Dirty Work
Page 22
Dino went back across the street, and they continued their walk downtown, inspecting every woman they encountered. Once, Dino showed his badge and asked a woman for ID, then she continued uptown, apparently livid.
At Seventy-second Street, they met the four detectives coming the other way, and Dino’s car caught up with them.
“Why do I think she was going uptown?” Dino asked.
“Because she was walking away from the Four Seasons,” Stone replied.
“What’s uptown from Seventy-third?” Dino asked.
“A couple of hotels: the Westbury and the Carlyle.”
“It’s worth a try,” Dino said. “You four guys take the Westbury. Get the manager to give you a list of every single woman staying in the hotel and question every one of them who even remotely matches the description. Stone, you and I will take the Carlyle.” They got into Dino’s car and started uptown.
“This isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Stone said. “She’s got to be sleeping somewhere, and the Carlyle is about the last place you’d look.”
“The worst idea I ever had was showing up with you in Bryant Park yesterday,” Dino said.
The car stopped, and they got out.
“You know anybody here?” Dino asked, as they went in through the Madison Avenue entrance of the hotel.
“The manager,” Stone replied. “He won’t be here this time of night, but I can drop his name.”
“Never mind, I’ll just drop my badge,” Dino replied as they approached the front desk.
Stone’s cell phone vibrated, and he flipped it open. “Hello?”
“It’s Carpenter,” she said.
52
Stone was surprised how glad he was to hear from her.
“Where are you?”
“With the director of the FBI at a government flat in the Waldorf Towers.”
“Stay there. It’s dangerous everywhere else.”
“I intend to, for the moment. Have you spoken to Dino?”
“I’m with Dino.”
“Is Sir Edward dead? Is it confirmed? These people won’t tell me anything.”
“It’s confirmed.”
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“Well, yes.”
“Ask Dino where I can claim his body.”
“At the city morgue, but after a postmortem.”
“Is there any way to avoid that? I’d like to get him home.”
“Ask the director. He can probably call somebody.”
“He’s very annoyed at everyone in the New York City government, from Dino to the mayor.”
“That’s because Dino wouldn’t let him play in his pond, and the commissioner and, presumably, the mayor backed up Dino.”
“Something like that. Apparently, he has all these men in black with guns, and he can’t use them.”
“That always annoys the FBI.”
“Will you come and see me here?”
“The FBI would probably shoot me if I tried.”
“I want to see you. I need to see you.”
“Don’t you think it would be a little crowded in a hotel suite with you, me, and the director all there?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Tell me, was Mason on the scene when Marie-Thérèse’s parents were killed?”
She paused. “Sort of. He was in a van nearby.”
“Then you’d better tell him to watch his ass. Who else was there, who’s still alive?”
“Just the two of us.”
“If I were you, I’d order up an airplane to an airport other than Kennedy and get out of the country. She knows where you’ve been camping out in New York. You’d be safer in London.”
“I’ll think about it. Does she know I’ve stayed at your house?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I’ll call you later, on your cell phone.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, but I don’t know when.”
“Whenever, just call.” Stone hung up. “Carpenter’s a little stressed,” he said.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
The duty manager came to the front desk.
Dino showed him a badge. “I’m Lieutenant Bacchetti. I need a list of all the women staying in the hotel who are traveling alone.”
“What for?” the man asked.
“There may be a lady murderer in your hotel, and I’d like to arrest her before she kills some of your guests or staff.”
“Just a minute,” the man said, then went to a computer terminal. “We’ve got three.”
“Do you know them by sight?”
“I know Mrs. King, from Dallas. She’s stayed here before. And Ms. Shapiro, from San Francisco. I don’t know Mrs. Applebaum, from Chicago.”
Dino gave him the description.
“Both Mrs. King and Ms. Shapiro fit the general description,” the manager said.
“I want to speak to both of them, but I don’t want them to know we’re the police,” Dino said. “And find me somebody who knows Mrs. Applebaum by sight.”
“Just a minute.” The manager went away for a moment and came back with another man. “This is the concierge. He knows Mrs. Applebaum, and she’s in her sixties.”
“All right, here’s what we do,” Dino said. “You make up a story that gets both women out of their rooms for long enough for us to get a look at them.”
“I could tell them we have a small fire in a suite near them, and ask them to leave their rooms for a few minutes.”
“Where will you move them?”
The manager checked his computer. “I have empty suites near both of them,” he said.
“Get us some hotel coveralls and a toolbox,” Dino said. “Let’s start with Ms. Shapiro.”
The manager took Dino and Stone into his office and ordered coveralls for them, then he picked up the phone and called the room. “Ms. Shapiro, this is the duty manager speaking. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a small electrical fire in the suite below you, and I’m going to have to move you temporarily to a room down the hall while the electrician checks your room. . . . Yes, I’m really very sorry. May I bring him upstairs? . . . Thank you.” He turned to Dino. “Ready?”
Dino and Stone stood on either side of the manager while he rang the doorbell. Each had his hand on a gun.
The door opened and a woman in a dressing gown greeted them.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the manager said.
“Glad to help,” she replied.
She had a very large, and quite beautiful nose, Stone thought. He looked at Dino and shook his head.
Dino put his cell phone to his ear. “Yes? Thank you.” He turned to the manager. “The problem’s been fixed,” he said. “We won’t have to disturb Ms. Shapiro.”
“That’s good news,” the manager said. “Again, I’m very sorry, Ms. Shapiro.”
She smiled and closed the door.
Dino handed the man his cell phone. “Now, Mrs. King,” he said.
The manager called the front desk and asked for Mrs. King’s suite. “No answer,” he said. “She must be out.”
“You got a passkey?” Dino asked.
“Yes, but you realize it would be an illegal search.”
“Not with your permission.”
The man handed over the key. “It’s two floors up—nineteen-seventeen.”
“Thanks,” Dino said. “I’ll return this to you. Let’s go, Stone.”
Downstairs, in the Café Carlyle, Marie-Thérèse was deep in conversation with a man at the bar.
Musicians began taking their places at the opposite side of the room, and a voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Café Carlyle is proud to present, in his thirtieth season at the Carlyle, Mr. Bobby Short!”
The music began, and Marie-Thérèse and her new acquaintance turned toward the stage.
53
Carpenter dialed Mason’s cell phone and he answered immediately. “Speak,” he said.
“At a restaurant called La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, at Sixty-fifth Street.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“I have news, but don’t react.”
“Go.”
“Architect is dead.”
“Really?” he drawled, in his Etonian accent. “Anyone we know involved?”
“La Biche shot him in the men’s room at the Four Seasons.”
“Goodness gracious. Who’s next in line?”
“You and I.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like that much.”
“I didn’t think so. I think she followed him from the firm offices, so don’t go back there.”
“Makes sense. Any suggestions?”
“Don’t go back to your hotel, either.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mason said, sighing.
“Good idea.”
“Do you have any plans?”
“I think we should get an RAF airplane over here and get out. I’d feel more comfortable at home.”
“Would you? I’m not sure I agree. After all, our, ah, friend is here, isn’t she? I should think we’d have more luck making a connection with her right here in the Big Apple.”
“You might not like the connection.”
“Leave that to me.”
“I’ll be on my cell phone. Let’s stay in touch.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Waldorf Towers, in the director’s company flat.”
“How cozy.”
“Don’t make bad jokes. Stay in touch.”
“Righto.”
Mason hung up and gazed at the young FBI agent sitting across the table from him. “There’s been a spot of bother. My governor is deceased.”
“Well, at his age . . .”
“It wasn’t a coronary.”
The young man dug out a cell phone.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Mason said. “They’ll just put you to work. They’ll get in touch if they need you.”
The agent smiled and pocketed his cell phone.
Mason leaned forward. “It’s been suggested that I shouldn’t go home. Mind if I bunk with you tonight?”
The agent smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
Carpenter went back into the suite’s living room, where the director and his deputy were on separate phones.
“I’m getting zero cooperation from the New York police and the local administration,” the director was saying. “It might help if you called the mayor, sir.” He took the phone away from his ear when the reaction came. “Sir, I think you should consider the reaction in the press when they find out that a high figure in British intelligence has been murdered while in the company of a high American official. . . . Well, you have a point. The press will never have heard of Sir Edward, unless, of course, the NYPD decides to tell them who he is. I think that if you called the mayor, we might be able to keep this as the murder of a foreigner in a restaurant, nothing more. . . . Thank you, sir.” He hung up and sighed.
“Problems, Director?”
“Call me Jim, Felicity.” He patted the sofa next to him. Carpenter took a nearby chair, instead. “Jim it is.”
“The attorney general doesn’t want to get involved,” the director said.
“One can hardly blame him,” Carpenter replied. “I don’t think you need be concerned about the press’s treatment of this event. We go to some lengths to see that our own management’s names are never published, and the only member of the NYPD who knows who he is is Lieutenant Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth Precinct. I don’t think he’ll be loose-lipped.”
“Bacchetti, yes. I’ve heard of him. Somebody recommended that I recruit him in a management position. What do you think?”
“He’s a good man.”
“Maybe this would be a good time to broach the subject with him.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
The director stood up, an empty glass in his hand. “Can I get you a Scotch?”
“No, thank you, sir. Officially, I’m still on duty.”
“What has London had to say about all this?”
“I have a call in to the home secretary, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s the middle of the night there, and I doubt if his duty officer has the nerve to wake him. There’s not much he can do, anyway, and I’d rather be free to act without his orders inhibiting me.”
“Are you planning something?”
“I’m planning to react, if I get the opportunity. I don’t know if I will.”
“Well, you’re safe here with me,” the director said, pouring himself another Scotch.
“Thank you, sir, that’s very reassuring.”
“How well did you know Sir Edward?”
“I’ve known him all my life. He and my father served together.”
“Then I suppose my personal condolences are in order.”
“Not really, sir. Sir Edward was a shit, and I won’t miss him.”
Stone and Dino stood outside the door of Suite 1917.
“Ready?” Dino asked.
“Whenever you are,” Stone replied, gripping the gun in his pocket.
Dino rang the bell. No answer. He rang it again. “What the hell,” he said, slipping the passkey into the lock.
54
Stone followed Dino into the suite, gun in hand.
“Hello?” Dino called. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody home?” He walked quickly to the bedroom door, flattened himself against the wall, and nodded to Stone.
Stone pushed the door open with his foot and stepped tentatively into the room. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody there?”
Dino put a foot against his backside and pushed him into the bedroom.
“Just like old times,” Stone said. “First through the door again.”
“You have a lousy memory,” Dino said, following him into the room.
They looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
“Check the closet,” Dino said.
“You think she’s in there? You check it.”
Dino opened the closet door, and the light came on. Inside hung half a dozen outfits. “She travels pretty light, for a woman.”
Stone pointed at the upper shelf, where three wigs rested on plastic forms. “Not every woman travels with that much hair.”
“Okay,” Dino said, “let’s turn it over, but leave everything exactly as it is.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Evidence. I’d love to find the weapon she’s been using.”
“It’s probably tucked into her bra.”
“I’m willing to look there.”
They went to work.
Downstairs in the Café Carlyle, Bobby Short’s performance was drawing to a close. The applause was long and warm.
“Well,” the man next to her at the bar said. “Can I buy you a nightcap?”
“I’m staying here,” she said. “Why don’t you let me buy you one upstairs? There’s a bar in my suite.”
He held out a hand. “I’m Jeff Purdue. You’re on.”
“I’m Darlene King. Right this way.”
They fell in with the crowd leaving the café.
“I take it you’re not a New Yorker?” he said.
“I’m a Texan, sugar.”
“Dallas?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do down there?”
“My husband’s in the oil business.”
“You have a husband? I hope he’s in Dallas.”
“He sure is. If I know him, he’s in bed with his secretary right this minute.”
His hand dropped from her waist to her ass. “What you need is a little revenge,” he said.
“Believe me, I know the deep satisfactions of revenge,” she replied.
Stone stopped looking. “That’s it. There’s nothing more.”
“There’s a safe in the closet,” Dino said. “I’ll ca
ll the manager. We’ll get it opened.”
“It’s late,” Stone said, looking at his watch. “We don’t want her to walk in on us.”
“I need some evidence.”
“She’s obviously carrying the weapon.”
“We don’t even know this is her suite,” Dino said.
“It’s her suite,” Stone said.
“How do you know?”
“Because when I met her the first time, she was wearing a red wig that’s now on the shelf of her closet.”
Dino looked at his watch. “Let’s get out of here and set up surveillance.”
“Okay.”
They let themselves out of the suite and headed for the elevators.
Marie-Thérèse and her new friend had made their way out of the café crowd and into the lobby. As they rounded a corner, headed for the elevators, she stopped and stepped back. She had just seen Stone Barrington and that police lieutenant step off the elevator into the lobby, and they were wearing workmen’s coveralls.
“Something wrong?” Purdue asked.
“I just remembered what a mess my suite is. Where are you staying?”
“At the Waldorf, five minutes from here in a cab.”
“Why don’t we go there?” she asked.
“Fine with me.”
She led him back past the café and out the Madison Avenue exit, where a couple of cabs waited at the curb. In a moment, they were driving away.
He leaned over and kissed her on the neck, cradling a breast in his hand.
She didn’t react, just looked straight ahead, thinking fast. The cab turned onto Fifth Avenue.
He pinched a nipple hard. “What do I have to do to get your attention?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said, patting him on the knee. “My mind was elsewhere for a moment. What do you do, Jeff?”
“I’m with the State Department, on the U.S. delegation to the United Nations. I spend two weeks a month in New York.”
“How very interesting,” she said, turning toward him with new interest. “So your wife’s back in Washington?”
“She usually comes with me, so she keeps some clothes here. But she had some meetings this week.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” she said, kissing him.
He ran his fingers through her hair, and it came away in his hand.