Dirty Work

21

They finished their dinner quickly, and Stone went to the front desk. “The photographer who was here earlier,” he said to the woman. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Did he annoy you? He only started coming here last night, and I told him not to bug the guests unnecessarily.”

“No, nothing like that,” Stone said. “I just want to talk to him.”

“All I’ve got is a phone number,” she said, digging into a drawer and handing over a card. It was crudely printed and read “Herbie the Eye, Great Photography Quick.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “Do you have a rental car available?”

“I’ve got a jeep,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll charge it to your room, Mr. Barrington.”

“Thanks so much.” Stone and Dino hurried to the car park, where they found a red jeep waiting.

“Your job is to remember how to get back here,” Stone said, starting the vehicle.

“Sure,” Dino said. “We’re just going to cruise?”

“We’re going to cruise hotels,” Stone replied. “Having lost us, I don’t think Herbie is going to pass up a buck, do you?”

“He doesn’t seem like the type.”

They drove through the warm night, stopped at every hotel they passed and cruised the parking lot. They found two yellow jeeps, but no Herbie. Stone tried Bob Cantor’s cell phone again.

“Yeah?” Cantor said.

“Bob? Where the hell have you been?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Stone. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’ve been on a boat. We just got into Red Hook this evening.”

“Where’s Red Hook?”

“Out at the eastern end of the island. What’s up? Why have you been trying to reach me?”

“Have you heard from Herbie Fisher?”

“No, you’re my first call since I switched on my phone. Why would I hear from Herbie?”

“He’s jumped bail.”

“Jumped bail for what? Did you get the kid arrested? My sister will kill me when I get home.”

“I didn’t get him arrested. Herbie got himself arrested, and I’m trying to get him out of it. I bailed him out through Irving Newman, and he jumped a quarter-of-a-mil bail.”

“A quarter of a mil! What did the kid do?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Stone said. “Where are you staying?”

“It’s my last night on the charter boat. I was planning to go home tomorrow.”

“How do I get to Red Hook?”

Cantor gave him directions and the name of his boat. “It’ll take you half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Herbie is going to call you. Count on it. When he does, tell him to come to Red Hook, and don’t tell him you’ve talked to me. I think he thinks that if I find him, I’ll take him back to jail.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“No! I want to get the charges reduced to a misdemeanor and get him probation. He’s got a court appearance in about thirty-six hours, and if he misses it, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the kid, Stone.”

“Don’t talk to him, let me do that. If he somehow gets there before I do, play dumb and sit on him.”

“Whatever you say,” Cantor replied.

Stone hung up. “We’re going to Red Hook.”

“I want to go to bed,” Dino said. “It’s midnight.”

“Later.” Stone began picking his way toward Red Hook.

Carpenter jumped. There had been a noise outside her door. She grabbed her handbag, extracted the little Walther, and screwed in a silencer. The Carlyle would not appreciate gunfire in their hallways. She ran across the room in her bare feet and checked the peephole. Nobody visible. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped again. She didn’t open it.

“Carpenter!” somebody said from the hall.

She checked the peephole again. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Mason,” he replied.

He wouldn’t use that handle if he were at gunpoint. She unchained the door and opened it, stepping back, the pistol ready, just in case.

Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”

“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”

“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.

“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”

“I was supposed to call?”

“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”

“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”

“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”

“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”

“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”

“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”

“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”

Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”

“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”

The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”

“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.

“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”

Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.

“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”

“Got her where?”

“Got her in a hotbox in the garden.”

“A gardening hotbox?”

“Exactly.”

“How long dead?”

“No rigor present, she doesn’t stink. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Get out of there, and clean up after yourself. Tell me you didn’t jimmy the door.”

“I picked the lock.”

“Then stake out the place in case La Biche returns, and be very, very careful.”

“All right.”

“Tell me you didn’t make this call on Harvey’s phone.”

There was a brief silence. “Ah, we’re getting out.”

Carpenter punched off. “Dunces! They called here on Harvey’s phone!”

Mason groaned. “Now we’ll have to talk to the NYPD. They’ll surely check her phone records.”

“You let me do the talking,” Carpenter said. She looked up Dino Bacchetti’s cell phone number in her book and dialed it.