by Blake Banner
She stood and came to me, slipping her silky thigh between my legs and sliding her hands over my chest. “And what you get in return is more money than you can imagine in your wildest dreams… and anything else you want.” I didn’t respond and she smiled. “The answer to your second question is that I can see right through that tough façade to the real man inside. I know what you want, John Stone, and so do you. You want me.” She pushed herself away from me and returned to the table. “Of course, if you’re not interested…”
I smiled. “You know I am, babe. But this has to be done right. Can you contact dos Santos?”
She nodded. “Yes, I know how to get a message to him.”
“I don’t want Baxter involved.”
She shook her head. “He won’t be involved.”
“But getting him off your back is not going to be easy. He will want to punish Tammy. He has to punish Tammy to make an example of her.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ve thought of that. If, between us, we can get enough information on him to incriminate him, the deal would be, he buys back his painting—he isn’t paying anyway, so he won’t care—and we don’t use the information against him.”
“What do you mean, he isn’t paying? If he isn’t, who is?”
“His master in Galicia, in Spain. Cardinal Guzman. Ultimately, the Vatican.”
“Sweet. So how do we get this information?”
She smiled and her eyes seemed to sparkle with an unholy light. “You gave me the idea last night. We arrange a negotiation. You are there as my muscle and my representative. But you wear a wire. Ostensibly, we are there to negotiate, but in reality, we are there to gather information.”
I nodded. “It might work.”
“Oh, John! It will work, I know it will! And think, when it is all over, you will be rich! We can…” She faltered. “I’m sorry…”
“Not yet, Emma. Let’s stay focused. Then we’ll see what happens.”
She looked down into her drink. “You probably hate me anyway.”
“Probably.”
She looked up at me. I smiled. After a moment, she smiled back.
“Tammy worries me. She sounds like a loose cannon. I want to meet her and talk to her. Today. Then you set up the meeting with dos Santos.” I stood. “You better go, and I need to get back to the precinct. Fix it with Tammy and call me.”
She stood. She hesitated a moment, then took two quick steps and clung to me. “John, thank you. I have been so scared. I am so grateful…”
I held her face in my hands and looked into her eyes. “There will be plenty of time for gratitude later, Emma. For now, let’s stay focused. This is not going to be easy.”
“I know.”
Her body was warm and soft, and every instinct in me was telling me to give in and take what she was offering. But I knew that would be as good as suicide, and I wasn’t ready for that quite yet. She reached up and kissed me on the cheek again, then said, “Let me just use your loo,” and she trotted up the stairs with her purse.
I gathered up the glasses and took them to the kitchen, then I called her a cab. Two minutes later she was down again, smiling.
I watched her drive away. I felt troubled. We were moving forward, but where to? She was playing a subtle game, that much was obvious, but whose game?
I went inside and put some coffee on. While it was brewing, I went upstairs to have a shower and clear my head. While I was stripping off my shirt, I saw it on the floor, behind the toilet. It was a package, maybe six or seven inches square and three inches deep. It looked like it had fallen out of her purse while she was using what she called the loo. It was gift wrapped and tied with a bow, but there was no name tag on it.
I picked up my cell and called her.
“John, what is it?”
“You left a gift behind.”
“What?” There was a pause. I could hear her rummaging. “Oh, damn! It’s Tammy’s birthday tomorrow. It’s just a silly gift. Can you hang on to it for me and give it to me when we meet later?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you, darling.”
She hung up.
I put the package on my bed and stepped into the shower.
Twenty-One
After my shower, I did a few things I needed to do, then went downstairs feeling better. I poured myself some coffee and called Dehan. She sounded relieved to hear from me.
“How’d it go?”
“It went well. I’ll tell you about it when we meet. How about you?”
“He’s not in his office, and I’ve been sitting here all morning watching the damn place. He hasn’t shown.”
“Okay, I’ll come over. We need to talk. Then we’ll decide what to do about Baxter.”
Half an hour later, I pulled up on Melrose Avenue, a few cars behind Dehan’s unmarked vehicle. I walked up and she lowered the window.
“No sign?”
She shook her head. It felt wrong, and all the way there, in the car, I’d been getting more edgy. There were alarm bells going off everywhere, but I couldn’t see the cause. I glanced over at the street entrance, then up at his window, like I had Superman’s X-ray vision and I could somehow see inside his office. I couldn’t. I gave the roof of her car a couple of gentle thumps and said, “Let’s go up.”
She got out and we dodged through the traffic. Then we rode the slow, ancient elevator from the dark lobby up to the top floor. His door was locked. I listened.
“Do you hear that?”
She grinned. “What, a woman crying for help? That’s not going to work here, Stone.”
I shook my head. “No, the fan. The electric fan is still on.” I sniffed the air. There was everything from carbon monoxide and furniture polish to boiled cabbage and bacon, all the smells of a city. But there was something else too. I pulled out my piece and shot out the lock. It’s the quickest way known to man of opening a door.
Baxter was at his desk. He was sitting back, watching us as we walked in. His electric fan ruffled his hair as it made another relentless sweep of his office, but he didn’t feel it. His mouth was open and his eyes were staring, but he wasn’t breathing or seeing. Decay had set in, and the smell was pretty bad. There were already flies swarming over the big wound in his chest. For them, his death was not a problem, it was an opportunity. I wondered if Baxter had anybody to mourn him.
I pulled out my cell and called the 43rd.
“This is Stone. We need a meat wagon and crime scene team at Melrose and 154th. Notify the ME, too.”
Dehan was over by the door, examining the bits of lock and wood that had been punched out by my slug. “I can’t find the key,” she said, and then, after a moment, “He’s sitting down. You notice the first time we came to see him, he got up to greet us? Whoever came in, he was familiar enough with them not to feel the need.” She stood. “They just walked in, pulled a gun, shot him, took the key, and locked him in.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“Tamara?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“She heard through Emma that Baxter was onto her, so she came and shot him.”
“That would mean that Baxter was familiar with Tamara.”
“So that leaves Emma, dos Santos, or one of his men.”
“We’ll have to wait and see what the ME says. My money is on a .38. But the fact is that with an operator like Baxter, this could have been any one of a dozen people.”
My cell rang. It was Emma. I showed Dehan the screen and answered.
“Yeah.”
“Stone, it’s me. I’ve arranged it. I’m at my beach house at Napeague Park, on Long Island. Geronimo will be here at nine. Can you be here for eight?”
“Napeague Park? That’s at the easternmost tip. It’s a three-hour drive.”
“I know, darling. I thought, when it’s all over, we could spend a couple of days here, just you and me…”
My mind was racing ahead of me. I spoke mechanically, without thinking. “That soun
ds nice, baby, but I told you, we’ll have time to discuss that afterward. First we attend to business.”
“I know, darling. Say you’ll be here.”
“I’ll be there. What about Tamara? I told you I wanted to meet her first.”
“That’s why I want you here at eight. She’ll be here.”
“Will dos Santos be alone?”
“No, he goes everywhere with Ronaldo, his gorilla.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at eight.”
“And, darling?”
“What?”
“Be armed. These men are dangerous.”
“Leave that to me.”
I hung up. Dehan was watching me with a face like a hanging judge who just sat on a wasp.
“You want to tell me what’s going down at Napeague Park, baby?”
“A meeting, with Geronimo, Tamara, and Emma.” I told her about the portrait and the deal she wanted to make. “We need to get a wire fixed up, and backup. And we need to run this by the captain.”
She nodded. “Go. I’ll wait for the team and the ME. You need to leave here at four thirty or you’re going to hit the rush hour. You haven’t got long. I’ll be at the briefing before you go.”
“Okay.” I turned to go.
As I reached the door, she said, “Stone?”
I stopped. “Yeah?”
“Be careful, baby.”
“Take a hike.”
I glanced at my watch as I climbed in my car. It was almost half one. I drove fast back to the precinct and sprinted up the stairs to the captain’s office. I knocked and went in without waiting for a reply. He looked up at me and removed his reading glasses in a way that said he was being patient because I was usually worth it.
I sat without being invited to do so.
“Captain, I need a wire and I need two cars out at Napeague Park. I also need the harbor patrol alerted, and I need it all in place by tonight at eight o’clock.”
He heaved a big sigh. “It’s never a simple arrest with you, is it, Stone?”
I shrugged. “Cold cases are cold because they are not simple, sir.”
He nodded. It was a reluctant nod. “Okay, Stone, run me through it.”
Dehan got back at three. I was fitted with the wire and tested, and then we had the briefing with the two backup teams. One would be concealed off Dunes Lane, two hundred yards from the house. The other would be off the Montauk Highway. Both vehicles would be unmarked off-road SUVs capable of driving over dunes. Additionally, the harbor patrol had agreed to dispatch a launch to that area of the beach. Nobody was getting away from me that night.
At three forty-five, Dehan and the backup cars set off to take up their positions as inconspicuously as possible. I watched them leave and climbed into my Jag. As I put the key in the ignition, my cell rang. The caller ID was withheld.
“Detective Stone.”
“Detective Stone, it is a pleasure to speak to you.” If voices had colors, this one would have been green and slimy. “My name is Geronimo dos Santos. We are due to meet later this evening. I wonder if we could have a little, private chat beforehand.”
“What’s on your mind?”
He laughed like I was not so much funny, as amusing. “Not over the phone, my dear fellow. No, come and see me at my hotel. We will have a civilized drink and a chat, and then we can each make our way to the meeting with Emma, at the beach house.”
“Give me one good reason why I should.”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, you could tell he was smiling. He still found me amusing. “Let us say that there are things about our hostess that you should know, before you commit yourself to this negotiation on her behalf. All you need to do, Detective, is listen to me. If you find I do not convince you, then we proceed as arranged. What have you to lose?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Where are you?”
“At the Plaza, on Fifth Avenue, in the Royal Suite.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I headed for the Bruckner Expressway and called Dehan as I went.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Dos Santos just called me.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. He wants a meeting before the meeting. I’m going to see him at the Plaza.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Go ahead as planned. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”
“Okay.”
I parked on West 58th and made my way on foot to the Grand Army Plaza. When I asked the receptionist how to get to the Royal Suite, he raised a skeptical eyebrow at me that was rich with pseudo-nineteenth-century grandeur.
“Are you Detective Stone?” He asked it in a generic French accent.
“Yeah.”
“’E is expecting you.”
He directed me toward the elevators. I rode up to the suite, wondering why all hotel receptionists pretended to be French.
The door to the Royal Suite was opened by something an anthropologist would have wanted to preserve and study. He was dressed in an Italian suit, but you could tell he missed his furs.
“Stone. I’m here to see dos Santos.”
He would have frowned, only that’s hard to do with only one eyebrow. He jerked his head, indicating I should come in, and led the way to a room that looked like a set from Downton Abbey. Geronimo dos Santos was fat. He had enough chins for a large family. He was sitting at a dark mahogany dining table that Emma would have approved of, with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket by his side. He had a plate and a silver bowl in front of him, and he was stuffing his face with caviar and crackers. He glanced at me as I came in but didn’t say anything.
Ape Man pulled out a chair for me and indicated with his hand that I should sit. Speaking was obviously not the big thing around here. I was about to tell dos Santos I was short of time when he spoke suddenly.
“Some people,” he said, “believe it should be eaten with vodka. But in my opinion, those people are brutish. Caviar has a rich spectrum of subtle flavors. Vodka numbs our palate, so we perceive only a fraction of those delicate tones. No.” He shook his head. “We want the clean, delicate flavors of a Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, to sensitize our palate to receive the exquisite taste of the roe.”
“Spare me your bullshit, dos Santos. What do you want?”
He looked at me with distaste, like I was spoiling his lunch by wearing the wrong aftershave.
“You have somewhere else to be, Detective?”
“Yeah, and you have five seconds to start saying something I find interesting. If you don’t, this interview is over.”
He sighed and reached for the bottle. I could tell he was counting out the seconds as he refilled his glass. On six, he said, “Can I offer you a drink? I hate to drink alone.”
I stood. He held up a hand.
“Detective, you are not the only man with a busy schedule. I have no desire to waste your time, let alone my own. If I have asked you here, it is because I think we can both benefit. Please, have a drink and allow me to explain.”
I sat. “Spare me the lessons on how to eat my caviar, and get to the point.”
He turned to Ape Man. “Ronaldo, get the detective a drink.” He turned to me. “I am guessing you are a whiskey man, Detective Stone.”
“Bushmills, no ice.”
Ronaldo disappeared and dos Santos spooned caviar onto a cracker and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Who has the…” He hesitated for a second. “Who has the box, Detective?”
“I have.”
“Have you looked inside?”
“How is that any of your business?”
He looked at me with a face that could have skinned a rabbit. “Because I am paying a substantial sum of money for it. Have you looked inside the box?”
I lied and said, “No. Emma advised me not to.”
He raised an eyebrow and nodded. After a moment, he said, “You realize that Emma is quite mad.”
“And what, are y
ou quite sane?”
He sighed. “You are a difficult man to talk to, Stone. We are not making progress.”
“I get antsy when people bullshit me. Why don’t you get to the point, dos Santos?”
Ronaldo came in with a silver tray and a crystal tumbler of whiskey on it. I took a sip. I was beginning to feel I needed it.
“The point I am trying to make, Stone, is that she may have misled you as to the real value of the contents of the box.”
I laughed. “Oh, really? So this elaborate circus you have going on here—the Krug, the caviar, Baxter, and the two years you have been hunting for Tamara Gunthersen—that is all over something that is really of very little value at all.”
He gave a breathless little chortle. “By no means, Detective. I mean that she may have misled you into believing it is less valuable than it really is.”
I frowned.
“She is quite mad. And I, and the people I represent, would be willing to be very generous friends, Detective Stone, if you would cooperate with us. Let me explain what I have in mind.”
He held out his glass, as though proposing a toast. I was keen to hear, and record, what he had to say. So I knocked his glass with mine, and we both drank. I couldn’t work out at first why he was smiling. He turned to Ronaldo, who was now also smiling, and in a voice that sounded like it was all the way across the room, he said, “Get the car ready, Ronaldo. I think Detective Stone is just about ready.”
I tried to swear, but my brain had stopped talking to my mouth and all that came out was a slur. I tried to stand, but that didn’t work either, because the table rose up and hit me in the face. And then there was nothing.
Twenty-Two
The first thing I was aware of was a sharp pain in my shoulders that was making it hard to breathe. Then I realized the pain was in my wrists and arms, and also in my ankles and my legs. I felt sick too.