Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

“She’s taken away my Secret Service detail.”

  “Why are you surprised by that?”

  “Cabinet secretaries all get Secret Service protection.”

  “Donald, do I have to remind you that you are not a member of her cabinet?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “She withdrew your name from the confirmation process. You are aware of that.”

  “Still . . . my wife has been murdered, and I’m . . . feeling nervous about it.”

  “No one is going to murder her twice,” Stone said.

  “I know that, but what if I’m next?”

  “Donald, it’s my information that you’re a very wealthy man—something on the order of half a billion dollars, I read in the paper.”

  “Money is not bulletproof,” Clark said.

  “Let me remind you of a conversation between Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, in Gone With the Wind,” Stone said. “Scarlett says to Rhett, ‘After all, Rhett, money can’t buy happiness.’ Rhett replies, ‘Scarlett, money can usually buy happiness, and even when it can’t, it can buy some truly remarkable substitutes.’”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Clark asked, not getting it.

  “Money is bulletproof, if you’re willing to spend enough of it.”

  He took a card from a desk drawer and pushed it across the desk. “This is the number of Michael Freeman, who is chairman and CEO of a company called Strategic Services—the second-largest security outfit in the world. Call him, tell him I referred you, and he will design a security detail that will protect you at all times, twenty-four seven, anyplace in the world.”

  “What would that cost?”

  Stone stood and offered his hand. “Whatever it costs,” he said, “you can afford it.”

  “By the way, will you give me Art Jacoby’s number?”

  “I’ll ask him to call you.”

  They shook hands and Clark left, with Freeman’s card in his pocket.

  23

  Donald Clark made a call from his car. They were connected immediately.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Barrington wouldn’t give me his number.”

  “Did Barrington say he was in New York?”

  “No. Have you tried his office here?”

  “I’ve left three messages, and he hasn’t called back.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you. If I learn anything I’ll call you.”

  “Do that.” They both hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Art got out of the elevator at the Lowell, and it was immediately obvious who the cop was in the lobby. He was dressed in a decent, if unpressed, suit, wore a fedora and thick-soled shoes. He walked over to the man. “Frank Capriani?”

  “Who wants to know?” the man asked.

  “I’m Art Jacoby.”

  “And I’m your ride for the day. The car’s outside.” It was clearly his personal car, a worn-looking Jeep Cherokee.

  “I hadn’t expected to be driven,” Art said.

  “I guess it’s your lucky day,” Frank replied. “Where we headed?”

  “Lexington Avenue and Sixty-fourth Street, Leung’s Tailoring, upstairs, east side of the street.”

  “I hear somebody wants to do you,” Frank said.

  “I think somebody wants to perforate my suit, with me in it.”

  “That’s always a problem.”

  “Dino says it’s your problem.”

  Frank sighed. “Dino is the source of all my problems.” He pulled up in front of the shop and put down his sun visor, which had a large NYPD gold badge imprinted on it.

  “That’s kind of a tip-off, isn’t it?” Art asked.

  “Think of it as pest control,” Frank said. “We don’t want any shootouts on Lex, do we?”

  “We do not.” Art trotted up the stairs. His fitting was ready, and he stood as still as he could, as the tailor marked final alterations with a slim piece of soap. He came back downstairs and got into Frank’s car.

  “No suit?” Frank asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Where to?”

  “Let’s do shirts,” Art said, giving him an address on East Fifty-seventh Street. He went into Turnbull & Asser and picked out some swatches, then returned to the car and got in.

  “Okay,” Frank said, “tell me how a cop can afford your wardrobe.”

  “I had a daddy who died and left me in pretty good shape.”

  “Some guys have all the luck,” Frank said. “I had a daddy, ran a candy store. He left me a jar of jawbreakers.”

  “Well, at least nobody’s trying to kill you,” Art replied.

  “You haven’t met my ex-wife.”

  Art laughed and answered his ringing phone. “Jacoby.”

  “It’s Stone.”

  “Good day to you.”

  “And to you. I just had a visit from Donald Clark, who is upset because the withdrawal of his confirmation caused him to lose his Secret Service protection.”

  “You’re kidding,” Art said.

  “No, he actually wanted me to call the president and plead his case.”

  “He’s nuts. Who does he want to be protected from?”

  “You, I believe.”

  “Me? What’s my motive?”

  “He thinks you think he killed your girl, and you want revenge.”

  “He’s nuts.”

  “Do you think he killed your girl?”

  “No, I think Little Debby had it done. You think he could be in cahoots with her?”

  “Given their history, I think that’s not a bad guess.”

  “Well, as guesses go, that’s plausible.”

  “Speaking of protection, do you feel safe with Frank Capriani?”

  “Sure. He’s ideal. We’ve just come from my tailor and my shirtmaker, and nobody’s taken a shot at me yet.”

  “Long may it wave,” Stone said. “Call me if anything terrible happens.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Stone heard a strange noise, followed by a thud and a grunt. “Stone?” Art said, sounding a little wobbly.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Somebody just put a round into Frank Capriani’s head.”

  24

  Stone listened hard. “Art, are you hit?”

  “No, I’m cowering as far under the dashboard as I can get. Frank is a mess.”

  “Is the car parked?”

  “Do you know Turnbull & Asser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Outside the shop, parked illegally.”

  “Arm yourself while I call the cops.”

  “Okay, but hurry.” Art tugged his pistol from his shoulder holster.

  * * *

  —

  Stone called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone. Somebody just took a shot at Art Jacoby, outside Turnbull & Asser.”

  “Was he hit?”

  “No, but Frank was. He sounds dead.”

  “Okay, you call 911, now, and I’ll get a detective squad over there.” He hung up.

  Stone called 911, then he called Art Jacoby.

  “I’m still alive,” he said.

  “If they were going for a second shot, it would already have happened,” Stone said. “Stay in the car, though. A detective squad will be there shortly. They don’t like cops getting shot.”

  “I hear sirens,” Art said. “Now, feet running.”

  “Then hang up and talk to them. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up and buzzed Fred.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “In the car, now,” Stone said. He retrieved a nine mm and a shoulder holster, then ran for the car.

  “Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh,” Stone said. “Go up Par
k, and stay off the cross streets.” Traffic was moving pretty well, until they came to a halt at Fifty-fifth Street.

  “I’m getting out here, Fred,” Stone said. “Park somewhere, and I’ll call when I need you.” He slipped out of the car and jogged up Park Avenue and crossed the street at Fifty-seventh. There were uniforms everywhere, and they had the sidewalk closed.

  Stone flashed his detective’s badge, hopped over a sawhorse and hurried to the door of Turnbull & Asser. People were coming and going, and he reckoned they had Art inside. He held up his badge and made his way into the shop. Art was sitting in a chair, surrounded by detectives, with his necktie undone and blood on his left shoulder.

  Stone knew the detective in charge, Richard Becker. “Hey, Rich,” he said.

  “You got a finger in this pie, Stone?”

  He nodded toward Art. “He’s a friend. Can I talk to him?”

  “Yeah, I think we’ve pretty much wrung him out.”

  Stone went over and pulled up a footstool. “How you doing, Art?”

  “Better than I should be.”

  “What size suit do you wear?”

  “Forty-two long.”

  Stone stood up and looked around the shop, saw an employee he knew. “Felix?”

  He came over. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

  “Will you see if you can find this gentleman a blazer or tweed jacket, forty-two long?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Stone stood behind Art and helped him off with his jacket, then turned to Rich Becker. “You need this?”

  Becker asked somebody for a large evidence bag, then went through the pockets and handed the contents to Art.

  Felix walked up holding two jackets. “Try one of these,” he said.

  Art slipped into the blue blazer. “Feels good,” he said.

  “Looks like it was made for you,” Felix said.

  “Thank you, Felix, put it on my bill,” Stone said.

  Felix nodded and walked away.

  Stone said to Rich, “Are you through with him?”

  “Yeah, you can get him out of here.”

  Stone leaned in. “He’s staying at the Lowell. If you can’t find him, call me.”

  Rich nodded.

  Stone got out his phone and called Fred. “Where are you?”

  “About ten feet from where you got out,” Fred replied.

  “Be right there.” Stone looked around for hostiles, then led Art to the car and put him inside. He opened the armrest and found a bottle of water. “Drink some of this,” he said.

  Art gulped down half the bottle. “That’s better,” he said.

  “Home, Fred,” Stone said. He turned to Art. “Okay, now tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Art took a deep breath. “Frank met me at the Lowell and drove me over to Lex and Sixty-fourth, for a fitting with my tailor.”

  “Who’s your tailor?”

  “Sam Leung’s nephew. Sam retired. Then Frank drove me to Turnbull’s and waited while I ordered some shirts. I came out, got into the car, talked to you on the phone, and then everything exploded, including Frank’s head.”

  “I saw the car. The shot was fired from the sidewalk through your window, missed you and caught Frank.”

  “From the sidewalk? That’s pretty bold.”

  “It is.”

  “I know Frank had an ex-wife,” Art said. “Any other family?”

  “Dino will find out and make the calls. He’s used to it. Art, think about when you were walking out of the shop and to the car. Replay it in your mind, and tell me who and what you saw.”

  Art closed his eyes. “I brushed past two women to get to the car; they were still walking when I got inside. Before I did, I saw a black van parked behind Frank’s car; I don’t know the make.”

  “Could you see anybody inside?”

  “Sort of, but there were reflections in the window that made IDing anybody difficult.”

  “Could somebody have gotten out of the van on the curbside, taken the shot, then gotten back in?”

  Art nodded. “Yes. That could have happened. Probably happened. I can’t recall anybody else.”

  “Did you tell the police about that?”

  “I did.”

  “You still got your piece?”

  “No, the cops took it.”

  “Did you fire it?”

  “No, there wasn’t time.”

  “I’ll get it back for you, and if they’re slow, I’ll loan you something.”

  “Stone, I didn’t remember this until now, but as I got into Frank’s car, I caught a glimpse in the door’s rearview mirror of a man getting out. He was wearing a black windbreaker and a black baseball cap.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Not exactly, but something about him made me think of Donald Clark.”

  25

  As they drove into Stone’s garage, Dino’s official SUV pulled in behind them. Stone took Dino and Art to his study, where he poured Art some bourbon and handed it to him. “I expect you need this.”

  “You’re right,” Art said, taking a swig.

  “I’m feeling left out,” Dino said, and Stone poured him a Scotch and himself a bourbon, then Art recited his story to Dino.

  “The guy getting out of the black van looked like Donald Clark?” Dino asked.

  “I didn’t say that, exactly,” Art replied, draining his glass, which was instantly refilled by Stone. “I said there was something about him that reminded me of Clark.”

  “Think about it,” Dino said.

  Art appeared to do so. “His build,” he said finally. “Clark is a pretty husky guy; not a lot of fat.”

  “That’s a start,” Dino said. “Think about his face.”

  Art tried. “Clean-shaven, sort of a pudgy nose, like a potato, but not big.”

  “Eyebrows?”

  “Eyebrows?” Art asked.

  “Were they dark or gray or blond?”

  “Dark, I think. Clark has graying hair, fairly thick, no balding, but this guy was wearing a baseball cap.”

  “Anything on the cap? Product name; team name?”

  “Something. Wait a minute, it was a Yankees’ cap, with the ‘NY.’”

  “Anything on the jacket? A second color? An emblem of some sort?”

  Art put his right hand on his left breast. “Here,” he said. “The Yankees’ lettering again.”

  “I think it’s pretty safe to say that the guy is a Yankees fan,” Dino observed. “Anything in his hands? Either one?”

  Art closed his eyes again. “Shiny object,” he said. “Silver.” He clapped his hands together. “Short-barreled pistol, like a snub-nosed .38. Chrome or nickel-plated. Kind of old-fashioned, not like the chunky ones you see a lot of today.”

  “Glasses? Sunglasses?”

  Art shook his head. “No.”

  “You’re doing very well, Art,” Stone said. “How about the man behind the wheel?”

  “There was a reflection in the glass,” Art said. “But I think he was short.”

  “The reflection?”

  “No, the guy. The upper rim of the steering wheel cut across his face. He was a little uphill from me. The van was taller than Frank’s Cherokee.”

  “Hair color?” Stone asked.

  “Dark, I think. Fairly long.”

  “Could it have been a woman?” Dino asked.

  “Possibly. Fairly thin face.”

  “Skin color?”

  “White, pale.”

  “Hands on the steering wheel?”

  “Same color.”

  “Nail polish?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Any rings?”

  Art thought about it. “Yes! Something chunky, h
ere.” He led up his third finger, left hand.

  “Like a class ring?”

  “Right. Gold color, red stone, I think.”

  “So it’s a guy,” Dino said. “A college graduate, no less. A woman wouldn’t wear a class ring on her third finger, left hand. That’s reserved for an engagement ring or a wedding band.”

  “Unless she’s unmarried and not engaged,” Stone pointed out.

  “Women have hope,” Dino replied. “Art, close your eyes again and think about the inside of the van. Was there a partition behind the driver’s head, or was their light coming from behind from windows?”

  “It was dark, maybe a partition.”

  “So, a service van, like a plumber or an electrician or a delivery van,” Dino muttered.

  “Something else,” Art said. “Two things: there was an object on the dashboard, near the windshield.”

  “What sort of object?”

  “A book,” Art said.

  “Like a novel?”

  “No, like a notebook. It had a wire binder.”

  “Like a steno pad?”

  “Yes, but smaller.”

  “Like the notebook cops keep in a pocket,” Stone said.

  “Could be. And there was something hanging on the rearview mirror.”

  “Handicap placard?” Dino asked.

  “No, some sort of personal thing. Cube shaped.”

  “I used to have something like that on my first car,” Dino said. “My girlfriend made it for me, knitted it or something.”

  “Dice?” Stone asked. “I used to see big dice hanging on rearview mirrors.”

  “That was it!” Dino said. “I remember, I asked her, ‘Why dice?’ She said she didn’t know why. She had a girlfriend who made them for her boyfriend’s car, so she just copied them.”

  “So, it sounds like a personal vehicle,” Stone said. “Not a rental. Something the guy drove all the time. He wouldn’t have his dice in a rental.”

  “Do you mind if I take a nap?” Art said. “I’m drowsy.”

  “Sure, take the sofa, Art. I don’t think you ought to go back to the Lowell.”

  Art moved to the sofa, shucked off his new blazer, and stretched out.

  Dino motioned for Stone to leave the room with him. In the living room, he sat down, and Stone joined him.