“I usually am.”
“Well, not all the time, just some of the time.”
“Too late; you already admitted it.”
“Well, there’s no point in going over to Sotheby’s, is there?”
“Why not? My car is outside.”
They tossed down their drinks, left Elaine’s and got into Dino’s car, driven by a young officer. “Take us to Rockefeller Center,” Dino said. “Sotheby’s.”
“So, what rookie are you torturing these days?” Stone asked, nodding at the driver.
“He’s a lucky kid, this one; he could be out there getting shot at, right, Leary?”
“You’re not related to Captain Leary, now retired, are you?” Stone asked.
“He’s my father,” the young man said, driving swiftly down Second Avenue.
“Well,” Stone said, “he made our lives hell for a few years at the One-Nine.”
“So he says,” Leary replied. “Says he enjoyed every minute of it, too.”
“Shut up and drive, Leary,” Dino said.
They found Sotheby’s, and Dino had Leary drive them around the block a couple of times, while they looked into darkened doorways with a flashlight.
“Your chicken has flown the coop,” Dino said. “Leary, take Mr. Barrington to his lovely home in Turtle Bay.”
“I know the joint,” Leary said.
“It’s not a joint,” Stone pointed out.
“Whatever.” Leary had them there in five minutes.
As they stopped, Dino’s cell phone rang. “Bacchetti. Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He hung up and turned toward Stone. “There’s a Barton Lowell Cabot at 110 North Shore Road, in Warren, Connecticut. The only guy by that name in three states.”
Stone made a note of the address.
“Look,” Dino said, “if he hasn’t turned up by morning, I’ll have the watch sergeant spread the word about him at the shift change.”
“Thanks, Dino. I’ll keep you posted.” Stone got out of the car, and it drove away. Stone walked up his front steps, and as he was fumbling for his key, he saw the moving shadow of someone behind him. He spun around, ready to repel a mugger, and found Barton Cabot standing there.
“Holy shit, Barton,” Stone said. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Cabot replied.
“Why did you leave Elaine’s?”
“I’m supposed to sleep here tonight,” Cabot replied, with perfect logic.
“Why did you go to Sotheby’s?”
Cabot looked puzzled. “I don’t know. But then I came here.” Stone looked at the address on his jotter. “Do you recognize 110 North Shore Road, Warren, Connecticut?”
“Sure, I live there.”
Stone sighed and unlocked the door. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”