STONE WOKE UP to an empty bed. Tiff was gone, and it was nearly ten o’clock. There was something he had to do, but he couldn’t remember what, until he rolled over and looked at his bedside table. The slip of paper he’d written Billy Bob’s number on was gone. That woke him up.
He sat on the edge of bed and called up the list of caller ID numbers, people who had called him. Billy Bob’s 917 number wasn’t there. Shit.
He called Lance.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone.”
“I can see that from my caller ID.”
“Billy Bob called me last night.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know; he was on a cell phone, a New York number.”
“What’s the number?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have caller ID, don’t you?”
“I tried that; it didn’t register somehow. Technical glitch, I guess.”
“Then how did you know it was a 917 number?”
Stone tried to get his mind in gear; it wasn’t working.
“Stone?”
“I asked him his real name, and he said it was Harlan Wilson.”
“Harold Wilson?”
“Harlan.” Stone spelled it for him.
“Why would he tell you his real name?”
“Maybe he’s lying, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Right. The bastard is so arrogant, he might actually tell you.”
“Maybe he did.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Stone?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you have Billy Bob’s number?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Were you alone last night?”
“Funny, Billy Bob asked me the same thing. Or rather, he told me.”
“He told you you were in bed with somebody?”
“Yes.”
“And that would be Ms. Baldwin.” It wasn’t a question.
Stone said nothing.
“And did you write down the number?”
“Sort of.”
“And was it still there when you woke up?”
“Not exactly.”
“And had it been deleted from your caller ID log?”
“Possibly.”
“You incredible schmuck.”
It was out of character for Lance to employ Yiddish epithets, Stone thought. He must be really pissed off. “I can’t argue with that.”
“What else did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I told her that my contract with the Agency prohibited me from discussing it.”
“Except you told her that you had a contract with the Agency.”
“I think she figured that out when she found me with you in Billy Bob’s apartment. She’s not stupid.”
“No, she’s not, but she’s a pain in the ass. Right now, she’s running down that number and putting an electronic watch on it, which means that she and her people have a better shot at getting their hands on Billy Bob than we do. I do not like that.”
“I understand.”
“It’s much easier to deal with the Attorney General when he doesn’t actually have custody of the man we’re looking for.”
“Look, Lance, I don’t want to get involved in your interagency warfare.”
“You already are involved, Stone. When you signed that contract, you joined our little army, and right now, you appear to have committed treason.”
“I didn’t commit anything,” Stone said. “She stole the piece of paper and erased the number while I was asleep. That makes me a victim, not a perpetrator.”
“And that’s the only thing that is preventing me from hauling you before a . . .”
“A what?”
“Never mind; just know that you can be hauled before it, should something like this happen again.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“See that you do. Now, you said that Billy Bob told you you were in bed with Ms. Baldwin?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Don’t leave the house; I’m sending a tech over there right now to sweep the place.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Don’t you?”
“All right, send him over. Goodbye.” Stone hung up, got out of the bed and showered and shaved. His ears burned the whole time. He was in the middle of breakfast when the doorbell rang.
Stone picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Our mutual friend sent me.”
“I’m in the kitchen; ground floor, rear.” Stone buzzed the door open.
A moment later a young man appeared. Jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, longish ratty hair, stubble. A fashion plate, by current standards. “I’m Sandy,” he said. “Where’s the room you slept in last night?”
Stone pointed to the spiral back staircase. “Second floor, rear.”
Sandy disappeared up the stairs.
Stone finished his breakfast and put his dishes into the dishwasher. He began reading the Times and was on the editorial page when Sandy came downstairs.
The young man walked over to the kitchen table and tossed four small devices onto it, each about the size of a walnut. “I hope you smiled; you were on Candid Camera.”
“Those are cameras?” Stone asked disbelievingly, picking one up.
“The latest thing—color, sound, high resolution, wireless and almost invisible. When you came home last night, was there a van parked outside?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Had to be,” Sandy said. “The range on these things isn’t all that great. Whoever did this is well equipped.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m going to go over the rest of the house, now,” Sandy said. “Where should I start?”
“My office,” Stone said, pointing. “I’ll tell my secretary you’re coming.” He picked up the phone and spoke to Joan.
Stone was finishing the crossword puzzle when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Are you near a computer, Lance?”
“Yes.” There was a laptop on the kitchen counter.
“Go to the Justice Department Web site.” Lance gave him the address, then hung up.
Stone put down the crossword and went to the laptop, which had a wireless Internet connection. He typed in the address and waited a few seconds for the front page of the Justice Department Web site to appear. It did not appear. What came up was a fairly good, color photograph of the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, her back arched, her teeth bared, her hair down. Naked. Sitting on a body that Stone knew to be his own. What was more, it moved, and her voice could be heard, making an animal sound. It was on a loop, repeating about every ten seconds.
Though stunned, Stone managed to feel grateful that the face on the body underneath her was out of frame.