Dirt by Stuart Woods Page A

maybe with more than one of them. I think you should check out Martha there.” He pointed at the piece of paper on Stone’s desk. “You can never tell what motivates a person.”
    Stone nodded. “You’ve got a point; maybe I will.”
    His secretary buzzed. “Richard Hickock on line one. You in?”
    “I’m in,” Stone replied. “See you soon, Arnie; give my girl your bill on the way out, and she’ll write you a check.” He picked up the phone as he watched the retired detective trudge out. “Dick?”
    “Okay, I talked with Amanda,” Hickock said, not bothering with a greeting.
    “She told me.”
    “What have you learned so far?”
    “Not much; I’m checking out a few leads.”
    “Any of them lead to me?”
    “Not so far. Tell me, who else knows about Tiffany Potts?”
    “Not a goddamned soul, that’s who.”
    “Not your secretary?”
    “No. We don’t communicate through her.”
    “How do you communicate?”
    “Cellular phones, and she has a beeper.”
    “Cellular can be leaky, Dick. All somebody needs is a scanner.”
    “We never use names. If somebody was listening, they wouldn’t know who was talking. We also keep it very brief.”
    “I think I should talk with Miss Potts.”
    “Stone, she’s very very discreet.”
    “Nevertheless, Dick, if you want me to get to the bottom of this…”
    “Oh, all right; I’ll have her call you.”
    “Good. Are there any other…intimates I should talk with?”
    “None. Get back to me.” Hickock hung up.
     
    Ten minutes later, she was on the phone. “This is Tiffany,” she said. “A mutual friend says we should talk.” Her voice was quiet, shy.
    “May I come and see you?” Stone asked.
    “Sure; when?”
    “Half an hour?”
    “I guess I can get myself together by then.” She gave him the address. “It says Dunhill on the bell. Ring twice, then once; the intercom’s not working.”
     
    The townhouse had a limestone facade and only four bells; each apartment occupied a floor, and Hickock’s mistress was on the third. Tiffany Potts had done very well for herself. Stone rang the belltwice, paused, then once more. The lock clicked, and he was inside a mahogany-paneled foyer. The elevator door stood open; he took it to the top floor.
    She was smaller than he had thought she would be, less blonde, and prettier; the scandal sheet had been right about her bustline. She was wearing well-fitted jeans and a chambray shirt. She stepped back and held the door open. “Please come in,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Tiffany Potts.”
    The apartment was quite handsome—crown moldings, nice curtains, good furniture, good pictures, lots of books. She showed him to one of a pair of sofas facing each other before the fireplace. “You have a very nice place,” Stone said. “Who’s your decorator?”
    “I am,” she said shyly.
    “You have very good taste.”
    She rewarded him with a small smile. “Thank you.”
    “What did Mr. Hickock tell you about me, Miss Potts?”
    “Please call me Tiff; everybody does. He said you’re looking into this DIRT thing for him. Are you a private detective? You don’t look like what I’d imagined.”
    “I used to be a police detective, Tiff; now I’m a lawyer.”
    “What should I call you?”
    “Stone will be just fine.”
    “I like that name. Names are important to actors.”
    “Is Dunhill your professional name?”
    “Not really; Dick didn’t want my name on the bell. I chose Dunhill; it’s sort of a joke. Believe me, I wouldn’t call myself Tiffany Dunhill; it sounds like a stripper.”
    Stone smiled. “You’re an actress?”
    “An actor,” she corrected. “A student, really.”
    “Where are you studying?”
    “At the Actor’s Studio.”
    “That’s very impressive; you’d have to be very promising to be accepted.”
    “Dick got me the interview, but I got in because of my audition,” she said. “I expect all you know about me is what you read in that DIRT thing, but I’m not a