Fresh Disasters

by Stuart Woods

He laughed. “I think you took better care of me.” He waved her off, then went back into the house and his office.

  Joan buzzed him.

  “Yes?”

  “Sam Teich for you on line one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Sam. Where’s the accounting?”

  “Good morning, Stone. I’m happy to tell you that an accounting won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh, yes it will,” Stone said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Finger have reconciled; there won’t be a divorce.”

  Stone was stunned. Visions of stacks of money blowing away in the wind raced through his mind.

  “They spent a long weekend in Las Vegas and put their marriage back together.”

  “I’ll believe that when I hear it from Mrs. Finger,” Stone said.

  “I’m sure you will hear from her as soon as she returns to New York later today,” Teich said. “I know this must be a great disappointment to you, Stone,” Teich said drily. “I’m sure you were looking forward to a large fee.”

  “If it’s true, then I’m very happy for them both,” Stone said. “Good-bye, Sam.” He hung up. Joan was standing in the doorway.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Worst fears realized,” Stone said.

  Her face fell. “They’re in Las Vegas together?”

  Stone nodded. “Teich says they’ve reconciled.”

  “She can’t do that!” Joan cried. “We need that fee!”

  “Bernie is smarter than I thought,” Stone said. “He did the arithmetic and made a decision. Now let’s see if he’s smart enough to dump the girlfriend and get rid of the penthouse.”

  “If he doesn’t, Mrs. Finger will be back,” Joan said.

  “Get me Bob Cantor.”

  Joan left, then buzzed him a moment later.

  Stone picked up the phone. “Bob?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Bernie Finger has pulled his fat out of the fire, at least temporarily.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s reconciled with his wife.”

  “Oh, shit, and after all my hard work.”

  “Bob, I want to know if he really gets rid of the girlfriend and the apartment. Give it a day or two, then nose around and see what you can find out.”

  “You want more intimate snapshots?”

  “First, find out if they’re still sharing the penthouse, then we’ll see how to proceed.”

  “Will do,” Cantor said and hung up.

  At dinner at Elaine’s, Dino was outraged. “He went back to his wife? The son of a bitch should be taken out and shot!”

  Elaine piped up. “Yeah, that’s a terrible thing to do, isn’t it? Go back to the woman who loves him?”

  “But the other one loves him, too,” Dino pointed out, “or at least his money.”

  “Hey, hey,” Stone said. “Don’t get upset; this can’t last. Bernie will be back with his masseuse before we know it, and when he goes, I’ll pounce.”

  “Jesus, what a way to make a living,” Elaine said. She got up and left the table.

  “The lady came to me!” Stone called after her.

  37

  Stone had just gotten in from Elaine’s when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “It’s Cantor.”

  “Hi, Bob. You got something on Bernie Finger already?”

  “It’s not that. I’m at Herbie’s place. You need to come out here right now.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes if traffic’s good.” Stone hung up, went down to the garage and backed his car out. He headed down FDR Drive, crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and was parking in front of Herbie Fisher’s building twenty-one minutes later. A light was burning in the basement apartment. “I told him not to show any lights,” Stone said aloud, slamming the car door.

  Stone went down the short flight of steps and rang the outside doorbell. Bob Cantor answered it quickly. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way into the apartment and stopped.

  Stone looked around. The place had been torn up yet again.

  “Check that out,” Cantor said, pointing at the sofa.

  Stone followed his finger and saw a line of blood spatter starting on the back cushions of the sofa and continuing up and onto the living room wall. “Oh, Christ,” Stone said, “they’ve killed Herbie.”

  He felt overwhelmed with guilt; he’d sent Herbie back here, and they’d found him.

  “No,” Cantor said, shaking his head. “This way.” He led the way toward the kitchen. Lying in the hallway was a corpse, and it wasn’t Herbie.

  “It’s Cheech, I think,” Stone said. “He and the other guy worked for Dattila or his bookie. They’re the ones who beat up Herbie outside Elaine’s.” The man had a bad cut across the jugular and a butcher knife in his chest.

  “Okay,” Cantor said, “now I call the cops.”

  “Right.”

  Cantor flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. “My name is Robert Cantor,” he said into the phone. “I’m a retired police officer. I want to report a homicide.” He gave the operator the address, answered a few questions, then hung up. “I think we should tell them I arrived here when you did.”

  “Okay, but I just can’t see Herbie doing this; he’s not the type.”

  “A cornered rat will fight a pit bull,” Cantor said. “You think I should wipe the prints off the knife?”

  Stone shook his head. “Herbie’s going to get made for this, and we can’t cover it up. But given the history, we can make a clear case for self-defense.”

  “I guess,” Cantor said. “I hope they don’t send the two bozos who were here last time.”

  “Me, too.”

  The bozos were replaced by a detective of about forty, accompanied by an attractive young woman who, Stone guessed, had a very new gold shield.

  Stone and Cantor showed their NYPD I.D. “My name is Stone Barrington; this is Bob Cantor. We’re both retired homicide detectives.”

  “My name’s Ed Cardoza,” the male detective said. “This is my partner, Emily Swift. What’s happened here, gentlemen? We heard of a homicide.”

  “This way.” He led the detectives to the corpse. “There’s a backstory here,” Stone said.

  Cardoza knelt and looked closely at the body. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he said.

  “I’m an attorney,” Stone said. “I represent the man who lives here, Herbert Fisher.”

  “Is this Fisher?”

  “No. That’s a professional gorilla named Cheech, who works for Carmine Dattila. He and a buddy of his, whose name I can’t remember, are collectors for a bookie who’s owned by Dattila. Fisher owes twenty-four grand, and the two gorillas have beaten him up twice and kidnapped him once. Fisher was hiding out here from them. My theory is that they found him, attacked him, and Fisher somehow got hold of a kitchen knife and defended himself.”

  “That’s a good theory if you’re a defense lawyer,” Cardoza said.

  “It’s the only thing that could have happened,” Cantor said. “It’s not like Herbie would have invited them here, then killed one of them.”

  “And what’s your connection to Mr. Fisher?”

  “He’s my nephew, my late sister’s boy.”

  “Okay. Let’s say your theory is good,” Cardoza said. “Where’s Herbie Fisher? And while we’re at it, where’s Cheech’s partner in crime? Gorillas tend to travel in pairs.”

  “Beats me,” Cantor said.

  “It would be like Herbie to run,” Stone said, “if he had the chance. On the other hand, the partner could have gotten the better of Herbie and taken him somewhere else.”

  “I guess that’s a good possibility,” Cardoza agreed, “especially since Mr. Fisher left his weapon in Cheech’s chest. How about a description of both men?”
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  “Herbert Fisher is how old, Bob?” Stone asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Five-six, a hundred and fifty, light brown hair.”

  “Any visible scars?” the detective asked.

  “Not unless he got them tonight.”

  “How about the partner?”

  “About thirty-five, six-three, two-seventy, black hair, a nose like a fist.”

  “That would also fit Cheech here.”

  “They could be brothers,” Stone agreed.

  Cardoza turned to his partner. “Call in the descriptions and ask for an APB, then get a scene team over here.” The young woman reached for her cell phone, and Cardoza turned back to Stone and Cantor. “I guess you two are too smart to have touched anything here?”

  Both men nodded. “It’s as we found it,” Stone said.

  “How long ago?”

  “Ten minutes,” Stone replied.

  “You arrived together?”

  Cantor spoke up. “I took a cab over here; Stone arrived in time to go inside with me.”

  “Why were you here?” Cardoza asked.

  “We were looking for Herbie,” Stone said. “He’s been on the run from these two guys, and we were worried about him.”

  “You said he’s your client,” Cardoza pointed out. “Why does he need a lawyer?”

  “He’s suing Carmine Dattila.”

  Cardoza burst out laughing. “For what?” he asked when he’d gotten control of himself.

  “Battery, kidnaping, attempted murder. I have a recording of Dattila ordering his death.”

  “I’m gonna want that,” Cardoza said.

  “It’s evidence in a lawsuit, but I’ll get you a copy tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m gonna need the original.”

  “Not yet. When I can, or when a judge orders it.”

  Cardoza shrugged. “That’ll do for the moment, I guess.”

  “How else can we help?” Stone asked.

  “You guys wait in the hall while my partner and I go through this place.”

  Stone and Cantor walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall.

  “That went well, I thought,” Cantor said.

  “As well as could be expected,” Stone agreed.

  38

  Stone spent the morning working and had a sandwich at his desk. He’d just finished a cup of coffee when Joan buzzed him.

  “Dierdre Monahan from the D.A.’s office is on line one.”

  Stone started to pick up the phone, but he gave himself a moment to review his history with Dierdre Monahan: They had met a couple of years ago at a Christmas party in the D.A.’s office. He had been trying a case downtown, and the opposing counsel had invited him to the party. After a couple of hours of eggnog and flirtation, he and Dierdre, who was an up-and-coming assistant D.A., had found themselves in a conference room, on the long table, wearing few clothes and exploring each other’s nether regions-this at a moment when the chief deputy D.A. had walked into the room with another woman, apparently with the same activity in mind.

  Dierdre had taken a lot of guff from her coworkers about the incident, to the point where she had threatened to file a sexual harassment complaint, which had resulted in a promotion and a better office. Last year she had been assigned to prosecute Herbie Fisher for a DUI and attacking a police officer, who happened to be one of her four brothers on the force.

  Stone took a deep breath, picked up the phone and punched the button. “Dierdre!” he nearly shouted. “How the hell are you?”

  “Oh, I’m just dandy, Stone,” she replied, “and I’m sure you are, too. I just called to make your day a little worse.”

  A trickle of anxiety ran down through Stone’s bowels. “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he replied. “What’s up?”

  “Well, the Brooklyn D.A.’s office is a little backed up, so I took the murder one charge against Herbert Fisher off their hands.”

  “Murder one? Are you nuts, Dierdre? That was a clear case of self-defense!”

  “That’s not how I read it, buddy. If it was self-defense, why is Mr. Fisher on the run?”

  “He’s been hiding from Carmine Dattila’s goons for a couple of weeks. He owes money to a bookie, and they’ve already beaten him up and tried to kill him.”

  “I haven’t been able to locate the criminal charges on that,” she said.

  “We’re treating it as a civil matter for the moment, but I’ve no doubt that criminal charges will result.”

  “Oh, yeah, the detective told me you were suing Carmine. We all got a great laugh out of that.”

  “Well, Dattila isn’t laughing; he sent those guys to Herbie’s apartment to kill him, and Herbie got lucky. That’s all this is.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you bring Mr. Fisher down here tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk about it.”

  “I think that’s a good idea, but I don’t know where the hell he is. He contacts me from time to time, so when he does, I’ll give you a call, and we’ll get together.”

  “You’re aware that there’s an APB out for him, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but that’s purely for his protection, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. I’m positive he’d be safe in a cell at Rikers.”

  “Dierdre, he wouldn’t last a day at Rikers; Dattila has a long reach, and Herbie’s a little guy.”

  “He’s big enough to take out a big chunk of Dattila’s muscle guy with a butcher knife.”

  “A cornered rat will fight a pit bull,” Stone said, “as a friend of mine likes to say.”

  “Well, ‘rat’ certainly describes the little shit,” she said.

  “Now, Dierdre, if you’re referring to the unfortunate incident with your brother the cop…”

  “Oh, he’s got more than that on his sheet,” she said. “There’s another DUI and that business when he crashed through the skylight while taking dirty pictures and fell on some poor guy who died as a result.”

  “Dierdre, you know as well as I that it has been positively determined that the guy was already dead when Herbie fell on him. He was just trying to make a buck.”

  “Stone, why do you keep getting involved with this little creep? He’s nothing but trouble, and one of these days he’s going to get you in trouble.”

  “Circumstances beyond my control,” Stone said, “but everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “Well, maybe so, but I hope you can find your client in time to get him in my office at ten tomorrow morning, because at that time, I’m going to start getting a lot harder to convince. Bye-bye, sweetie. Oh, by the way, bring that tape of Dattila committing a crime, or I’ll have your balls.” She hung up.

  Stone called Bob Cantor.

  “Cantor.”

  “Bob, have you heard anything at all from Herbie?”

  “Yeah, he called just a minute ago. He wants me to bring him some money.”

  “Where?”

  “He said he’d call me when he finds a safe place.”

  “Bob, when you see him you’ve got to collar him and take him home with you. I’ve got to have him in the D.A.’s office tomorrow at ten a.m. to keep him from getting a murder charge slapped on him.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. Somehow, the case got assigned to Manhattan, and the A.D.A. in charge is the one whose brother Herbie kicked in the balls last year.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Hang on to him, Bob. Have him at the D.A.’s office at ten tomorrow, or everything is going to get a lot worse.”

  “I read you, Stone. I’ll bring him over here and handcuff him to a radiator.” Cantor hung up.

  As Stone hung up, Joan buzzed him again. “A Dr. Larkin on two.”

  Stone punched the button. “Eliza, how are you?”

  “I’m very well, Stone. Do you like Italian food?”

  “My favorite.”

  “I’m cooking this evening. Would you like to join me?”

/>   “What’s an Irish girl doing cooking Italian?”

  “Would you rather I cooked Irish?”

  “Italian will be just great. What time?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “Can I bring the wine?”

  “You’d better.” She gave him the address.

  “See you then.” Stone hung up and walked through the ground floor of his house to a room he kept cooled as a wine cellar. He found two bottles of the Masi ’91 Amarone and set them on the kitchen counter to settle. “Yum,” he said aloud to himself as he wiped the dust from the bottles. He had been saving them for a special occasion, and this was a special occasion.

  He went cheerfully back to work.

  Shortly before five, Joan came into his office with a large package.

  “This just arrived by messenger,” she said, setting it on his desk.

  Stone stood up and looked at the package. “Any return address?”

  “Some gallery downtown,” she said, picking up the scissors to cut the string holding it together.

  “No!” Stone said, holding up a hand. “Come with me.” He took her by the arm and led her upstairs.

  “What, are you expecting a bomb or something?”

  “No, I am not, but that package is from Devlin Daltry’s gallery, and nobody is opening it but the bomb squad.” He picked up a phone and called Dino.

  39

  Stone sat in his living room with Joan and Dino.

  “I hope it’s a bomb,” Dino said.

  “Are you nuts?” Stone inquired. “It’s sitting on my desk.”

  “If it’s a bomb, then I can charge Daltry with something that’ll keep him in jail while he’s awaiting trial.”

  “That office is where I earn my living,” Stone said.

  “You earn your living in your head. Wouldn’t it be worth a little redecorating to get that guy off the street?”

  “It might,” Stone said.

  There were heavy footsteps on the stairs and a man wearing a lot of protective gear stood in the doorway. “Okay,” he said, “you can come downstairs now.”

  The three followed him back to Stone’s office, where the box still rested on his desk. Next to it was a bronze head.