Dirty Work (8 page)
Carpenter picked up the phone, dialed Stone’s home number, and got an answering machine. She hung up without leaving a message. She tried his cell phone number and got a recording saying he was out of the calling area.
She was sitting in a barely furnished office kept for visitors in the New York headquarters shared by MI5 and MI6, neither of which was supposed to have a presence in New York. She was tired, out of sorts, and hungry, and she wanted Stone to take her to dinner, and he wasn’t cooperating. She grabbed her coat, signed out at the front door, and was buzzed out of the building. P. J. Clarke’s was only a couple of blocks away, and she headed there. She didn’t give a thought to the notion that she might be followed.
It was nearly eight o’clock, and the dining room was busy. “We’re not going to have anything for forty-five minutes,” a waiter told her, “but if you’re really hungry, you can order at the bar.”
She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their hard hats, who apparently didn’t want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.
“A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the
New York Post.
“Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.
“Been in New York long?”
“Actually, I live in San Francisco. I’m just here on business.”
“One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.
“One of everybody’s,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“What firm?”
“I left a job last week, and I’m just starting the search.”
“Any luck so far?”
“I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”
“I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I’m eating here, since there’s not a table available.”
“Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”
The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.
“I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”
“Actually, I’m not all that interested in wine, though I’m happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”
“What’s your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.
“Postrio,” Carpenter replied.
“Oh? I thought that was closed.”
“Nope. They’ve redone it, and they have a new chef. It’s wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn’t go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.
“Where are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.
“At the Carlyle.”
“Pretty expensive for business travel, isn’t it?”
“I’m a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.
“That’s great.”
“It ain’t bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”
“Uptown, East Eighties.”
“I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.
Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.
“Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.
“Jordan Cabernet.”
“Yes, it’s a nice one.”
“Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn’t such a bad idea.”
“See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”
“Four years,” the woman replied.
“Is it easy to meet men here?”
She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”
“That’s how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”
The woman laughed. “It’s the same here.”
They finished their steaks.
“Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.
“What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.
“I like the walnut apple pie, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
“Sold!”
“Make it two,” the woman said, “though I’ll regret it tomorrow when I weigh myself.”
“Never weigh yourself,” Carpenter said.
They finished their apple pie, and Carpenter asked for the check. She paid it with one of her Susan credit cards. “This one’s on me,” she said.
“What’s your name?”
“Susan Kinsolving,” Carpenter said, offering her hand.
“I’m Ginger Harvey,” the woman said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”
“Thanks, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m really tired. Maybe I’ll see you in here again sometime.” Carpenter waved goodbye, walked outside, and found a cab. “The Carlyle hotel,” she said. “Seventy-sixth and Madison.”
“Right,” the cabbie said.
“Do me a favor, will you? Check your rearview mirror and see if there’s a woman getting into a cab behind us.”
“Coming out of Clarke’s?” the man asked. “Yeah.”
“Take your time going uptown,” she said. “Don’t jump any lights.” Carpenter got out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “I think I’ve been made, and I think it’s our friend. I’m in a cab, heading up Third Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and she’s right behind me. I’m going to the Carlyle hotel. Call the manager there and set me up quickly, get me registered. I don’t suppose you can get anybody there in ten minutes? I didn’t think so. No, don’t call the cops. We’re going to have to handle this the best way we can, and all by ourselves.” She hung up.
“That’s funny,” the driver said.
“What’s funny?”
“You didn’t have an English accent when you got into the cab.”
Carpenter handed him a fifty. “Forget you heard it,” she said. “Drop me at the hotel, leave your meter running, and don’t pick up a fare until you’re at least twenty blocks away, all right?”
The driver looked at the fifty. “Yes,
ma’am
!”
Carpenter got out of the cab at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the Carlyle and walked briskly to the front desk. “My name is Carpenter. May I have my key, please?”
The man at the desk looked at her for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed her a key. “High floor, interior suite, as requested,” he said.
“Anybody asks for me, call the number you were given,” she said. “There’ll be somebody here soon.”
“Sleep well,” the clerk said.
Carpenter got onto an elevator before she looked at the number taped to the key. She gave the operator the floor number. Her cell phone vibrated as soon as the elevator began to move. “Yes?”
“It’ll be twenty minutes before we can get a team into place,” the voice said.
“So long?”
“We’re scattered. Don’t answer the door until you get a call first.”
“Right.” She snapped the phone shut and got off the elevator. She found the door and let herself into a small suite, chaining the door behind her. The view was of an air shaft, but she closed the curtains anyway before turning on lights. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“All right,” she said, “check this: Name Ginger Harvey, lawyer, lives in the East Eighties.”
“Hold, please.”
She could hear the tapping of computer keys.
“East Eighty-first, near Lexington,” he said.
“Get somebody over there now. If no one answers, go in and call me back.” She hung up, shucked off her shoes, and paced the floor. It worried her that Ginger Harvey was real.
They finished their dinner quickly, and Stone went to the front desk. “The photographer who was here earlier,” he said to the woman. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Why?” the woman asked. “Did he annoy you? He only started coming here last night, and I told him not to bug the guests unnecessarily.”
“No, nothing like that,” Stone said. “I just want to talk to him.”
“All I’ve got is a phone number,” she said, digging into a drawer and handing over a card. It was crudely printed and read “Herbie the Eye, Great Photography Quick.”
“Thanks,” Stone said. “Do you have a rental car available?”
“I’ve got a jeep,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll charge it to your room, Mr. Barrington.”
“Thanks so much.” Stone and Dino hurried to the car park, where they found a red jeep waiting.
“Your job is to remember how to get back here,” Stone said, starting the vehicle.
“Sure,” Dino said. “We’re just going to cruise?”
“We’re going to cruise hotels,” Stone replied. “Having lost us, I don’t think Herbie is going to pass up a buck, do you?”
“He doesn’t seem like the type.”
They drove through the warm night, stopped at every hotel they passed and cruised the parking lot. They found two yellow jeeps, but no Herbie. Stone tried Bob Cantor’s cell phone again.
“Yeah?” Cantor said.
“Bob? Where the hell have you been?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Stone. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been on a boat. We just got into Red Hook this evening.”
“Where’s Red Hook?”
“Out at the eastern end of the island. What’s up? Why have you been trying to reach me?”
“Have you heard from Herbie Fisher?”
“No, you’re my first call since I switched on my phone. Why would I hear from Herbie?”
“He’s jumped bail.”
“Jumped bail for what? Did you get the kid arrested? My sister will kill me when I get home.”
“I didn’t get him arrested. Herbie got himself arrested, and I’m trying to get him out of it. I bailed him out through Irving Newman, and he jumped a quarter-of-a-mil bail.”
“A quarter of a mil! What did the kid do?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Stone said. “Where are you staying?”
“It’s my last night on the charter boat. I was planning to go home tomorrow.”
“How do I get to Red Hook?”
Cantor gave him directions and the name of his boat. “It’ll take you half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“All right,” Stone said. “Herbie is going to call you. Count on it. When he does, tell him to come to Red Hook, and don’t tell him you’ve talked to me. I think he thinks that if I find him, I’ll take him back to jail.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“No! I want to get the charges reduced to a misdemeanor and get him probation. He’s got a court appearance in about thirty-six hours, and if he misses it, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to the kid, Stone.”
“Don’t talk to him, let me do that. If he somehow gets there before I do, play dumb and sit on him.”
“Whatever you say,” Cantor replied.
Stone hung up. “We’re going to Red Hook.”
“I want to go to bed,” Dino said. “It’s midnight.”
“Later.” Stone began picking his way toward Red Hook.
Carpenter jumped. There had been a noise outside her door. She grabbed her handbag, extracted the little Walther, and screwed in a silencer. The Carlyle would not appreciate gunfire in their hallways. She ran across the room in her bare feet and checked the peephole. Nobody visible. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.
The doorbell rang, and she jumped again. She didn’t open it.
“Carpenter!” somebody said from the hall.
She checked the peephole again. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Mason,” he replied.
He wouldn’t use that handle if he were at gunpoint. She unchained the door and opened it, stepping back, the pistol ready, just in case.
Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”
“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”
“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.
“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”
“I was supposed to call?”
“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”
“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”
“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”
“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”
“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”
“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”
“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”
Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”
“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”
The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”
“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.
“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”
Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.
“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”
“Got her where?”
“Got her in a hotbox in the garden.”
“A gardening hotbox?”
“Exactly.”
“How long dead?”
“No rigor present, she doesn’t stink. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Get out of there, and clean up after yourself. Tell me you didn’t jimmy the door.”
“I picked the lock.”
“Then stake out the place in case La Biche returns, and be very, very careful.”
“All right.”
“Tell me you didn’t make this call on Harvey’s phone.”
There was a brief silence. “Ah, we’re getting out.”
Carpenter punched off. “Dunces! They called here on Harvey’s phone!”
Mason groaned. “Now we’ll have to talk to the NYPD. They’ll surely check her phone records.”
“You let me do the talking,” Carpenter said. She looked up Dino Bacchetti’s cell phone number in her book and dialed it.