Black Dog

Forty-Two

Cantor answered on the first ring. “Speak to me.”

“It’s Stone Barrington, Bob. I wonder if you could solve a mystery for me.”

“Tell me your mystery, and I’ll see.”

Stone explained.

“Did you run the VIN, the vehicle identification number?”

“Joan didn’t think of that,” Stone said.

“We’re not going to get anywhere without it, unless I run down to Wilmington and ransack the State of Delaware’s files.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Joan, who had just returned to Stone’s house, helpfully walked into his office and handed him a piece of paper. “I thought the VIN might be helpful,” she said.

“It would have been helpful the first time,” Stone replied. “Call Bob Cantor and give it to him.”

“Will do.” She left his office.

Bob Cantor called half an hour later. “Got something on the Mercedes for you.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Nothing on the current owner, but I’ve got the previous owner’s name and address, on the Upper West Side.”

“See if you can run it down,” Stone said. “Don’t worry, you’re on the clock.”

“Certainly.”

It was near the end of the workday when Cantor called back. “I called the previous owner, but she was hard of hearing, and I couldn’t carry on a conversation with her. So I went up to her apartment, which is in a very posh apartment house on Central Park West, and shouted in her ear.”

“And what was her response?”

“She was going to trade in the car on a new one, but she didn’t like the dealer’s offer for her car, so she ran a for sale ad in the Times. A young man came to look at it, and they agreed on a sales price, but she wouldn’t take a check, so he went away, presumably to his bank, and came back in a few minutes with all the money in cash. She counted it carefully, which must have taken some time, then she signed the title and let him have the keys.”

“Did you get his name?”

“She couldn’t remember, but she did remember that he said to her, ‘Call me Mac.’ ”

“Aha!”

“Is that helpful?”

“Yes. Did she put his name on the title?”

“No, she just signed it and handed it to him.”

“So he could have written any name on the title.”

“Or the name of a Delaware Corporation.”

“Did she give you a description?”

“She said he was a big guy, very muscular. He took off his jacket because he was hot, and she was impressed by the muscles in his arms.”

“Okay,” Stone said, feeling deflated.

“That doesn’t help, huh?”

“Not in the least. All I know about Mac is that he once stayed at the West Side YMCA. Actually, that tidbit might be more helpful than I thought,” Stone said. “Thanks. And send me your bill.” He hung up.

Stone went and sat in the chair beside Joan’s desk. “We’ve got a lead,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I think the owner of the station wagon, whose name is MacLean, or just Mac, is the guy you shot in East Hampton.”

“That can’t be, because he didn’t have a car.”

“He may have had an accomplice, and my best guess is that it was Eddie Jr. The two of them spent time at the West Side YMCA, and Mac could have bought the car on Eddie’s instructions.”

“Can you prove either of those contentions?” Joan asked.

“Not yet,” Stone said, “but that could also explain why the extra Mercedes station wagon is parked in your garage. Eddie may have had a remote control that you don’t know about.”

“But how could he get into the house? I had all the locks changed.”

“How did he get into the East Hampton house?”

“Good point. Maybe Mac or Eddie has some lock-picking skills, but the locks in the Manhattan house were changed to the Israeli locks that are unpickable.”

“Is there a room on the garage level?”

“Yes, a maid’s room, currently not in use.”

“Maybe that one eluded the locksmith.”

“I’ll get Geoffrey to check it out.”

“In the meantime, let’s assume that Eddie has access to your house.”

“You just made my skin crawl,” Joan said.