“Where, with friends?”
“In the East Forties.”
“Very near me. Will you come to my house for a nightcap?”
“All right.”
They got into their coats and, outside, Stone started to hail a cab.
“Don’t,” she said. “I have a car, courtesy of my firm.” She nodded toward a black Lincoln idling at the curb.
“All the better,” Stone said, opening the door for her. He gave the driver his address.
“That’s in Turtle Bay,” she said.
“You know Turtle Bay?”
“I can read a map and a guidebook, I know all about it. Does your house open onto the common garden?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Perhaps you’ll show me the garden tomorrow.”
“Certainly,” Stone replied, though he wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
“How does one afford a house of one’s own, what with property prices the way they are in New York these days?”
“Easy. One has a great-aunt who dies and wills him the house. Then one works one’s ass off renovating it.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“You don’t have to wait, we’re here.” He opened the door, and she slid across the seat. She leaned back into the car. “You can go,” she said to the driver.
Stone liked the sound of that. He led her up the steps, unlocked the front door, and hung their coats in the front hall closet. “I didn’t know you had any friends in New York,” he said.
“Business friends.”
“Oh. And I suppose their front hall closet has a selection of cloaks and daggers.”
“Quite,” she said.
Stone switched on some lights from the master panel in the foyer.
Carpenter walked into the living room. “This is very handsome,” she said. “Did you choose the furniture, or did you have a designer?”
“Most of the furniture came with the house. I had everything reupholstered. I chose the fabrics.”
“Oh? I thought I detected a woman’s touch.”
Stone didn’t want to go there. “My study is through here,” he said, leading the way.
“Beautiful paneling and bookcases,” Carpenter said.
“My father designed and built them.”
“Your father the Communist?”
“Ex-Communist,” Stone replied. “You pulled a few files on me, didn’t you?”