Hit List

26

The following morning Lance called before Stone was out of bed. Lance scrambled, then said, “The news from here is not good.”

“What’s the news?” Stone asked.

“Sig Larkin had three buddies he served with and worked with later, when he was at the Bureau.”

“I guess one of them, James Weaver, is dead.”

“Good guess, but not the other two: Clifford Cox and Terence Hardin. Cliff and Terry, to you.”

“Why do you think they’re involved?”

“Because they were always involved when Larkin had dirty work to do.”

“I hope Cox and Hardin are more identifiable than Larkin.”

“They are. I’ve e-mailed you photos, so take a look. See you later.” Lance hung up.

Stone went to his e-mail and found the two attachments. Both photos seemed to have been taken when the two were still on active duty with the marines: they were in uniform and had whitewall haircuts. Cox had a big mustache, while Hardin just wore a sneer. Stone called Lance back, and they scrambled.

“Thanks for the photos,” Stone said. “They’re what — ten, fifteen years old? You think they still have whitewall haircuts?”

“Sorry about that,” Lance said. “They appear to have avoided being photographed since then.”

“Are your people on station here yet?”

“They are. There are four of them per shift, and Mike’s people have gone home. My people have the photos.”

“What caliber are these people?”

“They usually carry .45s,” Lance replied.

“I was referring to their brains. Can they wrap them around the age of these shots?”

“We don’t hire stupid people,” Lance said. “By the way, my guess — and it’s only a guess — is that Larkin and his cohorts are sufficiently pissed off about Weaver’s death to forget about the rest of the hit list and concentrate on you. So now the hardened pros are angry hardened pros. Good luck.” He hung up.

Stone hadn’t needed to hear that. He got up and took an Alka-Seltzer to keep his breakfast down.

Stone had just sat down at his desk when Dino called. “I’ve gotta come uptown for an early-afternoon meeting. You want lunch?”

“Sure, but come here; I’ve had some unpleasant news that makes me not want to be on the street.” He hung up without explaining.

Dino turned up on time, and Fred served them clam chowder in the study.

“Okay, so what’s the bad news?”

Stone told him about Larkin’s cohorts, Cox and Hardin. “Lance says that now they’re not just hardened pros, but angry hardened pros.”

“I see his point,” Dino said, “but maybe it’s not a bad thing: angry people make mistakes.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Have you got a long gun in the house?”

“I don’t believe in them,” Stone said, “but I’ve got nothing against shotguns with eighteen-and-a-quarter-inch barrels.”

“I’ve got one of those in the car,” Dino said.

“I thought you might have.”

Dino called his car, and a few minutes later, Joan came upstairs carrying a police riot gun and a box of 12-gauge shells and set them gingerly on the coffee table. “Delivery for you,” she said. “Are we expecting a riot?”

“Not really,” Stone said.

She left without another word.

“Good choice of weapon,” Dino said, “but if you hit anybody with it there’ll be a big mess to clean up.”

“Yeah, I remember when that guy, Bennedetto, took one in the chest.”

“Ah, the Tony Bennedetto case,” Dino said, as if remembering it fondly.

“The guys in the police garage wanted to dump his car in the river, rather than clean it up.”

“In the end, they used a fire hose,” Dino said. “I’ll bet it smelled bad the next day, though. I wouldn’t want your valuable rugs stained with guts and brains.”

“Neither would I.”

“And make sure they’re not your guts and brains,” Dino said.

“I’ll try to remember that,” Stone replied.

Around six o’clock, Stone stationed Fred outside the garage with the door open. When Vanessa showed up in a cab he directed it inside before he opened her door and paid the cabbie.

Stone was waiting for her in the study.

“Do I sense unusual defensive preparations?” Vanessa asked.

“Only a precaution,” Stone replied.

“Yeah,” she said, “against an early death.”