They got settled in at Caravaggio, which was already crowded, and ordered drinks.
“Did you meet with your friend?” Holly asked.
“He’s not my friend, just an acquaintance, somebody I met socially in Paris.”
“I had the impression you might be worried about him.”
“I’m even more worried about him now. He didn’t show.”
“This is the younger man who was with Chekhov last night?”
“Yes. We had a quick lunch together today, and I told him that his association with Chekhov could put him at risk. He pooh-poohed the idea, but I told him to call me if he needed help.”
“You mentioned that,” Holly said.
“I’m sorry if I’m repeating myself.”
“Is there anything you can do for him now?”
“I’ll find out,” Stone said, taking out his phone and looking at the recent calls list. He pressed the top one. It rang once, then went to a recorded message. Stone put his phone away. “His phone is no longer in service.”
“Are you sure you got the number right?”
“It was the number he called me from this evening.”
“And that was what, five?”
“Maybe a little later. I invited him over for a drink at six. Then, when you went upstairs, I went to the study with my drink and waited for him. Then I dozed off.”
“What time did you wake up?”
“At seven-twenty-five.”
“Do you have another number for him?”
“No, and I can’t think of anybody who would.”
“Then you’ve done all you can do,” Holly said. “Relax, drink your drink, and concentrate on me.” She squeezed his thigh under the table.
“That’s easy enough,” Stone said, turning toward her.
They finished their drinks, ordered dinner, and were halfway through that when Stone looked up to see Dino walking into the restaurant. He worked his way toward them, stopping to shake a hand here and there, then gave Holly a kiss, pulled over a chair from a neighboring table, and sat down.
“How’d you find me?” Stone asked.
“I tracked your cell phone, dummy. You think you can hide from me?”
Stone laughed. “I wasn’t hiding, I’m just surprised.”
“I wish I were the bearer of happy tidings,” Dino said.
Stone put down his fork. “Tell me.”
“About five-forty-five this evening, your pal Peter Grant lost control of his car on the West Side Highway, headed south, and turned it into a submarine. A brand-new Mercedes S-class, the souped-up one.”
“Did he survive?”
“No. They got the car up about a half hour ago. The driver’s-side window was blown out—or rather, had a fist-sized hole in it. He had taken a bullet in the head. A witness saw the car go in, but not the firing of the shot. There’s always traffic on that road, and his car just peeled off the right lane, through an emergency parking area and a crash barrier and into the water. It sank quickly, I suppose because of the hole in the window, in twenty feet of water. A police tug and a diver were called and got it up.”
“I’ve just got one question,” Stone said. “Where was Yevgeny Chekhov when this happened?”
“Winging his way toward Paris in something called a Dassault Falcon 8. He took off from Teterboro about lunchtime.”
“Peter would have been on his way to see me when he died,” Stone said.
“Why?”
“I saw him at lunch, expressed my concerns about his relationship with Chekhov, and offered help, if he needed it. He called me around five—Holly was there when I got the call—and said he’d take me up on it. I invited him for a drink at six. He’d have been on time, if the traffic wasn’t too bad.”
“Do you want a look at the body?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to know what he had in his pockets, though.”
“I’ll find out,” Dino replied. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Thank you for coming, Dino. Do you have a next of kin on file?”
“No, we don’t.”
Stone took a card from his pocket. “Call Betty Baker at this number. She knows his family.”
“Thanks.” Dino pocketed the card.
“You got time for a drink?”
“Always,” Dino replied. Their waiter seemed to have read his mind, or his lips, and arrived with a scotch.
“I want to learn that trick,” Holly said.
“If you just think real hard about a drink, a waiter will get the message,” Dino said.
The mâitre d’ came over and looked at their plates. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No,” Stone said, “I’m just not hungry anymore.”
“I am,” Holly said, continuing to eat while Stone’s plate was removed. “I want dessert, too. I didn’t know the decedent.”
Stone contented himself with his wine. “Excuse me for a minute.” He took out his phone, called Lance Cabot, and scrambled. “Were your people still following Peter Grant?”
“They were three or four cars back and saw him take the dive. They called it in, then broke off. We still don’t know what happened.”
“I can help you with that. Dino just caught up with me and told me Peter was shot from another vehicle and took a bullet to the head.”
“That’s a bit less subtle than poisoning, isn’t it?”
“Apparently, Chekhov was in a bit more of a hurry. By the way, he left for Paris around noon in a private jet. He was far from the scene when it happened, maybe even in Paris.”
“I’d love to know what Peter knew,” Lance said.
“He was on the way to my house when it happened,” Stone replied. “I think he was going to tell me what you want to know.”
Lance sighed. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. They get worried too late.”
“Exactly. I think maybe what happened to Vanessa Baker shook him. He realized that it could have been him—or maybe that it was intended to be him.”
“I hope he kept a notebook,” Lance said.
“Dino is going to examine the contents of his pockets. If he had something like that, we’ll get it.”
“Are you with Dino now?”
“Yes.”
“Let me speak to him for a moment.”
Stone handed the phone to Dino. “Lance wants to speak with you.”
Dino took the phone, listened for a moment, then said, “Sure,” and hung up. He handed the phone back to Stone. “He wants us to take the car apart, and Grant’s clothes, too, to see if there’s anything there.”
“Good idea,” Stone said.
“You want to see the car with me?”
Holly put down her fork. “Me, too. I’ll have dessert later.”