by Stuart Woods
“Do you know in which apartment?”
“I’ve lived here for six years, and I never heard of him,” she said. “Try another building.”
“What are you cooking, there?” the agent asked.
“Scrambled eggs. Want some?”
“No, thanks, it just looks like a lot of scrambled eggs for one person.”
“I’m hungry,” she said. “Make up your mind.”
“Good day to you,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“And to you,” she said. She turned and kicked the door shut, then went back to the kitchen, set down the eggs, and opened the window. “Eddie,” she called. “The eggs are ready, and the coast is clear.”
“Coming,” Eddie called back.
51
Washington, D.C., police chief Deborah Myers sat at her desk, reading the file of one Edward Craft, who had become her obsession, and who continued to elude her. The telephone rang and she absently answered it. “Chief Myers.”
“Chief,” a male voice said.
Before he could say another word, she stopped him. “I know who you are. What do you know?”
“I know that the person is back in New York.”
“Where?”
“The Bureau located him by some sort of GPS thing, on his cell phone. Write this down.”
Debby grabbed a pencil. “Go.”
He gave her an address on East Sixty-sixth Street. “The Bureau got a search warrant and went through the whole building, but the only thing they turned up was a woman he used to know, named Shelley Moss. They found her alone in her apartment, cooking breakfast. She was cooperative but denied any current knowledge of him. The agent had a good look around and found nothing to indicate that he had been there.”
“I’ll be at the Lowell,” she said, then hung up and buzzed her secretary.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Get hold of Rocco Turko, and tell him to grab his ready bag and meet me downstairs. Order my car and the King Air to Teterboro, and have a car and driver meet me there, at Jet Aviation, and to stick with me for a week.”
“Is that how long you’ll be gone?”
“Depends. Refer any important calls to my cell phone, but you call me on my second cell phone, to keep things confidential. Got it?”
“Got it, ma’am.”
Debby grabbed her ready bag and makeup kit from her office closet and ran for the elevator. Rocco Turko was standing in the building’s garage when she got there. He was a tallish, handsome, squarely built man of forty who, in his double-breasted overcoat, resembled a refrigerator. “Morning, Deb,” he said. He was one of only a few colleagues who was allowed to address her informally.
“Have you still got that NYPD badge?” Rocco had done ten or so years with the NYPD and, when he left, had “forgotten” to turn in his badge.
“Yep.”
“Good, you may need it.” They got into the car.
“Why are we going to New York?” Rocco asked.
“Eddie Craft,” she replied.
Rocco didn’t have to ask why. He knew that Craft was the only witness who could testify that she had been in the police evidence locker on the date that some things disappeared from that place.
“Is he coming back with us?” Rocco asked.
Debby gave him a look that he interpreted as a firm “No.”
She reached into her ready bag and withdrew a black .22 semiautomatic pistol, with a silencer screwed into the barrel. “It has a loaded magazine. It’s all you’ll need.”
Rocco accepted the weapon, unscrewed the silencer, and put it and the pistol into separate pockets. If he had needed a further answer from his chief, he had it.
* * *
—
In the late afternoon, Maren came back to Stone’s house and found him in his study.
“Hi, there,” he said, rising and giving her a kiss.
“Hi. How’s your jet lag?”
“Okay, but I still have a sore neck.”
She reached to massage his neck, but he flinched. “I know a chiropractor who makes house calls,” she said.
Stone sat next to her on the sofa. “Call him for me, will you?”
Maren reached for her phone. “Her,” she said. She made the call and hung up. “She’ll be here in half an hour. She says it’s okay for you to have a drink before she gets here.”
“Is that her prescription or yours?” Stone asked, standing and going to the drinks cabinet and returning with a Knob Creek for him and a Laphroaig for her.
“Both,” Maren said.
They tapped glasses and drank. Stone resisted reaching for anything else: too little time.
* * *
—
Joan came into the study. “Your manipulator is here,” she said. Stone laughed.
“Are you ready to be manipulated?”
“I am ready.”
A small, pretty woman came in, pushing a folded table on wheels and introduced herself as Pru Hawkins. They shook hands. She asked him to remove his shirt and lie facedown, and he did so.
“I can see where it hurts,” she said. “Feel it, too.” She asked him to turn over, then lifted his head and turned it slowly back and forth. “Did the bourbon help?” she asked. “I can smell it on your breath.”
“It did,” Stone said.
She turned his head to one side. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”
He did so, and she made a quick movement that caused a noise in his neck. She repeated the movement with his head turned the other way, and got the same sound. “Now, sit up,” she said.
Stone sat up and turned his head back and forth. “Much better,” he said. “You freed it up. It’s still a little sore, though.”
“I prescribe another bourbon for that,” she said. She folded up her table, set it on its wheels, named a number, Stone paid it. Then she was gone, leaving her card.
* * *
—
Eddie got out of a cab in front of the Colony Club, a womens’ association that occupied a chunk of Park Avenue, next door to his apartment building. It was raining steadily, and even though he was already wearing a trench coat and a fedora, put up a golf-sized umbrella, shielding him from the view of an unhappy-looking man on the street corner, who had a view of his apartment building’s front door.
Eddie walked through the Colony’s entrance, into an empty lobby, which sported much paneling and marble. His heels echoed as he walked quickly through a door next to the unocupied front desk, past the men’s room in a hallway. He walked farther down the hall and into a scullery, off the kitchen. A solitary man was scrubbing pots and paid him no heed. Eddie took a right turn, opened a larger door, and emerged into the alley between the club and his building, where deliveries were made. It was raining even harder than before, and he put up his umbrella again.
He walked a few yards to a corner and peeked around it, toward Sixty-third Street. The alley rose to a wrought-iron gate, and through its bars he saw another man, dressed much the same as the one on Park, and looking just as unhappy. His back was turned, so Eddie continued to watch him, until he turned and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. Eddie took that opportunity to run to his building’s alley entrance, past the gymnasium and the laundry room, to the service elevator. He pressed the 14 button and the elevator rose to that floor and disgorged him at the kitchen entrance to his apartment.
He furled his umbrella, stepped to a dry spot nearer the door and took off his shoes, then he unlocked the door and let himself quietly into his kitchen.
52
Eddie walked carefully to the door to the dining room, which also acted as his study. He opened the swinging door a couple of inches and listened. Nothing.
He entered the dining room, which gave him a wide view of his living room, and checked fo
r any differences—cameras, microphones, things moved. Still nothing. He checked both bedrooms and baths and could find nothing that indicated visitors, except for the maid, then he hung his wet coat in the hall closet and stuck the umbrella in a stand by the front door.
Finally, he went into his study, opened the bottom drawer of the little chest next to his reclining chair and removed a throwaway cell phone. He cut away the packaging with scissors and found it forty percent charged. Then he called Shelley’s apartment.
“Yes?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Come be alone with me. It’s raining like hell, so take an umbrella and use it to shield your face from the two guys watching the building. Don’t walk, get a cab.”
“See you as soon as I can get a cab,” she said.
He hung up, and the housephone rang. “Yes?”
“Welcome home, sir,” the doorman said. “Just checking to be sure you were the one in the elevator.”
“I was, Terry,” he said. “But I’m expecting company. She’ll be in a cab, so greet her with your umbrella, and make it tough on our two visitors outside.”
“Will do, sir.”
Eddie hung up, poured himself a Scotch, sat down in his recliner, plugged in the throwaway to recharge and switched on the TV. The weatherman said it was raining and would continue to do so throughout the day.
* * *
—
The King Air had to fly an instrument approach, something that always set Debby’s teeth on edge, but the runway appeared in the aircraft’s windshield right where it was supposed to, and they landed safely.
Her usual driver was waiting on the tarmac with an umbrella and helped them into the car, then put away their luggage. He dropped them at the Lowell, where Debby went to her suite and Rocco went to his usual single, reserved for the help.
* * *
—
Less than a block away, Eddie received a dripping Shelley and her bags and gave her a kiss. “Did they spot you?”
“Sure, but they couldn’t see my face—or anything else, come to that, what with the rain and the umbrellas.”
She got settled, then poured herself a drink and sat in his lap.
“Home again,” she said. “Are we prisoners here?”
“We can come and go, but by a circuitous route. I’ll show you the way.”
* * *
—
Debby called her FBI mole on his throwaway. “Yes?”
“I’m here; where is the guy?”
“We haven’t seen him. The old girlfriend left her apartment in the cab, but our people lost her. It’s rotten outside.”
“All I want is fifteen minutes alone with him.”
“You’ll get it when we find him. I can’t do any better than that.”
“I pay you too much,” she said, then hung up.
* * *
—
Stone was dozing in bed when Maren’s phone rang and she answered it. “What a coincidence!” she said, then hung up.
“What’s a coincidence?” Stone muttered.
“Both Eddie Craft and Little Debby are in the same city—this one.”
“Where?”
“She’s at the Lowell, he’s in the wind. My people had a chat with a former girlfriend of his but had no indication that they are in touch.”
“Hang on to her,” Stone said. “She’s all you’ve got.”
“We haven’t got,” Maren replied. “She left her building in a cab, in this pouring rain, and they lost her.”
“If she doesn’t come home tonight, she’s with Eddie,” Stone said. “Probably in a hotel.”
“We’re already checking the hotels,” she said.
“It will be a very good one, because Eddie is now rich.”
“According to customs, he was carrying twelve thousand dollars when he landed in Miami,” she said, “and he declared it. Where’s the rest of it?”
“Where’s his new Mercedes?”
“I don’t know. You think the money is in the trunk?”
“Not unless he’s a bigger fool than I think he is,” Stone said. “I think he’s found a banker.”
“In London?”
“Scotland Yard would probably know about it. Switzerland, maybe. Or Malta, that’s more secure.”
“You make everything seem so complicated,” Maren said.
“Life is complicated. If it were simple, we wouldn’t need an FBI.”
53
Rocco Turko left Debby’s suite with his instructions. It would be a dry run, but he would do it properly and go as far as he could.
He removed a zippered case from his luggage and surveyed his choices: two moustaches, one Vandyke, and one full beard. He chose the beard and glued it firmly into place, using the bathroom mirror.
He dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. Then he put on his reversible raincoat with the tan side out and chose a foldable Trilby hat, with a plaid tweed cap for backup, tucked into a pocket with his glasses. He put on thin leather gloves, then picked up the silenced .22, disassembled it, wiped the gun, the magazine, and the cartridges very clean. Then he reassembled it all and tucked it into an inside-the-belt holster, with the barrel and silencer protruding but covered by his trousers.
A quick look of approval in the mirror, and he left the room, went downstairs, and exited the hotel via the service door. He opened his umbrella and used it to partially conceal himself from the view of the waiting FBI men down the block. He passed the wrought-iron gate to the alley and noted that it had no keyhole; which meant electric operation. Then, as he approached the apartment building, he got lucky. A black town car turned onto East Sixty-third Street and pulled up before the building’s awning. Rocco brushed past one of the FBI agents, whose gaze was fixed on the arriving car. The doorman came outside with a big umbrella and began assisting an elderly woman and her luggage from the vehicle.
Rocco turned right behind the assemblage and walked into the building’s lobby. He stopped at the doorman’s desk and looked at his list of occupants. An Edward Craft was there, in 14D. A sign hung on a hook over the desk, reading TERRY ON DUTY. The service elevator, he remembered, was through one door and down a short hallway. The car stood there, its door open. He boarded it and pressed fourteen.
The door opened into the service hallway; he looked to his left and saw a door marked C, then to his right and saw another, marked D. He readied himself, unholstered the weapon, pulled down his hat brim a bit, and rang the bell.
A moment later a man’s voice said, “Who is it?”
“It’s Terry, Mr. Craft,” Rocco replied. “From downstairs.”
He heard the lock slide and saw the door open an inch. He put his shoulder into it and knocked Eddie Craft backward onto the marble floor. Craft managed to get to his hands and knees, and Rocco struck him firmly with the weapon on the back of the neck. Craft collapsed into a heap. He would be out, Rocco reckoned, for at least twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour.
He walked across the kitchen and through an open door into a dining room, apparently also used as a study. There was a large reclining chair before a window. Rocco stepped up onto the chair, unfastened the lock, raised the window and stuck his head out far enough to see the ground. The alley below was empty.
Rocco went back to the kitchen, hauled the still-unconscious Craft to his feet, and slung him over his shoulder. He walked into the dining room, perched Craft on the back of the recliner, then took him by the ankles and tipped him backward and out the window. A couple of seconds, and Rocco heard the thud from below. He had another look out the window, and found the alley still empty, except for the bleeding heap that was Eddie Craft. He put the pistol back into its holster and moved back toward the kitchen door, then he stopped in his tracks. A sleepy-looking woman in a ni
ghtgown was standing in the living room near what Rocco assumed was a door leading to the bedroom.
“I was asleep,” she said, sounding drugged.
“It’s all right,” Rocco replied. “Go back to sleep.” He turned her around gently and guided her into a bedroom, then tucked her in.
She rolled onto her left side, with her back to him.
Rocco thought about it for a moment: what he had here, he said to himself, was a very convenient murder-suicide. He unsheathed the pistol, stepped over to her, and put a bullet through her right temple. The small-caliber slug didn’t make a mess, just a neat hole. He shot her once more in the back of the head, then left the room and went back to the dining room. He looked out the window and saw Craft, still undisturbed. He held the gun out the window and dropped it. It bounced off Craft’s body and lay near him.
Rocco had a look around the dining room and kitchen for traces of his visit and found none. He retrieved his umbrella, left by the kitchen door, and pressed B in the elevator. It descended with no stops. His luck was holding.
In the basement, Rocco had a look around and saw a woman on a treadmill in the gym, her back to him. He walked past the laundry to the side door of the building and found a box to the right of it labeled GATE. He pressed the button and looked outside. The wrought-iron gate was slowly swinging open.
He walked quickly to the top of the alley and checked the street. The two FBI agents were standing under the awning at the entrance, earnestly engaged in conversation.
The gate began to close itself, and Rocco stepped through the gap, opened his umbrella, and put on his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, folded and pocketed the Trilby and put on the tweed cap, then he turned and walked toward the agents, who ignored him as he passed. He walked to the corner of Park Avenue and turned south, then right on East Sixty-fourth. The streets were mostly empty because of the rain.
* * *
