Shoot First (A Stone Barrington Novel)

by Stuart Woods

  “But you think Ivanov has left the country.”

  “I think maybe he has, but Beria hasn’t, and he could walk into your office, blow your brains out, and we couldn’t touch him.”

  “Well, he did get a look at me in that elevator, and he saw me get into my car.”

  “And he saw you following him, too, and he got your tag number, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Maybe you should go to England or to Paris, Stone. I mean, you have those houses, so pick one and get out of town.”

  “I already got out of town once, and it didn’t do a lot for me.”

  “Then call Mike Freeman at Strategic Services and get him to put some people on you for a while.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Stone said.

  “Listen, I’ve got another call to take, so I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

  “See you,” Stone said, then hung up.

  41

  Stone took a cab uptown and presented himself at room 212 at The Pierre. Meg answered the door, put her arms around his waist, pressed herself against him, and consented to be kissed. “How are you?” she asked finally.

  “Better than I was before I rang the bell,” Stone replied.

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY CHANG had just turned on his computer and the cameras when he saw a man let into the room. Ms. Harmon greeted him very, very warmly, then she led him to the living room sofa, and he sat.

  * * *

  —

  “KNOB CREEK, I presume,” Meg said, “and I had better presume correctly or call room service.”

  “That will be just fine,” Stone said, and she poured one for him, then a vodka for herself. She sat beside him on the sofa, and they drank.

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY FIGURED they would be having their drink, then going out. He fiddled with the sound and finally could overhear their conversation.

  * * *

  —

  “I’VE MISSED YOU,” Meg said.

  “I’ve missed you, too, and it’s only been twenty-four hours.”

  “I have an overwhelming desire to fuck you,” Meg said, “but I’ve ordered dinner for us here, and I don’t want to be interrupted by a room service waiter.”

  * * *

  —

  “WHOA!” Tommy said to himself. “This could get good.”

  * * *

  —

  MEG UNZIPPED STONE’S TROUSERS, freed him, and buried her face in his lap.

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY FELT that she was doing it to him; he couldn’t believe his luck.

  * * *

  —

  STONE LAID his head back and enjoyed himself while Meg continued. Shortly, he climaxed, and she relented. She tucked him back into his trousers and zipped him up. “There,” she said.

  “There, indeed,” Stone replied. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Well, since I came at the same time you did, just talk to me. After dinner, we’ll consider our options.”

  Stone took a deep breath and tried to restore his heartbeat to its pre-fellatio condition. A large swig of bourbon helped. They finished their drinks, and she poured them both another. The doorbell rang, and she called out, “Come in!”

  Tommy calmed himself. A waiter had appeared, pushing a cart, and he set it up by the windows. After that terrific first act, he was going to have to watch them eat dinner. He hadn’t expected a caller, he hadn’t expected the sex, and he hadn’t expected them to remain in the suite for dinner.

  * * *

  —

  THE WAITER SERVED their first course of seared foie gras and said that he would return to serve their second course.

  “How was your day?” Stone asked.

  “Very good. Margo Goodale and I completed all the co-op forms, and my accountant faxed me three years of tax returns and my financial statement, and you, Dino, and Arthur sent over your letters of recommendation. I have to pay to have their detective service do a background check on me, which is supposed to be happening tomorrow.”

  “That means a man will sit down at a computer and do a search for a criminal record, both federal and state. Have you committed any felonies or misdemeanors?”

  “None.”

  “Any DUIs?”

  “None.”

  “Any lawsuits against you active?”

  “None.”

  “Then he will so notify your board and collect his outrageous fee.”

  “It certainly was outrageous, for so little effort.”

  “Well, he had to pay for his computer and the software. Everybody has to make a living.”

  “Sometimes I have to think that everybody has to make a living off me.”

  “It’s what happens when you become suddenly wealthy in public. Everybody in the United States who reads the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, or any other newspaper subscribing to the Associated Press wire service now knows your approximate net worth, and a significant number of them are trying to figure out how to separate you from a portion of it by selling you some product or service. Another, hopefully smaller, number are trying to figure a way to swindle you out of some of it.”

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY WAS GETTING bored. He considered going down there, letting himself into the room, and shooting both of them at the table, but then the waiter returned, removed some of their dishes, and set new ones before them. Also, it would be unprofessional to make that sort of mess. He’d rather the bodies were discovered the following morning, when the maid entered to clean the suite.

  * * *

  —

  “I’VE HAD FIFTEEN or twenty e-mails trying to sell me a private jet,” Meg said.

  “That’s something you should consider,” Stone replied. “You’ve already seen, flying with me, how convenient it is to have your own airplane at your disposal.”

  “I have indeed,” she said. “What would your recommendation be?”

  “Your first consideration should be how far you are likely to fly and how often. Will your work take you, say, to Europe or the Far East, or will you most often just fly between San Francisco and New York?”

  “I don’t anticipate flying to the Far East, but I would like to travel in Europe.”

  “Well, a Citation Latitude will get you to London or Paris from New York, or to Hawaii from San Francisco.”

  “And how much does it cost?”

  “Between fifteen and twenty million, I should think, depending on the equipment you choose.”

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY WAS CONSIDERING shooting them again, but the waiter kept coming and going, and shooting him, too, seemed excessive. After all, he was being paid to shoot only one person.

  * * *

  —

  THE WAITER TOOK the tray table away and put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Meg took Stone by the hand and led him into the bedroom, where she proceeded to undress him.

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY HAD BEEN prepared to go downstairs as soon as the waiter was out of the picture, but now they were in the bedroom, and he thought he might as well watch the sex. As she undressed him, he caught sight of a shoulder-holstered pistol. He wasn’t going into that room if the guy was armed.

  * * *

  —

  SOON THEY were both naked and Meg led him to the bed and climbed on top of him. “Now,” she said, “let’s consider our options.”

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY SIGHED and settled down to watch the sex. He was not disappointed with what he saw.

  * * *

  —

  “IF YOU LIKE, I can recommend a consultant who will, for a fee, help you choose what you need
in terms of speed, range, and accommodations.”

  42

  Tommy woke up a little after seven AM; the camera was still on in the bedroom, and Harmon and Barrington were just waking up, too. In a moment, they were at it again.

  * * *

  —

  TOMMY WATCHED the performance and was again impressed. Then they phoned down for breakfast and did it again while they waited for room service. Tommy shaved, showered, and dressed and checked the camera again. They were finishing breakfast and talking about getting up. The man went to take a shower, and Ms. Harmon lay naked on the bed.

  Tommy heard the newspapers slide under the door, and he picked up the Daily News. There was a picture of a girl in a bikini, but a headline caught his eye. SUSPECT IN BELLINI MURDER IS RELEASED. Bellini? Who Bellini? Tommy turned to the designated inside page and read the brief story.

  The chief suspect in the murders of Gino and Veronica Bellini was released from jail yesterday, after a judge ruled that there was insufficient evidence to hold him. It is feared that Boris Ivanov, a Russian in the employ of that country’s UN mission, may have fled the country.

  Tommy stopped reading. “Fucking Gino is dead?” he asked himself. He read the remainder of the short piece. Fucking Gino was, indeed, dead. He put down the paper and thought about things. Gino must have sent him the package shortly before he cashed in his chips; Tommy was working for a dead guy. He considered the ethics of his situation.

  First of all, the guy in Ms. Harmon’s suite was probably Stone Barrington, the man at whose house she had been staying. Tommy knew nothing about him, had nothing against him, and was not being paid to kill him. Also, with two murders being investigated, his chances of being caught increased.

  Second, if he didn’t kill the woman, there would be no investigation at all; he could just go home, forget the whole thing, and spend the money. Fuck Gino. Maybe he would come back to haunt him, but he doubted it.

  Then Tommy heard Barrington’s voice. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Tommy looked at his iPhone; Barrington was pointing at Tommy, via the living room camera.

  “I don’t know,” Harmon replied. “Smoke detector?”

  “That’s not a smoke detector,” Barrington said, “and it’s not a CO2 detector, either.” He left the living room, and Tommy switched cameras. Barrington was looking up and pointing again. “There’s another one,” he said. “It’s a camera.”

  “Oh, my God,” Harmon said. “Somebody has been watching us?”

  “No doubt about it,” Barrington said. He got out his phone and called a number. “Bob, it’s Stone. How quickly can you get over to The Pierre? Good, I’ll be in room 212. Bring your tool kit. I’ll explain when you get here.” He hung up.

  “Well,” Harmon said, “that was quite an exhibition we gave for whoever was watching. Is this going to end up on the Internet?”

  “I doubt it,” Barrington replied, then he looked up at the camera and spoke to it. “Because then I’d have to find whoever did this and KILL the sonofabitch!”

  Tommy’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Sheila.”

  “Did you get to the bank yesterday?”

  “I did. Everything is just fine—the bills are paid, and so am I. There’s other good news, too. A guy just walked in and wants to get his multi-engine rating, but you’ve got the twin. He’s hot to trot, and we might be able to sell him an airplane, too. When are you coming home?”

  “I’m leaving the hotel shortly,” Tommy said. “Put him off until nine AM tomorrow.”

  “I think he’ll buy that, and even with the ninety grand I deposited, we could use the money.”

  “See you this afternoon.” He hung up and called Gene, his driver; Gene said he’d be out front in fifteen minutes. Tommy finished packing; he didn’t bother calling for a bellman since he just had his one bag and the weapons case. He gave some more thought to killing them both, but then he unscrewed the silencer from the pistol and packed them both in the weapons case. That settled his ethics problem: he didn’t have time to kill either of them.

  He left the room with his luggage, went to the elevator and pressed the button. The car arrived and he pressed the lobby button. The door opened and another man started to get into the car, but backed up to let Tommy out. He was carrying a good-sized toolbox. I’ll bet your name is Bob, Tommy said to himself.

  He walked toward the front door, and the man got onto the elevator. Gene was waiting at the curb; Tommy gave him his luggage and got into the car.

  “A successful trip?” Gene asked as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Well, I made some money,” Tommy replied.

  “That’s always a good idea,” Gene said.

  * * *

  —

  STONE ANSWERED the door and let in Bob Cantor, who was his genius tech guy. “Good morning, Bob.”

  “Morning, Stone.”

  Stone introduced Meg, who was sitting on the sofa.

  “What have we got?” Bob asked.

  Stone pointed up at the molding. “That’s not a smoke detector, is it?”

  “Nope, and it’s not a CO2 detector, either. It’s a camera, and a good one.”

  “We’ve got another one in here,” Stone said, leading him into the bedroom.

  Bob looked up at the camera. “You sure have.” He looked at the thoroughly unmade bed. “Were you here all night?”

  “Yes,” Stone said.

  “Did you turn off the lights?”

  “Not until we were ready to go to sleep.”

  “And I guess that wasn’t right away.”

  “Good guess. Can you yank those things out?”

  Bob dragged a chair over from the dressing table, stood on it, and pulled the camera off the wall. “I’ve used these things myself, although this is a newer model—beautiful color and high definition, you can see every pore.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Stone said.

  Bob hopped down. “The other one, too?”

  “Yes, but just a minute, I’ve got a question.”

  “I bet I know what it is,” Bob said. “Can I trace the camera to somebody?”

  “That’s the question,” Stone said.

  “The answer is no. However, as I was getting on the elevator, a guy was getting off, and two things about him struck me.”

  “What was that?”

  “I thought it was funny that, in a classy hotel like this, he was carrying his own luggage. Unusual.”

  “What else?” Stone asked.

  “In addition to a regular suitcase, he was towing a pretty big aluminum case, the kind that might contain guns or tools. Or both. And he was in a hurry, went right out to where a car was waiting for him.”

  “Did he introduce himself?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “I was afraid of that. Give me a description.”

  “About five-ten, a hundred and seventy, and he looked Asian—coal-black hair and slightly slanted eyes—maybe half-Asian. Very fit-looking, too, martial arts type.”

  “That’s all you got?”

  “No, I got a look at the luggage tag on the aluminum case. Joe Cross, Islamorada, Florida.”

  “You have just identified a dead person,” Stone said.

  “How do you know that?” Bob asked.

  “Because I saw him shot dead, in Maine, a few days ago.”

  “Well,” Bob said, “I guess somebody stole his tool kit.”

  They went back into the living room.

  “Let me guess,” Meg said. “You can’t tell who put the cameras in, and you can’t trace him.”

  “Not exactly,” Stone said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that, with a little luck, we might find the s
onofabitch.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Meg said. “Sort of. What do we do with him then?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far, yet,” Stone replied. “Meg, I think we should move you back into my house.”

  “I’ll start packing,” she replied.

  “Bob,” Stone said, “have you got a plastic bag? Might be worth trying to get some prints off those cameras.”

  “Sure thing,” Bob said, opening his toolbox. “I can do that for you, and since I know what my prints look like, there won’t be any mix-ups.”

  43

  Stone called Fred, who collected them and Meg’s luggage and drove them home. All the way home, Stone thought about the cameras and the man who had installed them.

  Fred took Meg’s luggage upstairs to her dressing room. Stone buzzed Joan.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Stone asked.

  “A simple inquiry into your health and well-being,” she said.

  “Thank you. You remember that time we used that private dick in Key West for that thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you got his name and number?”

  “I’ll need ten seconds,” Joan replied, then put him on hold and came back. “Not Key West—Sugarloaf Key,” she said.

  “That’s close enough.”

  “His name is Paul Toppino. Shall I get him for you?”

  “Please,” Stone said. He waited until she buzzed him.

  “Paul on line one.”

  “Paul?”

  “Stone?”

  “How are you?”

  “Just great. How ’bout you?”

  “Not bad. I need to find a guy in the Keys, maybe Islamorada.”