6 Stone Barrington Novels (125 page)

Stone walked back into the kitchen where Carpenter was doing something to a sauce. “Smells good,” he said, pouring them both another drink. “What is it?”

“Chicken breast with tarragon sauce.”

“A red wine okay?”

“That's fine. Who was on the phone? Who knows you're here?”

Stone went to the wine cooler and found a bottle of the Far Niente Cabernet. “Dino tracked me down. An Arab diplomat has been murdered on Park Avenue. Looks like a hit. That give you any ideas?”

“You mean, La Biche?”

“That's what Dino's wondering.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if she's already back in the city, but why shoot somebody else when she's looking for me?”

“I don't know, maybe she doesn't want to get rusty.”

“You get the guy's name?”

“No. You want me to call Dino back?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“Dino wants you to call him if you have anything to contribute. He wants to know what your people come up with.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.” She popped a pair of boned chicken breasts into some hot, clarified butter.

Stone liked the sizzle and the smell. “La Biche isn't going to get tired of looking for you, is she?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“You know anything about her you haven't told me?” Stone asked.

“Well, let's see. She's unclassifiable as to type of killing. She's used everything from pistols to ice picks to garrotes. A favorite means of avoiding arrests is what she's just done in New York: She picks up a girl in a bar, usually a lesbian, goes home with her, murders her, takes her clothes and ID, then disappears. She did this three times in three days in Paris last year.”

“Makes her awfully hard to track, doesn't it?”

“It certainly does. We don't know who to look for until the victim's body turns up, and that can take days. By then, she's somebody else.”

“You've seen her face-to-face, now. Can you improve on the CIA-generated portrait?”

“I'm afraid not,” Carpenter replied, stirring her sauce and dropping some French green beans into boiling water and adding salt. “The drawing is accurate, as far as it goes, but her looks are so unremarkable that, with some hair dye and a little makeup, she could be anybody. If we had a good mug shot,
that might help, but not much. The girl is a chameleon.”

“You think she's a lesbian?”

“I don't know. Maybe she hates lesbians.”

“I'll set the table,” Stone said. He got some dishes, napkins, and silver, and spread everything out. “Time to light the candles?” he asked.

She dumped the beans into a colander, then put them into a skillet with some butter and garlic. “May as well,” she said. “It'll be ready in a minute.”

Stone found a couple of Baccarat wineglasses and lit the candles. I do lovely work, he thought, gazing at the table.

“Bring me the plates,” Carpenter called. “I'll serve us in here.”

Stone took the plates into the kitchen and watched as she quickly arranged the food on them, looking very professional. He took them into the dining room, placed them on the table, held a chair for Carpenter, and poured the wine.

“Bon appétit,”
she said, raising her glass.

“Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted his chicken. “You may cook all my meals,” he said, eating hungrily.

“Don't count on it,” she replied, taking a bite.

“What's your feeling about this Park Avenue shooting?”

“It doesn't feel good, does it?”

“Maybe we should just stay in Connecticut,” he said. “She'd never find us here.”

 

Marie-Thérèse walked into Elaine's and looked around. She'd read about this place, most recently on Page Six, and she was surprised that it wasn't fancier. What lay before her was a homey-looking neighborhood restaurant with a dining room stretching to the back of the building, checkered tablecloths, and a long bar on her left. The headwaiter was looking at her, but she pointed at the bar and took an empty stool at the end, her back to the window. She was wearing a sleek, black cocktail dress from Armani and some very nice pearls that she had stolen from a victim some time ago. The bartender came over.

“Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks,” she said, in her best American accent.

He brought the drink. “You having dinner?” he asked.

“Can I eat at the bar?”

“Sure. I'll get you a menu.”

She sipped her Scotch and surveyed the crowd. She recognized two or three faces from the movies or the celebrity magazines, which she read voraciously. She liked the place. The bartender brought the menu, and she ordered a Caesar salad and a steak. “Have a drink on me,” she said to the bartender.

He poured himself a small Scotch, raised his glass to her, and sipped it.

She wanted him friendly.

She fended off a couple of passes from guys at the bar, and when her dinner came, she ate it and ignored them. When she was finished, she ordered a cognac.

The bartender brought it. “Haven't seen you in here before, have I?”

“Nope. I'm from San Francisco. It's my first time in New York.”

“Maybe you need somebody to show you the sights,” he said.

“Maybe I do, at that,” she replied, smiling. “Say, tell me something.”

“Anything at all,” he said.

She dug into her handbag and came out with a clipping. “I saw this on Page Six a few days ago.” She handed him the clipping.

He chuckled and handed it back. “Yeah, Elaine gets mentioned like that all the time.”

“Who's the lawyer with the ‘hard' name?”

“Oh, that's Stone,” the bartender said. “Stone Barrington.”

“Who is he?”

“Used to be a cop, now he's a lawyer. He's in here two or three nights a week.”

“Is he here now?” she asked, looking around.

“Not tonight,” the bartender said. “You want to meet him, is that it?”

“Not really. I was just intrigued by the story about the guy falling through the skylight.” She smiled. “I think I'd rather be shown the sights.” She liked the bartender; he was cute.

 

Stone lay in bed, wide awake. They had made love half an hour ago.

“You awake?” Carpenter asked.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

“I thought sex rendered men unconscious.”

“Usually it does,” he said.

“Stop thinking about La Biche. We'll get her, eventually.”

“Before she gets you?”

She rolled over and put her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn't let that happen, would you?”

“Of course not.”

She put her hand on his belly and stroked. “You want another shot at unconsciousness?”

“You betcha,” Stone said, turning toward her.

Dino had finished dinner and was back in his chair with the TV going, but he was having trouble staying awake.

“Why don't you go to bed?” Mary Ann asked.

“It's too early,” Dino replied. “I'd just wake up at four o'clock in the morning. Stimulate me. Talk to me.”

She left the sofa, crossed the room, and sat in his lap. “I'll stimulate you,” she said, moving around on his crotch.

The phone rang.

“Ignore it,” she said. “Let the machine pick up.” She kissed him.

Dino kissed her back. He seemed to be waking up.

The machine clicked on. “Dino, it's Elaine,” she said. “I need to talk to you now. Pick up.”

“Fuck her,” Mary Ann said.

“Right,” Dino replied, unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for a breast.

His cell phone rang. “That's gotta be the precinct,” he said. “Let me get rid of them.”

“Oh, all right,” Mary Ann replied, running her tongue around his ear.

Dino fumbled under Mary Ann for the phone and got it open. “This better be good,” he said.

“It's Elaine. Get over here.”

“What?”

“You remember that conversation about this woman finding Stone by reading Page Six?”

“Yeah.”

“There's a woman at the bar with the clipping, asking about Stone.”

“Describe her.”

“Well dressed, thirties, medium everything.”

“Do what you can to keep her there, but don't piss her off. I'm on my way.” He shut the phone and kissed Mary Ann. “Sorry, baby, but something hot has come up.”

“Is she hotter than me?” Mary Ann asked, pushing him back into the chair.

“She's committed four murders that we know of, and she's at the bar, at Elaine's.”

“I give up,” Mary Ann said, getting up and buttoning her blouse. “I'm never gonna get laid.”

“Don't you believe it,” Dino said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door, the cell phone in his hand.

He grabbed a cab in front of his building. “Eighty-eighth and Second,” he said to the driver, then began dialing the precinct. “Gimme the duty commander,” he said. “This is Bacchetti. We got a rumble on a suspect in this afternoon's shooting on Park Avenue. She's at Elaine's restaurant, Second between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth, west side of the street,
sitting at the bar, her back to the window. I'm on my way there now. I want a SWAT team. . . . Scrub that, I want eight people in plain clothes, no visible weapons, no sirens on the way—shit, they can run all the way, it's that close. Nobody parks out front, nobody enters the restaurant but me.”

The cab drew to a halt at the corner of Eighty-eighth and Second. Dino gave the driver a five and got out, still talking on the cell phone.

“I'm going into the restaurant now. I want two people on either side of the door, not visible from inside, and four across the street. Suspect is a white female, thirties, medium height and weight, alone, probably armed and very dangerous. Any questions?”

“No, Lieutenant,” the detective answered.

“Call me on my cell phone when everybody is in position.”

“Got it.”

Dino hung up and called Elaine's, got her on the phone. “I'm coming in alone in just a minute. Is there an empty table by the bar?”

“No, but Sid Zion is at number four with two other guys. He's got a couple of empty chairs. I'll tell him you're coming.”

“That's good. Pay no attention to the woman at the bar. Don't even look at her. Has she moved?”

“No.”

“I'm coming in now.” Dino checked his weapon, returned it to his holster, and walked into Elaine's.

 

Suddenly, Marie-Thérèse was nervous. The bartender had said something to the restaurant's owner,
and she had made a phone call. Now she was on the phone again, and she had glanced at where she was sitting at the bar.

The front door opened and a man walked in: not too tall, Mediterranean-looking.

 

Dino walked toward table number four, where Sidney Zion, a journalist and writer, was sitting. “Hey, Sid,” Dino said, pumping his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sit down, Dino,” Zion replied.

Dino took a seat with a good view of a woman at the bar he thought was probably Marie-Thérèse.

 

The man was a cop, she could feel it. “Where's the ladies' room?” she asked the bartender.

“Back that way, take a right, second door on the left.”

Marie-Thérèse left her coat on the bar stool, picked up her bag, and began walking toward the rear of the restaurant. Straight ahead, all the way to the back, was a door, but two large men were sitting at a table squarely in front of it. She turned right, toward the ladies' room, first looking into the kitchen: no visible way out. She went into the ladies' room; no one there. She tried the window. It was small, but she could fit through it. She got it open, but it was covered with burglar bars.

She opened her handbag and began removing things. She took the top off the toilet tank, wiped the CIA pistol and the ice pick with a towel, dropped them into the tank, and replaced the cover. She
ripped up her false passport, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. Then she got out her cell phone and started dialing.

 

Dino's cell phone vibrated. “Bacchetti.”

“Lieutenant, everybody's in place.”

“Tell them to sit tight. We're going to wait until she's ready to leave. I'll follow her out the front door, then everybody converge.”

“Got it.”

Dino put the cell phone away and looked around. Still in the ladies' room.

 

“Hello?”

“Ali?”

“Yes. Is this my appointment from this afternoon?”

“Yes. I think I'm about to be arrested, and I'm going to need a lawyer.”

“Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called Elaine's, on Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth streets.”

“You're quite near the Nineteenth Precinct. They'll take you there, unless they're federal.”

“My guess is local police.”

“Your lawyer's name is Sol Kaminsky. I'll call him, and he'll be there in half an hour. Say nothing to the police.”

“I'm going to talk to them, play it innocent,” she said.

“That's your judgment to make. Are you dirty?”

“I've just cleaned up. I have a good passport.”

“Good. I'll tell Kaminsky. Call his number from the
police station and leave a message on his answering machine. Memorize the number.” He recited it to her.

“You're sending me a Jewish lawyer?”

“We retain him. He's good. What will your name be?”

“Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Your
real
name?”

“Trust me.”

“What will you give for an address?”

“I don't know.”

“We keep room one-oh-oh-three at the Hotel Kirwan, on Park Avenue South at Thirty-seventh Street. Use that address. I'll get some women's clothes and a suitcase over there, too.”

“Thank you.” She closed the phone, returned it to her handbag, checked her makeup, and left the ladies' room. Maybe she was just paranoid. She hoped so. She returned to her bar stool. “Can I have the check, please?” she asked the bartender.

He brought her the check. “What's your name, and how can I get in touch?” he asked. She took a pen and a small pad from her purse and wrote down her name and cell phone number. “Call me tomorrow,” she said. She put some cash on the bar, including a big tip, got into her coat, and started for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cop get up from his table and reach for his coat.

She walked outside and stood at the curb, her hand held up for a taxi. Then he was behind her.

“Freeze, police!” Dino said, his weapon stretched out before him. He kept a good six feet between them.

Marie-Thérèse looked over her shoulder, feigning surprise. “What?” she said.

Then they were all over her, cuffing her wrists, going through her handbag. “No weapons,” a detective said.

“Search the ladies' room,” Dino replied, as they hustled her into a squad car.