Dirty Work

12

Stone felt lighter than air. This was all going to work out; everything had been taken care of. All he had to do now was to get something worked out with the DA’s office about Herbie’s charges—get them to drop the manslaughter charge, plead him down to a misdemeanor, and get him probation. It was a bright, cool day, and he felt like a walk.

He strolled down the west side of Fifth Avenue, occasionally glancing into the park, then farther downtown, turned left on East Fifty-seventh Street and walked to the Turnbull & Asser shop. He would treat himself.

He looked at the new sea island cotton swatches and ordered a dozen shirts. He didn’t know what they cost; he didn’t want to know. Joan would pay the bill when it arrived, and he had instructed her not to enlighten him; some things were best left unknown. He picked out a few ties and waited while they were wrapped; the shirts would take eight weeks, or so. Then he left the shop and turned down Park Avenue toward home in Turtle Bay.

In the upper Forties, as he turned to cross Park, a stretched Bentley glided to a momentary halt, then drove on, but not before Stone had seen, through the open rear window, Elena Marks, now clad in proper New York widow’s weeds by Chanel, in earnest conversation with someone Stone knew. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Woodman & Weld and Bill Eggers.

“What is it, Stone?” Eggers asked, sounding rushed. It was a technique of his when he didn’t want to talk to somebody.

“Bill, I was crossing Park Avenue a moment ago, when I saw Elena Marks in her car with Robert Teller, of Teller and Sparks.”

“What?” Eggers cried.

“I kid you not.”

“That buccaneer! That bastard! Poaching my clients!”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“What were they talking about?”

“Well, Bill, I couldn’t hear them. I just saw them in that big Bentley of hers, talking.”

“Well, I’ve already got our tax people working on something that might save her a few hundred grand. It’s the kind of thing she likes.”

“I’d tell her about it soon, Bill. Bye-bye.” Stone punched off. He thought about calling T&A and canceling his shirt order, but he thought better of it.

Stone arrived home and went upstairs to leave his new ties, before returning to his office. As he approached his bedroom, he heard a snore. He pushed open the door and peered inside. Carpenter lay on her back, a breast exposed, sawing lightly away. He tiptoed across the room toward his dressing room, left the ties and tiptoed back into the bedroom. He was greeted by a wide-awake Carpenter, sitting up in bed, clutching a sheet to her bosom with one hand while using the other to point a small, semiautomatic pistol at him.

“You caught me hanging up neckties,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming confused.

“I live here,” Stone explained. He pointed at the bed. “I sleep there. Is that my Walther you’re pointing at me?”

“No, it’s mine. My firm has issued them to everybody since the first James Bond novel.”

“And why are you still pointing it at me?”

She lowered her hand. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the sheet, to good effect, and running her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“I remember,” he said. “I was all curled up in bed, waiting anxiously for you. When I woke up, you were gone.”

“Business,” she said.

Stone sat down on the bed, removed the pistol from her hand, and set it on the night table. “Something to do with Herbie Fisher’s big night?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?” she said warily.

“Well, as soon as I told you what happened, you were on the phone in the next room, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“There was something I was supposed to ask you,” she said, scratching her head.

“You don’t seem quite awake yet.”

“It’s jet lag, I think.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at dinnertime.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed, pecked her lightly on each nipple, pulled the covers up, and tucked her in.

“Mmmmm, thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She seemed instantly asleep.

Stone left her there and closed the door behind him. He was about to start downstairs when the bedroom door was flung open, and a very naked Carpenter stood there.

“The photographs!” she cried, pointing at Stone.

“What?”

“The photographs that Herbie Fisher took. Where are they?”

Stone walked her back into the bedroom and sat her on the bed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Business,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Those were some of your people who turned up at the flat after Herbie took his dive,” Stone said.

“Maybe,” she said warily.

“What were they doing there?”

“Stone, I need those photographs.”

“Why?”

“They’re important to something I’m working on.”

“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”

“I can’t talk about that,” she said.

“All right, then, I’ll trade you.”

“What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”

“I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”

“What information?”

“I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”

“Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.

“Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”

“How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.

“Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated with—arrived at the morgue this morning with a federal court order and took the corpse away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Okay,” Stone said, standing up, “no photographs for you.”

“Wait!”

Stone stopped.

“You can never tell anyone I told you this.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Fortescue died from the application of some sort of poison to the base of his spine. We haven’t figured out yet what it is.”

“I’m going to need a letter to the DA from a credible authority, stating that Fortescue was already dead when Herbie tried to fly.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It may take a few days.”

“As few as possible, please.” Stone reached into his pocket and handed her the four photographs.

Carpenter looked at the first one, of Fortescue lying on his back, the woman hovering over him. “Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured.

“Huh?” Stone said.

She looked at the other three photographs, then her mouth dropped open. “Jesus!” she said. She got up, found her handbag, took out a cell phone and dialed a number.

“It’s Carpenter,” she said into the phone. “I’ve got a photograph of her.” She looked at the bedside clock. “Half an hour,” she said, and punched off.

“What’s going on?” Stone asked.

“Get out of here. I’ve got to get dressed,” she said, rummaging through the closet for clothes.

“Are you going to be free for dinner?” he asked.

“I’ll call you when I know,” she replied, then she went into the bathroom and shut the door, taking the photographs with her.

He opened the door a little. “It’s not even that good a photograph,” he called out.

“It’s the only one in existence,” she called back.