Class Act

55

Stone sat Fred Flicker down and talked to him. “Here’s what we need to do,” he said.

Fred leaned forward attentively.

“Here’s the address where the events of this evening are centered. You don’t go inside, but I’d like you to park the car within sight of it, if that is possible. Dinner will be delivered to the house from a Domino’s Pizza, presumably from the one closest to the house. That will indicate that the game is afoot. It would be a good time for you to maneuver closer to the house, then call me and give me the exact address where you are parked.”

“Right.”

“When I get the call, I’ll give a woman the address. She will leave the house, find the car, and rap twice on the trunk lid. When that happens, press the button to open it, and she will take a package from the trunk, which is already there. Then she’ll close the lid and walk away. After that you will come home and park in the garage. Got it?”

Fred repeated the sequence of the events. “Got it.”

“You should be on site no later than about seven o’clock.”

“Plenty of time,” Fred said, consulting his watch.

“Off with you, then,” Stone said. “Don’t ever get out of the car. Take a bottle to pee in, if necessary.”

“I understand, sir.” Fred let himself out of the office.

Stone met Dino at seven at the Polo Bar, Ralph Lauren’s restaurant, on East Fifty-Fifth Street, and they had their first drink at the bar.

“A special occasion?” Dino asked, looking around. It was the first time they had been there together.

“Sort of,” Stone said.

“This is an alibi, isn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?” Stone asked.

“Because you look like a guy who needs an alibi.”

“Stop being so goddamned prescient,” Stone said. “I’m where I am, that’s all, and in the company of the police commissioner of the City of New York.” He looked at his watch. “And it’s seven-forty pm.”

“Your alibi is established,” Dino said. “As long as you don’t leave too early.”

Ten minutes later, they were shown to their table. Stone had requested one in the bar, so they could better see and be seen. A few minutes later, the mayor came into the restaurant with his wife and another couple. He stopped by their table and spoke to Stone and Dino.

“Dino,” he said, “if you can afford to dine here, you’re under arrest,” said the mayor, a former police commissioner himself.

“He’s paying,” Dino replied, jerking a thumb toward Stone.

The mayor continued to his own table. “Your alibi is cemented in place,” Dino said.

“If I should need one,” Stone replied.

At a little past eight o’clock, Stone’s iPhone vibrated, and he checked his messages. From Fred: Domino’s arrived and departed.

Stone deleted the text, then made sure it wasn’t in his trash file.

“Everything on schedule?” Dino asked.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Stone replied.

Finally, it was ten o’clock, and they were finishing dessert. Stone checked his watch again. His phone vibrated.

Nothing, Fred said.

Are you on site?

Fred gave him the address.

Stone deleted the messages and hung up.

“Everything is not on schedule,” Dino said. “What time was it supposed to happen?”

“By nine o’clock,” Stone said. “If, indeed, anything was supposed to happen.”

Dino put down his spoon and finished his coffee. “Something went wrong,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

They went outside and got into Dino’s big SUV, where he put up the glass partition separating them from the driver’s ears.

“You want to tell me what’s not happening?” Dino asked.

“See if anything has been called in from around Tompkins Square Park,” Stone said.

Dino called a number and spoke a few words. “And tell them not to touch anything until I get there.” He hung up. “Now you’re the one who’s prescient,” he said. He rolled down the partition and gave his driver the address.

Stone texted Fred. Abort. Go home.

They rolled up to Tompkins Square. They had been preceded by two patrol cars, an ambulance, and the medical examiner’s wagon.

Dino led the way into the building through the front door, where a patrolman was on guard. There was a Domino’s box on the living room coffee table, with a couple of slices left untouched.

“In there,” a detective said to Dino, pointing toward a bedroom.

Dino led the way through the bedroom and into a roomy bathroom that featured a large claw-foot tub that appeared to be filled with blood. They stepped up to the edge and looked down. “That’s Sal Trafficante,” Stone said quietly to Dino. He knew the woman was Hilda Ross, but he didn’t want to be heard saying so.

Sal lay on his back, a cut across his jugular vein just visible. The woman, who was draped over the tub, facedown in the red water, had an ice pick buried in her back, up to the hilt.

“Do you recognize the woman?” Dino asked.

“Nope.”

Dino turned to the ME. “Can we see her face without disturbing your scene?”

The ME stepped over, took the body by the hair, and pulled her head up just far enough to reveal her face.

“Know her?” Dino asked Stone.

“Nope.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Dino said. “Continue as you were.” He led the way out of the bathroom and the house. When they were about to get into the car, he said, “It was Hilda, right?”

“Maybe,” Stone said. “I can’t be sure.”

Dino snorted and got into the car. “Let’s go,” he said. “To Barrington’s house.”

“Not yet,” Stone said. “Let’s go to the Carlyle.”

“To the Carlyle Hotel,” Dino said to the driver, then turned toward Stone. “What the fuck for?”

“Burglary,” Stone said.