Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“Snub-nosed?”

“Could be. Maybe a three-inch. I expect you can find a reason to frisk her.”

“Hey, wait a minute: Estelle took a beating with something, didn’t she?”

“Oh, right. I forgot to mention that there was a small bronze sculpture on the living room mantelpiece that was determined to be the murder weapon. The murderer rinsed it off in the powder room sink, near the front door, then put it back. He missed a teensy spot of blood, but our crime tech didn’t.”

“Have you searched Randy’s apartment yet?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, evidence?”

“It’s being done as we speak,” Dino said.

Dino’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah? That’s very interesting,” he said. “Keep looking.” He hung up.

“What’s very interesting?” Stone said.

“Something they didn’t find.”

“Didn’t find?”

“Randy had a carry license for a snub-nosed .38,” Dino said. “My guys couldn’t find the gun.”

“Well, that is interesting, I guess,” Stone said. “Maybe somebody borrowed it from him, then shot him with it.”

“Roberta Calder, maybe?”

“That’s a stretch, Dino.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a guy loaned his girl his piece,” Dino said.

“Did your people search the neighborhood for a weapon?” Stone asked.

“Still under way,” Dino said, “but my money’s on Robbie’s bedside drawer.”

It began to rain on his way home, and Stone ran from the cab to his office entrance. He rang three quick times, his “it’s me” signal to Joan, and she buzzed it open. Two soggy-looking men were sitting in the waiting area. They stood up and groped at their pockets.

“Ah, there you are,” Joan said. “These two gentlemen requested an audience. In fact, they insisted.”

They found their badges and presented them. “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms,” the smaller of the two said.

“Swell,” Stone replied, handing Joan his coat. He walked into his office and left the door open for them. “Sit,” he said, pointing at the two chairs opposite his own. He sat down and dabbed at his wet face and hair with a couple of tissues. “Okay, gentlemen, what can I do for the feds today? My connection to the first two is that they can be bought freely on any street corner, and the third at any strip mall in the country.”

The smaller of the two, whose name was Bishop, said, “Well, you can start by telling us about the light airplane you raided in Fort Jefferson, Florida.”

“‘Raided’?” Stone said. “What a word! All I need is an eyepatch and a parrot on my shoulder.”

“It arrived at the bottom of the lagoon carrying cargo. After you visited it, no cargo. Ergo.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me that you got your facts wrong,” Stone said, “since you weren’t there nor have you talked to anyone who was.”

“Let’s start with you,” Bishop said. “Please give us your account of the facts.”

“All right, but please listen carefully, I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

Bishop made a motion for him to continue and mentioned the date, then he took out a notepad.

“Well, at least you’re taking notes,” Stone said, “so we’re off to a good start. I was aboard the motor yacht Breeze — of which I am one of three owners — sunning myself on the top deck. I heard the approach of what sounded like a single-engine aircraft, and its engine began to act up and sputter.”

“Excuse me,” the fed said. “How did you know it had a single engine?”

“Because I have spent a great deal of time at airports, and I have owned several single-engine planes. Please hold your questions until I finish.”

Bishop made a motion for Stone to continue.

“I looked up and saw the airplane approaching us. It was a high-wing Cessna equipped with floats, and one of the floats was hanging from the airplane at an odd angle. I was about to jump overboard to save myself, when the pilot managed to make a small turn and set down about ten yards from the yacht. It started out as a pretty good landing, but that couldn’t last. The good float touched down, but he couldn’t hold it straight, so the opposite wing tip hit the water and spun the airplane around 180 degrees. I was concerned that the pilot might not make it out, so I dove into the water — it was only ten to fifteen feet deep — got the left door open and found the pilot unconscious and still strapped in. I released his seat belt, got him out of the airplane. He was wearing an inflatable life jacket, so I yanked the CO 2cord, the jacket instantly inflated, and we both headed for the surface.

“We emerged together. By that time, my crew had launched a RIB inflatable, and we got him into that and hoisted him to the top deck with the boat’s winch.

“He was bleeding from the head, so I yelled to another crew to call the Coast Guard and ask for a helicopter. In the meantime, two of the RIB crew, who were certified EMTs, worked on the man, and he began to breathe. The helicopter arrived shortly, having already been in the area doing drills, we subsequently learned, and they winched down a stretcher basket and one of their crew. We got him loaded in the basket and winched up, then we heard a lot of mechanical whining and saw some smoke from inside the aircraft. The chopper called down to its crew that she’d have to stay with us, as the winch was dead and they were getting low on fuel, then they headed for Key West.”

“And who were the other people aboard who witnessed this?” Bishop asked.

“Dino Bacchetti, who is the police commissioner of New York City. His wife, Vivian, who is the executive vice president of Strategic Services. And the abandoned helicopter crew, who turned out to be a Key West police detective who was running drills with the Coast Guard. There were also the yacht’s captain and four crew. My secretary will give you their names and contact information.”

“And did you happen to notice the airplane’s cargo?”

“Yes, fleetingly.”

“Describe it.”

“A dozen or so aluminum suitcases, secured with cargo netting.”

“And did you bring it aboard?”

“No. The following morning, the Key West detective and I put on SCUBA gear and went down for a look at it. The cargo was gone.”

“And do you have a theory about how it departed or where it went?”

“Around sunset the day before, another motor yacht arrived and moored at the other end of the lagoon. During the night, we heard some noises, so we assumed they took charge of the cargo. They were gone by the time we did our dive.”

“Name and description of the other vessel?” Bishop asked.

“Fifty to sixty feet, dark color, maybe black, we didn’t get a look at her name.”

“And what did you do with the cargo?” Bishop asked.

“That is a non sequitur, and I won’t address it further.”

Bishop looked pained. “And of what did the cargo consist?”

“Never got a look at the inside of the cases. Anything else?”

“Let me put it another way. You and your friends must have discussed it among yourselves. Did you reach any conclusions?”

“We did, and we concluded that we don’t have a clue.”

“Two police officers and two formers, and you couldn’t come up with anything?”

“No. Apparently, all of federal law enforcement put together hasn’t, either. And surely, you’re collectively smarter than we are.”

“What did you do after that?”

“We departed for Key West the following morning, arrived four hours later, and went our separate ways.”

“Which were?”

“The detective returned to duty, and the other three of us flew to Miami for the Democratic Convention.”