Hit List

20

Stone walked quietly across the living room and into the entry hall, then peered through the glass top of the front door. A man stood with his back to the door, waiting, a tan leather document case tucked under his arm. Near him was a motorcycle with something in French painted on it, and he was husky in build.

Dino was right behind him. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why don’t you let him in while I point a gun at him?” Dino suggested. “It might be a good opportunity to kill him.”

“Kill who? That’s the problem. Get back, he’s going to ring the bell again.”

They both jumped back into the living room, just as the bell rang.

“Let’s see what he does if nobody answers,” Dino said.

Stone’s iPhone buzzed in his pocket: Lance Cabot. They scrambled.

“Did you get the documents?” Lance asked.

“What documents?”

“I sent you some stuff by messenger.”

“Describe the messenger.”

“He’ll be on a motorcycle.”

“I’ll call you back.” Stone pushed Dino behind a curtain, then opened the front door just as the man swung a leg over the motorcycle. “Yes?”

“Delivery,” the man said.

“Cover me,” Stone said over his shoulder to Dino. He tucked his own weapon into the small of his back and walked outside, since the man was staying on his bike.

“Are you Barrington?”

“I am,” Stone replied.

“You got picture ID?”

Stone produced his New York driver’s license from his wallet.

“Close enough,” the man said, looking at the photo. He opened the document case and put his hand inside. Stone half expected it to come out with a gun in it, but instead, he was handed a clipboard bearing a single sheet of paper. “Sign, please.” He handed Stone a pen.

Stone signed. “There you are.”

“There I am,” the man said, taking a manila envelope from his case and handing it to Stone. Before Stone could open it and see what was inside, the man had started his motorcycle and turned it back toward the Boulevard Saint-Germaine. He stopped; the big oaken doors were closed.

“How did you get in?” Stone asked.

“A car was coming, and I followed him.”

Stone reached inside the front door and pressed a button. The big doors swung open, and the man drove into the street and turned right. Stone closed the doors, then stepped back inside.

Dino was holstering his gun. “Whatcha got?”

“Let’s go inside and see,” Stone said, leading the way. He went into the study and flopped into his chair, while Dino took the other.

Stone read each sheet and then passed it to Dino. “Looks like there’s a file on Larkin in both London and Paris, complete with bad photographs.”

“You know,” Dino said, perusing the paperwork, “I’ve seen this guy twice so far, and he could still walk up to me on the street and shoot me, and I wouldn’t see him coming.”

“It’s disconcerting,” Stone said.

“That’s the word I was looking for.”

“So what do these files tell us?”

“That he’s accustomed to breaking the law, since he left the FBI, and at least two police forces know it. “Three, if you count mine.”

“He seems to like bar fights, Dino, and he’s proved it in three cities.”

“I’ll tell you what else is disconcerting,” Stone said. “He’s a lot richer than we thought. My thinking was that by the time he’d paid his debts, and spread some of the rest around, he’d have pissed away just about all of it.”

“But not if he won ten million, instead of two,” Dino said.

“I mean, he could be staying at the Ritz.”

“He would stand out at the Ritz as not being the type to stay at the Ritz,” Dino said. “I doubt they’d rent him a room. I wouldn’t.”

“He needs a better tailor,” Stone said, looking at the photographs again.

“Oh, shit,” Dino said.

“What?”

“I forgot. The last time we were here I ordered some suits from Charvet. Time for a fitting.”

“I’ll go with you,” Stone said.

Marie returned from her shopping, so they didn’t have to lock up. They walked up to the boulevard and hailed a cab.

Dino went upstairs at Charvet for his fitting, and Stone had a look around downstairs, choosing a couple of ties, a sweater, and some silk pocket squares. He took a seat in a waiting area while they were being wrapped and glanced idly at a silent TV set into a shelf for the purpose of keeping people like him from becoming bored. What he saw did not put him to sleep. He got up and found the remote and turned up the sound. It didn’t help much; the newsreader spoke French.

Stone beckoned a saleswoman. “Excuse me, could you translate this news report?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve already seen it once, a few minutes ago. It seems that someone has murdered a man who delivers packages for a service. They found his motorcycle on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and they have just located his dead body in mews in that neighborhood.

Stone found himself looking at his own oaken gates. “Anything else?”

“No, but they’ll run it again in a few minutes; it’s an all-news channel.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.”

“Il n’y a pas de quoi,” she said. Think nothing of it.

Stone turned down the volume, set down the remote, and fell back into his chair, digging out his phone.

“Yes?”

“Scramble.”

“Scrambled.

“Rick, have you been watching the local television news?”

“No, I only watch that stuff when I’m drunk.”

“Less than an hour ago, my doorbell was rung by a man who had arrived by motorcycle. Dino and I were very cautious of him, but he turned out to be a motorcycle messenger delivering some documents from Lance.”

“Okay,” Rick said, “anything else?”

“I’m at Charvet, and I was watching the news when a report came on that a motorcycle messenger had been murdered. They found his motorcycle nearby, and his body in my mews.”

“Here’s the question,” Rick said. “Was the man you saw the messenger or the man who murdered the messenger?”

That gave Stone pause. “I don’t know,” he said.