“That’s a pretty important job, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“How did he get it?”
“Well, my first cousin, Dick Stone, was supposed to get it, but before he could start, he was murdered, along with his wife and daughter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barton said. “Dick Stone,” he mused. “I think I knew him.”
“Oh? How?”
“I’m not sure; school, maybe.”
“Choate or Harvard?”
“Maybe both. He was younger than I.”
“Did you know him well?”
“I don’t know, but I think I liked him.”
“Everybody liked Dick, except his brother.”
“Caleb?”
“That’s right.”
“He was my class, I think. I didn’t like him.”
“Neither did Dick.”
Stone didn’t feel like reciting a long explanation about how Dick had died and who had killed him, so he changed the subject. “If you’re done, let’s get started.”
“Started where?”
“To your house.”
“Where is that?”
“At 110 North Shore Road in Warren, Connecticut.”
“That sounds right.”
“Let’s go find out,” Stone said.
Helene handed Cabot his old clothes, newly washed and pressed, and Stone led him to the garage and put him into the car.
“What is this?” Cabot asked, indicating the car.
“A Mercedes.”
“What kind of Mercedes?”
“An E55,” Stone said, pressing the remote to open the garage door.
“That’s the fast one, isn’t it?”
“The fastest Mercedes,” Stone said, backing out of the garage and closing the door. “At least it was when I bought it.”