by Stuart Woods
Bianchi ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t like to wait, Dick.”
“I apologize, Ricky; there was nothing I could do.”
Bianchi did not seem mollified. “So what’s the big emergency?”
“I want to call off the search for those two men,” Hickock said. “Something has happened, and it would be very bad for me if anything happened to them.”
“Dick, what is this on-again, off-again thing? You should know I don’t do business that way. What has happened?”
“They’re blackmailing me, that’s what. They’ve threatened to turn me in to the IRS and to send incriminating information to the media.”
“How much do they want?”
“Three million dollars. I’ve already wire-transferred the money.”
Bianchi looked astonished. “Dick, you shouldn’t have done that; you should have come to me and let me handle it.”
“I only had until close of business, Ricky, and they said that they had left the documents with other parties, and if anything happened to them it would be sent out. That’s why you have to call off the search; I can’t afford for anything to happen to them now.”
“Dick, don’t you know that’s what all blackmailers say? That they’ve left the pictures or the documents or whatever with a lawyer who has instructions if anything happens to them? They never do it; they never believe anything will happen to them. I think it would be best if we just leave things as they are. I’ve already had a tip that they might be in an East Side apartment. Someone is on the way there now.”
“Ricky, you’ve got to stop them; I can’t afford to find out the hard way if they’re lying. I’d rather pay them the money.”
“Then they’ll want more, Dick, don’t you know that? If you’re willing to pay them three million dollars on the basis of an unsubstantiated threat, they’ll bleed you again and again for years to come, until there’s nothing left. You just let me handle these two guys.”
“I can’t do that, Ricky. You’ve got to call off your men.”
Bianchi shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dick; it’s too late. You’ll just have to take your chances.”
Hickock slumped. “I hope to God you’re right about their bluff.”
“Trust me, I’m right. Is there anything else?”
“There is one more thing; the third name I gave you.”
“I remember.” He patted his pocket. “It’s right here. You want me to push the button?”
Hickock took a deep breath. “Push the button. I don’t care whether it looks like an accident, just do it.”
“It will be done,” Bianchi said. “But this is going to cost more money. This search has turned into an expensive operation.”
“Of course,” Hickock said. “Anything you want, just name the amount.”
Bianchi smiled for the first time that day. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk,” he said.
Stone phoned again, got the answering machine again. He had the awful feeling that something was very wrong. He’d go over there; maybe the doorman would let him in. Then he remembered. He found her handbag in the bedroom, opened it, and shook the contents out onto the bed. There was the key. He put it in his pocket, got a coat, and left the house.
Chapter 57
Allan Peebles had worked a long day. It was only midafternoon in L.A., but it seemed later to him. He was tired, and his editorial meeting was nearly over. He had only a story or two to clear, and he could close the paper for the week and go home. Then, through the glass wall of the boardroom, he saw a strange sight. A man named Harold Purvis, who was head of security for the Infiltrator’s building, was striding through the newsroom, followed by two uniformed security guards. Purvis walked up to the boardroom door, rapped sharply, and opened the door.
“Mr. Peebles, I must see you immediately,” he said. “Just as soon as you close the paper. It’s very urgent.”
“I’ll be with you in just a couple of minutes, Harold,” Peebles said, wondering if another lunatic had gotten into the building. He ran through the remaining stories, gave his approval, and wound up the meeting, then he walked down the corridor to his corner office. Harold Purvis and his two men were in the room, as was his secretary. “What’s up, Harold? More crazies with alien abduction stories?” This was a regular feature of life at the Infiltrator.
Purvis walked behind him, closed the door, and took an envelope from his inside pocket. “I have been instructed to read you a letter,” he said, “which will explain everything.”
“All right,” Peebles replied, wondering what the hell was going on.
Purvis held up the letter and read aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Peebles,’” he began. “‘You are herewith and with immediate effect dismissed from your position as editor and publisher of the Infiltrator.’”
Peebles blinked. He had not seen this coming.
“‘You are to vacate your office and depart the premises at once. Your secretary will send along any personal effects in your office.’”
Amanda Dart, he thought. She has betrayed me. I told her everything to save myself, but she has betrayed me.
“‘Your pension plan, medical insurance, and profit-sharing are cancelled with immediate effect; your stock options are withdrawn; your signature is no longer valid on any Infiltrator bank account; all Infiltrator employees will immediately be informed that your instructions are no longer to be followed. Two weeks’ severance pay will be wire-transferred to your personal bank account after, and only after, possession of all Infiltrator property has been surrendered.’” Purvis handed him the letter. “It’s signed by the chairman of the board,” he said.
“I don’t believe it,” Peebles mumbled, starting to read the letter.
“Give me your keys to the building and your office. your medical insurance card, and your credit cards,” Purvis said.
“How dare you speak to me that way!” Peebles sputtered. “I am your superior…” He faltered.
“Not any more,” Purvis said. He turned to the two security guards. “Gentlemen, clean out his pockets.”
One of the guards grabbed Peebles and pinned his arms behind his back while the other went through his pockets and emptied the contents onto the desktop. Purvis stepped forward, removed the cards from Peebles’s wallet, and looked through the other items. He detached two keys from a ring, then stepped back. “The rest of this junk is yours; put it back in your pockets.”
Peebles obeyed. “There has been some mistake here, and I will remember your conduct,” he said to Purvis through clenched teeth.
“Get his coat,” Purvis said to the secretary. The woman obeyed, and Purvis handed the coat to Peebles. Peebles put it on. “Tell his deputy that he is in charge until further notice,” Purvis said to the secretary, then he turned back to the two guards. “Escort Mr. Peebles from the building.”
The two guards frog-marched Peebles through the newsroom, down two flights of stairs, and out of the building. A moment later, he found himself standing alone in the parking lot.
Still unable to believe what had just happened and trying to preserve some semblance of dignity, Peebles got into his Bentley and drove home to Beverly Hills. As he pulled into his driveway and got out of his car, a man suddenly appeared, along with another uniformed security guard.
“I’m from the Infiltrator’s leasing company,” he said, snatching Peebles’s keys from his hand. “The lease on the Bentley has been cancelled.” The man detached the car key and returned the ring, which now held only a house key, to its owner. As Peebles watched, aghast, the man drove away in the Bentley.
Peebles turned to the security guard. “What do you want?” he said.
“I’m to escort you from the company’s house when you have retrieved your belongings,” he said.
Cursing under his breath, Peebles opened the front door of the house and walked in. The place was empty. All furnishings, draperies, and pictures had been removed. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom, his heels ech
oing on the bare tile floors. In the middle of the otherwise empty bedroom sat half a dozen suitcases, packed.
“I’ll give you a hand,” the guard said.
Shortly, Peebles was standing on the sidewalk, his luggage stacked beside him.
“Your house key,” the guard said.
Peebles handed it to him.
“I’ve been told to give you a message from your father-in-law: If you ever return to Britain he will make it his business to see that you regret it for the rest of your life.” He got into a car parked at the curb. “Do you want me to radio my office to call you a cab?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes,” Peebles said.
“Consider it done,” the guard said, and drove away.
Peebles stood on the sidewalk and tried to organize his thoughts, but it wasn’t working.
Finally the cab came, and the driver loaded his luggage.
He didn’t bother holding the door for Peebles, who let himself into the cab. “Where to, Mister?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Peebles said, staring out the window into the middle distance.
Chapter 58
The tape was suddenly ripped from Arrington’s mouth. “Ow, you son of a bitch!” she screamed. A blow caught the side of her head and knocked her off the sofa. Her eyes were still taped, and she couldn’t see it coming.
“Shut up until you’re spoken to,” Tommy Bruce said. “Does Barrington know where you are?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’ll be here any minute.” She took another blow, to the other side of her head.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said.
“What do you think, Tommy?” Charlie asked. “Are we going to have a visit from Barrington?”
“Nah,” Tommy said. “She just stopped by here for a minute to pick up something; she’s been living at his place. Isn’t that right, Arrington?”
Arrington said nothing. She hunched up her shoulders, hoping to avoid another blow.
“What are you doing now, Charlie?” Tommy asked. “I thought you wanted to fuck her.”
“I’m just addressing Federal Express packets to the New York Times and the IRS,” Charlie replied. “As soon as we confirm the money’s in the bank, I’m going to ship them. I’m sending one to the cops, too, just for the hell of it.”
Tommy laughed. “Why not? It’ll give us something to read about in the papers for months to come. I wish I could see Hickock’s face the first time the IRS calls.”
“There,” Charlie said, “all done. Now, let’s have a look at Miss Arrington.”
Arrington heard him coming toward her and she flinched in anticipation of another blow, but instead something clicked loudly, he grabbed her clothing, and she felt her blouse and bra being cut away.
“Not bad,” Charlie said, pushing her prone on the couch. “Now let’s see the rest.”
Arrington aimed a kick at his voice, but Tommy grabbed her ankles and held them while Charlie went to work on her skirt with his knife.
A car pulled up around the corner from Arrington’s apartment building and two young men got out. They were sharply dressed and finely barbered, and they moved with complete confidence. They walked around the corner and into the building.
Jimmy, the doorman, who was resting in a lobby chair, sprang to his feet. These men didn’t look as though they belonged in his building.
“How ya doin’?” one of the men said as he swung a pistol at Jimmy’s head. He stepped over to the prone doorman and held the pistol to Jimmy’s forehead. “Answer me fast, or I’ll spread your brains all over this nice floor. Where’s the passkey for Nine-A?”
“Desk drawer,” Jimmy managed to say. “There’s a tag on it.”
The other man opened the drawer. “Got it,” he said. “We better take this guy with us.” He grabbed Jimmy by the collar, hustled him across the room, and dumped him into the elevator.
“Nine, please,” his friend said, grinning. He hit Jimmy with his gun again, rendering him unconscious. Soon the elevator stopped on the ninth floor. He dragged the doorman so that his head lay in the path of the door. “That’ll hold the car for us,” he said, stepping over Jimmy and into the hall. Quickly, silently, the two men walked toward the apartment door.
Jimmy began to come to. He got an arm under him and pushed himself back into the elevator. Painfully, he reached up and pushed the button for the lobby.
Arrington was putting up the best fight she could with her hands taped behind her. She was naked now, and she struggled to get a foot free so that she could kick, but Tommy held them fast.
“Why don’t you just relax,” Charlie’s voice said softly. He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. Quickly she pulled her head back and aimed her forehead at the voice. There was a cry of pain as she connected, and something warm splashed onto her face. She managed to get a foot loose and kicked with all her might, connecting with something, she wasn’t sure what.
“The bitch broke my nose!” Charlie wailed. “I’m going to fuck her with the knife!”
Arrington continued to struggle, but she was losing. Then she heard the door open, and suddenly she was released.
“How ya doin’?” a strange voice said, followed by two dull thumps. She had seen enough movies to know what a silenced pistol sounded like.
Arrington rolled off the sofa and ran blindly in the direction of the bedroom; she knew she was there when she felt carpeting under her feet. She got behind the door and kicked it shut, then turned around and found the lock. One turn, and she was locked in. She ran into the bathroom, knocking a knee painfully against the toilet. There was a pair of scissors in the top drawer of the vanity; she got them out and began trying awkwardly to aim them at the tape holding her wrists. From the living room she heard two more thumps.
The first man straightened up. “Okay, that piece of business is taken care of. What about the girl?”
“We were told to take out any witnesses,” the second man said.
“Yeah, but didn’t you see? Her eyes had duct tape on them.”
“You’ve got a point.”
The first man walked to the bedroom door and tried it. “Locked. We’ll have to break it down.”
“That’s gonna be noisy,” the second man said. “These old buildings have solid doors.”
“You’re right,” the first man said.
“We’ve been here too long already; let’s get out now.”
Then someone spoke from the front door of the apartment. “Freeze!” the voice said.
Stone stood in a crouch, the.765 pistol fully extended in front of him. He saw, as if in slow motion, the man at the bedroom door start to turn, saw the gun in his hand. He fired once, knocking the man against the bedroom door, then immediately turned and got off another round at the second man, who was pointing a pistol at him. Simultaneously, the man jerked and spun, and Stone felt the breeze and hum of a bullet go past his ear.
Arrington heard the shots and a loud thump against the bedroom door, and she redoubled her efforts with the scissors. The tape was tearing now, and she forced her wrists apart until she could get a hand free. She ripped the tape off her eyes.
Still holding the pistol out in front of him, Stone stepped over the man closest to him and kicked his gun away from him. He performed the same operation with the man lying in front of the bedroom door, then felt for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. He turned to the other man, who was clutching his side with one hand and struggling to get to his feet. “Lie down,” Stone said. When the man continued to get up, Stone hit him with the gun. He went down and lay quiet. “Arrington!” he yelled. He looked around for her. The two Bruce brothers lay near the sofa, bullet wounds in the back of both heads. There was blood all over the floor. “Arrington!” he yelled again, and went into the kitchen. Nothing there.
He went to the bedroom door and tried it. Locked. He stood back, pivoted off his right foot, and drove the left into the door, just below the lock. The door burst open, and he rushed in
, the pistol out in front of him. Something was coming at him from his left side, and he hit the floor to get away from it, struggling to get the gun up. Something struck the floor near his head.
Then he saw he was aiming at a naked woman holding a baseball bat. “Arrington!” he shouted, throwing up an arm to ward off the blow.
She froze. “Stone? Where the hell have you been?”
He got to his feet, stuck the gun into his pocket, and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said.
She sagged into his arms. “It’s okay,” she replied. “As long as you made it.”
He laid her across the bed and pulled the bedspread over her. She seemed to have fainted. When he was sure she had a pulse and no wounds, he went back into the living room. The man he had hit was on his feet. Stone aimed the gun at his head. “I’m not going to tell you again to lie down! Spread-eagle, now!”
The man obeyed.
Stone frisked him, found a knife, threw it into the kitchen. There was a roll of duct tape on the kitchen counter; he went to the man and taped his hands behind his back. “You just relax,” he said. “I’m going to get you some help.”
He found the phone and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one,” a woman’s voice said. “Which emergency service do you require?”
“Police,” he replied.
“Police,” another woman’s voice said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
Stone looked around him, uncertain how to sum it up. “My name is Stone Barrington; I’m a retired police officer. There are four men shot at Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A, three dead, one wounded. I need an ambulance and the police.” She started to ask him some other questions, but he hung up and called Dino at the 19th Precinct.
“He’s on his way home,” a clerk said.
“Thanks.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s portable phone.
“Bacchetti,” Dino said.
