by Stuart Woods
“You’ve got a point. Okay, pick one of the other women in the squad.”
“Shelly Pointer.”
“Okay, you’ve got Pointer; you can have her partner, too. Go tell her.”
“Thanks, Boss.” Detective Willa Bernstein got up and left.
She found Detective Shelly Pointer in the ladies’ room. Pointer was an attractive, cafe-au-lait black woman of average height with a better-than-average body. “Hey, Shelly.”
“Hey, Willa.”
“You and I have got an assignment.”
“What, together?”
“Yeah.”
“What about my partner?”
“He’s on it, too.”
“What’s the assignment?”
“You ever heard of Devlin Daltry?”
“The sculptor?”
“Right.”
“Sure.”
“He’s suspected of persuading somebody to cut off a girl’s head. Bacchetti wants me to find out who he got to do it.”
“Do you have to fuck him?”
“I don’t think Bacchetti cares one way or the other, but if I do, I’m supposed to deny it. I’ll be wearing a wire, and I want you on the other end of it, not just a bunch of guys.”
“When do we start?”
“Right now. Let’s get on the Internet and see what we can find out about Daltry.”
“Lead the way.”
The two women headed toward Willa’s desk and her computer.
“Willa,” Pointer said, “are you going to fuck him?”
“Shelly, I don’t even know if he’s nice yet.”
50
Gus Castiglione sat quietly in his cell on Rikers Island, reading the Daily News sports section. Abell rang, and there was the sound of a hundred cells being electronically unlocked. What surprised Gus was that his cell door opened as well.
He had been in protective custody since arriving at Rikers, and his meals had been brought to him. He got an hour’s exercise daily in an empty yard, and he showered alone daily while a guard watched. He sat and stared at the open cell door, uncertain what to do.
A guard walked by. “Get your ass to lunch, Castiglione,” he said as he passed.
“But…” Gus started to say.
The guard banged his nightstick on the bars. “I said, get your ass to lunch!”
Gus sighed, folded his newspaper, tossed it on his bunk and joined the line of prisoners shuffling past his cell. It would make a nice change, having somebody to talk to over a meal. The line stopped moving while the barred door that led to the dining hall was opened. Gus heard a slight commotion behind him and started to turn to see what was happening. Before he could move he felt a searing pain in his back, near his spine. He managed to make half a turn, and he saw a small, wiry man he knew holding a bloody homemade shiv.
“Skinny?” he managed to say, before the man shoved the knife into his chest. His legs turned to water, and he hit the floor hard. Something warm and wet flowed past his cheek on the concrete floor. It got very noisy, then the sound went away.
Dierdre Monahan was in the chief deputy D.A.’s office when his phone rang and he picked it up. “It’s for you,” he said, handing her the receiver.
“Monahan,” she said. She listened to what the voice on the other end of the line was saying, and she felt herself turning white. She asked some questions, then hung up.
“Dierdre,” her boss said, “you look weird. You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“I hope not.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Gus Castiglione is dead.”
“What?”
“He got knifed at Rikers.”
“Didn’t you put him into protective custody?”
“Yes, but for some reason his cell opened at lunch call, and he went to the dining hall, or at least he started out for the dining hall. Somebody put a shiv into him twice. They’ve got a suspect, a little rat named Skinny diSalvo, who’s awaiting trial on a gambling charge, but, of course, nobody saw anything.”
“I want an investigation of how that cell door got opened,” the chief said.
“Somebody got bought,” Dierdre replied, “and I don’t think we’re going to find out who.”
“You’ve still got that other witness, what’s his name?”
“Fisher, Herbert Fisher.”
“Is he in Rikers?”
“No, I’ve got him in a safe house, a hotel.”
“You’d better make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Right,” she said. “I have to go make some calls.”
Herbie had been in the hotel for nearly a whole day, now, and he didn’t like it. The bed was hard, the food from room service was lousy, the TV in the bedroom was too small, and the two cops who were always with him hogged the bigger one in the sitting room.
One of the cops opened the door. “You okay, Herbie?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Good idea,” the cop said. “I was gonna mention it to you.”
Herbie got out of his pajamas, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he started getting dressed.
There was a knock on the sitting room door, and the two cops looked at each other. “Yeah?” one of them yelled.
“Room service,” a muffled voice said from the other side of the door.
“Jesus, is that kid eating again? It’s only been an hour since the cheeseburger.” He got to his feet and went to the door. As he turned the knob, somebody kicked it wide open, and something hit him in the chest. There had been no sound. He tried to yell to his partner, but somebody was stepping over him. He heard his partner yell, “Oh, shit!” followed by a tiny pfffft.
The man with the silenced semiautomatic pistol put one extra shot into the head of each cop, then he moved quietly to the door to the bedroom. He put his ear to the door and listened: The TV was playing, sounded like a soap opera. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, the gun held out before him. Nobody in sight. Then he heard the shower running.
He walked quickly to the bathroom door, which was ajar, allowing steam from the shower to escape. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was so much fog, it was difficult to see, but after a moment, he made out the shower curtain. He reached over with his left hand and snatched it open, ready to fire. Nobody. He checked behind the door. Still nobody. Where was the kid?
Herbie hadn’t wanted his guards to see him dressed, so when he heard the cop yell, he ducked into the bedroom closet and watched as the man with the gun went into the bathroom. He didn’t hesitate but ran into the living room, looking for the cops, who were both on the floor with holes in their heads. Once again, Herbie didn’t hesitate. He went into the pockets of the cop lying by the door and found a roll of bills, then took the cop’s gun and ran like a deer down the hallway to the fire stairs, then ran all eleven floors to the lobby. There was a cab waiting in front of the hotel, and he dived into it.
“Just drive,” he said to the driver.
“That don’t do it, pal,” the driver replied. “Where you want to go?”
“Brooklyn. I’ll give you directions.”
Stone had left his office for the day and was in the basement exercise room, running on the treadmill, when the phone rang. He paused the treadmill and went to the phone on the wall.
“Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Dierdre.”
Dierdre was horny, that was it. Okay, he had a couple of hours before he had to meet Dino at Elaine’s. “Well, hi there,” he said, panting from his exertion.
“Did I interrupt you in bed?”
“No, I was on the treadmill. You want to come over?”
“I’m not in the mood right now.”
Stone was disappointed. “Whatever you say.”
“That’s not why I called.”
“What’s up?”
“Gus Castiglione got shivved at Rikers today; he’s dead.”
“Oh, no, there
goes most of your case. I mean, Herbie can testify to the kidnapping and the murder threat, but it was Gus who could really have put Dattila away, wasn’t it?”
“That isn’t all the news,” Dierdre said. “The two cops who were guarding Herbie at the hotel are both dead, small-caliber handgun, two each.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said, dreading what might come next.
“One of the cops’ guns and the expense money in his pocket are missing.”
“And Herbie?”
“Herbie’s missing, too.”
51
Stone sat at Elaine’s, staring into his bourbon.
Dino sat down. “All right, what fresh disaster has visited you now?”
“A cascade of them,” Stone said. “First of all, Gus Castiglione got shivved at Rikers while on his way to the dining hall. You probably heard about that.”
“No. Although the NYPD’s grasp of technology is improving, I don’t yet get a daily e-mail about who got shivved at Rikers on his way to the dining hall. What else?”
“The two cops guarding Herbie at a hotel got capped, and Herbie’s missing.”
“All right, let’s start with Gus. I thought the D.A. had him on ice. What’s he doing going to the dining hall?”
“Nobody knows. He was supposed to eat in his cell, but the door was unlocked with all the rest, and he started for the dining hall.”
“That means Dattila has somebody inside who could work that.”
“Right.”
“With regard to Herbie, I thought he was in a safe hotel.”
“So did everybody else.”
“That means Dattila has somebody in the D.A.’s office, too. Jesus, New York law enforcement is turning into a sieve. You think Herbie’s dead?”
“Probably not. Why would they kidnap him again? Who would spend ten minutes with him who didn’t have to? Dattila’s already on tape saying he wants Herbie dead, so the hit man was obviously sent there to shoot him. Also, some expense money was missing from one of the cops’ pockets, and his gun was gone, too. That doesn’t sound like a pro.”
“So Herbie’s on the loose with some cash, and he’s armed. Has Bob Cantor heard from him?”
“Nope.”
“And Herbie hasn’t called you, either?”
“Nope. I don’t know if he even got out of the hotel with his cell phone. We had an arrangement where he’d call in every day. I hope he sticks to it.”
“Herbie has more lives than any three cats I know,” Dino said.
“Yeah. Gus’s death is a big blow, though. I thought Dierdre would send Dattila up for life, and that would bolster Herbie’s civil suit. Even if Herbie lives to testify, he can only nail Dattila for kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“Dattila’s what, fifty? He might get enough time to keep him in the rest of his life.”
“I’m not counting on it, and if he gets Herbie, he won’t do any time at all. Any news on Devlin Daltry?”
“I’ve got six people on it, including a knockout blonde detective who’s six-feet-one.”
“That’s encouraging, and I need encouraging.”
“I’m expecting to hear more tonight,” Dino said.
Detective Willa Bernstein parked her Camaro Z80 across from the Art Scene Gallery. Detective Shelly Pointer, who was in the passenger seat, leaned forward and looked into the gallery. “You think Daltry is in there?”
“A magazine interview I dug up on the Internet said that he loves other artists’ openings, and he goes to all the big ones. This one-a painter named Jason Griggs-is tonight’s big one. Why don’t we go and find out?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t go in together,” a voice in Willa’s ear said.
“Thanks, we figured that out,” she replied. All five detectives could hear her and talk to her on the new equipment. “Shelly’s going in first to case; I’ll wait to hear from her.” She nodded at Shelly, who got out of the car, crossed the street and went into the gallery.
Willa took deep breaths to calm herself. Two minutes later, Shelly spoke into her ear. “Bingo,” she said.
“On my way.” Willa got out of the car and crossed the street. She could see her partner’s car ahead of her, and she knew the other car was behind. She walked into the gallery, stopped and looked around. She didn’t see Daltry, so she walked to the bar, where a lot of glasses of wine were arrayed, and picked up some white. Then she saw Daltry, standing in a group near a huge painting. She sidled over and stood, staring at the big oil, but nothing happened. From the corner of her eye she could see Daltry still talking with the group.
Willa walked around the knot of people gathered around Daltry and stopped before the next painting, careful not to look at him. She took a sip of the wine and winced.
“Was that expression for the wine or the painting?” a voice asked.
She turned a little to her right and found Daltry at her elbow; he came up to about her collarbone. “Both,” she said. “The painting is not so hot, and the wine is even worse.”
“Jason has never deserved his reputation, and the wine, well, my guess is it’s made in a basement somewhere in Queens.”
Willa laughed. “The painting could have been made there, too.”
This time Daltry laughed. “Have you seen the rest of the show?”
“No, I just got here.”
“Let’s take a quick walk through,” Daltry said. “By the way, I’m Devlin Daltry. Who are you?”
“I’m Willa Bernstein. Are you the sculptor?”
“Yes.”
“I saw your show at the Modern last year.” She hadn’t, but she’d found that on the Internet, too. “I thought it was brilliant.”
“Thank you. I wish you were an art critic.” He walked her slowly around the room, not stopping.
“Well, that’s that,” Willa said. “No reason to spend another minute here.”
“Would you like to go somewhere else?”
She nodded. “Somewhere where they have Scotch, instead of this wine, and food, instead of cardboard canapes.”
“There’s a favorite place of mine just down the street,” Daltry said. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” she said, taking his arm.
They walked past Shelly on the way out. The moment they hit the sidewalk, she heard her partner, Bernstein, say into her ear, “Good girl.”
“You a fast worker, bitch,” Shelly said, in a bit of self-caricature.
Willa laughed out loud, in spite of herself.
“What’s so funny?” Daltry asked.
“I was just thinking,” Willa replied. “Isn’t it strange how a semitalented painter like Jason Griggs can get rich, selling poor work?”
“And a semitalented sculptor like me, as well?”
“You are extremely talented, and your work has substance and beauty.” She smiled slyly at him. “But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”
This time they both burst out laughing.
“You got him hooked, baby,” Shelly said into her ear. “Now all you got to do is reel him in.”
The couple walked on toward the restaurant.
52
Stone and Dino had just tucked into their pasta when Dino’s cell phone rang. Dino flipped it open.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Bernstein, Lieutenant,” a deep male voice said.
“Yeah? Which one?”
“The one with the balls.”
“Willa? Is that you?”
“Very funny, Lieutenant.”
“I thought so. What’s happening?”
“It’s going like a dream. I tell you, this girl is good.”
“Details, please.”
“Well, first of all, she did some research on the Internet and nailed where he would be tonight, at a gallery opening. Then she waltzed in there, and inside of five minutes, he’s walking her around the gallery, disparaging the artwork. Now they’re in a restaurant down the street, and she’s in the process of wrapping him around her little
finger.”
“Good girl!”
“She sure is.”
“You think she can handle him, then?”
“I think she could handle Osama bin Laden.”
“The equipment working okay?”
“Like a dream; we can hear everything.”
“And you’re recording?”
“Every word.”
“Okay, then, don’t hang too close to her. Give her room to work, and keep me posted.”
“Will do, Lieutenant.”
Dino hung up. “Can I pick ’em, or what? She’s already having dinner with Daltry.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, exactly,” Dino said, but he was looking toward the door.
Stone followed his gaze to see two women who had just walked in. One of them was a tall, very beautiful woman in, maybe, her early thirties; the other was Eliza Larkin, M.D. Stone stood up and waved them over.
Eliza gave him a kiss. “Stone, Dino, this is my friend Genevieve James.”
Everybody shook hands, and Stone seated them. Dino, he noticed, seemed stunned by Genevieve.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza said, “We just wandered in for a drink. I know you and I are not supposed to meet while this thing with Daltry is going on.”
“The snake,” Genevieve said.
“It’s okay, Eliza,” Stone said. “As it happens, I know exactly where he is at this moment, and he won’t be a concern. I am very glad to see you.”
Dino leaned toward Genevieve. “And I’m very glad to see you.”
“You’re cute,” she said, as a cosmopolitan was set before her. They clinked glasses. “How tall are you?” she asked.
“Not as tall as I look,” Dino said.
She laughed. “You’re not intimidated; that’s good.”
“I am not intimidated.”
“So many men are. I mean, I’m only six feet; I’ve known lots of women taller.”
“So have I,” Dino said. “I’m very pleased to hear that you have a low opinion of Devlin Daltry.”
“I certainly do,” she said. “He made my life hell for weeks last fall.”
