Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington)

by Woods, Stuart

  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” Stone said.

  “I would like you to send flowers,” Billy replied, then he continued.

  • • •

  When Billy had finished, Stone thought about the plan and the risk to himself. “You’re on,” he said.

  Teddy returned to Centurion and found Betsy at her new desk, making calls.

  “Hi,” she said. “Peter asked us to join them and Stone at Spago for dinner tonight. Emma Tweed is back in town, and they’re taking her to dinner. She and Tessa are flying back to London tomorrow. I’m booking her ticket now.”

  “Book us at a separate table, but nearby. Tell the restaurant it’s for security purposes.”

  “All right. I’ll tell Peter.”

  “And when he goes to lunch today, I want you to come with me for an hour.”

  “All right.”

  Teddy didn’t much like the idea of Peter’s dining out, but with the two Strategic Services agents and himself, he thought they should be able to keep him safe.

  • • •

  At noon, Peter, Ben, and Hattie left for lunch, and Teddy put Betsy in a golf cart and drove her to the armory.

  “I’ve never asked you this, but have you ever fired a gun before?”

  “I shot some skeet with a boyfriend once, but I’ve never fired a handgun.”

  “After the near miss with the Viper, I’d feel better if you were armed.”

  “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I think I’d feel better armed, too.”

  He took her to the range and gave her his tiny Keltec .380 pistol, then he picked up the remote control and moved the target to ten feet. “Most gunfights are at this range or closer,” he said, “so there’s no point in training you to twenty-five or fifty feet.” He showed her how to operate the gun. “You couldn’t hit anything with this gun beyond ten feet anyway, the barrel is too short, so let’s have you fire some rounds now.”

  He showed her the proper stance and grip. “Point it at the middle of the target,” he said, “both eyes open. Pull the trigger slowly, which is called ‘squeezing.’ Don’t jerk.”

  She fired the six rounds; all of them hit the target, but none in the center. “Fire more slowly,” he said. “Concentrate on getting the first round in the center of the target. The rest will take care of themselves.”

  She fired another magazine and did better; one more and she had an eight-inch grouping.

  Teddy moved the target to five feet. “From here,” he said, “go for a head shot. When he’s this close, you’ve got to stop him, and the head is the quickest way.”

  She fired two more magazines from that range and did well. Teddy took the little gun into the shop, cleaned and reloaded it, and gave it back to her. “Keep it in your bag, or better yet, in a pocket, if you have a pocket. Women seem never to have pockets.”

  “Only when wearing jeans,” Betsy replied, making sure the gun was on safety before dropping it into her bag. “And they would be too tight to accommodate a gun.”

  • • •

  They went to dinner that night, and their table was well placed. Teddy looked at the group; they seemed very happy, and he wanted the evening to end that way. The two agents were at another conveniently located table.

  “Why aren’t you looking at me?” Betsy asked. “It’s creepy talking to someone who isn’t looking at you.”

  “I’m looking at the people I’m protecting,” he said, keeping his gaze past her. “I’m watching their backs. You watch mine.”

  “Okay,” she said, putting her handbag on the table.

  “Just watch,” he said, “don’t fire. If you fired six rounds in this restaurant, you’d hit four diners and me.”

  “But I did well today—you said so!”

  “You did, but you weren’t under any pressure, and you didn’t have to act quickly. That’s shooting we can do at another training session on the range, but not at Spago.”

  “Oh, all right, but if I can’t shoot, why am I watching your back?”

  “If you see the Viper, tell me, and I’ll do the shooting.”

  • • •

  After dinner, Teddy said, “I’ll take you back to the hangar, then I want to borrow your car. I’ll be out all night.”

  “Who is she?” Betsy asked, archly.

  “Don’t ask. And if anybody else asks, I slept next to you all night.”

  “I want to clean out the rest of our things from the apartment,” she said. “Why don’t I do that tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” Teddy said. “Tomorrow night, if we’re lucky.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.

  “Lots of things,” he said, “but none of them tonight.”

  He caught Stone Barrington’s eye as they waited for their cars from the valet, and they exchanged a nod. It was on.

  Stone and Emma renewed their acquaintance in bed after dinner.

  “Stone,” Emma said, when they were done but still lying in each other’s arms, “Tessa doesn’t want to go back to London, but I’m making her. Am I doing the right thing?”

  “How do you make her go back?” Stone asked. “She seems like a self-operating adult to me.”

  “A mother has ways.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Guilt is very helpful with Tessa,” Emma said, “but I try to rely on logic and appeal to her better nature.”

  “And that works?” Stone asked, surprised.

  “She’s a responsible adult.”

  “So, if she’s so responsible, what’s the problem with leaving her in L.A.?”

  “She’s half in love with Ben. I’m afraid they’ll marry.”

  “Emma, you need to look into your own psyche, not into what you imagine are Tessa’s inclinations. But if you want to look at marriage as a worst-case scenario, Ben Bacchetti is a very worthwhile young man. Anyway, kids live together these days, instead of marrying.”

  “But Hollywood? She could have a grand career on the London stage.”

  “Making Hollywood movies—good ones—is no bar to appearing on the London stage. You’ve got to learn to trust your daughter’s judgment.”

  “I do, but …”

  “It’s the ‘but’ you’ve got to deal with.”

  “I know.”

  “I think the problem is not where Tessa lives, but where she lives in relation to you. Why don’t you open an office out here and spend some time running it?”

  “I already have a small office here.”

  “Enlarge it—move some of your operations here from New York. I’ll bet a lot of your employees here would jump at the chance to move to the Coast.”

  “You really think so? New Yorkers?”

  “I really think so. A lot of Londoners would, too, and you’re a Londoner. It’s not like you have to spend all your time here.”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  “What time is your airplane tomorrow?”

  “Two PM.”

  “Sleep on it, and make a decision in the morning.”

  She burrowed into his shoulder. “Good idea.”

  • • •

  Stone tried to sleep but couldn’t; he stared at the ceiling, tried to daydream, but the only thing he could think of was the box of flowers on the backseat of his car.

  He waited until five AM to go into the study to call Dino.

  “You’re up early,” Dino said.

  “I haven’t been to sleep.”

  “I thought you were the world’s champion sleeper.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “Okay, tell me about it.”

  “Majorov is here, and he’s brought an assassin with him from New York, a Russian.”

  Dino let a beat pass before he responded. “Anybody I know?”

  “His name is Vladimir—”

  “The Viper? Jesus!”

  “That’s not the worst of it. He’s more interested in Peter than me.”

  “Then why haven’t you k
illed him yet?”

  “That’s why I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You planning to do him yourself?”

  “I’m about to set him up for someone else.”

  “That Billy character?”

  “Yes. I need your advice on this, pal. I’ve never been a party to murder before.”

  “Here’s my advice,” Dino said. “Don’t get caught.”

  “That’s good advice,” Stone said.

  “Let me know how it comes out.”

  “Will do.”

  “And good luck.”

  “Thanks, Dino.”

  “You’re welcome, Stone, and for what it’s worth, if it were Ben at risk, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “I guess I should have known that. Bye.” Stone hung up, took a deep breath, went back to the bedroom, and got dressed. Emma was snoring lightly when he left. He had crumbled an Ambien into her brandy glass at bedtime.

  He had some orange juice and a cup of coffee, checking his watch regularly. Finally, he went upstairs, got into a dark golf jacket and a baseball cap and a pair of driving gloves.

  He ran his pistol onto his belt, took a deep breath, and left the house by the rear door.

  Teddy had arrived at the Bel-Air by five AM, leaving his car up Stone Canyon and walking down the hill to the rear of the hotel, wearing a black sweater over a white shirt, black trousers, black rubber-soled slippers, and latex surgical gloves. He carried his silenced pistol in a holster under the sweater and a switchblade knife in a hip pocket.

  Majorov’s suite was the second up the hill from the rear service road, and Teddy was through the hedge and over the wall very quickly, landing lightly on his feet. A streetlight cast some light on the suite’s patio, and he moved into a shadow and waited for three or four minutes. The Viper was probably a light sleeper, and if he heard anything he would come out armed.

  There were three sets of French doors, one for each bedroom and one for the living room. Teddy checked all three and in one bedroom found Majorov’s bulk visible by the light of a television set that he had failed to turn off before falling asleep. He went back to the patio outside the other bedroom, half expecting to encounter the assassin on his way.

  Nothing happened. Teddy carefully picked up a chair from the patio and moved it into a dark corner, then he crept to the French doors and listened for movement inside. All he heard was snoring. He stared through the glass into the room and located the bed with its sleeping lump, dimly lit by a night-light. When his eyes had adjusted better he saw, on the bedside table, a silenced pistol. Vlad was a cautious man.

  He put his hand on the doorknob and tried turning it. Locked. He had expected as much, and he had come prepared. He removed a strip of sturdy but flexible plastic from his pocket and inserted it between the door and the jamb. He probed until he felt the bias-cut bolt begin to open, then he stopped, leaving the plastic strip in place.

  He went to the chair in the corner and settled into it; he had a couple of hours to wait. He switched on his iPhone, turned down the backlighting a bit, then went to the New York Times website and began reading the front page.

  • • •

  Stone let himself out of the house and got into Peter’s Cayenne. It was parked on an incline out back, where he had left it after visiting the florist, so he let it roll for a hundred yards before starting the engine. He rolled up to a back gate, and it opened automatically at the approach of his car.

  The drive to the Bel-Air took only three minutes, and the sun was up now. Twenty-five past seven. He parked the car just up the street from the rear gate of the hotel, and then he got lucky. He looked around a hedge and saw the guard on duty at the back gate leave his sentry box, presumably in search of a toilet.

  Stone managed a brisk walk, without appearing to be in too much of a hurry. As he walked, he rubbed his gloved hands over the spots on the flower box where he might have left fingerprints. He turned right and climbed a few steps, passing a room service waiter carrying a tray of dirty dishes, then he saw what he needed. He walked over to a guest door and removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign, then he walked a few steps more and found the correct suite number on a door. He hung the sign on the doorknob, leaned the box against the door, took a deep breath, and repeatedly rang the doorbell, then he turned and retraced his steps to the car. The security man had still not returned.

  He had seen no one but the room service waiter, and the man had carried his tray on his shoulder, so that it blocked his view of Stone as they passed. He drove back to The Arrington and punched the code into the box outside the gate. It opened slowly.

  He put the car away and went back into the house, tiptoeing up the stairs to the master bedroom, then he undressed in his dressing room and got back into bed with Emma.

  He worked at relaxing, until his heart rate was normal.

  • • •

  At six-thirty, Teddy heard a door to the patio behind him open. He froze and switched off his phone. Then he heard singing from a gruff, baritone voice. Majorov in the shower.

  At seven o’clock, with the sky lightening, Teddy moved to a position that allowed him a full view of Vlad’s bedroom and, through the open door, a view of the front entrance. Shortly, Majorov appeared, opened the front door, and closed it behind him. On his way to breakfast.

  Teddy watched closely to see if Majorov’s moving around had wakened Vlad, but the man continued to lie on his back, snoring. He waited, trying to stay relaxed, for the sound of the doorbell.

  It came at the stroke of seven-thirty, then again and again. Vlad stirred, then sat up and shook his head, as if he couldn’t identify the sound. Then, muttering, he put his feet over the side of the bed and walked toward the front door. As he did, the bedsheet moved back, revealing the butt of a shotgun. The man slept with a shotgun in bed!

  Teddy moved quickly, now; he pressed home the plastic strip, moved the bolt back, opened the door, and stepped inside. He moved quickly to the side of the bed where the pistol rested on the bedside table, then slid behind the drawn curtain. He drew his pistol and flipped off the safety.

  He heard a flower box being thrown across the room and a spate of swearing in Russian. Then Vlad stumbled back into the bedroom, muttering, and got back into bed. Shortly, he was snoring again.

  Teddy peeked from behind the curtain and found not the sleeping figure he had expected, but a man sitting up in bed pointing a silenced pistol directly at him. He was still snoring, but he was smiling, too.

  “Good morning, Mr. Burnett,” Vlad said.

  Teddy fired through the curtain at where he thought Vlad would be, then he pushed back the heavy cloth with his gun raised, ready to fire again. Vlad was gone.

  Teddy ran around the bed, ready to pursue him into the living room, but he found the Russian lying faceup on the floor on the other side of the bed, his head in a growing pool of blood. He had hit the man somewhere. Vlad’s body began to shake, and Teddy fired another round into his forehead. He lay still.

  “Good morning, Vlad,” Teddy said. He started to leave the room the way he had come in, but then he noticed a black suitcase on a stand across the room from the bed. He walked over and examined it; it was unlocked. He raised the lid and found an assassin’s dream: a case of instruments of killing. There was a disassembled sniper rifle, two pistols, a silencer, four knives, and some disposable syringes with a rubber band around them. Next to the syringes was a bottle labeled POTASSIUM.

  Teddy closed the case, locked it, and buckled the two straps that secured it, then went back to the patio, stepped outside, and set the case down. Then something unexpected happened: the front door opened.

  “Vlad!” Majorov shouted. “Wake up!”

  Teddy held the plastic strip in place as he pulled the door closed, then withdrew the strip, locking the door. He ran to the patio wall, set the case on it, stepped on a chair, and hoisted himself to the top. He dropped lightly to the other side, then jumped clear of the hedge. A moment later he was back in his car, wondering why
he had not stayed to shoot Majorov, too. Never mind, he would leave the man to the police.

  He was halfway back to Santa Monica Airport before it occurred to him that Majorov wasn’t going to call the police.

  Majorov took one glance into Vlad’s bedroom and saw the body on the floor, covered with blood. He reached for the weapon he carried in a shoulder holster and pointed it into the bedroom, waiting for someone to appear. No one did.

  He tiptoed around the suite, looking into corners and closets, and found no one. He picked up the phone and was about to dial the hotel operator, but he stopped and thought for a moment. He hung up, got out his cell phone, and called his pilot.

  “Yes?” He sounded sleepy.

  “We’re leaving Los Angeles immediately,” Majorov said. “Get to the airport as fast as you can, and file for Gander, then Moscow.” He would feel safer at his dacha outside Moscow than in his Paris apartment.

  “I can be ready to taxi in one hour,” the pilot said.

  “Have the airplane brought to the ramp immediately. I’ll wait aboard for you to arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Majorov hung up and looked at his watch: seven-forty. Vlad had room service deliver his breakfast every morning at eight. In a panic he went to his closet, got out his three cases, and began throwing things into them, then he went to the bathroom and raked his toiletries off the shelf over the sink and closed the small valise that carried them. He went back to the bedroom and called the front desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Majorov?”

  “Please send a bellman to my room immediately and get me a car and driver for the airport.” He didn’t mention which airport; if the police came too soon, they would think LAX.

  “Are you checking out, sir?”

  “Yes, but my companion is staying for one more day. Just put it on my bill.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll send a bellman right away.”

  Majorov hung up, then carried his four bags to the front door, opened it, and set them outside on the little entry porch. He couldn’t have a bellman entering the suite. He noticed that the DO NOT DISTURB sign was already on the doorknob. Had Vlad put it there? No, probably his murderer. Burnett—it had to be Burnett.