by Stuart Woods
“Thank you for your concern, Chief,” Holly replied. “Tell me, how many officers will the department be wasting on that detail? Nobody is interested in killing me.”
“A couple of dozen officers will have that privilege, but I assure you, they will not be wasted. We would not want anything untoward to happen to such a charming lady.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” Holly said, smiling, trying to set the man at ease. Someone tugged at his sleeve and he wandered gratefully off into the next room.
Holly tugged at Stone’s sleeve. “I’m hungry,” she said.
—
Well, that wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” Gloria said, “though she did find a way to tell me off without yelling.”
“People in your business should have to meet their quarry face-to-face more often,” Benton said. “It would be character-building.”
“You think my character needs building?” she asked.
“More character, less journalist could be a good idea.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
—
Crank Jackson got out of his movie at half past eleven and found another parking ticket on his motorcycle. This one will be good, he thought; it will place me more than a mile from the scene of the crime. He got it started and drove back to East Sixty-third Street. Traffic was much improved; he drove slowly past the building and saw that the cops were now mostly in the lobby, keeping warm. He drove around the block once more and noticed that there was only one police car parked out front, now, and the driver was apparently inside with the rest of his colleagues.
Crank turned downtown on Park Avenue and backed the cycle between two limos, whose drivers had sought warmth and companionship somewhere else. Now he was only a few yards from the building’s entrance, around the corner, and Park Avenue would be a good escape route downtown when he had to run for it.
He checked his watch: a quarter to twelve. Then, as he watched, Barrington’s green Bentley came around the corner and doubled-parked on the avenue, one car down from where Crank had settled in. Now Barrington and his lady would have to come to him, making his work much easier and his escape surer.
56
Everybody counted backward from ten while watching the big ball on TV fall in Times Square, then they sang “Auld Lang Syne,” even if nobody understood the words.
“Whew!” Stone said. “We made it through another one. You ready to go home?”
“I just want to have a look at dessert,” Holly said, leading him through the waning crowd toward the groaning board. “You want some?”
“Maybe half a slice of mince pie,” Stone said, following her.
“The bread pudding looks wonderful,” Holly said, adding some caramel sauce and a scoop of ice cream to hers. She took a big bite of everything. “It is wonderful!”
Stone returned most of his pie to a passing waiter, then went into Dino’s study and collapsed into a comfortable leather chair. The mayor was sitting opposite him.
“Happy new year, Barrington,” the man said. He tended to use last names only when speaking to men: fewer names to remember.
“Yer Honor, the same to you,” Stone replied. “How’ve you been?”
“Tolerable, I guess you could say. I’m trying to sober up enough to get myself out of this armchair.”
“Don’t fight it,” Stone said, “just sit back and enjoy. Can I get you another drink?” While hizzoner was thinking about that, Stone flagged down a waiter and snagged two loaded brandy snifters, handing one to the mayor.
“Better times,” Stone said, raising his glass.
“I’ll sure as hell drink to that,” the mayor replied.
“Tell me, which is more fun—police commissioner or mayor?” The man had held both jobs.
“Fun?” the man exploded. “I don’t think I’ve had a day’s fun in either one. They’re both like a slog through deep snow—or more likely, deep shit.”
“What was your worst day?”
“Every single police funeral I attended,” he replied, “and I attended them all, as commissioner or mayor, most of them shootings, but if somebody’s dog bit him on the ankle and he fell down the stairs, I attended that, too.”
“A sad duty. I’ve attended a few, myself.”
“I hear you were a much better detective than anybody gave you credit for,” the mayor said.
“Those are kind words, sir.”
“Ever wish you’d stuck with it?”
“I didn’t have that opportunity. They elbowed me out at the first opportunity.”
“I remember that,” the mayor said. “I was chief of detectives at the time, but they had that medical report, and there was nothing I could do.”
“Well, I guess I landed on my feet,” Stone said. “I’ve no complaints.”
“I should think not!” the mayor snorted.
Holly appeared. “Okay, I’m stuffed. We can go.”
“Mr. Mayor, may I introduce the secretary of state, Holly Barker? Madam Secretary, His Honor, the mayor of New York City.”
“We met a long time ago,” she said, “when you were a deputy chief of police and I was running the CIA station in the city.”
“Ah, yes,” the mayor said. “I remember when it blew up.”
“There was that,” Holly replied ruefully.
“That was the nastiest explosion we’ve ever had in this town,” he said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt. Tell me, Madam Secretary, have you ever considered running for President?”
Holly put the back of a hand to her forehead and feigned a swoon. “God forbid,” she said.
“You keep thinking about it,” the mayor said. “I’ll announce my support the first day, for what that’s worth.”
“It would be worth a great deal,” Holly said, “and if the day should ever dawn, I’ll come looking for you.”
Stone, sensing she was uncomfortable, rose and made leaving noises. They said good night to the mayor and to their hosts and lined up for the elevator again.
—
Gloria Parsons made her way to the powder room, locked herself in, set her bag down by the loo, pulled everything down, and sat. As she did, she spotted her cell phone in her bag, which she had neglected for some days. There were two phone messages, and she pressed the button. The first was from Al Teppi, and she listened in horror. “That stupid shit! Doesn’t he know from sarcasm?”
Someone knocked on the door. “Anyone in there?”
“Occupied!” Gloria yelled, pressing the other button. It was Danny. He and Al were both insane, and Danny was asking for another four thousand dollars. Another four thousand? She threw the phone at the bag, pulled up her thong, and wrestled with the door lock, finally getting it open and startling the woman waiting outside.
She ran into the living room, looking around, then spotted Stone Barrington and Holly Barker getting onto the elevator. She yelled his name as the doors closed and the dozen people waiting for the next ride all turned and looked at her.
Benton Blake appeared at her side. “What’s going on?” he asked.
She grabbed his hand and towed him toward the stairs. “Come on!” she hissed.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got to stop them,” she said.
“Stop who?”
She slammed the fire door behind her, took off her heels, and bolted down the stairs, with Benton in pursuit.
“Gloria, what the hell?”
“Shut up and follow me!” she shouted, and kept running.
—
Crank Jackson loitered behind a large mailbox, which gave him good cover, and watched the door of the apartment building. He took the pistol from his inside pocket and the silencer from his outer pocket and began screwing one into the other. Finally he worked the action, feeding a round into the chamber, and flicked off t
he safety.
—
Stone and Holly filed out of the elevator with the others, and as they entered the lobby, a blast of cold air blew in.
“It’s going to be freezing out there,” Holly said.
“Don’t worry, I spoke to Fred, and he’s parked just around the corner to the right with the heat on, so you won’t be cold for long.”
Fred got out of the car, dressed only in his suit, and shivered in the night air, watching the corner for his passengers’ approach. As he did he saw a man in a black coat with a hood standing behind a mailbox, staring at the building with interest, with something long and black in his hand.
—
Gloria burst through the downstairs door and into the lobby, her bare feet freezing on the cold marble floor. “Stone!” she yelled, as he disappeared out the front door. She began fighting her way through the crowd of revelers and cops in the lobby.
—
Crank Jackson spotted them coming and raised the pistol, resting it on top of the mailbox. He sighted on Barrington’s forehead and waited for him to reach the corner of the building. As he did, he began squeezing the trigger very slowly.
—
Stone took Holly’s hand and pulled her across his body to the right, to give her some shelter from the side of the building. As he did, he heard two noises almost simultaneously: one, a plip, the other, a very loud bang.
57
Holly flinched, took a step back, and said, “Ow, goddamnit!”
“Did you break a heel?” Stone asked, looking down at the sidewalk for the object in question.
“No,” Holly said angrily, “I’ve been shot, and I’m getting blood on this fucking dress.”
Stone turned her around and surveyed her; there was blood soaking through her gauzy stole.
“Mr. Barrington!” It was Fred, calling from the direction of the car.
“We’re coming, Fred.”
“I’ve just shot someone,” Fred said. He was gripping his pistol with both hands, pointing downward behind a mailbox.
Stone looked down and saw a bald head with its back missing and brains coming out. “Holy shit,” he said, thrusting Holly at Fred. “Get her into the car, we’re going to the hospital. I’ll be right back.”
Stone ran back to the entrance, shoved the door open, and yelled at a room full of cops and people in evening dress. “Gunshot, man down behind the mailbox. I’m going to Lenox Hill Hospital, meet me there.” He ran back around the corner and jumped into the car. “Go, Fred!” He looked back as they drove away and saw a stream of cops pouring into the street.
“U-turn, then right on East Seventy-seventh Street!” he said to Fred, more quietly now. He pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his inside pocket and pressed it against Holly’s wound. “Hold this right there,” he said, as the red traffic signals blew by and the sound of horns followed them. “And a happy new year to you, too,” Stone muttered.
Fred made the turn on Seventy-seventh and screeched to a halt in front of the ER awning.
“You stay here for a second, and I’ll be right back,” Stone said to Holly. He leaped out of the car, ran around it, and barged into the building, where a pair of gurneys were in the hallway, and he grabbed one of them. “Gunshot wound in the street!” he yelled at a pair of nurses locked in conversation, then he rammed a gurney through the swinging doors and pushed it outside, where Holly was on the sidewalk, leaning against the car, supported by Fred.
“I can walk,” she said.
Stone picked her up bodily and laid her gently on the cart. “Entering on a gurney impresses them with the urgency,” he said.
The two nurses got to the doors in time to open them, and Stone trotted the gurney into the building and headed for a door marked “Exam One.” “A little help over here,” he shouted at a young doctor stretched out on one of the two tables in the room.
The man vaulted off the table as Stone lifted Holly onto the other table.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, “it’s not all that bad.”
The doctor, who wore a badge saying “Dr. Battle,” peeled back the stole, pulled down one side of her dress, revealing a handsome breast, then pulled it back up and ran his hand over her shoulder. “She’s right,” he said. “Small caliber, bullet still lodged. I can feel it in her back.”
A nurse came into the room. “Disposition, Doctor?”
“Surgery,” he said. “Call Ted Barnes and tell him to get his ass over here and scrub. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Female, maybe forty, and quite beautiful. That’ll get him moving.”
“Aren’t you kind?” Holly said, as the doctor began pushing the table out of the exam room.
“I’m right behind you,” Stone said, trotting along.
“You won’t be necessary,” the doctor said to him.
“I’m no more unnecessary pacing outside an operating room than I am down here,” Stone said.
Holly was being wheeled into an elevator when two cops appeared and each took one of Stone’s arms.
“I’m needed in surgery,” he told the cops.
“The hell he is,” the doctor said as the doors closed.
They sat Stone down on a bench next to Fred, who was reading a New York Post he had found there. “Disgusting,” he said, casting the newspaper aside.
“Okay,” a cop said, “who’s shot?”
“The lady in the elevator,” Stone replied. “She’s on her way to surgery. Come see her tomorrow.”
“We got a second victim back at Sixty-third and Park,” the cop said. “Did he shoot the first victim?”
“Yes, sir,” Fred replied, “and I shot him, but half a second too late.” He removed his pistol from his shoulder holster, popped out the magazine, cleared the weapon, locked the slide open, and handed it to the nearest cop. “I expect you’ll want this,” he said.
Next through the door was Dino, at a trot. “What the fuck is going on here?” he demanded of everybody present.
They all began to talk at once, including a nurse who had been eavesdropping.
“You,” Dino said, pointing at Stone. “Gimme a hint on what happened.”
“Some guy in a motorcycle suit shot Holly. She’s upstairs in surgery, looks like a .22 to the left shoulder, I’d say it missed the lung. Fred witnessed this and shot the shooter in the back of the head.”
“Half a second too late,” Fred said. “Yer man has got my gun.”
The cop held it up for Dino to see.
Dino pointed at Fred. “That man is not under arrest,” he said to the cop.
“Yessir.”
“Process his weapon, get ballistics on it, and when it’s all wrapped up, give Mr. Flicker here back his gun.”
“Yessir.”
Dino sat down next to Stone. “Okay,” he said, “who’s trying to kill you?”
“Me?” Stone asked, pointing at himself with his thumb. “Who would want to kill me?”
“That’s my line,” Dino pointed out. “Who?”
“Nobody, that’s who—I don’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Stone,” Dino said, exasperated, “people try to kill you all the time. Not so long ago somebody tried to bomb your house, remember?”
“All my enemies are either dead or in jail.”
“Anybody get out recently? I mean, apart from the fresh ex-con who tried to shoot you tonight? Through the miracle of modern technology, we managed to fingerprint the corpse without even giving him a ride to the morgue.”
“And who is he?”
“One Vernon Percival Jackson, aka ‘Crank’ to his nearest and dearest cell mates, out of Fishkill six days ago and dying to meet you, so he could put a bullet in your head.”
“Then he’s very bad at his work, isn’t he? Do I have to remind you that he shot our secretary of state?”
Across the room a nurse beat it to her station and made a phone call to a reporter she knew who paid for such services.
—
So, he was distracted by Fred shooting him in the head,” Dino said. “That kind of thing can put a guy’s aim off.”
“I did hear two shots, now that I recall,” Stone said. “One little one and one big one.”
“Which came first?”
“I’m not sure, they were very close together.”
“Trust me, the big one came first and ruined Mr. Jackson’s aim, as well as his day.”
“Then who made the little bang?” Stone asked. “Wait a minute, I’ve just remembered something.”
“Your words make a policeman’s heart happy,” Dino said.
“Fishkill—I know somebody who just got out of Fishkill.”
“Who might that be, and how did you make his acquaintance?”
“I didn’t, exactly. A guy named Alphonse Teppi . . .”
“I remember running that name for you.”
“Right. He wanted me to get a friend of his named Danny Blaine out of Fishkill.”
“Which you did not do, as I recall.”
“You recall correctly. I pretty much threw Teppi out of my office.”
“Now we have two people to investigate, just like that.” Dino snapped his fingers.
“And I saw Teppi earlier this evening,” Stone said.
“See? It’s all coming back to you. Where?”
“At Studio 54. We were watching Michael Feinstein.”
“I hope we don’t have to bring Feinstein into this. I like his work.”
“No, no, he was just singing. Teppi was listening.”
“And he saw you?”
“Yes, and I think he made a phone call.”
“Aha! A phone call! My blood is atingle,” Dino said.
“Hey, something else,” Stone said. “This guy was riding a motorcycle, right?”
“He was.”
“Well, Joan said she spotted a thug on a motorcycle outside the house. She wanted to take a shot at him.”
“Had she done so, she might have saved us all a lot of trouble,” Dino said.