Desperate Measures

41

Stone went to his study, poured himself a drink, and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Okay, I’m clear, no thanks to you.”

“Who did they send?”

“An old pro named Muldoon and a kid called Calabrese.”

“Yeah, I know them both. How’d they do?”

“Muldoon did just fine. The kid could barely keep up and was, in general, a pain in the ass.”

“It figures. You weren’t such a hotshot, either, when you were a green detective.”

“Neither were you,” Stone said.

“I got a report on the interview with Faith Barnacle,” Dino said. “That’s new about the music. She may come up with more later.”

“Let’s hope so,” Stone said.

“What are you worried about? The killers have pled out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll stop worrying.”

“Have you eaten anything?” Dino asked.

“No, but I’ll see what’s in the fridge.”

“Later.”

“Sure.” Stone hung up and went down to the kitchen. He found half a roast chicken and some peas in the fridge and nuked them, then opened half a bottle of a cabernet and sat down in the kitchen booth, eating slowly and watching the rain run down the windows. The Turtle Bay gardens looked bleak.

He rinsed his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went upstairs, undressed, and got into bed. He tried NY1, the local news channel. Cilla’s murder had already filled the Breaking News slot; there was no mention of Donald Trask.

Sean Muldoon and Dante Calabrese got out of their car and went into Donald Trask’s building.

“I can’t wait to talk to this guy,” Calabrese said.

“You shut up, and I’ll do the talking this time. You’ll learn more by listening.” Muldoon flashed his badge at the man on the front desk. “Is Donald Trask at home?”

“Yes, he is.” The man reached for his phone, but Muldoon stopped him. “What time did he come in?”

“I came on at six. I guess he walked in closer to six-thirty.”

“How much closer? It’s important.”

“Okay, between six-twenty-five and six-thirty-five. That do?”

“We’ll see; what’s his apartment number?”

“Seven D, to your left out of the elevator.”

“Don’t announce us,” Muldoon said.

“I’m supposed... ”

“Do you want to be arrested for interfering with a police investigation?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stay off the phone. We’ll surprise Mr. Trask.”

“All right, sir.”

The two detectives got onto the elevator and pressed the button. “Remember,” Muldoon said, “I’ll take the lead. We’re going to be real polite, put the fella at ease, you understand?”

“Whatever you say, Sean.”

“That’s good. I like that. Remember it.”

“I did okay with Barrington, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. You were up against a man with more experience than you. You’d have gotten along better if you’d treated him as a senior colleague, instead of a perp.”

The door opened, and they rang the bell for D. Muldoon saw some light appear in the peephole, then the door opened but was secured by a chain. Muldoon showed him a badge. “NYPD,” he said. “Are you Mr. Trask?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Please open the door, we’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Trask, would you rather talk to a SWAT team?”

“Oh, all right.” The door closed, the chain rattled, and Trask stood there in his pajamas, a book in his hand — Oliver Twist. Muldoon thought that Donald Trask didn’t look like the type for Dickens. “Let’s go sit down, shall we?” he asked.

Trask stood aside and let them walk down a hall to the living room. The place wasn’t in perfect order; there were cardboard boxes stacked in the living room. “Sorry about the mess, I just moved in.”

“Not at all.” Muldoon tossed a pile of books from a chair onto the floor and sat down.

“What’s this about?” Trask asked again.

“First, I’m obliged to tell you that you’re not under arrest, and you don’t have to talk with us. You can have an attorney present, if you like.”

Trask thought about that. “I guess I don’t need a lawyer. Ask whatever you like.”

“Mr. Trask, what did you do this evening?”

“I had a burger and a beer at P. J. Clarke’s.”

“What time did you arrive at Clarke’s?”

“Around five, I guess. I went straight from my office, about a block from there.”

“Did you see anyone you knew at Clarke’s?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do the bartenders know you?”

“I’ve been there before. But there’s no reason for them to know my name.”

“Had the waiter served you before?”

“I don’t recall that he has.”

“What time did you leave Clarke’s?”

“After six, I guess. It was raining, and I couldn’t find a cab, so I walked home.”

“And what time did you arrive?”

“Six-thirtyish. The network news was just coming on when I got upstairs.”

“What was the lead story on the news?”

“I wasn’t listening all that closely. The flu epidemic, I think. I was making myself a drink.”

“Did you have a drink before your burger at Clarke’s?”

“No, I was hungry. I ordered a beer and drank that with my burger.”

“Did you make any detours on the way home? Anything at all?”

“No, I told you, it was raining. I was getting wet, so I hurried.”

“Do you mind if I take a picture of you?” Muldoon asked, producing his iPhone. He snapped one before Trask could reply.

“Okay, before we go any further, I want to know what this is about,” Trask said.

“It’s about your wife.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“All right, your ex-wife, Priscilla Scott. When was the last time you saw her?”

“At our divorce hearing. There were plenty of witnesses.”

“To your knowledge, did Ms. Scott have a will, and are you mentioned in it?”

“Yes and yes. We both did new wills a couple of years ago. Why are we talking about wills? Has something happened to her?”

“Yes, she’s deceased, I’m afraid.”

Trask’s eyebrows went up; it was the first emotion he’d shown. “Jesus, was she in an accident?”

“No, she was murdered.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“I am not, sir. She was found by a dinner guest with a knife in her chest.”

Trask gulped. “Was her dinner guest named Barrington?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if he was there, he’s the one who killed her.”

“Mr. Trask, do you own any guns?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“In my safe.”

“May I see them, please?”

Trask walked over to a bookcase and moved some books aside, revealing a safe. He punched in a code, opened it, and stood back. “There you go.”

Muldoon walked over to the safe, removed each weapon, sniffed its barrel, and then set it on the bookshelf. “Mr. Trask, do you have a New York City gun license?”

“I do.”

“May I see it, please?”

Trask found his wallet and handed him the license.

Muldoon handed it back. “This Beretta has been fired recently,” he said.

“I went to the range at lunchtime today.”

Muldoon nodded at Calabrese, meaning, Note that.

“Do you mind if I take the Beretta with me?” he asked.

“What for?”

“Just to have it looked at. Don’t worry, we’ll return it to you in good order.”

“Okay, sure, why not?”

Muldoon pocketed the pistol and turned to go. There was a coatrack in the hall with a raincoat hanging from it. He made a point of running his hand over it as they passed. “Thank you and good night, Mr. Trask.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The door closed firmly behind them, and the chain rattled.

“Why didn’t you pull his license?” Calabrese asked.

“Because the Beretta has been registered, so we have no excuse. I’ve got the gun, though. If he’s our guy, then he thinks we won’t find the bullet. And by the way, his raincoat is a little damp, but not as wet as it would get walking here from Clarke’s. Let’s run over there and see if anybody recognizes him from his photograph.”

They did so, and nobody did.