Shakeup

57

It had begun to rain again, this time with lightning and thunder. The car was being hammered. They arrived at Art Jacoby’s place, and, in the lobby, were stopped by a man behind a desk.

Stone flashed his honorary gold shield.

“Sorry, but the guy upstairs has one of those, too, and he gave strict orders that no one is to come up.”

Maren pulled out her badge and pointed to the line on her ID that read, DIRECTOR. “This trumps them both,” she said, “or would you feel better with half a dozen angry special agents in your lobby?”

“All right,” the main said. “I’ll call upstairs.”

“You won’t get an answer,” Stone said. “We’re not sure he’s still alive.”

The man held the phone away from his ear. They could all hear the busy signal. He replaced the receiver. “Please, go right up,” he said.

They went right up. Art’s room was next to the elevator, so they didn’t have a long walk. Stone rapped on the door. “Art,” Stone called out, “open up. It’s Stone Barrington.” No response. This time he hammered on the door with his fist and shouted, “Open up!”

“Listen,” Maren whispered.

Stone leaned over to hear her better. “What?”

There was a loud explosion and a large hole appeared in the apartment’s door, exactly where Stone’s face had been, sprinkling them with bits of wood and dried paint.

Stone pushed Maren back and shouted from a couple of feet away. “Art, it’s Stone Barrington! Stop shooting at me.”

“Stone?” a voice called from inside. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Stop shooting at us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Art asked suspiciously.

“Maren Gustav. Does that name ring a bell?”

“From the FBI?”

“How many Maren Gustavs do you know?”

“Come in,” Art called back. “It’s unlocked.”

Stone turned the knob and pushed the door, then stood back. “Put down the shotgun,” he called.

“It’s down. Come in.”

Stone indicated to Maren that she should enter. “You first,” she said.

“I’m coming in,” Stone said, then stepped through the door.

Art Jacoby was standing on a sofa across the room, a police-issue riot gun at port arms. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you,” he said.

“Then come down off that sofa and stop looking so threatening!” Stone shouted. “I’ve had about as much of this as I can take before I start shooting back!”

“All right, all right,” Art said, placatingly. “I won’t shoot.”

“Does that include me?” Maren asked from the doorway.

“Jesus, it’s you,” Art said, stepping down off the sofa.

“Who were you expecting?” she asked.

“Debby Myers,” he replied, as if she should have known all the time.

They sat at Art’s little kitchen table and drank terrible coffee that he had just brewed. “Good to the last drop,” he said, licking his chops.

Stone rolled his eyes. “No Italian would ever drink this,” Stone said. “Have you ever met an Italian?”

“I’ve put a few in prison,” Art said, “but we never had coffee together.”

“Can we get down to business?” Maren asked.

“What business do we have?” Art asked.

“The business that made you shoot through the door, because you thought Little Debby was out there.”

“Oh, that business. What do you want?”

“First,” Maren said. “Why do you think Debby wants to kill you?”

“Well,” he said, “she killed my girlfriend. She killed Donald Clark. She killed Eddie Craft, Frank Capriani, and Patricia Clark. Why should she make an exception for me?”

“Art,” Stone said. “Why do you think Debby killed Eddie Craft?”

“Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? After all, he was going to testify against her about the gun she stole from the property room. She wouldn’t need a better reason than that.”

“You think she did all these murders herself?”

“Of course not. She isn’t stupid.”

“Then who did she get to kill them?”

“My best guess is Rocco Turko,” Art said.

Stone looked at him blankly. “Who the hell is Rocco Turko?”

“Think Rudolph Valentino, with a little more weight and a few more years. In short, Little Debby’s type.”

“She has a type?”

“Well, she’s fairly liberal about that, I guess. Let’s just say he’s the ideal: good-looking, well-hung, and willing to do anything she wants, in bed or out.”

“Including killing people?”

“Oh, that’s his favorite thing,” Art said. “At DCPD, he holds the record for apparently unprovoked shootings. If he walked in here now, he’d be happy to put two in both your heads, if that’s what Little Debby wanted. Frankly, I was expecting him. That’s why there’s a hole in my door. Incidentally, I’m very sorry about that. I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee to stay awake for when he showed up, so I’m a little wired.”

“A little,” Stone said.

Maren spoke up. “Where can we find this Rocco Turko?”

Art shrugged. “Find Debby, he’ll be there. She never travels without him, he’s her official security detail and her unofficial supply of cock.”

“Do you know where she is right now?” Maren asked.

“In New York, I imagine. That’s where Eddie Craft and his girl were when they found him.”

“Any idea where?”

“She always stays at the Lowell, Sixty-third and Madison.”

“Then that’s where we should be,” Maren said, standing up and getting out her phone. “I need a SWAT team at the Lowell Hotel, at East Sixty-third, just east of Madison. We’re looking for Deborah Myers, chief of the DCPD, and, especially, a DCPD police officer named Rocco Turko, whom you may expect to be armed and extremely dangerous. And — this is very important — I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me.”

“Can I come along?” Art asked. “I’ll bring my shotgun.”

“Sure, Art,” Stone said. “You’d better reload.”