by Steven Henry
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess you’re okay. Just be careful you don’t fall off.”
The train had so few passengers that Erin wondered why they bothered to keep running it. The nation’s passenger lines operated on a mix of nostalgia and government subsidies. It was too bad. She’d always liked trains; the big, strong, industrial feel of the engines coupled with the glamor of smooth, easy travel. No stoplights, no gas stations, just a straight shot to the destination.
They made their way to the front of the train, ignoring the odd looks and questions from the few onlookers. It really wasn’t difficult to move from one carriage to the next. The only reason it was forbidden was so some idiot’s next-of-kin wouldn’t be able to sue the railroad if they took a header after one too many drinks. Erin and Vic were too sober, and Rolf too sure-footed, to be in any danger.
The first-class carriage was just like the first-class cabin on an airplane; the same metal tube as everyone else, just bigger and better seats.
“Fat cats need more leg room, I guess,” Vic said.
The carriage contained two guys in business suits, an elderly couple, a train attendant, and a familiar face half-hidden behind the Wall Street Journal.
“Mr. Stone,” Erin said, walking briskly toward him.
If he was startled, Wendell J. Stone III hid it well. He carefully folded the paper and set it on the table in front of him. “If it isn’t the young lady from the hotel! What an unexpected pleasure. Do come sit down. I was about to order a cocktail. Would you like anything?”
He signaled to the attendant with a lazy wave of his finger. She arrived at his seat at about the same time Vic, Erin, and Rolf did.
“I’ll have a dry martini,” Stone said. “And for the young lady…?”
“Isn’t there a drink called an aquarium?” Erin asked, watching Stone. He blinked, but didn’t flinch.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the attendant said. “I’m not familiar with that. We don’t have a very well-stocked bar.”
“Rum, Curaçao, and lemon juice,” Vic said, earning him a surprised glance from Erin. “What? I hung out at bars a lot back in school. Still do.”
Erin was hardly one to talk. She turned her attention back to Stone. “We need to discuss some things, sir.”
“Then sit down, by all means,” he said. “I’m sorry we don’t have a seat for your colleague. He will simply have to place himself across the aisle.”
“Fine by me,” Vic grunted. He took a seat, from which he glared at Stone. It wasn’t that he was trying to be intimidating; Vic came across that way by default. His appearance was even more alarming on account of the elbow to the nose Polk had given him the day before. The dark swellings under his eyes forced them into a narrow, hard stare.
Erin sat opposite Stone, the table between them. “Rolf, sitz,” she ordered. The K-9 promptly sat. She watched Stone’s face and hands. The face might give something away and the hands might go for a weapon. Neither she nor Stone took any notice of the train attendant, who departed.
“I must say, Miss… O’Reilly, wasn’t it?”
“Detective O’Reilly.”
“Yes, of course. Detective, you must have been simply frantic to see me again, to go to the trouble of hopping a train all the way to Boston.”
“I’m not going to Boston. Neither are you.”
Stone raised a polite eyebrow. “I would suggest, Detective, that one of us may have taken the wrong train.”
“We talked to Caldwell,” she said.
“I don’t know any Caldwell, I’m sorry to say.”
“Maybe you didn’t get his last name. But he had plenty to say about you.”
Stone spread his hands. “Really, Detective, I hate to disappoint you, but I truly have no idea to whom you are referring.”
“Forty-something guy with a limp and a hotel security uniform? Does that jog your memory?” Erin looked for a flicker of anything in Stone’s eyes. They were as empty as the Amtrak concourse.
“The guy you had turn off the cameras on the third floor,” Vic said.
“I’m sorry, Detectives, I can’t help you.”
“You drugged Sarah Devers,” Erin said.
“Sarah who?”
“Sarah Devers.” Erin was suddenly angry, wanting to shake this smug, rich jerk until his teeth rattled. “She called herself Crystal Winters, but she had a real name, and hopes, and a life, and you took them away from her. Why? Was it because she wouldn’t put out for you?”
“There’s no call to be rude, Miss O’Reilly,” Stone said, raising a hand. “I understand you’re upset. It’s a terrible thing, what happened to that girl. A tragedy. But it has nothing to do with me.”
“You thought she was a hooker,” Erin went on. “Because she worked for a modeling agency and you hired her to look pretty on your arm. But then she wouldn’t go the rest of the way with you. The only thing that surprises me is that you had the drugs already on you.”
“I don’t use drugs,” Stone said. “Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I do have a slight hypertensive condition, for which I take a medication.”
“The Rohypnol makes it premeditated sexual assault,” Erin said softly. “That stuff’s only good for one thing, and every judge and district attorney knows it.”
“You’ll find I had no intimate contact with the late Miss… Devers, was it?”
“Because she died before you could rape her,” Erin said, speaking louder now. The elderly couple turned in their seats to look at them. The woman whispered something in her companion’s ear.
“Again, Miss O’Reilly, you’re being rude,” Stone said. “I have been forbearing, but really, I must ask you to moderate your tone.”
“Moderate this,” Erin said. “If you’d called an ambulance when she stopped breathing, you’d be looking at manslaughter, tops. Along with violation of the Controlled Substances Act, of course. And it’s Detective O’Reilly.”
“Ah,” Stone said. “Are you accusing me of a crime, Detective?”
“Several. After covering up the death, you’re facing a first-degree murder charge. That means we lock you up for how long, Vic?”
“The rest of your life,” Vic helpfully supplied.
“Well, in that case, I have to question your jurisdiction,” Stone said. “You see, we are aboard an Amtrak train, which falls under the federal aegis.”
“Good thing it’s called the Federal Controlled Substances Act,” Erin said. “The drugs make this a national crime.”
“Nonetheless, Detective, you’ll need to discuss this with the Amtrak Police. I’m afraid it’s illegal for you to arrest me on board this train. Or, of course, once I debark in Boston. You can, of course, take the matter up with the Boston Police Department. Their chief is an old friend of the family.”
“How about if I throw your ass off the train?” Vic suggested. “Then you’ll be back on New York soil in a hurry, once you stop bouncing. If you’re really lucky, you’ll land on your feet.”
“And now you’re threatening physical violence?” Stone inquired. “Really? What is your name and badge number, Detective?”
The attendant came down the aisle bearing a tray. “Excuse me, please,” she said. She set a martini glass in front of Stone and a glass containing a ghastly blue liquid in front of Erin.
“What is this?” she asked.
The attendant looked flustered. “An aquarium, ma’am. I looked up the recipe. I hope I got it right. Is there anything else?”
“I’ll be ordering dinner shortly,” Stone said. “The salmon, I think, but I should like to see the menu.”
“Do you have a railroad police officer on board?” Erin asked the attendant.
“Yes, he’s in the baggage car, I think.”
“Could you fetch him, please?” Erin figured everyone in the conversation was probably bluffing. It was time to call his.
“Certainly, ma’am. What’s the problem?”
Erin showed her shield. “Police business.”
The attendant nodded. “Just a moment, ma’am.” She hurried off.
“Now then,” Erin said. “You were saying?”
“Speaking of menus,” Stone said. “I’m aware of a wide buffet of legal options available to me. A harassment suit will be first, naturally. I am also on good terms with the chief editor of the Journal,” he indicated the folded newspaper, “and the Boston Globe. One hates to see good police officers tried in the court of public opinion, so I rather hope we can stop before we get to that disagreeable point.”
“So now he’s threatening us?” Vic asked. The idea amused him.
“Yeah,” Erin said. “So, for the record, Mr. Stone, you’re saying you did not give any controlled substance to Sarah Devers?”
“I asked the young woman to my room for a drink and some light conversation, as I previously told you.”
“She was underage,” Vic observed.
“Not to my knowledge,” Stone said.
“And you’re saying you didn’t take her body to the aquarium on the third floor?” Erin asked.
“Of course not, Detective.”
“All right.” Erin turned to Vic. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”
Vic gave her a look. “You think?”
“I apologize for my earlier rudeness,” she said to Stone. “But maybe you’re right. We don’t want this to get any more unpleasant than it already is.”
“That’s a good girl,” Stone said, in a tone which made Erin want to punch his teeth down his throat. “I knew you could be reasonable. Now, if you’d care to join me for dinner? They really do a surprisingly good job with the salmon in the dining car.”
“I might take you up on that,” she said. “By the way, where did you learn CPR?”
“I took a first-aid class in my preparatory school,” Stone said. “I was on the rowing team and it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility I might be called on to resuscitate some classmate, should he experience a waterborne mishap.”
Erin nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”
Then Stone got the look she’d been looking for. It skidded into his eyes like an out-of-control car through a red light. She’d seen it so many times, in the faces of so many perps. It was the look that recognized he’d said something without thinking, that he’d given himself away.
“You were a little out of practice,” Erin said. “Makes sense, if you hadn’t done it since high school. Your chest compressions were too deep. You cracked some ribs.”
“I’m sorry,” Stone said, recovering. “To what, precisely, are you referring?”
“What’s the problem here, folks?” a new voice called. A cop wearing the uniform of the Amtrak Police was on his way toward them, the attendant hovering behind him.
“Erin O’Reilly, NYPD,” she said. “This is Vic Neshenko. We’re Major Crimes detectives. This man is wanted for murder.”
“You got the warrant?” the cop asked.
“This is a hot pursuit situation,” Erin said, which was more or less true.
“Oh.” The cop looked uncomfortable. He glanced out the window. The train was really moving now, working its way north by northeast along Manhattan Island. “The next stop isn’t until Stamford.”
“Where the hell is Stamford?” Vic demanded.
“Connecticut,” the cop said.
“Stop this train,” Erin said. “Now.”
“Ma’am, unless there’s an imminent emergency, I can’t do that,” he said.
“Can we at least arrest this mope?” Vic asked.
“You said he’s wanted for murder?”
“And violation of the Federal Controlled Substances Act,” Erin added.
The cop looked relieved. “Okay, sure,” he said.
“Just a moment,” Stone said, starting to rise.
“Sit your ass back in that chair, or I’ll put it there for you,” Erin snapped.
Startled, Stone did as he was told.
“You can catch the southbound train in Stamford,” the cop said. “Or arrange other transportation.”
“Look on the bright side,” Vic said to Stone as he pulled out his handcuffs. “Looks like you may have time for that salmon after all. But you may have to bend over to eat it, since you won’t be using your hands. Hey, Erin, thanks for letting me be good cop this time.”
“Vic, you call that being good cop? You called him a mope and threatened to throw him off a moving train.”
“Did he really?” the Amtrak cop asked.
Vic grinned. “You think that’s something, you should see me when I get to be bad cop.”
Chapter 12
Stamford seemed an awfully long way from New York to Erin’s mind, but East Coast cities were close together. If the train kept to its normal schedule, they’d be there in less than forty minutes. While Vic kept an eye on Stone, she and the railroad cop retreated to opposite ends of the train car to contact their respective bosses.
“O’Reilly, where are you?” Webb asked without any preliminaries. “I’ve got uniforms all over Penn Station.”
“On my way to Connecticut on the Acela line, sir.”
“Connecticut.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Neshenko with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Stone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you arrest him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he confess?”
Erin sighed. “No, sir. But he did it. I’m sure of it.”
“I’ve been looking into this guy,” Webb said. “Wendell J. Stone Junior, that’d be your friend’s dad, is a big figure in Massachusetts politics. He’s a close personal friend of Billy Bulger. You know who that is?”
“He sounds familiar.”
“He should. That’s Whitey Bulger’s kid brother.”
“Whitey Bulger? You’re shitting me, sir.” Whitey Bulger was probably the most notorious criminal ever to come out of Boston, a racketeer and serial murderer who’d actually operated under the protection of the FBI, thanks to an agent he’d corrupted. He’d been on the run for sixteen years and had only recently been collared and convicted.
“Now, brother Billy was never implicated in any of Whitey’s crimes,” Webb said. “But he had plenty of power himself when he was President of the State Senate. My point is, the Stones are exceptionally well-connected up in Boston, possibly on both sides of the law. They have political clout and maybe criminal muscle behind them.”
“What’s that got to do with our guy here?” she asked.
“I assume you haven’t let him talk to anybody yet?”
“He’ll get his phone call when we book him, same as anybody.”
“You can assume his first call will be to his lawyer. That lawyer will get the wheels rolling, and next thing you know, the entire political and legal force of the family will come down on us.”
“I’m not scared of lawyers, sir.”
“Fear’s got nothing to do with it, O’Reilly. What we won’t have is time. After he makes his first call, we’ll have three or four hours, tops, until some very high-powered attorneys will be posting bail and asking very awkward questions. No matter how high the judge sets bail, our boy will be on the street almost immediately. Do you understand?”
“We need to move fast, sir.”
“That’s an understatement. You’ll have less than half a day to put together an airtight case before he’s out of New York again. At that point, it’s anyone’s guess if we’ll even be able to extradite him from Massachusetts. Oh, and his lawyers play dirty.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, shooting a quick glance Vic’s way to make sure everything was all right. She’d left Rolf with him for moral support. Everything appeared to be in order. Stone was sitting quietly, looking out the window. Vic was watching him closely, probably hoping he’d try something.
“I told you, I’ve looked into Stone’s history,” Webb said. “It seems this isn’t the first adventure our boy has had
in the arena of nonconsensual relationships.”
“Really?” Erin had been starting to feel a little droopy. Now a fresh shot of adrenaline hit her system and she was suddenly wide awake again. “I thought he didn’t have a record.”
“I know a guy back in LA who came there from the BPD,” Webb said, referring to the Boston Police Department. “I called him and he talked to some old friends there. It seems Stone has committed several indiscretions, but they’ve been kept off the books. The women who brought the complaints were discredited, their reputations ruined. One of them lost her job and another had to move out of state. Like I said, these guys play dirty.”
“Sir, how could you possibly have heard all that this quickly?” she asked. “That must have taken some time.”
“It did.” Webb sounded slightly smug. “I called my guy yesterday. He’s been working this in the background.”
“Why didn’t Vic and I know about this?”
“Because the name on my desk has ‘Lieutenant’ in front of it and yours just says ‘Detective,’” he said. “I was playing a hunch. I didn’t know if it would pan out. I expect you to tell me what you’re up to. It doesn’t have to go both ways.”
“Of course, sir,” Erin said, slightly chastened. “But that won’t help us get a conviction. It all sounds like hearsay.”
“It is. But it tells me you’ve probably got the right guy. So get him back to our city and park his entitled backside in one of our holding cells. Get down here as fast as you can.”
“I might be able to catch a southbound train,” she said doubtfully. “Or we can rent a car, I guess. Or… wait, forget about it. I have an idea.”
“Whenever I hear that these days, I get this feeling in my stomach,” Webb said. “I used to think it was indigestion, but now I think it’s just you and Neshenko giving me heartburn. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Just get it done.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll call you once we hit Manhattan again.”
“I’ll be at the Eightball. All night, probably.” Webb sighed heavily. “Just don’t do anything that’ll make the evening news, please.”
“Copy that, sir.”