Fresh Disasters

45

They were sipping double espressos over the remains of the porterhouse and the cognacs that Elaine had sent over.

Stone spoke up. “Before you and I leave here I have to offer a disclaimer.”

“Offer away,” Dierdre said, sipping her cognac.

“Being in any way associated with me, at the moment, may be dangerous to your health. That’s why I didn’t call you after lunch.”

“Why, Stone, don’t tell me you’ve contracted a social disease.”

Dino broke in. “You’d better pay attention, Dierdre.”

“All right, be specific,” she said.

“A client of mine who had been hiding from a jealous boyfriend was killed last night.”

“The boyfriend was jealous of you?”

“Not just me, everybody. He’s nuts. His name is Devlin Daltry.”

“The sculptor?”

“Jesus, why is it that everybody knows about this guy, and I’d never heard of him until a couple of weeks ago?”

“He’s a very well-known artist,” Dierdre said.

“I am the son of two well-known artists,” Stone said, “and I have more than a passing interest in the arts, but somehow Devlin Daltry had escaped my notice until he started trying to kill me.”

“I thought it was your client he killed.”

“It was, but he ran me down with a car on Third Avenue last week. My body has many bruises, and this…” He held up his left hand to display the blue plastic cast. “…is a result of that incident.”

“My goodness, that’s a cast? And I thought it was a sex toy!”

“My point is, Dierdre, that this guy has been known to follow me around, and if he spots us together, you may very well be in danger.”

“I can handle myself,” Dierdre said.

“Are you packing?”

“Always. How did he kill your client?”

“After cutting the throat of the woman she was staying with in New Jersey, he decapitated my client. And she was the kind of woman who could take care of herself, too. She was six feet, three inches tall and no shrinking violet.”

“Was she packing?”

“She was. I loaned her one of my own weapons.”

Dierdre regarded him calmly. “I’d rather it were a social disease than a crazed killer,” she said, “but if he messes with me, I’ll shoot him, and as soon as I’m sure he’s dead, I’ll arrest him and prosecute him. Are the police looking for him?”

“They found him shortly after the killing at an art gallery opening in SoHo; witnesses put him there when the killing took place.”

“So he hired somebody?”

“Apparently.”

Dino spoke up. “It’s gotta be tough to hire somebody to cut off the head of a six-foot, three-inch woman with a gun.”

“Yeah, and a doctor on the scene said that the killer did it in a fit of rage,” Stone pointed out. “Professional killers don’t do rage.”

“Now that you mention it,” Dierdre said, “I’ve never heard of rage in the case of a pro who was prosecuted. Those guys just walk up to you, put two in your head and walk away. Cold is their trademark.”

“Give us the benefit of your experience, Dierdre,” Dino said. “What does it mean when a guy kills by proxy and there’s rage involved?”

“Well, Daltry has to be enraged in order to go far enough to arrange her death.”

“Yeah, but what about the hiree?”

“I suppose he could have hired a crazy person to do it, somebody who hates women, maybe.”

“He hired somebody to run me down, too,” Stone said. “He had another airtight alibi.”

“An enraged serial killer using a surrogate?” Dierdre asked.

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Dino said. “Serials may be enraged, but they do their own killing.”

“Dino,” Dierdre said, “go to the men’s room and take your time.”

“Okay,” Dino replied. He got up and walked away.

Dierdre leaned into Stone. “Okay, I’ve heard your disclaimer, and I still want you. I have a disclaimer, too.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“This isn’t love, it’s sex. When I get horny, I do something about it, and I’m not talking about using my hand.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not going to cling to you, stalk you or make your life miserable. All I want from this relationship is an occasional drink or steak and a spectacular roll in the hay. We clear on that?”

“Perfectly clear.”

“Then let’s get out of here.” She stood up and started for the door.

Stone was right behind her. “Dino will get the check,” he said to Gianni. He kissed Elaine on the cheek as he passed her, and by the time he got outside, she was in a cab with the door open, waiting. Stone took a second to check out the block, then he got in.

“Anybody following us?” she asked, as they drove down Second Avenue.

“We seem to be alone,” Stone replied.

Dierdre undressed him slowly, kissing him here and there, then she shucked off her own clothes, revealing a body that had everything her dress had promised. She ran her fingers over his bruises. “That’s the worst bruising I’ve ever seen on anybody who wasn’t a corpse,” she said. “Poor baby.” She pushed him back onto the bed and began kissing him more purposefully.

Stone was delighted to find that he couldn’t think of anything but what was happening at that moment. He was tumescent and oblivious.

Dierdre helped with that, bringing him to full attention with her lips and tongue. “God, I love porterhouse,” she said.

Stone could make noises, but he couldn’t form words. He put his hands under her ass and lifted her onto him. She supplied the only lubrication necessary.

By the time they allowed themselves to fall asleep, Dierdre had kept every word of the promise she had made at the dinner table.

In the middle of the night, Stone got up to go to the john, and on the way back he walked to the front windows and looked down into the street. A black sedan sat, idling, a couple of doors up the block. The reflection from a street lamp on the windshield made it impossible to see who was inside.

“Stoooone,” Dierdre cooed from the bed.

“Coming,” he said, returning to her.

“Soon,” she said, holding the sheet back for him.

He settled into her as if she were a bear rug, and they started all over again.

After daybreak, he checked the street again. The black sedan was gone.