Desperate Measures

57

Stone didn’t know where the voice was coming from and looked around.

“Mr. Barrington!” came the call again.

Stone finally realized that it was coming from the uniformed doorman, who walked over with his hand out.

“It’s Eddie,” the man said. “Remember me?”

“The face is familiar, but you’re in the wrong uniform,” Stone replied.

“Ah, yes, it should be the Carlyle uniform. I helped you get Ms. Scott up to her apartment in a wheelchair, remember?”

“Of course, Eddie, the uniform confused me.”

“I moonlight over here a couple days a week.” Eddie looked sad. “I want to offer my sympathy over the loss of your friend,” he said. “Ms. Scott was a very nice lady, always good to me.”

“Yes, she was,” Stone replied, “and thank you, Eddie.”

“Her husband, though, he was a different kettle of fish, an asshole, if you’ll excuse my Irish.”

“I can’t disagree,” Stone said.

“You know, when I read about Ms. Scott in the papers, the first thing I thought of was that Trask.”

“Funny, I had the same idea. So did the police, for that matter, after they stopped thinking I was their chief suspect.”

“I saw him that very night,” Eddie said.

“Which very night?” Stone asked.

“The night she died.”

“Where did you see Donald Trask that night?”

“Well, right here,” Eddie replied, pointing at the ground.

“I saw him walk up here from the downtown side. I was about to ask him if he needed a cab, when I saw his face, it just stopped me dead. I needn’t have worried; he got into a town car and drove off.”

“You said a town car?”

“One of them from the Phoenix service,” Eddie replied. “They run a shabbier fleet than some others, but they’re cheaper.”

“How do you know it was a Phoenix car?”

“Because they have a tag on the trunk lids of all their cars,” Eddie replied. “I know my car service cars. It was Phoenix car thirty-one. They number their vehicles.”

Stone gulped. “What time was it, Eddie?”

“About six-fifteen,” Eddie replied. “I had just come on duty.”

“Eddie,” Stone said. “If we weren’t right out in the open here, I’d kiss you!”

“Well, now, Mr. Barrington, I’m not that way inclined,” Eddie replied, taking a step back.

“Listen, don’t go anywhere,” Stone said. “I’ve got to make a call.” He got out his cell phone and called Dino’s cell number. Busy. He called the detective squad at the 19th Precinct and asked for Muldoon.

“Off duty,” a detective said.

“Give me his cell number,” Stone replied.

“Sorry, we don’t give that out.”

“Then call him and tell him to call Stone Barrington right back. I’ll give you the number.”

“Barrington? Did you used to be stationed here?”

“Before you were born,” Stone said.

“Oh, hell, I’ll get the number for you. Hang on.” He came back a minute later and read Stone the number.

“Thanks very much,” Stone said.

“Don’t mention it. I heard you was always a pain in the ass, and I like that.” The detective hung up.

Stone called Muldoon, and it went straight to voice mail.

“Sean,” Stone said, “it’s Stone Barrington. Call me, if you want to break the Donald Trask case. We’ve got a witness — Eddie, the doorman — who can put Trask at Bloomingdale’s, getting into a Phoenix town car, number thirty-one, at six-fifteen on the night Cilla was murdered.” He hung up and called Dino again. Still busy. Eddie had left his side, and Stone looked around for him.

Eddie was standing in the middle of the street, blowing his whistle for a cab, while a woman with a lot of shopping bags waited.

“Eddie!” Stone shouted. Eddie looked toward him, and at that moment a passing car struck him and sent him flying into the woman with the shopping bags.

Stone ran toward the heap. The woman was sitting up and looking around, but Eddie was out cold, and there was blood coming from where his head had struck the pavement.

Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You called three times?”

“I’ll call you back,” Stone said. He hung up and rushed to Eddie’s side. “Are you all right?” Stone asked the woman.

“I think so,” she replied.

Stone felt for a pulse in Eddie’s neck and thought it was weak and thready. He called 911 and demanded an ambulance.

“You help him,” the woman said. “I’ll get my own cab.” She began gathering up shopping bags.

The ambulance took only a couple of minutes. An EMT took Eddie’s vitals, and got out a stretcher.

“How is he?” Stone asked.

“Not dead yet,” the EMT replied, locking the stretcher in place, “but he’s trying. He’s got a serious head injury.”

“I’m coming with you,” Stone said, flashing his badge at the EMT and crowding to the rear. “Which ER?”

“Lenox Hill,” the man replied.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“What the fuck is the matter? Why did you call me three times?”

“Because you were blabbing on your phone for all that time.”

“That’s what it’s for,” Dino explained. “What are you all hot about?”

“We’ve got Donald Trask cold.”

“You mean he’s dead?”

“No, I mean he’s on ice, or will be when Eddie wakes up.”

“Eddie who?”

“Eddie, the doorman at the Carlyle. He’s got a head injury.”

“As I recall, you’ve had a couple of head injuries lately, too, and that could be the problem.”

“What problem?”

“The problem that you’re not making any sense.”

“All right, shut up and listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“Eddie, the doorman at the Carlyle, moonlights at Bloomingdale’s.”

“I thought you were going to start making sense.”

“Shut up. On the night that Cilla Scott was murdered, Eddie was working Bloomingdale’s and saw Donald Trask getting into a Phoenix town car. Number thirty-one.”

“You mean this guy Eddie can put Donald Trask at Bloomingdale’s?”

“Now you’re starting to listen.”

“At what time?”

“Six-fifteen.”

“Holy shit. Yeah. You get this Eddie to the Nineteenth right away, and let Muldoon know you’re coming.”

“Muldoon’s phone goes to voice mail, and Eddie is in an ambulance headed for the Lenox Hill ER. I’m with him.”

“What’s the matter with Eddie?”

“He was hit by a car outside Bloomingdale’s while getting a customer a cab.”

“How bad?”

“Not good. He struck his head on the pavement. I saw it bounce.”

“I’ll meet you at Lenox Hill,” Dino said and hung up.

Stone hung up, too. He had a look at Eddie, who was now plugged into an IV and sucking oxygen. He didn’t look good.

Stone looked around for his shopping bag and couldn’t find it. “Well,” he said aloud, “I hope the lady’s husband or boyfriend wears size thirty-four boxers.”

“What?” the EMT shouted, unplugging an ear from his stethoscope.

“Size thirty-four!” Stone shouted back.