“Lance, with a cell phone and an Internet connection, you ought to be able to save the world from anywhere, even Connecticut.”
Lance left.
Stone’s secretary, Joan Robertson, buzzed him in the kitchen.
Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning,” he said.
“Bob Cantor is on the phone with you. He wants to have lunch.”
“When?”
“Noon, at P. J. Clarke’s.”
“Okay.” Stone hung up. Bob Cantor was a retired cop who did P.I. work, especially the technical kind, for Stone. Bob had never wanted to have lunch before, Stone recalled. Why now?
P. J. Clarke’s was already crowded when Stone got there. Cantor waved him over to a table, and they shook hands.
“Drink?”
“I’ll have a beer with my bacon cheeseburger, medium,” Stone replied.
Cantor ordered for them.
“What’s up, Bob?” Stone asked.
“Barton Cabot,” Cantor replied.
It took a moment for the penny to drop. “You’ve talked with Dino.”
“Right.”
“How much did he tell you?”
“That somebody beat him up.”
“What’s your interest in Barton Cabot?”
“I served under him in ’Nam,” Cantor replied.
“I guess I knew you were in Vietnam.”
“I was a squad leader in his company, and later, I got a battlefield commission, after he made colonel and got a regiment, and I led a platoon. When my company commander was killed, the Colonel made me acting C.O. Is Colonel Cabot all right?”
“Far as I know,” Stone said. “His brother went up to Connecticut to see him this morning.”
“He has a brother?”
“Yep.”
“If Colonel Cabot needs anything, will you let me know?”
“Have you kept in touch with him over the years?”
“No. He dropped out of sight after he got home. I heard he’d resigned from the Corps. I just want to know that he’s okay. The man saved my life four or five times.”
“That’s a lot.”
“We got shot at a lot.”