Stuart Woods - New York Dead

“I think I understand your needs,” Teddy said. “And I’ve used this camera before. Is there anything else I should know?”

Stone shook his head. “If there’s trouble, don’t hurt anybody; if you’re apprehended, say nothing and call me. My client will cover any costs. If a case against you comes to anything, there’ll be another five thousand for you, if you do the right thing.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not getting myself apprehended, and if I do, I’ll take the rap. Nobody’ll trace me back to you. Can I get a look at the place ahead of time?”

Stone shook his head. “I don’t want the concierge to see you twice. I’ll look it over myself.”

“That’s okay with me.”

“Good. When you’ve done the job, take a cab to P. J. Clarke’s and have a drink at the bar. Make sure nobody’s after you. I’ll be there, and, when I’m sure you’re clear, I’ll leave an envelope above the urinal in the men’s room with the five grand in it. You go in immediately after me, leave the camera case, take the money, and go home. That’s it.”

Teddy nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“I don’t want you recognized, Teddy. What can you do about that?”

Teddy put on his hat, took a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket, put them on, then produced a fat cigar and stuck it in his mouth, distorting his face.

Stone laughed. “Good. Simple and good. Oh, and wear your best suit. You want to look prosperous.”

Teddy nodded. “When is it?”

“Probably this week. Stay loose, and I’ll give you as much notice as I can. You can pick up the camera stuff here, on your way.” Stone gave him a hundred-dollar bill. “Here’s cab fare.”

Teddy shook his hand at the door. “Thanks, Stone. I’ll do it right for you.”

Stone hadn’t the slightest doubt he would.

“Your name is Willoughby,” Eggers said. “Just check in with the concierge, and he’ll give you the key to 9-B. I gave you the key to 9-A, but be careful, there may be somebody in residence.”

“Okay,” Stone replied.

“I take it you found your man.”

“I did. He’s waiting for my call.”

“Looks like Friday night.”

Stone breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted this to interfere with his Saturday night with Cary. “All right. When will we know for sure?”

“Maybe not until that day. You sure you have to go to the building yourself?”

“Yes. I don’t want my man seen there more than once, and, anyway, I’m in no way at risk today.”

“Okay, it’s your call.”

The building was a small postwar apartment building in the East Sixties that had been refurbished for its current purpose. An elderly man in a blue suit was behind the desk.

“Good afternoon,” Stone said. “My name is Willoughby; I believe I’m expected.”

The man consulted a list. “Yes, Mr. Willoughby, you’re in 9-B. You just need it for the afternoon, I believe?”

“Not even that. I just needed a place to do a little work, and they were kind enough to offer me the apartment.”

The man produced a key. “To your right as you leave the elevator. Do you have any luggage?”

“Just my briefcase,” Stone said, holding it up. “Is there anybody using the apartment next door? I may have to do some shouting on the telephone.” He smiled.

“Shout all you like,” the man said. “9-A is empty at the moment.”

Stone thanked the man and went to the elevator. When he got off, he put an ear to the door of 9-A and listened for a long moment. No sound. He let himself into 9-B and looked around. The place was handsomely, if impersonally furnished, with good upholstered pieces and one or two antiques. There were two bedrooms, a master and a smaller one, and two baths. After a quick look around, he went next door and let himself into 9-A.

The apartment seemed to be a mirror image of the other, but there was a difference. 9-A had been lavishly done to someone’s particular taste, and probably by a very expensive designer. The furnishings were richer and more distinctive than those in 9-B, and the art on the walls was probably a part of the company’s collection of expensive paintings. He checked both bedrooms and decided that the master was where the assignation would take place. There was a gorgeous, canopied bed, with a matching silk bedcover, and every stick of furniture in the room dated from the eighteenth century, Stone reckoned. He was about to reenter the living room when he heard the front door open and close.

Oh, shit, he thought, trying to think of some plausible reason why he should be in the apartment. There was a rustling of what sounded like paper bags, followed by a feminine cough. He looked around the bedroom for someplace to hide, should the woman come his way. Her footsteps on the carpet told him she was doing just that.

He ran on tiptoe across the room and practically dove behind the bed. She came into the bedroom, then he heard the hollow click of the bathroom light being turned on. Please close the door, he said to himself, be modest. She did not. He peeped above the edge of the bed and saw it standing wide open and her shadow against the door. There was the sound of water running, then the toilet seat being raised. The water continued to run while she peed. Sitting on the toilet, she would be facing the bathroom door, he knew, so he could not make a run for it. He arranged himself more comfortably and waited.

The woman came out of the bathroom, and he could hear her footsteps approaching the bed. Stone pressed himself closer to it. He heard the rustle of the silk bedcover being turned down and the creak of the springs as the woman lay down.

Stone lay motionless for the better part of a half hour, while the woman tossed and turned, then finally settled down for her nap. When her breathing told him she was sound asleep, he stirred from his position as silently as possible, wincing at the cramps that had formed in his legs. He slipped off his shoes and started for the bedroom door. As he approached the door he glanced back at her, just as she stirred, her back to him. He froze until he was certain she had not actually awakened. Then he made his way across the deep Oriental carpet in the living room to the front door, where he spent several seconds turning the knob as silently as possible. As he closed the door, he saw two large shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman lying next to a living-room chair.

A moment later, he was back in 9-B, running cold water over his face in the master bathroom. He had done some undercover work in his time, but nothing in his police career had ever prepared him for being a second-story man. Now he knew that burglars are just as frightened as their victims.

He let himself out of the flat and left the building before the lady next door finished her nap.

At home, there was only one message on his answering machine: “Hi, it’s me. I’m sorry you aren’t in; I wanted to hear your voice. And now I have to go to a production meeting, so you can’t even call me back. I’m so looking forward to Saturday; I want to hear this important news of yours – and it must be important, if you want a table at Lutece. I booked that, which was no problem. Barron goes there all the time, and they know me. After dinner, and after hearing your news, I’m going to make you the happiest man in New York City, I promise. I’ve missed you so. Until Saturday night, my love.”

Stone felt the sort of glow that comes with a double brandy. Saturday night was no longer the loneliest night in the week; it was the only night in the week.

The phone rang. “Hi, it’s Bill. We’re on for Friday. My client reckons they won’t be in the apartment until near midnight.”

“Right. I’ll let my man know.”