Quick & Dirty

5

Stone told Fred to pull over, and he did. “Something wrong, Mr. Barrington?”

“A man with a sledgehammer,” Stone said. “Lend me your weapon, will you?”

“I’m sorry, sir, the police have not yet returned it since the shooting.”

Stone reached into the front seat and retrieved the golf umbrella that Fred kept stowed there.

“Follow me, Fred,” Stone said, “but stay a few yards back.” He opened the car door.

“Yes, sir. It’s begun to rain again, you might open the umbrella.”

“Open, it wouldn’t be as useful,” Stone said. He held the umbrella at the opposite end from the heavy briarwood handle and began walking rapidly down the street. The young man with the sledgehammer disappeared around the corner. Stone began to jog, and the rain began to increase in intensity. He turned the corner, the umbrella ready, but the young man in black had vanished.

Behind him, he heard the whooper of a police car, which turned the corner and continued down Second Avenue. Stone stood there in the rain, getting wet, shelter in his hand, unused. The guy must have gotten into a vehicle, he thought. As he did, another police car turned the corner, flashing its lights, whooping if anyone got in the way.

They got a report, Stone thought. Behind him a horn honked twice. He turned to find Fred waiting in the Bentley, and he got in.

“You’re soaking wet, sir,” Fred said. “Why didn’t you use the umbrella?”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t have the opportunity,” Stone replied, taking a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his face and hair.

“You’ll catch your death,” Fred said. “Let’s get you home and dry.”

“Good idea.”

Stone hung up his suit to dry in his dressing room, then toweled his hair, got into fresh clothes, and went downstairs to his office.

“Dino called,” Joan said.

“Get him back for me, will you?”

She buzzed. “Line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Hey.”

“You sound annoyed about something,” Dino said. “Did the guys with sledgehammers attack your Bentley again?”

“No, but I saw one of them as we pulled out of The Club’s garage.”

“Our The Club?”

“One and the same. I went after the guy on foot, but he turned the corner at Second Avenue and dematerialized. I think that some sort of vehicle, maybe a van, was waiting for him.”

“Yeah, we had two patrol cars in pursuit, after an incident at Seventy-third and Lexington. They lost him, too.”

“A similar incident to before?”

“This time it was parked cars. The guy walked down Lex, looking for expensive cars. Four windshields broken — two Mercedes, a BMW, and a Bentley Mulsanne. They’re expanding their repertoire to include German cars.”

“Just one guy?”

“That’s what the reports say. We had a call from a windshield-replacement outfit. They said their business is too good.”

“And they’re complaining?”

“I think they were worried that some people might think the vandals are working for them.”

“Now, that would be a productive marketing technique,” Stone replied.

“Their problem is, the victims’ insurance companies refer them to this outfit, Windscreens Unlimited, and they don’t stock those windshields. They have to order them from dealers, and they end up pissing off the car owners because it takes several days to order the windshields from the manufacturer and install them. The dealers don’t like it, either, because the customers complain.”

“So everybody’s unhappy — the car owners, the insurance companies, the car dealers, and Windscreens Unlimited?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So who would want to make all those people unhappy?”

“Communists?” Dino offered.

“Dino, there aren’t any Communists anymore, except in China.”

“What about Cuba and Venezuela?”

“They’re in transition after the deaths of their leaders.”

“Transition to what? Capitalism?”

“Market-based economies, like the rest of the world.”

“I wonder how long it takes to get a Bentley windshield in Cuba or Venezuela?” Dino asked.

Stone laughed. “Forever and a day.”

“So who would want to make all those people mad?”

“My guess is some fringe political group, somebody who’s very, very angry about something like global warming. Maybe they’re attacking the cars they think are the biggest polluters.”

“Listen, those cars have catalytic converters just like all other cars, and probably better ones.”

“Such a fringe group would not overburden themselves with logic.”

“That’s a shame because we, the police, pride ourselves on logic. It’s our most effective tool.”

“I know,” Stone said.

Dino explained it to him, anyway. “I’ll give you an example. A woman — wife or girlfriend — is murdered. Who’s our favorite suspect?”

“The husband or boyfriend,” Stone said.

“The husband or boyfriend,” Dino said anyway. “It’s logical, right?”

“Dino, I used to be a cop, too, remember?”

“Logic is our best weapon,” Dino said.

“Dino, is there anything else you want to tell me that I already know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t remember,” Stone said. “Is Viv in town?”

“Are you kidding? No.” Dino’s wife, a retired police officer, worked as a high executive for Strategic Services and often traveled on business.

“Dinner?”

“P. J. Clarke’s at seven?” Dino suggested.

“See you there.”

Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “There’s a wet suit hanging in my dressing room. Will you ask Helene to press it as soon as it’s only damp? I got caught in the rain.”

“Wonderful,” Joan said. “How does someone who rides around town in a chauffeur-driven Bentley get caught in the rain? Did Fred leave the sunroof open?”

“Don’t ask,” Stone said.