Shakeup

24

Stone listened hard. “Art, are you hit?”

“No, I’m cowering as far under the dashboard as I can get. Frank is a mess.”

“Is the car parked?”

“Do you know Turnbull & Asser?”

“Yes.”

“Outside the shop, parked illegally.”

“Arm yourself while I call the cops.”

“Okay, but hurry.” Art tugged his pistol from his shoulder holster.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. Somebody just took a shot at Art Jacoby, outside Turnbull & Asser.”

“Was he hit?”

“No, but Frank was. He sounds dead.”

“Okay, you call 911, now, and I’ll get a detective squad over there.” He hung up.

Stone called 911, then he called Art Jacoby.

“I’m still alive,” he said.

“If they were going for a second shot, it would already have happened,” Stone said. “Stay in the car, though. A detective squad will be there shortly. They don’t like cops getting shot.”

“I hear sirens,” Art said. “Now, feet running.”

“Then hang up and talk to them. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up and buzzed Fred.

“Yes, sir?”

“In the car, now,” Stone said. He retrieved a nine mm and a shoulder holster, then ran for the car.

“Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh,” Stone said. “Go up Park, and stay off the cross streets.” Traffic was moving pretty well, until they came to a halt at Fifty-fifth Street.

“I’m getting out here, Fred,” Stone said. “Park somewhere, and I’ll call when I need you.” He slipped out of the car and jogged up Park Avenue and crossed the street at Fifty-seventh. There were uniforms everywhere, and they had the sidewalk closed.

Stone flashed his detective’s badge, hopped over a sawhorse and hurried to the door of Turnbull & Asser. People were coming and going, and he reckoned they had Art inside. He held up his badge and made his way into the shop. Art was sitting in a chair, surrounded by detectives, with his necktie undone and blood on his left shoulder.

Stone knew the detective in charge, Richard Becker. “Hey, Rich,” he said.

“You got a finger in this pie, Stone?”

He nodded toward Art. “He’s a friend. Can I talk to him?”

“Yeah, I think we’ve pretty much wrung him out.”

Stone went over and pulled up a footstool. “How you doing, Art?”

“Better than I should be.”

“What size suit do you wear?”

“Forty-two long.”

Stone stood up and looked around the shop, saw an employee he knew. “Felix?”

He came over. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“Will you see if you can find this gentleman a blazer or tweed jacket, forty-two long?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Stone stood behind Art and helped him off with his jacket, then turned to Rich Becker. “You need this?”

Becker asked somebody for a large evidence bag, then went through the pockets and handed the contents to Art.

Felix walked up holding two jackets. “Try one of these,” he said.

Art slipped into the blue blazer. “Feels good,” he said.

“Looks like it was made for you,” Felix said.

“Thank you, Felix, put it on my bill,” Stone said.

Felix nodded and walked away.

Stone said to Rich, “Are you through with him?”

“Yeah, you can get him out of here.”

Stone leaned in. “He’s staying at the Lowell. If you can’t find him, call me.”

Rich nodded.

Stone got out his phone and called Fred. “Where are you?”

“About ten feet from where you got out,” Fred replied.

“Be right there.” Stone looked around for hostiles, then led Art to the car and put him inside. He opened the armrest and found a bottle of water. “Drink some of this,” he said.

Art gulped down half the bottle. “That’s better,” he said.

“Home, Fred,” Stone said. He turned to Art. “Okay, now tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”

Art took a deep breath. “Frank met me at the Lowell and drove me over to Lex and Sixty-fourth, for a fitting with my tailor.”

“Who’s your tailor?”

“Sam Leung’s nephew. Sam retired. Then Frank drove me to Turnbull’s and waited while I ordered some shirts. I came out, got into the car, talked to you on the phone, and then everything exploded, including Frank’s head.”

“I saw the car. The shot was fired from the sidewalk through your window, missed you and caught Frank.”

“From the sidewalk? That’s pretty bold.”

“It is.”

“I know Frank had an ex-wife,” Art said. “Any other family?”

“Dino will find out and make the calls. He’s used to it. Art, think about when you were walking out of the shop and to the car. Replay it in your mind, and tell me who and what you saw.”

Art closed his eyes. “I brushed past two women to get to the car; they were still walking when I got inside. Before I did, I saw a black van parked behind Frank’s car; I don’t know the make.”

“Could you see anybody inside?”

“Sort of, but there were reflections in the window that made IDing anybody difficult.”

“Could somebody have gotten out of the van on the curbside, taken the shot, then gotten back in?”

Art nodded. “Yes. That could have happened. Probably happened. I can’t recall anybody else.”

“Did you tell the police about that?”

“I did.”

“You still got your piece?”

“No, the cops took it.”

“Did you fire it?”

“No, there wasn’t time.”

“I’ll get it back for you, and if they’re slow, I’ll loan you something.”

“Stone, I didn’t remember this until now, but as I got into Frank’s car, I caught a glimpse in the door’s rearview mirror of a man getting out. He was wearing a black windbreaker and a black baseball cap.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Not exactly, but something about him made me think of Donald Clark.”