6 Stone Barrington Novels (119 page)

Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o'clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.

The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.

She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”

Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.

“Thanks, I'll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman's gaze.

The woman hesitated, then vacated the stool. “As you wish, sweetheart,” she said, as she sauntered off.

“Dewar's, rocks,” she said to the bartender, and the drink arrived. She was halfway through it when she saw what she was looking for. A woman in her late twenties had entered the bar and stopped just inside the door, looking hesitantly around her. She was dressed very much as Florence was, in a pin-striped suit, and she was carrying one of those purses that was half briefcase. She was about Florence's height and weight and had the same streaked blond hair. She crossed the room, took a stool three down from Florence, and ordered a cosmopolitan.

“Those are too sweet for me,” Florence said, smiling.

“Well, they are sweet, but they're addictive,” the young woman said, smiling back.

“Put that on my tab,” Florence said to the bartender.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

“Why don't you slide over here and join me?”

The girl fumbled with her briefcase and her drink, but she made it to the stool.

“I'm Brett,” Florence said, offering her hand.

“I'm Ginger,” the girl replied.

Brett didn't let go of her hand immediately. “Are you a New Yorker?” she asked, finally releasing it.

“I'm from Indianapolis originally, but I've been here for six years. I'm a paralegal in a downtown law firm. Do you live in New York, too?”

“No, I'm in from San Francisco for a few days. I'm
an art dealer, and I'm in town to bid on some things for a client. There's an auction at Sotheby's the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I love art,” Ginger said, sipping her drink. “What sort of things are you bidding on?”

“Late-nineteenth-century representational paintings mostly; one piece of sculpture, too. They're not the most expensive things in the world; you can find quite nice pictures in the thirty- to fifty-thousand-dollar range.”

“Well, that's certainly out of
my
range,” Ginger replied.

“Have you ever been to an art auction?” Brett asked.

“No, but I'd love to go sometime.”

“If you can take the time off from work, why don't you join me at Sotheby's the day after tomorrow?”

“Gosh, I'd love to do that, but I only get an hour for lunch, and the workload is fierce. My boss specializes in divorce work, and the clients are very demanding.”

“Maybe another time?”

“That would be great.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“No, I'm on the Upper East Side—Eighty-first and Lexington Avenue. Where are you staying?”

“At the Carlyle—Seventy-sixth and Madison. What's your favorite restaurant, Ginger?”

“Oh, I guess Orsay, at Seventy-fifth and Lex, just down from my building.”

“Will you have dinner with me there tonight?” Brett pulled out a small cell phone. “I'll bet we can get a table if we go early.”

“Well, sure, I'd like that.”

Brett called the restaurant and secured a table. “Finish your drink, and we're off,” she said.

 

At Orsay, they had another drink, then ate a three-course dinner and shared an expensive bottle of French wine. They kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about Ginger's family and background and the sort of work she was doing.

“You're not going to believe this,” Ginger said, but we're representing a woman who is demanding two million dollars a year in alimony, and half a million in child support, plus five million for an apartment on Fifth Avenue.
And
she wants a limousine and security guards.”

“No doubt to protect her from her husband,” Brett said, laughing. She waved at a waiter for the check.

“Why don't we share this?” Ginger asked, reaching for her briefcase.

“Oh, no, this one is on me—or my gallery,” Brett said. “You're . . . Let's see, you're representing a client who has a very nice Magritte for sale.”

“Oh, all right, but can I give you a nightcap at my place?”

“You bet,” Brett said, handing the waiter one of Florence Tyler's credit cards.

 

Ginger lived in a ground-floor rear apartment in a town house, with a little garden out back.

“It's lovely,” Brett said, when Ginger switched on the garden lights.

“It's just a year's sublet,” Ginger said. “It belongs to a friend of the family who's in Europe.”

“What's that low, shed-like thing?” Brett asked, pointing.

“Oh, that's a hotbox. It's like a tiny greenhouse, where you can get things growing early in the season, then plant them when it gets warm enough. At least, that's what I saw on Martha Stewart. I'm not really a gardener.”

“Me either,” Brett said, stroking Ginger's cheek with the back of her fingers. She kissed the woman lightly, and got a warm reception. A moment later, they were working on each other's buttons.

When they reached the bedroom, Brett lay back and let Ginger have her way with her. Brett wasn't a lesbian, strictly speaking, but she liked this. When she had had a couple of orgasms, she rolled Ginger onto her stomach. “Now it's your turn,” she said. She reached down and picked up a Hermès scarf where Ginger had dropped it on the floor, and quickly bound Ginger's hands behind her.

“I've never done it like this,” Ginger said.

“You just leave everything to me, sweetheart,” Brett replied. She rolled the girl over on her back. “Now the feet,” she said, grabbing a belt from the pile of clothing beside the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Ginger asked, half anxiously, half eagerly.

Brett picked up a pad and a pencil from the bedside table. “Well, first, I'm going to need your office number.”

“What?”

“Your office number, and I'll bet you have one of
those voice mail systems. I'm going to want your boss's extension number, too.”

“I don't understand,” Ginger said.

Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”

Ginger gave her the phone and extension numbers, and Brett wrote them down. Then she found her handbag and removed a straight razor from it.

Ginger was attempting to squirm off the bed now, and Brett grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She held her hand over Ginger's mouth, then placed the razor against her throat and drew it lightly across her skin, raising a hairline of red. “When I take my hand away,” Brett said, “don't scream, or I'll hurt you badly.” She took her hand away.

 

Ginger was crying now.

“That's very good,” Brett said. “You keep that up. Now here's what we're going to do, Ginger: I'm going to dial your office number and your boss's extension, and when his voice mail answers, here's what I want you to say. What's his name?”

“Mr. Arnold,” Ginger sobbed.

“You say these words exactly. ‘Mr. Arnold'—you're sobbing—‘this is Ginger. I'm afraid there's been a death in my family, and I have to fly back to Indianapolis tonight. I'm going to be away for at least a week, and I'll call you when I know when I'll be back. I'm awfully sorry about the short notice.' Did
you get that?” Brett pressed the razor against her throat again, eliciting another paroxysm of sobbing.

Brett began dialing the number.

“I'm not going to say that!” Ginger said, suddenly collecting herself.

Brett hung up the phone and held the razor to Ginger's left breast. “You'll do it exactly that way, or I'll slice your nipples off, Ginger.”

Ginger began sobbing again, but she nodded.

Brett dialed the number, waited, then dialed the extension number. She held the phone to Ginger's lips and the razor to her nipple.

Ginger performed admirably, Brett thought.

 

Brett waited a full minute after Ginger stopped struggling before removing the pillow from her face. She checked for a pulse, then listened at her chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. She untied Ginger's hands and released the belt from her feet. She went into the kitchen and found a pair of kitchen gloves, a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth, then she rubbed down the body, carefully removing any possible trace of a fingerprint or her own body fluids. She got a clean bedspread from a linen closet and rolled Ginger's body in it, leaving her on one side of the king-sized bed. She pulled her panties on, then got into a pair of Ginger's jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then she switched off the garden lights, went outside, and looked around. She couldn't see any neighbors at their windows. She opened the hotbox, which was empty, and noted two large bags of potting soil leaning against the fence. She went back inside, hoisted
Ginger's body over her shoulder, looked around outside, then went into the garden and dumped the body into the hotbox. She emptied both bags of potting soil over the body, covering it completely, then tossed in a few flowerpots that were lined up against the garden fence.

Having worked up a sweat, Brett went back inside, stripped off her clothes, and took a hot shower, never removing the rubber gloves. When she had dried herself and her hair, she cleaned the hair from the shower drain and saved it, then walked around the apartment, naked, selecting things. She found a good suitcase and packed some of Ginger's clothes. She found her passport in a desk drawer—Ginger Harvey, her full name was—then emptied her briefcase on the bed and took the wallet and credit cards, putting them into her own bag.

When everything was packed and in order, she got into bed, set the alarm clock for five a.m., and went immediately to sleep.

When the alarm went off, she rolled up Florence Tyler's clothing and effects, then stripped the bedcovers, put them into the over-and-under washing machine in the kitchen, added detergent and a generous amount of bleach and switched it on. She ate a breakfast of juice, fruit, yogurt, and coffee while the things washed, then she put them into the dryer. While they tumbled dry, she put fresh sheets and a new duvet cover on the bed, then dressed in Ginger's best suit.

Finally, she folded the laundered bedcovers and put the contents of the lint filter and her hair from the shower drain into a plastic bag, rolled it into
Florence Tyler's things. She went around the apartment with the spray cleaner again, obliterating any possible trace of herself. Satisfied, she tucked Florence Tyler's clothes under her arm, picked up Ginger's suitcase, let herself out of the apartment and the building, and began walking down Lexington Avenue. After a block, she stuffed Florence's things into a street-corner wastebasket and caught the next bus downtown.

When she got off, she was Ginger Harvey.

Stone settled at his desk the following morning and sipped the single cup of coffee he allowed himself after breakfast, an Italian espresso roast, made very strong in a drip coffeemaker. He buzzed Joan.

“Good morning. Please get me Herbie Fisher at his place of work. It's a Walgreens in Brooklyn. You have his numbers, don't you?”

“Got them on his first visit. I'll buzz you back.”

Stone read the front page of the
Times
and washed it down with his black coffee.

Joan buzzed back. “He didn't show up for work. You want to talk to his boss?”

“Yes.” Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning,” he said, “is this Herbert Fisher's supervisor?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Wirtz, the manager.”

“I understand that Herbie didn't show up for work this morning?”

“That's right.”

“Do you know why?”

“Nope. He didn't show up yesterday, either.”

“Is this unusual?”

“Well, he's come in late and hungover before, but at least he always showed up.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He buzzed Joan. “Try his home number.”

Joan buzzed back a moment later. “His mother answered the phone. I've got her on the line.”

Stone pressed the button. “Mrs. Fisher?”

“Mrs. Bernstein,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Fisher took a hike a long time ago.”

“I'm sorry. Mrs. Bernstein, this is Stone Barrington. I'm Herbie's lawyer, and it's important that I speak to him. Where can I reach him?”

“You're
who
? I thought his lawyer was Mr. Levy.”

“Mr. Levy works for me on Herbie's case. It really is very important that I reach him.”

“You're a cop, aren't you?”

“No, ma'am, I'm not. You can look me up in the phone book, if you want to be sure.”

“Hang on.” She put the phone down.

Stone waited, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Why was she taking so long?

She came back on the line. “Yeah, all right, I got you in the book.”

“Where's Herbie, Mrs. Bernstein?”

“He's on a boat somewhere or other.”

“A boat? Where would somewhere or other be?”

“Down in some islands, you know? His uncle Bobby is down there, too.”

Stone was having trouble breathing. “In Saint Thomas?”

“Saint something or other,” she said.

“And did he say when he'd be back?”

“He said when things cooled down, and the judge forgot about him.”

Stone was having trouble speaking now. “And did he say when he thought that would be?”

“A year, maybe. He took a lot of clothes.”

“Mrs. Bernstein, did he leave a phone number or the name of his hotel?”

“He said he'd send me a postcard,” the woman said, then she hung up.

Stone was left listening to a dead phone. He wondered, in passing, what his blood pressure might be at this moment. When he recovered himself enough to speak, he buzzed Joan.

“Any joy?” she asked.

“Anything but,” Stone replied. “Get me Bob Cantor on his cell phone.”

“Okay.” She went off the line, then came back. “I'm getting a recording saying that the person's phone is out of the calling area. What next?”

“First of all, if Irving Newman, the bail bondsman, calls or sends anybody over, I'm out of the country, can't be reached, and you don't know when I'll be back. Got that?”

“Got it.”

“Now get me Tony Levy. He's probably on his cell phone, too.”

Levy came on the line. “Yeah?”

“Tony, it's Stone Barrington.”

“Yeah, Stone, you got something for me?”

“Just the opposite,” Stone replied. “When is Herbie Fisher's next court appearance?”

Levy let out a short laugh. “He jumped bail, didn't he?”

“There are some things it's better for you not to know, Tony. When's his next appearance?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit. Is Judge Simpson back yet?”

“No, out for at least another week. Kaplan's still sitting.”

Stone tried to think how things could be worse and failed. “Tony, I want you to get a postponement.”

“On what grounds, and for how long?”

“On any credible grounds you can dream up and until Judge Simpson is back on the bench and in a really good mood.”

“I'll see what I can do. If I can't get the postponement, any chance Herbie will show?”

“If he doesn't, it'll be because he's dead.”

“Whatever you say, Stone. What are you going to tell Irving Newman?”

“I'm not going to tell him anything, and don't you, either.”

“He'll hear about the postponement, you know. He's got a guy in court every day.”

“He'll hear whatever you tell Judge Kaplan, and it better be good.”

“Stone, this is going to cost you.”

“Cost me what?”

“Five grand. That's my price for lying to a judge.”

“Tony . . .”

“Come on, Stone. We both know it's a bargain.”

“All right. Joan will send you a check today.”

“Cash, like before. I don't want to share it with Uncle Sam.”

“All right, Tony. You may be able to reach me on my cell phone, if it's absolutely necessary.” Stone gave him the number.

“It's a pleasure doing you, Stone.”

Stone hung up and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Dino, can you take a few days off?”

“For what purpose?”

“To spend a little time on a tropical island, feeling the warm breeze waft across your bald spot.”

“I don't have a bald spot; I'm Italian.”

“So's Rudy Giuliani.”

“On whose nickel am I traveling?”

“Mine, but you've got to get me an extradition warrant without logging it in.”

“For who?”

“For Herbie Fisher. He's jumped bail, and I'm on the hook to Irving Newman for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Oh, boy. The warrant can't be done; new procedures.”

“Then get me a blank warrant and I'll fill it in.”

“That, I can manage. When do we leave?”

“Go home now and pack, and you might start working on what you're going to tell Mary Ann.”

“I'll blame it on you, the way I always do.”

“I'll call you when I've got a flight booked.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “Please get Dino and me on the next flight to Saint Thomas, and I'm going to
need an open, one-way ticket back for Herbie Fisher. And find us a decent hotel there.”

“I stayed at Harborview the year before last,” Joan said. “You'll like it.”

“That will be fine,” Stone said.

Joan came back a few minutes later. “Your flight leaves in an hour and a half, change in San Juan. You'll be there for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He called Dino's cell phone.

“Bacchetti.”

“We fly in an hour and a half,” Stone said. “Your driver is taking us to the airport, with the siren on.”

“I hope you got first-class seats,” Dino said.

Stone gave him the flight number. “Get on the phone to the airline's station chief at Kennedy, sound official, and tell them not to let the flight leave without us,” Stone replied. “And for Christ's sake, don't forget your badge.”

“I never leave home without it,” Dino said.