Stuart Woods - Dirty Work

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.

The jeep ground to a halt in the parking lot of a marina. "This way," Stone said, pointing.

Dino jumped. "Hang on, it's my cell phone," he said, groping for it. "This time of night, somebody's gotta be dead." He opened the phone. "Bacchetti."

"Dino? It's Carpenter."

"Oh, hi," Dino said. He held his hand over the phone. "It's Carpenter."

"Why the hell is she calling you?" Stone asked, reaching for the phone.

Dino held it away. "She's calling me, I'm talking to her. What's up, Carpenter?"

"I have a little problem for you, Dino."

"For me? What kind of problem?"

"A couple of my people stumbled into a murder on your patch."

"Who did they murder, Carpenter?"

"Nobody. La Biche took care of that."

"Who'd she murder, one of yours?"

"A civilian, a woman named Ginger Harvey, and La Biche has taken her identity, at least for the time being."

"Tell me about it."

Carpenter gave him the address. "It's a ground floor, rear apartment with a garden. The body's in a hotbox in the garden."

"What's a hotbox?"

"It's a gardening thing, like a small greenhouse without glass."

"I'll send some people over there."

"They're not going to find much, except for the body. This woman is very smart, and she will have eliminated all trace of her presence there."

"Yeah, but we've gotta go through the motions."

"A favor, Dino: Can you wait until, say, mid-morning tomorrow before going in there? I've got the place staked out in case La Biche returns, and she'll run like the wind if she spots anything resembling a policeman."

"Okay. I'll wait to call it in."

"I appreciate that, Dino. I know it's not proper procedure, but we've got at least a chance of bagging her."

"Don't worry about it. Keep in touch."

"Let me give you my cell phone number."

Dino fished for a pen. "Shoot."

"I want to talk to her," Stone said.

Dino nodded, writing down the number. "Hang on, Stone wants to talk to you."

Stone took the phone. "Hi. You all right?"

"Right now, I'm running. La Biche has made me, and I'm holed up at the Carlyle."

"Oh, shit. How'd she find you?"

"I think when she kidnapped our man in Cairo, he must have given up our New York office address. She probably waited outside for me to leave the building and followed me to P. J. Clarke's, where we had a nice little chat at the bar."

"Are you going to stay at the Carlyle?"

"No, I'll get out of here in the morning. I can't go back to the Lowell, either."

"Go to my house."

"She may know who you are."

"She may not."

"I'll think about it. Why don't you come around to the Carlyle a little later, when I've sorted this out?"

"A little problem there. I'm in Saint Thomas."

"A church?"

"An island."

"What on earth are you doing there?"

"Bringing back Herbie Fisher, who jumped bail, leaving me holding a great big bag."

"When are you coming home?"

"Tomorrow, I hope."

"Dino has my cell phone number. Call me when you get back."

"You watch your ass."

"I wish you were here to watch it for me."

"Me too. I'll call you tomorrow." Stone hung up and handed Dino his phone. "Let's find the boat. She's called Tenderly."

They walked down the main pontoon slowly, checking boat names, until they came to one, a sailboat, with a light burning.

"Here we are," Stone said, stepping aboard. He rapped on the hatch. "Bob?"

"Come on down, Stone," Cantor replied.

Stone and Dino clambered down the companionway steps. Bob was sitting at the saloon table, and Herbie Fisher was sitting beside him, looking like a small animal caught in a spotlight.

"Well, hi, Herbie," Stone said. "You're a tough guy to catch up with."

"He called right after you did, Stone," Cantor said. "He just got here."

"I'm not going back," Herbie said.

"Yes, you are," Stone replied, taking a seat on the banquette opposite the saloon table. "Let me tell you why."

"Shut up and listen to this, Herbie," Cantor said.

"You didn't kill the guy," Stone said.

"Don't hand me that shit," Herbie said. "You think I don't know when a guy's dead? I grew up in Brooklyn."

Stone let the non sequitur pass. "He was dead, Herbie, but you didn't kill him. There was an autopsy. The girl killed him. He was already dead when you fell on him."

"I don't believe you," Herbie replied.

"Let me introduce Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, chief of the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct. Show him your badge, Dino."

Dino gave a little wave and showed Herbie his badge.

"Dino," Stone said, "am I lying to Herbie?"

"Nope," Dino replied. "The guy was poisoned."

Herbie looked at them, back and forth.

"He's not lying to you, Herbie," Cantor said to his nephew.

"I'm still not going back," Herbie said.

"What?" Stone asked, confused.

"I like it here. I've already got five hotels lined up. It's going to be a sweet deal."

"Herbie, you have a court appearance in thirty-six hours. We'll get the manslaughter charge dropped, plead the other stuff down to a single misdemeanor, and get you non-reporting probation. Then you can come back here and take pictures at hotels."

"But I'll have a record," Herbie said plaintively.

"Herbie," Stone replied, "if you don't show up for your court appearance, a fugitive warrant will be issued, and cops everywhere, including here, will be looking for you. Would you prefer that to probation?"

"I don't know," Herbie said.

Bob Cantor reached behind Herbie and brought the flat of his hand hard across the top of his nephew's head. "Putz!"

"Ow," Herbie said, flinching.

"Go home with Stone and fix this, or I'll tell your mother," Cantor said.

"Okay," Herbie said sheepishly.

Carpenter was jarred awake by the slamming of the door. Her hand was immediately on the Walther. She was in bed, naked, and she could hear somebody whistling in the sitting room of the Carlyle suite. It was only Mason. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth with the hotel's toothbrush, found a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and walked into the sitting room, running her hands through her hair. She hadn't borrowed a hairbrush.

"Good morning," Mason said cheerfully. His jacket and Eton tie were draped across a chair, and his shirt was open at the collar.

"Good morning," she said, not meaning it. She had never seen him, in any circumstances, without his Eton tie.

Mason waved a hand at the rolling table. "We've got eggs, kippers, and sausage, and that wonderful fresh orange juice they get from Florida."

She was surprised to find that she was hungry, and she sat down and began lifting dish covers, dropping them on the floor.

"Sleep well?"

"Yes, but not long enough," Carpenter replied. "You?"

"Like a top. The sofa was quite comfortable."

"Mason, have you ever been uncomfortable in your entire life?" she asked. Wherever they went, Mason always seemed to bring along his father's campaign furniture, or a down sleeping bag, or a portable bar.

"Not since the Army," Mason replied thoughtfully.

She knew he had served in the SAS, the Special Air Services, Britain's toughest commando outfit. "Describe to me a single occasion when the Army managed to make you uncomfortable."

"Northern Ireland," he said after a moment's thought. "I was in Londonderry, keeping an eye on a house where we thought one of those Real IRA chaps might turn up. It was raining, and my Land Rover had a leaky canvas top, and the rain kept dribbling down my neck. Oddly enough, I was more comfy after the bomb went off. I was upside down, but the canvas top was more comfortable if you were lying on top of it, with the vehicle over you. It didn't leak that way."