Dirty Work

by Stuart Woods

  “You gotta get me out of here,” he said, tears in his eyes.

  “Take it easy, Herbie,” Stone said. “Nobody’s going to kill you.”

  “You haven’t seen the guys I’m sharing a cell with,” Herbie replied. “Now you gotta get me out of here.”

  “Herbie, do you remember the little chat we had yesterday?” Stone asked. “The one where I told you that if you fucked up, you were on your own?”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Herbie cried.

  “Keep your voice down. Now I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Get me out of here first,” Herbie said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  “Herbie, unless you tell me what happened and tell me right now, I’m going to walk out of here and let you rot in jail.”

  “You can’t do that! You gotta get me out! I can’t be in jail.”

  “Herbie, listen to me very carefully,” Stone said. “Take a few deep breaths and calm down.”

  Herbie sucked air.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.”

  Herbie appeared to be a little calmer.

  “Sometime tonight, you’re going to be arraigned in night court. The charges could include manslaughter or negligent homicide, breaking and entering, and attempted burglary. Do you understand?”

  “But I didn’t kill anybody!” Herbie cried. “You gotta get me out of here!”

  “Shut up and listen. At the arraignment, a lawyer will represent you, and you’ll plead not guilty to all charges. Then bail will be set, and you’ll get out. You’ll be having breakfast at home.”

  “You’re going to represent me?” Herbie asked plaintively.

  “No, another lawyer will. You are not to mention my name to him or anyone else. Do you understand?

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I want you to tell me exactly what happened tonight. Start when you entered the building.”

  Herbie took a couple more breaths. “The downstairs door was open—like, ajar, you know? All I had to do was push it open.”

  “Good, that helps with the breaking-and-entering charge.”

  Then I took the elevator to the sixth floor, like you said, and I found a door to the roof. When I went out onto the roof, it locked behind me and that scared me, because I was stuck up there. I was going to have to shinny down a drainpipe or something.”

  “Okay, you got onto the roof. Then what happened?”

  “The apartment under the skylight was dark for a few minutes, then, a little before nine, a light came on, and I could see inside.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A girl was in the room and she was setting up one of those portable massage tables, you know?”

  “I know. Go on.”

  “Well, she set everything up, and she seemed to be real careful about everything in the room. She was turning lights on and off, until she got them the way she wanted them. Then she spread out sheets and stuff on the table.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Then, a little after nine, this guy arrived, and he took off his clothes. They both did, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did they kiss or embrace?”

  “Just a peck on the cheek and a pat on the ass.”

  “Did you photograph that?”

  “No, not yet. I was getting my gear ready.”

  Stone resisted the temptation to yell at him. “Go on, what happened next?”

  “Then the guy got on the table, facedown, so I figured it wouldn’t do any good to shoot him, if I couldn’t see his face.”

  “So you still didn’t take any photographs?”

  “No, not yet. So, anyway, the girl was rubbing him all over, and he was kind of squirming. Then he turned over on his back and I could see his face.”

  “So you started photographing him?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Herbie, did you take any photographs at all?”

  “Sure, yeah, I did.”

  “When?”

  “I’m coming to that. Anyway, she starts to work on his thing, you know, and he’s writhing around, but my angle wasn’t so good, so I crawled out onto the skylight so I could get a better shot. It looked strong enough to hold me.”

  “So, when you got a better angle, did you start shooting?”

  “Yeah. I took a couple of wide shots with the thirty-five-millimeter lens, then I heard—no, I guess I felt—this creaking under me, you know?”

  “Go on, Herbie.”

  “So I stopped shooting and started thinking about getting off that skylight.”

  “You stopped shooting?”

  “Well, yeah, the skylight was sounding like it was going to break, so I had to get off it.”

  “Did you get off it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “I was kind of backing up, and the skylight creaked again, and the girl looked up, right at me.”

  “Did you photograph her face?”

  “I’m not sure. It all started happening very fast,” Herbie said.

  “Then what happened?”

  “The guy was just lying there, like he was done and had fallen asleep, the way you do, you know? And the girl started backing away from the table.”

  “Yes, then what happened?”

  “Then the skylight caved in and I started falling into the room.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

  “Well, I must have been out for a little while, and when I came to, I was lying on top of this guy, and he was dead.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stone said. “How do you know he was dead?”

  “Because he was just kind of staring up with these dead eyes. He wasn’t blinking or anything.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Well, I got to my feet and brushed glass and stuff off me and kind of walked around to see if anything was broken. Anything of mine, I mean.”

  “But you were all right?”

  “Yeah, but the guy was dead. I think I might have broken his leg, though.”

  “When you fell on him?”

  “Yeah. I fell on his legs.”

  “That shouldn’t have killed him.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I didn’t kill the guy; I couldn’t have.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I heard all these guys coming,” Herbie said. “It sounded like a lot of them coming up the stairs.”

  “They didn’t use the elevator?”

  “No.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I figured it was the cops, so I looked around for someplace to hide my camera, and I saw this wood box by the fireplace. So I went over and opened it and took out a log, and I put my camera inside and put the log back on top of it. I was looking for another way out of the room when the door opened and all these guys came in.”

  “Were they cops?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Were they in uniform?”

  “No. They looked like detectives, in plain clothes.”

  “And what did they do?”

  “A couple of them grabbed me and threw me up against the wall, and a couple more went over to see about the naked guy on the table. I heard one of them say his leg was broken, and another one said he was dead.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Then they left.”

  “They left? You mean they left the apartment and left you alone there?”

  “Yeah. One of them said, ‘You stay put.’ So I did.”

  “And then what?”

  “I tried to find another way out of the apartment, except by the door, but there wasn’t one. So I sat down on a chair and looked at the dead guy for a minute. Then the cops arrived. This time they had uniforms. And guns. And they arrested me and took me to a police station, where they put me in a van with some really badass guys and brought me here.”
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br />   “So the detectives just walked out, and a few minutes later the cops came?”

  “Yeah, except I’m not so sure they were detectives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when they were talking to each other, they had funny accents.”

  “What kind of accents?”

  “The kind you hear on PBS, on that show Mystery.”

  “You mean English accents?”

  “Yeah, like that. Like English cops.”

  Stone was stumped. “Now listen: I’m going to get you a lawyer and arrange bail. If your lawyer asks about your relationship with me, you tell him I’m a friend of your uncle Bob, who’s out of town, and when you thought you needed a lawyer, you called me. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you say nothing about our meeting yesterday. If he wants to know what you were doing on that roof, tell him you’re a freelance photographer, and you were trying to take a picture you could sell to the tabloids. Nobody hired you. Got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When bail is set and you get out, go home and get some sleep. I’m going to be looking into this, and I’ll call you when I find out something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Herbie, have you ever been arrested?”

  “No, not until tonight.”

  “Never? Drunk driving? Burglary? Disturbing the peace? Anything? They’ll find out if you have been, and it will make a difference.”

  “Never. I’m clean.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  “Yeah, I run a one-hour photo processing machine at a drugstore in Brooklyn.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Do you live with anybody?”

  “I got a little place near the drugstore.”

  “Tell all this to your lawyer.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I haven’t picked him out yet. I’m going to go and do that now.”

  “When will I get out of here?”

  “When they call your case. It could be two or three hours, there’s no way to tell right now. Your lawyer may be able to find out.” Stone pressed the button to call the guard. “Now go back to your cell and keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to anybody about why you’re here, and don’t form any friendships with your cellmates. Any one of them will sell you out for a pack of cigarettes.”

  “Okay.”

  The guard came and took Herbie away, and Stone went upstairs to the courtroom.

  7

  Stone walked into the courtroom and looked around. He saw Carpenter sitting in the second row, apparently rapt, and he kept looking until he found his man, waiting with a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit who was about to be arraigned.

  Tony Levy was short, stocky, and crafty. He earned his living as a lawyer by hanging around the courts, picking up cases on the fly. Stone had met him half a dozen times in the courthouse, and he was perfect for tonight’s purpose. He reached across the railing and tapped Levy on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Stone,” Levy said, smiling and offering his hand. “I haven’t seen you down here for a while.”

  “I try to stay uptown,” Stone said. “I’ve got a case for you. Can you talk?”

  Levy turned back to his client, who was sporting a full set of restraints. “Don’t go anywhere for a minute,” he said, then he waved Stone to the side of the courtroom and led him through a door into a small conference room. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nephew of a friend of mine—you know Bob Cantor?”

  “Ex-cop? Yeah, I had him on the witness stand a few times.”

  “His nephew, name of Herbert Fisher, is downstairs awaiting arraignment on charges of man two, B and E, and attempted burglary.”

  “Nice,” Levy said.

  “He was apparently taking some bedroom shots for a divorce case, and he fell through a skylight and onto a guy who was getting a very thorough massage from a young lady.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Right. Trouble is, when Herbie came to, the guy was dead.”

  “And that’s the man two?”

  “Right, and it sounds wrong because Herbie fell on his legs. The cops came and took him away. I can work on reducing the charges later, but right now I just want him bailed. I’ll call Irving Newman and arrange that, so his man in the court will be ready for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Herbie is twenty-two, no priors, has a job and an apartment. I figure twenty-five grand for bail, but I’ll be prepared for more, if necessary.”

  “Okay, seems straightforward. A grand will buy me.”

  “I’ll send you cash by messenger tomorrow,” Stone said. “I don’t want my name on any paper connected with this. In fact, I don’t want to be associated with it in any way. Understand?”

  “I read you loud and clear, Stone. I guess the partners at Woodman and Weld would frown on Herbie’s sort of activity.”

  “They like me to stay out of night court, unless it’s their client,” Stone replied. “So I’m getting out of here now. Call me on my cell if there are any problems you can’t deal with. The kid is scared silly, and he needs to sleep in his bed tonight.”

  “I’ll do everything but tuck him in,” Levy said.

  Stone walked to where Carpenter was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and beckoned her to follow.

  “Enjoy yourself?” he asked when they were outside the courtroom in the corridor.

  “It’s fascinating,” she said. “When does your case come up?”

  “It’s not my case. I’m just doing a favor for a friend. Another lawyer will represent the guy.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said.

  “Hello?” The voice didn’t sound sleepy. Irving Newman, Stone’s favorite bail bondsman, was accustomed to being awakened in the night.

  “Irving, it’s Stone Barrington.”

  “Stone, you okay? What’d they charge you with?”

  “Thanks, Irving, I’m fine, and it’s not me,” Stone said, chuckling. “I’m down at night court. You know Bob Cantor?”

  “Ex-cop?”

  “Yeah. His nephew, one Herbert Fisher, is coming up tonight on man two, B and E, and attempted burglary. I figure bail will be twenty-five, but let’s be ready with more, just in case.”

  “I’ll call my guy in court,” Irving said. “You putting up your house?” This was Irving’s idea of a joke.

  “Yeah, sure, Irving. Call my secretary in the morning, and she’ll messenger you twenty-five hundred in cash. We never talked, okay?”

  “Of course not. Who the hell is this, anyway?” Irving hung up.

  Stone closed his phone and tucked it away. He took Carpenter’s arm and led her from the courthouse to his waiting car.

  “So, what’s this all about, and why wouldn’t you tell me on the way down?” Carpenter asked.

  “It’s strictly need-to-know,” Stone said. “You know about that in your trade, right?”

  “Well, I already know your client’s name and the charges, don’t I? And Irving is arranging bail.”

  “Herbie is not my client. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.”

  “Somehow, I think the favor extends back to earlier in the evening,” Carpenter said. “You were looking at your watch all night, and you were clearly expecting that phone call, but not what you heard.”

  Stone pointed at the driver and put a finger to his lips.

  “All right,” she said. “When we get home. I’m not going to bed with you until I know all.”

  Carpenter stood at the foot of the bed, her robe dangling invitingly open, revealing a slim, well-buffed body. “So tell me the whole story.”

  Stone stared, and he was very ready for her. “Oh, come to bed,” he groaned.

  She tied the robe firmly. “Not until I hear it.”

  “This is blackmail,” Stone said.

  “No, it’s extortion. As a lawyer, you should know the difference.”
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br />   “Oh, all right,” Stone said. “I arranged for a photographer to take dirty pictures of a married man and an unmarried lady in compromising positions. The photographer got too enthusiastic and fell through a skylight onto the man, who somehow died. The cops came and took the photographer away.”

  Carpenter looked very interested. “Who was the dead man?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, Stone.”

  “Oh, all right. It was a compatriot of yours, one Lawrence Fortescue, married to a sometime client of mine.”

  Her face became expressionless. “How dead is he?”

  “All the way,” Stone replied. “Herbie couldn’t understand it, because he fell on the guy’s legs. No reason for him to be dead. Something else funny, a bunch of apparent cops in plain clothes showed up in no time at all, and at least one of them had a British accent, according to Herbie, who learned everything he knows about British accents watching Brit cop shows on TV.”

  “What happened to the woman involved?”

  “Funny, I don’t know,” Stone said. “Herbie was out for a short time. She must have departed the premises, which, given the circumstances, was a wise move.”

  “I need to use the phone in the next room,” Carpenter said. “And don’t you dare listen in.”

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  “In a minute,” she replied, opening the door. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

  Stone watched the light on the phone come on and resisted the temptation to listen in. He was still watching the light ten minutes later, when he fell asleep.

  8

  A full bladder woke Stone early in the morning, and he had relieved himself and crawled back into bed before he realized he was alone. He raised his head from the pillow. “Carpenter?” he called. No answer.

  Stone struggled from the bed and looked in the bathroom, then in his study. She was gone, but her bags were still there. He stumbled back to bed, but as he lay there, his unconscious began to reveal what it had come up with during the night. After a few minutes of communing with his psyche, Stone sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Ten past nine, and he had slept like—excuse the expression—a stone.