Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

They spent the remainder of their weekend cloistered in Stone’s house, cooking, massaging and making love.

Stone was sitting up in bed reading the Times when Celia came in with a breakfast tray and set it on his lap.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’ve got to leave.”

“We’ve got to keep you under wraps for a while longer,” Stone said. “You’re welcome to stay here.”

“I have a friend in New Jersey who’s agreed to put me up. What’s more, I can see some clients out there for a while.”

“When do you want to go?”

“She’s expecting me for lunch.”

“I’ll get a car to take you out there as soon as Joan comes in. Leave me the address and number, and I’ll keep you posted on events as they happen.”

She slipped out of her robe. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Stone was tempted to ditch his breakfast and join her, but he calmed himself. He finished his breakfast and was doing the Times crossword when Joan buzzed him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. Did you have a good weekend in Connecticut?”

“It was cut short; we spent most of it here. Could you call the car service and get a car and driver to take Celia to New Jersey?”

“What time?”

“About an hour.”

“Will do. I’ve already called Bernard Finger’s office, but Sam Teich isn’t in yet, and Finger isn’t back from Las Vegas.”

“Please call Mrs. Finger and tell them we’re still waiting for the final accounting and expect to have it today.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“That’ll do it for now.”

She hung up. Celia came out of the bathroom fully dressed.

“The car will be here in an hour,” Stone said.

“I’ll get packed.”

The phone buzzed again, and Stone picked it up.

“Mrs. Finger isn’t in,” Joan said. “The maid said she’s expected back from Las Vegas later today.”

Stone was taken aback. “Las Vegas?”

“That’s what the maid said. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Nah, it’s got to be a coincidence.”

“Maybe it’s a farewell dirty weekend,” Joan said.

“No, I think she’s too pissed off at Bernie for that. It’s got to be a coincidence.”

“Anyway, I left a message for her to call.”

“You know what to tell her if I’m not here.”

“Sure. Bye.” Joan hung up.

Stone checked the block for signs of Devlin Daltry or his two ex-cops, then took Celia’s bags out to the car. She handed him a slip of paper.

“Here’s how to reach me,” she said.

“And you have my numbers.”

She kissed him. “Thanks for taking such good care of me.”

He laughed. “I think you took better care of me.” He waved her off, then went back into the house and his office.

Joan buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“Sam Teich for you on line one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Sam. Where’s the accounting?”

“Good morning, Stone. I’m happy to tell you that an accounting won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, yes it will,” Stone said.

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Finger have reconciled; there won’t be a divorce.”

Stone was stunned. Visions of stacks of money blowing away in the wind raced through his mind.

“They spent a long weekend in Las Vegas and put their marriage back together.”

“I’ll believe that when I hear it from Mrs. Finger,” Stone said.

“I’m sure you will hear from her as soon as she returns to New York later today,” Teich said. “I know this must be a great disappointment to you, Stone,” Teich said drily. “I’m sure you were looking forward to a large fee.”

“If it’s true, then I’m very happy for them both,” Stone said. “Good-bye, Sam.” He hung up. Joan was standing in the doorway.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Worst fears realized,” Stone said.

Her face fell. “They’re in Las Vegas together ?”

Stone nodded. “Teich says they’ve reconciled.”

“She can’t do that!” Joan cried. “We need that fee!”

“Bernie is smarter than I thought,” Stone said. “He did the arithmetic and made a decision. Now let’s see if he’s smart enough to dump the girlfriend and get rid of the penthouse.”

“If he doesn’t, Mrs. Finger will be back,” Joan said.

“Get me Bob Cantor.”

Joan left, then buzzed him a moment later.

Stone picked up the phone. “Bob?”

“One and the same.”

“Bernie Finger has pulled his fat out of the fire, at least temporarily.”

“How so?”

“He’s reconciled with his wife.”

“Oh, shit, and after all my hard work.”

“Bob, I want to know if he really gets rid of the girlfriend and the apartment. Give it a day or two, then nose around and see what you can find out.”

“You want more intimate snapshots?”

“First, find out if they’re still sharing the penthouse, then we’ll see how to proceed.”

“Will do,” Cantor said and hung up.

At dinner at Elaine’s, Dino was outraged. “He went back to his wife? The son of a bitch should be taken out and shot!”

Elaine piped up. “Yeah, that’s a terrible thing to do, isn’t it? Go back to the woman who loves him?”

“But the other one loves him, too,” Dino pointed out, “or at least his money.”

“Hey, hey,” Stone said. “Don’t get upset; this can’t last. Bernie will be back with his masseuse before we know it, and when he goes, I’ll pounce.”

“Jesus, what a way to make a living,” Elaine said. She got up and left the table.

“The lady came to me!” Stone called after her.

Stone had just gotten in from Elaine’s when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Cantor.”

“Hi, Bob. You got something on Bernie Finger already?”

“It’s not that. I’m at Herbie’s place. You need to come out here right now.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes if traffic’s good.” Stone hung up, went down to the garage and backed his car out. He headed down FDR Drive, crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and was parking in front of Herbie Fisher’s building twenty-one minutes later. A light was burning in the basement apartment. “I told him not to show any lights,” Stone said aloud, slamming the car door.

Stone went down the short flight of steps and rang the outside doorbell. Bob Cantor answered it quickly. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way into the apartment and stopped.

Stone looked around. The place had been torn up yet again.

“Check that out,” Cantor said, pointing at the sofa.

Stone followed his finger and saw a line of blood spatter starting on the back cushions of the sofa and continuing up and onto the living room wall. “Oh, Christ,” Stone said, “they’ve killed Herbie.”

He felt overwhelmed with guilt; he’d sent Herbie back here, and they’d found him.

“No,” Cantor said, shaking his head. “This way.” He led the way toward the kitchen. Lying in the hallway was a corpse, and it wasn’t Herbie.

“It’s Cheech, I think,” Stone said. “He and the other guy worked for Dattila or his bookie. They’re the ones who beat up Herbie outside Elaine’s.” The man had a bad cut across the jugular and a butcher knife in his chest.

“Okay,” Cantor said, “now I call the cops.”

“Right.”

Cantor flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. “My name is Robert Cantor,” he said into the phone. “I’m a retired police officer. I want to report a homicide.” He gave the operator the address, answered a few questions, then hung up. “I think we should tell them I arrived here when you did.”