Criminal Mischief

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Stone Barrington stood at the bar at P.J. Clarke’s, already half a drink ahead of Dino Bacchetti. He and Dino had been NYPD detective partners many moons ago, when they were young and reckless, until it had been suggested by his superiors, with emphasis, that Stone’s talents lay elsewhere (anywhere but the NYPD) and he had decamped to the law. He already had a law degree from NYU in his pocket, and an old classmate brought him aboard at the firm of Woodman & Weld, while he crammed for the bar exam. Dino had opted for the whole thirty years and now found himself the police commissioner of New York City. They dined together often.

Not this evening, though. Stone’s iPhone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it. “It’s Stone.”

“It’s Dino. It’s not happening tonight. Big emergency, hands to hold. Tomorrow?”

“Sure, but at Patroon. I’m already at Clarke’s.”

“At seven.” They both hung up.

“Dumped again?” a female voice said from somewhere below him. “He or she?”

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