Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  44

  STONE WAS DREAMING that he was in bed with Arrington, when he suddenly woke to find himself in the backseat of a cop car. Dino and his driver were nowhere to be seen. He shook his head to clear it, then got out of the car and looked around. Nobody in sight. He walked to the corner and peered around the building into the block where the bar was. He could see nobody—not Dino’s two cops, not the driver, not Dino. What the hell was going on?

  As he watched, Dino and his driver came out of the bar and began walking back toward their car. Stone was waiting for them when they rounded the corner.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “Relax, we just went in and had a drink, chatted with the bartender.”

  “Two to one he made you as cops.”

  “You think I don’t know how not to act like a cop? Jesus, Stone.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There’s an all-night poker game going on in the back room of the bar.”

  “That’s what the bartender told you?”

  “After I bought him a couple of twelve-year-old Scotches. I’m invited to come back and play tomorrow night; their rule is no new players when a guy first finds out about the game.”

  “Why do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Two other guys went back there while we were drinking. It looks like a game; it smells like a game. When the door opened, it sounded like a game.”

  They got back into the car. “Are we going to sit in on a poker game all night?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “What was the other guy’s name? The one who owns the other set of prints found in my house?”

  “Martin Block. No criminal record in any database.”

  “Get somebody to find out more about him. Just because he doesn’t have a record doesn’t mean he’s not a criminal. After all, he was in my house, and I didn’t invite him.”

  Dino made a call to the squad room, then hung up. “They’ll get back to me. Why are you so interested in this Martin Block?”

  “I told you, he was in my house. He cannot be a good guy.”

  “Maybe he works for the phone company—you think of that?” Dino’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah? What a big surprise.” Then he looked more interested. “Now, that is a surprise.” He hung up.

  “What?” Stone demanded.

  “There’s a whole bunch of Martin Blocks in the various New York City phone listings, but one of them lives in the same house that Rocco Bocca does.”

  “His sister’s house in Queens?”

  “I make him as Bocca’s brother-in-law.”

  “Didn’t you say there were two cars in the driveway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Run the plate on the other one.”

  “My two guys down the street will have the make and plate number.” He made the call and got the information, then phoned the squad room again. He held on for the answer, then hung up. “A 2004 Lexus four hundred fifty, registered to Martin Block of Queens.”

  “We followed the wrong guy,” Stone said. “Bocca is just a burglar; the other guy, the brother-in-law, is the smart one; he’s the one who’ll be dealing with Billy Bob.”

  Dino called his two detectives. “Get back out to the Queens house and sit on it until a man leaves in the Lexus, then follow it wherever it goes and report to me.” He hung up. “We were pretty dumb, weren’t we?”

  “You said it, I didn’t,” Stone replied. “Let’s go back to the Carlyle and wait to hear from your people. I doubt if Block is going to go to work in the middle of the night. In the meantime, get your people to find out everything they can on Martin Block—occupation, education, military service, high school, the works.”

  Dino made the call, and they headed back uptown.

  STONE AND DINO were having breakfast the following morning, when Dino’s cell phone rang.

  “Bacchetti. Go ahead.” He punched the speakerphone button and held it up so Stone could hear.

  “Block is a Queens boy, born and bred. After high school, he went into the navy, served a four-year hitch, then reupped, but was discharged after another year. He came back to Queens a year after that and opened a car stereo and alarm business, which grew into something bigger. Now he deals in all sorts of electronic stuff and parts, too.”

  “Two questions,” Stone said. “One: Why was he discharged from the navy one year after his second hitch began? Two: What did he do during the year after he left the navy, before he came home to Queens?”

  “I’ll look into it,” the man said.

  “Get back to me fast,” Dino said, then hung up and turned to Stone. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not thinking anything; I just find it odd that the guy left the navy a year into a four-year hitch.”

  “Bad conduct discharge?”

  “Maybe, but he couldn’t have reupped if he hadn’t had a clean record the first four years. Did he suddenly go bad? Did he do some time? If he did, would it show up in your criminal-records search?”

  “We searched the Pentagon database, too; if he’d done time in a military prison, it would have turned up.”

  “Maybe a hardship discharge? Sick mother, something like that?”

  Dino got back on the phone again and asked for the reason for Block’s discharge from the navy.

  Shortly, the detective called back. “Okay, here’s all I can get. The record of Block’s discharge from the navy is unavailable, and we’ve been unable to find any trace of him for the year following—no phone listing, address, employment, nothing. There’s no history for a year; it’s a blank.”

  “Thanks,” Dino said, and hung up. “What do you think?” he asked Stone.

  “I think we’re going to need Lance,” Stone replied.

  45

  WITH GREAT RELUCTANCE, Stone called Lance.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Stone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “That’s not important; I need your help.”

  “You bail out of a secure location that I went to great trouble to provide, go out into the world unprotected, endanger this operation and you want my help?”

  “I just need some information,” Stone replied.

  “You want information from me? After . . .”

  “I knew you’d be like this,” Stone said.

  “I ought to have you shot on sight.”

  “Lance, we both know you’re not going to do that, so just calm down and . . .”

  “I ought to bring charges against you. If there weren’t a civilian in jeopardy, I’d . . .”

  “Lance, I’m a civilian.”

  “No, you are a contract consultant, and as such . . .”

  “I’m still a civilian, so will you just shut up and listen to me?”

  Lance sighed deeply. “I’m listening.”

  “It occurred to me that there might be fingerprints on the alarm system in my house, and . . .”

  “There could be dozens of prints on it.”

  “No, my own tech wiped it down the last time he worked on it. There were just three sets—your tech and two others.”

  “And I suppose you got Dino to run the two others?”

  “I did. They belong to a guy named Bocca who has done time for burglarizing homes after installing their alarm systems . . .”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Not very. The other set of prints belongs to a Martin Block, who owns an electronics business in Queens. He is more interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are questions about his background.” Stone explained about Block’s unusual discharge from the navy and the blank year in his history.

  Lance was quiet for a moment. “How do you spell his last name?”

  Stone spelled it.

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Lance, there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard from Billy Bob agai
n.”

  “The message about a meeting this afternoon? I heard it.”

  “Oh. Well, get back to me. I don’t want to have to take that meeting, if I can possibly help it.”

  “Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

  “So?” Dino asked. “He’s going to help?”

  “If he can find a way to help himself without helping me, he’ll do it.”

  “He’s pissed at you, huh?”

  “He’s pissed.”

  Dino’s phone rang. “Yeah? Well, keep him in sight.” He hung up. “Block’s on the move in the Lexus.”

  Stone looked at his watch. “Eight-thirty; he’s going to work.”

  “Probably. They’ll let us know.”

  Ten minutes later, Stone’s cell phone rang. “Yes?”

  “It’s Lance. Block was recruited from the navy by the Agency and sent to the Farm for further technical training. After a year, he got drunk and told a girl who he worked for and how he was being trained; he told her about several devices that we used at the time.”

  “And you caught him?”

  “The girl worked for us, too; it was a test, and he failed it. He was bounced within days.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. His roommate at the Farm was Jack Jeff Kight.”

  “Bingo.”

  “I’m going to put people on Block immediately,” Lance said.

  “No need to; Dino’s got people on him now. He left home a few minutes ago in his car, and we think he’s going to work.”

  “He has offices and a warehouse on Queens Boulevard,” Lance said.

  “Then that’s where Billy Bob is holding Arrington,” Stone said.

  “That’s a big leap, and if you’re wrong and we go in there, we could get her killed.”

  “You have a point. We’ll have to confirm that she’s there, before we can go in.”

  “My man, Sandy, who did the work at your house, has bought equipment there in the past. I’ll send him back and see if he can learn anything. You sit tight, wherever you are. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Lance, if Billy Bob calls and gives me instructions, I’ll have no choice but to follow them.”

  “Before you do, you’d better call me; you’ll have a better chance of survival with my help. Whatever you do, don’t let Dino’s people handle your cover. They’ll stand out like sore thumbs.”

  “Call me when you know something.” Stone hung up and turned to Dino. “Lance has no faith in the ability of the NYPD to operate undercover.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “He has a point, Dino; his people have a lot more experience at blending into the woodwork, and they don’t look like cops.”

  “Cops don’t look like cops, sometimes.”

  “Everybody in your squad room wears black shoes and white socks.”

  “I put a stop to that,” Dino said.

  “Maybe, but I’ll bet they still wear the same black shoes.”

  “Some of them,” Dino admitted. “They got used to them when they were in uniform.”

  “And every umarked police car might as well have an NYPD paint job; you can spot them a block away.”

  “And Lance’s people drive black Surburbans with the windows blacked,” Dino pointed out.

  “There is some truth to that,” Stone admitted, “but they have other transportation resources. Lance is sending a man into Block’s business, which is on Queens Boulevard.”

  Dino’s phone rang, and he pressed the speaker button. “Yeah?”

  “Block drove to his business on Queens Boulevard,” a detective said.

  “Well, I’m glad he got there ahead of Lance’s man,” Stone said.

  “He used a garage-door opener and drove inside,” the detective said. “The place covers a third of a city block.”

  “Okay,” Dino said, “sit on him. One of you take a walk around the block and see if there are exits other than on Queens Boulevard.”

  “Right,” the man said, and hung up.

  “Life would be sweet, if Arrington is there,” Dino said.

  “It would be sweet, if we could prove she’s there before raiding the joint. Lance pointed out that, if she’s not, we could get her killed. He’s got this tech named Sandy, who’s done business there; he’s sending him in now to case the place.”

  “I could have done that,” Dino said.

  “Dino, the guy has done business there before; you have anybody like that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s just sit back and let Lance do his thing for the moment, all right? I mean, you were happy to give him the Billy Bob problem only a short time ago, as I recall.”

  “That was before I found out Billy Bob wanted to kill me,” Dino said.

  46

  SANDY PETERSON arrived at MB Electronics half an hour after Lance had dispatched him. He had been buying electronic components there for nearly a year, and the staff knew him, at least by sight. He always paid cash, and they liked that.

  He parked across the street and looked at the building for a moment; it was a single-story building that covered a third of the block. On the corner was a retail electronics shop, which took up about a quarter of the building, and next to that was a corrugated steel door that could be operated with a remote control. He walked to the end of the block and a few steps farther. There was a wide alley behind the building, which had a loading dock. Across the street, he saw two men sitting in a car.

  He walked back around the building, checking for windows—there were none on the side—and into the retail shop through the front door. He bought a hundred-foot reel of cat five wire and paid for it in cash, glancing at himself in the mirror behind the counter. “Is Marty in?” he asked the girl who was helping him. “I’d like to ask him about something.”

  “I’ll check,” she said. She went to a door, knocked and went inside, behind the mirror. A moment later she came out, followed by a stocky man in his midforties, balding, dressed in suit pants, shirtsleeves and a loosened tie.

  “I’m Marty Block,” ’ he said and pointed a finger at Sandy. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Sandy Peterson; I’ve been doing business here for a while.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you in the shop, didn’t know your name. You don’t have an account, do you?”

  Sandy shook his head. “I prefer dealing in cash.”

  Marty grinned. “That’s okay; we take American dollars.”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sandy asked.

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “It’s kind of confidential.”

  “Come into my office,” Marty said. He lifted the counter barrier, let Sandy through, then led him through the door into a large, comfortably furnished office with a six-foot-tall safe against one wall. “Take a seat.”

  Sandy sat down. “I’ve got a particular job to do for a client, and I need something custom.”

  “Tell me about your business,” Marty said.

  “I got started putting in alarms for people, and I did good work, so my business grew, and once in a while, a client would ask me to do some special work—personal stuff, usually—guy suspected his wife of screwing around, suspected his business partner of stealing, stuff like that.”

  “I know the kind of thing,” Marty said. He held up his hands. “Not that I’d ever do anything illegal.”

  “Yeah, of course. It’s like this . . .”

  Marty held up a hand and came around the desk. “Before we have this conversation, I’m going to have to frisk you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Sandy said, standing up and holding his arms away from his body.

  Marty proceeded to not just frisk him, but to do a body search more thorough than any Sandy had seen since he had finished his training at the Farm. He started with a normal search, looking for a recorder, then he went over Sandy’s clothing in a minute way that would have detected a hidden microphone. He took Sandy’s cell phone and set it on his desk, then he unbuckled Sandy’s belt, inspected it an
d handed it back to him.

  “Let me see your shoes,” Marty said.

  Sandy shucked them off and handed them over.

  Marty inspected the soles, the insoles and the laces. He handed them back, then ran his fingers through Sandy’s hair and checked his wristwatch. After several minutes of this, he waved him back to his chair.

  Marty picked up the cell phone, removed the back and the battery, then took a small screwdriver from his desk drawer and partially disassembled the phone. Satisfied, he reassembled it and handed it to Sandy.

  “Sorry about that,” Marty said. “I can’t be too careful.”

  “It’s perfectly okay,” Sandy said. “Believe me, I understand. Can I speak freely now?”

  “Go ahead; what do you need?”

  “I’ve got a client who’s in the middle of a big divorce. He wants me to bug his own house—he’s moved out. He wants a mike in every room—just audio, no cameras. My problem is, his wife rarely goes out for more than a few minutes. The most time I’m going to get inside without being disturbed is, maybe, thirty minutes. You think you could put something together that would work for me?”

  “Sure, but it ain’t going to be cheap.”

  “How long would it take you to get it together?”

  “How about ten minutes?” Marty said.

  Sandy grinned. “Ten minutes would be good.”

  Marty went to a large safe in the corner, worked the combination with his body between Sandy and the safe, and opened it. He removed a plastic box, and as he turned to close the door of the safe Sandy was able to get a glimpse of the inside. It was filled with electronic components, what appeared to be a considerable amount of cash and two handguns on the top shelf. Marty locked the safe and returned to his desk.

  “You recognize this?” he asked, opening the plastic box and handing Sandy a black, plastic object.

  “Looks like a standard domestic circuit breaker,” Sandy replied, turning it over in his hand.

  “How about this?” Marty asked, handing him a plastic object about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was hinged lengthwise, and short spikes protruded from the back.