Hot Mahogany

11

Stone was sitting in Elaine’s, studying the photographs of the mahogany secretary when Dino walked in and sat down.

Before he could speak a waiter set a glass of Scotch before him.

“You’re still interested in antique furniture?” Dino asked.

“More than ever.”

Dino took the photograph and looked it over. “Well, it’s certainly a handsome piece of work,” he admitted. “I’m not sure I’d fork out twenty-five mil for it, but that’s just me.”

“You know,” Stone said, taking the photo back, “I think if I had a billion, I’d pay twenty-five mil for it, but that’s just me.”

“Let’s call it a purely academic disagreement,” Dino said, sipping his Scotch. “Where’d you get the picture?”

“Barton sent it to me.”

“Why? Does he think you’re a potential buyer?”

“Hardly. He wants me to find it for him.”

“You? What are your particular qualifications for finding a missing piece of antique furniture?”

“About the same as yours.”

“But I’m not looking for it.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Stone, why do you think I’m going to help you find this thing?”

“Because, if you help me find it and return it to Barton, you’ll be paid the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, cash on the barrelhead, tax free.”

“Since I know you don’t have that kind of cash in your safe, I assume it’s Barton’s money we’re talking about.”

“We are.”

Dino regarded him closely. “And how much is Barton paying you?”

“You have a suspicious nature, Dino.”

“I’m a police officer; I’m paid to be suspicious.”

“Well, the NYPD is not offering you a hundred grand to do this particular bit of police work.”

“A good point, but you still haven’t answered my question: How much is he paying you?”

“More than he’s paying you, but I have to do most of the work. And anyway, Barton isn’t paying you; I’m paying you out of what Barton pays me.”

“I have a feeling that I’m going to end up doing most of the work,” Dino said.

“All you have to do is quietly circulate a description of the piece among your brother officers, keeping it unofficial, of course.”

“And just how do I keep it unofficial?”

“I would suggest that you offer a portion of your reward, say ten percent, to whoever locates it.”

Dino stared at Stone. “Barton is paying you a million dollars to find it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re paying me ten percent of what you’re getting, and I have to pay ten percent to some street cop?”

“Do you think this is a bad deal, Dino?”

“I think it’s an insufficiently good deal.”

“All right, what number would make you content enough with your lot, should we find the thing, that you would never feel it necessary to mention it to me again?”

“Two hundred grand.”

“And you’ll tip your help out of that?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll never again mention to me the relative sums earned by the two of us in this endeavor?”

“Probably not.”

“Make that certainly not, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Deal. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, find the fucking thing, of course.”

“Any suggestions as to how?”

“You’re a police officer, remember?”

“I know that.”

“Well, use the resources at your command to motivate your subordinates to find it and do so discreetly enough that neither of us will ever get bitten on the ass by your superiors.”

“If I get booted off the force for doing this, I’m going to want more money.”

“We have a deal,” Stone said, “and we’re both sticking to it. Anyway, you need motivation for not getting caught using NYPD resources for your personal gain, and the risk of getting the boot might just meet that need.”

Dino looked at him narrowly.

“Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Okay, okay, but it seems to me I’m taking all the risks.”

“Do you remember what happened to Barton Cabot when he last possessed the secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that could happen to me, too. That’s risk.”

“All right,” Dino said. “Do you have any leads?”

“There is something, but I’m going to have to violate a confidence in order to reveal it.”

“Will it make you bleed onto the tablecloth to tell me about it?”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“Eight hundred grand ought to soothe your aching conscience a little.”

“It involves Bob Cantor.”

“I spoke to him yesterday,” Dino said.

“And I had lunch with him today, and you promised not to mention money to me again.”

“Tell me.”

“Bob served under Barton Cabot in the Marine Corps in Vietnam. Together with four other men, they stole something and got it back to the States, where they divided the proceeds.”

“What did they steal?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, just that it belonged to the South Vietnamese government.”

“Which doesn’t exist any more.”

“Right.”

“And this happened when, in the seventies?”

“Right.”

“So the statute of limitations has expired?”

“Right.”

“So, what’s he worried about?”

“The other three men.”

“You said there were four, plus Bob and Barton.”

“One of them is dead, probably because he was unhappy with his cut of the deal.”

“You’re just saying that to make me shut up about my cut of this deal.”

“I’m just telling you the facts.”

“So what does this have to do with anything?”

“One of the other three guys turned up at P. J. Clarke’s yesterday; Bob saw him at the bar.”

“And?”

“And then he vanished.”

“In a puff of smoke?”

“No. Bob looked away, and when he looked back, the guy was gone.”

“What does this mean?”

“I think that Bob thinks that this guy was – is still – unhappy with his cut.”

“And that he stole Barton’s secretary to get even?”

“To get more than even. That’s my theory, anyway, not Bob’s, because he doesn’t know about the secretary.”

Dino looked uncomfortable.

“Dino, when you mentioned Barton Cabot to Bob Cantor, did you also mention the secretary?”

“At the time, there was no reason why I shouldn’t, was there?” Dino asked, defensively.

“I guess not,” Stone said.

“And I can’t talk to Bob about this, because of your conscience?”

“If it becomes necessary, I’ll talk to him.”

“So who is this disappearing guy?”

“I don’t know,” Stone said, “but I may have a way to find out.”