Dirty Work sb-9

by Stuart Woods

  “It was originally the gatehouse for the big place next door,” he said.

  “Who lives there?” she asked, looking over at the large Shingle-style house.

  “A writer, until recently, but he moved to the city. A movie producer bought it, but he hasn’t moved in yet.”

  “Still, you have a lot of privacy,” she said, “with the trees and the hedge. And I love the turret.”

  Stone unlocked the door, entered the alarm code, and adjusted the thermostat. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’d love one of your bourbon whiskies,” she replied, walking around the house, inspecting the new kitchen, the mahogany floors, and the comfortable furniture. She chose a sofa and sat down.

  Stone brought in their drinks and sat down beside her. “We’ll need to go to the grocery store soon. It closes at six-thirty.”

  Dino was clearing his desk, getting ready to go home for the day, still tired from lack of sleep the night before, when a message generated by a 911 call popped onto his computer screen. A shooting on Park Avenue? That hardly ever happened. Through the glass wall of his office, he saw two detectives rise from their desks. They were next on the rotation, and they would take the call. He would tag along, just to see what people were doing to each other on Park Avenue these days. Anyway, it was on his way home.

  The block had been closed off, creating a huge, rush-hour traffic jam. Dino got out of his car, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and found a uniformed officer. “What happened?” he asked.

  The officer pointed at the body of a man, lying facedown on the sidewalk, leaking blood. Two EMTs were just turning him over.

  “As soon as they pronounce him, throw a sheet over the body and open the street,” Dino said to a sergeant as he approached the body. “Whataya got?” he asked an EMT.

  “Looks like two, maybe three, to the back of the head,” the EMT replied.

  “You calling it?”

  The EMT nodded.

  “Okay,” he said to the sergeant. “Run it down for me.” His two detectives had arrived and were ready to take notes.

  “The building doorman saw the guy fall,” the sergeant said, “but he didn’t hear anything. A woman—a blonde, medium height and weight, thirties—walked away from him, hopped onto the back of a light motorcycle, and was driven north on Park. That’s about it.”

  “Two or three gunshots, and he didn’t hear anything?”

  “That’s what he says. We haven’t found anybody else who saw what happened.”

  “It’s an execution,” Dino said, “using a silencer. The lady was a pro. Who’s the dead guy?”

  “Mohammed Salaam, works at one of the UN embassies, about four blocks down, between Park and Lex. He was carrying a diplomatic passport.” He showed it to Dino.

  “Sounds political,” Dino said. He turned to the detectives. “Report it to the FBI after the scene has been milked dry. Tell the techs to hurry it along, and get the body off the street as soon as you can. We’ve got traffic backed up to Forty-second Street, and even opening Park isn’t helping because of all the rubbernecking. I do not want to hear from the commissioner, or worse, the mayor, about this. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, boss,” the senior detective said.

  Dino got into his car. “Take me home,” he said. “Use the siren, if you have to.” He dialed his captain’s cell phone.

  “Grady,” the captain said.

  “It’s Bacchetti, Cap. We’ve got what looks like a political assassination on Park Avenue, diplomat from one of the UN embassies, Arab.”

  “Aw, shit,” the captain said.

  “My sentiments exactly. I told my guys to call the Feds after they’ve worked the scene. I’d appreciate a call to the ME to get the autopsy done before they yank the body out of our hands.”

  “Will do. You need any help?”

  “I think we’ve got it covered. I’ve told the team to clear the scene as soon as possible. We’ve already got traffic moving on Park again, should anybody ask.”

  “You got any theories yet?”

  “Could have something to do with this lady assassin the Brits are all hot about,” Dino replied. “I’ll look into that.”

  “Good man. Call me if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Cap.”

  Dino’s car drew up in front of his building, and he went upstairs. His son, Ben, was lying on his belly in Dino’s study in front of the TV, apparently making a stab at his homework. “Hey, kiddo,” Dino said, ruffling his hair. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Math,” Ben said.

  “Do it in your room, okay? I gotta make some calls.”

  Mary Ann came into the room wearing an apron dotted with red sauce. She kissed him firmly on the lips. “You’re home for dinner? Good God!”

  “Don’t gimme a hard time,” he said, kissing her again.

  “How was Saint Thomas?”

  “Awful. I had to sleep on a goddamned boat last night, got about two hours. I’m beat.”

  “Have a drink, that’ll help. Dinner’s in an hour.”

  Dino poured himself a stiff Scotch and sat down in his favorite chair. He picked up the phone and called Stone, got an answering machine. “Call me,” he said, and hung up. He tried Stone’s cell phone and got a recorded message. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself. He found his phone book and looked up the Connecticut number.

  “Hello?” Stone said.

  “What are you doing up there?” Dino asked.

  “Hiding Carpenter.”

  “What’s the latest on La Biche?”

  “She got a late flight to London last night, and this morning murdered another passenger and took her ID. The Brits lost her.”

  “So she’s not in the city?”

  “Who knows? Carpenter says she wouldn’t be surprised if she doubled back. Why do you ask?”

  “An Arab guy got himself popped on Park Avenue an hour ago,” Dino said. “Two or three in the head, no noise.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Could be our girl.”

  “Let’s not jump to that conclusion. Could have been an irritated Israeli. That situation is hot right now.”

  “We’ll look at that, too. Tell Carpenter to call me if she wants to talk, and I’d like to hear anything she has about what her people think.”

  “Okay. She’s cooking dinner right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to disturb her.”

  “Time you had a home-cooked meal,” Dino said.

  “I won’t argue with that.” Stone hung up.

  Dino hung up, took a big swallow of his Scotch, put his head back, and fell immediately asleep.

  29

  Stone walked back into the kitchen where Carpenter was doing something to a sauce. “Smells good,” he said, pouring them both another drink. “What is it?”

  “Chicken breast with tarragon sauce.”

  “A red wine okay?”

  “That’s fine. Who was on the phone? Who knows you’re here?”

  Stone went to the wine cooler and found a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet. “Dino tracked me down. An Arab diplomat has been murdered on Park Avenue. Looks like a hit. That give you any ideas?”

  “You mean, La Biche?”

  “That’s what Dino’s wondering.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already back in the city, but why shoot somebody else when she’s looking for me?”

  “I don’t know, maybe she doesn’t want to get rusty.”

  “You get the guy’s name?”

  “No. You want me to call Dino back?”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  “Dino wants you to call him if you have anything to contribute. He wants to know what your people come up with.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She popped a pair of boned chicken breasts into some hot, clarified butter.

  Stone liked the sizzle and the smell. “La Biche isn’t going to get tired of looking for you, is she?”

  “No, I don’t think so
.”

  “You know anything about her you haven’t told me?” Stone asked.

  “Well, let’s see. She’s unclassifiable as to type of killing. She’s used everything from pistols to ice picks to garrotes. A favorite means of avoiding arrests is what she’s just done in New York: She picks up a girl in a bar, usually a lesbian, goes home with her, murders her, takes her clothes and ID, then disappears. She did this three times in three days in Paris last year.”

  “Makes her awfully hard to track, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does. We don’t know who to look for until the victim’s body turns up, and that can take days. By then, she’s somebody else.”

  “You’ve seen her face-to-face, now. Can you improve on the CIA-generated portrait?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot, that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”

  “You think she’s a lesbian?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”

  “I’ll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.

  She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

  Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.

  “Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I’ll serve us in here.”

  Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.

  “Bon appétit,” she said, raising her glass.

  “Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.

  “Don’t count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.

  “What’s your feeling about this Park Avenue shooting?”

  “It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

  “Maybe we should just stay in Connecticut,” he said. “She’d never find us here.”

  Marie-Thérèse walked into Elaine’s and looked around. She’d read about this place, most recently on Page Six, and she was surprised that it wasn’t fancier. What lay before her was a homey-looking neighborhood restaurant with a dining room stretching to the back of the building, checkered tablecloths, and a long bar on her left. The headwaiter was looking at her, but she pointed at the bar and took an empty stool at the end, her back to the window. She was wearing a sleek, black cocktail dress from Armani and some very nice pearls that she had stolen from a victim some time ago. The bartender came over.

  “Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks,” she said, in her best American accent.

  He brought the drink. “You having dinner?” he asked.

  “Can I eat at the bar?”

  “Sure. I’ll get you a menu.”

  She sipped her Scotch and surveyed the crowd. She recognized two or three faces from the movies or the celebrity magazines, which she read voraciously. She liked the place. The bartender brought the menu, and she ordered a Caesar salad and a steak. “Have a drink on me,” she said to the bartender.

  He poured himself a small Scotch, raised his glass to her, and sipped it.

  She wanted him friendly.

  She fended off a couple of passes from guys at the bar, and when her dinner came, she ate it and ignored them. When she was finished, she ordered a cognac.

  The bartender brought it. “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”

  “Nope. I’m from San Francisco. It’s my first time in New York.”

  “Maybe you need somebody to show you the sights,” he said.

  “Maybe I do, at that,” she replied, smiling. “Say, tell me something.”

  “Anything at all,” he said.

  She dug into her handbag and came out with a clipping. “I saw this on Page Six a few days ago.” She handed him the clipping.

  He chuckled and handed it back. “Yeah, Elaine gets mentioned like that all the time.”

  “Who’s the lawyer with the ‘hard’ name?”

  “Oh, that’s Stone,” the bartender said. “Stone Barrington.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Used to be a cop, now he’s a lawyer. He’s in here two or three nights a week.”

  “Is he here now?” she asked, looking around.

  “Not tonight,” the bartender said. “You want to meet him, is that it?”

  “Not really. I was just intrigued by the story about the guy falling through the skylight.” She smiled. “I think I’d rather be shown the sights.” She liked the bartender; he was cute.

  Stone lay in bed, wide awake. They had made love half an hour ago.

  “You awake?” Carpenter asked.

  “Oddly enough, yes.”

  “I thought sex rendered men unconscious.”

  “Usually it does,” he said.

  “Stop thinking about La Biche. We’ll get her, eventually.”

  “Before she gets you?”

  She rolled over and put her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  She put her hand on his belly and stroked. “You want another shot at unconsciousness?”

  “You betcha,” Stone said, turning toward her.

  30

  Dino had finished dinner and was back in his chair with the TV going, but he was having trouble staying awake.

  “Why don’t you go to bed?” Mary Ann asked.

  “It’s too early,” Dino replied. “I’d just wake up at four o’clock in the morning. Stimulate me. Talk to me.”

  She left the sofa, crossed the room, and sat in his lap. “I’ll stimulate you,” she said, moving around on his crotch.

  The phone rang.

  “Ignore it,” she said. “Let the machine pick up.” She kissed him.

  Dino kissed her back. He seemed to be waking up.

  The machine clicked on. “Dino, it’s Elaine,” she said. “I need to talk to you now. Pick up.”

  “Fuck her,” Mary Ann said.

  “Right,” Dino replied, unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for a breast.

  His cell phone rang. “That’s gotta be the precinct,” he said. “Let me get rid of them.”

  “Oh, all right,” Mary Ann replied, running her tongue around his ear.

  Dino fumbled under Mary Ann for the phone and got it open. “This better be good,” he said.

  “It’s Elaine. Get over here.”

  “What?”

  “You remember that conversation about this woman finding Stone by reading Page Six?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a woman at the bar with the clipping, asking about Stone.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Well dressed, thirties, medium everything.”

  “Do what you can to keep her there, but don’t piss her off. I’m on my way.” He shut the phone and kissed Mary Ann. “Sorry, baby, but something hot has come up.”

  “Is she hotter than me?” Mary Ann asked, pushing him back into the chair.

  “She’s committed four murders that we know of, and she’s at the bar, at Elaine’s.”

  “I give up,” Mary Ann said, getting up and buttoning her blouse. “I’m never gonna get laid.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Dino said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door, the cell phone in his hand.

  He grabbed a cab in front of his building. “Eighty-eighth and Second,” he said to the driver, then began dialing the precinct. “Gimme the duty commander,” he said. “This is Bacchetti. We got a rumble on a suspect
in this afternoon’s shooting on Park Avenue. She’s at Elaine’s restaurant, Second between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth, west side of the street, sitting at the bar, her back to the window. I’m on my way there now. I want a SWAT team. . . . Scrub that, I want eight people in plain clothes, no visible weapons, no sirens on the way—shit, they can run all the way, it’s that close. Nobody parks out front, nobody enters the restaurant but me.”

  The cab drew to a halt at the corner of Eighty-eighth and Second. Dino gave the driver a five and got out, still talking on the cell phone.

  “I’m going into the restaurant now. I want two people on either side of the door, not visible from inside, and four across the street. Suspect is a white female, thirties, medium height and weight, alone, probably armed and very dangerous. Any questions?”

  “No, Lieutenant,” the detective answered.

  “Call me on my cell phone when everybody is in position.”

  “Got it.”

  Dino hung up and called Elaine’s, got her on the phone. “I’m coming in alone in just a minute. Is there an empty table by the bar?”

  “No, but Sid Zion is at number four with two other guys. He’s got a couple of empty chairs. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  “That’s good. Pay no attention to the woman at the bar. Don’t even look at her. Has she moved?”

  “No.”

  “I’m coming in now.” Dino checked his weapon, returned it to his holster, and walked into Elaine’s.

  Suddenly, Marie-Thérèse was nervous. The bartender had said something to the restaurant’s owner, and she had made a phone call. Now she was on the phone again, and she had glanced at where she was sitting at the bar.

  The front door opened and a man walked in: not too tall, Mediterranean-looking.

  Dino walked toward table number four, where Sidney Zion, a journalist and writer, was sitting. “Hey, Sid,” Dino said, pumping his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sit down, Dino,” Zion replied.

  Dino took a seat with a good view of a woman at the bar he thought was probably Marie-Thérèse.

  The man was a cop, she could feel it. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked the bartender.

  “Back that way, take a right, second door on the left.”