Wild Card

49

Rasheed Khan, the third member of Harod’s team, sat and stared at his phone. He had called both Harod and Avin, and the calls had gone straight to voice mail. The TV was on, and a story came up about two killings at Bloomingdale’s. Avin had called him earlier and said he was following the Grants there, so the women had to be them. But a man was dead, too, described as the assassin; that had to be Avin. But where was Harod?

Rasheed left the apartment and walked the three blocks to the East River, where Harod liked to go and sit. From a block away, it was clear that something was wrong. There was police tape across the street at the end of the block, and patrol cars and uniforms on foot were everywhere. He turned away and went into a coffee shop, where he ordered tomato soup and tea. Surreptitiously, he removed the data card from his iPhone and replaced it with another, then he dropped the old one into the remains of his soup. Harod and Avin had the new number, and he had their spares. He called them both and got nowhere.

He went back to the apartment, packed his things, and wiped it down. He dropped Harod’s and Avin’s clothes down the incinerator, then left the building. He walked four blocks to the backup safe apartment that was their last line of defense. From there, he would have to make his next move carefully.

Elise and Elena Grant entered Stone’s building through the downstairs office and were greeted by Joan.

“Thank goodness you made it out safely,” Joan said.

“It was a close call,” Elise said, then told her their story.

“You’re safe here,” Joan said. “Would you like to see your new apartment?”

Stone and Dino left the club and rode downtown in Dino’s SUV. They stopped at Bloomingdale’s, where a big police operations van was parked on Third Avenue, partly obstructing traffic. Two EMTs were putting a body, hidden by a sheet, into their wagon.

Dino got out. “I want to see this guy,” he said, hopping into the rear of the wagon and pulling the sheet back.

“Two in the chest, Commissioner,” an EMT said.

Stone, who had no interest in the corpse, waited outside. A moment later Dino joined him. “Just a kid,” he said, “no older than his mid-twenties.” Dino went and conferred with the officer in charge, then he and Stone went back to Dino’s car. “Below the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he said to his driver. “Ashore on the Manhattan side.”

“What’s under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge?” Stone asked.

“The remains of what used to be a man,” Dino said.

“Any connection to the shooter at Bloomingdale’s?”

“Not yet,” Dino said, “but I’ve got a feeling.”

They drove as close as they could to the scene, then got out of the car. Dino sought out the detective in charge and collected a salute or two.

Stone looked around. A man’s left arm, in a sleeve, lay on the grass, and on the wrist a Rolex was still ticking. Cops in cotton booties were searching every inch of the sidewalk and the lawn next to it.

“Got something!” a cop yelled, holding up a hand to identify himself.

A crime scene tech made his way carefully over to the cop and, as Stone watched, took out a pair of tweezers and picked up something. “Cell phone data card!” he yelled to his supervisor.

“Bring it home, and let’s run it.”

Stone walked up to where Dino was speaking with the on-scene supervisor.

“There must be a dozen security cameras round here trained on this scene,” Dino said.

“Four, so far,” the officer replied.

“I want to see the results, ASAP. E-mail them to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dino took Stone’s arm and guided him back toward his car. “They found a piece of an American passport; they’re running it by the State Department now.”

“And a cell phone data card,” Stone said. “I watched them pick it up, not far from the arm over there.”

“That looks like the biggest piece of the guy remaining,” Dino said. “We’ll pick up prints and DNA from that. Nothing more we can do here.”

They got back into the car and drove to Stone’s house. “Too early for a drink?” Stone asked.

“What kind of question is that?” Dino asked, getting out of the car.

They entered through the office door and found Elise inside, sitting in her new office and looking around. Her mother was admiring it, too.

“Welcome aboard,” Stone said, then led Dino upstairs to the study.

“Aboard?” Dino asked.

“We hired Elise as Joan’s new assistant.”

“Why does Joan need an assistant?”

“I asked the same question, but she was ready for me, had a barrage of answers. Elise is moving into Fred’s old apartment.”

Rance Damien got back to his office to find a note from Henry: See me soonest. He went directly to Henry’s office.

Henry and Hank were waiting.

“Where have you been?” Henry asked.

“Confirming the cancellation of the contracts,” Damien said.

“God, I hate paying those characters for doing nothing,” Henry said.

“I didn’t pay them,” Rance said. “I made other arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“God, I hate being told that,” Henry said.

“Poppa,” Hank said. “Rance is right. You don’t need to know, and neither do I.”

“You heard about Bloomingdale’s, I assume,” Rance said.

“We did,” Henry replied.

“My guy didn’t get my phone messages. It was his colleague who took out the Grants and got shot on the street up there.”

“So the contract wasn’t canceled in time?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Whose fault is that?” Henry demanded.

“Nobody’s,” Rance said. “The messages didn’t go through. If you need to blame somebody, try AT&T.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, boy,” Henry said.

“Poppa!” Hank said. “He’s just telling you the truth. At least, we won’t have to worry about that girl now.”

“Well, the police are going to make that connection pretty quick,” Henry said. “I’m surprised they aren’t already here.”

“We’ve been in a meeting all morning, the three of us,” Hank said. “I’ll let the girls know.” He left the office, then returned. “All square.”

“Look,” Henry said, pointing at the TV, which was muted. “Breaking news at Bloomingdale’s.” He turned up the volume.

“The man shot on the sidewalk, the assumed assassin, has not yet been identified by the police, but the two women shot in the changing room upstairs were Betty and Barbara Swearingen, of Greenwich, Connecticut. They were sisters, who were apparently in town for a day’s shopping.”

“What the fuck!” Henry shouted.