Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

“It was a busy afternoon,” Dino said.

“I told him how it happened, how I had to run outside barefoot through broken glass. He didn’t seem to think the incident was worth investigating. He just took a report.”

“Taking a report is investigating,” Dino said. “The perpetrator had gone, so his job was to report the incident, then interview any witnesses, who was you. He also filed his report and should have given you a copy.”

“He did.”

“You can use that to get your insurance company to pay for the replacement of your windshield.”

“That’s not as easy as it sounds,” Morgan replied. “The car is at the dealership, where they have had to order a replacement from England. You see, there were a limited number in stock, and these incidents have used them up.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to hurry that process.”

“Don’t these incidents constitute something of a crime wave?” Morgan asked. “And shouldn’t you pursue the, ah, perpetrators as criminals?”

“It is a crime wave of a very small nature,” Dino said. “However, we are most assuredly pursuing the perpetrators. We very nearly caught yours this afternoon, as did Stone, who was armed, but the man disappeared, probably into a waiting vehicle.”

“You pursued him?” Morgan asked Stone.

“Yes. I was armed with an umbrella.”

“My hero,” she said, patting him on the thigh.

It was the first time she had touched Stone, except to shake his hand, and it gave him a little electric thrill.

“My office will be in touch the minute this has been resolved,” Dino assured her. “Perhaps you’ll be able to attend the trial.”

“I’d prefer to attend the hanging,” Morgan said.

“Heh, heh,” Dino replied.

Mercifully for Dino, their steaks arrived, and for a few minutes there was more chewing than talking.

“I understand your wife is some sort of security guard,” Morgan said when she could.

Dino choked on his steak.

Stone jumped in quickly. “Vivian Bacchetti is executive vice president and chief of operations for Strategic Services, the second-largest security company on the planet.”

“Forgive me,” Morgan said to Dino.

Dino managed to swallow his steak. “That’s quite all right. Is there anything else your police department can do for you today, Mrs. Tillman?” he asked.

“Thank you, no, that will be all, until you capture the perpetrator, at which time I would very much like to have ten minutes alone with him. I’ll bring my own sledgehammer.”

“I’ll try to remember that, Mrs. Tillman.”

“Then please remember that it’s Morgan or Mo,” she said. “We mustn’t stand on formality.”

Stone ordered another bottle of wine, because he thought Dino might need it.

After dinner Fred drove them uptown. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” Morgan asked.

“Certainly,” Stone replied. As they got out of the car, Stone said to Fred, “If I’m not back in half an hour, go home, I’ll get a cab.”

She was silent on the elevator ride, but she was looking very carefully at him. The elevator door opened and she shed her coat, went to the bar, and picked up two brandy glasses. “What would you like?” she asked.

“Brandy,” Stone replied.

She poured two and led him to the sofa. Before sitting down, she removed her red jacket, revealing a black blouse cut low in the back.

Stone observed that only one large button secured it.

She sat down close by his side and facing him. “In recounting my history,” she said, taking a gulp of her brandy, “did I mention that I have not had sex since my husband died?”

“No,” Stone replied. “How can I help?”

She reached behind her and undid the button securing her top, lifted it over her head and tossed it away, revealing uncaged breasts that Stone could only think were perfect. “Anything you like,” she replied, leaning over and kissing him.

Then she stood up, took him by the hand, and led him upstairs to a bedroom, which was baronial in proportions.

While Stone shed his clothes, she carefully turned down the bed and plumped the pillows. Finally, she lay on her back, and there was nothing between them but air.

“Come here,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stone replied, climbing aboard.

Twice during the night she woke him from a sound sleep for an encore performance. Stone wasn’t sure he was up to the second one, but she persuaded him that he was.

The next time he woke it was because of a ringing telephone, which she answered. “Yes, Lila?” She covered the phone and poked Stone in the ribs. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Two eggs, scrambled soft in the English style, bacon, English muffin, orange juice, and strong black coffee.”

She repeated his order into the phone, then pulled back the sheet and inspected Stone’s body closely. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more!”

“God for Morgan, England, and Saint George!” Stone responded. They had just enough time before breakfast arrived.

Riding home in a cab, Stone thought Morgan had come along just in time to save him from a life of celibacy.

Stone leaned against the limestone shower wall and let the water cascade over him. He was feeling something oddly like guilt, a rare emotion for him.

Holly Barker, with whom he had been entwined for years, but nearly always separated from by work or distance, had, at their last meeting, renewed her granting of his sexual freedom, as long as it was committed outside the city limits of Washington, D.C. While he had played by her rules, he gave himself a moment to regret the night before. After that moment, his regret evaporated. He had needed that night as much as Morgan had.

He dressed and went down to his office.

Joan came in with some messages and dropped them on his desk. “Uncharacteristically late, aren’t we?” she asked.

“I overslept,” he replied.

“I’m sorry, overwhat?”

“Please go away,” he said, and she did.

Dino’s message was on top of the pile, and he dealt with that first.

“Bacchetti.”

“Good morning, it’s Stone.”

“Well,” Dino said, “that was quite a dinner last evening.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I mean, if you didn’t mind the occasional whiff of sulfur.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Dino?”

“I mean that Morgan Tillman has a first-rate chance of being the actual Antichrist.”

“Are you coming over all Catholic on me?”

“I have my ecclesiastical moments — especially in the presence of evil.”

“All right, all right, lay out your evidence.”

“Gladly. Her story is, she came home from shopping and as she entered the living room she saw her husband struggling with another man, dressed in black, on the terrace outside. She dropped her shopping bags and ran to help him, but as she did, he was pushed backward and tumbled over the parapet.”

“Wait a minute, what does the building code say on the minimum height of parapets?”

“How the fuck should I know? Am I a bricklayer? In any case the parapet was undergoing repairs, and several running feet of bricks had been removed in aid of the work. It was low enough that he could have tripped over it and fallen. Shall I continue?”

“Please do.”

“The man ran along the parapet, and she noticed that he had some sort of canvas bag slung over his back. She looked down and saw her husband sprawled in the alley in a spreading pool of blood. She looked back at the ‘burglar,’ and he was rappelling — she used that word — down a rope that was hooked to the parapet. At that point she ran into the house and called nine-one-one. While she was waiting for them to answer, she noted a bare spot on the wall a few yards from her, where her husband’s prized van Gogh had been affixed. When the operator answered — we checked, it was on the fifth ring, they were busy that day — she said that her husband had been fighting with someone on their terrace, and that he had been pushed over the parapet and was lying in the alley, fifteen stories below, and to send an ambulance and the police.”