Fresh Disasters

by Stuart Woods

“There was no bomb,” the officer said. “It’s just a sculpture thing.”

  Stone walked over and picked up the head. “It’s Celia,” he said.

  “Looks like the head was sawed off a statue,” Dino pointed out. “What do you think the symbolism is here?”

  Stone nodded. “It’s a threat,” he said, “pure and simple.”

  “You better call Celia,” Dino said.

  Stone sat down at his desk and found Celia’s number in New Jersey. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Stone.”

  “Oh, hi. I’m glad you called; I’m bored out of my skull out here.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Celia, is there any way Daltry could make some connection with the friend you’re staying with?”

  “I don’t think so; they’ve never met.”

  “Have you ever mentioned her name to him?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Possibly, but there’s no reason for him to remember it, and he doesn’t know where she lives.”

  “Is she in the phone book?”

  “No, she has an unlisted number.”

  “You’re sure there’s no other way he could trace you there?”

  “No, there isn’t. What’s going on, Stone?”

  “Did Daltry ever sculpt you?”

  “Yes, he did a full-sized nude last year. It’s a very good likeness of me, if I do say so.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Only the head.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Daltry had the head delivered to me. I perceive that as a threat.”

  “You mean he cut the head off the statue?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Holy shit. He told me he expected to get half a million for the thing, from the right buyer.”

  “Celia, I want you to think about this some more. Think about every mention of your friend you might have made to Daltry or anyone he knows. If you think of some way he might trace you to her house, then I want you to get out of there and check into a hotel, and be sure you aren’t followed.”

  “All right, I’ll think about it, but I don’t think he could find me.”

  “Call me on my cell, if you decide to move, so I’ll know where you are.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Just take care of yourself.” He said good-bye and hung up.

  “Is she getting out?”

  Stone shook his head. “She says there’s no way he could find her.”

  “I hope she’s right,” Dino said.

  Later, when he was ready to leave the house for dinner, Stone called Eliza. “Is there a garage near you?” he asked.

  “Right next door,” she said.

  “Okay, I may be a few minutes late, but I’ll be there.”

  “Just as well; I got a late start on the sauce.”

  “See you soon.” He hung up and went to the front windows, checking up and down the block for any sight of Devin Daltry or his two ex-cops. Nothing. He went down to the garage and backed quickly out into the street, made the light at Third Avenue and started a series of turns, making his way gradually uptown, checking his mirrors constantly for any sign of a following car. When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he parked in the garage next door to Eliza’s building and, after checking the block once again, rang her bell and took the elevator upstairs.

  She met him at the door, still wearing her scrubs, and a delicious smell wafted through the apartment. “What was that about a garage? Did you drive up here?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you have time to change after work?”

  “I’m only wearing the top half of the scrubs; makes a great apron. There’s something a little more alluring underneath.”

  “I can’t wait to see it. Something smells great, besides you.”

  “That’s dinner. Why did you drive instead of taking a cab?”

  “I wanted to be sure I wasn’t followed.”

  “Don’t worry; I don’t have an angry ex-boyfriend.”

  “Why do you mention that?”

  “What I meant was, nobody will be following you because you’re seeing me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, because I have a client who has an angry ex-boyfriend, and that’s who I thought might be following me.”

  “I’ve never understood this stalker thing,” she said, “though it seems to be common enough.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Come into the kitchen, and I’ll get you a drink.”

  He followed her through a handsomely furnished apartment to a surprisingly large kitchen, where several pots were bubbling away on a big stove. She seated him at a counter and handed him a bottle of Knob Creek to open. “From what I’ve seen, you don’t drink anything else. I can’t seem to get it open.”

  Stone set down the two bottles of the Masi Amarone, then pulled the string that cut the wax seal and opened the bourbon bottle. “One for you, too?”

  “I’ve already made myself a martini,” she said, pouring one from a silver shaker into a frosted glass.

  They touched glasses and sipped.

  “I’m impressed that you’d tackle such a big meal after a hard day at the hospital.”

  “I had the day off,” she said. “I work twelve-hour shifts four days a week.”

  “That’s still a forty-eight-hour week.”

  “Don’t worry, I get paid for it.”

  “How long have you worked the ER?” he asked.

  “Always. My specialty is emergency medicine. I’m deputy head of emergency services now.”

  “You must like the work.”

  “I love it. It’s different every day, and I like its decisiveness. You either save a patient or lose him; it all happens fast. I don’t have to watch patients die a lingering death, and we save most of them.”

  “I see your point.”

  “We’ll be ready to eat in just a few minutes,” she said. She busied herself with setting a table on the other side of the kitchen, while Stone opened the first bottle of wine and tasted it.

  “You approve?”

  “I certainly do,” he said, offering her a sip.

  “Mmmmmm. Big wine!”

  “I like wines you can’t see through.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated on his belt. He let it go to voice mail.

  She untied a string and slipped out of the scrubs, revealing a red dress with considerable cleavage.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said, taking her by the waist and kissing her lightly. The cell phone vibrated again.

  “Answer that,” she said. “I can’t stand an unanswered phone.”

  Stone flipped open the phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Stone Barrington?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Did you once work homicide at the one-nine with Dino Bacchetti?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “This is Charley Sample. I worked robbery out of the one-nine for two years.”

  “I remember you, Charley. What’s up?”

  “I run the detective squad out in Morristown, New Jersey, now, been out here for six years. We got a situation here.”

  “Tell me.” Stone had a very bad feeling.

  40

  Stone closed the phone and put his notebook away. “Eliza, I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “An emergency-the client I told you about.”

  “I do emergencies for a living,” she said, turning off the stove. “This will keep. I’m coming with you.”

  “All right,” he said, glad of the company.

  In the car, he entered the Morristown address into the dashboard

  GPS navigator and left the garage. “Turn right,” the navigator said in a soft female voice. Stone turned right. He was instructed to turn left on Eleventh Avenue, and he followed the voice’s orders to the Lincoln Tunnel.


  “I’ve never seen one of these things work,” she said.

  “It’s really quite amazing. It’s especially good when there’s a hard-to-find address in a place you’ve never been.”

  Forty minutes later, Stone stopped across the street from a neat white bungalow, a few steps up from street level. He showed his badge to a questioning cop. “Where’s Charley Sample?” he asked the man.

  The cop nodded toward the house. “In the living room,” he said.

  Stone and Eliza walked up the front walk and up the steps to the porch. As they got to the front door, he gave a passing glance to something in a porch chair, covered with a sheet of plastic. They stepped into the front hall, and Stone spotted Sample standing to his right, in the living room. He also spotted a pair of bare female feet, protruding from behind a chair.

  “Stone,” Sample said, walking toward him, extending his hand, which was clad in a latex glove.

  “Charley, it’s good to see you again. This is Dr. Eliza Larkin. She might be helpful with preliminary forensics, if you need her.”

  Sample shook Eliza’s hand. “We may,” he said. “I’m sorry to get you all the way out here, and I’m sorry for the circumstances.”

  Stone stepped past the chair, expecting to see Celia’s body on the floor. The woman was a stranger to him; her throat had been cut. “Who is she?”

  “Helen Gable, the woman who owns the house.”

  “This has got to be the guy I told you about,” Stone said, “and he’s probably still in the neighborhood. He’d get a thrill out of watching all the activity.”

  “Description?”

  “Five-nine; a hundred and sixty pounds; longish dark hair; artsy looking. He drives a white BMW M6 coupe. It’s possible he had this done, though.”

  “Come out on the porch,” Sample said.

  Stone and Eliza followed the detective onto the porch, where Sample paused by the sheet-covered object. “This isn’t going to be pretty,” he said, reaching for the sheet. He took it in both hands and lifted it away.

  Stone took a quick breath. She sat, naked, in the porch chair; her head was gone. Given the size of the headless corpse, it could only be Celia.

  Eliza stepped forward and examined the corpse without touching it. “Very tall female, twenty-five to thirty-five. Her assailant used a sharp knife, probably a hunting knife with a partly serrated blade; he wasn’t delicate about it. The condition of the neck indicates that he was very angry, probably in a killing frenzy.” She looked around. “She was probably killed inside, then undressed and brought out here.”

  Sample nodded. “We found a lot of blood upstairs and a trail descending the stairs. We think he encountered the other woman first, killed her immediately, before she had time to cry out, then went upstairs after Celia.”

  “Did you find the head?” Stone asked.

  “No. It’s not in the house or on the grounds.”

  “He took it as a trophy,” Eliza said. “I’d be willing to bet he brought the means for preserving it with him, maybe a container of ice or dry ice.”

  Sample produced two plastic bags: one held a sheet of notepaper with Stone’s cell number written on it, the other a semiautomatic pistol. “We found these in her hands,” he said.

  “The gun is mine, Charley,” Stone said. “I loaned it to her for protection, when she was at my house in Connecticut. I didn’t know she brought it with her. I know she has my cell number.”

  “I’ll see that you get the gun back in due course,” Sample said. “Let’s go sit down in the dining room.” He pulled the plastic sheet back over the corpse and led the way inside, where they took chairs at the table.

  “Tell me everything you know about her, from the beginning,” Sample said.

  Stone related the story in as much detail as he could muster, omitting the sexual nature of their relationship but including the trips to Connecticut and the incident with Daltry’s car at the Mayflower Inn, while Sample both recorded the interview on a dictator and took notes, asking an occasional question. Stone told him about the delivery of the bronze head, as well.

  “Did you ever meet Celia?” he asked Eliza.

  “Not until tonight,” she replied.

  “Daltry found her very quickly,” Stone said. “She didn’t even know she was coming out here until this morning. I talked to her around six o’clock, after the bronze head was delivered to my office, and she was certain he wouldn’t be able to learn where she was.”

  Sample’s cell phone rang, and he talked for a moment, then closed it. “The NYPD found Daltry at an opening for another artist in downtown Manhattan. Witnesses put him there from six o’clock onward. There were no grounds for an arrest.”

  “Then he has an accomplice,” Stone said. “He had me run down by a car last week when he had established an alibi elsewhere.”

  “We’ll run down all his contacts and see if we can isolate a suspect who doesn’t have an alibi. I don’t think we need keep you any longer, Stone. Thanks for coming out here. You, too, Dr. Larkin.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she said.

  They left the dining room and walked outside. The corpse had been removed from the front porch, and an ambulance was driving away from the house.

  “A neighborhood kid spotted it,” Sample said. “The porch light was on.” They had started down the steps, but Sample pulled Stone back, out of Eliza’s earshot. “Stone, were you fucking her?”

  “Yes, but we’d only known each other a short time.”

  “I’ll try to keep that out of the record, since it doesn’t seem relevant.”

  “Thanks, Charley,” Stone said. The two men shook hands, and Stone and Eliza walked back to his car.

  No one spoke for another ten minutes, then Eliza said, “You don’t lead a dull life, do you?”

  “Sometimes it’s not dull enough,” Stone replied.

  They went back to Eliza’s apartment, and she warmed up dinner.

  “The wine is delicious,” she said.

  “Everything is delicious,” he replied.

  When they had finished, he helped with the dishes, then made to leave, but she held him back.

  “Stay with me tonight,” she said. “You’re still in shock; you shouldn’t be alone.” She led him into the bedroom, undressed them both and pulled him into bed.

  They lay there in each other’s arms, hardly moving, until they finally fell asleep.

  The following morning she made them breakfast, then walked Stone to the door.

  “We can’t see each other for a while,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because this Daltry thing isn’t over. If he learned about you, you might become a target, and I don’t want that to happen. I took a lot of precautions to see that I wasn’t followed here tonight, but I can’t go on doing that; it’s too dangerous.”

  “I understand,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him. “I’ll wait for you to call me when this is over.”

  “I hope it’s soon,” Stone said.

  “So do I,” she replied.

  41

  That morning Stone headed for the district attorney’s office in a cab, but they were stopped dead by a huge traffic jam going downtown. Stone called Bob Cantor’s cell number.

  “Cantor.”

  “Bob, it’s Stone. Have you got Herbie?”

  “Yep, we’re sitting in the D.A.’s waiting room.”

  “I’m stuck in a huge traffic jam. Just know that I’ll be there at the earliest possible moment.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  “And you hang on to Herbie.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  Stone sweated his way through the jam and arrived at the D.A.’s office twenty minutes late. Cantor and Herbie were not in the waiting room.

  “They’re in with Dierdre Monahan,” the receptionist said. “You can go in.”

  The idea of Herbie in Dierdre’s office without an attorney to keep him quiet h
orrified Stone, and he practically ran down the hallway toward Dierdre’s office.

  Dierdre and Cantor seemed to be having a nice conversation without any participation by Herbie. “Good afternoon, Stone,” she said pointedly.

  “I’m sorry, Dierdre,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’ve been stuck in a traffic jam for half an hour.”

  “Of course you have,” she said, pointing at a chair.

  “Didn’t you tell her, Bob?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Dierdre, I hope you haven’t been talking to my client without his attorney present.”

  “I haven’t said a word to him,” she said innocently.

  “That’s right, she hasn’t,” Cantor confirmed.

  “Now, Stone, what do you propose we do about this charge of first-degree murder?”

  “Now, wait a minute…” Herbie began to say.

  “Shut up, Herbie,” Stone said, “and don’t open your mouth again until I tell you to.” He turned to the A.D.A. “Now, Dierdre, as I explained on the phone, these two goons have been after Herbie for a couple of weeks, seeking payment of illegal gambling debts. They’ve beaten him on the street, kidnapped him and held him under the threat of death. Obviously, they found him at home in his own apartment, and Herbie had to defend himself. Anyone would have done the same in the circumstances. I want the charges dropped immediately and my client released.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Herbie said.

  Stone rounded on him. “Herbie, don’t open your mouth…” Stone stared at him dumbly. “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘I didn’t kill anybody.’”

  Stone was flabbergasted. He had been at the point of having the charges dismissed, and suddenly Herbie was off on some other tangent.

  “I want to hear this,” Dierdre said. “Go on, Mr. Fisher.”

  “Don’t say a word, Herbie,” Stone said.

  “But I’m innocent.”

  “Your client says he’s innocent, Stone,” Dierdre said. “I’d like to know why he feels that way.”

  “I’d like to speak to my client alone for a few minutes,” Stone said.

  Dierdre turned to Herbie. “Now, Mr. Fisher, your attorney has told you not to speak, but you have the right to ignore his advice, if you want to.”