked her and slipped a hundred under the clip of the board. “Buy your girls a drink.” He went back to where he had left Fred, got into the car, and gave him the address, then he called Bill Golding.
“Morning, Stone. Thanks for dinner last night.”
“Are you divorced yet?”
“Not yet. I made it just in time.”
“Tell me about Vanessa.”
“Her mother checked her out of the hospital.”
“I know, I was just there. How is Vanessa?”
“Conscious for short periods, utters a few words. Better than yesterday. I’m encouraged.”
“Is taking her home going to help her or kill her?”
“I think she’ll improve further at home, or I would have thrown myself across the bed and strapped her down. Her mother brought a doctor and two nurses. They were thoroughly briefed on her condition and progress before we allowed them to take her.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“You’re welcome.”
Stone hung up as they pulled up to the awning on Fifth Avenue. He was immediately grilled by, first, a doorman, then a front-desk man. They called upstairs and he was allowed to take the elevator to her floor.
A uniformed maid answered the door. “Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This way, please.”
He followed her across a comfortable living room and into a large bedroom next to it. French doors were open to a terrace, and Vanessa lay in a hospital bed where, presumably, her own bed usually was. A nurse, who was sitting beside the bed doing a crossword, stood up.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.” Stone walked to the bedside and bent over Vanessa, who appeared to be asleep. Her eyes opened, and she managed a small smile.
“Hello, beautiful,” Stone said. “You still with us?”
She puckered her lips, and he kissed them.
“Hey,” she managed.
“She doesn’t talk much, yet,” the nurse said. “But she’s getting better. You can have one minute, then she has to rest.”
Stone pulled up a chair and took Vanessa’s hand, which gave his a tiny squeeze. “Well,” he said, “if you’re going to talk my ear off, I’m leaving.”
Her body gave a little twitch, which Stone interpreted as laughter.
“I’m going to come and see you every day,” he said, “just to make sure you’re getting better.”
She smiled again.
“Time to go,” the nurse said. “Don’t wear her out.”
Stone nodded, kissed Vanessa on the forehead, and left the room. Betty Baker was waiting in the living room, and she motioned him to a chair.
“How are you managing, Betty?”
“Better,” she replied. “I’m satisfied that you didn’t poison her, so I’m not mad at you anymore.”
“I was told to be ready for the wrath of God.”
“Mine is worse, but I no longer consider you a suspect.”
Stone laughed. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been told that someone slipped her the poison either during the dinner where we met or at the one the night before. Were you at the earlier one?”
“Yes. Quite a different crowd.”
“Any Russians there?”
“None that I met. Of course, there was that Chekhov fellow at the Pierre.”
“Right. I met him in Paris last week.”
“Why?”
“Someone from home asked me to size him up.”
“What were your conclusions?”
“All bad.”
“We’re agreed there,” she said. “The man reeks of malevolence.”
“How well put!”
“Was the person who asked you to size him up Lance Cabot?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you have an association with him and/or his organization.”
“I’m a sometime adviser. Sometimes I think Lance just wants someone to talk to who doesn’t have an axe to grind, or want an ox gored.”
“I’ve known him since he was a lad. His older brother and I had a little thing once, after we had both become single.”
“He’s taken an interest in Vanessa’s misfortune,” Stone said. “He has a lot of sources at his disposal, and I hope he’ll be able to find out why this happened and who made it happen.”
“I hope so, too.”
“Has Lance called you?”
She shook her head. “I think he’s still a little embarrassed by my, ah, association with his brother.”
“Lance never forgets anything.”
“I hope you’ll come and see Vanessa every day,” she said.
“I told her I would. I want to watch her getting better.”
“So do I.”
“Betty, may I ask you some questions?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Forgive me, but I was once a police officer, and some habits have stuck with me. When you learned about this, did anyone leap to mind who might have had reason to cause it?”
“Only you,” she said, “and you only because you were the last person to see her . . . as she was. As I said, I got over that.”
“Did you know Peter Grant before you and I met?”
“I knew him when he was in high school. His parents and I knew one another. I can’t say I knew him well: he was just around, and he seemed like a very nice boy.”
“Did you know that he had the acquaintance of Yevgeny Chekhov, the Russian?”
She shook her head. “I’d never heard of him until that evening.”
“Do you know anyone who might wish Vanessa ill?”
Betty shook her head again. “No, she’s not the sort to make enemies.”
“There are always people who will misjudge others, and who hold grudges.”
“I can’t think of anyone like that in Vanessa’s life.”
“How about the business? Any toes get stepped on there?”
“Certainly not. She takes very good care of her people, and when we went public, she gave them stock.”
“Good for her. Well, I’d better go.” He rose.
“Thank you for coming, Stone.”
“Think about my questions. If you remember anything pertinent, please call me.” He gave her his card, then left.