6 Stone Barrington Novels (120 page)

They sat at the end of the runway in San Juan, the engines of the DC-3 roaring, while the pilot did his runup.

Stone was enchanted. He hadn't been on a DC-3 since he was a boy, and he loved the deep rumble of the radial engines. “This is great, isn't it?” he said to Dino.

Dino, who was holding tight to the armrests, his knuckles white, did not reply.

“Isn't it great, being on a DC-3?” Stone asked, elbowing him.

“It has propellers,” Dino said.

“Of course it has propellers.”

“It's not a jet.”

“You're very observant.”

“Why is the tail on the ground and the nose in the air? We'll never get off the ground.”

“It's a tail dragger,” Stone explained. “It doesn't have a nosewheel, just a little one at the back. It's the way all airplanes used to work.”

“They used to crash a lot, too.” Dino let go of an
armrest long enough to grab the wrist of a flight attendant, who was walking down the short aisle. “I need a drink,” he said.

“I'm sorry, sir, but our flight is too short to offer drink service. We'll be in Saint Thomas in half an hour.”

“I'm a cop. Does that make any difference?”

“We don't even have liquor aboard, sir. Please relax, it's going to be a very short flight.”

Dino let go of her wrist and resumed his death grip on the armrest. The airplane rolled onto the runway and kept going, while Dino helped by keeping his eyes tightly shut. After an interminable roll, the airplane lifted off and began to climb.

“See,” Stone said, “it flies.”

They crossed the coastline and entered clouds. The airplane began to shake. The pilot came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the captain speaking. We apologize for the turbulence, but I'm afraid we'll be dodging thunderstorms along our route today, so please keep your seat belts fastened.”

Dino let go of an armrest long enough to yank his seat belt tight enough to cut off circulation to his legs.

“This is going to be great,” Stone said, as the airplane leveled off.

Dino looked out the window. “We're flying awful low.”

“It's a short flight, Dino. There's no point in climbing higher; we'll be there in twenty minutes.”

The airplane suddenly dropped a couple of hundred feet.

“Jeeesus!” Dino said through clenched teeth.

“Nothing to worry about,” Stone said, sounding unconvinced. He was feeling a little queasy himself.

The airplane banked sharply to the right, kept that course for ten minutes, then banked sharply to the left. Items were falling out of the overhead racks.

Then, unexpectedly, they were on the ground, just as a rain squall struck the airplane. It did some weaving as it braked, but then they were at the terminal.

“I want a drink,” Dino said.

“When we get to the hotel,” Stone replied.

The rain continued as they got into a taxi, and what little they could see of the town of Charlotte Amalie through the rain-streaked windows seemed drab. The taxi climbed steeply for a few minutes, then deposited them on the doorstep of a small hotel. Shortly, they were in their adjoining rooms.

“You want a drink now?” Stone called.

“I want a blood transfusion,” Dino called back. “Leave me alone.”

“Our dinner table is in twenty minutes,” Stone shouted. “Get changed.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they walked out onto a broad terrace overlooking the twinkling lights of the town. The rain had passed, and the night was filled with stars. A pair of cruise ships anchored in the big harbor far below were bathed in their own lights, while the anchor lights of sailing vessels bobbed around them. They found a couple of comfortable chairs, accepted menus from the waiter, and Stone ordered two piña coladas.

“I want a double Scotch,” Dino complained.

“Shut up, you're in the tropics,” Stone explained.

The drinks were icy cold and delicious. Stone flipped open his cell phone to see if he could get a signal. He did, and he dialed Bob Cantor's number and got the out-of-range recording. “Either Bob's on a boat somewhere or he's turned his phone off,” Stone said.

Dino looked out at the view. “Can you blame him? I'd do the same in this place.”

They listened to the piano player as the bar filled with arriving customers.

“Did you call the DA's office this morning, about getting Herbie's charges dropped?” Stone asked.

“Who had time?” Dino replied. “You yanked me out of my office before I had time to do anything.”

“Call him in the morning,” Stone said. “It'll be easier to convince Herbie to go back to New York if the manslaughter charge has disappeared.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dino said. “Now can I drink this ridiculous drink and enjoy the view?”

“Be my guest.”

“You'd better believe it.”

The waiter came and took their orders. “It'll be twenty minutes or so,” he said. “Would you like another piña colada?”

“You betcha,” Dino replied.

“What, no Scotch?” Stone asked.

“We're in the tropics, dummy.”

Stone laughed. “I'm sorry we couldn't bring Mary Ann along.”

Dino looked at him as if he were mad. “You
bachelors,” he said, “don't understand anything. The duty-free shopping alone would break you.”

“Break
me?"

“We're on your nickel, remember?”

“My nickel doesn't extend to duty-free shopping. It won't support a camera or a Rolex, you remember that. Besides, you're not going to have time to shop. We have to find Herbie.”

“And how do you figure to go about doing that?” Dino asked.

“If Bob Cantor won't answer his phone, then I don't have a clue,” Stone said.

Then a flashbulb went off in their faces.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” somebody with a New York accent said. “Here's my card. Can I print that great shot for you? Only twenty bucks.”

As his eyes readjusted to the available light, Stone looked up into the smiling face of Herbie Fisher.

Herbie's smile collapsed. “I, ah . . .” He couldn't seem to get it out.

Stone was too stunned to speak for a moment. Finally, he said, “Hi, Herbie.”

Herbie turned and sprinted across the terrace like a terrified rabbit, then out through a door.

“Come on!” Stone said. He and Dino struggled out of the deep soft chairs, around the table, and ran after Herbie. Stone got a glimpse of him fleeing the parking lot, and he turned on the speed, losing a loafer in the process. “Get him!” he yelled at Dino, then went back for his shoe. By the time he caught up, Dino was standing in the street, looking around.

“Which way did he go?” Dino asked.

“I don't know. I had to stop for my shoe.”

“You're a big fucking help, Stone.”

From behind a little stand of trees beside the street, they heard a car start, then the sound of tires spinning on gravel. Stone ran around the trees in time to see a yellow jeep disappear around a curve. “Well,” Stone said, “at least we know what he's driving.”

“A jeep?” Dino said, laughing. “Haven't you noticed that half the tourists on this island are driving rented jeeps?”

“It's a
yellow
jeep,” Stone pointed out. “They're not all yellow.”

“I'm hungry,” Dino said.

They walked back into the hotel and out onto the terrace, where two new piña coladas were melting.

“Your table is ready, gentlemen,” the waiter said. “Right this way.”

They settled into a banquette near the door, where they could still see some of the view, and accepted a glass of wine.

“How the hell are we going to find him?” Dino asked, as he dug into his first course.

“He'll call his uncle Bob as soon as he can, but he's having the same problem contacting him that I am. As soon as Bob gets within range, I can explain things to him, and he'll explain them to Herbie.”

“And how long do you figure that will take?” Dino asked.

“Well, Bob's been down here for at least four days. Maybe he's ready to go home.”

“What if he's on a three-week vacation?”

“Don't say that.”

“When does Herbie have to appear in court?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, swell.”

“I called Tony Levy and told him to get a postponement, no matter what.”

“Who's the judge?”

“Kaplan.”

“You're fucked,” Dino said, chuckling. “You're out of a quarter of a mil, and by the time you get home, Irving Newman is going to own your house.”

“Dino, you're ruining my appetite.”

“Have you called Irving?”

“No. I'm hoping he hasn't heard that Herbie jumped. How could he know?”

“Well, when Herbie doesn't show the day after tomorrow, and Tony Levy is standing in front of Kaplan with his dick in his hand, Irving is going to suspect something. He's got a guy in every courtroom, you know.”

“I know. Can we just drop it?”

“And Irving is not the kind of guy to just trust you for a quarter of a mil.”

“It's not a quarter of a million, it's two twenty-five.”

“Oh, that'll make all the difference,” Dino said.

“Really, Dino, you're ruining my dinner.”

“Of course, you've got some bucks in the bank. You could write Irving a check.”

“I'd have to sell stock, and my portfolio is way down. I have hopes of it bouncing back, but it would cost me dearly to write that check right now.”

“Didn't you have to make a margin call last week?”

“Dino, if you keep talking about this I'm going to go back to the room, find your gun, and shoot you.”

“I didn't bring a gun.”

“Let's change the subject, all right?”

“Okay.” Dino chewed for a moment and sipped his wine. “Does Carpenter know you left town?”

Stone groaned. “I didn't have time to call her.” He dug out his cell phone and called the Lowell. “What's the name she's registered under?”

Dino looked thoughtful. “I don't remember,” he said. “She's got too many names.”

The hotel answered.

“Just a moment,” Stone said, covering the phone. “Come on, Dino, help me out here.”

“I swear, I can't remember it.”

“Neither can I.” Stone slapped his forehead. “Susan!” he said.

“That's right!”

He put the phone to his ear. “May I speak to Susan Kinsolving, please?”

The phone rang and rang, then the operator came back on. “I'm sorry, sir, but there's no answer. Would you like voice mail?”

“Yes, please.” Stone listened to the message and heard the beep. “It's Stone. I've had to leave town on business. Please call me on my cell phone.” He repeated the number, in case she had lost it. “I'll be back in a day or two.” He punched off.

Dino laughed. “A day or two? That's funny.”

“We might get lucky.”

“We already got lucky, and you blew it.”

“I
blew it?”

“It wasn't me,” Dino pointed out.

“You were closer to him than I was. You could have just grabbed him.”

“Who could see after the flash went off?”

“Well, I couldn't see either.”

A woman at the next table leaned over. “Excuse
me,” she said, “but are you two married to each other?”

“I'm very sorry,” Stone said.

“You sure sound married,” she said, then went back to her dinner.

“You're embarrassing me,” Stone whispered.

"I'm
embarrassing
you
?” Dino asked, astounded.

“I asked you to change the subject.”

“And I did,” Dino replied.

“Gentlemen,
please,
” the woman at the next table said.

“I'm very sorry,” Stone said again.

“I did change the subject,” Dino whispered.

“Shut up,” Stone said.

Carpenter picked up the phone, dialed Stone's home number, and got an answering machine. She hung up without leaving a message. She tried his cell phone number and got a recording saying he was out of the calling area.

She was sitting in a barely furnished office kept for visitors in the New York headquarters shared by MI5 and MI6, neither of which was supposed to have a presence in New York. She was tired, out of sorts, and hungry, and she wanted Stone to take her to dinner, and he wasn't cooperating. She grabbed her coat, signed out at the front door, and was buzzed out of the building. P. J. Clarke's was only a couple of blocks away, and she headed there. She didn't give a thought to the notion that she might be followed.

It was nearly eight o'clock, and the dining room was busy. “We're not going to have anything for forty-five minutes,” a waiter told her, “but if you're really hungry, you can order at the bar.”

She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their
hard hats, who apparently didn't want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.

“A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the
New York Post.

“Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.

“Been in New York long?”

“Actually, I live in San Francisco. I'm just here on business.”

“One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.

“One of everybody's,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”

“I'm a lawyer.”

“What firm?”

“I left a job last week, and I'm just starting the search.”

“Any luck so far?”

“I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”

“I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I'm eating here, since there's not a table available.”

“Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I'll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I'm hungry.”

“Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”

The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.

“I never thought I'd hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”

“Actually, I'm not all that interested in wine, though I'm happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”

“What's your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.

“Postrio,” Carpenter replied.

“Oh? I thought that was closed.”

“Nope. They've redone it, and they have a new chef. It's wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn't go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.

“Where are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.

“At the Carlyle.”

“Pretty expensive for business travel, isn't it?”

“I'm a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.

“That's great.”

“It ain't bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”

“Uptown, East Eighties.”

“I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.

Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.

“Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.

“Jordan Cabernet.”

“Yes, it's a nice one.”

“Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn't such a bad idea.”

“See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”

“Four years,” the woman replied.

“Is it easy to meet men here?”

She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”

“That's how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”

The woman laughed. “It's the same here.”

They finished their steaks.

“Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.

“What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.

“I like the walnut apple pie, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

“Sold!”

“Make it two,” the woman said, “though I'll regret it tomorrow when I weigh myself.”

“Never weigh yourself,” Carpenter said.

They finished their apple pie, and Carpenter asked for the check. She paid it with one of her Susan credit cards. “This one's on me,” she said.

“What's your name?”

“Susan Kinsolving,” Carpenter said, offering her hand.

“I'm Ginger Harvey,” the woman said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

“Thanks, but I've had a long day, and I'm really tired. Maybe I'll see you in here again sometime.” Carpenter waved goodbye, walked outside, and found a cab. “The Carlyle hotel,” she said. “Seventy-sixth and Madison.”

“Right,” the cabbie said.

“Do me a favor, will you? Check your rearview mirror and see if there's a woman getting into a cab behind us.”

“Coming out of Clarke's?” the man asked. “Yeah.”

“Take your time going uptown,” she said. “Don't jump any lights.” Carpenter got out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “It's Carpenter,” she said. “I think I've been made, and I think it's our friend. I'm in a cab, heading up Third Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and she's right behind me. I'm going to the Carlyle hotel. Call the manager there and set me up quickly, get me registered. I don't suppose you can get anybody there in ten minutes? I didn't think so. No, don't call the cops. We're going to have to handle this the best way we can, and all by ourselves.” She hung up.

“That's funny,” the driver said.

“What's funny?”

“You didn't have an English accent when you got into the cab.”

Carpenter handed him a fifty. “Forget you heard it,” she said. “Drop me at the hotel, leave your meter running, and don't pick up a fare until you're at least twenty blocks away, all right?”

The driver looked at the fifty. “Yes,
ma'am
!”

Carpenter got out of the cab at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the Carlyle and walked briskly to the front desk. “My name is Carpenter. May I have my key, please?”

The man at the desk looked at her for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed her a key. “High floor, interior suite, as requested,” he said.

“Anybody asks for me, call the number you were given,” she said. “There'll be somebody here soon.”

“Sleep well,” the clerk said.

Carpenter got onto an elevator before she looked at the number taped to the key. She gave the operator the floor number. Her cell phone vibrated as soon as the elevator began to move. “Yes?”

“It'll be twenty minutes before we can get a team into place,” the voice said.

“So long?”

“We're scattered. Don't answer the door until you get a call first.”

“Right.” She snapped the phone shut and got off the elevator. She found the door and let herself into a small suite, chaining the door behind her. The view was of an air shaft, but she closed the curtains
anyway before turning on lights. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“All right,” she said, “check this: Name Ginger Harvey, lawyer, lives in the East Eighties.”

“Hold, please.”

She could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“East Eighty-first, near Lexington,” he said.

“Get somebody over there now. If no one answers, go in and call me back.” She hung up, shucked off her shoes, and paced the floor. It worried her that Ginger Harvey was real.