Shakeup

39

Maren Gustav’s helicopter ran a little late, and Fred was announcing dinner as Stone greeted her. “Sorry, I got held up at the office,” she said.

“You’re just in time. Dinner’s ready. Can you dine without a drink first?”

“I’m as hungry as a tigress,” she said, as Stone seated her.

“I hope you like foie gras,” he said.

“You can still get it in New York?”

“I expect them to ban it every time I think about it, so I try not to think about it.”

Fred set two plates of perfectly seared foie gras before them, and they made all the right noises as they ate.

When they had finished the sauternes served with the first course, Fred came in with a platter and presented a thick porterhouse steak, then set it on the sideboard and carved it perfectly.

They made the correct sounds again, then finished their cabernet slowly.

“You were right about Little Debby’s alibi,” Maren said. “She’s in New York.”

“I’m sorry to hear that I was right,” Stone replied.

“But do you know what she did before she left the federal building in D.C.?”

“I don’t know. Used the ladies’ room?”

“Do you know what else she did?”

“Pass.”

“She took the elevator down to the basement.”

“Shocking!” Stone said.

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Do you know what’s in the basement?”

“Cells?”

“A few holding cells, but what else?”

“The coffee machine?”

“The evidence locker.”

Stone sipped his wine. “Locker?”

“Like, a big room, really, manned by one officer, who goes to lunch at the same time every day. Do you know what’s in an evidence locker?”

“I’ll take a stab. Evidence?”

“You’re being a smart-ass again.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what she did?”

“She let herself into the locker, apparently with her own key, then went shopping.”

“And what did she buy?”

“I should have said ‘shoplifting.’”

“Then what did she lift?”

“At this point, it’s all deduction,” Maren said. “The evidence locker has lots of guns that are presumed to have been used in committing crimes.”

“Ah, it all becomes clear,” Stone said. “She wants an untraceable weapon.”

“Or one that can’t be traced further than the evidence locker.”

“Where did you get all this information?”

“Secondhand from an informant who was in a holding cell, awaiting a court appearance, through a special agent who knows me. The evidence locker is not a room, exactly; it’s a chain-link cage with long, open shelves.”

“And your informant had a good view of all this?”

“He could see her through the chain link, facing him, and going through the firearms stash there.”

“And she found something to her liking?”

Maren nodded. “What appeared to be a .22-caliber automatic with a silencer screwed on: an assassin’s weapon, in short.”

“I hope he took photographs,” Stone said, “but I guess the inmates aren’t allowed cameras.”

“He managed to get his iPhone smuggled in by his girlfriend. He says he took half a dozen pics, and he wants to trade them for a kind word with the prosecutor about his suitability for a suspended sentence.”

“What’s he up for?”

“Burglary of a federal property. He’d normally get, maybe, five to seven years. He’s not a first offender.”

“So he wants to walk? Is it worth it?”

“To fry Little Debby’s ass? Are you kidding?”

“So, when do we get to see the pictures?”

“After his sentencing.”

“Not before?”

“That would be preferred, but he knows if he screws us we’ll get him on something else.”

“When’s he being sentenced?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Is the prosecutor on board?”

“He’d better be. The attorney general and I are tight.”

“Does he know that?”

“It’s being explained to him as we speak.”

Dessert arrived, a crème brûlée, served with a small glass of Grand Marnier. Afterward, Fred poured them a cognac and retreated.

“Would you like another tour of the master suite?” Stone asked.

“I’d like a tour of the bed,” she said.

They took their cognacs with them, and Stone conducted the tour personally.