Стюарт Вудс - Barely Legal

“Make sure he gets out of the limo and back home intact. Mario’s been known to cut his losses just to make a point.”

“Hard to imagine if the debt’s as big as you think. A guy could retire on just the interest.”

“Just make sure.”

“Hang on. It looks like he’s getting out now.”

The back door of the limo opened and Herbie stepped out, looking grim and determined.

Mookie wondered what he’d been told.

Herbie paid no attention to anyone, just trudged blindly down the street.

“He let him go,” Mookie said. “The guy looks defeated. I think he’s walking home.”

“Make sure.”

“If he goes home, can we leave it at that?”

“If he stays there.”

Donnie was drinking the good stuff. He could afford it now. He’d never had so much money. And Yvette was dead, so he didn’t have to split it. Not that he’d wanted her dead, but he couldn’t deny the material benefits. He sat in the bar on Sixth Avenue drinking Johnnie Walker Black. He’d already had three, so the quality of the scotch didn’t matter to him. He could have been drinking standard rotgut and it would have tasted the same. But why should he? It was worth it just for the kick he got out of telling the bartender, “Johnnie Walker Black.”

Five thousand in cash. Too bad it was all in hundreds. He’d have to break a bill here, break a bill there. Never enough to raise suspicion, to call attention to himself.

The television over the bar was showing the news. Donnie couldn’t care less about the news. He was waiting for the sports. He finally had enough money to place a few bets, and not the rinky-dink, ten-bucks-to-win, dollar-box bets he usually put on the ponies. He could play a ten-dollar box, put a hundred bucks on the nose. He could throw in a few basketball games to boot. Donnie could imagine that bookie’s eyes bugging out of his head.

That sexy anchor Donnie liked was back with a news story. He wondered whose girlfriend she was to get that cushy job. Nice-looking, but not a great speaking voice. She clearly had other talents.

“The police have a new suspect in the murder of a Park Avenue socialite. What was originally thought to be a lovers’ quarrel is now being deemed a robbery/murder, and a manhunt is on for the suspect.”

A close-up of Donnie’s mug shot filled the screen.

“The fugitive, Donald Dressler, is suspected of killing the decedent, Yvette Walker, when she surprised him in the act of robbing the apartment in which she resided with her fiancé, Herb Fisher, a prominent attorney with Woodman & Weld. According to the police, Mr. Dressler escaped with some priceless jewelry and approximately five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. The police are warning viewers to be on the lookout for a young man of his description attempting to pass hundred-dollar bills.”

Donnie snatched the hundred-dollar bill he’d been planning to use for his drinks off the counter and replaced it with three twenties. He chugged his scotch, keeping his head down, and walked unobtrusively out of the bar.

On the sidewalk his heart was thumping. How had they gotten on to him so fast?

He had to get out of there, and fast. If it were winter, he could pull a ski cap down over his forehead, but it was summer, and he didn’t even have a baseball cap. A beard would be nice, but it would take a while to grow. He needed sunglasses. There was a Ray-Ban store up the street. He could buy a pair there, but he’d have to pay with a hundred-dollar bill.

He had to get out of town. That was just a local news report. No one outside New York City would have seen it. Anywhere else he’d be safe. He couldn’t fly, they’d ask him for ID, but he could buy a train ticket with cash.

Donnie cut over to Seventh Avenue and headed for Penn Station.

Detective Brogan knocked on the door of the commissioner’s office and walked in. Dino’s secretary had already announced him.

Dino waved him over to the desk. “You got something, Detective?”

“Yes, sir. You wanted everything you could get on Donnie Dressler.”

“You got something new?”

“I got something that isn’t on the rap sheet.”

“Oh?”

“His last two convictions he was suspected of working with an unnamed accomplice. The accomplice wasn’t charged because he didn’t give her up. He didn’t need to give her up because he’d already rolled on somebody else. In one instance, Fred Walsh, in the other, Paul Peretti. In both cases the, quote, co-conspirator, unquote, claimed to barely know Donald Dressler, though each was alleged to be helping to fence stolen goods and caught with some of the contraband. Both said he was reputed to have worked with an attractive young lady who hooked the victims before Dressler ripped them off.”

“I don’t suppose you got a name?”

“They didn’t have a name, and it probably wouldn’t be hers.”

“Description?”

“Young, baby-faced blonde.”

“You speak to these guys?”

“No, just the ADAs in charge.”

“Where are they now?”

“In jail. Which tells you something, huh? Principal walks and they’re in jail. Twice, for Christ’s sakes. For two separate crimes. You’d think they’d be pretty pissed.”

“Talk to them, will you? Get more on Dressler, and more on the girl. Show them a picture of Yvette Walker while you’re at it.”

“You think it’s her?”

“Be nice if something in this damn case added up.”

Detective Brogan called Dino from the prison. “I spoke to both of them. They hate Dressler, naturally enough, and would love to see him go down. I had to listen to them saying they’d been framed, which they all say, but I kind of believe them. That Dressler is a nasty son of a bitch.”

“What about the girl?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Fred Walsh was sure Dressler worked with a female accomplice and identified a photo of Yvette Walker as being her.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it means anything. The guy’s saying whatever he thinks we want to hear. You know, hoping we’ll put in a good word with the parole board.”

“He didn’t pick her out of a lineup?”

“No, that’s my fault. He wasn’t ID’ing a suspect, just the victim. It was only after he did it I began to doubt the identification.”

“What about the other guy?”

“Paul Peretti is another story. He didn’t know much, but he wasn’t trying to sell me anything. He picked the girl out of a row of five pictures, but he didn’t know that much about her. He’d seen him with her once, but that was it. He’d heard the guy worked with a female accomplice, but he didn’t know if that was her. It’s not that helpful, but for what it’s worth, I consider his opinion solid.”

“Thanks, Detective. For what it’s worth, I consider your opinion solid.”

Dino called Stone and told him what he’d just heard.

“So what do you think?” Stone said.

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s conclusive. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s delivering a pizza. He calls upstairs, the girl says sure, bring it up. Well, no one ate any pizza, no one ordered any pizza, the damn thing was a prop. Just an empty box with a few crusts. That only makes sense if they were working together. It also explains the knockout drops. She drugged Herbie so her boyfriend could rip the place off.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“We have to tell him.”

“I’d like to have more proof.”

“We’re not going to get it.”

“Probably not,” Stone said. “When do you want to do it?”

“Let’s take him out to dinner.”