A Delicate Touch

by Stuart Woods

“And how have you made the transfers more difficult to accomplish?”

  “They’ll take a lot longer, perhaps as much as an hour, even two hours per transfer, instead of a few minutes.”

  “Bruce,” Stone said, “how should we handle this?”

  “I think we’d better get an expert from the Treasury Department in here to watch this happen on Huey’s computers, and see if they can find enough evidence for a charge.”

  “Maybe somebody from the NSA, too,” Stone suggested.

  “I’m sorry I screwed this up, guys,” Huey said. “I was just trying to stop them from stealing, and I wasn’t thinking ahead.”

  “If we can get quotes from Treasury and the NSA as to what they’re doing,” Jeremy said, “then we can run our story, which will alert the central bank and blow them out of the water. Isn’t that what we want to accomplish?”

  “I’ll need to see how far the Treasury and the NSA are willing to go in their public statements,” Bruce said. “The NSA, for one, isn’t known for that. Shall I make some calls?”

  “You’d better let me do that,” Jeremy said. “I can probably get high-ranking officials on the phone more easily.”

  “I’m acquainted with the secretary of state,” Stone said. “She might help.”

  “No,” Scott said, shaking his head. “She’s a victim in all this, and if we bring her into it we’re dabbling in politics. I’d rather the first she hears of it to be when she reads it in the Times.”

  “You have a point,” Stone said.

  “All right,” Jeremy said, “let’s get this moving and meet back here tomorrow morning.”

  The meeting broke up, leaving only Huey and Jamie there.

  “This is good for my book,” Jamie said. “It’s good plotting to have a setback, then recover from it.”

  “You’re writing a book about this?” Huey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Am I in it?”

  “Of course, unless you don’t want your name mentioned.”

  “I want my name mentioned,” Huey said, “but only if we’re successful.”

  Jamie and Stone laughed.

  “You should be in public relations, Huey,” Stone said.

  Huey’s phone rang. “Yes, Will?” He covered the phone. “Am I done here? I need to meet my architect at my loft, downtown.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Stone said.

  “Will, I’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up and left.

  “Huey has a loft downtown?” Jamie asked.

  “He does.”

  “How little I know about him,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  TRIXIE MADE HER WAY through a darkened restaurant in Chelsea, picked out a table, and ordered a drink.

  Five minutes later Damien joined her. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I fucked up,” she replied, taking a swig of her drink.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I couldn’t open the safe, and it locked itself. And I somehow left DNA behind, and the cops discovered it.”

  “Have they identified you?”

  “Apparently so. Barrington knew it was me.”

  “So we have none of the contents of the safe, and the cops are onto you. Have you told anybody anything?”

  “No, nothing,” she lied.

  He kicked her shin sharply under the table. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Jesus, that hurt,” she said, rubbing her leg.

  “It’s going to hurt a lot more, if you don’t tell me everything.”

  “All right, Barrington knows your name.”

  “You told him?”

  “He was threatening to have me jailed. I can’t go to jail, it would ruin my career with the magazines.”

  “Not to mention your career as a safecracker.”

  “That safe is a monster,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Did they get it open?”

  “Apparently, but I don’t know how.”

  “Trixie, you’re on thin ice here. Tell me what you know.”

  “I guess they must have some sort of an expert who knows the safe and how it operates, but I have no idea who.”

  “Get Huey to tell you.”

  “Huey isn’t speaking to me.”

  “You’re becoming less and less useful, Trixie.”

  She dug into her purse and came up with a thick envelope. “Here’s your ten thousand,” she said. “I didn’t earn it.”

  “No,” Damien said, “you didn’t.” He pocketed the money and left her sitting there. On the way out, he told the waiter to take her another drink. He handed the man a hundred. “Make it a double, and tell her it’s on the house.” Outside, in the car, he said to the two men in the front seat, “She’s in there, and she’ll be coming out eventually,” he said. “She should not survive the experience. I’ll get a cab.” He got out of the car and walked quickly away.

  55

  An hour after Damien had left, Trixie sat, staring into her empty glass. A waiter passed, and she grabbed at his coattail. “Check, please.”

  “You’re all paid up, sweetheart,” the man said. “Can I get you a cab?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” She got unsteadily to her feet and moved toward the front door.

  “Good night,” the waiter said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Trixie replied. She made it to the street and found that it was raining heavily. “I’ll never find a cab in this,” she said aloud to herself. She stood under the restaurant awning and looked down the street. A cab sat by the curb, its rooftop light on. She stepped into the street and waved a hand. “Taxi!!!” she screamed.

  The cab switched on its blinker, signaling a stop, and moved toward her. Trixie stood with one hand still up, the other clutching her bag. She stepped slightly back, out of its way, looking down to see that she didn’t trip over the curb.

  She heard the engine of the cab rev and looked up just in time to see it swerve toward her.

  * * *

  • • •

  STONE AND JAMIE were having a drink in his study and watching the local evening news. A “Breaking News” banner filled the screen.

  “This just in,” the anchor said. “A young woman has been killed in a hit-and-run incident just a few minutes ago in Chelsea. We had a camera in the neighborhood on another story, and he managed to shoot the aftermath.” A knot of people stood in the street, gathered around a lump on the pavement, as two cops herded them back to the sidewalk. An ambulance siren could be heard approaching. “We have a reporter on the scene, now, and we’ll give you more news as we get it.”

  “Poor girl,” Jamie said.

  “It’s a filthy night out there,” Stone said, “and Fred is off tonight. Why don’t we dine here instead of braving the storm?”

  “I’m all for staying dry,” Jamie said.

  Stone called Helene and told her of their change of plans. When he hung up the phone, he glanced at the TV. A woman in a trench coat stood in the street under a golf umbrella. “We’ve just heard that the victim of this hit-and-run was one Ruth O’Donnell, a photographer whose work appears in Vanity Fair and other magazines under the name ‘Trixie.’ She died in an ambulance on the way to Bellevue Hospital. The police have found an abandoned taxi with a smashed fender a couple of blocks away. The vehicle had been reported stolen.”

  * * *

  • • •

  STONE AND JAMIE stared at the screen. “That was no accident,” he said.

  “It doesn’t seem so,” Jamie agreed.

  Stone picked up his phone and called Huey’s cell.

  “This is Huey.”

  “It’s Stone. Have you been watching TV?” he asked.

  “No, I’m still at the loft with the architect. There
’s no TV here.”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid: Trixie has been the victim of a hit-and-run in Chelsea. She died on the way to the hospital. She was run down by a taxi that had been reported stolen.”

  “Oh, shit,” Huey said.

  “I agree. It doesn’t look like an accident.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here tonight,” Stone said. “Don’t go home. I’ll get Fred to pick you up. What’s your address?”

  Huey gave it to him.

  “Do you know any of her family?” Stone asked.

  “I met her mother once, for about a minute. I don’t have her number.”

  “Leave it to the police, then.” He tried Fred’s number.

  “Yes, sir?” Fred answered.

  “Where are you?” Stone asked.

  “In a cab on the way home.”

  “When you get here, please take the car downtown and pick up Huey Horowitz.” He gave Fred the address.

  “On my way,” Fred said. “Should take me half an hour, forty-five minutes in this weather.”

  “Good.” Stone hung up and called Huey. “Fred will pick you up as soon as he can get there. We’ll wait dinner for you here.”

  “Thank you, Stone. Can I invite my architect? He’s on a motorcycle, and he shouldn’t be driving it in this weather.”

  “Of course.” Stone hung up and gave the news to Helene. Stone called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone. Have you seen the TV reports about a hit-and-run in Chelsea?”

  “Yeah, I’m home, the TV’s on.”

  “The girl was Huey’s girlfriend.”

  “No kidding?”

  “She was our yegg. She was working for that guy Damien, who’s a member of the Thomas family,” Stone said.

  “I already knew it wasn’t an accident,” Dino said. “Let me find out what’s going on with the investigation, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay. You want dinner here with us?”

  “No, Viv is trying out a new cook as we speak. I’m the guinea pig.”

  * * *

  • • •

  DINO CALLED BACK ten minutes later. “What you’ve heard on the news is all correct. What they don’t know yet is that the girl was having a drink with a guy at the restaurant where it happened, and she was wasted. He left an hour before she did.”

  “Anything on the identity of the guy?”

  “Mid-thirties, fairly tall, dark hair, business suit. People are on their way to have a chat with Damien.”

  “I’d like to hear about that chat.”

  “Sure.” Dino hung up.

  * * *

  • • •

  NO ONE HAD MUCH to say at dinner. Stone tried to get them talking. “Will, what do you think of Huey’s loft?”

  “I think that, by the time I’m finished with it, it’ll be the best loft south of Houston Street, and I’m being modest.”

  “How long?”

  “If I can get the builder I want, maybe six months. There’s a lot to do.”

  Huey just stared into his plate, pushing his food around.

  Dino called back. “At the time of the hit-and-run, Damien was having dinner at a restaurant on the East Side, in the eighties. His date backs his story. So does the headwaiter there.”

  “It would be interesting to know who owns the restaurant,” Stone said.

  “We’re checking.” Dino hung up.

  56

  They were on after-dinner drinks when Jamie got a call. She listened for a minute, then said, “I’m on it.” She hung up. “You’re all going to have to excuse me,” she said. “That was my editor. We’re going with the piece on the Thomas computer activity. I’ve got to get back to my office. Stone, I may be there very late.”

  “Right.” He called Fred to deliver her to the Times office.

  “Can he drop me at my apartment?” Will asked.

  “Of course,” Stone replied.

  Huey stood up. “I’m bushed. I’m going to turn in upstairs.”

  Stone was alone. He called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Nothing. Oh, the cook turned out well. Viv hired her and her assistant.”

  “Great, you’ll be gaining weight soon.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I have some news,” Stone said. “The Times is going with the Thomas story. They’re going to rip the scab off the whole thing.”

  “That’s going to be fun,” Dino said.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you called the D.A., the FBI, and the U.S. Attorney and gave them a heads-up. They’re going to be besieged by the press as soon as the Times hits the street.”

  “Where’s Huey?”

  “Upstairs, asleep.”

  “They’re going to want to talk to him.”

  “Tell them to call me for access.”

  “Okay. Did you figure out what the Thomases were doing with their computer installation?”

  “I forgot to bring you up to date.” He ran it all down for Dino.

  “Does Holly know about this?”

  “No, the Times people want her to learn about it from reading their paper. That way, they won’t be accused of colluding with her to get Hank.”

  “Do you think the story is going to really get Hank?”

  “He may not end up in prison. He’ll play dumb and blame his computer people. But I don’t think he’s going to be the next President of the United States.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Dino said. “I’m going to bed, good night.” They both hung up.

  Stone decided to finish his cognac before going upstairs. Then his phone rang, or rather, Bob Cantor’s did. He answered.

  “Hey, there.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “How’s it going on the computer front?”

  Stone gave him a complete update.

  “They’re going to get away with it,” Bob said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “What Huey doesn’t seem to understand is that they’re probably already onto him—or onto somebody. You don’t invest that much in equipment and people without planting adequate safeguards in your hardware and software. They’ll know they’ve been hacked; they just won’t know why, until the Times hits the street.”

  “Huey’s safe. He’s upstairs, sleeping with your computers.”

  “That’s good. You should keep him there.”

  “Are you ready to tell me where you are?” Stone asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “What are your plans? Are you just going to walk away from everything?”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to do that once the story comes out. The Thomases will be under too much scrutiny to mess with me.”

  “They’ve already messed with Huey. They murdered his girlfriend earlier this evening, ran her down in the street with a stolen cab.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “That’s what we’re all saying. Turns out, she was messing with the Excelsior—she comes from a family of yeggs.”

  “She didn’t get into it, did she?”

  “No, but her attempts made it lock up. We had to get Sol Fink over to fix it.”

  “Is Sol okay?”

  “He’s great. He just goes on and on.”

  “I’ll go by and check on him, take him to dinner.”

  “You’re slipping, Bob.”

  “What?”

  “Now I know you haven’t gotten any farther than Brooklyn.”

  “You’re right, I’m slipping. I’ll call you after I read the Times piece.”

  “You do that, and watch yourself.”

  “I intend to,�
�� Bob said, and hung up.

  * * *

  • • •

  STONE WAS IN BED after midnight, but still awake, when Jamie called.

  “I finished my part of the piece,” she said. “We start on the front page, above the fold, then move to a double-page spread inside, and a whole page of Tommassini ancestors. There’ll be a big editorial, too. I’ve arranged for circulation to hand-deliver copies to H. Thomas & Son. They should get them around four AM.”

  “Sounds great. Do you need a bed for the night?”

  “I’m already in a cab,” she said. “I’ll let myself in.”

  * * *

  • • •

  LATER, AFTER THEY had exhausted themselves with each other, they lay in bed panting.

  “I’m trying to think ahead,” Jamie said.

  “Is that so hard?”

  “Well, I know tomorrow will be chaotic, but what about after that?”

  “First, you finish your book. If you want to do it in England, I’ll arrange our flight.”

  “Let me think about that for a day or two.”

  “Have you told your agent about the book?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’d better get that out of the way. Tell him to start with the New Yorker, maybe a three-part series.”

  “It’s a her, and I’ll tell her that. I’ll e-mail her the early chapters, too.”

  “Don’t use e-mail. Put it on a thumb drive and have it hand-delivered. She can print it at her end.”

  “Tell me about the house in England,” she said.

  “House, stables, a few cottages, a private airstrip, dates back to World War II. An hour and a half’s drive to London, faster on the train.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. She laid her head on his chest and dozed off.

  57

  Jack Thomas was awakened by a sound he always dreaded: the dedicated red telephone to his father’s house. The terrible thing about the phone was that it didn’t ring, pause, and ring again: it rang continuously, until it was answered. Old Henry didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  “Yes, Poppa?” Jack said, taking deep breaths to calm himself.