Desperate Measures

39

Stone’s cell phone buzzed while he was being driven to Bellevue by Fred. “Hello?”

“It’s Cilla, good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“We are.”

“Good. My intercom is broken. When you arrive, the desk man will have your name and send you straight up to the twelfth floor. I’ll leave the door cracked, so just let yourself in. The bar is in the living room so you can make yourself a bourbon and me a vodka on the rocks, then find the kitchen, where I’ll be up to my elbows in osso buco.”

“My favorite. See you at seven.” They hung up.

Stone arrived outside Faith’s hospital room and looked in to find two men in suits seated at her bedside, so he leaned against the jamb and listened.

“Is there anything else you can remember, Ms. Barnacle?” one of the men asked. “Anything at all?”

“No. I’m sorry to be of so little help.”

“If you remember anything else, please call me. I’ll leave my card on your bedside table. Good day.”

Stone heard the scraping of chairs on the floor, then Faith said, “Wait, I remember something.”

The two men sat down again. “What do you remember?”

“Music.”

“What kind of music?”

“Classical. On a radio, I think. There was a voice introducing the next piece.”

“Could you see the radio?”

“No, I just heard it. After that, I found my way to the window.”

The two men thanked her again, then left.

Stone went into the room and found Faith halfway sitting up in her bed, with the sheets pulled up to her neck. He kissed her on the forehead and pulled up a chair. “Feeling any better?”

“I am. The cuts still hurt, but the morphine is taking care of that. I pulled the sheets up because I don’t want anybody to see the cuts, which are unbandaged. I was told I have something like one hundred and fifty stitches.”

“Then just try to relax. Is there anything I can bring you? Books? Magazines?”

“The morphine makes it hard to concentrate on reading,” she said, “but the TV remote is taped to my hand, and I can watch.”

“What are your doctors telling you?”

“As soon as my cuts are less painful, I can get out of here; I hope I’m not addicted to morphine by then. The middle of the week, maybe. I won’t have to come back to get the stitches out; they’ll dissolve by themselves. The cuts are covered by green, transparent tape, which looks like bruising.”

“The airplane is waiting for you, when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Stone. I’m going to have to take a nap now, so will you excuse me?”

“Sure.” He kissed her on the forehead again and left.

That evening, Stone chose a good bottle of red from his cellar, and on the way to Cilla’s apartment he stopped at a bodega and picked up a bouquet of flowers. “Take the rest of the evening off, Fred,” he said as he got out in front of Cilla’s building. “I’ll get a cab home.”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replied and drove away to his own dinner.

Stone was inspected by the doorman and admitted to the lobby, where he found an empty front desk. Oh, well, he thought, desk men have to go to the john like everyone else. There was a log of visitors on the desk, and he signed in at seven o’clock, then he took the elevator to the twelfth floor and got out. The upstairs foyer smelled deliciously of Italian cooking, and he could hear jazz playing through the door, which was ajar.

He went into the apartment, found the bar, located a vase, put water into it, and fluffed up the flowers, then he poured himself a drink from a new, sealed bottle of Knob Creek and did the same with a bottle of Belvedere vodka. The music was coming from a built-in system and traveled with him as he walked toward the kitchen.

The dining room held a handsome table for twelve, but the walls there, as in the living room, were missing pictures, which were, no doubt, on Cilla’s shopping list. “Hello!” he called out as he entered the kitchen.

There were pots simmering on the stove, but no Cilla in sight. “Cilla?” Powder room, he figured. He set the two drinks on the kitchen island, where there were barstools, took one and settled in, glancing at his watch. Five past seven. He sipped his drink, waiting patiently, then it was seven-fifteen. He got up and looked for a powder room. As he turned back, he saw a pair of legs protruding from behind the kitchen island. One ankle was bandaged and the shoe was missing.

He ran to her and found her lying on her back, a large chef’s knife protruding from her chest. He knelt beside her, avoiding a pool of blood, and felt for an artery in her neck. Nothing, and her body was cool. He stood up, walked back to his barstool, sat down, and took a big swig of his drink. Then he got out his cell phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone,” he said.

Dino must have caught something in his voice because he immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just arrived at Cilla’s apartment for dinner and found her dead in the kitchen, with a knife in her chest.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dino said. “Are you all right?”

“I am. Will you send your people over here, please?”

“No. You call nine-one-one, like everybody else, and they’ll send the people. It’s better if I don’t get entangled in this since I know both the victim and the prime suspect.”

“‘Prime suspect’? Are you kidding?”

“I kid you not. That’s how the detectives are going to treat you when they arrive, and rightly so. You know as well as I do that the person finding the victim is always a prime suspect. I hope I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything and to be completely honest with the detectives.”

“No, you don’t have to tell me that, so stop telling me that, please.”

“Let me know how it goes, pal,” Dino said, “but not until you’re cleared.” He hung up.

“Thanks so much,” Stone said to the dead telephone. Then it occurred to him that he might not be alone in the apartment. He set down his drink, pulled his weapon from its shoulder holster, and slipped out of his shoes. Room by room, he searched the place, checking every closet and hiding place, then he went back to the kitchen and did the same there. Nothing. He switched off the burners on the stove.

His mind more at ease, he picked up a wall phone in the kitchen, called 911, and went through their drill. Then he hung up the phone, recovered his drink, went back into the living room, placed his gun and badge on the bar, and sat down to wait for the law to arrive.