Stuart Woods - Unnatural acts

Abney didn’t move. “Go ahead, shoot me.”

“Now, why would you want me to do that?” Dino asked. “You’ve got years of life ahead of you, all of them in prison. You’ll love it-lots of sex.”

“I’ll shoot myself before I’ll let you take me,” Abney said.

“Go ahead, you son of a bitch!” Dino shouted. “Do us all a favor!”

Abney pulled the trigger, and simultaneously with the noise, the window behind him shattered and blood and brains sprayed all over the wall and the remaining window. Abney collapsed like a felled ox.

Dino walked carefully over to him and kicked the gun away from his body. Dino holstered his weapon and turned to Rosie. “You didn’t hear what I said to him.”

“I didn’t hear anything but the gunshot,” she replied.

“I’ll go call this in,” Dino said. “You go tell the chopper pilot we’re going to be an hour or two. Tell him to call his dispatcher and see if he can wait. If he can’t, he can go, and we’ll take the train back.”

Rosie nodded and headed for the stairs.

Dino looked around the bedroom. It was sweetly decorated, frilly, even. There was nothing remarkable about it: a couple of department-store prints, some yellow curtains, now bloodstained, a bed, unmade.

He walked back down the stairs, got out his cell phone, and called his precinct, then asked for the captain.

“Egan,” a gruff voice said.

“It’s Bacchetti,” he said. “I’m at Ed Abney’s house in East Hampton.” He read him the address. “Abney blew his brains out while we watched.”

“Saves us a lot of trouble,” the captain said. “You want me to get the locals to the house?”

“I don’t see any way around it. I’ll make sure the scene is properly secured and lots of photographs taken, and Rosie and I will give them statements, then we’ll chopper back to the city. My car is at the West Side helipad.”

“Good work, Dino,” the captain said. “You want me to get out a press release, or wait for you?”

“Go ahead. Just say that we gave him every opportunity to surrender, but he chose to end his life. And say that his death solves the murder of Annette Redfield.”

“It will be done.” The captain hung up.

So did Dino. He took a seat on the living room sofa and called Abney’s office.

“Bright Lights, Ink,” the receptionist said.

“This is Lieutenant Bacchetti. I was there earlier today.”

“Yes, sir, I remember.”

“Let me speak to Margie.”

“One moment.”

“This is Margie.”

“It’s Lieutenant Bacchetti. I’m at Abney’s East Hampton house.”

“Did you get him?”

“He got himself-blew half his head off to keep from going to jail.”

She let out a long sigh. “I had a feeling,” she said. “I’ve got his will right here. It was in my safe.” She giggled. “He left me everything: the business, his apartment, the Hamptons house.”

“Congratulations!”

“I won’t be needing any partners. If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, I need to get my people together and explain things to them before this breaks on the news.”

“It’ll be on the six o’clock shows.”

“I’ll have time to contact our clients before then,” she said. “Goodbye, Lieutenant, and thanks!” She hung up.

DINO WAS still sitting on the living room sofa when the East Hampton cops arrived.

Stone put down the phone on his desk and walked back to the kitchen and into the garden, where Marla was relaxing on a chaise longue. There was a script in her lap and a bottle of gimlets and two glasses on the table next to her.

Stone sat down and kissed her, then poured them both a gimlet. “I’m sorry I took so long. I was talking on the phone with Dino.”

“How is Dino?”

“Never better. He cleared Annette Redfield’s murder this morning.”

“What does ‘cleared’ mean?”

“Well, in this case, he didn’t make an arrest.”

“You mean, Ed Abney is still free?”

“Ed Abney is dead. He shot himself when Dino went to arrest him.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting a hand to her face. “I’m never going to have to be afraid of him again.”

“That’s right, and it’s a good thing, too. Abney nearly killed a female NYPD detective last night. She’s recovering in the hospital, be out in a few days.”

Joan came into the garden with some letters. “Marla, your neighbor dropped off your mail. There was something hand-delivered, too.” She handed the packet to Marla.

Marla opened the hand-delivered envelope first. “It’s from Bright Lights, Ink,” she said.

“Are you their client?”

“They’re publicists for the show I just finished.”

“What does it say?”

“I’ll read it to you:

Dear Marla,

We want to tell you about a big change at Bright Lights, Ink. Ed Abney is no longer in charge. As a matter of fact, it has been some years since Ed did any active publicity work for the company. Senior staff did the work, and Ed took the credit.

For our existing clients, like you, our work will continue as usual, but Ed is gone. Police went to his East Hampton home this morning to arrest him on charges of the murder of a woman and assault on a police officer. Rather than go to jail, Ed took his own life. The newspapers and TV will give you the details.

I have been with the agency for twelve years, and I am its new president. I will take great pleasure in seeing that your account is handled in an outstanding and personal fashion. If you have any questions or requests, please call me, day or night.

“It’s signed by Margie, his secretary. She’s a terrific lady, and I always thought she was the brains there.”

“Then she still is,” Stone said.

“I’ve got some news for you,” she said.

“I hope it’s good news.”

“I hope it is, too. This morning I read your son Peter’s play, the one he produced at Yale last winter.” She tapped the script in her lap.

“Did you get the script from my study?”

“No, my agent had it hand-delivered to me this morning. It’s coming to Broadway, and I’ve been asked if I have any interest in directing it.”

“Do you?”

“Let me ask you a question first. Does Peter know that you and I are… friends?”

“No, that’s such a recent event that I haven’t had time to tell him yet.”

“Did you suggest to someone that I direct it?”

“No. Peter told me when the play opened at Yale that there was talk of a New York production, but I haven’t heard anything about it since, until now.”

“Do you want me to direct it?”

“Apparently Peter does, or they wouldn’t have contacted you. My opinion doesn’t enter into it. For my part, if you choose to direct it, I’ll be happy for you both.”

“Then I think I’d like to do it. It’s charming, funny, and, in the end, very moving. I think a play like this-small cast, one set, put into a small theater like, say, the Music Box or the Helen Hayes-could have a long run.”

“May I ask a favor of you?”

“You may.”

“You didn’t see the play at Yale?”

“No.”

“Well, Peter played the lead, and he was very good in it.”

“You want me to cast him again?”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t. That’s the favor I’m asking.”

“Why don’t you want him in the play?”

“Because of what you just said. I don’t want him tied to the long run of a play, even if it’s his play. I want him at Yale, finishing his degree, before he does something like that.”

“I can understand that. All right, if I do it, I won’t cast him. Will he be disappointed?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it.”