New York Dead (24 page)
“Those are the risks you take, Teddy.”
“That they are, lad. What’s the setup?”
Stone explained about the apartment building. “There are only two apartments to a floor; you’ll be booked into 9-B. The wife will be across a vestibule in 9-A. You let yourself in—late, I’m advised—find the bedroom, wake the occupants, and take their picture.” He opened the aluminum case and showed Teddy how the camera worked. “You switch on the light; the camera is autofocus, so you just point and shoot. Make sure you get good shots of both faces, and show us a little flesh, if you can. The juicier the better.”
“I think I understand your needs,” Teddy said. “And I’ve used this camera before. Is there anything else I should know?”
Stone shook his head. “If there’s trouble, don’t hurt anybody; if you’re apprehended, say nothing and call me. My client will cover any costs. If a case against you comes to anything, there’ll be another five thousand for you, if you do the right thing.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not getting myself apprehended, and if I do, I’ll take the rap. Nobody’ll trace me back to you. Can I get a look at the place ahead of time?”
Stone shook his head. “I don’t want the concierge to see you twice. I’ll look it over myself.”
“That’s okay with me.”
“Good. When you’ve done the job, take a cab to P. J. Clarke’s and have a drink at the bar. Make sure nobody’s after you. I’ll be there, and, when I’m sure you’re clear, I’ll leave an envelope above the urinal in the men’s room with the five grand in it. You go in immediately after me, leave the
camera case, take the money, and go home. That’s it.”
Teddy nodded. “Sounds fine.”
“I don’t want you recognized, Teddy. What can you do about that?”
Teddy put on his hat, took a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket, put them on, then produced a fat cigar and stuck it in his mouth, distorting his face.
Stone laughed. “Good. Simple and good. Oh, and wear your best suit. You want to look prosperous.”
Teddy nodded. “When is it?”
“Probably this week. Stay loose, and I’ll give you as much notice as I can. You can pick up the camera stuff here, on your way.” Stone gave him a hundred-dollar bill. “Here’s cab fare.”
Teddy shook his hand at the door. “Thanks, Stone. I’ll do it right for you.”
Stone hadn’t the slightest doubt he would.
Chapter
Y
our name is Willoughby,” Eggers said. “Just check in with the concierge, and he’ll give you the key to 9-B. I gave you the key to 9-A, but be careful, there may be somebody in residence.”
“Okay,” Stone replied.
“I take it you found your man.”
“I did. He’s waiting for my call.”
“Looks like Friday night.”
Stone breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted this to interfere with his Saturday night with Cary. “All right. When will we know for sure?”
“Maybe not until that day. You sure you have to go to the building yourself?”
“Yes. I don’t want my man seen there more than once, and, anyway, I’m in no way at risk today.”
“Okay, it’s your call.”
* * *
The building was a small postwar apartment building in the East Sixties that had been refurbished for its current purpose. An elderly man in a blue suit was behind the desk.
“Good afternoon,” Stone said. “My name is Willoughby; I believe I’m expected.”
The man consulted a list. “Yes, Mr. Willoughby, you’re in 9-B. You just need it for the afternoon, I believe?”
“Not even that. I just needed a place to do a little work, and they were kind enough to offer me the apartment.”
The man produced a key. “To your right as you leave the elevator. Do you have any luggage?”
“Just my briefcase,” Stone said, holding it up. “Is there anybody using the apartment next door? I may have to do some shouting on the telephone.” He smiled.
“Shout all you like,” the man said. “9-A is empty at the moment.”
Stone thanked the man and went to the elevator. When he got off, he put an ear to the door of 9-A and listened for a long moment. No sound. He let himself into 9-B and looked around. The place was handsomely, if impersonally furnished, with good upholstered pieces and one or two antiques. There were two bedrooms, a master and a smaller one, and two baths. After a quick look around, he went next door and let himself into 9-A.
The apartment seemed to be a mirror image of the other, but there was a difference. 9-A had been lavishly done to someone’s particular taste, and probably by a very expensive designer. The furnishings were richer and more distinctive than those in 9-B, and the art on the walls was probably a part of the company’s collection of expensive paintings. He checked both bedrooms and decided that the master was where the assignation would take place. There was a gorgeous, canopied bed, with a matching silk bedcover, and
every stick of furniture in the room dated from the eighteenth century, Stone reckoned. He was about to reenter the living room when he heard the front door open and close.
Oh, shit, he thought, trying to think of some plausible reason why he should be in the apartment. There was a rustling of what sounded like paper bags, followed by a feminine cough. He looked around the bedroom for someplace to hide, should the woman come his way. Her footsteps on the carpet told him she was doing just that.
He ran on tiptoe across the room and practically dove behind the bed. She came into the bedroom, then he heard the hollow click of the bathroom light being turned on. Please close the door, he said to himself, be modest. She did not. He peeped above the edge of the bed and saw it standing wide open and her shadow against the door. There was the sound of water running, then the toilet seat being raised. The water continued to run while she peed. Sitting on the toilet, she would be facing the bathroom door, he knew, so he could not make a run for it. He arranged himself more comfortably and waited.
The woman came out of the bathroom, and he could hear her footsteps approaching the bed. Stone pressed himself closer to it. He heard the rustle of the silk bedcover being turned down and the creak of the springs as the woman lay down.
Stone lay motionless for the better part of a half hour, while the woman tossed and turned, then finally settled down for her nap. When her breathing told him she was sound asleep, he stirred from his position as silently as possible, wincing at the cramps that had formed in his legs. He slipped off his shoes and started for the bedroom door. As he approached the door he glanced back at her, just as she stirred, her back to him. He froze until he was certain she had not actually awakened. Then he made his way across the deep Oriental carpet in the living room to the front door,
where he spent several seconds turning the knob as silently as possible. As he closed the door, he saw two large shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman lying next to a living-room chair.
A moment later, he was back in 9-B, running cold water over his face in the master bathroom. He had done some undercover work in his time, but nothing in his police career had ever prepared him for being a second-story man. Now he knew that burglars are just as frightened as their victims.
He let himself out of the flat and left the building before the lady next door finished her nap.
At home, there was only one message on his answering machine: “Hi, it’s me. I’m sorry you aren’t in; I wanted to hear your voice. And now I have to go to a production meeting, so you can’t even call me back. I’m so looking forward to Saturday; I want to hear this important news of yours—and it must be important, if you want a table at Lutece. I booked that, which was no problem. Barron goes there all the time, and they know me. After dinner, and after hearing your news, I’m going to make you the happiest man in New York City, I promise. I’ve missed you so. Until Saturday night, my love.”
Stone felt the sort of glow that comes with a double brandy. Saturday night was no longer the loneliest night in the week; it was the only night in the week.
The phone rang. “Hi, it’s Bill. We’re on for Friday. My client reckons they won’t be in the apartment until near midnight.”
“Right. I’ll let my man know.”
“Stone, my client says that this is likely to be the only shot we’re going to get at this, so tell him not to fuck it up, okay?”
“Don’t worry, he’s as steady as they come.”
He hung up and called Teddy. “It’s Friday night,” he said. “I’ve cased the place already, so be at my house at nine, and I’ll brief you and give you the camera.”
“Looking forward to it, lad,” Teddy said.
“And, Teddy, no booze that night, all right?”
“Lad,” Teddy replied, sounding hurt, “I only drink
after
work.”
Stone hung up the phone feeling a certain order in his life. There was money in the bank, and he had handled his first assignments for Woodman & Weld in a way that was earning their confidence.
He allowed himself to be troubled for a moment about the ethics of what he was doing, but he brushed the thought aside. An errant wife deserved whatever came her way. Stone was on the side of the angels—or, at least, on the side of the wronged party, his client.
He put the last coat of varnish on the library shelves that night, then slept the sleep of the righteous.
Chapter
L
ate Friday morning it started to snow. The big flakes floated straight down, with no wind to blow them into drifts, and, gradually, the city grew silent as traffic decreased and the noise of what was left was muffled by the carpet of white.
As delighted as a child, Stone forgot working on the house and trudged up to Central Park, where he watched children sledding and building snowmen. As it started to get dark, he hiked down Park Avenue, watching the lights come on and the taxis and buses struggle through the deepening snow. By the time he got home, twelve inches had fallen on the city, and it seemed to be getting heavier. Then it occurred to him that Teddy O’Bannion lived in Brooklyn. He grabbed the telephone.
“Don’t worry, Stone”—Teddy chuckled—“the subway is just down at the corner, and I can get a cab from your
place. I’ll start early, so I’ll be sure to be on time.”
Stone hung up relieved. The thought that he might have to replace Teddy on this mission had never occurred to him, and even the possibility made his knees tremble.
In the study, he pulled the drop cloths off the crates holding his books—his and his great-aunt’s and his father’s and his mother’s. He estimated there were more than two thousand of them. He took them from their boxes and began arranging them carefully on the shelves. This was a job he would not want to do again. He arranged them by category—art books, fiction, philosophy, politics, biography—and alphabetically by author. It was slow going, and he often had to shift books to keep them in order.
At eight o’clock, he fixed himself some dinner and ate it at the kitchen table, watching the news on CNN.
When he had finished his dinner, he returned to the arranging of the books and became so absorbed in the job that it was nine forty before he realized that Teddy O’Bannion had not arrived.
Worried, he called Teddy’s number. It was busy, and it remained busy during his next ten attempts. He called the operator and had the number checked: out of order, she would report it. What was going on?
At ten thirty, he began to face the reality that he was going to have to walk into Apartment 9-A and take videotapes of a strange woman and man in bed together. The thought made his bowels weak. He wished he had not eaten such a large dinner. Teddy’s phone number still would not ring.
At a quarter to eleven, Stone realized that he would have to shower and change, so that he would be presentable to the doorman at the apartment building. He hoped to God it would be a different doorman; he couldn’t afford to be seen twice by the same man.
In the shower he ran over what might go wrong. The
couple wouldn’t be there—that was the best thing that could happen. The man would overpower him and call the police—that would end his relationship with Woodman & Weld, and he would end up in court, if not in jail. The man would produce a pistol from a bedside drawer and…
The doorbell rang as he stepped out of the shower. He got into a terry-cloth robe and raced down the stairs. Teddy O’Bannion stood, knee deep in snow, on the front stoop.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Stone,” he began. “There was a fire in the subway station at the corner, and it knocked out not only the trains but every phone in the neighborhood, including mine.”
“Come on in, Teddy,” Stone said, nearly trembling with relief.
“I’m double-parked out there,” Teddy said, brushing snow from his coat. “I had to come in the wife’s Jeepster. Good thing I had something with four-wheel drive, but it still took me an hour and a half from the Brooklyn Bridge.”
Stone pointed him at the camera case. “Look that over while I change.”
When he came back down, Teddy was impatient to go. “I’m not going to get a cab in this,” he said.
“I’ll come along and wait for you in the car,” Stone replied.
Five minutes later, they were grinding slowly up Park Avenue. Stone turned into the right street and stopped the Jeepster a few doors down from the apartment building. “You’d better hurry,” he said to Teddy. “You don’t want to run into these people in the lobby and let them get a look at you.”
Teddy reached inside his coat and produced a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. “Don’t worry,” he said, grinning, “I’m ready for anything.”
Stone grabbed at the pistol. “Are you crazy, Teddy?” Then he laughed. The thing was a water pistol, albeit an
extremely realistic one. “What the hell are you doing with this?”
Teddy took the water pistol back. “I’ll explain later,” he said, getting out of the car. “Keep the motor running, no matter how long it takes.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to freeze to death.” Stone handed him the key to 9-A.
