Bel-Air Dead

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Elaine’s, late.

Stone Barrington sat with his client, Mike Freeman, of Strategic Services, and his former partner from his NYPD days, Dino Bacchetti, over the ruins of dinner and a bottle of excellent Cabernet.

“That was good,” Mike said. “I never knew how good the food was here, until you started bringing me.”

“Comfort food,” Dino said.

Elaine sat herself down in the spare chair. “Comfort food?” she asked. “Is that some kind of crack?”

“It’s high praise,” Stone said quickly, not wanting to get her started. Elaine’s did not enjoy a high reputation with the food critics of the local media, because they didn’t come often enough to get the good tables, but the regulars knew how good the food was, and that was all she really cared about.

“I’ll take high praise,” Elaine said.

Stone’s cell phone hummed on his belt, and he dug it out of its holster. “Stone Barrington.”

“Stone, it’s Arrington,” she said. Stone and Arrington had once been a very big item, to the extent of his having fathered a son by her.

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