Fresh Disasters

by Stuart Woods

  “I’d love to do that, I really would,” Stone said.

  “Yeah, but it’s my job not to do that, and not to let you do it, either.”

  “I know.”

  Stone looked up to see Dierdre Monahan coming through the front door. She gave him a little wave, then stopped and said something to Gianni, the headwaiter, who picked up a remote control and changed the TV channel to New York 1, a 24/7 local news channel, then cranked up the volume.

  Dierdre came over and sat down. “Well, hi, guys,” she said. “Who does a girl have to fuck to get a drink around here?”

  Stone waved at Gianni, who came over and took an order for a cosmo. Dierdra was still wearing the dress she’d worn at lunch, Stone was pleased to see. He stopped thinking about Celia.

  “How was your limo ride back to work?” he asked.

  “The Old Man was really sweet, wasn’t he? Either that, or he figured out what you and I were about to do and saved me from a fate worse than death.”

  “Probably that one,” Stone said.

  “Stone and I were having lunch, Dino, and…”

  “He already told me,” Dino replied.

  “Oh, oh, here we go,” Dierdre said, pointing at the TV. “Listen up.”

  Dierdre’s face popped onto the screen, over a copse of microphones. “The district attorney’s office is pleased to announce that we have indicted and arrested Carmine Dattila on multiple charges of murder, attempted murder, extortion, abetting prostitution and abetting gambling.” TV Dierdre went on, but the real Dierdre was yelling at Gianni to change the channel back. She turned back to Stone. “I just wanted you to see that, so you’ll know I’m not lying.”

  “Well, that’s great, Dierdre,” Stone said. “All this because of Herbie’s little tape?”

  “Herbie’s little tape and the fact that Gus Castiglione rolled over this afternoon.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. Turns out Cheech was his younger brother, and he was feeling just terrible about stabbing him repeatedly with a butcher knife. We had to get the poor thing a priest, and when that was done, he spilled his guts into a VCR and gave us names, dates, places and anything else we wanted. Believe me, this time Dattila is nailed.”

  “If you can keep Gus alive,” Dino pointed out.

  “And Herbie, too,” Stone mentioned.

  “Gus is already in the safest house you ever saw, but that reminds me, where’s Herbie? We’ve got to put him on ice.”

  “My best guess is he’s in East Hampton at an aunt’s house or, more likely, at the first singles’ bar he could find.”

  “What’s the aunt’s name?”

  “I don’t know. She’s married to a very successful plumber, though, if that helps.”

  “Let’s see, this means that the aunt is Bob Cantor’s sister?”

  “Very possibly.”

  Dierdre dug a cell phone out of her purse and pressed a speed-dial number. “Hank? Get hold of Bob Cantor. Young Herbie is at Cantor’s sister’s house in East Hampton. Get the address from Cantor, find Herbie and ice him down good; I’ve already got the material witness warrant. The office will give you a copy. Right, see ya.” She put away the phone.

  “It may not be as easy as that,” Stone said, “given my experience with Herbie, but it’s a start.”

  She leaned into his ear and whispered, “After you’ve bought me a huge steak, we’re going back to your place, and I’m going to do to you everything you always dreamed about-every orifice, every position, as many times as you’re good for, kiddo.”

  “Is a porterhouse big enough?”

  “Why, Stone, I’ve never heard you call your dick a porterhouse, but I like the reference.”

  Stone waved for a waiter.

  45

  They were sipping double espressos over the remains of the porterhouse and the cognacs that Elaine had sent over.

  Stone spoke up. “Before you and I leave here I have to offer a disclaimer.”

  “Offer away,” Dierdre said, sipping her cognac.

  “Being in any way associated with me, at the moment, may be dangerous to your health. That’s why I didn’t call you after lunch.”

  “Why, Stone, don’t tell me you’ve contracted a social disease.”

  Dino broke in. “You’d better pay attention, Dierdre.”

  “All right, be specific,” she said.

  “A client of mine who had been hiding from a jealous boyfriend was killed last night.”

  “The boyfriend was jealous of you?”

  “Not just me, everybody. He’s nuts. His name is Devlin Daltry.”

  “The sculptor?”

  “Jesus, why is it that everybody knows about this guy, and I’d never heard of him until a couple of weeks ago?”

  “He’s a very well-known artist,” Dierdre said.

  “I am the son of two well-known artists,” Stone said, “and I have more than a passing interest in the arts, but somehow Devlin Daltry had escaped my notice until he started trying to kill me.”

  “I thought it was your client he killed.”

  “It was, but he ran me down with a car on Third Avenue last week. My body has many bruises, and this…” He held up his left hand to display the blue plastic cast. “…is a result of that incident.”

  “My goodness, that’s a cast? And I thought it was a sex toy!”

  “My point is, Dierdre, that this guy has been known to follow me around, and if he spots us together, you may very well be in danger.”

  “I can handle myself,” Dierdre said.

  “Are you packing?”

  “Always. How did he kill your client?”

  “After cutting the throat of the woman she was staying with in New Jersey, he decapitated my client. And she was the kind of woman who could take care of herself, too. She was six feet, three inches tall and no shrinking violet.”

  “Was she packing?”

  “She was. I loaned her one of my own weapons.”

  Dierdre regarded him calmly. “I’d rather it were a social disease than a crazed killer,” she said, “but if he messes with me, I’ll shoot him, and as soon as I’m sure he’s dead, I’ll arrest him and prosecute him. Are the police looking for him?”

  “They found him shortly after the killing at an art gallery opening in SoHo; witnesses put him there when the killing took place.”

  “So he hired somebody?”

  “Apparently.”

  Dino spoke up. “It’s gotta be tough to hire somebody to cut off the head of a six-foot, three-inch woman with a gun.”

  “Yeah, and a doctor on the scene said that the killer did it in a fit of rage,” Stone pointed out. “Professional killers don’t do rage.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Dierdre said, “I’ve never heard of rage in the case of a pro who was prosecuted. Those guys just walk up to you, put two in your head and walk away. Cold is their trademark.”

  “Give us the benefit of your experience, Dierdre,” Dino said. “What does it mean when a guy kills by proxy and there’s rage involved?”

  “Well, Daltry has to be enraged in order to go far enough to arrange her death.”

  “Yeah, but what about the hiree?”

  “I suppose he could have hired a crazy person to do it, somebody who hates women, maybe.”

  “He hired somebody to run me down, too,” Stone said. “He had another airtight alibi.”

  “An enraged serial killer using a surrogate?” Dierdre asked.

  “Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Dino said. “Serials may be enraged, but they do their own killing.”

  “Dino,” Dierdre said, “go to the men’s room and take your time.”

  “Okay,” Dino replied. He got up and walked away.

  Dierdre leaned into Stone. “Okay, I’ve heard your disclaimer, and I still want you. I have a disclaimer, too.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “This isn’t love, it’s sex. When I get horny, I do something about it, and I’m not talking
about using my hand.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not going to cling to you, stalk you or make your life miserable. All I want from this relationship is an occasional drink or steak and a spectacular roll in the hay. We clear on that?”

  “Perfectly clear.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.” She stood up and started for the door.

  Stone was right behind her. “Dino will get the check,” he said to Gianni. He kissed Elaine on the cheek as he passed her, and by the time he got outside, she was in a cab with the door open, waiting. Stone took a second to check out the block, then he got in.

  “Anybody following us?” she asked, as they drove down Second Avenue.

  “We seem to be alone,” Stone replied.

  Dierdre undressed him slowly, kissing him here and there, then she shucked off her own clothes, revealing a body that had everything her dress had promised. She ran her fingers over his bruises. “That’s the worst bruising I’ve ever seen on anybody who wasn’t a corpse,” she said. “Poor baby.” She pushed him back onto the bed and began kissing him more purposefully.

  Stone was delighted to find that he couldn’t think of anything but what was happening at that moment. He was tumescent and oblivious.

  Dierdre helped with that, bringing him to full attention with her lips and tongue. “God, I love porterhouse,” she said.

  Stone could make noises, but he couldn’t form words. He put his hands under her ass and lifted her onto him. She supplied the only lubrication necessary.

  By the time they allowed themselves to fall asleep, Dierdre had kept every word of the promise she had made at the dinner table.

  In the middle of the night, Stone got up to go to the john, and on the way back he walked to the front windows and looked down into the street. A black sedan sat, idling, a couple of doors up the block. The reflection from a street lamp on the windshield made it impossible to see who was inside.

  “Stoooone,” Dierdre cooed from the bed.

  “Coming,” he said, returning to her.

  “Soon,” she said, holding the sheet back for him.

  He settled into her as if she were a bear rug, and they started all over again.

  After daybreak, he checked the street again. The black sedan was gone.

  46

  Stone sat in his office, his cheek pressed against the smooth, walnut desktop, snoring slightly. A voice came from afar.

  “Rough night, huh?”

  “Mmmmff,” he replied.

  The voice came close to his ear. “Here’s coffee, very strong.”

  “Bllllfff,” he replied.

  “Wake up!” Joan shouted.

  Stone sat straight up, blinking. Joan nudged the steaming cup of coffee closer.

  “Either drink this and start making money, or go upstairs and go back to bed. You’re no good to me asleep at your desk,” she said.

  “Right,” Stone said. He picked up the coffee cup and sipped it, burning his tongue. Down the hall the doorbell rang, the outside office door.

  “I’m awake,” he said.

  “We’ll see. Drink more coffee.”

  Stone blew on it and sipped again. “I swear I’m awake. See who’s at the door.”

  Joan sauntered down the hall toward the outside door. She was back in a flash. “Call Dino,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “There’s a box on the doorstep and nobody outside.”

  “What kind of box?”

  “Pretty big box,” she said, holding out her arms to indicate the size. “No return address or shipping form that I can see. Looks like it was hand delivered.”

  Stone picked up the phone and pressed a speed-dial button.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, rough night?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Everything I heard from you and Dierdre last night leads me to believe that you both had a rough night. Or was that just a lot of talk?”

  “Rough night,” Stone said, “but maybe not as rough as this morning.”

  “Clear that up for me,” Dino replied.

  “There’s a box on my doorstep, no return address or shipping label, probably hand delivered.”

  “How big?”

  “Bigger than a bread box.”

  “Don’t touch it.”

  “You think you have to tell me that?”

  “I’ll get our people over there pronto.”

  “If it goes up in the street, people could get hurt.”

  “I’ll tell them to finish their doughnuts quickly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you and Joan go upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right now.”

  “All right!” He hung up. “We’re going upstairs,” he said to Joan, but she was already headed that way. Then, as he started up the stairs, he had an awful thought.

  Dino sat with them, sipping his coffee. Nobody was saying much. “You don’t think it’s a bomb, do you?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” Stone replied. “I think murder by car or hunting knife is more his style.”

  A heavily equipped cop appeared in the doorway. “It’s not a bomb,” he said.

  “Dino,” Stone said, “I think you’d better get a forensics team over here.”

  “What’s in the box?” Dino asked the man.

  “An aluminum case,” the man said, “the kind you carry camera equipment in.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t contain a bomb?”

  “I X-rayed it, then I opened it.”

  “What did the case contain?”

  “I think you’d better get a forensics team over here,” the cop said, then he left the room.

  Dino opened his cell phone and pressed a button. “This is Bacchetti; it’s not a bomb. I want a forensics team and the medical examiner over here pronto.” He closed the phone. “You want to go see it?”

  “I’ve already seen it,” Stone said. “I liked it where it was before.”

  They all got up and went downstairs. The bomb squad had moved the box and the aluminum case into Stone’s office hallway. The cop stood in the door. “I don’t think we’re needed here anymore. Good luck.” He closed the door, and a moment later, the squad’s truck pulled away from its position in front of a fire plug.

  The three of them stood and gazed at the aluminum case.

  “There’s got to be fingerprints on that, right?” Joan asked.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t expect fibers or DNA, either.”

  Dino shook his head. “Right. At least, no DNA that would be of any use to us.”

  “I need a drink,” Joan said.

  “It’s eleven thirty in the morning,” Stone pointed out.

  “If I don’t have a drink, I’ll faint,” she said.

  “You know where the bar is.”

  Joan disappeared upstairs.

  “Funny thing is, I feel pretty much the same way,” Stone said.

  “Me, too,” Dino echoed.

  “I’m not going to have one, though.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “And I’m not going to faint.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “I may throw up, though,” Stone added.

  “It’s your rug.”

  Stone sat down in one of the waiting-room chairs and put his head between his legs.

  A moment later, the doorbell rang, and Dino went to answer it. He came back with four people wearing latex gloves.

  “This it?” a man in a green lab coat asked.

  “Yeah. You other guys start with the box outside.”

  “You stay,” the M.E. said to the one who had cameras.

  “Don’t touch the case any more than you have to,” Dino said.

  “No kidding?” the M.E. said sarcastically.

  “Sorry.”

  The M.E. took out a pocket dictator and switched it on. He knelt beside the aluminum case and used
a tape measure. “The object is inside an aluminum camera case with the trade name Halliburton affixed to it.” He recited the measurements of the container, then he flipped open the securing catches and opened the case. A small cloud of some sort was released.

  He continued to dictate. “The case contains the human head of a female Caucasian; the hair is dark brown. The head is frozen and is packed in dry ice.” There was a rattling noise. “On lifting the head from the case I observe that it is wearing cosmetic makeup and the hair is neatly coiffed.” There was the rattling noise again. “I am returning the head to the case and closing it,” he said, snapping the case shut.

  The M.E. stood up. “As soon as they’ve processed the exterior of the case I’ll take it to the morgue, and we’ll try to get a cause of death for you.”

  “I think you’ll find,” Stone said, “that the cause of death is exsanguination as the result of a severed carotid artery and jugular vein, and that the implement used was a large, partly serrated hunting knife wielded by an enraged male unsub.”

  “That’s pretty good,” the M.E. said.

  “I’m quoting another doctor,” Stone replied. “The rest of her is in the custody of the M.E. of Morris County, New Jersey. The detective in charge is Lieutenant Charles Sample of Morristown.”

  A tech came in and went to work on the aluminum case.

  “Come on,” Dino said to Stone, “I’ll buy you some lunch.”

  Stone stood up. “I’ll watch you eat,” he said.

  47

  Stone sat at a table in the back room of P. J. Clarke’s and watched Dino devour a steak. His own lunch was a single beer, which he sipped occasionally. “I don’t know how you can eat that,” he said.

  Dino carved a chunk off the steak and stuffed it in his mouth. “Why? It’s a decent piece of meat. Not as good as the strip steak they used to serve, though; I don’t know why they took that off the menu.”

  “I’m not talking about the quality of the steak.”

  “Oh, come on, Stone. You and I have attended a passel of corpses and autopsies over the years; what’s the big deal with a head in a box?”