Naked Greed (Stone Barrington)

by Woods, Stuart

  Frank let Charlie in and gave him the two thousand. “I can spare two, until you can get your hands on your stash. You got some extra ID?”

  “Yeah, I’m covered. I’ve got a credit card in another name, too.”

  “Okay, here’s my plan: I’ve got a car downstairs in the garage, and the tank’s full. I’m gonna drive to Philadelphia and take a plane to L.A., then lose myself. You can come with me, or you can make your own plans—up to you.”

  “Can I hang out here a few hours?”

  “Sure.” Frank gave him a key. “Stay as long as you like.”

  “I think I’ll wait until the middle of the night, then sneak into the house and get my stash, then I’ll make tracks somewhere.”

  Frank went to a drawer, took out two throwaway cell phones, and gave Charlie one. “Give me your cell.” Charlie handed it over. Frank went into the kitchen, took a hammer out of a drawer and smashed both phones thoroughly, then scraped the remains into the garbage can. He went back to the living room and they entered each other’s new numbers into their phones. “All right, I’m outa here,” Frank said. He offered his hand, and Charlie took it.

  “Thanks for everything,” Charlie said.

  Frank grabbed his bag, let himself out of the apartment, and took the stairs down to the building’s garage. He pulled the cover off the car—a ten-year-old Mercedes station wagon. He removed the trickle charger, closed the hood, tossed his bags into the rear seat, and started the car, which ran perfectly.

  He drove out of the garage, parked nearby, and made a call to a Florida number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe, it’s me.”

  “Frankie!”

  “I’m coming to see you.”

  “When will you be here?”

  “I think I’m going to drive all the way, so maybe three days.”

  “I’ll be ready for you. There’s steaks in the freezer, too. How long can you stay?”

  “Long time, baby, maybe forever.”

  “Forever is good for me.”

  Frank hung up, put the car in gear, and aimed it at the Lincoln Tunnel. He paid cash at the booth; no E-Z Pass record. Fifteen minutes later he was headed south on I-95, the cruise control set at sixty-five.

  —

  That evening, Stone got a call from Dino.

  “We screwed up, I think.”

  “What happened?”

  “Frank and Charlie beat it—they never even went home. My guys played the recordings for me. Gino called his killer Frank at one point, but the recording quality wasn’t that great. Charlie didn’t feature at all, so we haven’t got much of a case against them. The good news is, you won’t be hearing from these two guys again.”

  “I didn’t know they would kill him,” Stone said.

  “Don’t worry about it, you did the world a favor.”

  “If you say so. You free for dinner? I’d like to get out of the house.”

  “Sure.”

  Jerry Brubeck got to work on time, as usual. Late the evening before he had had a call from his sister, Maria, wanting to know where Gino was—not why he was out late, just where. Jerry figured there was a girl in the picture.

  He let himself into the office and stopped at the break room to make himself a cup of coffee, then he walked into his office and spilled coffee everywhere. Gino was lying on the floor in front of the safe, and his head was a mess. Jerry didn’t even try for a pulse, he just sat down at his desk, swiveled his chair away from Gino, and called 911.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “I want to report a murder.”

  —

  Not quite ten minutes passed, and he heard the elevator open. He walked into the reception room and found Hilda, the receptionist, hanging up her coat. “Hilda,” he said, “the police are going to be here in a minute. When they come—”

  The elevator door opened again, and two young uniforms stepped out. “Where’s the murder?” one of them asked.

  “Murder?” Hilda asked.

  “Hilda, you just sit down at your desk and I’ll deal with this.”

  “Who’s murdered?”

  “Hilda!”

  “Yes, Mr. Brubeck.” She sat down.

  “In here,” Jerry said to the cops, holding the door open for them.

  The two cops walked in and gazed at Gino’s body. “This the guy?”

  “How’d you guess?” Jerry asked drily.

  “You touch anything?” the other cop asked.

  “Just my telephone, when I called nine-one-one.”

  Two detectives walked into the office. “Okay, you two,” one of them said to the uniforms, jerking a thumb toward the door. “We got this.” The two uniforms left, muttering under their breath.

  The younger of the two detectives closed the door. “We’re Detectives Mills and Schwartz,” he said, indicating he was Mills. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jerry Brubeck.”

  “And who’s he?” He pointed at the corpse.

  “He’s Gino Parisi, my business partner.”

  “You two have a little argument over business?” Schwartz asked.

  “No, I just arrived at work and found him like that.”

  “You touch anything?”

  “Just my phone.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Parisi alive?”

  “He was here when I left work last night, at six-thirty.”

  “He was working late?”

  “He was about to leave when he got a call. I left him to it.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “I don’t think so, but he’s lying in front of the safe. You want me to open it?”

  Schwartz handed him a latex glove. “Please.”

  Jerry put on the glove and opened the safe. “There was some cash,” he said. “It’s gone.”

  “You keep a lot of cash around?”

  “Some of our customers pay in cash. After it builds up, we take it to the bank.”

  “Any idea how much it built up by yesterday?”

  “Maybe twenty-five, thirty thousand. Our bookkeeper can give you an accurate number, when she comes in.”

  Mills called for a medical examiner, and they all sat down.

  “How did you and Parisi get along?”

  “I got along fine. Gino didn’t get along with anybody.”

  “So he had enemies?”

  “Almost everybody he knew, I imagine, to one extent or another.”

  Mills pulled out a pad. “Give us the ones who hated him enough to want him dead.”

  “I don’t have those names,” Jerry replied. “Gino dealt with certain clients, I did everything else. For what it’s worth, I don’t think a client did this. We’re in the beverage distribution business: wine, liquor, soft drinks. It’s not a contentious business anymore.”

  “But Gino was contentious?”

  “Gino was old-school—he liked to tell clients what they were ordering, not ask them. Call it a personality quirk.”

  “There used to be a Carlo Parisi around.”

  “Gino’s old man.”

  “So your business is mobbed up?”

  “No. We’re clean as a hound’s back teeth. Gino, I don’t know. He lived in his own world. We had just agreed that I would buy him out.”

  “So what happens to his share of the business now?”

  “I guess it will go to his son, Alfredo. I haven’t seen his will, if he’s got one. Had one.”

  “How did Gino and Alfredo get along?”

  “Gino gave orders, Al carried them out—as best he could. Al’s more like his mother.”

  “Did he work in the business?”

  “He was on the books as a salesman. I agreed with Gino to keep him on after I bought his share of the business
. I guess I’ll buy it from Al now.”

  “Cheaper?”

  “Gino and I had a contract with a very explicit formula for determining the value of the company. All we have to do is the arithmetic, and we come up with a number. One of us buys out the other. Al will take the money and run, I expect.”

  A medical examiner arrived, and the three men moved to a seating area to get out of his way, while the detectives continued to question Jerry in a desultory fashion.

  Half an hour later, the ME ordered the body removed.

  “What’s the verdict, Doc?” Schwartz asked.

  “He took two to the head, twelve, fifteen hours ago. No sign of a struggle. Somebody will need to identify the victim.”

  “He was my brother-in-law, and his name was Gino Alfredo Parisi,” Jerry said. He gave him Gino’s address and his wife’s name. “I’ll notify her.”

  The ME gave him a form to sign, then left.

  The two detectives stood up. “We’ll be in touch,” Mills said.

  Jerry shook their hands, and they left. Jerry picked up the phone and called his sister. “Maria,” he said, “I’ve got bad news. You’d better sit down.” After that, the conversation was brief.

  After Jerry hung up he felt curiously weightless, as if he were floating a few feet above the floor. He would take the day off, for appearance’s sake; he’d get through the wake and the funeral and the weeping relatives, then he’d sit Al down and take the company away from him.

  The future looked sunny.

  Joan buzzed Stone. “Pepe Perado on one.”

  “Pepe, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank you, Stone.”

  “How do you find San Antonio?”

  “Much as expected—less inviting, since I spent time in New York. I look forward to coming back.”

  “I think you may do that without fear, now.”

  “Has something changed?”

  “Gino Parisi was murdered last night, and two of his henchmen have disappeared. I believe the coast is clear.”

  “Then I must have a conversation with my son,” Pepe said.

  “When is he coming to New York?”

  “He’s not, but I haven’t told him yet—thus the conversation. I’m coming myself, instead, and I’m going to start planning a brewery.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “I think the boy will be fine with my decision. He was not really looking forward to New York. He’s a Texan, not a cosmopolitan.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “As soon as I can square things here. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you.” The two men said goodbye and hung up.

  Joan came into his office. “Something has changed,” she said.

  “Let me guess: the goons aren’t out there today.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because I hear that their employer met a bad end.”

  “Ah. You had a call from Cessna while you were on the phone. A Ms. Pili Barker said your airplane is ready for delivery. She says you can start the acceptance inspection anytime.”

  “Great news!”

  “You want me to call Pat Frank and set up the inspection?”

  “Please.” Pat Frank, a recent lady friend of Stone’s, had a business offering services to owner/pilots, and acceptance was one of them. “As soon as possible, please. And ask her to fly the airplane back to Teterboro when she’s done, and to put it in the Strategic Services hangar. Then call Pili Barker and ask her to send me the closing papers. I’ll sign them and send a check with Pat, so that she can close.”

  Joan went to make the call.

  Stone’s previous airplane had come to an explosive end, in England, and he had immediately ordered a larger replacement.

  Ian Rattle knocked and came into Stone’s office, as had become his habit since his arrival. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “I had a call from Dame Felicity this morning,” he said.

  “Is she well?”

  “As always.”

  “Has she found the mole in MI6 yet?”

  “I don’t know, but you can ask her. She’s flying into New York this afternoon. She asked if you were free for dinner this evening.”

  “I am, as it happens. Will you be joining us?”

  “I was not invited.”

  “Ah.” Stone buzzed Joan. “Please book me a table for two at eight, at Caravaggio.” He turned back to Ian. “How did she sound?”

  “Very cool, as always.”

  “Has cabin fever struck yet?”

  “Not yet. In truth, I’m enjoying the time off, catching up on my reading, and enjoying the company of the lovely Caroline.”

  Joan buzzed back and confirmed his restaurant table. “What time does her airplane get in?”

  “Two o’clock, I believe,” Ian replied. “She said she’d call you.”

  —

  Stone picked up Dame Felicity Devonshire shortly before eight, and Fred drove them to the restaurant. They were settled at a table, were served drinks, and ordered.

  “You look radiant, as usual,” Stone said.

  “Thank you, Stone. Is your houseguest behaving himself?”

  “He doesn’t really have a choice, does he?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Have you made any progress in the search for his betrayer?”

  “The search is ongoing. Are you tiring of Ian’s company?”

  “Not really, though I prefer yours.”

  “You’re sweet, but you and I are not going to enjoy ourselves on this visit, not with Ian in your house and me in the embassy.”

  “I’m sad. What brings you to New York?”

  “I’ve come to see if I can make a place for Ian Rattle on our United Nations staff.”

  “Does that mean he’ll be moving out?”

  “Yes, if I can manage it. I can’t just transfer him, I’ll need our ambassador’s approval, and he’ll have to discuss it with his staff. A lot of Foreign Office people are suspicious of MI6 officers.”

  “Do you think Ian would be safer here than in London?”

  “I think he’d be safer almost anywhere than in London.”

  “Is the sultan of Dahai not a patient man?”

  “Like most multibillionaires, he is a very impatient man, and we have word that he is very angry that Ian is still alive. The twins are said to have been his favorites among his many children.”

  Stone looked up, and his eye fell on the bar. Two men were just sitting down: the ex-policeman named Ryan and Al Parisi, son of Gino. “Oh, no,” he said.

  “Oh, no what?” Felicity asked.

  “Just a tail I thought I had lost,” Stone replied. “Excuse me for a moment.” He got up, strode into the bar, and leaned over the table where the two had sat down. “Get out,” he said.

  They seemed surprised to see him. “What are you talking about?” Ryan asked.

  “Get out or you’ll be spending a few days in jail.”

  “Come on, Gene,” Al Parisi said, tugging at his companion’s sleeve.

  “The hell you say,” Ryan replied. “I’ll drink wherever I want to.”

  “Not anymore,” Stone said, producing his cell phone. “You are never again going to spend a minute where I am.” He pressed a speed dial button.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “I’m at Caravaggio.”

  “Swell. Have some pasta for me, I’m working late.”

  “I’ve been pursued here by Ryan and the little Parisi. I’d be grateful for your help with that.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Dino said. “Don’t shoot them or anything, I’ll have them out of there in minutes.”

  “Thank you, Commissioner.” Stone hung up.

  “Come on, Gene,” Al said,
standing up.

  Ryan got reluctantly to his feet. “We’re going to settle this sometime,” he said to Stone.

  “No, I’m going to settle this if I encounter you again—anytime, anywhere.” Stone turned and strode back to his table.

  “What was that all about?” Felicity asked.

  “Pest control,” Stone replied.

  Al Parisi was asleep when the phone rang. He ignored it, but it wouldn’t stop. He glanced at the bedside clock: a little past eleven, he wasn’t sure about AM or PM. He finally surrendered. “Hello?” he croaked.

  “This is Hilda, at the office,” she said. “Mr. Brubeck wants to see you right away. It’s very, very important.”

  “Okay, I can be there in forty-five minutes.” But she had already hung up. He had always hated that bitch.

  Al shaved and showered and put on his best suit. This sounded like work to him, and he hadn’t been sure if there would be any more work after the old man bought it. He ran downstairs and found a cab. He hadn’t been in it for more than a minute when his cell rang. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Gene. I thought of what to do about Barrington.”

  “Listen, Gene, I’m on my way to see Brubeck. I think it’s going to mean more work, so just hang fire until I call you back.” He hung up. Gene wanted to kill Barrington, he knew it, and he wanted no part of it. The guy was connected at the NYPD, so why would they want to buy trouble? The old man wasn’t around anymore to order them to do it.

  Al got out of the cab and ran into the office building. He emerged into the reception room, and Hilda jerked a thumb toward Jerry Brubeck’s office. “He’s expecting you.”

  Al went down the hall, patted his hair down, adjusted his tie, buttoned his jacket, and knocked. “Come in, Al.”

  Al opened the door and found Jerry at his desk, as usual.

  “Hi, I was on my way to the wake.”

  “I’ve already been,” Brubeck replied. “Have a seat.” He pointed at the comfortable chair opposite him.