Dirt

by Stuart Woods

  Chapter 50

  By the time Stone had rented a car it was snowing steadily, and he was already across the George Washington Bridge before he realized he shouldn’t have come. The car was a small one – the only thing available – and he felt unsafe in it, sliding on patches of ice. The snowplows were doing their work, though, removing the accumulation and depositing grit, so he made it to Rahway. He asked a policeman for directions, and he found the house easily enough, in a pleasantly posh neighborhood, the kinds of houses owned by commuters who held executive positions in the city. Louise Bruce Burch lived in a two-story red brick Georgian revival house with slender columns in front; there was a BMW under the carport. He parked in front of the house, made his way up some snowy steps, wishing he’d brought galoshes, and rang the bell. Louise was, somehow, a surprise.

  She was of medium height, with sandy blonde hair and a particularly taut body for a suburbanite. Lots of tennis and treadmill, he thought. She did not appear displeased to see him. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

  “Mrs. Burch?”

  “Louise Burch.”

  “My name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney. I wonder if I might speak to you for a few minutes.”

  “Why not?” she said gaily. “Come on back to the kitchen.”

  He caught a whiff of alcohol as he followed her down a hallway, past a quite formal living room and a small library, to the kitchen, which turned out to be a very large room, with a comfortable seating area before a fireplace. There was a fire going, and a half-empty glass of some brown liquor on the coffee table. There was a stack of house design magazines on the table as well; she had obviously been going through them.

  “Please have a seat,” she said, indicating the sofa. “I know it’s a little early, but I’m having a drink; can I get you one?”

  Thinking that having a drink in his hand might make it a bit harder for her to throw him out when she learned why he was there, he accepted. “Bourbon, if you have it.”

  “Wild Turkey okay?”

  “That would be splendid; on the rocks, please.” He looked out the window at the snow. “It’s becoming a nasty day out there.”

  She returned shortly with a large drink for him, then sat next to him on the sofa, turned toward him, and drew her knees up, revealing fine legs under a short skirt. “Now, whatever can I do for you, Mr…”

  “Barrington. Stone.”

  “Stone,” she said. “I’m Lou. You said you’re a lawyer?”

  “Yes, in New York.”

  “And what brings you all the way from the city on a day like today?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your brothers.”

  She gave a short, sharp laugh. “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “I used to be.”

  “And now you practice at the bar?”

  “Yes. Why did you laugh when I said I was here about your brothers?”

  “Well, Stone, you aren’t exactly the first,” she said. “There have been a parade of policemen through my house over the years, usually looking for Charlie. But you said ‘brothers,’ in the plural, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny, no one has ever come looking for Tommy before.”

  Stone sipped his drink. “I was wondering if you know how I could get in touch with them? Either or both?”

  “Now, why would a lawyer want to get in touch with my brothers? A cop, I could understand, but a lawyer? Do you want to sue one of them?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, although I am a lawyer, I’m not here in that capacity. It’s more of a personal matter.”

  “How did you get my name and address?” she asked.

  “From someone in Washington who used to know Tommy.” That was technically correct. “He didn’t have a current address.”

  “Washington, huh? Yes, Tommy used to live there; Tommy has lived in lots of places, lots of countries. He was something in the diplomatic corps, I believe. He was always hazy about exactly what he did.”

  “Have you…” He was interrupted by the telephone ringing.

  “Excuse me,” she said, then got up and went to a counter where the phone rested. “Hello? Oh, yes, honey, how are you? Everything going well?”

  Stone sipped his drink and looked idly around the room. He felt that in a couple of minutes he was going to know how to find Dryer, or Bruce. He still thought of him as Dryer.

  “How much do you need, honey?” she was asking. “Good God, we sent you down there with enough spending money for the whole semester! You were supposed to discipline your own spending, remember?”

  Stone, who had not eaten for five hours. was starting to feel the bourbon.

  “Well, if it’s an emergency, I’ll send it, but I am not going down to Western Union; I’ll just mail you a check. And if I have this kind of call again, I’m going to let your father handle it! Now you…” She swore and hung up the phone.

  Stone looked over at her, then away.

  She came back to the couch, downed the last third of her drink, and went back toward the kitchen. “My daughter,” she said. “She’s in her first year at the University of Virginia. Doesn’t know the meaning of money.” She came back to the sofa carrying a fresh drink. “You have any kids?”

  “No, I’m a bachelor.”

  “A bachelor,” she said. She allowed her hand to brush the back of his. “An interesting one, too. How is it you never married, Stone?”

  Stone shrugged and gave her his stock answer. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  She laughed as if this were really funny. “Yes, I’m all alone now, I guess. Husband ran off with a twenty-two-year-old, if you can believe it; daughter in college. It’s just me now.” She waved a hand. “All alone in this big house.”

  “I shouldn’t think a woman as attractive as you are would be alone for very long.”

  She raised her glass. “Thank you, kind sir. You really know what to say to a girl.”

  Stone felt a need to change the subject. “Have you seen either of your brothers lately?”

  She set her drink down. “Why don’t we change the subject for a while?”

  “What did you have in mind for a subject?” he asked mildly.

  “Oh, if you knew what I had in mind,” she said, smiling.

  He believed he did know, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle it. He certainly didn’t want to annoy her and get thrown out before he had found out what he came for, and she was extremely attractive, except for the booze, and he was feeling just a little boozy himself. What canon of ethics covered this situation? None, he decided; he was on his own. Then he saw her nipples rise under her sweater. He had never seen that happen before. He was lost. “Your nipples are hard,” he said.

  “How can you tell?” she asked, “when you haven’t touched them?”

  He reached out and rubbed the back of his fingers lightly against her breasts. “Confirmed,” he said.

  “Not really,” she said. She pulled her sweater over her head, released her bra from behind, and dropped it on the floor.

  “Reconfirmed,” he said, reaching for her.

  He got out of the shower and went to find his clothes in the kitchen seating area. Once dressed, he decided to look around. There was a phone book on the kitchen counter, and under “Tommy” was scribbled “Chelsea Hotel.” He wondered how old that address was. He went into the living room and found nothing of interest, then tried the library. On a bookcase were a lot of silver-framed family photographs. One of them had been taken in some tropical place; there were palms and a beach. A man dressed in the uniform of a navy lieutenant was standing next to a handsome blond woman. Arrayed at their feet were two little boys and an older girl of maybe twelve – pretty, straw-haired, smiling.

  “Better days,” she said from behind him. She was tying a robe around her.

  “I thought you were sound asleep,” he said.

  “So you just thought you’d have a look around.”

  “Yes, I di
d.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Did you find Tommy and Charlie?”

  “No. Would you like to tell me where they are?”

  “Why do you want to find them?”

  “I told you, it’s a personal matter. One of them – Tommy, I think – has my wristwatch; it has a lot of sentimental value.”

  She smiled. “Tommy always loved watches. Strange thing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In New York; but you know that already.”

  “Yes. Do you have an address for him?”

  “Last I heard, Tommy had an apartment on Ninety-first Street.”

  “Not any more; he’s moved. Do you know where?”

  She crossed her arms. “He may be a bastard,” she said, “but he’s my little brother.”

  “If you tell me where to find him, I may be able to keep him from getting into more trouble than he’s already in.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Stealing, mostly.”

  “From you?”

  “Among others.”

  “I talked to him last night, for the first time in more than a year; he said he was about to strike it rich.”

  “Did he say how?”

  “He said that he possessed very valuable knowledge. That’s all he said.”

  “And you don’t know where he’s living?”

  She looked at the floor and shook her head.

  He couldn’t blame her. He walked to where she stood, kissed her on the cheek, and left.

  Chapter 51

  Stone drove slowly back toward the city, through slush, ice, and fresh snow, which had turned into a blizzard. In spite of his recent shower he felt somehow dirty. His sex life had always been serendipitous, and he liked it that way; in the normal course of his life he would have enjoyed his encounter with Lou Burch and reflected pleasantly on it, but his life had taken a new course with Arrington, and it troubled him that he had not once thought of her until he was back in the car. Guilt was new to him, and he didn’t like it.

  Just short of the George Washington Bridge traffic came to a complete halt, and he began to fear that it might be permanent. He got out his pocket phone and called Dino.

  “Afternoon,” Dino said.

  “Already?” Stone looked at his watch; it was nearly two.

  “Happens every day.”

  “Dino, I’ve finally got something on our boys.”

  “Shoot.”

  “An old acquaintance did some checking for me with what I believe was Central Intelligence. Turns out our boy, Jonathan, who has an electronics degree, underwent some training by those people and spent several years in their employ. He eventually got bounced. His real name is Thomas Bruce, and his brother’s name is Charles. Charlie is probably out of jail recently; he was doing five to seven at Chino, in California, and my guess is he’s jumped parole. That ought to be enough to pick him up on.”

  “It would be if we got a request from California,” Dino said. “Hang on, let me check the computer.”

  Stone heard some keystrokes, then some more.

  “Okay, I’ve got his record; his sheet is short but sordid. Picked up for male prostitution when he was nineteen, suspended sentence; suspect in a dozen burglaries; finally got nailed in somebody else’s house, went up to Chino. No mention of parole; according to this, he’s still inside.”

  “Maybe they’re slow to update records,” Stone said.

  “Maybe. Oh, his picture looks a lot like his brother.”

  “So there’s not enough to pick him up?”

  “Not when he’s still in Chino, Stone,” Dino said drily.

  “Can you check with California and see if he’s out, and if he’s been reporting to his parole officer? If he’s bolted, you’d have an excuse to arrest him.”

  “My superiors wouldn’t think it was a very good use of manpower to start hunting down parole violators from California, when California doesn’t care enough to send out a bulletin.”

  “Oh, come on, Dino, you’re not trying! I may even know where he is.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Chelsea Hotel, maybe.”

  “Under what name?”

  That stopped Stone; he hadn’t thought to ask Lou Burch about a new alias, and she was certainly not going to volunteer it. “I don’t know. Try Dryer, try Power, try Gable, try Bruce. Maybe he’s dumb enough to use his own name.”

  “First, let me see what I can do with the state of California. I know a guy who might be of some help. Where are you?”

  “Somewhere in New Jersey.”

  “Oh, shit; in this weather?”

  “I’m standing still just short of the Bridge, while snow is relentlessly rising around me.”

  “Lotsa luck, pal. I hope I don’t read in the papers that you were one of hundreds who froze to death in their cars.”

  “I’m moved by your concern. Get back to me.” Stone broke the connection.

  Miraculously, traffic began to move, or rather to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, the road had been squeezed down to one lane, past a rear-ender that was blocking the other two. Once past the wreck, Stone was back up to thirty miles an hour, which, in the current conditions, felt like sixty. Shortly he was in Manhattan again. His pocket phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Okay, he’s out of Chino, but he hasn’t busted parole.”

  “You mean he’s still in California? I don’t believe it.”

  “He’s not due to check in with his parole officer until day after tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up, my friend has got him flagged to go into the computer immediately as a runner, and he’s promised to fax me a request to pick him up.”

  “But not until day after tomorrow?”

  “Not until the day after that, at the earliest. Sorry, it’s the best I can do. Oh, I’ve got an address for him: the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, on Melrose, should you want to go looking for him.”

  “Nah, he moved out of there a week or so ago. I think I’m going to go looking for him at the Chelsea Hotel.”

  “You watch your ass, Stone. Remember Arnie; next time I see you I don’t want to see a tag on your toe. Are you carrying?”

  “No.”

  “Me, I wouldn’t go after these guys without a piece. You shouldn’t either.”

  “See you, Dino.” Stone punched out, put away the phone, got off the West Side Highway at 48th Street, drove over to 9th Avenue, and headed downtown, trying to stay in the bus tracks.

  “Gee, I’m not sure,” the man behind the desk said, looking at the ad Stone had ripped out of Vanity Fair.

  Stone flashed the badge. “You don’t want to be thought of as harboring a fugitive, do you?”

  The man shook his head and checked his guest list. “He’s in ten-oh-one.”

  “Under what name?”

  “Jeremy Spencer.”

  “Is there somebody bunking with him?”

  “No, he checked in alone last week, and I haven’t seen him with anybody else, except a girl or two. They always leave in the morning.”

  “Passkey,” Stone said.

  “Not a chance,” the desk clerk replied. “Not without a search warrant. I’m not getting into that kind of shit with my boss.”

  Stone glared at him. “Okay, I’m going up there, and if you call up and tell him I’m coming, you’re going to find yourself in more shit than you would have ever believed possible.”

  The man held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

  Stone took the elevator to the tenth floor, trembling with anticipation. He was looking forward to meeting Mr. Thomas Bruce. The door was at the end of the hall, at the back of the building. The Chelsea was an old hotel with a reputation for harboring rebels, literary and rock. It had been fixed up yet again, and the carpet was new. The hallway wasn’t very wide, though; that was good. Noting that there was no peephole, Stone rapped at the door.

  “Yeah, who is
it?” a muffled voice replied.

  “Bellman. Got a Federal Express for you.”

  “You sure you got the right room? Who’s it for?”

  “Jeremy Spencer; from somebody named Burch, in Rahway, New Jersey.” Stone braced himself against the opposite wall as he heard the door chain rattle. As soon as he saw the knob turn, he pushed off the wall and threw all his weight behind a kick at the door.

  His timing was perfect. The door caught the man in the face and sent him flying backward across the room, and Stone was right on top of him. He held a forearm against the man’s neck. “Mr. Dryer, I presume,” he said, applying more pressure. “Or maybe I should say Mr. Bruce.”

  Something hard hit Stone on the back of the head, but he didn’t pass out. Somebody grabbed him from behind and yanked him to his feet, pinning his arms behind him. Stone struggled to stay conscious as he watched Tommy Bruce get to his feet.

  “You son of a bitch,” Bruce said, throwing a right to Stone’s gut.

  “And I always thought I was such a nice guy,” Stone managed to say between gasps for breath.

  Bruce hit him high on his cheekbone, snapping his head around.

  Still, Stone remained conscious.

  Bruce cupped a hand under his chin and raised his head. “How’d you find me?” he demanded.

  “Phone book,” Stone said.

  Bruce looked past him and said, “Hey, Charlie, meet Stone Barrington, the comic.” He hit Stone on the other side of the head. “Did I ever tell you I fucked his girlfriend?”

  “Oh, yeah, the lovely Arrington,” Charles Bruce said from somewhere behind Stone’s swimming head.

  “And I fucked your sister,” Stone said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, yeah; the lovely Lou.”

  Bruce hit him again, and this time Stone started to go dark. His last memory was Tommy Bruce’s shoe, coming at his head.

  He came to in an ambulance, hurting everywhere. He tried to raise a hand to his face and discovered that his arms were strapped down. A paramedic was taking his blood pressure, and a cop dozed on a bench beside the litter. “Hey,” Stone said.