investigating,
but he's been in the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"Someone... this goes no further."
"Of course not."
"Someone broke into his house, and when he investigated, he got hit
over the head."
"I must say, I'm not surprised."
"What do you know that I don't know?" Amanda asked.
"You must understand, I'm in a very difficult position. The...
allegations about me in the scandal sheet are very, very dangerous to
my interests. I'm already persona non grata in London, with my wife
and my father-in-law, and if the old man were sufficiently riled, he
could, quite literally, destroy me. I'd never hold a job again,
anywhere in the world."
"Why is your position any worse than anybody else's in this wretched
business?" Amanda asked.
"Because I suspect--although I can't prove that one of the people,
perhaps the only person, behind DIRT may be someone I was once ...
involved with."
"A lover?".
"That's too strong a term, I think. No, there was never any love in
it."
"Who is this person?" "His name is Geoffrey." "Geoffrey what?"
"When I knew him--this was nearly a year ago--he called himself Power;
but I d .o. bt that's his name. I went through his wallet once, and I
found three driver's licenses, in different names."
Amanda was alert now. "What were the other two names?"
"I don't remember. I didn't have any reason to, at the time; I figured
they were aliases, too."
"Geoffrey Power. Is Geoffrey his real first name?"
"I can't swear to it, but I think so. I remember that the initial "G'
appeared in the names on all three licenses."
"What does he have against Dick Hickock?"
"I don't know, but I know what he has against me."
"What?"
"After we stopped ... seeing each other, I was very angry with him, and
I did something that someone in my position should never do. I used
the Infiltrator to get back at him."
"How?"
"He was trying to make a career as an actor in
L.A." and I assigned a reporter to call a couple of dozen casting
directors and studios, and let drop that the Infiltrator was
investigating him. Of course, no one would have anything to do with
him after that. He left town and, Pthink, came to New York."
"What does he look like?"
"Early to mid-thirties, tall, slender, but well built, light brown
hair, highlighted at the ends. He's quite beautiful, actually."
Peebles sounded regretful.
Amanda had produced a notebook and was writing furiously. "Have you
had him investigated?
Really, I mean?"
"No; I'm afraid to. I'm afraid of what he'll do."
"What do you mean?"
"He has a somewhat unsavory background. He hinted at working for some
government agency at one time, something secret. That may have been
bragging, of course, but I don't really doubt it. He seems to have all
sorts of, well, skills that ordinary people never come by. And he has
a violent streak." Peebles
blinked rapidly. "I'm terribly afraid of violence. Also, I can't be
seen by anyone to have had an interest in him. I've compromised myself
too much already; my whole world is hanging by a slender thread." "I
understand your position," Amanda said. "Why did you come to me?"
"You already have an investigation under way that is not seen as being
connected with me. Stone Barrington has a reputation as very bright
and discreet; if he can track this thing down and put it out of
business--quietly--then we're all safe: Hickock, you, and me." "I
see," Amanda sid. "Tell your investigator as much of what I've told
you as you feel is necessary, but for God's sake, keep my name out of
it, if you possibly can. I don't know any more than I've told you, so
there's no point in my speaking directly to Barrington. Will you do
that?" "I'll have to think abbut this," Amanda said. "About the best
way to approach it. Of course, I'll keep your name out of it... if I
can." Peebles's face fell; he obviously knew that his fate was in her
hands. "I would be very, very grateful," he said. Amanda lowered her
window and waved at Paul. In a moment they were rolling back toward
the East Side. "Where can I drop you?" Amanda asked. "Anywhere,"
Peebles said disconsolately. "It really doesn't matter."
CHAPTER
n the morning following his return from the hospital, Stone felt well
for the first time since his encounter with the intruder. He was
sitting at his desk, trying to make some sense of the work that had
accumulated, when his secretary buzzed. "Yes, Alma?" "Bob Cantor is
here to see you," she said. "Send him in." Cantor was,
uncharacteristically, wearing a business suit. "How you doing, Stone?
Recovered?" "Much better, thanks." "This guy is some piece of work,
huh?" "Apparently so. Have you got something for me on the maid and
the driver?" "Right." He got out his notebook. "The maid,
Gloria, lives in Queens; she rides in every morning with the driver,
Paul, and takes the subway home. She's divorced, lives alone, sees a
lot of her sister. The neighborhood storekeepers like her. Most of
them give her credit, and she pays on time. She's Hungarian, a devout
Catholic, teaches catechism to kids at her church. Hard to imagine a
straighter arrow. I got a look at her phone bills; she makes very few
calls, none of them long distance. Nine out of ten are to her sister,
her priest, and Amanda Dart. I tapped her for three days, she got four
calls, all of them from her sister. I honestly think that to do more
on herjs a dead end."
"I agree. What about the driver?"
"Paul is something of a character in his neighborhood. He's greg ari
is, plays the ponies in a small way and, on his day off, takes the
train into the city and sits in a brokerage office watching the ticker.
He's got a couple of hundred thousand in investments, not bad for
a'hauffeur, and he deals in used cars, one at a time--buys them, fixes
them up, and sells them for a profit. He's good on his bills and
maintains a healthy bank balance, in the low five figures, in an
interest-bearing checking account. I guess he keeps that much on hand
in case he finds a car he wants to buy. He's pretty honest about
selling the cars, doesn't lie abot their condition, and he gets repeat
customers. One little niggling thing, for whatever it tells you: He
cheats Amanda when he sells her cars."
"How?"
"She gives him ten percent to sell them, but he takes fifteen to twenty
in the end. This was easy to figure out from his recent bank
statements. Still, he always gives her book wholesale. I don't want
to make too much of this."
Stone laughed. "I can't say that I blame him. Amanda is the kind of
woman who has to be annoying to work for a lot of the time, even if he
is well-paid. Anything else that troubles you about either of these
people?"
"Nope. All in all, I'd say that Amanda Dart has herself first-rate
help in every department. Except maybe Martha, who could have a
weakness." "What has the bug turn, edup?"
"The guy who calls never uses his name; she recognizes his voice. He's
giving her a pretty hard time, I think; he could be at the point of
dumping her, but he hasn't yet. She hasn't seen him since I've been on
this. I get the feeling that he thinks he might still need her for
something, so he's keeping his hand in, so to speak. I've got the
tapes if you want to hear them, but they're all brief; the guy doesn't
like to talk on the phone. Tell you the truth, I think that if there's
a leak in Amanda's office, it's got to be Martha."
"I've been resisting that idea myself, becaus Amanda seems so certain
that it's not Martha, but after what you've told me about the others,
and about these phone calls, I agree that she has to be our girl. I'm
not entirely certain about Barry yet, because he screws so many people,
we could never keep track. But it's looking an awful lot like
Martha."
"Are you going to tell Amanda that?"
"Not yet. I don't want to ruin their relationship without some hard
evidence, and we're not doing very well on coming up with that. Did
Amanda talk with you about some guard work?"
"Yeah; a guy I know is going to handle it. He'll come into the office
when she closes and sit on it until her people arrive in the morning. I
swept the place again, and she's still clean. Maybe I ought to have
another look around here, too."
"Okay, go ahead; check back with me when you're finished. There's
Omething else I want to talk with you about."
"See you in half an hour," Cantor said, and left the office.
Stone started dictating correspondence and signing checks; he had just
finished when Cantor returned. '
"Well, I'll tell you," the ex-cop said, flopping down in a chair, "this
guy is some piece of work.
He's done the phones again."
"Jesus."
"I guess while you were napping the other evening, he calmly went about
his business. It's just the phones, though; I didn't find anything,
else."
"Did you screw up his work?"
Cantor held up a handful of wires and devices. "I yanked it. No need
to be subtle anymore."
S'JAR WOODS
"You had any luck with this guy in the bar who has the signature with
the wires?"
"I almost forgot; I talked to him for half an hour last night; the
signature is something he was trained to do."
"Who taught him?"
"A federal agency, is all I could get out of him; he denied that it was
the CIA. Maybe the National Security Agency."
Stone shook his head. "Aren't they more into the wireless sort of
surveillance?"
"Yeah. It could be some group we don't know about--maybe even
something illegal."
"Do you really think that sort of stuff still goes on?"
Cantor shrugged. "Who knows? There are a lot of guys on the street
who used to work for somebody in D.C. Maybe he's that type."
"Maybe. Listen, Bob, there's something else." "Shoot."
"How good are you on your feet?"
"I'm okay; I used to study karate pretty seriously, and I box once or
twice a week at my gym. What is it you need, Stone?"
"There's a guy needs talking to, and to tell you the truth, I'm not
sure I'm up to it just yet. He's been harassing a friend of mine, a
woman, and I want a stop put to it."
"So is this guy muscle, or something?"
"She says he gets into fights; I have no idea how good he is at it."
2;0
"What exactly is it that you want done?" "I want the fear of God put
into him. I'm not talking about leaning hard on him, but if he reacts
badly, I don't want him to come out of it with the upper hand." "You
think this guy might be the one wiring all these places?" Stone shook
his head and pushed a copy of Vanity Fair across his desk. "This is
the guy; he's a male model, at least some of the time. The
connection's with this girl, whose name is Arrington; not with the DIRT
thing." Cantor looked at the pic, t re. "I can handle it." "There's
something else, 'something I only just found out." "Yeah?" Stone
handed him a slip of paper. "His name is Jonathan Dryer; that's where
he lives. Arnie Millman got clipped in the alley next to the
building." ": "You think the two things are connected?" "I can't see
how, but I don't like coincidences. I thought you ought to know about
Arnie, though." "Yeah, I'm glad you told me." "If your talk with him
turns up anything that makes you think he might be connected with Arnie
by more than just geography, then we'll bring Dino into it." Cantor
nodded. "When you want this done?" "The sooner the better." "You
think he might be at home now?"
"Only one way to find out."
Cantor stood up. "I'll check him out."
"If he's not there, maybe you could take a look around his place, see
what he's about."
"Sure thing."
"Give your bill for the other work to Alma, and she'll cut you a check.
What do you want for the Dryer business?"
"Let's see how it goes," Cantor said. "He might be a pushover."
"As long as you're ready for him, if he isn't."
"Don't worry about me." Cantor left and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER
Amanda had thought long and hard overnight about what to do, and her
first decision, characteristically, was to protect herself. She called
her lawyer, Bill Eggers, at home.
"Morning, Amanda."
"Bill, I want to ask you a hypothetical--very hypothetical-question."
"Shoot."
"In the unlikely event that I felt I really had to, could I get out of
my contract with Dick Hickock?"
"What?"
"Now, Bill, I told you this was hypothetical; don't get upset."
"Amanda, you've only just signed the contracts; it's a terrific
deal!"
"Bill, you haven't answered my question."
"The answer is no, not unless Hickock were willing to release you."
"Nothing I could do, if I wanted out?"
"It's more about what he could do. He could prevent any other
newspaper or magazine from publishing you. All you could do would be
to beg him to let you go. What's this about, Amanda?"
"Bill, this isn't going to happen; I just like to know where I stand,
that's all."
"The only way you could get out would be nonperformance on Dick's part.
As long as he pays, you're stuck with him."
"Thank you, Bill; just forget I asked, all right?" "Asked what?"
"Bye, Bill." She hung up. Well, that was bad news; if Dickie started
downhill, he could drag her with him, and all the way to the bottom.
She was going to have to nail whoever was publishing DIRT. She had
nailed lots of people in her time, but Amanda was not accustomed to
going after faceless people with no fixed address.
She picked up the phone to call Stone, then hung up again. She didn't
want to tell him about Hickock's sub rosa business activities; after
all, he was also representing Dick in this matter; she had given him
permission to do so. Oh, well, she didn't have to tell him everything.
She picked up the phone again and got connected.
"Stone, darling, I have some information that might be of help," she
said.
2J4
"I'm all ears," Stone replied. "You remember the issue of DIRT that
featured Peebles, the editor of the Infiltrator?" "Yes." "Peebles and
I had a chat yesterday; he thinks that an old boyfriend of his might
have something to do with this, might even be the one behind it."
"What's the old boyfriend's name?" "Geoffrey, spelled the English way,
Power. At any rate, that's what he called himself. Peebles thinks he
might use more than one name. He's a failed actor, in L.A.
anyway--actually, he failed out there because Peebles screwed him with
the studios. He could be in New York." "You have anything else on him
that might help me locate him?" "A description." "Shoot." She read
from her notes. "Early (o mid-thirties, tall, slender, but strong,
sandy hair. Peebles says he's quite beautiful." "Anything else? An
address, a phone number?" "Afraid not, but Peebles thinks he might be
in New York; he pulled out of L.A." "I'll see what I can come up
with." "Bye." Stone's immediate thought was that the description fit
the man who had been following Tiffany Potts, who looked like the man
in the magazine, who had turned out to be Jonathan Dryer. He tried to
remember his visit to Dryer's apartment, but there wasn't much there.
The man had been backlit, standing behind a partially open door, and he
had never gotten a good look at him. All he had was the magazine
photo. He turned his attention to Geoffrey Power, starting with his
computer telephone directory. That contained a hundred million names,
but not a single Geoffrey Power. He called Dino.
"Yeah?" Dino said.
"Will you run a name for me?"
"Sure."
"Last name Power, first name Geoffrey." Stone spelled it for him.
"Hang on."
Stone could hear the computer keys clicking. "He's never been
arrested," Dino said. "Try the alias database."
More key clicking. "Zip," Dino said. "Thanks. How's it going with
the apartment?" "We're meeting the board this afternoon;- I took your
advice and bought a suit. When the meeting's over I'll give it to
you."
"You're sweet. See you." He hung up and tried New York telephone
information, new listings. If Power had just moved to town, he might
be there.
Nothing. He called Amanda.
"Yes?"
"He doesn't have a telephone in the United States, or one in New York;
he's never been arrested. That's all I can do with a name, especially
one that might be an alias. You'll have to get me some more info
nation
"I don't think I can," she replied.
"Then it's a dead end."
Stone had an idea. "Have you got a copy of the new Vanity Fair
handy?"
"Of course."
"Call Peebles and tell him to look at the ad for
Spirit men's cologne." He gave her the page num her. "See if the guy
in the ad looks familiar. I'd like to hear his respi)rise."
I'll get back to you." She hung up.
Half an hour later, sl. called back.
"The resemblance is close, but it's not Power,
Peebles says. How did you come up with that picture
"It arose in connection with something else.
The description seemed to fit."
"Oh, good. Keep on this Power person, will you?" ":: "Amanda, there's
nothing more I can do until we get more information on the guy. As it
stands, he's nothing more than a wisp of smoke." She hung up without
another word.
CHAPTER
Bob Cantor got out of the cab on Second Avenue and walked down the
block until he found the building. "Basement apartment," he mumbled to
himself, consulting the address Stone had given him. He walked down
the steps to the apartment door and found it ajar; the smell of paint
reached him. He pushed the door open. The living room was empty and
freshly painted. He heard the rattle of a bucket from a rear room and
walked that way.
A middle-aged man in paint-stained jeans and sweatshirt was rapidly
rolling paint onto a bedroom wall. He looked at Cantor. "Sorry, I'm
not showing the apartment until tomorrow, when the ad runs in the
Times," he said.
Cantor showed him his badge briefly. "I'm looking for Jonathan Dryer,"
he said.
"So am I," the man replied. "He owes me four months' rent."
"When did you last see him?"
"Last Friday, when I was going away. When I came back on Wednesday, he
was gone, and the place was empty. Four months he owes me; that's how
long his lease had to run."
"Mind if I look around?"
"Help yourself." He went back to painting. Cantor walked slowly
around the apartment, looking in closets and drawers. It was a nice
place, he thought. Good kitchen, nicely done bathroom. Cantor was
living in Chelsea, and he thought he wouldn't mind living uptown. All
the closets, drawers, and cabinets were empty. He went back to the
bedroom and walked out the rear door, which opened onto a small terrace
and, a garden: area behind. There was nothing i' the way of planting,
but there was soil; soil was a valuable real estate asset in New York.
He went back inside.
"Nice place," he said. "Who's the agent?"
"No agent; I own the building. I live on the top two floors."
"How much you asking?"
The man told him. '
"How much less would you take to have a guy with a badge living
here?"
The man looked at him narrowly. "You married?"
S'I1JART WOODS
"Divorced." "Any kids?" "None."
"You play any musical instruments?"
"The stereo, softly."
"I'd need a police reference."
"Call Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth, around the
corner."
"I'll do that. If you check out, it would be worth a couple hundred
off for a cop."
"Retired cop, actually, but that's even better for you. I'd be
spending more time in the building than somebody who has to pull duty."
"What's your nane?" "Bob Cantor."
"How long a lease you want?"
"Three years would be good."
"You wait here; I'll be right back." The man left and came back ten
minutes later. "Bacchetti says you're okay; give me a check for a
month's rent and a security deposit, and the place is yours." Cantor
wrote him a check.
"My name's Jim O'Brian." He stuck out his hand.
Cantor shook it. "Back to this guy Dryer; tell me about him."
"He kept to himself, didn't make any noise. I only saw him coming and
going, or when he paid the rent. Always paid in cash, which was okay
with me."
"How long was he here?"
"Eight months."
"Anybody room with him?"
"A long string of girls, one night at a time." "Any guys visiting
him?"
"He was straight, believe me."
"I mean friends staying over a few days, that sort of thing."
"Not that I recall."
"When he rented the place, did you take an application from him?"
"No, I don't bother with written applications if the renter looks okay.
I never got burned until now." "What did Dryerato for a living?"
"Said he was a filmmaker."
"You ever see any evidence of that?" "What kind of evidence?"
"Cameras, film equipment?"
"The only equipment Dryer had here was a computer, a copy machine, and
a fax machine. Pretty neat computer, thoughmPentium?fast laser
printer, big monitor."
"Did Dryer apply for his own phone service?" "Nah, the phone's on my
bill. Shit! I forgot about the phone bill. That's more money out of
my pocket."
"Did he make many long distance calls?" "Yeah, quite a few."
"Could I have a look at your phone bills? I'd like to know who he was
calling."
"I've got to go upstairs and get you a lease form; I'll dig them out
for you."
"One more thing; did Dryer leave anything here?" "Nothing but trash."
"Has it been picked up yet?" "No, it'll still be out in the alley next
to the building. There's two plastic bags in the first can. It has a
"B' on it, for basement." "Thanks, Jim, I'll take a look at that while
you get the lease and the phone bills--all eight months, if you've got
them." "I'll be back in five minutes." Cantor followed him outside,
walked into the alley, and found the garbage cans. There were three
bags; one of them contained uninteresting kitchen garbage, the others a
lot of paper and magazines. He pulled out the two bags of paper and
walked back to the front of the building. O'Brian was coming down the
front steps. "Standard lease; I've already signed it," he said,
handing Cantor the document. "What about subleasing?" "No problem, if
I approve the tenant." Cantor signed the lease, kept a copy, and
handed it back. "Jim, you really ought to start taking a written
application from your tenants; there are a lot of bad people out
there." "You're probably right; was Dryer one of them? Why are you
checking up on him?" "He did something impolite to a friend of a
friend of mine. I was just going to talk to him and tell him not to do
it again. Don't worry about him;
if he walked out on his lease, you won't be seeing him again."
O'Brian nodded and handed Cantor a manila envelope. "Here are the
phone bills. The basement number is 1232."
"Can I borrow these for a day?"
"Sure, but I need them back for my taxes."
"I'll get them back to you. Thanks, Jim; I'll probably move in at the
weekend; if that's okay." "Fine with me. Glad to have you aboard."
Cantor tucked the manila envelope under his arm, grabbed the two trash
bags, and started looking for a cab.
CHAPTER
tone was working at his desk when he heard the street door open, and a
moment later Bob Cantor walked into his office carrying two garbage
bags.
"Never say I didn't give you anything," Cantor said, dropping the two
bags on the floor and depositing a manila envelope on Stone's desk.
"Dryer jumped his lease and moved out of the apartment last weekend."
He grinned. "Nice place; I rented it."
"Did he leave anything in the apartment?" Stone asked.
Cantor pointed at the garbage bags. "If he did, it's in there. His
phone bills are in the envelope; the landlord says he made a lot of
long distance calls." He pulled up a chair.
Stone opened the envelope and shook out the phone bills.
"The phone was in the landlord's name; last four digits are 1232."
Stone began going through the bills. "L.A.,
L.A." L.A. Jesus, he lived there for what... ?" "Eight months."
"And he never called anywhere but L.A.? Hard to believe."
"Yeah."
"And only one number," Stone said. He turned to his computer, inserted
a CD-ROM, and brought up his national telephone directory. He typed in
the L.A. phone number and waited while the computer searched. "Here we
go," he said, "the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, in West Hollywood.
When did you say that Dryer moved out?"
"Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday."
"Look, he's called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or
four times a day."