6 Stone Barrington Novels (116 page)

Stone dove into the cab behind Dino, who sat staring at him.

“You going to tell the driver where to go?” Dino asked.

Stone gave him the address of the building with the skylight, then he took a huge bite of his burger.

“The camera is still in the building?” Dino asked.

“If we're lucky,” Stone replied through the cheeseburger.

“Nobody from the precinct has been there today,” Dino said. “I checked. The Feds were in on this. I hope to God they haven't turned it over.”

“Me too,” Stone replied.

The cab screeched to a halt in front of the building. Dino got out.

“Pay the guy,” he called over his shoulder.

Stone paid the cabbie and followed along, still trying to eat his bacon cheeseburger.

Dino was on the stoop, ringing doorbells. The super appeared, chewing his own lunch.

“What d'ya want?” he said, in heavily accented English.

Dino showed him his badge. “Is the sixth-floor apartment locked?” he asked.

“You better believe,” the man said. “FBI guy gave me instructions.”

“Give me the key,” Dino said.

“I'm not fucking with FBI,” the man replied, swallowing food.

“Give me the key now, or I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice and send you back to whatever godforsaken country you came from.”

The man dug into a pocket and gave Dino a key. “Don't tell nobody,” he said, then went back into his apartment.

They took the elevator to the sixth floor. “There's the door to the roof,” Dino said, as they got off. He opened the apartment door.

It was dark inside, and Stone found a light switch that turned on a lamp in a corner. The massage table, two of its legs broken, lay on its side in the middle of the floor.

“There's why it's dark,” Dino said, pointing upward. The broken skylight had been replaced with sheets of plywood. “Cozy little pad,” Dino said.

“Looks like it was rented furnished,” Stone observed. “Nobody would buy those pictures, except a landlord.”

“Okay, enough of the art lecture,” Dino said. “Where's the film?”

Stone went to the fireplace and opened the wood box next to it. It was half full of logs made of
compressed sawdust. He lifted one and extracted a 35mm camera with a zoom lens attached. Stone rewound the film, popped the case, and put the film cartridge in his pocket. He removed the lens from the camera and put the lens in one inside pocket of his raincoat and the camera body in the other. “Let's get out of here,” he said.

“I want to see the roof,” Dino said, striding toward the door. He opened the door and walked outside. Stone followed him. The door closed behind them.

Stone looked around. “I don't see how that girl got down from here,” he said.

“Well, we'd better figure out how in a hurry,” Dino said.

“How come?”

“Because the Feds will probably be here any minute, and you've closed the fucking door and locked us out.”

Stone tried turning the knob. Nothing. “Shit,” he said.

Dino peered over the edge of the roof. “There's a drainpipe,” he said. “You go first. I want to see if it'll hold your weight.”

Stone peered over the parapet. “I'm not shinnying down that,” he said. “I'm wearing a good suit. You go down it, then take the elevator back up and open the door.”

“You know, that's a terrific idea,” Dino said. “Why should both of us have to shinny down the drainpipe?” He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Stone. “Go down the drainpipe, or I'll shoot you.”

Stone shook his head. “Go ahead and shoot me. It beats falling off a building.”

They were standing there like that when the door opened, and the super stepped out. “The FBI just call,” he said. “You guys got to get out or I get in trouble.”

Dino put his gun away and stepped inside. “Lucky for you,” he said. “I was going to shoot you.”

“No, you weren't,” Stone said, getting into the elevator.

“Oh, yes I was,” Dino replied. “I wasn't about to shinny down that drainpipe.”

“Neither was I,” Stone pointed out.

“That's why I was going to shoot you.”

Downstairs they got into another cab and got out in front of a photo shop on Third Avenue. Dino went inside and walked over to the one-hour processing machine, flashing his badge.

Stone handed him the film cartridge.

“I want this developed right now—two sets of five-by-seven prints, and don't you look at them,” Dino said.

“Make it three sets,” Stone said.

“Yes, sir,” the kid behind the counter said. He took the film and went to work.

“How long is this going to take?” Stone asked.

The kid pointed at the one-hour sign. “An hour,” he said.

“It better not,” Dino said.

Ten minutes later, the kid was holding up a strip of film to the light. “There are only four frames exposed,” he said.

“Stop looking at them and make the prints,” Dino said.

Ten more minutes and they had the prints.

“Can I drop you?” Stone said, giving the cabbie Elena Marks's address.

“You betcha,” Dino replied. “Gimme my prints.”

Stone gave Dino a set, put a set in his raincoat pocket, along with the negatives, and looked at the third set.

“What a fucking mess,” Dino said. “You couldn't nail anybody in a divorce with these. In this one, he's lying on his belly. In these three, he's got his arm over his face, and in all of them her head blocks his crotch. For all we can see, she might have been giving him a legit massage. Where'd this kid learn his photography, in juvenile hall?”

Stone looked at the fourth photograph. The woman was looking up at the skylight. It was the only shot that showed part of her face. She had long, dark hair and, from what he could see, was attractive. “Not bad,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dino agreed. “What you can see, anyway.”

The cab stopped on Dino's corner, and he got out.

“What are you going to do with the photographs?” Stone asked through the window.

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Don't give them to the Feds.”

“I never give anything to the Feds without a court order and a gun at my head,” Dino replied, walking away.

The cab took Stone to 1111 Fifth Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum. Bill Eggers was waiting for him.

“Thank God you're on time,” he said. “Now listen, when we get upstairs, I'll do the talking. You just keep your mouth shut and nod a lot.”

“Whatever you say,” Stone said, grateful that he would not have to explain the events of the night before.

The elevator opened directly into the foyer of Elena Marks's apartment. The foyer, Stone noted, was nearly as large as his bedroom. The floors were marble, and the walls were hung with good art. A flower arrangement the size of a big-screen TV rested on a Louis Quinze table. A man in a white jacket entered the foyer.

“Mr. Eggers? Mr. Barrington? Please follow me.” He led them through a living room the size of a basketball court and into a library with a double-height ceiling. A spiral staircase in a corner led to the upper level. Every book in sight was
leather-bound and matched several other books. Elena Marks was nowhere to be seen.

“Please have a seat,” the butler said. “Mrs. Fortescue will be with you shortly. May I get you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” Eggers replied.

Stone wanted a beer; the cheeseburger still hadn't gone all the way down. “First time I ever heard her referred to as Mrs. Fortescue,” he said.

“Well, she's a widow now, isn't she?” Eggers replied.

A section of the bookcases along one wall suddenly opened, and Elena Marks Fortescue entered the room. The bookcase/door closed silently behind her. She was a razor-thin woman with bright, blond hair, wearing a bright yellow, flowered dress, the sort of thing that would have been perfectly acceptable for a recent widow in, say, Palm Beach, Stone thought.

“Good afternoon, Elena,” Eggers said smoothly. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Bill,” she said, nodding. Then she turned a withering gaze on Stone. “Mr. Barrington,” she said through clenched, beautifully capped teeth.

Stone tried smiling, but it didn't work. “Good afternoon, Ms. Mar . . . ah, Mrs. Fortescue.”

She held her gaze a little longer, as if to punish him, before looking away.

Stone felt as if a hole had been burned through him.

“Sit,” Elena said. “Speak,” she said to Eggers. She appeared to be barely in control of her anger, but addressing them as dogs seemed to help.

“Elena,” Eggers said plaintively, “please let me express my condolences, along with those of everyone at Woodman and Weld.”

“Accepted,” Elena said, her face like marble.

Stone realized that she had had so many Botox injections that she was probably incapable of any expression, short of baring her teeth.

“What happened,” she said to Eggers, a command rather than a question.

“A terrible accident,” Eggers replied. “Our investigation has determined that the skylight above the apartment had been fatally weakened by dry rot.”

What investigation? Stone wondered. Nobody had asked him anything.

“And when Stone's operative put a little of his weight on it, in order to be able to photograph the scene below, it gave way.”

“Who do we sue?” Elena asked.

That brought Eggers up short. “Ah, well, I, ah . . . Stone? You want to answer that one?”

Stone, who had thought he was to keep his mouth shut, wasn't ready for the question. “Not really,” he said, tossing the ball back to Eggers.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Elena said, “that the people who are responsible for my husband's death should go unpunished?”

Stone found his voice. “Mrs. Fortescue,” he said, “if I may be candid, you hired a man, through Bill and me, to climb onto the roof of a building and photograph your husband in compromising positions. The attorneys for the owner of the building would work hard to make a case that
you,
therefore,
are responsible for your husband's death, and they might very well win with such a defense. Even if you won, the resulting publicity would be devastating to your reputation.”

“Then perhaps I should sue you for hiring an incompetent,” Elena said.

Eggers made a small choking noise.

“That would have the same result,” Stone said. “At the moment, the story the press has is that a burglar or Peeping Tom fell through the skylight. It is being reported as nothing more than a freak accident, which, of course, it was. There has been no mention of the woman or the motives of the man who fell. To pursue this further would not result to the benefit of anyone involved.”

Elena attempted to frown and failed. “What about your Peeping Tom? It seems to me that he might have a lawsuit against you, and eventually, me.”

“You may rest assured that that will not happen,” Eggers said.

Stone hoped he was right. The idea of Herbie Fisher suing had not occurred to him, and he hoped to God it hadn't occurred to Herbie.

“But
I'm
the injured party here,” Elena cried, banging her bony fist against the arm of the sofa.
"Somebody
has to pay for that injury!”

Eggers turned white and said nothing.

“Mrs. Fortescue,” Stone said, “may I be perfectly frank?”

“You'd fucking well better be,” Elena snarled. Her marble skin had turned bright pink.

“These events, as unfortunate for everyone as they
are, have inadvertently accomplished something that could not have been foreseen.”

“And what is that?” Elena demanded.

“It's an ill wind that blows nobody good,” Stone said, hoping that the cliché would find its mark.

It did not. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Elena cried, turning pinker.

“An act of God, for want of a better term, has rid you of a husband who was unfaithful to you, and whom you had already decided to be rid of, and it has done so in a way that avoids the inevitable, damaging publicity of divorcing him and enforcing your prenuptial agreement.” Stone paused for effect. “Not to mention the very considerable expense of so doing.”

There was a long silence, finally broken by Elena Marks Fortescue. “You have a point,” she said. Then she got up and left the room the way she had entered it.

Eggers had been holding his breath, and he let it out in a rush.

Back on the street, looking for a cab, Eggers turned to Stone. “What about the photographs?” he asked.

Stone handed him a set, and Eggers looked at them briefly.

“And the negatives?” he asked.

Stone handed over an envelope containing the four frames. “You think we're out of the woods with Elena?” he asked.

“She didn't fire us, did she?” Eggers said cheerfully, waving down a cab and getting in. “Let's do lunch sometime.” He drove away.