by Stuart Woods
—
A reporter at the Post, screwing his girlfriend on a sofa, surrounded by toy hats and empty champagne bottles, stopped. His cell phone was ringing. “I gotta get this,” he said to her.
“Don’t mind me,” she replied, closing her legs.
“Yeah?”
“Mickey, it’s Peggy, at Lenox Hill.”
“Make it quick, Peggy, I’m in a conference.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet, on New Year’s Eve.”
“I said quick!”
“We got the secretary of state in here with a gunshot wound.”
“The secretary of what?”
“State, that Holly lady.”
“Barker?”
“That’s the one.”
“Who shot her?”
“I don’t know, but there’s cops everywhere. The lady’s in surgery—small-caliber gunshot wound, left shoulder, up high. I saw the wound myself, before they took her upstairs.”
Mickey leaped to his feet, tripping over his pants, which were around his ankles. “I’m on my way, baby, and you’re getting champagne for this.”
“I’d prefer cash,” she said, and hung up.
“Mickey,” his girlfriend said, helping him up. “Are we screwing or what?”
“Later, babe,” he said, adjusting his clothing and buckling his belt. “Big story afoot.” He grabbed his coat and hat and ran for the door.
“Don’t wake me up when you get home!” she shouted after him.
58
Stone’s head had fallen forward as he sat in the waiting room, and he was dozing when a man burst through the double doors of the ER.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
“Where’s who?” Dino asked.
“That Holly . . . Whatshername.”
“You’re drunk,” Dino said. “Get out of here.”
“Only a little drunk,” the man said. “It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”
Dino looked at the uniformed cop standing there and made a little motion with his head.
The cop took the man by the wrist and elbow and frog-marched him out onto the street, then returned. “Taken care of, Commish,” he said to Dino.
The man outside crashed through the doors again. “Didn’t you ever hear of freedom of the press?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of getting your head broken?” the cop asked.
“You hear that, Commissioner?” he shouted. “I’m Mickey Fields from the Post.”
“What do you want?” Dino asked.
“Where’s the secretary of state?”
“Try Washington, D.C.”
A nurse who was leaning on the opposite wall, her arms akimbo, caught the reporter’s eye and pointed up with a thumb.
“Never mind,” Fields said, then ran for the elevator. He was on his way upstairs before the cop could reach him.
“Is there a uniform upstairs?” Dino asked the cop.
“Yessir.”
“Radio him that a maniac is on the way up and to stop him.”
The cop made the call.
A man with a camera hung around his neck ran in. “Where’s Mickey Fields?” he asked.
“Under arrest,” Dino replied. “You want to join him?”
“You can’t arrest Mickey Fields, Commissioner,” the man said.
“I can arrest anybody who’s causing a disturbance,” Dino replied.
“Who’s causing a disturbance?”
“You are.”
Before a cop could throw him out, the elevator doors opened and Dr. Battle walked out, followed closely by Mickey Fields. “She’s out of surgery and in recovery,” the doctor said. “We’ll keep her overnight and discharge her in the morning.”
“That’s who I’m looking for,” the photographer said, pointing at Fields.
“Nobody can see her,” the doctor said. “She’s in recovery.”
Stone got up, walked to the elevator, and got on. Fields and the photographer tried to follow him in, but he lifted a leg and kicked them both out. The doors closed.
“Commissioner,” Fields said, “I want to file charges against that guy!”
“Go fuck yourself,” Dino said.
—
Stone found the recovery room and, inside, Holly on a gurney, eyes closed. A nurse stood by.
“You can’t come in here,” the nurse said.
“Yes, he can,” Holly said, suddenly awake. “You shut up.”
The nurse looked outraged, but she shut up.
Stone leaned over her and kissed her on the forehead.
“First time you’ve ever kissed me there,” she said.
“What do you need?” Stone asked. “Anything at all?”
“Get me a change of clothes and come back in the morning,” she said. “I need a good night’s sleep.” She closed her eyes again.
—
Fred drove Stone home. “Mr. Barrington, I’m sorry I had to shoot that bloke,” he said.
“You did the right thing, Fred, don’t worry about it.”
“How’s Madam Secretary?”
“Pleasantly medicated and asleep,” Stone replied. “We’ll go back to the hospital first thing in the morning.”
Once home, Stone went upstairs, hung up his dinner jacket, and fell into bed.
—
Stone had breakfast while watching the morning news; Holly was all over it—the attempt on the life of the secretary of state. Everybody on TV was going nuts—people reporting from outside Lenox Hill’s ER, cameras everywhere.
“Drive around the block,” Stone said to Fred. “Let’s find another entrance.” He picked up some flowers from a market on the way.
—
Holly was sitting up in bed, her left arm in a sling, eating scrambled eggs. He kissed her. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m ravenous,” she said, stuffing bacon into her mouth and taking a bite out of a bagel.
He held up a small bag. “Change of clothes, makeup, et cetera.”
“Good boy.” She shoved her empty plate aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
A doctor walked in. “Whoa,” he said, “are you up to that?”
Holly stood up. “I’m just fine, and I’m going . . . home,” she replied, picking up her bag and walking toward the bathroom. “I won’t be a minute,” she said to Stone, kissing him. She closed the door behind her.
“How is she?” Stone said.
“She looks okay to me,” the doctor replied.
“Don’t you have to examine her?”
“I did that before she had breakfast. She was raring to go. You want to argue with her?”
“No,” Stone replied.
A Secret Service agent knocked at the open door and came into the room.
“Good morning, Agent,” Stone said.
“I hear you got my boss shot last night,” the man said.
“That’s a dirty communist lie,” Stone said.
A nurse came in with a plastic shopping bag and handed it to the doctor, who handed it to Stone.
“Change her bandage daily,” he said. “She’s had an antibiotic injection, and there are pills in the bag. At the slightest sign of infection, get her back here. Her stitches will come out in ten days.”
“Will she have a scar?” Stone asked. “She’ll worry about that.”
“We had a plastic surgeon close her incisions, front and back, and they’re small, so that shouldn’t be an issue. He offered to come and see her, if it will make her feel better.” He handed Stone two cards. “Him and me,” he said, then left.
Holly came out, looking fresh. “Thanks for the hairbrush,” she said to Stone. They got her into a wheelchair and rolled her onto an elevator and out the back door. Stone waved at Fred, who was pa
rked by the door, and he pulled up and opened a door for her. The agent followed in the usual black SUV.
“What are the media saying?” Holly asked.
“You’re feisty, hardy, and brave,” Stone replied.
“I’ll settle for that,” she said.
59
Gloria Parsons was scrambling eggs at midmorning, while Benton slept in for an extra half hour. Her cell phone buzzed, and she answered it.
“Ms. Parsons?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Benny, the super, downtown.”
“Hi, Benny. Anything wrong down there?”
“I’m not sure. There were two cops, detectives, here, but I told them you were away, and they left.”
“You did good, Benny. Thanks for calling.” She hung up with a sick feeling in her stomach.
They were having breakfast in bed when the doorman rang from downstairs and Benton answered. “Yes? . . . What do they want? . . . Oh, all right, send them up.”
“What’s going on?” Gloria asked.
“How the hell do I know? There are two detectives on the way up.”
Gloria put on a robe over her naked body and cleared away the dishes.
Benton came into the kitchen. “They want to talk to you,” he said.
“Me?”
Benton walked out, and the two detectives walked in, waving badges.
“What can I do for you?” Gloria asked, continuing to load the dishwasher.
“Ms. Parsons, are you acquainted with a Danny Blaine?”
“Yes.”
“How about an Alphonse Teppi?”
“Yes, I know them both.”
“How about a bald guy named Jackson, nickname Crank.”
“I don’t know him, never heard of him.”
“Did you receive a phone call from Mr. Teppi about nine forty-five last evening?”
“He left a message, but I deleted it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him. I was at a party—at the police commissioner’s home.”
“Did you receive a call yesterday from Mr. Blaine?”
“Yes, and I sent it directly to voice mail.”
“Why?
“I didn’t want to talk to him. I’m tired of both those characters. They used to phone me with tips that I could write about, but I’m not in that business anymore, and I don’t need them.”
“Ms. Parsons, we’d like to take a look at your cell phone. May we borrow it for a couple of hours?”
“You may not, unless you have a search warrant. I’m a journalist, and I have a right to privacy.”
“As you wish,” the man said, and they both left.
Benton came back into the kitchen. “What was that about?”
“They asked me about some phone calls I received but didn’t answer. They were from people I don’t want to know anymore.”
“Okay,” he said.
She got dressed, walked over to the Apple store, and bought the latest iPhone, then called Teppi on the old one. She left a message. “Don’t call me for a year, and tell Danny not to either.” She had them scrub the old phone of data, then activate a new number, then she did some shopping in the neighborhood and went back to Benton’s apartment.
—
Stone and Holly were having lunch in the kitchen when Dino called.
“Hey.”
“Happy new year,” Dino said.
“Didn’t we cover that last night?”
“There’s stuff we didn’t cover last night.”
“Tell me.”
“We took a throwaway cell phone off the dead guy from last night. Guess who called him a couple of hours before he met his maker?”
“I give up.”
“Danny Blaine.”
“That’s weird. What does it mean?”
“We brought Blaine in and went through his cell phone. He had a call from Alphonse Teppi around the same time you saw him at Studio 54.”
“Uh-oh.”
“And get this—Danny Blaine and the shooter were neighbors at Fishkill. Blaine bought protection from the guy Jackson, known as ‘Crank.’”
“I think I’m getting the picture—both of them are friends of Gloria Parsons.”
“I’ve got two detectives getting a search warrant for her phone right now. She refused to give it to them earlier.”
“So this was about me, not Holly?”
“What did I say to you last night?”
“Let me know what you find on her phone.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Dino hung up.
—
When Gloria got home the two detectives were sitting in the living room with Benton, drinking coffee. This surprised her, because she didn’t know that Benton knew how to make coffee.
“Give them your cell phone,” Benton said, holding up a sheet of paper. “They’ve got a warrant.”
The detectives received the phone, then stood up. “We’ll bring it back later.”
“Wait a minute,” Benton said, holding up a single finger. He looked over the warrant. “This gives you the right to search it, not confiscate it.”
“Okay, my partner can do what we need.”
His partner began going over the phone. “There’s nothing here,” he said after a couple of minutes. “It’s been scrubbed clean.”
“It’s new,” Gloria said.
“When did you buy it?”
“What is this about?” Gloria asked. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you if I know anything.”
“Gentlemen?” Benton said. “Ask your questions.”
“All right. When did you last see Alphonse Teppi and Danny Blaine?”
“It’s been several weeks,” she replied, “maybe months. The governor and I went to Bermuda for a week.”
“Right,” Benton said.
“Then I was on assignment in the Florida Keys for a week after that.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t remember the last time I saw either of them,” Gloria said. “These are the sort of people I would run into now and then when I was writing gossip-based stuff, but they weren’t really friends. I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”
“Governor,” a detective said, “why did you commute Danny Blaine’s prison sentence?”
“Because I asked him to,” Gloria said quickly. “I felt sorry for the kid. He was being abused in prison.”
“Actually, he wasn’t being abused,” the cop said. “He was buying protection from a fellow inmate.”
“He wrote me a letter saying he was being abused,” she said. “I didn’t ask for details, and I don’t know who his friends were in prison.”
“I can help you out there—he was buying protection from Crank Jackson.”
“Who the hell is that?” she asked.
“He’s the man who shot the secretary of state on New Year’s Eve. You were there, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” she said, “but I don’t know this man.”
“Are you trying to tie Ms. Parsons to the shooting?” Benton asked.
“We’re investigating the shooter.”
“Well, Ms. Parsons was with me at a party at the police commissioner’s apartment, and I can tell you, she had nothing to do with a shooting.”
“What would I have against the secretary of state?” Gloria asked. “I admire her. I wrote a complimentary magazine piece about her.”
“I think that’ll do it, gentlemen,” Benton said. “You’re obviously on the wrong track, here.”
“Thank you, Governor, Ms. Parsons,” the man said, and they gave Gloria back her phone and left.
“Gloria,” Benton said when they had gone, “why did you get a new cell phone?”
“I had all sorts of
stuff on my old phone—notes for pieces, people I’d interviewed, lots of stuff,” she said. “I didn’t want them pawing through all of that.”
“Okay,” he said. “I just wondered.”
“Sweetie,” she said, putting her hand on his crotch, “I am not part of a conspiracy to murder the secretary of state. The whole business is preposterous.”
“You’re right,” Benton said, as she unzipped his fly.
60
Stone was watching Holly get dressed for her speech at the UN, and she was using her wounded shoulder, though gingerly. “It’s good that you’re moving that,” he said.
“I know.”
“What’s your speech about at the UN?” he asked her.
“Middle East terrorism. I’ve spoken to the Security Council once before, but this is my first speech to the General Assembly.”
The phone rang, and Stone didn’t wait for Joan to pick it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino.”
“Good morning.”
“Okay,” Dino said, “here’s where we are. We can connect Alphonse Teppi and Danny Blaine through cell phone calls on the night, and Parsons received a call from each but says she sent them to voice mail, but Teppi and Blaine were using throwaways, and they had only one connected call each. We can connect Crank Jackson with Danny, but only with one call. Parsons used Teppi and Blaine as informants for magazine pieces, but we can’t put her together with them for weeks. She says she no longer needs their services and doesn’t want to know them.”
“So?”
“So, we’ve got a glimmer of a case, but no grounds for arrest and no chance of a conviction based on the available evidence. And it’s my people’s considered judgment that we’re not going to get any further. Frankly, we’ve no motive for Gloria Parsons wanting you dead. It’s my guess that she may have said something offhand about knocking you off, and they may have taken it seriously. As far as we can tell, she harbors no ill feelings toward you.”
“So, everybody walks?”
“Everybody but Crank Jackson. He’s not going anywhere but to potter’s field.”
“Okay, I buy that. I think you got it right.”
“If I’m wrong, we’ll hear from some of them again, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. They know how close we came to nailing them. If we’d landed Jackson and turned him, they’d all be on Rikers Island right now.”