Shakeup

23

Donald Clark made a call from his car. They were connected immediately.

“Did you find him?”

“Barrington wouldn’t give me his number.”

“Did Barrington say he was in New York?”

“No. Have you tried his office here?”

“I’ve left three messages, and he hasn’t called back.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you. If I learn anything I’ll call you.”

“Do that.” They both hung up.

Art got out of the elevator at the Lowell, and it was immediately obvious who the cop was in the lobby. He was dressed in a decent, if unpressed, suit, wore a fedora and thick-soled shoes. He walked over to the man. “Frank Capriani?”

“Who wants to know?” the man asked.

“I’m Art Jacoby.”

“And I’m your ride for the day. The car’s outside.” It was clearly his personal car, a worn-looking Jeep Cherokee.

“I hadn’t expected to be driven,” Art said.

“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Frank replied. “Where we headed?”

“Lexington Avenue and Sixty-fourth Street, Leung’s Tailoring, upstairs, east side of the street.”

“I hear somebody wants to do you,” Frank said.

“I think somebody wants to perforate my suit, with me in it.”

“That’s always a problem.”

“Dino says it’s your problem.”

Frank sighed. “Dino is the source of all my problems.” He pulled up in front of the shop and put down his sun visor, which had a large NYPD gold badge imprinted on it.

“That’s kind of a tip-off, isn’t it?” Art asked.

“Think of it as pest control,” Frank said. “We don’t want any shootouts on Lex, do we?”

“We do not.” Art trotted up the stairs. His fitting was ready, and he stood as still as he could, as the tailor marked final alterations with a slim piece of soap. He came back downstairs and got into Frank’s car.

“No suit?” Frank asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Let’s do shirts,” Art said, giving him an address on East Fifty-seventh Street. He went into Turnbull & Asser and picked out some swatches, then returned to the car and got in.

“Okay,” Frank said, “tell me how a cop can afford your wardrobe.”

“I had a daddy who died and left me in pretty good shape.”

“Some guys have all the luck,” Frank said. “I had a daddy, ran a candy store. He left me a jar of jawbreakers.”

“Well, at least nobody’s trying to kill you,” Art replied.

“You haven’t met my ex-wife.”

Art laughed and answered his ringing phone. “Jacoby.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Good day to you.”

“And to you. I just had a visit from Donald Clark, who is upset because the withdrawal of his confirmation caused him to lose his Secret Service protection.”

“You’re kidding,” Art said.

“No, he actually wanted me to call the president and plead his case.”

“He’s nuts. Who does he want to be protected from?”

“You, I believe.”

“Me? What’s my motive?”

“He thinks you think he killed your girl, and you want revenge.”

“He’s nuts.”

“Do you think he killed your girl?”

“No, I think Little Debby had it done. You think he could be in cahoots with her?”

“Given their history, I think that’s not a bad guess.”

“Well, as guesses go, that’s plausible.”

“Speaking of protection, do you feel safe with Frank Capriani?”

“Sure. He’s ideal. We’ve just come from my tailor and my shirtmaker, and nobody’s taken a shot at me yet.”

“Long may it wave,” Stone said. “Call me if anything terrible happens.”

“Sure thing.”

Stone heard a strange noise, followed by a thud and a grunt. “Stone?” Art said, sounding a little wobbly.

“Something wrong?”

“Somebody just put a round into Frank Capriani’s head.”