Kisser by Stuart Woods Page A

blonde named Carrie on her way down. Put her in the car, take her somewhere else, then come back as soon as you can. Don’t be more than an hour.”
    “I’ll call you when I’m back,” Tom said. “Here she comes now.” He hung up.
    Stone handed Mitzi her phone. “That’s taken care of.” At least for the moment, he thought.
    “Oh, good,” Mitzi said. “Derek was just telling me about how he does his work. It’s fascinating.”
    “I’ll bet,” Stone said, trying to keep the irony out of his voice.
     
     
     
    AN HOUR LATER, Mitzi answered her phone. She listened, then hung up. “My driver is back,” she said.
    “The party seems to be winding down,” Sharpe said. “Why don’t we get some dinner?”
    “I’d love to,” Mitzi said brightly.
    “Sure, why not?” Stone said. He noted that Hildy didn’t seem to have any objections.
    They rode down in the elevator with the last of the celebrants, and Tom was waiting out front with the Bentley.
    “We’ll take my car,” Mitzi said.
    “I’ll take the front seat,” Stone said, and got in while Tom held the door for the others.
    “Where to, Ms. Reynolds?” Tom asked when he was in the car.
    “Derek,” she said, “we’re in your hands.”
    Sharpe gave directions, and soon they were stopping outside a chic-looking restaurant. Stone hardly ever came downtown, so he didn’t know it.
    They went inside, where Sharpe was fawned over by the manager and the reservations lady before they were shown to a big table in the center of the room. Sharpe ordered a bottle of expensive wine and menus.
    “I hope you like sushi,” Sharpe said to the group.
    “Love it,” Mitzi said.
    Stone detested sushi but said nothing. The menus came, and he began looking for something cooked. He was relieved to find a shrimp teriyaki and ordered that, while the others chose raw things.
    “So, Mitzi,” Sharpe said. “How long have you been in town?”
    “A few weeks, off and on. I bought an apartment uptown, and I’ve been seeing to the decorating.”
    “Oh,” Hildy said, “let me have your address and number.” Mitzi fished a card from her purse and handed it to her. Sharpe took it from her, looked at it, froze for a moment, then handed it back to Hildy. “Nice neighborhood,” he said.
    “I like it,” Mitzi replied.
    “How did you ever find it?” Hildy asked. “You never see anything listed in that building.”
    “It was a private sale,” Mitzi said smoothly. “A friend of my family owned it.”
    “That’s the best way,” Hildy said. “Did you have any problems with the co-op board? I hear they can be tough.”
    “None at all,” Mitzi said. “In fact, they were rather sweet.” Stone admired how, in a few words, Mitzi had told them that she came from money, serious enough to impress a board made up of people with serious money.
    “Are you all settled in now?” Hildy asked.
    “Perfectly,” Mitzi replied. “My decorator brought over the last pair of lamps today.”
    “And who is your decorator?” Hildy asked.
    “Ralph Lauren,” Mitzi replied.
    “Who at Ralph Lauren?”
    “Ralph.”
    “Ralph who?”
    “Lauren.”
    Stone nudged her under the table. Ralph Lauren did not deliver lamps. Mitzi was going too far.
    “I’ve never heard of Ralph personally doing decorating jobs,” Hildy said.
    “He and Daddy are old friends,” Mitzi replied. “Daddy was one of Ralph’s first backers many years ago, when he was still in the necktie business.”
    This, Stone thought, was a high-wire performance. He hoped to God that Philip Parsons and Ralph were not old friends.
    Hildy answered his question. “How interesting. My father and Ralph are old friends, too. Ralph has bought a number of pictures from him.”
    “Oh, is your daddy in the art business?” Mitzi replied.
    “The Parsons Gallery,” Hildy said.
    “Oh, of course. I didn’t make the connection. A lovely gallery it is, too. I bought a Hockney there.”
    “Oh? Whom did you deal