Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“Oh, yes,” Stone said. Datilla had been shot in the head by his law partner, Herbert Fisher, in the days before Herbie righted himself and built a new life. “You’re not thinking Herbie,” Stone said.

“No,” Dino replied, “but why not?”

“No motive. If Herbie had done Hedger, he would be out of a big fee for the divorce.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.”

“Are you saying that my lawyer is a suspect in the murder of my almost ex-husband?”

“He is not,” Stone said. “Just a coincidence of acquaintance. He would have owed Pino money, once, years ago.”

“Okay,” Robbie said, “so who killed Randy?”

“Too soon to tell,” Dino said. “I’ll keep you posted on the investigation, though.” He stood up. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get home and to bed. After all, I have a homicide to solve tomorrow.”

Robbie thanked him and saw him to the door, then she came back and sat down next to Stone. “Well,” she said, heaving a big sigh. “That’s a load off.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say that while Dino was here. It sounds too much like a motive.”

“I’ve never fired a gun,” she said. “Not a pistol, I mean. I did some grouse shooting a couple of times, but that was shotguns.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Stone asked.

“Sure,” she said, squeezing his thigh. “As long as I don’t have to sleep alone.”

“I can help with that,” Stone said, kissing her.

Stone had just gotten to his office the following morning, after a shower and a shave upstairs, when Joan buzzed him.

“Herbie Fisher on one.”

“Hey, Herb.”

“Good morning. I haven’t heard anything from Randall Hedger’s attorney,” he said. “Do you know who’s representing him?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Hedger is unrepresented,” Stone said.

“He’s not going to represent himself, is he? I hate that.”

“No, Mr. Hedger will not be requiring representation...”

“They reconciled? That lovely woman with that shit?”

“No, Mr. Hedger stopped a bullet to the head last evening.”

Herbie took a beat or two. “Well, I guess I can still represent her,” he said.

“Not unless you enjoy estate work. And it sounds as though Mr. Hedger didn’t have anything resembling an estate.”

“Well, on to the next case, I guess. I’ll drop her a note expressing my condolences.”

“Send me her bill,” Stone said.

“Oh, there won’t be one. Take care.”

He hung up, and Joan buzzed him. “A Mr. Werner Blau to see you,” she said.

Stone pointed at a chair, and Blau sat in it. Stone was about to tell him of the previous evening’s event, then decided to wait until the investigator had given him what he was paying for.

“Tell me all about Randall Hedger, Mr. Blau,” he said.

“It’s Wedgie, please.”

“Wedgie, it is.”

Blau opened a zippered briefcase and took out a file. “Okay, fifty-two years old, married once before, ex deceased.”

“How?”

“Beg pardon?”

“How did the former Mrs. Hedger become deceased?”

“A street mugging gone wrong, or at least that’s what the sheet said. Hedger was a suspect for a couple of days until his alibi checked out. Out of town in Miami for the dog races.”

“Continue.”

“I know this is odd, but the man seems never to have had anything like gainful employment. Education: barely finished high school. After that he seems to have been a run-of-the-mill street-corner hustler — there and at pool halls. He has only one arrest, for running a three-card monte game on Fifth Avenue. Charges were dismissed when the arresting officer didn’t show in court.”

“God, I hope there’s something more interesting than this,” Stone said.

“It gets more interesting. He had a string of wins on the ponies, changed bookies by request, bought himself some clothes, and started pretending to be a gentleman. Apparently, he was good at it. He ran with an Upper East Side crowd for years, forming both brief and sometimes lengthy liaisons with fashionable women, some of whom must have been kicking in cash from time to time, because you can’t support a lifestyle betting on the ponies.

“His new bookie is Pino Pantero, out of Datilla the Hun by one of the Genoveses.”

“What does he owe Pino now?”

“Got a clean page, apparently. Nobody was looking to break his legs. He met a Roberta Calder, a top designer, about three years ago, and they married and cohabited until she locked him out late last year. At Christmastime, no less, so she had to be plenty pissed off.”

“Where does he live?”

“East Sixty-Sixth, near Third Avenue: a white-brick building from the Sixties. Not a bad address.”

“Has he ever harmed anybody, in any physical manner?”

“No, but he was slow to pay his restaurant accounts at times. Elaine threw him out, tore up his tab, and told him never to come back.”

“Elaine tore up a tab? I don’t believe it.”

“It must not have been much of a tab.” Blau closed the file.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all there is. What say we call it a grand even, all in, if you can do cash.”

Stone picked up the phone and said, “Bring me a thousand dollars in cash.” He hung up. “There was something you missed, Wedgie.”

“I’m telling you, there isn’t anything else.”

“Yes, there is. Hedger got himself capped last night around ten PM. Sitting in his car, one in the head.”

Blau’s jaw dropped. “I saw him in a car about ten o’clock. Not his car, he didn’t have one.”

“Where?”

“Driving down Second Avenue, in the Fifties. He stopped at a light while I was crossing.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

Joan came in and handed Stone an envelope. Stone handed it to Blau. “Mr. Blau will give you a receipt. Thanks, Wedgie.” He went back to his desk as Blau left.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“I’ve got a sighting of Randall Hedger just before ten last night.”

“Tell me.”

“He stopped at a traffic light on Second Avenue, in the Fifties. Fellow I know was crossing the street and saw him, alone in his car, which my acquaintance says didn’t belong to him, because he didn’t own a car.”

“Who was this acquaintance?”

“One Werner Blau, aka Wedgie.”

“A P.I.?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know him?”

“Your wife’s guy recommended him. He was looking into Hedger’s background for me.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Almost nothing. Most interesting thing is, he did okay with the ponies.”

“As a kid, he had an arrest for three-card monte on Fifth Avenue, charges dropped, cop a no-show.”

“That Blau found,” Stone said. “Who belonged to the car he died in?”

“A woman named Estelle Parkinson, like the disease. Socialite, had a profitable divorce.”

“Anybody talk to her?”

“Nobody answered the door. They’re trying again this afternoon.”

“It sounds like whoever did this is going to get away with it. Anything in the way of forensics in the car?”

“Some makeup and ownership documents for the car in the glove compartment. She’d had it less than a month.”

“A Mercedes, wasn’t it?”

“An S550, the big one.”

“And now it’s an orphan.”

“Nah, it’s just in her estate.”

Stone heard somebody speak to Dino, then he covered the phone for a minute. Finally, he came back. “Breaking news,” he said. “Housekeeper found Estelle Parkinson dead in her apartment, blunt-force trauma. ME puts it between nine and ten last night.”

“Jesus. What delivered the blunt force?”