Fast and Loose

by Stuart Woods

  —

  STONE, DINO, AND CHARLEY met at Clarke’s and had a drink at the bar before going into the back room for dinner. Dino and Charley got on immediately. Stone was impressed, because Dino usually reserved immediate camaraderie for cops and ex-cops.

  “Thanks for clearing the street in front of the house,” Stone said to Dino, when he got a chance to interrupt.

  “No problem,” Dino said.

  “The security tires were a good move, I think.”

  “I don’t use anything else on my official vehicles.”

  “I bridled at the cost, but not anymore.”

  “Somebody tried to shoot your tires out?” Charley asked.

  “Your pal Jake Herman’s people. Dino had them scooped up, and they got a few hours in the lockup.”

  Charley chuckled. “I wish I could see Macher’s face when he finds out.”

  Dino chimed in, “Oh, that reminds me—you remember that other thing we talked about, that late-night visit?”

  “I do,” Stone said.

  “How about I schedule that for soon?”

  “I like the idea.”

  “I’m going to need a basis for a search warrant.”

  “I think I’ve got just the thing,” Stone said.

  Then they were called to their table.

  30

  Dino looked up from his steak. “Okay, what’s my probable cause for a search warrant?”

  “Thanks to Charley, here, I have two versions of Christian St. Clair’s will that Erik Macher and Tommy Berenson, his lawyer, colluded on, and the second version gives full operating power of the whole company to Macher. The first one didn’t mention him.”

  “I like it,” Dino said, taking a swig of his cabernet. “These two copies were stolen, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Stone said, “but the original computer files are still in St. Clair’s system. You can make your warrant for a search for the wills, which a reliable source told you existed, both physical and digital.”

  “I think that will fly,” Dino said. “Remind me to call somebody after I finish this steak.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Dino,” Charley said, “there’s a button somewhere in Macher’s office that, when pressed, will scrub all their computer files clean.”

  “Uh-oh. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know, somewhere in that room. Just keep Macher and anybody else there out of that office until you’ve had a chance to search the files.”

  “Have you got locations and file names for the files?”

  “Yes, you can print out the will there, then download them onto a thumb drive. I’m assuming you’ll take an IT guy along on your raid.”

  “Right.”

  “If he has any problems, he can reach me anytime on my cell.” Charley gave him his business card. “Macher lives on the top floor, in Christian St. Clair’s old apartment, very handsome. Something else you should know, his taste in women runs to call girls. I heard him say once that picking up and seducing the amateurs was too time-consuming, so he’s likely not to be alone when you bust in.”

  “There’s another charge you can add to your list,” Stone said.

  “Who else lives there?” Dino asked.

  “His secretary. Word around the office is, Macher likes her to be available for blow jobs, as well as her regular work. By the way, you want to keep her away from her desk and computer while you’re there. Cuff her to a doorknob or something.”

  “Are there any other bedrooms?”

  “There are several that are occasionally occupied by visiting business associates and others. It’s quite an elegant house, really.”

  “What about Jake Herman, Charley?” Stone asked. “Where does he live?”

  “He has an apartment in the neighborhood, but I’ve known him to stay the night at the mansion.”

  “Is he likely to offer resistance?”

  “Nah, Jake is ex-FBI. He knows the drill. Macher knows the drill, too, but he won’t like it. He could very well give you a hard time.”

  “I hope so,” Dino said, grinning.

  “So do I,” Charley said. “I wish I could be there to watch the raid.”

  “We’ll be doing a video,” Dino replied. “I’ll shoot you a copy so you won’t miss any of the action.”

  “Great!”

  “Forgive the change of subject,” Stone said, “but is anything happening on the investment front, Charley?”

  “I’ve had conversations with two companies on St. Clair’s list—both are good bets.”

  “What are they?”

  “DigiFlood is one. They make digital components for manufacturers. They’re particularly interesting right now because they’re working on a new kind of storage device that will be revolutionary. They need thirty million dollars to finish the development. The other is called Automobile Butler Services. They work on your car in your own garage or even parking space, if the weather is good. The great thing about them is that they’re authorized warranty agents for the more expensive cars. They’ve got a couple of dozen offices in the tristate area, but they need capital to expand nationwide.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “They’re both well managed and already profitable.”

  “Then move in whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’ve also got two new people, starting the first of the month, who I knew at Goldman, and they’ll bring their own ideas with them.”

  “Great.”

  “One thing I should mention, though. St. Clair has already made overtures to both DigiFlood and Automobile Butler Services, so we’re likely to make Macher angry again.”

  “Well, if he gets angry enough, maybe he’ll do something stupid that will allow us to neutralize him.”

  “As long as you know what’s happening.”

  “I’ll have a word with Mike about it.”

  Dino finished his steak.

  “You were going to call somebody,” Stone reminded him.

  “Yeah, an assistant DA who will get us our warrant.” Dino made the call and discussed his raid for a few minutes, then hung up. “Done,” he said. “He’ll see a judge in the morning, and we should be ready to go for tomorrow night.”

  —

  ON THE RIDE HOME, Charley spoke up. “Stone, would it be inconvenient for you if I stayed on in the apartment for a few months?”

  “Not at all—as long as you like.”

  “I’m going to look for something to buy, but right now I’d like to put my time into getting Triangle up and running.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’d like to pay rent. I can afford it.”

  “And I can afford not to collect it,” Stone said, “so forget it.”

  As they pulled into the garage, Fred said, “Mr. Barrington, the street seems to be clean of the trash we’ve had in the block the past few days.”

  “That’s good,” Stone said.

  “I expect Macher found it unprofitable,” Charley said.

  They drove into the garage and said good night.

  —

  STONE WENT UPSTAIRS and found a surprise waiting for him in his bed.

  “Good evening,” Marisa said. “I used my new key. Did you enjoy your boys’ night out?”

  “Not as much as I’m going to enjoy your company,” Stone said, getting out of his clothes and slipping into bed with her.

  She threw a leg over his and snuggled close. “Anything new in the world of skullduggery?”

  “I think the skullduggers are getting weary,” Stone replied. “The two guys out front have been withdrawn.”

  “Oh, good. May we dispense with the armed guards now?”

  “Let’s not be hasty about that,” Stone replied. “Maybe another week.”

  Then he did his duty.

  31

  Erik Macher gazed up at the girl on top of him. “How’s that, baby?” he asked.

  “Oooh, good!” she replied, as she was expected to. “Why don’t you just move me into
your apartment, and we can do this all the time? Looks like you’ve got plenty of room.”

  “Don’t ruin the mood,” Macher said, then the doorbell rang. He glanced at the bedside clock: three AM. “What the hell?” he said, sitting up and unseating the young woman.

  “What’s the matter?”

  The doorbell rang again, and there was a hammering on it, followed by muffled shouting.

  “Don’t you move,” Macher said. He reached into his bedside drawer and withdrew a Glock. He grabbed a robe, and as he departed his apartment, he slapped the panic button on his security system, and a siren began to wail. As he reached the first floor, there was a huge bang, a splintering sound, and the front door flew open, followed by a man with a steel ram, surrounded by uniformed police officers wearing body armor.

  “Drop the gun!” a cop yelled at him.

  Macher had forgotten the Glock in his excitement, and he opened his hand, allowing it to fall onto the stairs. “What the fuck is this?” he screamed.

  A cop handcuffed his wrist and fastened the other end to the banister rail. “What’s your security cancellation code?” the cop shouted.

  Macher told him, and the cop entered it into a keypad at the bottom of the stairs. The siren abruptly stopped. “I asked you, what the fuck is this?” Macher demanded anew.

  A detective in a suit stepped forward and handed him a paper. “This is a warrant, allowing us to search the premises.”

  “Search the premises for what?” Macher demanded, tossing the warrant aside.

  “Whatever the fuck we like,” the cop replied. “You’ve been served, now shut up and cooperate. Who else is in the house?”

  “My secretary lives on the second floor.” As if on cue, the woman appeared, one landing up, tying a robe around her. “And there’s a Ms… . oh, I don’t know what the hell her name is. She’s on the top floor in my bed … ah, apartment.”

  “Is that your office?” the detective asked, pointing at a set of double doors.

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” he shouted to his group, “execute the plan.” He pointed at a young man in civilian clothes. “You—on the computers, now.”

  “Gotcha,” the youth replied, heading for the double doors.

  Macher sat down on the stairs, the cold marble freezing his ass through the thin silk robe, picked up the warrant and began to read. “Shit!” he said to nobody in particular.

  —

  AS DAWN BROKE over the Upper East Side, the policemen began departing, carrying boxes of documents and other evidence. The IT man approached the detective in charge and held up a thumb drive. “Got everything worth having,” he said.

  “Go back to the precinct and print it all out,” the detective said, “then get yourself some breakfast and some sleep.”

  The detective walked over to Macher, who was still sitting on the stairs, handcuffed to the rail. “You got a permit for the piece?”

  “I have,” Macher said, “full carry.”

  The detective took out an iPhone and opened a departmental app, then tapped in the name. “Okay, you’re licensed,” he said a moment later. He uncuffed Macher, cleared the weapon and returned it to its owner. “Have a nice day,” he said.

  From the third floor, a young woman was heard to call out, “Do you want to go again? Or am I out of here?”

  Macher started up the stairs. “Out of here!” he shouted.

  —

  STONE WAS AT his desk when Dino called.

  “Good morning. How’d it go last night?”

  “We got the will,” Dino said, “and it’s been turned over to the DA, who will decide whether to prosecute. My guys are still slogging through the printout from St. Clair’s computers.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “Something occurred to me—you know this strong case thing that had the bomb in it that killed St. Clair?”

  “Yep, I know it, it lived in my safe for a couple of days.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  “It was a kind of briefcase, but bigger and thicker than the standard and covered in black leather. It had unconventional locks and a key that was a slab of titanium with some pointy things on it.”

  “Right, and was there some sort of procedure to unlock it without the bomb going off?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “What was the procedure?”

  “I don’t know,” Stone said, “I never tried to open it.”

  “And who had the strong case before St. Clair opened it and got his head handed to him?”

  “It was in the possession of Ed Rawls, at his house in Virginia, then Macher or some of his cohorts in his security firm broke into the house, roughed up Ed, and stole the case. Macher then took it to St. Clair and sat there in his office and watched while he opened it, then blooey!”

  “The strong case was a CIA thing, wasn’t it?” Dino asked.

  “Yes. Holly Barker, who was visiting me at the time, knew about it from her days with the Agency.”

  “And Rawls was CIA once, that’s where he got the case?”

  “Right.”

  “And,” Dino said, “Macher was CIA once, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he would have known something about the strong case and how it worked.”

  “Presumably.”

  “And yet he sat there and watched St. Clair open it and kill himself.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Doesn’t that sound to you like an awful good case for premeditated murder?”

  “Well,” Stone said, “if you can prove that Macher knew how the case worked and withheld that piece of information from St. Clair, yes.”

  “Did Macher or his men ask Rawls anything about the case when they took it from Rawls?”

  “Ed says no, and in their rush he, ah, forgot to mention it to them.”

  “I’m liking this,” Dino said.

  “Then why don’t you have a chat with the DA and see what he thinks?”

  “You know,” Dino said, “I believe I’ll do that.”

  “Dino,” Stone said, “if you can get Macher locked up without bail, that would solve a number of problems for me and my clients the Carlssons.”

  “Well, Stone,” Dino said, “this department is always ready to oblige you.” He hung up.

  32

  Stone was having lunch in the Strategic Services restaurant, Safe House, with Charley Fox.

  “How’d the raid go?” Charley asked.

  “As expected,” Stone said. “They got the will, and the DA has it now. I hear he has forwarded it to the Bar Association and to the chairman of the board of St. Clair. Now we just wait for the explosions. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to hear them in your office with the doors and windows closed.”

  “I would enjoy that,” Charley said. “Now, my turn. After a few conversations, we have an agreement in principle for the investments in DigiFlood and Automobile Butler. I’ve spoken to Herb Fisher, and he’s at work on the contracts.”

  “That went well!”

  “Yes, it did. I want to send out a press release that combines the news of the investments and the forming of Triangle and my appointment as president. That okay with you and Mike?”

  “Sure. A nice piece in the Journal and the Times will probably invite new opportunities for investment.”

  “That would be good. I’m going to need seventy million in cash to close these two deals.”

  “I’ll get on that. It should be in the Triangle account in a few days.”

  “How much capital do we have access to? I need to know so that I can have intelligent conversations with prospects.”

  “I think we can manage half a billion from our various sources, so for the moment, use that as a ceiling.”

  “Will it all come from you and Mike Freeman?”

  “These first two deals will. As we need more cash, I can call on Marcel duBois, in Paris, and a client of mine named Laurence Hayward.”
/>   “I know who duBois is—the Warren Buffett of Europe. Who’s Hayward?”

  “He won six hundred and twelve million in the lottery a few months ago.”

  “Ah, yes, I read about that in the papers.”

  “The good news is, he hasn’t spent it all yet, and he’s looking for investments.”

  “I’ll be happy to help him.”

  —

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Erik Macher sat down at his desk in rather good spirits. He had spent a couple of nice days on the yacht with a girl, and since the raid, nothing terrible had happened.

  He found the Wall Street Journal and the Times on his desk, and he was alarmed to see a photograph of Charles Fox staring up at him from the front page of the Journal. He grabbed the paper and began to read the article.

  Jake Herman had the misfortune to rap on Macher’s office door at that very moment. He made to withdraw, but Macher had spotted him. “Get in here!” he yelled.

  Jake crossed the twenty feet to Macher’s desk cautiously, then took a seat, largely because his knees were weak.

  “Have you seen this?” Macher demanded, slapping the Journal.

  “Seen what?” Jake asked weakly.

  “That fucking Fox!”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s stolen the two companies we were going to bid on!”

  “How could he do that?”

  “With money! It says here that he’s formed a new investment partnership called Triangle Partnership, and that he’s backed by Strategic Services, the big security company, and Stone Barrington, a partner at Woodman & Weld!”

  “That’s very bad news, Erik. How can I help?” Jake very much hoped that would be a rhetorical question, but he was disappointed.

  Macher got up and closed his office door, then returned and sat down at his desk. He stared at the leather tooling before him for a long moment before he spoke. “Jake,” he said, in a low, earnest voice, “I want Fox dead.”

  Oh, Jesus, Jake thought. He had been afraid it might come to this, but it turned out to be worse.

  “Barrington, too,” Macher said.

  “Erik,” Jake said in his calmest possible voice, “one hit is a difficult enough thing. Two hits is almost certainly a one-way ticket to Sing Sing.” He paused before adding, “For both of us.”

  Macher began blinking rapidly, always a bad sign. “It’s worth the risk for me,” he said.