Naked Greed (4 page)

“Anyplace special you’d like to go?”

“I’m fond of the Four Seasons Pool Room.”

“What a coincidence, so am I. Why don’t you come to my house for a drink at seven or so, and we’ll go on from there.”

“You talked me into it, but I don’t do ‘or so.’ I’ll be there at seven.”

He gave her the address, and they hung up. Stone alerted his factotum, Fred Flicker, to station himself near the front door at almost seven.

—

S
he was true to her word; the bell rang at precisely seven, and a moment later Fred showed her into Stone’s study. “Ms. Woodhouse,” Fred intoned. “When would you like the car, Mr. Barrington?”

“At seven forty-five.” Fred vanished.

“What would you like to drink?” Stone asked Caroline.

“What do you recommend?”

“The house specialties are vodka gimlets, vodka martinis, and excellent whiskeys.”

“What’s a vodka gimlet?”

“Trust me, if you don’t like it I’ll get you something else immediately.”

“I’m game.” She began looking at pictures.

Stone opened the little freezer, extracted a bottle of pre-made gimlets, poured her one and handed it to her, then he poured himself a Knob Creek.

She tasted the gimlet. “Whoa, that’s startling,” she said.

“I make them by the bottle and keep them in the freezer.”

“Make them how?”

“Simple—remove six ounces of vodka from a 750-milliliter bottle of vodka, replace it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, and put it in the freezer overnight.”

Caroline stopped before a painting. “Wait a minute, is this a Matilda Stone?”

“It is.”

“So, somehow you discovered who my favorite painter is, then rushed out and bought this? I’m impressed.”

“No, she’s my favorite painter, too. Would you like to see some others?”

“Yes, please.”

“There’s one more beside the door.” He waited for her to appreciate it, then took her into the living room and dining room and showed her some others.

“My God, how many do you have?”

“Eleven, at the moment, but I have a man still looking for more.”

“That’s more than the Metropolitan Museum has.”

“I know, they keep trying to buy mine. How did you discover Matilda Stone?”

“I saw one at an exhibition, then I discovered those at the Met. I bought four prints at the museum shop, and they’re my favorites of all my pictures. I paint, and she was an influence on my work.”

Stone took her back to the study and sat her down.

“Tell me your story,” he said.

“Long version or short version?”

“I’m not drunk enough for the long version.”

She laughed. “Smart guy. All right, born and bred in a small town in Georgia called Delano, bachelor’s in art history at Vassar, then a master’s in design at Pratt. I met the Kelly boys right after school in a bar, and the next thing I knew I was an art director at their nascent agency. Now I’m head of the art department. Your turn.”

“Born and bred in Greenwich Village, educated at PS 3, NYU, and NYU Law. When time came to practice law I decided to do it on the street, instead of in the courts, so I joined the NYPD, and did that for fourteen years, then I finally passed the bar and became a proper attorney-at-law.”

“Considering your house and your collection of Matilda Stones, you must have done very well at it.”

“I inherited the house from my great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister—and the beginnings of my collection from my mother, but I can’t complain about the hand life has dealt me.”

“Why did you leave the police department?”

“You aren’t drunk enough for that story. Suffice it to say, it was time I grew up and got a real job, even if it wasn’t as much fun as being a cop.”

“What kind of cop were you?”

“I started as a patrolman, like everybody else, and ended up as a homicide detective.”

“And that was
fun
?”

“You’d be surprised how entertaining a corpse can be. And anyway, everybody loves a murder mystery.”

“Then you should write murder mysteries.”

“I’ll save that for my golden years.”

They had another drink, then Fred drove them to the Four Seasons.

They dined exceedingly well. Stone assumed that, although Caroline Woodhouse was “fond” of the Four Seasons, she didn’t often dine there, so when ordering, he pulled out all the stops.

Caroline took her food seriously, savoring each bite and making appreciative groans at intervals. When they had finished their appetizers and main courses, then a Grand Marnier soufflé, she sat back, patted her lips demurely with her napkin, and gave him a little smile. “Now what?” she asked.

“Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I would like to go back to your house, then fuck your brains out.”

Stone’s heart skipped a beat. He was unaccustomed to being solicited in that fashion.

“I can’t find anything to object to in that,” he replied finally, signaling the captain for a check. He signed it quickly, and they left. They were shortly back at his house, and in the elevator.

“Tell me,” she said, “how were you going to get around to seducing me?”

“I was going to offer to show you four more Matilda Stone paintings,” he said, “which are in my bedroom.”

“You make me almost sorry I asked you first.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

The elevator disgorged them onto the fifth floor, and Stone led her into the master suite. “There you are,” he said, indicating the wall where the pictures hung.

Caroline took in each of them while undressing, folding her garments and leaving them on a chair. Since Stone didn’t need to look at the pictures again, he was ahead of her.

“These are the originals of the prints I bought in the museum shop,” she said. “They are her best work, I think.”

“I agree,” Stone said, moving behind her and pressing against her buttocks.

She turned to face him and put an arm around his neck. “Already ready,” she said, taking him in her hand. “And big, but not too big.” She pushed him backward onto the bed and mounted him.

For the better part of the next hour she entertained him in every way that he could have imagined. Finally, when she was ready to climax, she made him ready, too, and they managed a mutual orgasm. When that was complete she rolled off him and lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling. “This has been a perfect evening,” she said. “So far.”

“So far?”

“I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I didn’t want to frighten you, but I am what is known as a sex addict, whatever that means.”

“What does it mean to you?” Stone asked, rolling onto his side and looking at her.

“It means that I
have
to have at least one orgasm a day, sometimes two or three.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Stone said, “and I’ll help.”

“Take your time.”

“Do you ever find your needs inconvenient?”

“Not really. I can postpone it if necessary or just do it myself. I’m good at that.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with being a sex addict?” she asked.

“Tell me.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Stone laughed.

“My life would be gray and empty without it. Don’t worry, you don’t have to keep up with me. I’ll always be accommodating, but I’ll try not to be demanding.”

“Thank you. I’d hate to fall short of your expectations.”

“I’ve never discussed this with a man before,” she said.

“I’m flattered. How about women?”

“Oh, women can talk about these things without embarrassment. I’ve even found a few who can admit to being addicted, and without embarrassment.”

“Are you attracted to women?”

“Sometimes, but only rarely have I indulged.”

“Was it satisfying?”

“In a way, but not as satisfying as with the right man.” She took him in her hand again and moved her fingers. “And you, sir, are the right man.”

“Thank you.” He rolled over onto her. “My turn to be on top,” he said.

“Wherever you want to be,” she said. “And whatever you want.”

“I want this right now,” he said, and showed her what he meant.

“Oh, yes,
that
is a good idea.”

“I’m full of ideas.”

“Don’t tell me, show me.”

And he did.

There was a repeat performance before breakfast, then Caroline showered, dressed, and left for work. Stone was slower to move after such exertion. It was nearly ten when he made it to his desk, and he thanked himself for staying fit. On days like this, fitness got him out of bed.

Shortly before noon Pepe Perado called.

“How’s it going?”

“Very well, thank you. My team is here at Marty Winkle’s, burrowing into things. I wanted you to know that the two cops are still with me.”

“Is Mike Freeman’s security team still with you, too?”

“Yes, but I have the feeling those two men are just waiting for an opening.”

“Your security people won’t give them one. If you think it would help, I can have them spoken to.”

“What would be said?”

“Not much. Discouragement can take other forms.”

“I don’t want them beaten up.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that, but you might remember what they were going to do to you. They could very well have put you in the hospital, or worse.”

“Perhaps I should be armed.”

“You should not be. The City of New York takes a very dim view of visitors, even citizens, walking around unlicensed, carrying weapons. Being discovered in that condition can radically alter your favorable opinion of our fair city.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad. I will take steps to discourage your unwanted entourage.”

“Thank you.”

Stone called Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning, Mike.”

“Are my people doing their job?”

“They are, but a bit more needs to be done.”

“I’ve heard that your client is still being troubled by unwanted presences.”

“He is. Could you have these men spoken to?”

“How forcefully?”

“Without violence, if at all possible. My client wants it that way.”

“Stone, I’ve done a little research on the people who employ these ex-cops. Apparently, these two are part of a coterie of enforcers retained by the Messrs. Brubeck and Parisi, who are rather old-fashioned in their methods, both arising from criminal stock. They protect their turf by crude methods and enlarge it the same way.”

“I should have thought that energetic sales would preserve their turf better.”

“Oh, their sales force is buttressed by energetic fellows, too. They really need to be put out of business.”

“Dino is taking a look at that. In the meantime, Pepe Perado is trying to make a business deal, and the unwanted attention is, understandably, making him nervous. He will be a good client, I think, and I don’t want him folding his tent and stealing back to San Antonio.”

“I understand. I employ some men who are artists in the intimidation business. Question is, should they address the two ex-cops or their employers?”

“Good question.”

“It might be more efficient to deal with the root, rather than the branch.”

“You have a point.”

“Leave it with me, then.”

“I’ll wait to hear from you.”

They both hung up.

—

L
ater that day, Jerry Brubeck and Gino Parisi left their offices and walked to the garage where their cars were parked. Brubeck lived in New Jersey and Parisi in Corona Park, Queens.

It was Parisi who noticed first that their cars were blocked by cars parked behind them. “Let’s go, Jerry,” he said, tugging at his partner’s sleeve.

“Huh? What’s up?”

“Let’s just go.” Parisi turned and propelled his partner toward the elevator, but their way was blocked by two very large men, both with battered faces and unwelcoming visages.

They tried to go the other way, but two other men blocked that, too.

Each of the men held a short black tube in his hand.

Parisi unbuttoned his jacket and came up with a snub-nosed .38 revolver. As he raised it, something hard came down on his wrist, and the gun clattered to the concrete floor. The short tubes the men held had become longer: steel batons. Parisi swore and clasped his wrist. “If it’s broken I’ll have you taken out,” he said to the man who had struck him.