Stone called Lance, and they scrambled. Stone told him about his visit with Vanessa and his impromptu lunch with Peter Grant. He expressed his concerns for Peter.
“So, you think Peter could have been the poisoning target?”
“He was sitting next to Vanessa,” Stone pointed out.
“So were you, Stone, on her other side.”
“That’s true.”
“Did a waiter fill your water glass or pour you more wine?”
“I suppose so, but Chekhov has nothing against me.”
“Of course he does,” Lance said. “You’ve failed him.”
“How so?”
“You have not continued to make money for him.”
“That’s pretty lame, Lance.”
“Is it? Do you think Chekhov is incapable of murder with annoyance as his motive?”
“That would be insane.”
“Granted, but it’s still a motive. I think you would do well to avoid being in the same room with Chekhov, if not the same country.”
“We were in the same room last night,” Stone said, “and I’m still alive.”
“The poison takes twenty-four to seventy-two hours to begin working.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Peter and Mac McIntosh were there, too, I hear.”
“Are you still having Peter followed?”
“Maybe. I don’t like the idea of Mac and Chekhov being in the same room.”
“Does Mac even know Chekhov?”
“He knows Peter Grant, that’s enough.”
“But you’ve just finished a major investigation that absolved Mac of any wrongdoing.”
“Maybe we missed something. For instance, you thought Chekhov had left the country, but there he was at the River Café.”
“That was certainly a coincidence.”
“I agree, but perhaps his being there when Mac was present was not. Did you see them talk?”
“No, my back was to both of them. I didn’t see them leave, either.”
“Stone, the next time you have an opportunity for impromptu surveillance, surveil. All you had to do was change seats.”
“Gotta run, Lance. Bye.” Stone hung up.
Fred came into his office from the garage, both hands filled with shopping bags.
“Ah,” Stone said. “I see Holly has looted Madison Avenue.”
“Yes, sir. May I put them upstairs?”
“Yes, Fred, but take the elevator or you’ll have a heart attack.”
Fred left, and Holly was next in line. She flopped down in a chair next to his sofa.
“You look as though you could use a drink,” Stone said.
“I could use a bottle of bourbon and a straw, to put it your way.”
“One drink at a time,” Stone said, and he poured her one from the liquor cabinet, then one for himself before joining her.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“I got a lot less done than you. Lance was on the phone: he was upset that Mac McIntosh and Yevgeny Chekhov were in the same room last night. Did you see them talking? You had a better view than I.”
“No, they didn’t speak or shake hands.”
“Did you see them leave the restaurant?”
“The McIntoshes left shortly after we arrived. They must have booked for an earlier seating.”
“Did you see Chekhov leave?”
“Five minutes before we did.”
“All of which adds up to a big zero.”
“What did you expect?”
“I had no expectations, but Lance did.”
“Lance always expects the worst. It’s an attribute of intelligence professionals. That way, if something terrible happens, they can say, ‘I told you so.’”
Joan buzzed, and he picked up the phone on the coffee table. “A Peter Grant on one.”
Stone picked up. “Hello, Peter.”
“Stone, I’m sorry if I was rude in the restaurant today. I was very nervous, and I took it out on you.”
“That’s quite all right, Peter. What were you nervous about?”
“I’d rather tell you in person,” Peter said.
“Then why don’t you come over here for a drink about six?” Stone gave him the address, then hung up. “I offered him help, if he needed it. I guess he’s going to take me up on the offer.”
Holly looked at her watch. “I need a hot soak and a nap,” she said. “What are we doing for dinner?”
“I booked us at Caravaggio at eight. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Stone walked to the elevator with her, kissed her, then went to his study. He sat down with his drink and rested his head against the chair, then dozed.
He woke up at seven-twenty-five; Peter Grant had not shown up.