Dirt

Chapter 29

Amanda got to Stone first. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “This man of yours says there are bugs all over my offices.”

“What’s going on, Amanda, is that there are bugs all over your offices. That’s where your leak is, or at least part of it.”

“Well, I told him to yank them all out.”

Stone groaned. “I told him to create static, but leave them in place. Now whoever planted the bugs is going to know you know.”

“That’s just fine with me,” she said. “I want the bastard to know.”

“Amanda, you got the surveillance reports on your people, the ones I sent you?”

“Yes, and they both look innocent enough to me.”

“To me, too; that leaves Martha.”

“Stone, I’ve told you, it couldn’t be Martha.”

“We’re running out of suspects; there’s only the maid and Martha. I want your permission to check out both of them. Oh, and the chauffeur, too.”

“I hate paying for work that I know will turn up nothing.”

“That’s understandable, but anytime you investigate a group of people, you have to investigate them all. That’s the only way it will work. So, have I your permission to investigate these three people?”

“Oh, all right, but for God’s sake, don’t let any of them know. It would be so embarrassing for me if they found out.”

“Not as embarrassing as what DIRT is publishing.”

“You have a point. Do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice changed, became lower. “I thought you were going to call me for a get-together.”

Better bite the bullet, Stone thought. “I’m sorry, Amanda, but I have to be frank with you. I’m seeing somebody, and she’s taking all my… attention.”

“Shit,” Amanda said, and hung up.

Tiffany was next.

“I’m calling from a pay phone,” she said.

“Good girl.”

“That Bob says that somebody can hear every word that’s spoken in my apartment or on my phone, and that he’s not fixing it.”

“If we fix it, Tiff, whoever is listening will know that you know.”

“Stone, you told me to find a boyfriend, so I did. Now when I bring him home, somebody’s going to hear us in bed.”

“You’re an actress; think of it as a performance.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said finally. “Come to think of it, that could be a turn-on.”

“Whatever works for you, Tiff.”

“I wish there was a way I could turn the bug off for a few minutes at a time, though.”

“Does the boyfriend have a home?”

“Yeah, but it’s way down in the Village.”

“The Village is charming; a great place to make love.”

“Mmmmm,” she said.

“And Tiff, for God’s sake, stay away from Dick – no hotels of anything; it’s for his own good, tell him that.”

“He has been insistent.”

“How did you communicate?”

“Pay phone at both ends.”

“Do this: Tell him no contact for two weeks.” Stone had no idea where he’d be on this investigation in two weeks, but what the hell?

“Okay.”

“See you, Tiff.”

“Bye.”

Bob Cantor called next.

“Boy, that Tiffany is something!” he said.

“Down, Bob. Her boyfriend could buy and sell you, and he would.”

“Too bad. Oh, Amanda Dart made me rip out everything.”

“She told me. I’ll just have to live with it. You ever do any surveillance work?”

“Once in a while.”

“I’ve got two people need checking out; got a pencil?”

“Shoot.”

Stone gave him the names and addresses of the maid and chauffeur. He would check out Martha himself. “I need this soonest,” he told Cantor.

“Gotcha. Oh, Stone, I almost forgot; I might know who did the wiring job on you and the other two.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Maybe a guy who occasionally hangs out at a bar I go to.”

“What makes you think you know?”

“He has a signature; it’s the way he wraps a wire around a terminal – he makes a kind of knot. Somebody told me about it. You want me to add this to my list?”

“You do that; I’d like very much to know who he’s working for.”

“You got it.”

Stone had a thought. “Bob, will you wire a place for me? Phone, too?”

“You bet; but it’s more expensive if I have to break in and work under pressure.”

“Her name is Martha McMahon; she works all day, five days a week; she lives in a small elevator building, no doorman.” Stone gave him the address.

“You want to listen live, or have it taped?”

“I don’t have time to listen live. Can you tape it from a remote location, so you don’t have to be there?”

“Sure.”

“Do it. Make her first on your list.”

“You got it.”

Stone hung up. It bothered him that he himself was the subject of surveillance. He was going to have to start watching himself. He went into his study, unlocked a cabinet, and took out a Remington riot gun with an eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel. It was standard police issue; he had bought it at a departmental surplus equipment sale years before. He ignored the double-ought buckshot shells in the cabinet and chose number nine birdshot; he wasn’t out to blow a yawning hole in anybody. He inserted four shells into the gun, pumped a round into the chamber, then added one more shell and flipped on the safety. Then he walked upstairs to his bedroom and put the weapon on a small shelf he had built under the bed.

Remembering that he had not relocked the cabinet, he went back downstairs to the study, key in hand. For a moment, he gazed at the nine-millimeter automatic, hanging inside in its shoulder holster, then decided against it and locked the cabinet. No need for that yet.